A few years back, I have decided that every year I would treat myself to a photoshoot for my birthday. The idea was that if – and when – I get to 72, I could gloat in the nursing home – not about my grandchildren, but about my bling bling and silver chains; all the while ‘Ace of Spades’ is blasting in my earpiece and my dentures.
Let’s be honest, I also like to do it because it forces me to go to the gym before the photoshoot session and shed some shawarma layers.
These are some of my old pics, and they were taken in a studio in Shoreditch, aka Shorebitch.
The second time I went, I had to argue with the stylist who kept wanting to put a bun on my head, like all East London hipsters do (hairstyle also known as ‘the gentrified turd’, because these individuals can gentrify everything including turds).
I did make sure that she knew that the only bun that will get anywhere close to my body is a brioche bun, and that the only thing that goes on my head is a glorious hat. I LOVE HATS!
I have bought another voucher which I want to use for this year’s decay celebration – but my mission is to lose some baggage first; or I’ll end up looking like a drag version of Meat Loaf. And nobody wants that.