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

Thursday, October 30, 2003

Fetch Doctor Scholl

Your ruler is feeling very old at the moment.

I’m certainly too old for getting that special kind of drunk as per last night and the night before, the type where you don’t realise you have ripped off half your thumbnail opening the door of the last train home. I only noted it when I smeared blood over Jane Asher’s face while flicking over my Housewives Choice – something I gather we gays can go to hell for. And I’m certainly getting too old for getting out of bed while hungover: this morning was like trying to scrape a barnacle off Elizabeth Taylor’s aging elephantine hide. How does the Amazing Liza manage it? According to the fantastic divorce papers, she was apparently chugging down a bottle of Dame Vera Smirnoff in under two minutes, as well as (further on) being able to shoot lightning from her fingers and has already assembled this fully operational battlestation around the moon of Endor.

The reason for my Liza-like pickling #1 was dear Gertie finally washed herself up on these shores again after weeks of being down under. As we hadn’t seen each other in over a month and immediately set about putting the world to rights while simultaneously draining the bar. In my head, at the time, I recall an evening of bonne mots and armchair philosophy that, in retrospect was probably arm waving and shouting, leaving a well-reasoned argument on the current state of public transport degenerating into me shouting “raise taxes!” and James repeatedly retorting “I’m a non-smoker cyclist in Birmingham!”

This is now favourite rejoin. Ian Duncan-Smith could have saved his career with this outburst. With this one line, Liza can squish the thin-faced machinations of her plastic hubby and we can all go home happy.

Anyway. Liza pickling #2 came last night when I was invited for a swift beverage with a young friend of my sister’s who just happened to be up in London. As per always in these situations where semi-strangers from afar drop by, his opening gambit was “You know, I think I’m gay...” thus dissolving the night into me leading this poor thing through the usual list of philosophical questions on whether he had Nice Nails or not. It also has to be done drunk to get the true answers, hence why I can’t see properly today.

It’s rather sweet that people do think of me as an authority on all things mary, but I’m not. I just muddle along myself. It would be a lot easier if you could take them to one side to show them ‘Oklahoma!’ then ask: ‘Did you sing along?’
‘Then you’re one of us. Welcome to the club, here’s your complimentary hair wax and Kylie album’.

This too made me feel very old, wistful for the days when I lumbered through questioning my own sexuality, and thinking he’s got his whole life ahead of him to pole-dance in a go-go bar and try his first drunken fumble at G-A-Y. He was also being far too forthcoming with details of his inside leg measurements and six-pack he’d got from kickboxing.

You know, in hindsight, I think I was being hit on.

Final confirmation of my age came as I lumbered in this morning, head like a balloon from two nights imbibing. My mother said you know when you are old: all the policemen look adolescent. As I shambled up Charing Cross Road, I happened across a copper who looked like he was dressing up for a school play. He was ten if he was a day.

Nice face, though. A couple more years on the force, and he can certainly ask me whether I’ll come quietly.

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