Gay Paris Tour Diary Five: The Thrustening - Adelaide Does Paris

We are not The Fucking Beards.

We're just super famous pals with them

Oh frabjous day, dear reader! Yet such sadness does fall like the shade of Persephone o'er the bed of Hades – this is the end. Spring is dead. The tour is done and the free drinks are over. To enter into the realm of mere mortal men, forced to wear trousers and pay for the brandies, we are stripped of our status of international fancy boys – yet nothing can take away the spirit of true super famous pals.

A few for the road

I feel that by this point, you are well versed in our superior skills when it comes to satisfying a crowd, much as Clarence Carter satisfies his lovers (by strokin'). To write at length of our joyful puissance and robust loins would be to fall into the trap of truism. Instead, I would like you to check out my buns.

Hot buttered

As can be expected, our performance gained us the attention of the various Southern tramps that populate the City of Churches, and for this we gave thanks to the Great Gods of old, spitting our brandies in the direction of the Heavens that they may know that we are grateful of the bountiful gratuities bestowed upon us, deserving as we are.

Bottoms, up, Lord

Having mentioned the sacchariferous temptresses, I implore you to note that our agenda on this night ranged beyond pleasures of the flesh. With super famous pals, we did speak of many things – each conversation bringing all closer to a firm grasp of ontological parsimony that even the untrained may find some solace in.

God God Grenadier It

Speaking of ontological concerns, our expectations of 'being' were rent asunder as if by the fashion of Tiamat's claws when we met Ned Flanders, working hard at bringing the honour of YHWH to the searing anima of our collective body.

Get back into the TV, the power of brandies compels thee!

In conclusion, dear reader, I would like to express my deepest fondness in regards to your continued patronage of the perverted arts and sincere hope that we see you next time we bring our majestic and awe inspiring rock n' roll show to your town.

Celebrate us!

Now, all that is left to do is finish recording The Last Good Party, go to strip clubs and gaze longingly at the artefacts that have elevated me above the concerns of the filthy plebs that keep me super famous.

Business is good

In closing, I leave you all with the words of Slim Pickin's – “Get on with your custard. Where are the laser sluts? Slimy slimies! Where is the rider? She looks like she'd fuck a poet. I look like a poet.”

The fuckable poet