Diary of a Glitter Splashed Britney Lovin' Lesbo

I am a 25 year old butcheyfemme queer with rubbish on my mind and sparkles everywhere else

Name:Miss Fee


My 100 Things

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Currently Reading:

The Outsider - A Camus

Choke - C Palahnuik


Tuesday, February 27

I watched a programme about the first gay prom in the UK this morning. It was a concept they had taken from the US and what a brilliant idea; I wish I’d been 17 to appreciate it and actually been there.

It reminded me of my ‘prom’ which was really just a bunch of 17 year olds getting wasted in a gym hall and dancing to tragic music (notably Technohead: I wanna be a hippie…). And of course the worst part of it for me was having to wear a dress which made me look like a man in drag. I finished off the look with heavy, lesbo boots and stripey tights. Say no more.

If I’d had a willing girlfriend at the time I would most certainly have taken her to the dance and spun her around the dance floor like the rest of the couples who were high on teenage love. I think at the time I was seeing a girl who lived in Cornwall and even if I had wanted her to make the 19 hour bus journey to be my partner, she wouldn’t have bothered.

I’ve never had issues about being a lesbo. I got bullied for many things at school (being a fatso, having a crap fringe, wearing tye dye etc) but I, luckily, never got any hassle for being a dyke. In fact, girls from all years were keen to try the gay thing and I was definitely a willing vessel for their experimentation.

At the dance I got very drunk on 80 shilling beer, white lightening and whatever was in Big F’s homebrew. I then attempted to inappropriately kiss someone I vaguely fancied and ended up in the toilets with the first girl I had ever kissed when I was 15. The details of what happened in that cubicle are extremely hazy but I remember spinning out from the concoctions we were drinking and almost vomiting on the girl… What an affront. I’d wanted her for years, after our brief liaison, and I finally get the chance to get close to her and I about puke all over her. Classy or what.

So yeah, should I ever get the chance re-do my lesbo youth and go to a gay prom for the over 25s then I will be first in the queue with my lady in hand, and for once, I will not have to take her to the toilet to have some time with her; I can take her home and chuck my guts all up on her instead. Yas, life with Serial Vomiter Fee is so all good.

Should I ever wear heels, this is no doubt what I would look like.

Britney Wannabe

2/27/2007 01:17:00 PM

Thursday, February 22

The Killers rocked my socks. We had a prime position; could see the band and almost make out their facial features, we had room to dance without rubbing our breasts on strangers and very importantly, we were in close proximity of the bar.

We bounced like people who had drunk wine, cider and expensive beer and we whooped and ‘yeah yeah yeah yeahed’ like never before. The only thing missing was my lady but I jumped extra hard for the both of us.

And then we hit the gay bar for a mid week, impromptu dance. I took the straight chicks for some dancing they will not forget in a hurry. Naturally there was a podium related accident and I should remember that The Fee and podiums are not a stable combination.

We danced our way around the club with a few blasts from the past (notably Luscious L and Beautiful Boy) and generally had a fabulous time being chuffs and drinking our combined body weight in shots.

Note to self: also remember why my name is Tragic Dancerino before I get on the dancefloor.


Belly was on show: repeatedly. No more gay dancing for me unless I have my flesh-coloured, tummy tucker pants on. What an affront.

And so I go liberate the little dead bird that has clearly died in amongst my reckless curls. Gadzeroo.

Britney Wannabe

2/22/2007 01:57:00 PM

Wednesday, February 21

Phew. Somehow, I was the only person who didn't manage to get a ticket for the Killers the day they went on sale, despite all my frenetic efforts to do so.

I knew the tickets would be expensive from ebay and the like but as much as I wanted to go I just couldn't justify £120 for one ticket, nor did I even have that kind of money.

But patience was key and I secured my ticket for £60 ysterday and did a dodgy trade off in the street to get it.

I love The Killers; every one of their songs holds SO many good memories. It's impossible to listen to a track and not remember that time, that dance, that person so it is imperative that I be there and have the most fabulous time because... I've got soul but I'm not a soldier.

*Breathes huge sigh of relief*

And so the world has been put right again.

Britney Wannabe

2/21/2007 11:44:00 AM

Tuesday, February 20

My Beautiful, Bald Britney

*pic nicked from Abc News*

Britney Wannabe

2/20/2007 01:23:00 PM

Friday, February 16

There was a reason I found it so hard to get on the 4 ft podium and why I subsequently fell off it on Friday night. Well apart from the massive amounts of pink champagne and god knows what else I had consumed leading up to that. The reason being that it wasn't even a podium. It was a speaker, a giant bloody speaker. That's why it was so high, that's why there was minimal dancing room for The Beast and I: because I wasn't supposed to be jumping around on it to Rhythm is a Dancer 2004 whilst sniffing poppers like a dity poof. What an affront. What an affront indeed.

Note to self: Cumbersome lesbos should NEVER attempt to climb onto human sized speakers while high on poppers and happy hour drinks.

Britney Wannabe

2/16/2007 01:24:00 PM

Tuesday, February 13

I am trying to recover from a 3 day bender. This coming from the girl who takes 4 days to get over one day of alcohol induced fun… I have estimated it will be April before the effects of Thursday, Friday and Saturday finally disappear.

My 3 days of overindulgence included, but were not restricted to, the following:

Managing to get on a 4 ft podium with minimal grace and decorum

Falling off said 4 ft podium with minimal grace and decorum

Trying to break The Beast’s fall as he took a turn falling off the 4 ft podium with even less grace and decorum

Bottles of pink champagne

Proposals of marriage

Gate crashing The Bo’s date in a quiet pub, so sorry sweet Bo

Taking over the dancefloor (aye, because there was no one else on it) with the Gay Exchange

Four vomits, 3 of which were mine

A mincer in a scarf (enough said)

More stodgy hangover food than my body can handle

Failing miserably to get wasted on bloody Mary’s on Day 3 but boy did my ass feel their wrath the next day

Sharing drunken tales and laughing so much it induced vomit with The Bo

Almost seeing people who I really didn’t want to see

Subsequently thinking I saw people I really didn’t want to see and losing many heartbeats and the contents of my stomach in the process

A late night breakfast consisting of what looked like fried shite regurgitated

Partaking in a bar staff auction… where one lesbo was bought for £3…

Going to a family wedding with my lady and not embarrassing myself, or her

Buying a dress (!)

Saving the ridiculously drunk Gay Exchange from himself by drinking all his drinks…

Generally having three of the best days with very good friends and looking forward to the next instalments

And now I pay the price; I look and feel (and no doubt smell), like I have been battered by a gang of metal-heeled lesbos who thought I deserved a kicking for dancing like a twat on the too-high podium which maybe wasn’t even a podium and, in fact, was part of the furnishings… Oh man.

And so I go rescue myself from big hair hell. Life is just too good.

Britney Wannabe

2/13/2007 01:20:00 PM

Thursday, February 8

To Date or Not to Date...

My Friend, The Bo, has a date tomorrow night with The Man with No Name. I don’t envy her one little bit (on account of Man’s missing name, I don’t think she envies herself much either). There are people, however, who do love the whole dating experience, those who thrive on endlessly repeating the same information to virtual strangers but personally I’d rather go bald than have to go through a succession of crap dates in order to find ‘the one’ or at the very least, someone willing and able to accept my mentalness and agree to a 2nd date. Mind you, in lesboville, a 2nd date equals moving your furniture in, while date 3 equals a joint purchase. Date 4 is the loss of sex and by date 5, you bitterly hate each other and are working out how to snare your next prey in order to avoid the whole dating process once again.

It’s funny, lesbo relationships* move so quickly, following the same repetitive pattern. You have a passionate/tempestuous relationship for a few years (moving in, buying things together, getting to each other’s idiosyncrasies etc) which then fizzles out because it all happened faster than an unexpected shart** and then it begins again, full circle. Lesbos get their claws into the first person who as much as raises an eyebrow at them, whether suitable or not, and they cling on for dear life. Is it deep rooted insecurity? Is it because there are so few available lesbos to choose from that once you get one who vaguely likes you (or one who is more mental than you and therefore makes you feel sane), that you must keep it, make it your own?

Generally lesbos don’t have kids to bind them to each other but instead have material possessions. ‘Don’t leave me; we have the washing machine to consider!’ Or, ‘You will stay with me forever because because we have joint custody of the bedset!’ It’s even worse when after 2 months of togetherness the 'happy' Lesbos decide they need a pet in their lives to cure their already ailing relationship that will undoubtedly outlive their coupledom… And cat/hamster/fish goes to stay with a willing friend because neither of the lesbos can cope with the perpetual reminder of the demise of their relationship. Cynical? Me? Hell yeah.

So, yeah, good luck tomorrow Bo and I do hope I don’t find myself there again… actually, the lesbo race should be hoping they don’t find me back on the dating scene because really I wouldn’t wish my scintillating conversation on anyone. The art of conversation is really not something I have been blessed with which therefore rules out all dating, socialising and general being.

And so I go consider shovelling my body into a dress. Consideration is a terrible thing.

Today’s Likes

My one MSN buddy, Golden Boy!
The snow! Though after last year’s debacle, sledging is out
My green nails; like little peas on the end of my fingers
Hollyoaks and its current gayness

Today’s Dislikes

Snow filled hair
Flabby forearms
The possible loss of my favourite umbrella, real tears sweetie, real tears L
Corine Bailey Rae, boring
Pesto breath

*basing this, of course, on my own experiences and of those I know so yes, generalising completely… :-)

**shart – you know, when you fart and a bit of shit comes out…A word made famous by the films Along Came Polly

Britney Wannabe

2/08/2007 01:50:00 PM

Monday, February 5

Aberdeen has a new gay bar. I went there at the weekend, twice. Yes really; it was THAT good.

I have been gay bar-ing it up in the city now for 11 years and this is without a doubt, the best effort Aberdeen has come up with since then. It’s so big that the dancefloor can accommodate not one but two podiums very comfortably. The toilets are not reeming over with shit and there are no lesbians congregating on the sticky, disease ridden floor. Gone are the days when you had to wait 20 minutes tucked under a gay man’s sweaty armpit as you struggled to get noticed at the bar, which, incidentally, is ginormous. It’s all just far too exciting. Although there is far too much scope to run into people that, unfortunately, you really should not see when drunk.

I haven’t been gay dancing since about November and wondered if my days of twatting it up on the dancefloor were over. Apparently not. We ensured there was adequate room for all of us on the podiums, even if it was a struggle trying to get my bulk up there in a skirt. The music was fantastic, with Sharam’s Party All The Time and Booty Luv being played back to back. Ace.

Friday night saw much much dancing in our flat prior to our booty shaking in the club while Saturday saw us at a Madonna themed party (discoball and everything), nursing our hangovers and endeavouring to stay ‘for only a couple’. Too much fun was had to let it all be over and so we headed gayward, too wasted on rum and red wine punch to remember we were hungover as hell and surviving on about 3 hours sleep.

And so yesterday was physical hell and today is not much better. I can barely cope with a 1-day drinking hangover nevermind bloody two. But hurrah, it’s snowing. Thank heavens for small mercies.

And so I go attach some elastic bands to my trainers so I don’t fall on my ass walking home. I really am too cool for school.

Britney Wannabe

2/05/2007 01:08:00 PM

Thursday, February 1

“For reasons of hygiene please do not wash the teeth.”

I came across this sign in a public toilet in Milan. What disturbed me about this was not the bad translation from Italian to English but more the thought of people actually cleaning their teeth in a public toilet. And, what’s more concerning is that people were partaking in this activity so frequently that it was necessary to ban this.

I had never seen anyone wash or brush their teeth in public before, until yesterday. I witnessed a woman standing within licking distance of the mirror happily spraying it with her saliva and toothpaste as she furiously removed her breakfast, lunch and mid afternoon snack from her furry canines. Is this normal behaviour outside a dentist surgery? And why was I so caught off guard that I apologised to the woman, as if I had just walked in on her on the toilet with her pants round her thick ankles? I bet it was the same woman who took a highly audible dump in the cubicle next to me last week.

Surely with the invention of the chewable toothbrush there is no need to do this? Or, as per usual, am I just too easily repulsed? I guess I can add brushing teeth in public (and subsequently showering the mirror with gubbings and food bits) to my possibly irrational list of issues I really need to address and which include, but are not restricted to, the following:

Adults in Disney clothing
Wooden spoons
Victoria Beckham
Cork wedge shoes
People chewing loudly and vigorously
Rustlers at the cinema
Public pooping
Scooped neck jumpers on men, sans T Shirts
Dirty nails
Lee Ryan
Two tone, leather Head bags circa 1990
Men with shiny silver buckles on their patent shoes
Freshly plucked eyebrows
Chopping boards
Jumpers that double as dresses
Blue tattoo
All manners of lyrca including leggings, swimsuits and wetsuits
Side ponytails

While this is not an exhaustive list, I think I've more than demonstrated that yes, this chick has issues :-)

And so I go attempt to tame my curls in order to reclaim my peripheral vision.