I am staring into my reflection in the polished Golden Cock Erotic Oscar trophy that sits in pride of place on my mantelpiece, and I am pondering to myself…what is a typical day in the life of Miss Blaize?
I mean to say, where I can actually distinguish between the end of one and the start of another, there really is no example of an average day, or an average anything in fact. Only an ever more bizarre descent into the fur-lined erotic world of Miss Blaize’s Burlesque.
Now, if you are about to ask the question ‘what is burlesque?’
then please grab a dictionary, as I’m not about to oblige; if I had a pound, and all that...oh yes, the other most frequently asked question being ‘how do they stay on?’ (my nipple tassles of course) to which dear readers I always reply… suction. Woolworth’s double sided aint the most glamorous answer to roll off the tongue of a top titty tassling pussycat like Miss B. So, as the days and nights roll into one La Chapelle-esque tableaux, I conclude ‘a day in the life of Immodesty Blaize’ impossible to pin down, much like myself really.
Therefore I am changing the title. Now, having swung a jolly tassel for many a year in many a place, I have many a tassling tale to tell. So I hereby rename this piece 'A Tale Feather in the Life of Immodesty Blaize!'
Picture the scene if you will. I am sure most of you can identify with waking up to a banging head and a Channel Tunnel sized hole in the memoirs of the previous night. Well this one was spectacular. Woken by a lazer shaft of sunlight through my eyelids, radio still blaring, TV still flickering, tassels and false eyelashes still firmly glued on…and a sudden wave of nausea. God, what was that smell? Climbing off the leopardskin covers I paced my boudoir and puzzled the strange aroma. It was Fashion Week, and last night I had performed on Mrs Jones’ catwalk for her latest collection. We had all then partied on at Sketch til the small hours.
Straightforward, right? Wrong, I realised as I located the source of the smell, pulling from my Vanity Case none other than an Agent Provocateur bag containing a pound of warm pork and stilton sausages. What the…?This vile aroma stayed with me right through my next assignment which unfortunately involved having to fry eggs on my household iron in a kitchen whilst dressed in full corseted French Maid Miss Blaize attire. (This, I discovered by the way is a really good way to cook eggs.)
The photographer on the shoot was getting fidgety about the apparent waves of nausea showing in my expression, and so moved me upstairs to strip down to apron and nipple tassels, and grapple with a vacuum cleaner. Do you know, it didn’t even swipe a tassel? Maybe this should be a new test for the suction on vacuum cleaners…or perhaps its just an endorsement for Woolworth’s double sided?
So, the sausage/egg trauma still fresh in my mind, I am now heading out of London after the shoot for tonight’s performance – and where do I find myself? In a windy open air au naturel dressing area, sandwiched between a screaming injured can can dancer and a naked bejewelled beauty pushing a hard boiled egg inside herself ready to lay it in a nest on the stage that is currently occupied by a stiletto heeled Walter in bowler hat dancing dirty in bollock tassels with Frock ‘n’ Roll emblazoned across his chest. Please. This egg/sausage thing is getting too much. This lady actually laid the egg beautifully and I was entranced by her grace and elegance. (Apparently she has got it stuck once before though.) I felt the nausea return as a member of the audience insisted upon eating the freshly laid egg - I mean, talk about lower the tone.
The next day back in London I decided I had to get to the bottom of the sausages thing. Many calls were made. Seems no-one could remember much of that night, most couldn’t even work out their own drunken exploits. I was tassling tonight for a certain magazine launch party. A girlfriend had come to watch, and as she came over to congratulate me on a lovely performance, she casually asked, ‘ by the way, you didn’t happen to find my sausages did you?’Aha.How stupid of me not to think…she works for Agent Provocateur, and had bought the sausages for dinner. Intending to pop her head into the show, she popped them into an A.P. bag as she left work. Sitting down and waiting for the fashion show to start, she lay the bag on the chair next to her.
At this point, I distinctly remember I was being made to tassel in a cannabis leaf lined cage in the window, and I remember looking across at my friend and clocking none other than Zoe Ball sitting down in the next chair to be interviewed by Vogue. Hang on, so where were the sausages….We still never worked out how the squashed sausages ended up in my vanity case, but at least it was a mystery partly solved by the end of the evening. I left the venue on the back of a male friend’s low rider. My girlfriend (concerned for my welfare since I was inappropriately dressed for biking in only heels, stockings and fur) threatened to break him if he returned me in more than one piece.
He muttered something about breaking eggs to make an omelette…And on that note,‘til we meet again
Miss B x