Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Tuesday, August 26, 2003

28 Years Later

What’s In A Name?
I suppose your birthday is not just a chance to get your own way for 24 hours (this is certainly not the case with me. Heavens, why would you want to think so small scale?) but also a chance to reflect - and not just in a sequinny way, mind. I often ask the question “Why am I here?” and there are vary rare occasions when the answer “To be fabulous!“ just doesn’t cut it. One of these times was while I was blowing the candles out of my wonderful Powerpuff Girls cake handmade by lesbisexual housemates Kim and Sarah, and I recalled the oddest incident that shaped me into what I am today.

I was washing up with my dear mother and talking of my previous love. No, nothing so tawdry as ex-boyfriends - this was the Spice Girls. Oh, I recall a time before Girls Aloud when I’d do anything for those leopard-skinned, not-really-our-real-age fabulous talent vacuums from up north. Of course, times move on, and we just move into different things and we both realized it was going nowhere. I stopped calling, they stopped appearing on Top of the Pops - you know the old story. Every now and again, I’ll pass them on the street or see them in a dingy club smoking too much and trying to laugh too hard; they’ll look dolefully in my direction and I’ll always look the other way and hum The Sound of the Underground. Oh, I’m a cruel mistress when it comes to love.

Mother hates washing up, and it was one of the first things she taught us to do as children so she could get out of it; the second and third being how to change a tire and credit card fraud. Yet while we were on the subject of all things spicy and while my mother’s arms were elbow-deep in Fairy foam, she decides to sprinkle another one of her life-changing factoids about me abound as if it were fabulous Shake’n’Vac. I was chatting on about the Spice Girls and what I’d heard about them on the great vine, and what friends tell you about your ex to get a reaction. Apparently two of the girls were pregnant, and were going to call them Phoenix and Brooklyn. My mother stared through the rim of her favorite shot glass and asked why.

I explained that those where the places that the little bairns were conceived, and they were going to honour the fact that a) Mel B managed to pump some love-snot out of her gay husband in Phoenix, and b) Victoria managed to get her leg over without it snapping in Brooklyn. Mother seemed non-plussed: “Just be thankful me and your father didn’t think of that,” she said. “If we had, you’d be called ‘Ford Cortina’”

I dropped a glass.

At least I could shorten it to ‘Tina’ I suppose…

Touched Inappropriately By A Demon
All of you working in inner-city farms may have noticed a blood-red, blind calf being born on Saturday morning; all of the rest of us may have noticed the water briefly going the wrong way when you flushed the toilet. My best friend Declan was visiting.

It is very difficult to describe Declan without referring to anything out of the works of Poe. People do meet him and after an initial wariness, claim “Oh, he’s alright. I’m sure it’s all an act.” The people who realize that yes, there is an act there but the act is him being nice are the ones who retain their fingers. So, lets not say it was a coincidence that as soon as he’d put his bags down in the lounge did housemate Kim take me aside and tell me the Impossibly Beautiful Housemate Mark sadly split up with his lovely girlfriend.

I had mixed feelings about this: I very much liked Caroline. On the other hand, Mark is so impossibly beautiful, getting him to travel on Our Bus would be A Good Thing, and I hadn’t made a conversion in such a long time that my place of The Gay Council was beginning to be questioned. Why last Tuesday, I even had a visit from The Gay Mafia: they’d come around to break the legs off my vanity unit.

I saved the information of Mark’s split until Declan was bedding down on the sofa for the night, feeling that he wouldn’t be able to make some of his patented home-made Roypnol while he was so drunk and after I’d hidden the rolling pin. Yet I hadn’t calculated on Mark still being out of the house at this point though, meaning that the poor lad would have to pass the ginger coquette in order to get to his bedroom. Declan could see this in my eyes. “Well,” he said, plumping up his pillows with a wild, expectant fervor. “I’m going to be brushing my teeth before I go to bed tonight!”

Nothing In Every Sense
The venue chosen, the apparel selected: we were going to take a birthday turn around the dance floor Southern Pride for the night. In honour of this, Declan had bought a gay bangle so excessive that when he put it on, he looked like he’d been fagged and released back into the wild.

Within the club, they tend to fill the air with smoke - not so you can see the 12-volt lasers they have installed, but so it smoothes out every pore and wrinkle of the clientele there. Declan refers to it as ‘Beauty Mist’. Lets just say it had it’s work cut out this Saturday, and they had to pump in so much that the furthest end of the dance floor looked like it had been consumed by The Nothing from The NeverEnding Story. The Wife only saved us all by naming a princess at the last minute; alas he was a little worse for wear drink-wise and imagination wasn’t exactly forthcoming.

Still. All hail Princess Baccardi Breezer. And long may you reign..

Those Three Simple Words...
We finally saw Declan off the premises on Monday afternoon. Housemate Ian had been trying to cajole a priest out of retirement to come and deal with the problem all weekend to no avail, and we had to settle for three Supersoakers full of holy water instead. A very true word of warning to you all, though: on my travels, I picked up a book that purports to be a spell book. Declan has been coveting it since he found about its existence when he was looking through my prodigious collection of lovely hats many a year ago, and I’ve been trying to keep it out of his reach since. Within the pages are, apparently, the words to summon a demon - three simple words that, if read out, will entice the most unholy to your position to wreak havoc. He managed to find them while I was downstairs while I was ordering a Chinese.

He first plans to text all the people he doesn’t like with the incantation, which unfortunately is most of you. You do have to admire his consistency, really. The idea is you’ll get a mysterious text with three latinesque words on there and get so confused you’ll read them out loud. Bang! Crack! Bye-bye you. Then he’s planning to get it on a t-shirt to go clubbing in and that’s when the real Carrie carnage will begin.

Yes, I am very aware that letting him have accidental access to this tome means I would make a terrible Watcher, and that I may have brought about the end of civilization as we know it. Still, I’ve always thought the service was rubbish, and you just can’t get Sabrina the Teenage Witch on DVD for love nor money.

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