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

Monday, November 29, 2004

Of Golfballs and Wonderfalls

Right, you lot. Turns out I was a lot more sick than I thought I was. Here's a couple of things I found out in the last week...

My new doctor is one Dr Stefen Lipinski, out of Vienna. I don't like him. He initially claimed my lump was 'a spot'. When made to examine further, he said that I had 'a severe virus with infected lymph nodes'. Though my lymph nodes are apparently in the wrong place, and the words 'genetic abnormality' were banded about far too readily, I feel.

All elderly women behind the counter in chemists are monsters. It is probably because they haven't had anything up their clopper since decimalization, are drier than The Sahara, and then have to go and sell condoms.

'Tricia', our very own TV agony aunt, is as fabulous as it is rumoured to be.

Wonderfalls is the greatest show never made. And has elevated the beautiful Tyron Leitso (right) to Def Con Spangle.

Upon my return to work, I was asked how I was feeling by the very beautiful Armenian colleague who I've had a girlie crush on for a while. I said it was very much like trying to swallow something the size of two golf balls and you end up with a nasty taste in your mouth. He gave me a look that is going to make the company trip to Paris this weekend very interesting...

Headline over the weekend that a woman killed her child with too much salt. He son obviously being a slug, then.

The Wife kindly took me in and looked after me for the last couple of days of my Spectrox Toxemia. We were wondering why Girls Aloud weren't in the Band Aid 20, when they'd clearly got such 'luminaries' as Rachel Stevens and Will Young to pop in and screech into the Fairlight. "It's probably because they couldn't fit a white limo in the parking lot," said the Wife.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

See Through

The very lovely Kimberly Lesbian was staying with us this weekend. We made her suffer the Smash Hits Pollwinner's Party, just because Girls Aloud were putting in an appearance.

"Good lord," she said as they shambled across the stage, counting the dance moves in their head and miming away to their last hit. "Why on earth do you like them so? It looks like some producer has rounded up a hen night from the streets of Soho and given them a pop career!"

I knew she'd get it eventually.

Oh William, The Pain, The Pain...

Divine readers (yes, both of you) forgive my 'petit absence' as I've been a little sick.

Now, blogging about being ill seems as common as talking about one's pets/children/partner, so I do try and keep it to a minimum unless it's particularly dramatic. Though all my illnesses require me to lie back on a chaise-lounge, lightly coughing blood into a lace hankie while bustled women touch my arm lightly in concern. This one is no exception of course, though a little bizarre: I appear to have an infected saliva gland. Thus meaning I have a lump on the side of my throat that is the size of a marble and the temper of a bag of rabid children.

All seems to be going well though, and the marble has gradually decreased to a pea. One hopes that it will continue to shrink and that this isn't just a relapse. Because, let's face it, that's so Liza Minelli.

More funny soon, I promise.

Friday, November 19, 2004

Today...

...I'm feeling somewhat under the weather. Thus, my usual lunchtime sojourn to the gym to go and make weights go 'ting!' can sod right off. And instead, I amused myself by going upstairs and watching all the Farscape Peacekeeper War DVD extras that I have to crowbar onto the new discs come early next year.

So far, the extras have contained the words 'I'm here for the child support' and 'big donkey penis extension' thus making them 100 times better than many other DVD extras.

And Ben Browder is so sweet in his little interview, I have fallen in love with him all over again.

A Joke For Four People


Thursday, November 18, 2004

Even A Bourbon?

Ten minutes ago...
Still stoned from last night, I decide the following: Fuck it, I'm having a cup of tea and inhaling several biscuits. Witness reports say that some of them may be chocolate, but nothing has been confirmed yet.
Back to the studio.

Five minutes ago...
My excursion to this company's biscuit barrel proves somewhat less than fruitful. The biscuits are Hovis. I'm not sure whether they count as biscuits or as tile grouters.

And underneath? Garibaldi.


Humph. The one day I decide to break my fast, The Biscuit Fairy has fucked off to Jaffacake Land and left us.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004

Ho-Ho-Bloody-Ho

...and another reason I don't like this time of year is that now that Old Master Time keeps marching on, and with the blond in my beard getting rather more white than platinum, every time I go into a department store they keep trying to hire me for Christmas.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Fashion Is Going To The Dogs

Of course, the only reason we had to get out of London is that the Wife was having one of his... turns. He'd just saw his seventh poncho of the morning, and he just, well, snapped.

I'm not sure what his aversion to the equivalent of wearing a dog blanket around your neck actually is. But as we oft gaily walk along London's glorious South Bank taking in the sights, there's not a ten minute period without him shouting "PONCHO!" and pointing at some bedecked woman like she's just given birth to a goat. Well, if you can't beat them, join them say I - and my rub is the multitude of lady joggers who grace the side of the Thames, bounding along without the hint of a sports bra.

Well, it is most unladylike. There you are, enjoying the centuries-old historical majesty of St Paul's when a glut of overweight maidens huff their way past, jiggling like a birthday blancmange accidentally left on your Zanussi. So, while he's there loudly indicating the fashion mistake of the last year, I'm yelling "SPORTS BRA!" in return to the unenlightened lasses.

How the hours do dance by, I can say.

Of course, being an educated Creature of Light that he is, The Wife also detests the way that the glorious fashion house Burburry has fallen in with the chavish, market-buying Croydonites of the parish. What was once a brand Madonna enjoyed has fallen into the oil-stained hands of the car-stealing council house dwellers. He also takes great joy in pointing out those sporting such knocked-off rubbish to all that will listen. Although this happened Saturday morning:

"Lee," he hissed, raising his stun umbrella. "Look."

I turned to see a woman leaning against some railings, wearing a hooded poncho. In Burberry.

And that's why we left the city for a bit.

Addendum to Yesterday

"Of course she's going to have a lot of crockery," said The Wife yesterday, out of the blue. "Phil's Greek, isn't he?"

Monday, November 15, 2004

The Queen is In

You know, I never guessed how close Windsor Castle is to Burger King. It's right over the road! The Queen could shout her order out the window if she wanted, and I bet she orders the Whopper Royale for a laugh.

It's me, dearies. I own you all!Anyway Windsor Castle, for those unenlightened of you (i.e. the more rabid American readers) is a splendid stone castle the Wife and I visited this weekend, which happens to be the preferred home of our lovely old Queen Liz. She is a marvellous woman whose sole job is to open things, nod interestingly at people, and wear lots of bright, synthetic fabrics. She also appears to have inherited the family trait of being obsessed with crockery, as there are rooms and rooms of plates and bowls and cups as you take the royal tour, although this may be simply because you're lead through the crockery section because the golf club section leads right up to her back door or something.

In fact, she was home this weekend so we could have just gone and asked her. Yes, dear Americans, we're all related to the Queen over here in dear old Blighty, so she doesn't mind us popping in and asking for a cup of knighthood, thus I spent a good portion of the time trolling around the Great Halls, Not So Great Halls and china cupboards, peering around corners in the hope of catching her with a ciggie on, bitching away with the servants. It's also alarmingly easy to picture her running across the minstrel's balcony near closing time, wrapped in a towel, and clutching a bottle of Radox.

The Wife, whereas, was convinced that Her Madge gets around using a series of secret tunnels that actually go under the town of Windsor, enabling her Fabness to do her Christmas shopping in peace. On closer examination, there did appear to be a rather mysterious door at the back of Laura Ashley, and we're sure we saw a tiara bobbin up and down in the changing room at Fenwicks.

Anyway. Crockery. Makes you wonder what she eats off, given the rooms and rooms of choice. Or does she just find it easier to nip down the souvenir shop and nick a couple with her face on, leaving 'MINE' spelled out in Alphabetti Spaghetti for the servants to clear away? And do you think it's true that the only reason we had an empire is that one previous monarch rumbled 'Get me china!' and someone went out and conquered the country?

Enquiring minds need to know.

Friday, November 12, 2004

Who's There

Jubilate! The Wife, bless his heart, spent yesterday afternoon recording a Doctor Who adventure! As you can imagine, this pleases me greatly as it means that, not only will his delightful acting get listened to by the seven people who buy these things, but I now have a canonical boyfriend! Thus sating my autistic fan-boy side by him being catalogued in several Doctor Who publications and reference guides!

Thank you for listening. I can now go back to counting red cars and doing groaning.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Thought For The Day

Why is the 'S' section in any music store so gay? Rally up there and you'll find the iconic Mz Streisand, Mz Dusty Springfield, Eighties chanteuses Sonja and Sinitta, and Spice Girls and many, many more. Fabulously, I admit that I do get subliminally lured to it every time, drawn by the radioactive waves operating in the pink spectrum. Or as we know it, 'gay-diation'

I even saw 'Cher' albums stacked up in there once, but that was in Croydon, and people there have probably licked a whole lot of things from the left side of the periodic table while in primary school.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Black Cat, Black Kitten

I'm not sure where my mother has learned to drink, but I have a horrible inkling that it was the George Best School of Alcohol. And that her end-of-term certificate was presented by Peter O'Tool. Thus, this week is gradually becoming a write-off thanks to some inner monologue on Saturday suggesting that "Ha! You can keep up with your own mother!" Apparently this is not so. Nor a clever thought, as she was off ordering doubles and had already got so drunk she'd blagged a holiday to Oz from a woman she'd only met ten minutes before.

There's a new boy started working with her, 22 years old and quite naive. He is gradually working out that there's something not quite right with her - like her insistence that she can dance like Beyonce (she can't - and getting on the bar to do it certainly doesn't help) and that her arse is just like Kylie's (it's not. At all).

In fact, she's told everyone at work that her rear end is just like Kylie's so many times, and that she's so insistent about it, people are willing to let it go. So when she rounded on the new boy and said "Don't you think my arse is just like Kylie's?" there was a collective department sucking in their breaths, waiting to see how the new kid would do.

He took his time, mulled it over for a second or five and said "Well, I suppose they're spelt the same, aren't they?"

We like him. He can stay.

Monday, November 08, 2004

Black Cap On Fire!

I just happened to be in a gay bar last night when a fire broke out. Nothing serious, bit of smoke and a lot of squealing from the Men Who Are Good With Colours as the realised that they were wearing synthetic fabrics and far too much hair product, and the whole place could go up in a series of mini-incendiary explosions if they went near any flame.

There was a disgruntled air as we all slowly filed out, swiftly passing when we heard the distant wail of sirens. Firemen! Several of the boys nabbed pocket mirrors from the ladies to check their hair. Several girls grabbed them back to check theirs, as it was the closest they were going to get to a straight man all evening and they weren't missing the chance.

We're not sure whether it was forethought on behalf of the emergency services, but they must have a special squadron that attends all gay bars and offices full of desperate women. Because all the firemen who arrived moments later frankly looked like they'd just fell off the bells at Notre Dame. And thus had no problems getting through a bunch of marys with grasping hands.

We watched the spectacle for a couple of moments before getting cold and bored. I was idly toying with the lighter in my pocket. In theory, if the Ugly Squad were now busy, we'd get the real stuff if the McDonalds down the road 'suddenly' sparked into flame...

Friday, November 05, 2004

The Top Ten London Facts

Several bits and pieces about the playground we all love a little too much.

London actually started life as a Roman settlement called Londinium in 43AD, constructed out of crude cardboard to fox the Roman's enemies into thinking the city was bigger and more impressive than it was. In actual fact, all it contained were three occupied houses and an early Starbucks, and seven burly Romans in large boots making as much noise as possible.

For a week, London had the most advanced sewerage system in the world.

Currently, the most famous landmark is The Queen. Measuring three foot fifteen high, she was installed in her current location by London Borough Council in 1952. Few people realise that this isn't the actual real Queen, but a fake constructed for a mid-Eighties TV special. The real Queen now lives in Highbury, spends most mornings in the local greasy spoon cafĂ© drinking tea and reading the paper, then spends the afternoon in the Dog and Duck playing the trivia machine. To date, she has won £5320 and knighted three bar staff.

Contrary to popular belief, charming chanteuse Julie London does not own London. Patsy Gallant does.

The reason the Underground Tube system is so dirty is due to the intervention of several animal rights groups in 1972. Up until that point, specially bred miniature Highland sheep had been allowed into the system. Small enough to fit under the trains, and woolly enough to pick up most of the dirt, they roamed free on the Underground, lightly dusting as they went. Now we merely have mice with tiny brooms and maid's outfits. Though you can still see a group of wild Tube Sheep wandering around Cockfosters, but visitors are advised not to approach them as years down there have given them a dangerous amount of static electricity has built up in their wool and there's a mad glint in their eye.

One feral Tube Sheep can power the Regent Street Christmas Lights for a whole day.

Royal architect and well-known prankster, Sir Christopher Wren designed a great deal of the city after 4/5ths of it was destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666. With incredible forethought, he designed the layout in such a way that, when lit at night, it spells out the words 'COCK OFF!' when seen from above. The impressive dome of his St Paul's Cathedral forms the lower dot of the exclamation mark.

The world's longest running play, Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, can still be seen running in London today. The reason for its success is that a skilled hypnotist passes amongst the audience and wipes their memory of the previous intolerable two hours at the end of the performance, leaving a feeling of almost post-coital bliss in its place. There are fifty-seven people who have been in the audience for almost twenty years now, and they are frankly beginning to smell.

In London, there is no reason why we drive on the left (or the 'wrong side of the road' as some tourist brochures will have it) other than to injure slow-moving, overweight tourist who aren't paying attention. It's a hilarious sport, you know.

Famous landmark The Houses of Parliament was originally built in the market town of Peterborough as a place to keep Wellington boots. The King at the time, Susan, liked it so much that he ordered it be brought to the country's capital and be used as the seat of governmental power. In return King Susan sent London's then most famous landmark, The Key Theatre, to replace the missing edifice. Two additional facts: they've never been able to get the smell of Wellington boots out of the place. And The Key Theatre is so named as, if you look at it directly from above, it looks like an enormous theatre.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

An Actual True Story. For Once.

So, my Evil Best Friend Declan went on a date a few nights back. I know, I know - we tried to warn the young moppet by showing him pictures of car crashes and dead foals, but he did seem very insistent on going through with it, so I basically left them to it and went and played hopscotch.

I get a call an hour later. All had not gone well.

Declan, it must be said, can often attract the- well, let's just call them the lame ducks, to be kind. This one worked out so well on paper. 22 years old. A dancer. A little camp, maybe. Had a colostomy bag.

"A what?" I screeched, dropping my skipping rope.

"A piss-bag," said Declan. Who was obviously enjoying himself a little too much at this.

"Couldn't he have just bought flowers on a first date like normal people?"

"I don't do normal people. Hilariously. He mentioned it in passing. I said 'What, like Dame Shirley Bassey?' and he went all wide-eyed and nodded. The freak."

I had to bring the obvious subject up. "So, was there any chance that the two of you could have had sex?"

"Not unless I squeezed him very hard and hoped for a backwash."

"Oh. Right. So, I gather you were your usual tactful self?"

"I was for about fifteen minutes."

That was good for him. When he was bored, he normally just stubbed out his fag and left. Usually in your eye socket. "Then what happened?" I asked.

"I'd had a couple of pints by that point. You know what goes on after a few pints. Well, I couldn't help it. All the jokes started tumbling out."

"You didn't..."

"I did. Spent the rest of the night taking the piss."


Cue rapturous laughter over a freeze-frame as the credits ran...

A Fabulous Letter

Dear The America,

We are very disappointed in you. Don't make us come over there and take it all back.

Love, The Gays
(under new management)

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Call Centre Confidential

My lovely housemate Jay has just zipped off to the States and left me with one simple task: get a phone line installed in the new house. Actually, there were two - something about not blow anything up, which I managed for a whole day and I'm sure he never liked that toaster anyway. But yes, the phone. I called BT, the main supplier of telephonic apparatus in this country. After ten minutes of being on hold listening to some awful R&B, my patience was as thin as bony ol' Sarah Jessica Equine. Then a disinterested call-monkey answered the phone:

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help?"
"I'd like to get a landline connected."
"Can you give me your address?"
(I do)
"Hmm. That doesn't appear to be coming up on our system. Are you sure the property exists?"
"No. I really sleep in a box under a bridge. I just thought I'd get a phone put in."

And so, we descended further into said call-centre madness:
"So, we'll get an engineer out to you to check the line. It'll be £74."
"It'll be what?"
"£74"
"Just to check whether I have a line, simply because your computer doesn't tell you my house exists?"
"Yes. I'm booking in the 17th for you."
"Let me just check..."
"It's a Wednesday. (pause) Sir."
"I'd like a Saturday."
"I can't."
"For £74 you can put me down for a Saturday."
"I'm sorry sir, our engineers don't work Saturdays."
"Oh fuck right off. Cancel it all. I'm going to try someone else."

I'm really sorry, Jay. I did try. Now I've got a horrible feeling that there is no one else, and I'm going to have to go back with cap in hand...

Monday, November 01, 2004

Wanna See What We Did For Halloween?

Siegfied and Roy - Now Mauled!

Ladies and gentlemen, it's ze Siegfried unt ze Roy! Post ze mauling, that is of course. You can still see frisky little Montacore haz a little bit of Roy's lovely blood in hiz little tiger mouth. Naughty Montacore!

Happy Halloween

Halloween is always a busy time for my Evil Best Friend Declan. What with the veil between this world and the next being so thin, he's able to do a couple of things that he normally can't. Like get his shopping delivered, that sort of thing.

"I've been doing a quick inventory of my curses," he told me, steepling his fingers. I winced at this - bad things happen when he realises he hasn't met his quota. All I shall say is that it is possible that David Boreanaz once turned him down, and hence the former svelte heartthrob now waddles to work in a manner akin to a Victorian wardrobe being shifted.

He continued with a cheery air: "I've got two spare weight gains and an impotence you can have if you want. Just let me know!"

I loved the way he said it like a housewife cleaning out her fridge. Bless, he always gets very excited about this time of year, though you can always feel the disappointment that children no longer come to his door for the trick or the treats. He says that it's because he goes a little over the top, what with the gingerbread walls and trail of sweeties to the over-sized oven. I say that it was because of the time he gave a kid a Mars Bar with a razor blade in it three years back. He just sniffs, and says "Well, he was from a council estate."

I despair at times, I really do. I refused his kind offer of the curses (and the subsequently produced Mars Bar) and told him he'd better get going - he was pulling at the hem of his reaper's outfit in happy anticipation. He smiled, and departed with one final note:

"I've got a very special curse for Flatley this year," he said, over his shoulder.

Ah, jubilate!