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

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Lost In Translation

You haven't got me today - I've gone home 'ill' thanks to a rather unpleasant hangover. So today's entry will be done by my understudy. He's OK - can't do the high-kicks, and the low notes of the final number seem to elude him completely, but you should get a decent show before your sit-down dinner for five.

Anyway. The reason behind this drunken stupor was charity, of course - a fabulous Hat Party in aid of the Tsunami appeal (a second choice after my suggestion of a pool party went down like a cup of cold sick). And we managed to raise £5000 in one night - mostly at the bar, so you can see why my sweat is now flammable. And let me state for the record, I was by no means the worst one there, leading to that midnight the drunken camaraderie between workmates that always turns inwards in a 'I really, really like you' way. And I seem to get the brunt of this - it appears a Gentleman Who Can't Catch is always a safe conversational bet with the ladies in the Typing Pool. I don't mind at all - it's all rather flattering, really. And in an uncharacteristic moment of self-importance (!) I do have to say I did look fabulous last night.

Well. I'll make no bones about it, I carry a hat well. Some people just can't do hats - Ken Bigley for one - but it turns out my bizarre-shaped head can sport millinery no trouble. So I was wearing my Aussie rancher's hat with some pride, and causing some raised eyebrows from the office girlies. Bless 'em. And spearheading this appreciation was one charming girl - you'll know the kind, the type who has furry tops on the end of her pens and spends meetings doodling little unicorns in the corners of her memos. "Oh Lee, if only you weren't gay..." she said, one foot slipping slightly under her. Sweet girl, we spent the next ten minutes talking about cock sizes for a laugh before I got passed around to the next lot of ladies. I tell you - all the straight gentlemen reading this blog (I know you're there, I can smell the Lynx deodorant) if you ever want to cavort outrageously with the girls, you just have to pretend you've been riding on the Other Bus for years.

Interesting thing, though. There's a married gentleman I've worked with for ages who I've always had a bit of a girlie crush on. Such a sweet man. Anyway, as I packed up my battered hat to leave, he came over and held me at arms length, clasping on tightly to my shoulders and fixing me with such an intense stare. Then he said something that was obviously really important about us two, leant in close and kissed me on the cheek.

But the music was too loud, and I never heard what he said.

Interesting. Interesting and odd.
 

Wednesday, March 30, 2005

Moving On

Today's motto comes from the rather stupendous 'Manchester Rugby Team Semi-Clad Calendar - Incorporating Thought of the Day' - which surely has to be a delightful oxymoron. Anyway, under this marvellous organ, this marvellous organ states that 'Start with the impossible, then move to the unlikely' which surely means hurrying along my on-going transformation into Elisabeth Taylor, but I'm also taking it as a sign I should definitely be moving from this job.

In fact I've been talking my eagerness to get out with one of my colleagues, our lovely receptionist. My advice to anyone in an office environment is to get really chatty with anyone who orders the stationary. Not only for the pens, but for inexplicable reasons such girls are always the hub for the office gossip. I managed to acquire every colour highlighter under the sun so far, as well as the heads-up on three affairs and a sacking.

Anyway. 'The place would fall down without you', she said. But I think that's really only in reference to the fact my desk leans against one of the walls...
 

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

Tired

I'm thinking of changing my career. Well not drastically, but getting away from the place I'm in. There's only so many c-list celebs you can cut out to amuse yourself, it transpires.

I mean I'm not even meant to be doing this job - I only got it through a mate down a pub. And I only wombled into that because our careers advice at school was fairly useless, what with coming from some canal-moated 'Community School' in the middle of inner-city Birmingham. Most of us were expected to go and work in the castings factory down the road - highlighted by the way the two grounds were being extended to meet each other, and that the castings factory were starting to supply everything from the canteen cutlery to the text-books. I tell you, I know as much about cold-casting production lines as I do about human reproduction - and even then the often the two intertwined. I've never since the sexual act described by the model of a piston engine before or since.

Actually, come to think I was so confused by the whole event of sex that I had to be taken aside told by the Games Master. A man who had a penchant for hanging around the showers and flicking through Mens Health Magazine rather too slowly. Hmm. Suddenly it begins to get clearer...

Anyway, I digress. As I say, our careers advice was shite, and consisted of us having to tell the teachers what we wanted to do, and then them saying 'Have you thought about the castings factory down the road?' They even had t-shirts. I do recall being rather forthright about not going to the factory, and the teachers getting somewhat exasperated and then asking what I was good at. Which was very little - although I had gotten 10/10 for a sponge cake the week before. So for a whole week, I was going to work in the castings factory canteen.

I wanted something glamorous, something with excitement. I mean, they'd taught us all about being a shepherd in History, so why couldn't we be one of those? Or a Spinning Jenny Operator, which sounded utterly marvellous, despite the footnote about people regularly loosing hands, arms and heads in them. And I'm sure they went on to live full lives anyway as their jobs were so exciting!

So, here I am. At least I'm not at that castings factory, but if anyone has any design work they want doing, or a Spinning Jenny they want operating, I've suddenly decided I'm your man.
 

Thursday, March 24, 2005

Good Lord!

I know I shouldn't, but I do love surfing around right-wing Christian websites. It's my guilty pleasure. Within their hallowed walls, here you can find whole reams of disapproving nonsense about Hollywood alone - and their unintentionally hilarious reviews of films are a joy to behold. For not only do you get the hilarious scenes of a movie repeated verbatim, but then you get their bonkers comments on how this goes exactly against the scriptures, and thus will bring down the civilised world in one stroke. It's like Cardinal Wolsey finally got AOL broadband.

Take this charming movie, 2001's Wet Hot American Summer, which contains a whole series of crimes. For example:

Drink: People drink at a party at night. (NO!)
Blood/gore: Victor appears to have some blood on his face. (GASP!)
Imitative Behaviour: Gene has a tattoo on his arm. (IT'S THE DOWNFALL OF ALL THAT IS GOOD!)
Sex/Nudity: We see a woman in a bikini top. (RUN FOR YOUR LIVES, THE FOUR HORSEMEN ARE ON THEIR WAY!)

And then it goes on about the gay sex scene between some boys, one of which being... hang on a minute... that's Bradley Cooper. Number one wank fantasy from Alias. But he's...

Up the poo tube, Brad!

Bradley Cooper naked. Getting bummed by some young lad.

Frankly, if this doesn't prove the existence of God, I don't know what does. I don't know whether to head to church or head to amazon.com.

Actually, first, I'm going to change my trousers. It's like Boscastle under my desk at the minute.
 

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

In A World Of Our Own

Now, it has to be said that we Gays aren't the most organised of people. Or the most attentive (I for one lost a whole week of February this year when someone accidentally left the shiny dismantled Christmas decorations too close to my desk). And we should never, ever take ourselves seriously.

Which is why I'm currently raising a wry eyebrow in the direction of the Gays of Gay Kingdom, an island off Australia which has declared itself independent of the mainland. This fledgling community apparently has everything - a ruler, a privy council (one assumes this means they're into cottaging, but I'm not sure) - everything bar a corner shop, a bar and a sense of humour.

And while I ache to live in a society where the only things we get on cable is Desperate Housewives, Alias and the shopping channel, I can't help thinking the whole thing would rather poorly run. Look, we're bad enough at trying to organise a Pride march without bitch-fighting about who gets to wear the glitter bolero jacket. And look at our voting techniques - one, we only turn out to vote at amateur strip nights. And two, we only vote for the pretty ones on Pop Idol, regardless of talent. So you can imagine what our ruler would be like.

Saying that, do check out the current Emperor of the Gay Kingdom, his serene majesty Dale. (cough) Yes. 'Dale', who is apparently related to Gay King Edward II of bonnie old England. Who took the role with this long and involving speech about how he shall do right by our people and vanquish the evils before us. This is interesting, because:

1. You just know just running through his mind was 'blah blah blah just get to the bit with the crown'
2. He's missing a trick by being called 'Emperor' and not 'Queen'
3. I don't want to be ruled by anyone called Dale. The very least he could do is rule by his drag name, eg 'Sue Narmi' or 'Stella Artois'

And could you imagine an island just populated by shrill boys in retail, media and theatre? That isn't Grand Canaria? No, we'd have to get some sensible lesbians in to help out with the proper stuff like plumbing and the police force. And let the island settle for a while, just get our dancing legs before causing waves with our neighbours.

So what was the first thing their Gay Council did? Announced it has declared war on Australia.

Thank goodness we're rubbish at organising things. Dear Australia, you really have nothing to worry about.
 

The World in Your Ear 'Ole

We have comments back! Yaay!

Unfortunately, we've lost all those blissfully hilarious petite-posts from the likes of you readers, which were often a darn sight funnier than anything I'd written. Boo!

So do feel free to comment away now. You know I can't function without your approval!

No, seriously. I can't. So hop to it.
 

Monday, March 21, 2005

My Wife's Shaven Pussy

I find it endlessly hilarious that my lentil-loving, tree-hugging Wife has accidentally been paired up with the world's most satanic cat, a fat, hairy ball of malice called Blue. And that, conversely, my Evil Best Friend Declan happens to own the sweetest little moggie ever - one that just mews with a confused expression whenever Declan cries for it to 'lead my undead armies to victory!'

The Wife inherited his cat off of his friend Katherine a year or so back. She too had no idea why it was called Blue, as it had been passed around from person to person for the last couple of decade, kinda like a mysterious vase in a Twilight Zone episode. Perhaps it was short for Bluelzebub. Perhaps it was because it's eyes were blue - not that you could see underneath all that fur. For Blue is basically a hairy slug, a tube of fleece that shuffled across the floor only to pause and stare at you. And then stare at you some more until you walk at speed from the room, completely unnerved.

And it just does things seemingly just to upset you. It appears from thin air. It sleeps on it's back. On several occasions I've seen it try and use a hair dryer. Here is a picture of it, sleeping:

Evil

Why, it's like it's just inviting you to stab it though the heart with a stake.

But every now and again, when it's fur gets so long that it brings in half-a-pound of bracken from it's trips outside, it has to get shaved. And this weekend, some poor, unknowing girl thought it would be a real nice idea to do it in the style of a poodle. Here is the results.

Evil, but shaved

As you can see, it is not happy.

We're predicting a death in the vets very soon.
 

Friday, March 18, 2005

What Came Next!

Now, regular readers of our proud, pink column will be more than aware of our nodding acquaintance with, ah, 'Gentleman's recreational videos'. But when the sex scenes run dry, we have discovered you can revel in some delightful unintentional hilarity as some am-dram director tries to crowbar a 'story' around why so-and-so are getting their John Thomas out and beating all the boys in the neighbourhood with the wet end. So we've compiled five of the best, and ask you to answer...

WHAT CAME NEXT!

To make it more fun, highlight the text to reveal the wacky answer!



The Bombardier (Zipper)
Picture The Scene: a troubled man, haunted by scenes of a military past he can't remember, starts to research into this former life (incidentally while two men shag very quietly in the next isle of the library). He manages to find out that he may have been in the army all along...

When All Of A Sudden... he's transported back in time to the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the H-Bomb on Hiroshima! Then he and the co-pilot (his one true love, apparently) shag rather recklessly upon said H-Bomb before dropping it on the city and killing millions. Who said romance is dead? Well, not as dead as those people!

Cuffed Up (Studio 200)
Picture the Scene... after being shagged senseless by a very broad-shouldered policeman, Jack goes away for the weekend, leaving his son (yes, his son) Steve in charge of the house. Where Steve proceeds to fantasise - in ridiculously detailed clarity - what he'd like to do to several of his male friends.

When all of a sudden... the broad-shouldered policeman comes a-knocking! And with romance blooming in that sudden and slightly wooden one-glance way, he whisks Steve away to an immaculate police cell stuffed to the bars with huge pedestals filled with flowers, the likes of which you haven't seen since a 1982 Royal Variety performance! That's true love, we tell you.

High Stickin' (Zipper)
Picture the Scene... after losing a hockey match (seemingly as their team consisted of Gay-Faced porn stars who had last set foot on the ice during Disney's Ice-Capades) the coach berates the boys for their poor techniques in the locker room.

When All Of A Sudden... he's taking each of the boys aside to personally... um, drill his authority into them! No wonder they're rubbish - they can't even walk, let alone skate!

Homo Hunks (Maveric)
Picture The Scene... two gentlemen are about to do the horizontal fandango ( you can tell as one of them had laid down a doyley and put on a Judy Garland compilation tape). One of them looks a little nervous...

When All Of A Sudden... he's completely replaced! By a skinnier fool in what appears to be a blonde, curly wig. Oh, we tell you, we were having flashbacks to the start of Season 24 all over again (a joke for three people).

San Fran Puerto Rico (Load)
Two semi-decent marys are playing football with a - we'd also like to add 'handsome', but we ran out of kindness three weeks ago while watching Eurovision - man, while his shrill, cheap-permed girlfriend looks on with poorly-acted ennui. Realising he's left his Ratners gold chain in the boys' possession, he pops up to their department to get it back, leaving the 'Fran from The Nanny' girlfriend with his motorbike. Yes, a motorbike. And with him sporting a moustache Magnum would have been proud of, you can imagine what came next! Or can you?

For Then, All Of A Sudden... yes, he's being had left, right, up and down the brown alley by the boys, but that's not the surprise, for his girlfriend walks in! And is she obviously distressed and traumatised by the whole affair? Why no, she claps her hands, lowers herself into a seat and demands to watch! Causing considerable distress from the watchee, as now included in the 'main feature' is cut-away reaction shots of her frizzy-haired mug blowing bubbled and gurning like a cheap day-player. Oh the humanity! It's 'Masturbation Roulette' to the highest degree!

Thank you for playing!
 

Thursday, March 17, 2005

No Dancing For Weeks

We, the Fickle Gays, have noted we are entering a little bit of a pop drought of late.

It happens every couple of months just after there's a whole splurge of lovely, toe-tapping hits for us to stretch our Gay-Pods to bursting point. In fact, there was a warning in one of the mary mags that pooves should seriously consider getting an 80gig i-Pod over the 40gig one as you can only force so much of the Girls Aloud, Geri Halliwell and before the little darling will explode in a pink flash and possibly take your eyebrows off.

But now, we have the opposite. There's nothing on the popular music horizon for quite a while. Even with stalwart Kylie going off and touring, we're not getting anything new from the pint-sized pop pimple for a while. And we can't live on the retreating fumes of her Ultimate Kylie release forever, despite quite liking the unnecessarily cheap video for 'Giving You Up', where a twelve-foot Giant Kylie dances in the headlights of a taxi, and then Giant Kylie relaxes across a whole sofa, and then Giant Kylie ignores a Little Man for Giant Kylie is too busy singing the Giving You Up song!

And, while we weren't a fan of The Busted band, we acknowledged that they were a good contributor to popular music, and with their sudden (though not entire unexpected) disbanding of the trio, we're left with the McFly band to rise from the ashes. But we're not that struck with them either. And has anyone else noticed that one of the members looks like Mel Smith's character in The Princess Bride? No?

Spot The Difference

Not even now?

Just us then.

Even Girls Aloud have gone a little quiet. No new single announcements, no punch ups, no arrests. And here is a map: can you point at S Club 8 on it? No, neither can we - and we tagged them and re-released them into the pop wilds last time we bumped into them in the BBC lift. We must admit, it did take a little time to realise it was them, as half of them had taken to standing on the other half's shoulders, and then wearing long Macintoshes in order to double their height and pass for adults.

We know this drought will end, but at the moment, all we can see is a desert of Rooster and other grubby guitar boy groups - the type who looks like they wouldn't know a manicure if it came up and, er, did their nails. So break out your emergency classics for a few weeks - shake off your Hazel Dean and dust down your Kelly Marie. Why not take Steps once again? Normal service will be resumed soon enough. But until then... Long live Whigfield!
 

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Name That Tune

Now, it's a well-known fact that I can't carry a note in a bucket. My deep-seated love of music is more... let's be kind and say 'theoretical' - although whether you'd call Girls Aloud 'music' is still open to debate. I mean, I've heard of 'Pachelbel's Canon' but have no idea what it would sound like, or look like, and thus could by no means point at it on a sit-down buffet for fifty. And even then I'd probably pass it over in favour of some rather lovely quiche with a side of cheesy Wotsits.

Thus it was with deep surprise that I was willingly dragged to go to a karaoke bar last night by my two erstwhile drinking companions Emma and Comedy Housemate Jay. Well, she claimed it was a karaoke bar, and with three bottles of wine inside us we were willing to believe her, as we were standing outside a closed Japanese book store in the sordid end of Soho, with her hollering to be let in.

"It is a karaoke bar!" insisted Emma, who had taken to tenaciously tapping on the locked glass door with her keys. I swayed with drunken embarrassment, trying to focus on my feet as the mystified Japanese owner unlocked the door and stuck his head out. "Karaoke!" bellowed Emma. "You know - Cher... I Will Survive!"

The owner 'ahh'-ed, and let us in, shuffling us down a darkened corridor in the back of the shop while bowing and nodding in jovial subservience. It all felt rather seedy. Indeed, last time I'd done anything so salubrious in the company of our Asian cousins was back in 1862, being led up some back stairs to smoke opium in a charming slum in Limehouse. (I tell you, ever since I had that past-life regression, former lives have been popping up like David Blunkett's love children.)

We were led into a tiny booth the size of a Swedish sauna - er, not that I'd know, one of my friends told me, yes - where Jay pounced on the playlist with joyful anticipation. I peered over his shoulder, horrified at how drunk I was vision was so blurred, all the words just looked like meaningless squiggles. Soon after, I realised the writing was actually Japanese. Which seemed to give a playful randomness to the whole affair.

Now, musically, I'm not gifted. I usually limit my singing to the self-penned lyrics of the 'Star Trek: Voyager' theme tune, but we were in an enclosed space. We were drunk. So when I was passed the microphone, I ran with it like a baton. Soon the corpses of beloved songs I'd murdered were stacking up: Diana Ross lay with her guts ripped out on the sofa, Nancy Sinatra was indeed shot down, and Mama Cass' corpulent cadaver was completely blocking the door. This wasn't helped by Jay being able to sing at a nigh-on professional level, and Emma having a set of lungs on her that could rival Shirley Bassey on the high notes. Frankly, I was feeling as useful as an ashtray on a motorbike, but too drunk to really care.

Then... then... as I stumbled forward to take my turn at The Carpenters' 'Close to You', it was almost as if the graceful, bony hand of Karen Carpenter had draped itself across my shoulders. I hit a note! And another! A hit, a most palpable hit! Dame Karen was filling me with hope, and didn't even mind when I quipped "It's because you throw your lunch away, Karen!" to the line "Why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near?" Bless her skinny corpse!

And then? Well, I completely lost it, due to having to use the hilarious on-screen lyrics that had been translated into Japanese from the original English, and then translated back in a rather cavalier fashion. They weren't completely competent, to be kind. So the line 'That is why all the girls in town, follow you all around' had now become 'All the girls go down, and follow you around town'.

I laughed so hard that I almost swallowed my own tongue.

At which point, Mama Cass opened her eyes and gave me the thumbs up.
 

Friday, March 11, 2005

The Top Ten Chocolate Facts

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

Chocolate was discovered by the Aztecs, much like everything else in the world, ever, including telemarketing. The Aztecs used to grind cocoa beans and create a liquid drink. Once they let the liquid set, they were able to mould it into the form of a man (or 'golum') which was then animated by a magic incantation. These creatures were used as slaves - until some bright spark thought to use them as firemen. The Aztecs died out within a week.

Nestlé's popular 'Black Magic' chocolate is indeed created using black magic. The original packaging boasted there was 'a dead goat and a half' in every box. Right next to the Raspberry Swirls.

The word 'chocolate' is based on the Aztec word 'cocolatl' meaning 'warm liquid'. It also transpires that 'Hersheys' is in fact a medieval word, translating as 'ye cock-awfule chocolate floor-sweepings, the likes of whiche I would not finde in a cheap Advent Calendar from ye local Aldi'.

The Easter Bunny is actually allergic to chocolate.

Milk chocolate was invented by the prolific Daniel Peter, who then sold the concept to his neighbour Henri Nestlé. Daniel, who was always full of good ideas, was also seen coming away from his other neighbour with a large bundle of cash, and a cucumber with an outboard motor attached. His other neighbour's name was Kurt Vibrator.

Did you know that each natural form of chocolate exponentially increases in density with its darkness? The lightest being white chocolate, then milk chocolate, all the way down to dark chocolate - why, there are some dark chocolate bars that weigh the equivalent of small Rolls-Royce car! (That's 48.23 Lulu's, in the old measurements). For years scientists have been trying to create the densest type of 'black chocolate' - or Chocolate-X - under lab conditions. This chocolate is so compacted that nothing can escape it. Nothing. Not light. Not even secretaries on a really strict diet.

The UK is the world's biggest consumer of chocolate in the world, with us munching our way through 660.9 million kg of this delicious temptation every year! This means that we're also going through a good couple of million kg of preservatives along with that total, too. Preservatives keep you young. Therefore, we're going to outlive you all! Hahahaha!

Unfortunately, the British will be too fat to do anything when we inherit planet, though.

There is apparently a butterfly native to Brazil which possesses both the colour and smell of chocolate. This is nothing: I know at least seven women who have been recently dumped who are both the colour and smell of chocolate. And have just taken advantage of HMV's buy-one-get-one-free Sex In The City DVD offer.

Chocolate is the United States favourite flavour! In a recent survey, 52% of all people surveyed said they like chocolate best. Coming next were tarpaulins and car exhausts respectively.

Chocolate is reported to have aphrodisiac properties, releasing similar chemicals to that of a love affair when eaten. This scientific evidence was proof enough for all branches of Vue Cinemas to ban serving any chocolate products to any lady over sixty when they went to see any film with Colin Farrell in it. In one terrible case before the ban, the cinema in Plymouth stopped selling tickets by row, but by 'shallow' and 'deep end'.
 

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

It's A Jolly Holiday For Marys

(ENTER COMEDY HOUSEMATE JAY)

JAY: What are you doing?

LEE: There's a six-second trailer for Doctor Who on in the next hour - I'm setting the video.

JAY: From behind the sofa?

LEE: It's traditional!

JAY: Give me that! And come out from behind there. Unless you're not wearing trousers. Again.

LEE: Look, I told you - that was an accident. There was this-

JAY: Yesyesyes - doorbell, feather boa, delivery man, slamming door - you've told it all before. Now be a dear and pour me a little drinkie, would you? Today has made me very tired.

LEE: Nice glass of Warriors?

JAY: Oh, yes. You know what they say..!

BOTH: 'Any port-and-lemon in any storm!'

JAY: Ah, good times. I tell you, beardface, I have decided we need a holiday.

LEE: How about here? 'Haven Holidays'?

JAY: An overgrown greenhouse outside Worksop?

LEE: Sigh. I knew you'd Take Against It.

JAY: What? I think it's a marvellous idea! We could go as a family!

LEE: We could?

JAY: Yes. We could make sure we hire a three-room chalet and take our imaginary children with us - Liza, Cher and Miss Ross.

LEE: Miss Ross is always getting into trouble at school, you know. Last week she slapped a teacher. Allegedly.

JAY: We'll take the restraints.

LEE: Not the ones from your room. They're somewhat... specialist.

JAY: And we'll take it in turns to be the mother, too! A nice headscarf, some lovely sunglasses... although I foresee you facial hair being a problem when it's your turn.

LEE: I'll use my new foundation - 'Terracotta Concrete' by Rimell. It hides everything.

JAY: Is that the stuff we grouted the bathroom with?

LEE: That's the one. The only foundation I know that's one part fabulous to one part sand. Dame Dale Winton swears by it.

JAY: Meanwhile, I'd be a dead cert for the Knobbly Knees competition... and you could enter the Knobbly Nob competition!

LEE: Puh-ha-whuh? How do you..?

JAY: No trousers, remember.

LEE: It. Was. An. Accident.

JAY: Looked like one of those gnarled walking sticks you find behind the door of tourist shops in the Lake District.

LEE: How very dare you. Fine. Right, then. How about a holiday in the sun?

JAY: The Sun? As in the downmarket newspaper which regularly allows families of 45 from Croydon to wage running battles with French police when on booze cruises?

LEE: I love cruising!

JAY: Ye-ee-es. But you're being Mother on that day. I can't run in heels, and still haven't found a baseball bat that matches my dress...

LEE: Fine. I'm brilliant in heels. I won the 500 metre Jimmy Choo Sprint at school, you know. Even managed the Ball Gown Marathon at the tender age of fifteen.

JAY: My. What a forward-thinking school you had. Even for Birmingham.

LEE: I know. But I must admit, when I signed up for 'Drag Racing', I was expected something completely different...
 

Monday, March 07, 2005

Things I Learned This Weekend

1. Putting your diet on hold for an afternoon is a Good Thing. Although making melted-chocolate-and-glace-cherry toasted sandwiches is not really falling off the wagon - it's falling off, bouncing, and hitting oncoming traffic at speed.

2. The fourth season of 24 is hilariously incompetent. And contains an incredible amount of Evil Napkin Folding.

3. Going through your old VHS porn stash unearths some forgotten classics. Although do make sure you wash your hands between this and point 1. And, indeed, vice versa.

4. Holy Water tastes rather... plastic-y.

4. The fourth season of Alias is the best one so far. The title sequence (or 'Homage To Wigs Past...') still wanders in whenever it feels like it, clutching a Starbucks coffee and muttering about the trains, before sitting down and proceeding to call its friend in Accounts for an hour. The first episode had three wigs in the first fifteen minutes alone, but by far the most exciting moment for The Gays is a fight in a department store's clothing dept to 'Making Whoopie'. With the gorgeously predictable payoff 'She can have the blouse'.

5. While I do know some hilariously funny lesbians, it appears that Ladies Wot Lick who are now being drilled by a married man do not automatically inherit a sense of humour.

6. Never refer to these has-been lesbians as 'Has-biens'

7. Distressingly, Clintons do not do a range of 'See You're Off The Fanny!' birthday cards. Although I doubt she would have found that funny either.
 

Friday, March 04, 2005

Camouflage? So Nineteen-Nineties.

I hope you all agree we are living in an enlightened age. We're environmentally aware, delightfully scientific. And everyone knows to approach any Liz Hurley film with due caution. And even one of the last taboos - The Gays joining the armed forces - was thrown out a few years back. How utterly marvellous!

Personally, I greet this with mixed feelings. One hand: yay! Equality! The other: I think that Gentlemen Who Are Good With Colours joining the military is a very daft idea - not just because it would be like that time in the Magic Roundabout when Dougal found himself in the land of the sugar lumps. It's because most of us aren't exactly built for it. We know that, the armed services know that, and for years it seemed the people in charge were being too polite to say, 'Look, The Gays. You're very good at a lot of things - but open warfare is not your thing.' And it's true - most of us would be rubbish. We'd throw grenades underarm. We'd stop shooting because it WAS TOO LOUD. And imagine the uproar when we discover the standard issue boot doesn't come with a kicky little heel.

I mean, I've been in the army. Well, not all of them, but a fair number - enough to earn the nickname 'The Assault Course' at the Army Reserve on the Woolworth Bypass. And I'm desperately in favour of impartiality - but, lets face it, most of us Good Listeners were picked last in Games, weren't we? So if we were to be any use in the Armed Forces, we'd probably be best shaped into a special unit - one where we're not asked to run very far, nor get shouted at for all singing Brittney Spears while training. This special 'Sniper Squad' (wit, not choice of weapon) could be parachuted - well, bussed - in to the outskirts of the battle zone. Where we could wander around the local Habitat in pairs, having an under-the-breath, hissed argument at each other about who's fault it was the downstairs bathroom is green and why it's impossible to find anything to match these days.

What, actual combat? Noooo. Most of us would be getting off on the uniforms anyway. After we'd spent two weeks on the Singer, bringing in those shapeless trousers.

So I'm stupendously glad we have the option to join but, personally, I think I'll pass. Which is why it seems rather churlish to actually want more of these thar Gay Rights. For example, there's been an enormous disaster out in Asia and, while I've donated clothes and money, I'd like to help by joining the blood drive. If only to appease my own personal guilt about buying a 'I RODE THE TSUNAMI 2004!' t-shirt the other day. But I can't. They don't really like Gay Blood. And not just because most of it is 60% proof and smells of Smirnoff Ice.

Everyone I've asked about this states We Gays are a 'high risk'. For why? Most of us are aware of what our blood is doing far more than The Straights - more out of necessity than anything. I've been tested negative on all nasty things, and let me assure you, my blood is actually not bright pink. Nor does it contain glitter. And although my blood group is the rare Type-F.A.B-positive, I doubt that it will make you like show tunes if you use it.

So, go on. Let us help. We can be useful - I mean, we were the ones who warned you about Liz Hurley in the first place.

This, of course, despite the fact I screamed and fainted dead away the last time a needle was put in my arm.
 

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Cold Tits

I tell you, it was almost impossible to get out of bed this morning.

But at least it gave me a unique perspective into the latter half of the life of Christopher Reeve.

Anyway, the reason the sheets were like Velcro was not for the obvious reason - you know, that recurring dream with Stryker and Jack from Lost deciding to eschew the island's lovely women and create a Utopia Of Bumming all by themselves - but because it's so damn... weathery out there. Not just one type either - we're getting snow, hail, rain, sunshine, blustery gales in the morning then calm afternoons. Then monsoons in the evening. That poor wooden couple lingering around the doorways of the weather house are spinning around like an epileptic in a disco.

Now, we stolid British can weather (ha!) anything. It's a pastime, in fact. We'd have nothing to talk about if it weren't for the constant changeability of the climate - and we've mastered that half-hearted grimace when looking out of the window as to whatever we're about to face in order to pop to the shops and pick up our Bunty. But this is getting silly. Rain, smog, snow, hail - what's next? Frogs? Are we currently in the middle of a very half-hearted apocalypse? And how does one dress when the only semi-constant is it's as cold as a witch's tit out there?

Frankly, if it doesn't calm down, I fear the elements are going to get RSI.
 

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

Sign O' The Times

And a quick 'hello!' to all the readers of The Times who are swinging by after Glitter for Brains got a mention. If you're looking for entry on the fanny-thawing KY Warm, why not click here to see what the fuss was all about.

I must say, lovely to get cited in a national newspaper. And I'm unutterably grateful it wasn't in one of those tawdry tabloids, probably under the headline 'Limp-Wristed Lads Like Latest Lube For Backdoor Larks!' I was so grateful that I didn't even question 'oft-funny' next to the site's name. Pah. I'm always funny. It's just that it is sometimes the case that I am the only one getting the jokes.

Anyway, huge thanks to Mish who phoned me to tell me. All you new people, you may want to check her out - she's the high class to my dumb ass.

Now. How can I cash in on my new-found fame..?