Dedicated scenester and comeback aspirant Lily Allen sent a powerful visual message yesterday while attending the BAFTAs. The message confirmed long-held rumours in the celebusphere. It’s time, her outfit screamed, to take back our power, to flaunt our true nature, to throw off the disguises that have, for so long, allowed us to pass as other than what we truly are.
We are Reptiles. And we are proud.
Addicts of Mugwump fluid are known as Reptiles. A number of these flow over chairs with their flexible bones and black-pink flesh. A fan of cartilage covered with hollow, erectile hairs through which the Reptiles absorb the fluid sprouts from behind each ear. The fans, which move from time to time touched by invisible currents, serve also some form of communication known only to Reptiles.
In those days of grey terror the Reptiles dart about faster and faster, scream past each other at supersonic speed, their flexible skulls flapping in black winds of insect agony. The Dream Police disintegrate in globs of rotten ectoplasm swepty away by an old junky, goughing nad spitting in the sick morning. The Mugwump Man comes with alabaster jars of fluid and the Reptiles get smoothed out.
The air is once again still and clear as glycerine.
And that, dear readers, is probably the most accurate description of a night and next morning at Lily Allen’s house the world has ever seen. It’s hard out here for a Reptile.
To read more about Lily’s heretofor secret life, pick up this handy guide.