Dispatches from Poppy Spalding
Wednesday: San Francisco
This week, I’ve come west coast to the quakin’ gay disco town of San Francisco!
Out clubbing, I met so many ultra-friendly gender pirates, including a stunning boy called Andy who was like seven feet-tall, even with his stilettos off. There was also some bird called Tina who must have been having a great time as she was never out of the toilet.
Eventually, they asked me if I wanted to meet her so I was into the gents like a shot. Turns out Tina isn’t a lady at all, she is a super illegal party drug that you have to snort. As a major cocaine addict I literally couldn’t say no. But I know for a fact it wasn’t coke because its side effect didn’t include calling up my ex boyfriend from year seven to tell him I’m married to a dentist with a massive dick. Instead I just danced with Andy for hours. He is my perfect man! He’s blonde, shiny and can get stuff down from shelves which is always handy cause my dad keeps all his potcheen above the bathroom cabinet and I’m too scared to go up since that time I broke my jaw.
“You’re so tall!” I said, as I stroked his culottes. “Thanks,” he said, “I’m Dutch on my mother’s side.” He was without doubt the Dutchest man I’ve ever met and I was in love. We had to get married immediately. Andy agreed and asked me to remove my bra so he could give me an Indian head massage – so spiritual. I felt so relaxed I just knew I could hold my breath for the entire Golden Gate Bridge. I’m really good at holding my breath – way longer than Liam Neeson in Phantom Menace. So we jumped a cab and of course I managed it, easily trouncing Andy and the cabbie.
At the end of the bridge, I was flabbergasted to discover a massive Apple Store on stilts, but instead of Apple Geniuses, there are just hundreds of jackals – but not nice jackals: evil ones. And they were all trying to steal my helmet. Pretty terrifying. I was still confused the next day, but happily, Andy explained I’d lost consciousness at the traffic lights approaching bridge. He’d tried to take me to his homeopath for immediate treatment but unfortunately he was in jail. So jaded I missed the bridge but also thankful that I escaped Andy’s quack (I’ve seen House and don’t need Hugh Laurie giving me a lumber puncture just because some late night burritos are making me do mad alien farts that sound like the start of I’m Too Sexy by Right Said Fred.)
However, I’ll be leaving San Fran unhitched because I learned Andy’s surname is Turdpunch. Lots of people in America have wacky European origins and the resulting comedy names. Even if I’m too proud, it’s still so beautiful that Andy Turdpunch has made peace with himself and is able to get work. And that’s what makes San Francisco the greatest city in the world!
