We here at Glitter for Brains can often be found pondering mysteries of this wondrous world (are the headlines in ‘American Dad’ ever funny? Is there anything Eva Longoria won’t advertise?) which is why we get a little confused when one of our firmly held beliefs gets questioned.

In this case, it was the rock-solid notion that Children Should Not Talk To Strange Men.

Now, I’ve had this drummed into me – ironically – more times than I’ve had strange men drummed into me. You do not go and talk to people you don’t know, unless its an emergency and its a police man. This goes some way to explain my incapacity to chatting to people I don’t know in clubs; yet if they’re in a policeman’s uniform, I won’t come quietly. But I digress; it was while my Fella and I were in the park, enjoying the sunshine and reading the paper on a lovely Sunday afternoon that we looked up and saw a charming blue-eyed girl looking down at us.

“Er, hello,” said Ryan. I, whereas, was burying my head in the Arts section and slyly looking around for her father in the hope he was going to come and collect her without due haste, and hopefully, any dirty looks for chatting to his very young daughter.

“And what are your names?” she asked quite brazenly. “Mine’s Iona. I think its very pretty.”

Ryan agreed that it was, and introduced us both. I still wasn’t enthusiastic about having an interloper. Kids don’t normally warm to me. It’s the beard, I think. Or the squinty eyes. Or because I know more about ‘In The Night Garden’ than they do.

I leaned in to Ryan’s ear. “She doesn’t seem that fussed about the fact that we’re holding hands.”

“Perhaps she’s from one of those progressive families. Where they tell you about the birds and the bees, the bees and the bees, and the birds and the birds, so they do.”

Iona continued to dance in front of us, and was wearing her sun dress with the straps down. She was, in essence, topless. And had this worrying habit of sticking her hand down the front of said dress whenever she was asked a question. From a distance, we really looked like we were part of some paedo sting operation. And so we were in a dilemma: do we act as non-threatening and gay as possible so wherever the father was, he thought ‘she is with those marvelous well-dressed homosexuals, they pose no threat’. Or do we sit some distance apart as some people still think ‘Gays run off with kids, get her away now!’

I located her father, under a tree, holding Iona’s brother and sister. He didn’t seem the slightest bit fussed that she was over with us. In fact, if anything, he seemed glad of the break.

I swung my legs around so I could face our new friend. “Iona, would you like to be a princess?”

She nodded slowly, fingers in her mouth.

“Well then, lets make you a crown.” And I started folding up parts of the newspaper into a lavish hat.

“Don’t you want this bit?” she said, pointing at the sheets I was creasing.

“Oh no,” I said. “Let me tell you a secret. Because I am a princess too, Iona. And princesses never read the Sports section.”
// posted by Lee @ 9:21 AM // 3 fabulous comments

 

So last night, as I was heading through Soho, I happened upon four tramps fighting over a can of Stella. 'Well no need to go to Leicester Square and see the UK "Sex and the City" premiere then,' I thought. Honestly, I think I should get a badge; I was probably the only Gentleman Who Owns Tweezers who wasn't there leaning over the barriers to watch Sarah Jessica Parker canter around the red carpet. Old Compton Street was a ghost town. I'd like to say the staff of the Ku Bar were offering blow jobs to get punters in, but frankly there's no change there.

Anyway, completely off the point, here's a New Fact for you: in stock exchanges, when things get a little heated and excited between the stock brokers, there is apparently a noticeable elevation in testosterone in the air. Interesting enough, I think you'll find. But I then went on to discover that in certain Singapore stock offices, they apparently pump testosterone into the air to whip all the functionaries into a buying-and-selling frenzy from the get go, rather like a blue-tag sale in Debenhams on pension day.

It turns out there are two women that work in this office.

Well, they may not be women any more... they may be having to shave three times a day or something. I remember when I accidentally took some estrogen after mistaking it for soluble aspirin some time ago; my nipples were delightfully tender for a week and I had this uncontrollable urge to watch a 'Brothers & Sisters' marathon while crying into my blouson. Perhaps these girls go the other way and start wearing turned-up jeans, no bra and favour ginseng teas. Start ordering chunky collars for their cats, if you get my drift.

Or perhaps they spend the day foaming at the gash like a faulty fire extinguisher, and dragging their asses across the office floor, yowling like a cat in heat. I have to say this is exactly how I feel at the moment. Its the heat, I tell you. We're having a heatwave over here at the minute and I'm horny as hell. I feel like I'm in a film noir - meaning that I'm either a toothy drifter in a leather jacket or a sexually frustrated waitress, and we're about to have some great sex next to some knackered blinds while a ceiling fan lazily whirs overhead. Usually after killing someone's husband. It's a very vivid but distracting fantasy; I don't think I'd like to be here permanently, though - the fridge in my vision may be a glorious white monolith of 50s Americana, but it looks like a right death trap to me. Reach in the back for some humus, and the next thing you know the slab of a door has swung shut and you're going to suffocate to death betwixt two cottage pies and a Star Bar.

Still, at least I'd have more dignity than Sarah Jessica Parker, if you ask me.
// posted by Lee @ 8:57 AM // 3 fabulous comments

 

Now come in and sit down, Madonna. Please don't look so surly as this is for your own good, my dear girl.

Now, I'd like to talk to you about copying. Ah-ah-ah, please don't interrupt - I know you have been doing it for many years and we've often turned a blind eye, but this latest report you've handed in is just ridiculous. Did you do anything in this at all?

Now don't go all silent on me, missy. Answer the question.

No, I don't think writing your name on the front is work enough, frankly. And I know some of the younger children are very easily led, but that doesn't mean that you can keep getting them to do all your work for you. Take that nice William in the year below... I'm sorry, that nice 'Will.i.am'. (I tell you, Mrs Callorat from the English department regrets the day she did her 'Fun With Punctuation!' class with the fourth year...) He's very good at what he does, but doesn't mean that you can just come in and waltz off with the credit. It's just not the done thing, dear.

Please stop doing yoga when I'm speaking to you. There's a name for girls who can get their ankles above their heads, and let me tell you it's not a pleasant one.

Now I have to say that I was a little dubious when you announced you were going to do some hipperty-hoppity music for your next project. Some people even laughed in the staff room, but I thought 'No. Let her have a go.' Because we hope to be forward viewing here at this school - heavens, if we let Avril Lavine get away with it, you should at least have a go at being one of those human beat boxes. Our one fear would be that you'd try and drag the music into a more commercial area, thus rendering it without message, and using slightly-dated accompaniments to mainstream the package. Well, actually, my one fear would be you used a terrible font on the cover, but it seems that looking at this that both of were totally justified.

Are you chewing gum? No, yes you are. I saw you put it in your mouth while I was talking. Spit it out, child. Honestly, I'm trying to make you into a lady! As such, lets not forget that summer project you did called... well, I don't wish to say that word, thank you. The 'Ess-Eee-Exx' word. I saw some of those pictures that were in it. Do you not own any nice blouses, dear?

Yes I'm aware that by not embracing the inner goddess I'm leaving myself open to be penetrated by a phallicentric world. But some of us like a high neckline, thank you very much.

Don't tut. Ladies don't tut.

Some of the staff are saying that you haven't done any proper work since you stopped hanging around with that nice Sandra Bernhart girl - you know, the one who was very good at hockey. And shop class. Whatever happened there? You two used to be as thick as thieves back in the day! Maybe she was your muse! You know, from your Greek classes? No? Honestly, does anything get through that hair-do? I despair sometimes, I really do!

Don't slouch, dear. And don't mumble.

Well, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to fail you for this latest effort. I was hoping that you'd talk me around, but I can see your heart really isn't in it, is it? Is it? No, its not. The one good thing I can say about you is that you are prolific in your work, so there'll be another one along in a minute. Just one more thing, dear: please stop getting the A/V boys to touch up your year-book picture. We've now spent the whole Art Department budget.
// posted by Lee @ 10:53 AM // 1 fabulous comments

 

Every now and again, my favorite ex and I get together so he can try and wean me off my dependence of Hollywood-style blockbusters (and their accompanying sugar highs) by slowly introducing me to art house films where nothing blows up. Or if it does, it is usually off screen and means the whole town is going to die of malaria now. Yesterday, we watched the award-winning 'Volver' starring Penelope Cruz, which some people class as art house, while others class it merely as 'Spanish'. Personally, I class any film as art house where you see:

* the protagonist's useless spouse drinking on a tartan sofa after getting fired
* anyone actually using the bathroom
* far too many cleaning products on display near the kitchen window
* any film where Kate Winslett coughs pointedly into a hankie, and then tries to hide the blood specks.

You can also tell this is an arty film as there's lots of overhead shots of soup and washing up bowls. And my usual fear of it having no plot was unfounded; rather it had too much... it's like Almodóvar is a toddler with ADD when mood-boarding the movie, what with a kooky murder, a restaurant trying to be successful, a few family secrets, neighbour with cancer, people sniffing exercise bikes and an awful lot of wafers. Its just unfortunate that somebody seemingly gave him Liz Taylor's supply of downers for actually writing the script as all this happens at a glacial pace. In the US, they tend to concentrate on only one of those at a time; restaurant needs to be turned around and made successful? Call Catherine Zita-Jones! Kooky murder? Ice Cube's your man to man-handle a comedy corpse into your chest freezer!

I think 'Volver' also suffers from Prodigal Son Syndrome, where a local star returns to their people with the bounty of Hollywood kudos, and enables them to do one or two cross-cultural films which will be a slice of urban, rural life to show their country that they haven't forgotten their cultural roots and how to dye their own hair in the bathroom sink, while still trying to sell it overseas with a cut of the profits. The problem with Cruz is that she hasn't left the right amount of Hollywood when she popped back, and looks far too milky-skinned and flawless. Like you're watching the prom queen starring in the school play, where you know after this she's going to be hanging out in the mall and trying to date inside her faith. Or in the case of Cruz, skip off to some flatteringly-lit L'Oriel advert that hides her nose and doesn't make her look like she'll be begging for carrots at The Grand National.

The one true mark of this is her look in 'Volver' where, yes it may be man-made fibers and chunky heels, but they never look less than flattering, if not couture. Even her 'effortless' back-combed barnet is what thirsty singer Miss Amy Winehouse has been trying to ape for the last few years - well, before a possum seems to move into it each night and nest. Come on, Penny love - even Jane Fonda wore a baggy grey cardie when she's trying to be art house.

On the whole, I was left unmoved by 'Volver' but was glad I had seen it. I now know all about small-town Spanish mourning and how to kiss on cheeks in the noisiest way possible. I still do admire Cruz as an actress - after all she let her monobrow grow out as only the truly famous can get away with (hello, Lordes) and the not-so-famous try (hello, Kerry Katona). In my opinion, any woman who has a convincing crying scene without seeing a depilatator in the last six months deserves a Golden Globe. And that's art house.
// posted by Lee @ 11:04 AM // 0 fabulous comments

 

Today, I have caused chaos at my place of work and it has been brilliant. And simply by switching the labels on the full cream and the skimmed milk jugs.

Oh you should see it! Legions of alice-band wearing women running around like spooked deer in there, spluttering earl grey tea through their fingers in abject horror. The cries of "My thighs! My thighs!" and hurried dialed calls to personal trainers drowned out the girls on their hands and knees, hacking and coughing their guts up and moaning that they're going to be on the stairmaster for the next five years. Such things make me proud.

Idle thumbs are the devil's playground, and mine are pretty damn bored at the minute. I should be enjoying what I'm doing... but I'm not. And while I'm far away from the drudgery of spreadsheets and being called into Finance to explain my extravagant business lunches and trying to write off trips to Pleasuredrome as "essential health incidents", the magic just isn't with me. Perhaps its merely familiarity breeding contempt - this is the longest I've been at any one place in about 5 years. To give you a context, I change my men as often as I change my underwear. And I don't wear underwear.

And yet if you'd told me thirty years ago I'd be working in one of the hallowed halls of this British institution, I'd have gurgled and looked glassy eyed at you. Mostly because I was only three years old and had some learning difficulties after my mother let me lick a lot of garage doors while she was flicking through her Bella. But if you'd told me ten years ago I'd be working in one of the hallowed halls of this British institution... I'd have gurgled and looked glassy eyed at you because I spent the majority of my twenties drunk under a bridge in Bethnal Green with my old friend Mr Turps.

Anyway, what I'm saying is that while it should be an honour to work here, the magic seems to have been momentarily taken from me - rather like every-other Madonna album. I don't want you to feel sorry for me (I'm doing enough of that myself) and I'm sure its a momentary lapse, but as I look around me at the moment, I'm stuck in a office when I really fancy sitting about with an iced tea and a Maeve Binchy.

I have no idea what a Maeve Binchy is, but all the girls like them in the office so its either ice cream, chocolate, chocolate ice cream or a sex toy.
// posted by Lee @ 1:09 PM // 6 fabulous comments

 

Is it me, or does it feel like Mz Halliwell has turned up to the party ten years too late?
// posted by Lee @ 1:06 PM // 2 fabulous comments

 

Thank you all for all the well-wishes for me and the new fella, very kind of you. And the innumerable emails questioning how a raddled old queen like myself can saddle myself a gorgeous man - those too were very... kind. Most of you wanted to know how it was done: well, all you have to do close your eyes and wish real hard, then click your heels together, Dorothy!

Or in my case, click them apart.

Anyway, he's off in Cornwall for a week so I'm having to amuse myself, and the thing that jumps out the most is the new film, 'Ironman'. Now I'm a bit of a comicbook geek at times, but even I think they're scraping the barrel with this one when it comes to famous superheroes. Spider-Man, Hulk and X-Men I do know, but this one seems a bit... well. Lets just say its fitting that they get Robert Downey Jr to play him as no-one would touch him either, but in doing this we're opening the floodgates for all sorts of abuse of the system. How long til we get Winona Ryder as The Phantom Lady, or Vanilla Ice as The Green Lantern? Not soon enough is my answer!

Anyway, I enjoyed the trailer for 'Ironman' despite it being a three-Neoprin event in itself, possibly to counter-act the effect that joy-vacuum star Gwyneth Paltrow has on film. I don't mind her performances, moving wallpaper that they are. What I Take Against it is her and her husband, that sallow-skinned singer from Coldplay, being plastered across the front of newspapers for the week to come as they step out for premieres. Both of them are cheerleaders for the lung-deflatingly bland to such an extent that a duo shot on the front of a paper will send a whole tube carriage into a narcoleptic trance. They were bad enough on their own; put the two of them together and it's like the end of ''Edge of Darkness', only more beige and macrobiotics. It comes to something when the most interesting thing that the accompanying article can say about her is how nice her hair is; that's like writing 'Have a great day..!' in someone's office birthday card because you are as familiar with them as thirsty singer Miss Winehouse is with soap. Although I say kudos, Gwen, as you clearly know this sort of summer blockbuster performance is not about empathy and Method, but luster and bounce.


At this rate, it won't be long before The X-Men's Dazzler gets her own film. Dazzler, for those who don't care, is a roller-booted mutant who can turn any sound into a giddying light show. Oh yes, that's her special power. We'll get a 2 hour CGI epic with great hair, killer dance moves and mirror balls.

Now THAT'S Hollywood!
// posted by Lee @ 12:48 PM // 4 fabulous comments