Apollo C Vermouth's Place
Went by Apollo aka Paul McCartney's House on St.John's Wood on Tuesday to drop off a Pilates/nanny resume and an early birthday present. The press were like vultures waiting on the Serengeti (or as Alan Bennett once wrote 'pigs rooting in their own shit' though after a visit to Hackney Community Farm one knows this is far too gracious a compliment). Wore my flowing blond hair, rosy pink cheeks and brought kitty puppet with me all ready to sing a tune.
Waited nearby the Fleet Street creeps eating lunch in their motors who all thought I was about 19. It was fun to firstly act as if I had no idea why I was put on the planet other than to look sweet, buxom and winsomely dopey but then I gradually allowed my rapier wit to unfold like Peter Sellers as Clair Quilty in 'Lolita.'.
One reporter , who must spend his evenings swilling MDA and pouring over Gary Glitter photos, wanted a photo of my birthday card slash resume and another offered to 'give it to the guy for me.'
No thanks mate.
I explained about my blog and stage name , none of them had seen 'Super Vixens' nor knew of Russ Meyer, this is so saddening as I thought that those who attempt to shape pop culture (albeit poorly) should at least know something of it's history.
The worst was that they had the audacity to tell me that Apollo C Vermouth's birthday was 'last week' and I actually believed them-sad but all those blokes can get right oppressive when they fix their lights on yer mate, I should never have listened.
"Young lady, don't you know that The Rolling Stones are a better band?'
Yawn.
There I was the only British eccentric within miles. I mean what happened? Why does the British press want everyone to be like Paris Hilton now?
I grew quickly tired of being asked to perform private puppet shows later on that evening and decided I'd ring the bell, as if by magic, the gate slowly opened and one of the hunkiest best looking British guys I've ever seen (security) so sweetly appeared. He made me feel so welcome. He kindly took my gift and told me that no one was home at the moment-I actually blushed!
(But here comes the twist 'I don't exist!')
Walked away quickly from the paparazzi into a most beautiful day, telling the press who had their eyes fixed on my bum like hunting scopes, that they now had Super Amanda to contend with and Super Amanda knows no fear and will NOT serve with joy (unless it's Ribena during Cbeebies that is).
They just don't get it.
Waited nearby the Fleet Street creeps eating lunch in their motors who all thought I was about 19. It was fun to firstly act as if I had no idea why I was put on the planet other than to look sweet, buxom and winsomely dopey but then I gradually allowed my rapier wit to unfold like Peter Sellers as Clair Quilty in 'Lolita.'.
One reporter , who must spend his evenings swilling MDA and pouring over Gary Glitter photos, wanted a photo of my birthday card slash resume and another offered to 'give it to the guy for me.'
No thanks mate.
I explained about my blog and stage name , none of them had seen 'Super Vixens' nor knew of Russ Meyer, this is so saddening as I thought that those who attempt to shape pop culture (albeit poorly) should at least know something of it's history.
The worst was that they had the audacity to tell me that Apollo C Vermouth's birthday was 'last week' and I actually believed them-sad but all those blokes can get right oppressive when they fix their lights on yer mate, I should never have listened.
"Young lady, don't you know that The Rolling Stones are a better band?'
Yawn.
There I was the only British eccentric within miles. I mean what happened? Why does the British press want everyone to be like Paris Hilton now?
I grew quickly tired of being asked to perform private puppet shows later on that evening and decided I'd ring the bell, as if by magic, the gate slowly opened and one of the hunkiest best looking British guys I've ever seen (security) so sweetly appeared. He made me feel so welcome. He kindly took my gift and told me that no one was home at the moment-I actually blushed!
(But here comes the twist 'I don't exist!')
Walked away quickly from the paparazzi into a most beautiful day, telling the press who had their eyes fixed on my bum like hunting scopes, that they now had Super Amanda to contend with and Super Amanda knows no fear and will NOT serve with joy (unless it's Ribena during Cbeebies that is).
They just don't get it.
Labels: apollo C Vermouth, fake and bake toes happy super amanda, paul mccartney
posted by Amanda and SuperAmanda™ at
Thursday, June 15, 2006
18 Comments:
Oh, Amanda! What ever are you up to?
A well-behaved woman never makes history. Ever considered riding a horse stark effing naked? It's worked before in England . . .
XX
Hi Amanda,
What is it with the press? They have no respect!
Hi Amanda,
I have a feeling that London does not know the mighty force that is about to hit them! Winsomly buxom and witty is a deadly combo- go get 'em!
Cheers,
AM
Um...you don't exist...weren't on the list? Seems the press weren't alone in the scope. Or, you're awfully cryptic-crossword-like here dove but it's all good (to be). There's a special poetry easily refined.
Whooo is Apollo??
Cheers, Amanda.....have a good time!
Apollo C. Vermouth is....
Hmm...I once knew an Adonis. He passed, of all things, so I must walk lightly around these measures of beauty.
Oh man, I thought I was soooo in the know, sooo cool, but Madame I bow to you! ;)
XXX
Sue
Paul McCartney!! The Beatle and The Knight...maybe I'm amazed.
Apollo C. Vermouth was the moniker he used to produce/co write? 'uRBAN sPACEMEN' BY THE LEGENADARY bRIT ROCK ART SCHOOL BAND tHE bONZO dO dOO dAH bAND.
..oh and no bowing EVER required!
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
monsiuer Paul is lucky you're there!
I think Beabs has healed (thanks for asking!). And I've always liked those french bull terriers (they have bat ears). There's a funny 'boxer world dot com' I've joined in search for a nanny, and what I mean by funny is that the owners of the dot com don't seem at all happy about it. their tone is so often the complete opposite of the breed.
Beabs was attacked by a pbull (she was on lead). I thought about my right butt cheek as I stood between sets of jaws. Was a nasty affair but she (the Beabs) turned out to be diamond lucky. My ass, too.
-g+bb
Paul is looking for a Pilates instructor??? Or is he "just looking?"
:)
Keep it up - dying to hear "the dirt on the dirt" as Ruth Streeting once said.
Kidding!!
I love hearing about your adventures - but I suppose you have to keep most of it under wraps, eh?
"cryptic crossword-like" as gina so aptly put it!
Well it's still a fun read.
Have a blast.
Love,
Sue D.
PS I got my toenails painted, my eyebrows threaded (for a little S&M delight), my hair temporarily straightened and put in an up do while in NYC for.....well, a gay man of course, whose initials are R.W!
It's really a pity that I haven't gone to such extremes for my husband (!) But I had so much fun, I just might start!
:)
Will post a pic and recap soon!!
Suejoy needs to learn the art of cryptica ;-). For Garland in NY would not have flown over my head ;-).
I suppose I should have gone on to Suejoy's own blog, but alas I am here,lassy Super A, because it's you I'm wishing well.
ahhh.
-g+bb
Hi Amanda! I just wanted to stop by your blog to say hello.
Hope all is well, Ed
Hey Amanda!
Love the picture of Paul = )
Aha! Apaullo! Now it makes sense, the hoopla, the press. Yep, all eyes are on Apollo and "....." right now.
Jeez, It's a wonder you made it as far as you did! :)
Hehehe, got to admit I was thinking "what the hell is going on here?" when I read this. But then discovered the identity of Apollo from the comments and it's all clear ;)
Good luck in conquering London!
Maria
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