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

Friday, May 07, 2004

Bitchin' in the Kitchen

Gurrk. I have the most astonishing hangover; unhelpful as I have to record a DVD commentary this afternoon with eyes like piss-holes in the snow and a voice as gruff as Lynda Bellingham.

My memory of events are somewhat hazy, so I’ll make most of it up. Once long ago, as per the song lyrics, there was a Tavern. This bar where the glitterati of Doctor Who fandom gather once a month for no other reason than trying to get off with the new boy, and lean up the proverbial gatepost to discuss the latest sci-fi scandal. I’ve been going so long that I put curlers in and don my housecoat before I arrive. And yet I’m still finding out salubrious gossip about a show that’s been off the air for fifteen years. The joy of the series coming back is not that we may see some half-decent monsters and stories, but we’re going to have reams of gossip to be going on with for ages! Were you aware that there may have been some extracurricular activity between Jon Pertwee and Katy Manning in the Police Box prop during Frontier in Space? And one of the Doctors died in flagrante delicto at a convention, while still in his costume after banging a fan? And another one was referred to as being ‘hung like a baboon but didn’t know what to do with it’ by one of his companions?

Well. You’ll be pleased to know that Who fandom apes this incestuous behaviour quite seriously, and it was only after a few bottles of Old Scrote’s Weasel Piss - a wine they serve that appeared to have been drained through a navvy’s sock at the winery - could I face the cavalcade of ex-shags, old bosses, enemies and minions that gathered at the watering hole for a good queeny bitch.

I have no idea why most fans appear to be wendys. When asked why we idolise a sexless gentleman with extravagant dress sense who travels the galaxy in a closet with a woman he never has sex with, I can only shrug my shoulders.

Ah! Shoulders! That’s triggered something. There was a lovely gentleman who offered me a massage last night. And there were some shenanigans about being invited to a ‘card game’ which seemed oddly euphemistic, so I ducked that issue. As it was, I wasn’t too sure about this massage that was on the proverbial table: did we both expect, er, ‘extras’? It’s not like it hasn’t happened before: my former batman Rémy was a marvel with his expressive digits, and it was while we were discussing housekeeping matters, what I actually asked him to do was “Sack my cook”. And from that point, we didn’t see daylight for a week.

That joke is currently performing a farewell tour before being retired to Bridlington.

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