While tidying out my room this morning, I found the following weblog entry, scribbled on the back of a Space Kitchens telecanvaser script. (‘My name is ________ from Space Design. It’s just a quick call to inform you that your area has been selected for our £60,000 feature home giveaway.’) It is dated Saturday 12th October 2002, and was penned by yours truly with the intention of publishing it in The Trash Whore Diaries. For whatever reason, this piece of paper was misplaced and thus never made the transition onto your screen. Until now that is. Take a deep breath and exhale slowly, for this is vintage Trash Whore and it is ripe beyond belief. For the past three years, this blog has been lovingly immatured. And now it is finally ready to be uncorked. Care to join me for a glass?

Saturday 12th October 2002
I went to a party on Saturday nite at Ryan’s house in the Bridge of Don, he being the permanently-stoned bandmate of Sleazy Bob. Only this wasn’t just any old party - it was a breaking up party. That’s right, Ryan’s parents were separating and the house was going up for sale. In view of the sorrowful situation, holding a celebration made perfect sense. Or at least it did if your name was Ryan Massie, and your cannabis-choked cranium deemed it wise to hold a party in an attempt to jog the part of your short-term memory that couldn’t recall why the house was getting sold in the first place. Unlike the parties you see in the movies, there were no beautiful girls at this one, no rooms full of dancing people and no tables heaving with cold food. This was a Bridge of Don party, which could only mean two things - drink and drugs. We downed strange punch concoctions and smoked unusual joint configurations until Bob turned up at 11 o’clock and began sleazing… on Ryan’s mum. The old dear was probably used to the machinations of her son’s bandmate by now, only this time he was coming on stronger than six Vicotin washed down with a bottle of absinthe. ‘Do you know what a 69 is, Mrs Massie?’ he began, innocently enough. Ryan’s mum feigned ignorance and so Bob proceeded to take great delight in explaining to her the intricacies of the meal for two. Delighted with his success and his ability to shock while under the influence of alcohol, Bob decided to fone up Ryan’s sister and give her some more of his smooth talking. Fortunately for her she didn’t answer the fone, so Bob had to make do with leaving an endearing voicemail message. ‘Hi Erica, it’s Bob here. Are you coming to the house tonite, cos I really want to ram my cock up your shitter and get you to suck the claggy bits off my cheesy knob.’ Having reached the point of no return, Bob decided to dredge the depths of depravity and quiz Ryan’s mum on the art of scat-eating. Strangely enough, she claimed never to have tried this. It’s a pity; if she hadn’t been so conservative in the bedroom (or is it the bathroom?) perhaps her marriage would still be intact.
When I left Ryan’s house, later that evening, Bob was slumped unconscious on the stairs, his trousers around his ankles and the dog licking spew off his face. The sleaze-meister had gotten his just desserts, and by the looks of it, it was carrot cake.