how many facial scars do YOU have?...New Albertine's photos make me realise I look like a Bond villain in Marilyn curls. My cat is even worse.

Life's too short to describe in more than about 420 characters, so I'm back to scribbling in my diary in green ink on DLR.
It's terribly enjoyable.

Mxxx

This post is entirely to thank a lovely random person for the Velvet Goldmine soundtrack etc that my postie presented me with today, to my utter joy and delight. I don't normally do this, however my wishlist has not been honoured extensively lately and I am too drunk to figure out how to trace my kind stranger, so please accept dainty smooches upon your cheeks dear Leigh, and rest assured that I do absolutely love your gift. Mwah and all that jazz.

(nonetheless I feel weird making a sparse post, so let me fill it up with my latest contribution to the art of ceramics that takes place on a plate and shall be shown from Stoke (UK capital of pottery) to NYC (US capital of fabulousness) sometime really soon)


Come on! Who wouldn't love to eat their breakfast off this plate design?! Deeelish!!!

Here is another stupid picture from Mankoland that is somewhat revoltingly colour-coordinated with the above:

I'm switching races for a Japanese imagining being Hawaiian in a Renaissance setting. Kudos to those who can post terms for the relevant street fashion tribes.

okay so I've been absent, still there's no need for bloody obituaries, awright? Today London's superstar elite lost Alexander McQueen, but your Manko is still alive and kickin. If you don't believe me for some weird twisted reason (you sick bastard!), get an eyeful of my recent attempts at creative boobage on Ishotmyself and most recently Zivity.

Because of boredom and for the kinky kicks I went and got myself an office job for the first time in my life. I feel like such a dirty slapper adhering to the corporate dresscode - matching starched shirts with towering heels and pinstripe pencil skirts. But also... who coulda thunk a photo retoucher's job would be so entertaining. Oh the desperate craving of faux beauty of your average woman like any of those random females on the tube! I smirk all the way home in the rush hour, after a day of doodling a wacom pen around flabs, wrinkles, zits and ingrown hairs of random strangers who want to be slimmer, younger, healthier, happier, fitter... Feeling like a gynaecologist or a priest, keeping dirty little secrets in utmost confidence in a strangers' expensive and fruitless fantasy of "what if i were to see myself on the cover of a magazine"... Not Vogue, not even OK!, though perhaps on Crochet! or Fisherwoman's Delight. Wah wah wah.

Anyway, I still prefer REAL fabulous clobber to that kinky secretary uniform. My new jacket commission from Drag Fiend Crew is the best piece of clothing I have ever owned - fine art at its finest.


My dead mother's jacket from the 70ies, covered in broken jewelry, rusty safetypins, blood, spells, bicycle chains and lace. Pure mojo. How I love getting in quick with a young talent before they charge designer prices! And he is a pretty tasty looking boy as well, purrrr.

Random cute fact - Pseekal came and defaced all my SG books and magazines:

And Espira made this Honey Manko Regina painting:

After this report of no particular interest or importance I gotta love ya and leave ya - my mind is preoccupied with more essential subjects, such as what I should be drinking. Or what to wear with my jacket to get papped at that fancy party I have to show my face in a couple of hours. Too bloody freezing in London for rubber stockings and sheer white slip a la Cicciolina, which was my first idea. This rum oughta help warm up, let's see.... Cheers to you Alexander, RIP whilst herds of mediocre tossbags live on.

PS formspring.me

PPS latest press:

I'm particularly surprised by the "surprise ending" comment. Lemme spoil that one: A Punk Nightmare In NY (Rolling Stone, 1978)

Enjoy our new set. I can assure you that my groupie bitch loveofmylife Vivid is still fine and dandy, alive and kicking somewhere in Detroit, and the only thing wrong with the whole situation is that Detroit ain't London.

Still, I had more of that glorious arse than you shall ever have, so suck my dick ya fucken tossers:
\

Just woke up and realised that I have a balloon over my eye and it means that today is my bastard 28th birthday, and that I just blew my chance to join Club 27 Forever. Well, technically I still have til 9:30pm, and so I'm off to do something completely reckless, depraved, disgusting and sick. I'll keep you posted, otherwise see you in the VIP of hell.

PS Birthday grump:

Oh, gee, I just don't know, dear. There has been too much fabulous and fucked up action to even begin to catalogue it in a new blog, plus a feeling of What'sTheBleedinPoint for any of this anymore. Went through a million hair changes, stalkers, photoshoots for money, bleaching eyebrows, animals, victories that strangely mean fuckall, legs in stirrups and surgical instruments. Making things and breaking things, the usual.
I can hardly bring myself to do anymore typing, twittering, fucking with words; clearly the wrong season for fingers on keyboard. With new season upon us, hysterically sunny, blooming, bleeding, drunken, purple and orange, it's high time for chaos and dressy acid parties in the sunlight cemeteries, and not for fingers on keyboards, no no.



Manko is alive and well. See you around... maybe.

My small black familiar is breathing her sleepy sighs onto my thigh. She's wearing a collar I cut out of electric blue leather a friend from Tokyo once left in my house. The furry animal raked my right cheek last week, a honest deep slash, blood gushing onto a white fur mantle. I stayed indoors all week growing skin, surviving on hash brownies....

... or was it a drunken knife fight in a dirty basement bar where sailors pick up whores? Wait a mo, wasn't my face slashed up by a stiletto of a beautiful boy with tattoos of ships and tattoos of tears?.. oh well. People make up stories all the time. Where does the myth become a reality? Which story would you rather hear?



Debuted my scar at the sex worker demo in Piccadilly Circus under the Eros statue., thanks to a week of events organized by Sex Worker Open University. This week I've rubbed shoulders with more wonderful whores, rentboys, poets, artists, callgirls, doms, streetwalkers or harlots than per usual...



Scarfaced supporter of whores... (yaaaawn.) Please sign a PETITION to the UK government against the proposed Policing and Crime Bill which will make sex workers yet more unsafe, or just sign it as a punch in the mouth of our vile hypocrite Home Secretary, Jacqui Smith who, in case you haven't heard, has been leading the Government's attack on the sex industry, yet who has purchases of porno in her official expense claims. More info on x:talk.

In fact this inspired me to make a special set of prints from my last whore-positive set to support the organisations of sex-working sisters. Very few sets available, each one consisting of 10 different gloss 6"x9" prints from Good For Dirty Women, and the cost is £50 per set +shipping. (Normally I sell prints at £25 each, so this is a pretty fucking decent deal - and for a wicked cause!! But I won't try to push it. If you wanna support it you will, finito.). I am making special screen-printed bags to accommodate the prints, as well as a manifesto, a selection of scraps and real London tartcards from red phoneboxes. Integrity+genuinity all the way, lovers!



And if you're sick of references to the old set, well what the hell, kittens. Very very soon, so soon that I could possibly hold my breath that long (though frankly I won't) my new set will be up for your entertainment and indulgence. Lucky I managed to fit one in before my face got disfigured for life... I'm not saying anything but... (clearly I'll be saying something nonetheless, hintidly hint hint) a blond grunge star shot himself yesterday, give or take a few years. In a couple of days his corpse will have been discovered at his Lake Washington home by an electrician who had arrived to install a security system. His mother will then have said: "Now he's gone and joined that stupid club". And THE CLUB in question is what my new set will be about. Go on.... Make a wild guess.

I'm leaving for Berlin in a couple of hours and still haven't packed yet. It's awful. I'm sitting here procrastinating in an extremely stupid mood, with the cat snoozing on my lap and blue dye on my hair. How can I possibly pack for a party days in advance?! I always have The Great Outfit Crisis for good 3 hrs before going out: the whole closet spread across the floor, running around the house like a headless chicken in underwear, screaming "But I honestly haven't got a stitch!", downing whiskey to calm nerves before genius strikes me and I throw together another fabulously scandalous look. Oh the fun! Perhaps one of the more exciting parts of going out - in these days of every venue crawling with toilet attendants, cctv and smoking ban, should you dare attempt to enhance your clubbing experience with sex or drugs, god forbid. Ugh, how did we manage to give up on our liberties so easily in this stupid world where the concept of smoking a cigarette in a nightclub already seems like exotic retro decadence. Ghhhhr how I loathe this fascism under the banner "For Your Own Safety" within our pathetic joke of democracy, aghhrr don't you fucking get me started!

Bloody procrastination. It's just pathetic. I haven't updated for months, I've travelled exotic countries and loved exotic people, and all I can write about is how I detest packing, flying and smoking bans. At least Berlin kept a bit of integrity and I'll sure be sucking on a cancer stick at the Bang Bang club on Valentines. Wearing... what? What the fuck am I gonna wear?! Ugh.
I made a lacy arm band specially for this trip last night, very very drunk on fabulous rum cocktails. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but I'm not so sure come hangover. Germans don't have much sense of humour about genocide.

I'll probably take it off for immigration, you think?

Now for something fabulous.
Recently I entered the Andy Warhol history. Very slightly did I enter it, just with the tip of my stiletto, but still. Leee Black Childers was doing a talk about the Superstars, Iggy, Ziggy, glam, punk and all the fabulous things I missed thanks to being born too late. Don't get me started. Anyway, I went onstage at the Royal Festival Hall and read excerpts from Warhol's play Pork. I read lines of Vulva - Manko reading Vulva, what a laugh - originally performed by Jayne County. When I catch that bitch next time I'm in NY I'm gonna snog the slap-on off her face. Fucking love her. Here's Manko being Vulva:

And here's a prove I ain't shittin ya (cause as it is commonly known, press never lies. Pft! Don't get me started )



Now for some plugging.
I edited a book. I had no idea what I was doing but it turned out rather cute, if I say so myself...

Go buy it. I made it. It's dirty. And he'll buy me a pretty dress from the profits. Then maybe I won't be sitting in my bathrobe when it's time to go to the airport.


Time for some candid photos, I guess. Ghhr! What can I show you that you haven't already seen? Thanks to 11 sets you probably know what my bod and my mug looks like better than I do. How about insides of my face? That's gotta be new to you.

Unexpected depths of intimacy with Manko.


Gods, someone shut me up and throw me out of the door... I have a bleeding plane to catch.

PS this is a terrible and lazy excuse for a diary entry and I apologise for resorting to rolling eyes via emoticons. Maybe you should ask me questions and I'll write replies in the next entry, it will be modern, jolly fun and interactive game. I'll write it when I'm drunk, not hungover.