It’s been brought to light (by me) that there are certain people in your life that just need to be courtesy pied. A courtesy pie, for those of you that don’t already know, is when you need to pie someone, but for one reason or another, (i.e. they haven’t actually done anything wrong – they’re just annoying, you don’t want them to know you dislike them, you need to save face or for the simple fact that a courtesy pie can be colder than a regular one), you have to be polite about it. Courtesy pies include:

  • “Sorry, I’ll be right back…” while someone is in the middle of a sentence.
  • “Hi, you alright?” and then turning around before the person answers.
  • A simple wave across the club, when you know you should go over.
  • The Oprah hug.

And it’s come to my attention that lately, I’ve turned into a bit of a Mean Girl. So mean in fact, I may as well be taking lunch money off Regina George.
I recently had a short internship at a national gay magazine, whereby among the other two interns I was to adopt the role as Queen B. As Queen B I decided where we ate lunch, what time we went for lunch and was picked to attend showcases over the others.

“So where are we going for lunch?” Gretchen would ask me.
“The pub – I need a salad. I wanna lose like three pounds.”
“I’m not sure if I fancy the pub…”
“That’s where we’re going bitch.”

It was just me and Gretchen for a while, then in week two Karen joined.  I’d faked a lot of things before; ID, orgasms, affection, and smiles- but something about faking a friendship felt bitchy, even for me. What with fake tan, fake teeth, fake hair colour and now a fake personality, I was two silicone titties away from being Katie Price herself.

I didn’t start off as a plastic, for her first two days I invited Karen to sit and eat lunch with us. Albeit it meant listening to a nasal droning that sounded like a cat’s congested anus. And she looked worse than the underside of Geri Hall’s spotty thigh – but nonetheless I did my bit for the less fortunate and invited him to eat (well, graze) with us anyway. I mean, what was this – a Pixar production? She should’ve had a job at the Scream Factory scaring little children with the rest of the cast of Monsters Inc. not working at the Gay Times – where funnily enough – appearance is part of the gay culture.
“I know it might have seemed like I was a bitch, but that’s only ’cause I was acting like a bitch” – Cady Heron.

So what with her having the face of a Meat Feast pizza, you can imagine my shock when I hear that crater face was rolling her eyes at me.
“WHAT?”
“Yeah she was rolling her eyes while you were on the phone…” Gretchen informs me.
“WHAT?!”
*Regina Scream*

Cut to me throwing my Oyster wallet across the room, sweeping papers off desks and screaming blue murder with Calteen bar on my tooth.
“She’s not eating lunch with us anymore!” I told Gretchen – my good deeds were OVER.
“Okay…”
“Don’t talk to her!”
“Okay…”
“We hate her!”
“Yeah…”

Bitch wants to cut her eye at me? She was gonna reap the repercussions! So on his third day, I didn’t invite him to lunch. I didn’t say anything to him in fact. Not that day, or the next day, or the day after that. You may have just heard about a courtesy pie, but this pie was made of glass and rusty nails. No expense spared. I didn’t even like him to begin with, and if he has the nerve to bitch with the big girls – Eat lunch on your own in the toilet, or with the Slovakian cleaning lady – your choice. I realise I started off as the Fairy Godmother and was now the Wicked Witch, but inside I wasn’t as cold or as hollow as it sounds. Not until Friday came by anyway…

So after the frozen pie I smothered her with all week, I left on the last day saying bye to everyone, except for that fraggle face, of course.  Solantro’ing out like Miss Jay on a mission, I tossed my invisible hair at her and didn’t look back. That was, until I got to the train station. I may have been plastic, but sister didn’t have any! My card was declined. God knows how I’d maxed my card out – but living like a Queen comes at a cost! I was stuck in the dregs of North London, with NO way of getting home. Then along minces Karen…

No, I did not ask her for money – I’ve got too much pride and cunningness for that.

“OH, HI KAREN!” I beamed, grinning like a Cheshire Cat on a morphine drip. “Why have you got a suitcase?”
What followed was five minutes of pure bore about how his bag broke and he had to replace it, whatever – I’d rather listen to Coldplay. Then the dumass sets off to go through the single turnstile –
“Oh wait, why don’t you come through the wider one?” Indicating at the one used for pushchairs and prams.
So naturally, I slid through alongside him with no ticket.

“Toodles” *kisses hand and beauty Queen waves.

And, that’s how you do it bitch.
Cold. Hard. Plastic.