I’m just in from casting my vote in the local and mayoral elections. I don’t hold much hope. Considering my voting history, perhaps if I started voting Tory, they’d lose more often.
It’s a thought, not an actual plan.
On the way to the polling station, which is conveniently at the end of my street, I saw a girl with a terrible facial skin problem. I tried not to stare. However, after a series of rapid glances, it became clear that this was no hideous skin condition involving the flesh melting off the bone, but extreme contouring gone horribly wrong. She needs better lighting in the room where she does her makeup, a more efficient set of blending brushes and a less sharp shimmer, high lighter. No woman wants to look like a living dead, drag Queen doll.
I wrote that with the surety with which I vote for what I believe would be a marginally better set of governing knobs, but perhaps the odds are against me with this too, and the undead, thriller, drag race vibe is what we’ll all be rocking come Autumn.
The horror
fat tart 