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

Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Dream Come True

Look! Look at the fabulous picture! Look how ridiculous it is!

Ludicrous

Girls Aloud! Manufactured pop band du jour playing Hammersmith Apollo! Why, that's almost as ludicrous as finding Gertie in an actual sauna!

Well, myself and three other Gentlemen of Discerning Taste went along on Sunday to check it out. Here are some Things of Note:

a) The Girls were worryingly competent. They're great dancers and only mimed for a couple of songs. Although when they did, it was hilariously obvious.
b) They were filming for the DVD release and so we tried everything to get on it. Bar streaking.
c) We were just surrounded by four year old girls. And gays and gays and gays.
d) Mel Blatt formerly of All Saints had been dragged along by her gorgeous baby and was two rows in front of us.
e) The Girls did Teenage Dirtbag. Dressed as schoolgirls.
f) They fired glitter at us at the end of the show. Either that, or the five screaming gays running up the isles throughout the performance just went bang.
g) The toilets were cruiser than a P&O ferry.
h) Vodka was cheaper than beer.
i) It was brilliant.

Of course, point 'i' distresses me now as they're starting to veer towards credible. And that's no fun at all, is it!
 

Friday, May 27, 2005

Downs Syndrome

"I don't know why they were called the 'South Downs'," I said, trying to kick off my battered and muddied shoes. "Frankly, it was a fuck-load more 'up' than 'down'.
With a final heave, my boots skidded across the floor, leaving dark smudges in their wake. My comedy housemate Jay frowned slightly.
"I'd arrange for an air-lift."
"What do you mean?"
"Helicopter up there, look around, and then pile back down. See? 'Down'. That's probably what they did in Roman times. When they got the name."
He'd been down the pub since lunch time, and was over-emphasising everything. Including, most probably, his imaginary correctness.
"I don't think they had helicopters in Roman times, dear."
"No, but they had catapults."
There was a gleam in his eye I didn't like, so I made my excuses and left.

It's widely known I don't do nature.
I like pictures of it - it is, after all, very beautiful. Get me a coffee table book that I can leaf through, full of gorgeous shots of squirrels being squirrelly, and sunsets unsurpassed. But the reality is mud, muck, rain, exposure, wind, spiders and well... nature. Process it, box it up and stick it in a conveniently appointed museum with a nice gift shop at the end, I think I'd finally be able to appreciate the majesty of our splendid emerald isle. But as I slipped and slid up on the sheer, mud-coated slope and skinned my hand on a tree as I tried to steady myself, each squelching step expanded my imaginary lovely museum exhibit to have the most marvellous café too - nothing with those awful brown plastic trays, but somewhere with a table service.
The Wife, of course, was already having a marvellous time and had been gambolling around since we'd left the train station. He's an Aussie farm boy of old, so is used to this green nonsense and had skipped across a field and already saved a sheep with its head stuck in a railing by the time I'd got myself detached from a inconveniently-placed barbed wire fence.
"Why didn't you bring your boots?" asked the Wife, bounding back from chatting with an ancient oak tree.
I looked down at my black work shoes and grumbled something about not having anything that matched them since I'd had my wardrobe culled. He looked at me like this was the most stupid thing he'd heard. I looked at him as this was the most stupid reaction I'd ever seen.
"Well look. There's not even a grip on them," he said. "You'll be buggered if it starts to rain."
"Rain? The BBC never said anything about rain!" I cried, looking up at the sheer mud cliff ahead of us. How backward was this countryside-thing that it wouldn't even be governed by that most bastion of institutions?
"I'm sure it'll be fine," he said with a placating hand on my arm. "Those clouds are moving pretty fast - the black ones will probably pass before they start to rain."
I looked on without his optimism.
...and the gift shop would have gorgeous little erasers with 'National Trust' on them in majestic gold lettering...

We sheltered under a tree in order to get out our umbrellas. The pregnant clouds had finally given up, and my sodden t-shirt was beginning to cling unflatteringly.
"Ha ha," I said. "Look at that, the people on horses are turning back. Do you think it's the weather?"
"I doubt it," said the Wife, bravely sticking out his hand from under the umbrella to wave as they passed.
The fat girl at the back of the group looked down from her kagooled vantage with a mixture of surprise and pity and galloped off towards the dry.

Fifteen minutes later:
"I don't care if it's Natural Trust property - get me a fucking cab. Now."

The third member of our merry, muddied band was the Wife's housemate Rob. He is one of my favourite people on this Earth, period, being so friendly, disarming good natured and interested in life - so much so that whenever he finds a new fact, he wants to share it with you like a kid picking up shells on a beach. So he hadn't left the house without printing out everything about the area - potential places to visit, routes of interest, cab companies... you name it, it was documented in his little plastic folder. He was our own walking lastminute.com. In sandals.
We knotted together in the pub, perusing his printout masterplan and trying not to drip rainwater on them. Rob had found us somewhere quite close to stay, though I was naturally dubious:
"We can go here?"
"I think so. I'll just make a phone call."
"They have a phone?" I asked, completely thrown.
It turns out they did. And that is how we all ended up in a Buddhist monastery in the middle of nowhere, watching The Eurovision Song Contest.

Some time later, the sun was out and we'd climbed to what looked like the top of the world.
The Wife was beaming from ear to ear, and had managed to acquire an ice-cream from somewhere.
"Beautiful, yeah?"
I nodded, sitting down on the grass. Rob joined us, also with ice-cream, as we looked over the lip of the hill and the most incredible vista beyond. The land splayed out before us, dropping down the hill and receding in patchwork fields as far as the eye could see all in the most luxuriant greens. We were so high up we were level with the clouds covering the land below. If my life had a soundtrack that wasn't Girls Aloud, this final stumble up the grass for the final moment of revelation would have been scored in that overly-ceremonious way of John Williams.
And we sat in companionable silence for some time, admiring the view and watching the clouds rumbling past like leviathans.
After a few moments, Rob went off to phone for a taxi. The Wife leapt up and held out his hand for me.
"There's a gift shop up there," he said, indicating to where the pub was. "Shall we go and see if they have any National Trust erasers?"
I grinned.

Two monuments of interest on the South Downs.
One: it turns out the pub at the summit was called 'The Devil's Dyke' - which I found far too funny, but probably was suffering from low oxygen at altitude. I giggled as I snapped away at it on my camera-phone, thinking of at least three people I could send it to with the subject line 'Lick you were here'.
Two: the monastery had its very own stone circle. The Wife and I pranced around it at midnight when everyone else at the retreat was asleep, pretending to be worshipping Hecate.
"Here, feel this," he said. "They're all warm..."
I felt my way around them in the moonlight. "Well. Apart from this one."
He wandered over. "Hmm. You're right."
We called over to Rob, who was on the outside of it enjoying a ciggie, and asked him what that particular stone was.
He looked at the sign. "Heart, apparently," he replied.
The Wife and I shared a look.

The Wife had never seen the Eurovision Song Contest before. It had obviously had a big effect for, as we walked along the following morning, he was happily whispering "France-ten-points... Fran-say-dizz-points! Malta-twelve-points... Maltee-dooze-poins!" to himself. We were making good headway thanks to no mud and some sunshine, and had now reached the tiny hamlet of Small Dole. Or to give it the correct title 'Small Dole 2000'. This was according to the metal sign that proudly stood at one end of the high street. Which comprised a bus shelter, a Londis supermarket and a pub, before being bookended by another 'Small Dole 2000' sign. We tried the pub - and got told by the landlord that it wasn't open. It clearly was. And it was equally clear that they Don't Like Strangers.
We regrouped by the bus shelter, plainly spooked by the whole affair.
"It's like Royston Vasey," said Rob, scowering the map for the nearest road out of there. "We're not 'Local' enough."
"Perhaps 'Small Dole 2000' is the population," I said. "And it's cast in metal because it's been like that for centuries. Every time someone gives birth, they shotgun an old lady."
And at which point, a grey-haired woman hurried out of the store, leapt into her car and drove off with some speed, accidentally giving credence to the whole thing.
The bus was coming in 20 minutes. It was only fair that, after we'd tried the pub - to no avail - and bought some crisps from the supermarket, we should do the only other thing in town and use the bus stop. I booted some stones into the road while we waited and Rob idly picked at the rusted drawing pins that had been hammered into the telephone pole next to it.
"Hey! This must be where they put the 'Missing' notices!" he said. We laughed for a moment until we looked further and further up the pole: the surface was completely encrusted in corroded drawing pins like barnacles on a whale.
And when we sped out of town on the bus, we didn't look back.
 

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Click The Kylie

According to Attitude Magazine (glossy rag for Gentlemen who Know Showtunes that we all tend to ignore until they do a 'Naked' issue) both horsey Camilla Parker-Bowles and Chav-ette superstar Colleen McLoughlin are both gay icons.


Bwahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahhahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahhahahhahahahahahhahah
ahahhahahhahahhahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahhahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahh
ahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahhahahhahah(breathe)bwhahahahha
hahahahhahahhahahhahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahhahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahhah
ahhahahhahahahahahhahahahahhahahhahahhahahhahah!

No.



UPDATE

We are a discernable people (that rogue Atomic Kitten album in our collection notwithstanding) and we use the term 'icon' sparingly. We do. We are even known, as a result, to say 'Just click the Kylie' when pointing at applications on our computer Desktop. For us, an icon is folk we want to have to our fabulous soirées, go sing along to in concert or, in the most extreme cases, dress up as for a fabulous bit of glamour. And, well, you can dress up as that awful McLoughlin woman for a party near Bluewater if you wish as all you will need is a mobile phone, some press-on nails and to stuff your head through a Burberry duvet cover and - ta-da! - a Colleen. But we'd rather not. We do sequins and glamour, not scraped-back hair and hoop earrings. No, when you're using the Liza-Scale, Mz Parker-Bowles nor that grubby McLoughlin woman are even a blip on the gaydar.

PS - Conversely, Jackie Tyler is a gay icon.
 

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Waiting at the Stage Door for Brooke Shields

 
 
10.31: London stage version of Chicago ends. The Wife suggests going and hanging around Stage Door to meet Brooke Shields. Note odd gleam in his eyes.

10.37: Wife getting slightly hysterical at possibility of meeting Brooke.

10.39: Transpires Wife spent a good deal of formative years drawing pictures of Brooke. Apparently hundreds done. Have a disturbing peek into Wife's childhood.

10.41: Discuss whether bringing said pictures along would have enticed Brooke out any faster. Also discuss quantity of B2 pencils needed to do a decent job on her sizable eyebrows.

10.42: Discuss deforestation of Africa.

10.45: Wife deciding what page of programme Brooke should autograph (still no sighting). Compare and contrast Brooke's wig in photographs to somewhat inferior affair atop her head this evening. Posture that either a) someone had accidentally machine-washed it or b) a rat had got hold of it and that raggity mess was all they could get back.

10.49: Various chorus line leave, getting our hopes up.

10.50: Recall I spent some months of my childhood drawing many detailed pictures of Donna Summer. Neglect to mention the fact.

10.53: Wife nervous and agitated, supposing that if she'd have wanted to do autographs she would have come out by now. Have secretly agreed, but decide to wait her out for him.

10.54: Last orders in bar opposite.

10.58: Admire lovely exterior of theatre building. Wife also taken, particularly enjoying how all features have been smoothed away by time and inches and inches of paint. Compare and contrast with Sharon Stone in recently viewed 'Catwoman'.

11.01: Still no sign of Brooke. The Wife now embarrassed far beyond that time I got drunk and assured him you can gargle fondue at his works party, and then demonstrated. He is eager to go; last train is imminent.

11.04: Gayest chorus line boy flounces back to Stage Door to find it locked, showing pointedly that everyone else has gone home. We admire his heavily plucked eyebrows. Note stunning similarity to Nicole Kidman's eyebrows: pencil thin and forming an acute v-shape above the nose. Wife calls them The Devil's Eyebrows. Both postulate she puts them on using a protractor.

11.05: Discuss Julia Roberts' eyebrows. Postulate she puts those on with a pair of compasses.

11.07: All other cast members and most theatre staff have left. Wife tries to go, stating Brooke has probably slipped out of a side entrance. Point out several vehicles that could be hers: a waiting taxi, a Rolls-Royce and a rickshaw. We favour the latter.

11.12: Wife now convinced that Brooke doesn't want to do autographs and is waiting us out. He is now thoroughly embarrassed and implores me to leave. I wish to wait five more minutes, but he slopes off.

11.14: Resolve that, if ever famous myself in any way shape or form, to make myself as accessible to said imaginary fans as possible. Catch up with deflated boyfriend on The Strand.

11.21: Head home. Propose a daft scheme where I photoshop him into a camera-phone shot with her. He recommends that the shot is so ludicrous that people have to believe it's true and he did actually meet her.

So, my dear Wife, this is for you.
 

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

The High-Dive

There should only be enough room on said high-dive platform for two - at the most - whiny women singers. As soon as a third one comes along, eg Lucie Silvas, this then pushes Joss Stone along one, and forces KT Tunstall off the end and to fall the eighty feet onto the broken concrete below.

Perfectly acceptable.
 

Monday, May 23, 2005

Glitter For Brains At The Movies: Catwoman!

We go so you don't have to!

Rather a bit of a delay on this one and it should really be called 'Glitter for Brains At The Video Store'. But still, we thought we'd better share with you our thoughts on possibly the worst film of the last year, So, without further ado:


CATWOMAN: THE ABRIDGED SCRIPT!

THE AUDIENCE: (SHUFFLING WITH POPCORN)
Right then. Lets see why this is so bad that Dame Sharon Stone is being forced into doing 'Basic Instinct 2'.

CUE TITLES.
They show many paintings through HISTORY of WOMEN. Dressed as CATS. Including JOAN OF ARC.

THE AUDIENCE:
Oh. Right you are.

CUT TO: HALLE BERRY LYING FACEDOWN IN A RIVER.

HALLE:
Preamble preamble the day I died overly-portentous nonsense.

THE AUDIENCE turns to each other and shrugs.

CUT TO: HEDARE BEAUTY HQ - THE DAY BEFORE.

HALLE BERRY is running up the STAIRS, late. She is MOUSY. People BUMP into her. Her outfit is BAGGY and contains POLKA-DOTS. It shows that she is ripe for a HOLLYWOOD-STYLE MAKE-OVER. We follow her up the stairs to HEDARE BEAUTY HQ using SWOOPY-CAM, a revolutionary technique where the camera is strapped to the UNDERSIDE of an OWL. Then several MICE are hidden into the HAIR of each CAST MEMBER, and the owl is thrown into the ROOM. The results are CONSTANTLY MOVING, nausea-inducing CUT-SCENES and CRASH-ZOOMS.

THE AUDIENCE:
So dizzy... oh so dizzy...

SWOOPY-CAM settles on a beam in the office to show us HALLE has the obligatory CUBICLE MATES: a DUMPY GIRL who likes sex, and a flamboyant GAY BOY.

DUMPY GIRL:
Boys! More boys! Lets go and lick police officers and say we won't come quietly wink-wink!

THE GAY ONE:
Look! A man! Squeal! Hammer home stereotype!

THE AUDIENCE:
Now look. He can't be gay. He'd have disowned her years back for that outfit.

HALLE:
You guys. You know I'm frigid and completely ill-at-ease with my sexuality! Besides, I have this presentation to do, which I have to hand in at the Ol' Abandoned Spooky Factory. At midnight.

CUE LIGHTNING.

CUT TO: THE OL' ABANDONED SPOOKY FACTORY.

HALLE:
Hello..?

SHARON STONE (IN THE NEXT ROOM):
Blah blah top secret, blah blah cream of death? Is she outside now? Right, OK. (loudly) Then it would be terribly inconvenient for us if any of this got out, of course?

HALLE:
Oh!

SHARON STONE:
Kill her, Generic Hoods!

HALLE is chased into the SEWERAGE SYSTEM by two GENERIC HOODS. While she's LOCKED IN, they find the CONTROL PANEL and ACTIVATE the system.

THE AUDIENCE:
Well, isn't it nice to see that even gun-carrying hoodlums have been trained in the inner-workings of a top secret beauty plant. Hedare must really care about their staff to give them career opportunities like that.

Anyway, the SEWERS flush out onto the OCEAN. HALLE BERRY is DEAD. And shortly, so is her CAREER.

But then! From 'Sabrina The Teenage Witch', SALEM THE CAT's LESS-CONVINCING sock-puppet COUSIN comes and breathes LIFE into HALLE'S dead form! Halle Berry is reborn! Into CATWOMAN! With a new wardrobe from nowhere! And a new hairstyle created using MAGIC SCISSORS that cut hair without going near it - and give her SALON-STYLE HIGHLIGHTS.

CUT TO: A JEWEL ROBBERY.
THREE CROOKS are robbing a jewelers. HALLE slinks in wearing a slinky leather outfit. She looks SEXY.

PITOF, THE DIRECTOR (FROM ONTOP OF HIS GIANT DIRECTING OWL):
Right zen, Halle. Remember your clazzes! Pretend to be ze cat!

HALLE:
What a puuuuuurrr-fect crime!

And her sexiness CRASHES AND BURNS.

HALLE licks herself and HACKS A HAIRBALL at the crooks. We are then treated to some footage of the XBOX GAME instead of FINISHED CGI as she jumps THIS WAY and THAT to subdue the thieves. She looks around the DEVASTATION.

Halle:
What a meow-ess!

THE AUDIENCE groans.

CUT TO: SHARON STONE'S APARTMENT
HALLE enters while SHARON STONE appears to be SHAVING HER CHIN.

HALLE:
I know you're something to do with how I died.

SHARON STONE:
You know you can trust me. I just happen to be a complete bitch to everyone else.

Halle:
Ok, I'll trust you!

SHARON STONE:
Really? What really?

Halle:
Yup. Even with my supersensitive nose, I can't smell the slightest bit of trouble here!

SHARON STONE (BLINKING):
Blimey. Right you are. Catch.

HALLE:
What's this?

SHARON STONE:
It's a smoking gun. With your gloved, er, prints all over it! Now it looks like you shot my despotic husband instead of me and you will go to prison!

HALLE:
Is that how you're going to stop me? By using something 'Murder, She Wrote' wouldn't stoop to?

SHARON STONE:
Boo-hoo! Boo-hoo! Arrest her officer, she killed my husband. Boo-hoo.

OFFICER:
Well, it does look like you're guilty. Holding a gun and everything, regardless of motive. Besides, we managed to match your lipstick to a crime scene using 'Adobe Lippy' back at the station?

HALLE:
Oh no! I am done for! I must flea! I mean - oh forget it.

SHE DOES.

SHARON STONE:
Aha! This means I am free to send out the Evil Face-Cream of Death to all! Bwahahaha!
(looks to officer)
I mean, er, 'boo' and indeed 'hoo'. Not evil. I'm not.

CUT TO: HEDARE BEAUTY HQ
SWOOPING SHOT right to the TOP OF THE BUILDING, around the BUILDING, through the GLASS, DOWN A LEVEL then into the LIFT, down ANOTHER LEVEL and out into SHARON STONE'S EVIL LAIR.

THE AUDIENCE:
Director Pitof! Nail your foot to the floor! STOP THE CAMERA MOVING!

SHARON STONE:
...so now my Evil Face Cream will be sent across the world, and every woman will become addicted!

MINIONS APPLAUD.

HALLE busts in and drags away SHARON STONE. There is a BIG FIGHT in a warehouse full of SHARON STONE PICTURES. For NO DISCERNABLE REASON.

We are treated to some MORE SCENES from the XBOX game as HALLE, HALLE'S CGI MODEL, HALLE'S BURLY MALE STUNT DOUBLE and HALLE'S ACTION FIGURE (for long shots) are put through their PACES. THEY and SHARON STONE FIGHT.

SHARON STONE:
But the best side effect is this make-up hardens the skin to rock!

THE AUDIENCE:
Excuse me?

SHARON STONE:
My skin has hardened to marble. I am impervious!

THE AUDIENCE:
You jest, surely? No? How silly is this film. We though it could be a last minute script addition to explain away your serious Botoxing...

THEY FIGHT MORE.

SHARON STONE:
Don't kill me! Do you not see this is a damning indictment on the modern fashion industry and commercialism?

THE AUDIENCE:
Is it? Good lord. That's very forced...

But HALLE is momentarily DISTRACTED by the CAN OPENER three doors down. Then SITS DOWN to watch some DUST floating past.

So SHARON STONE falls to her DEATH.

Cut to:
CGI HALLE WALKING ALONG A MOONLIT ROOFTOP

HALLE (SUMMING UP):
And that's why my life must be one of loneliness. The life of a cat.

She bounds around like a POWERBALL, while the camera SWOOPS OFF into the DISTANCE, SWINGING AROUND and LOOPING THE LOOP.

DIRECTOR PITOF:
Ze brilliant film, yez!

THE AUDIENCE:
We feel sick.


THE END.
 

Thursday, May 19, 2005

Spring Cleaning

You know me. I love a spotless nook, and get immeasurable pleasure just having a go at a dusty crevice with a handy-wipe. So, as the weather's fine, it's time to do a little bit of spit and polish on the old BlogRoll. Out with the old, in the with the new, and lie back satisfied after a good hour's work with a used tissue and a smile on my plastic face.

Right. Who's up for a squirt and a wipe?

New Recruits
And who's this reporting for duty? Why, we at Glitter for Brains have a rather boring job at times so justify it by surfing the web for new things to tickle us like a misplaced duster. Why not click on them for hilarious fun (wink wink)? They're alarmingly good, but don't you dare start thinking there are better people than me out there. There'll be trouble. Anyway.

Evil Gay Lawyer. I like this guy. He's so acerbic, my collection of litmus paper always turns whenever I click on. (What, don't you have a collection? Pah. Leave me, you foolish minion).

Fagotty-Ass Faggot. A gentleman and no mistake. Which basically means he may ask before he cums in your mouth, I'm not sure. I'll get my book on Etiquette...

Joe My God. Well yes. He's won awards, you know. And rightfully so as he's very good. Where I'm rattling on about Sharon Osborne's snatch, he's observing the human condition. 'Tom-ay-to, tom-ar-to' say I.

Jamie4U. Spoof blog by the author of Doll Soup's fabulous site. One of those rare blog's you're glad to be in from the beginning. Catch it quick before it becomes annoyingly popular, and wince as you realise you know someone like this...


Moving House
Dear Erin-Go-Blog's gone from the blogging suburbs and has moved to a new abode. Update! Now!


Fallen Comrades
As the blogging community goes on, we unfortunately lose some of the more exciting members when they realise that they have a real life. He's an honour roll of who's missing in action.

Zbornak. Darling Z was the man who inspired me to take up the imaginary glue-pen, shake my head, and stick this glitter all over god's own interweb in the first place. I loved getting my hand on his column daily, even when it mutated into what seemed to be the short-lived Zbornak's Shopping Emporium. He's finally shuffled off this mortal coil, and his passing is mourned by all.

The Invisible Stranger. I never knew thee, but loved your work. No-one objected to man-made fibres like this man. Sniff. Sadly missed.

The Augustan Stables. I'm inconsolable this has gone off into the ether as it was a daily read. Even when it wasn't updated for weeks. I used to try and pick meaning from the first word of every sentence to eke as much pleasure out of it as possible.

Billy Bathgate. He liked the same type of men I do. Poor thing. Rest in peace.


And a quick shout out to all those lovelies who I couldn't pass a day without! MissMish, Snooze, St Snaffu, Louise, Bob, Pete, Rob, Ultrasparky, Gertie, Oddverse oh the list is endless! So do go through my BlogRoll to find everyone. They're not on there unless there's a good reason, you know. Pleasure is but one click away!

Right. I'm spent. Ooh, and don't you dare come in here with muddy feet - I've just cleaned!
 

Bad Vibrations

Woman knocked out by saucy vibrating knickers. Read it here if you must.

Only in Wales.

Well, only in ASDA.

(thinks)

Now I do hope you're all imagining clapped-out cock-jocky 'mum in a million' Sharon Osborne wandering around the shelves and smacking her arse to camera, all whilst wearing a pair of these fetid undercrackers.

And lo! You'd be able to see her snail trail right up to the bread counter.
 

Wednesday, May 18, 2005

Mysterious Fingering

This is truly a stirring story: a man found in a sopping wet suit was found traumatised and unable - or unwilling - to speak. Taken into care, the staff give him a pen and paper to write his name, instead he draws a beautiful picture of a piano. So the carers lead him to the chapel piano, where he plays and plays beautiful classical music for hours.

He's still not speaking, though. And no-one knows who he is.

Now. This opens a whole world of possibilities. Imagine if it were you? What would you do? Or more interesting, imagine if Geri Hallwell had washed up somewhere (let's pretend in the meantime that Greenpeace haven't - once again - mistaken her for a blue whale and tried to drag her back out to sea). She'd be fucked if she actually tried to make any music, despite all her protests that she's an actual musician. And it would be a real testament to her artistic skills (!) to see whether she was able to draw the machine in the studio that 'Makes Me Voice Less Flat', bless.

If I get washed up, I have no idea what I'll draw. The new Doctor Who logo is cock-awful, so I doubt I'd want to add to my trauma and draw that. Girls Aloud? Well, it is quite hard trying to get Nicola's likeness right - her unfortunate nose always comes out closer to that of a proboscis monkey (save your agreement for the Comments Box). Oh, our mystery man did draw what he'd like to play on - so I'd probably doodle an enormous organ. And I don't mean the one that's like a piano, da-boom-tish!

I do have a quiet suspicion that the Wife is to blame for our puzzling piano player. After all, he does take umbrage at any discourteous Functionary that may be serving our table. And one tinkling version of 'I Will Survive' too far from the functionary on the keyboard and I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised to hear a cry, a splash, and a gentle cleaning of hands...

Must have a word when I see him next.
 

You Know...

Last night, I was in Quo Vadis, supping champagne, eating guinea fowl and enjoying the company of two people I adore.

(Looks at WeightWatchers Ready Meal)

(Looks around tawdry office at gaggle of girls squealing over new shoes)

Sigh.
 

My Housemate Will Be Joining Me In Hell

"Kylie In Breast Cancer Shock!' Was it a pickled onion after all, dear? Was it? Hmm?"
 

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

One Lump Or Two?

Gasp! Kylie Minogue has breast cancer.

She has breasts?!

Imagine if she threw open the doors to her hospital room - the queue would be akin to the one waiting to see the Pope in state. Only more whistles. And nylon. In fact, so much nylon, if there was a Mexican Wave, there's be enough static electricity to read by.


UPDATE

You'd think she's already on her way out, the sheer number of times her hits had popped up on Radio 2 today. Which is unthinkable, of course. She'll live forever.

But we must prepare. If it does all goes tits up (ha!) I'm sure her last wish would be to get a nice pop funeral.

You know, with a decent merchandising stand.
 

Monday, May 16, 2005

Door Who-oers

Gertie managed to sneak us into the new Doctor Who exhibition on Brighton Pier using his usual manner of approaching authority with an um and ahh, mentioning The BBC, and working himself up into a meek frenzy of obsequiousness until the Jobsworth in question feels like he's the very saviour of Gertie's life. It's remarkably effective, and an artform to watch.

"Well done," I said as we sailed passed the Door Functionary some ten minutes later. The Functionary had a bedraggled expression, like he'd been almost licked to death.
"Thank you," replied Gertie. "I had to pretend that you were a five-year-old child though." He snorted. "Not that it'll be a problem for you," he added.
I stamped my feet and demanded an ice-cream.

The exhibition is a marvellous place, full of noise, wonder, props and children. Which is fantastic - the last Who exhibition the Wife and I toured had three confirmed bachelors with comb-overs nodding sagely at each of the glass cabinets in turn. It was an oddly emotionless affair, where this is a riot. Some facts for you, dear readers:

1) If you turned up in costume this weekend, you got in free.
Cue several five-year-olds pointing in puzzlement at the smelly man wandering around in a question-mark tanktop and a pair of tweed trousers that had ridden up above his ankles.
We checked: no it wasn't Sylvester McCoy.

2) It's very well done. But as there's only been seven episodes broadcast, it can smack of that Longleat exhibition desperation of 'Quick! Stick ANYTHING in!' Cue whole wall display of passcards from Ep 4.
The picture on Harriet Jones' MP badge is Penelope Wilton's Spotlight photo, you know.

3) By far the best sign in there is:

'Please DO NOT touch the exhibits.
There are CCTV cameras everywhere.
And only two exits to the Pier'

There's a nice picture of a reproachful Dalek next to it.

4) The Slitheen look amazing up close.
Or should that be 'The Slitheen look amazing when completely stationary'?

5) From her expression, the exhibition's 'human tree' Jabe appears to have a squirrel nesting somewhere unfortunate.

6) To my complete surprise, pages and pages and pages of a Doctor Who book I designed, Monsters and Villains, have been reproduced to introduce each monster.
For a time, I was more impressed about that than about the other stuff. Mainly because I could briefly pretend that I'd got my own gallery exhibition.


The other good thing was an odd moment when Gertie and I were heading back for the train. He tapped me on the shoulder as we were crossing a road and pointed over his shoulder.
"Gay sauna behind you."
It was a pebbledashed hostelry, the only clue being that the windows were blackened. It could have been curtains or a severe case of mildew.
"I went there once," he said. "The whole place is done out in an Egyptian style. Which is good as every single man was a shambling dusty cadaver that could have only just risen from their sarcophagus."
For one so short, he contains an awful lot of spite.
 

Checks Watch

Sigh. Here we go again. Monday morning. How very tiresome.

At least the dear Vampire Librarian gets streakers in her work. My swankymediaoffice is really dull in comparison. Everyone's currently either comparing colds or sunburns from the weekend's oddly unseasonable weather.

Perhaps I should employ a streaker. Liven the place up a bit.

If only to transport some ring donuts around the place.
 

Friday, May 13, 2005

"These Cows..."

The general consensus is that Dame Kylie Minogue isn't very tall, though the glorious hypercyberinterweb is rather at odds in explaining exactly how high she is with ranges from an optimistic 'Three-foot two' to a smaller 'Borrower' - although the only consistent I could find is that she is 'roughly equivalent to five bags of sugar'. Alas, this doesn't indicate whether that's a measurement of her height, her weight, how square her face, or how teeth-damagingly sweet she is.

Lets say that this is indeed referencing her height, thus meaning she can still shop at Mothercare - modifying those world-famous hotpants from a Chambray one-piece romper suit. As well as being able to escape any undue attention in supermarkets by sitting in the front of the trolley while being pushed around the pasta isle by her charmingly gay former stylist, Will Baker. Thus.

It's No Secret

And while this may be wild yet idle speculation, further fuel was added by her current record company getting a dog flap of exactly one foot seven high, which is almost the size of five bags of sugar, you may very well note. So we asked record company off the record if it was for her but they pretended they weren't in.

So I have to ask about Dame Minogue's concert recently seen by all and sundry - was she just short or was she just far away? I mean, what if they could have saved on set construction if they'd got dancers as tall as she was? Or maybe just hired some lithe toddlers?

Hmm yes. Apparently her tour cost £5 million earth pounds. But what about if you realise that she is that short then you could do the performance by putting the whole thing on in a Barbie playset with a television behind for some rear projection, use a large magnifying glass, and no-one in the audience would be the bit wiser. £30 for the stage, £130 for the telly for the back projection and about, ooh, £50 for all the Cow&Gate they can eat!

See?

Tiny!

And you're pocketing over £4.5 million for non-obvious face-freezing cosmetic surgery. The brilliance of it all!

The only problem is that she can't do this trick outdoors, meaning her imminent headlining at Glastonbury is going to be a problem, for just one stray ray of sunshine hits that magnifying glass, the crinkle-free pop moppet will pop and burst into a variance of flames so poppy and so intense and so explosive that the entire planet will be covered in a layer of glitter two inches thick and wholly ruin our ecosphere.

Fabulous!

But what a fabulous way to go.
 

Thursday, May 12, 2005

"Mother? Is that you? Where have you been?!"

"I was on that hen party! Just got back. You know, the one in Magaluf for the weekend? Although by the time we were finished with it, they'd taken to calling it 'Mega Rough' apparently... But - aww! - you should have seen the hotel! God it was funny! It was full of German OAPs! I'm telling you - we didn't have to get up early to put our towels on the sun loungers because every single one of them was in wheelchairs! You couldn't move for wrinklies on wheels - and if they weren't in wheelchairs, they all had those zimmerframes with wheels on 'em! Ahahaha! It was like the place were you sent Krauts all to die in the sun - some sort of German Aush-witss or however you say it. And the pool! The pool had a ramp down into it! And one of those little seats where you lower yourself in! I didn't know why they bothered - the verucca foot-pool at the local baths was deeper than this. Of course there was a hand rail all along the corridors too, which was really useful for when you were coming back from the pub a bit pissed. Which we were. Every night. We got told off by the Germans for that - they banged on Maggie's door yelling 'NO NOISE! NO NOISE!' at 2am. They wouldn't even look at us when we went down for breakfast the following morning, but that was probably because Maggie still smelled of tequila and had a bit of sick in her hair and I still had my backpack on I'd pinched from some bouncer in exchange for a snog. But I tell you, every one of the tables only had one chair - and that was for their carers - so they could get three wheelchairs around it! You know we should have known because, you know the brochure how they normally have pictures of loads of people around the pool? Well, there was no-one in these! It was completely empty Fabulous! And I got a number for a taxi driver but anyway, I'll call you again soon - you know it's my birthday coming up - I'm just warning you now because you always forget - and you can take me clubbing or something nice, alright? Good. Speak soon, love you!"

Click.

Burrrrrrrrr.

Blink-blink-blink.
 

What We've Learned Today Pt III

 
Red Head

The wig. In all its glory.

I think I look good as a red head. And while it's not as glamorous as anything the lovely Louise over at CowDog could rustle up, it did make for interesting fun while hoovering last night. Not only as I forgot I was wearing it and it almost got sucked off as I was fingering my wide-based crevice nozzle.

Lovely though. I can't decide whether I'm more Natalie Portman or Julia-Roberts-before-the-electrolysis.
 

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Splashing Around in the Shallow End

Ironically, it was while I was in the bath that I heard Char shouting in dismay. She'd been reading my emails again. And I say 'ironic' because a) I like the way it sounds and b) because the one she was gasping at was entitled 'Caesar's Bath'.

Apparently, I'd been tagged by dear Bob with a meme. The instructions are thus:

'This meme takes its name from Mel Brooks' A History of the World (Part I), and, upon receiving it, one is supposed to list five things that one's circle of friends or peer group is wild about, but that one can't really understand the fuss over. Quoth Caesar, "Nice. Nice. Not thrilling . . . but nice.'

Right. Ok. Five things? Easy. Even with Char muttering "Witchcraft," in her Polish lilt before I have to send her to 'catalogue the drinks cabinet' again. So:

Reinvention? Pah! 1) Madonna
Well burn me at the stake for being controversial! How long she been going now? Since the French Revolution? And in all that time she's done a few songs I will tap my feet along to, but the rest I would merrily stuff down the back of a burning sofa. 'La Isla Bonita' leaves me cold, and I get nary a flicker from 'Like A Prayer'. I just don't get it.
But why she gets on my tits the most is this constant 'reinvention' she is famed for, shedding her aged, snake-like skin to keep in with every fad that the 'young hipsters' are currently embroiled in. That doesn't smack of conviction in yourself, that sounds like you're leaping at anything that can sustain your career, you leech. Tsk.

Oh look. Cake. What a surprise. 2) Bruno Langley
Ah, Mr Langley. A 'larger lady' of the TV screen. Several gentlefolk I know are currently sighing and dropping their hankie over this new addition to our limelit firmament. His pedigree: he played a gay character in perennial favourite soap opera Coronation Street (thus getting all who care frothing at the gash about Young Boys Who Kiss) and has just popped up in the new series of Doctor Who as an annoying oik called Adam.
All well and good, but I really can't see why people are bending over backwards (or forwards, in our case) for him. He's just... average. Look at him - I've seen at least ten lookylikeys wandering down the street on my way to get some milk for my morning cereal. Well, they didn't have milk, so I used Bailey's Cream. And that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.

Weak bitch! 3) Wizard of Oz
My main dislike for this is Dorothy. The child is without backbone for goodness sake! Something goes slightly awry, however slight, she's blubbing like a fat girl at the end of a party. Her achievements are all by accident, and she gets home by literally stamping her feet and crying. The rest of the time, it's like the Cowardly Lion is dragging a puddle around.
Which begs the question why on earth have we, the Gentlemen Who Can't Catch, taken a whining, snivelling kid to our hearts so? We can't stand children at the best of times, let alone the ones that never stop bawling. Personally, I much prefer Alice from Alice in Wonderland; she barely snivels and isn't even the slightest bit phased by taking pills and eating mushrooms. Which makes you wonder why we Gentlemen haven't taken her as our mascot all along...

Too hot! 4) Sunshine
It's over-rated and never matches my mood.



'ere, what ya looking at?! 5) Soap operas
I'm actually going to narrow this down and state 'British soap operas' as we do them so badly here. Due to our bizarre obsession with the underdog, all our soaps are set in dingy areas and are about ordinary people doing ordinary things, highlighting how unimaginative we are as a country if we get excited about someone else having a non-fatal accident with a nail gun. At least the American versions are far more outlandish, with plastic surgery, affairs and paternity cases featuring every other episode.
It just leaves me asking are people's lives really so dull they have to escape into something so middle-of-the-road; that they are so unimaginative, they only respond to the ordinary adventures? And the producers are happy to churn out such average kitchen-sink dramas for all to devour.
But what's even more eyebrow-raising is that when we do start doing soap operas like the Yanks (c.f. 'Footballer's Wives') they're called 'dramas'!

There.

And with that, I have to pass this on to three other people. I shall choose three diverse friends as possible to drip hatred onto the hypercyberinterweb. And those will be dear Gertie, cause he'll probably add 'groups of Japanese people with umbrellas' to the list (I didn't have room). Also elegance incarnate, MissMish and the beauteous Kimberly Lesbian.

Marvellous.
 

Monday, May 09, 2005

Sextette

Mae West's last film. Oh my good lord.

She was apparently 97 million billion years old when she agreed to star in it, in a self-congratulating story about the actress Marlo Manners who is about to embark on her honeymoon with a very young, and very British Timothy Dalton. And I was finally pressured into watching it by some 'concerned' friends this very weekend... and loved every moment. For one, for the first couple of minutes, I believed there was something wrong with my DVD copy. Every time Mae West came on screen, the crisp DVD transfer seems to be shot through a Vaseline-coated sock.

But not just that - it's a musical! Joy upon joys! With high-kicking and swirling and everything! Well, by all but the leading lady naturally, as her semi-autonomous corpse is lead around from scene to scene by poor Timothy Dalton, mustering as much dignity as he can manage. The opening number, a homage to 'Hooray for Hollywood', has a succession of overly-gay baggage dancers whirling around the leading lady as she's escorted through the scene to her hotel room in the manner of gran being lead from the dance floor before she wets herself.

At all other times, she stands there with her dentures almost sliding out of her mouth, idling away like a Model T Ford as if her artificial hip is attached to a cam shaft. Indeed, that hip doesn't stop going up and down for the whole film, with a wig appearing to be infested with nits as she can?t keep her hand off it.

Every song is stuffed to the rafters with poor rhymes ('Marlo' linked, incredibly, by 'Apollo' and 'Venus De... Milo') and every line is a double entendre. And while we're not going to be the first to throw stones in that greenhouse, it does all lead to the fact that this film is centred on Marlo being a virile, sexual being who's on her honeymoon. To which we just go 'eeeew!'

So, while her hip's going ten to the dozen and she's getting ready to pounce on poor Timothy, downstairs is - get this - a very important peace conference, of which the fate of the world rests! And on top of that, Marlo turns out to be a secret agent working for the US! And on top of that, Marlo's memoirs, recorded on one of those magic cassettes that plays exactly the right part when the play button is hit, is currently travelling around the grounds of the hotel thanks to a dog, a cake, a javelin and a trampoline (complete with swanny-whistle) and contain incriminating evidence of each member of the conference.
Larks!

And all this is (thankfully) all contrived to stop Marlo getting to the honeymoon part. Which we blissfully never see, despite several promises before her hip gives out.

But enough of my prattling, we here at Glitter for Brains can't urge you enough to see this film! It is jaw-dropping in all senses. And if that doesn't sway you, here's Five Reasons!


1) Mae West trying to navigate herself down a corridor, press a lift button and deliver a line. She veers around like a jacknifed BigTrak and just about manages to do it before the end of the film!

2) Upon watching her all-incriminating memoirs bounce out of the skylight with the aforementioned 'swooah!' of a swanny-whistle, the hip starts up and Mae states, "Aohh, aohh! Everything goes up for Marlo!"

3) Every bottle of champagne is flat!

4) Alice Cooper is in it! Alice Cooper! And I'm not sure what accent Ringo Starr (Ringo Starr!) is doing, but I want to visit there!

5) It finishes with Marlo in bed with Timothy slowly sliding towards her ("cut the film! CUT THE FILM!" cries the audience)! Yet still under the bedclothes, that hip's still going and the hands are in her hair as she exclaims, "Aohh! Aohh! The British are coming!"

Fabulous.
 

What We've Learned Today Pt II

Well. The wig's arrived.

I'm just had a quick go in the work loos, and I can say there's a big thumbs up from the brief time I had.

I'm sure you can imagine that later on this evening I'm going to be flicking myself into oblivion.

How very lesbian.
 

Friday, May 06, 2005

What We've Learned Today

Don't idly bid for wigs on eBay.
You accidentally end up winning them.

Snigger.

I have to say, the one I won is very Bree Van De Kamp...
 

Voting Time!

 
 
JAY: Beardface!

LEE: Arg! Gallagher!

JAY: What are you doing?

LEE: Nothing! Nothing dubious. Go and make tea or listen to jazz or whatever it is you do.

JAY: That's the local police web site.

LEE: No it's not. It's Domino Pizza. They've rebranded.

JAY: With a crown and a gate as their logo?

LEE: Yes.

JAY: And changed their name to Metropolitan Police?

LEE: Yes.

JAY: That's going to cause some confusion. For one, no-one really thinks 'pizza' whenever they see a policeman, do they?

LEE: I knew one who was a right twelve-inch meaty feast...

JAY: Binding!

LEE: ...Shame about the cheesy crust, though...

JAY: Am I going to have to show you the back of my hand?

LEE: You have to admit, '999' is a lot easier to remember as a telephone number.

JAY: Will you drop this charade or am I going to have to shave you bald and put you out in the cold? Again? Now why are you looking on the police website? And what are all these print-outs for Hungary for?

LEE: I think I may have done something a little silly.

JAY: Oh, not again...

LEE: So I may have to move to Hungary.

JAY: What is it?

LEE: A country. Main exports are clothes and footwear, machinery and -Ow! What was that for?

JAY: A very old joke. Now. What. Did. You. Do?

LEE: Well, you know I have a Star Trek uniform, well-

JAY: You have a Star Trek uniform? In this house?

LEE: Yes, but that's not the point-

JAY: It bloody well is now. I'm sending you to Hungary myself.

LEE: Do you want to hear the end of what I'd done or not?

JAY: I apologise. Do go on.

LEE: Well, yesterday was my first time voting yesterday, and so I needed a bit of security. So I put my Janeway uniform on under my clothes.

JAY: Do you do this often?

LEE: Only when you're at the shops. Anyway, I stormed into the hall, pretending to be the doyenne of the Delta Quadrant, crossed by choice with a flourish and flounced out. It was only then I noticed the sign.

JAY: Will you just get on with it? The Ottoman Empire fell in less time it's taken you to spin out this tale.

LEE: Well the sign said that it was a 'criminal offence to impersonate anyone when voting'. Oh Gallagher, I'm too pretty to go to prison! I'll never get any sleep!

JAY: Ah. Hence Hungary. Look, Beardface, I'm sure it'll all be fine. We'll just explain you're a moron and everything will be OK I'm sure. Right?

LEE: Oh. Really? Oh. OK. Right then. Are you sure?

JAY: Yes. Unutterably sure. Just one last question - why Hungary?

LEE: Well. I've picked a little bit of it up thanks to those... Gentlemen's Recreational Videos I have. I'm sure I'd be able to get by.

JAY: Explain to me how 'I'm coming! I'm coming!' in Hungarian would be useful in everyday parlance?

LEE: Oh? With me? You'd be very surprised.
 

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

What Does Your Company Logo Say About YOU?

 
Spot The Difference

The Cable and Wireless logo and a fully-operational Death Star.
Hmm.
 

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Disjointed Weekend

"How do you feel like getting your arse utterly pummelled this weekend?" asked the Wife.
I twiddled the phone cable coyly and looked around the office to see who'd noticed I'd gone a vivid red. It was late Friday afternoon, so everyone was either 'in a meeting' in the shops or busy playing Solitaire.
"Well, you dirty bugger," I said in a low voice, breathing into the receiver, "I'm game if you are. What you wearing?"
"Eh? What? Oh. No. Yvette's over. How do you fancy going horse riding?"
"Oh," I said, before romantic images of white stallions riding off into the sunset overtook me, bare-chest adventurer by my side. "Well. Go on then."


Yvette was someone the Wife had gone to art college with years back over in Oz, a petite brunette who had used her design talents to get some of the more lucrative client base in Australia. She was very pretty and very, very well off and was obviously regretting letting us into her room in the Savoy to look around.
"Lee! Look at this the shower! Ooohhh."
"The size of the shower head! It's like a dinner plate!"
"It looks like you could use it as a colander."
"Or a Star Trek transporter... Out the way, let me have a go."
"Look! They give you slippers! And look at this little card!"
"They've ticked what the weather's going to be like tomorrow. 'Rainy. 14 degrees'. Right. Oh fab! They've left you an umbrella! I'm having that..."
"I saw it first."
"Get off!"
We left before Yvette called security.


"Have you ridden before, yes?"
I shook my head, the riding helmet slipping slightly over my eyes and the strap biting into my neck.
"Oh," said the stable girl, and turned to talk to her colleague. And while it was in Dutch, her animation great was such that the message was clear: this horse is clearly broken, and we should really give him another.
Her co-worker shrugged and gestured around the empty stables, meaning there was a pause while my instructor collected herself and turned with a forced smile on her face. "You will be fine with this horse, yes? He's called James. And I'm going to be riding very close to you so nothing would happen, yes?"
"Yes," I mumbled into my chin-strap.
"This is good. You will be good, yes?"
"Tally-ho," I replied weakly.


"How come you had an Australian millionairess visiting and you didn't invite me?" asked Kimberly Lesbian, poking at the ice-cubes in her gin with a straw.
"Because she's not one of yours," I replied. "She wore Vivian Westwood, not Army Surplus."
That earned me a kick for 'enforcing stereotypes'.
"I used to have Vivian Westwood many years ago, mister. I gave them all the charity shop when I put on a little weight. They sold them all for 50p."
"Good lord, is that true? Weren't you sad to see them go for that?"
"Not really. I am in love with the idea that there are some elderly housewives somewhere scrubbing their steps in haute couture."
I nodded slowly, rolling my empty glass between my palms. Kimberly pointed in the universal gesture of 'want another?'
"Naw. Thanks. Besides, I've run out of money so couldn't get the next round in."
She concurred and moved to pick up her handbag. "We should go and give blood."
"Why? They wouldn't take it. Besides, ours is 60% proof at the minute. We may as well hand over a bottle of strawberry Hooch in exchange for a biscuit and a cup of tea."
"Did you never used to do it at university? Give blood and then go get drunk?"
"No. Why? What happens?"
"Oooh, Lee. You get soooooo drunk. And so fast. Two pints down and once I ended in the duck pond."
"There are many reasons why I heart you, Kimberly Lesbian. But that may now be reason number one."


It would be stupid to say that my horse had a mind of it's own as they all do, clearly. It's just mine was a little more stubborn about using it, being the only creature of the whole... heard? Pack? Whatever... that decided he was going off to eat daises.
So I was on top of a horse called James with no control in the middle of Hyde Park that kept veering towards the bushes.
Oh the irony was not lost on me.


The weather was a good deal hotter than what the little weather card had predicted at the Savoy, with nary a cloud in the sky. We'd taken the Savoy umbrella with us anyway. Yvette carried herself with a confidence that shop assistants recognised, and the bright red umbrella opened doors that the Wife and I previously couldn't have crowbarred open.
The shopping trip was our idea as sightseeing didn't seem to impress her. In fact, little seemed to impress Yvette - she absorbed all, said little, and radiated a beautiful calm as we walked from shop to shop. It all rather bordered on the dismissive, so being the gays that we were, we just loved her more for it.
The only reaction the Wife had gotten out of her for that morning was her loathing of the London Eye apparently.
"You didn't like?" I asked. I'd managed to get the umbrella for a while and had taken to using it like a walking cane, walking by the side of Yvette in the manner of a country gent. Or twat, if you weren't in my head.
"Not really, no. What's the point?"
I shrugged. "You go up, you go down. You see London."
She h'mmed and looked over to the Wife, who was running into a patch of pigeons and causing them to scatter.
"It's the number one tourist attraction in London, you know," I added, hoping this clearly glossy sales technique of mine would help convince her.
"I really can't think why," she said after a pause. "It really is just a slow ferris wheel. Where you're trapped with children."
"Ah," I said, like this explained all.
We walked on for a bit, the umbrella tap-tap-tapping between us.
"Ah, the Savoy was wrong!" I said, brandishing the brolly in front of us. "It hasn't rained at all."
Twenty minutes later, the heavens opened.
That place has powers, I tell you.


As a thank you for taking us around London, Yvette took us for dinner at the Savoy Grill. Which was utterly marvellous, with the service polite, unobtrusive and bordering on the humorous. All was elegant, with the most notable thing being the ballet-like whirlings of the functionaries as they served you, pirouetting plates in front of you with an inhuman grace.
A complete antithesis of what had gone on in the fifteen minutes prior to me leaving the house. I'd fallen asleep in the bath after soothing my poor backside from the thorough punching it had received from being on the back of a horse.
"Ak!" I cried. "Gallagher! I'm meant to be at the Savoy in an hour! What does one wear?"
My erudite housemate glanced from his cookery book. "What have you got, dear boy?"
I paraded a selection of black jackets and coats in front of him. Each one was deemed 'too...' something.
And then we realised that every single jacket I wear just makes me look like a magician.
I just wore a shirt.


The instructor stopped my horse, which was no easy feat as I think it thought this was his chance to escape and was making the most of it. I was glad of the rest - we'd just done trotting and I hadn't got the hang of standing up when the horse dipped yet meaning that as we'd sped up for the trot, I'd been hammered up and down like a teenage boy's bedsheets.
Then I realised something was wrong.
"Someone fell off," shouted the Wife from the horse in front. The bugger was sitting perfectly gracefully on his mule. Humph.
I looked past him to see the fat, orange-haired little ten-year-old girl who'd been at the stables when the horses were doled out. Her father had been fussing over her, making sure everything was fine, and taking photos of everything she did. Spoilt.
She was lying on the sand, looking sorry and half-sobbing to herself, waiting for daddy to come and pick her up. But he was back at the sables, waiting to record the moment of her triumphant return on as many recording apparatus as he could carry around his neck.
"Don't worry," cried the Wife as the instructors jumped down to help. "I saw the whole thing. She bounced - she'll be fine."