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Monday, March 28

When Nick met Westwood

After 26 hours of bar-whoring myself to Brighton's thirsty, I've finally made it to the end of what has felt like a truly mammoth working weekend with not even a sniff of an Easter Egg - cue sympathetic tears and "aaaaaaah"s all round.

But I'm not really complaining; despite the fact that the pay is frankly a disgrace (four pounds eighty-fucking-five pee an hour), my legs feel like guitar strings tightened to a beyond sensible level, and the fact that I have been forced to listen to some of the most god-awful hip-hop and r 'n'b known to creation while being yelled at by some of the world's most revolting human-beings, when the perks are this perky (scroll down to see picture) the world seems to shine (like you've had too much wine etc...) - note extreeeeeme level of sarcasm in voice.

Sultan of Bling a.k.a. Prize cunt

It's me with Westwood! Ignoring the fact that I look, frankly, pretty much like I felt, how "off the heezy fo' sheezy" is that?

The man, the legend, the dickhead was "dj-ing" at the Gloucester for one night only for the obscene sum of £4000 and I took it upon myself to accost him after his set - which mostly consisted of the most obvious urban floor-fillers (anyone like Murder, She Wrote by Chaka Demus and Pliars?) interspersed with gun-shot effects (to cover the fact that the man is incapable of mixing two tracks together) and shout-outs to the crowd of things like "make some noize if you love Westwood!" and "I want all the ladies in the house with wet pussies to scream!". Eloquent. Articulate. Genius.

p.s. To test your knowledge of the ghettos check out this deezy little quiz I found:

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