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

Friday, July 29, 2005

Whole World's A Stage

Disaster! Plans for the UK's first black theatre centre has stalled thanks to funding difficulties!

Ooh we tell you, if it happened to our community of Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners, there'd be uproar. Utter pandemonium. Although call us traitors to the Pink Path as we're going to say that it may not necessarily be a bad thing that we wouldn't get our own dedicated theatre. If we had, there'd be a glut of miserable plays about AIDS, and tiresome musicals about AIDS. There'd be lesbian stand-up comedy (hilarity about having the right drill bit, here we come!) And at Christmas, the lovely pantomime of 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears'. Where Goldilocks is a down-on-her-luck drag queen resorting to breaking-and-entering - this time invading the home of a fat, hairy gay couple and their equally hirsute sex slave. Where spends her time bitching about the only thing she can find to eat is porridge (not compatible with the Atkins diet) and that this Anal Intruder is too big, this one is too small, but this one is juuuuuust right.

Imagine the faces on the kids in the audience. So gay theatre = bad idea.

(thinks)

Oh who are we kidding? We Gentlemen Who Can't Catch own theatre already anyway!
 

A Fabulous Letter

Dear The IRA,

Bless you for finally agreeing to disarm. Though we would ask you this: when you put your weaponry up on eBay, be darlings and don't sell to anyone who has an Arabic-sounding log-in who's viewer feedback includes the question 'Would this fit in a rucksack?'

Lots of love,
The Gays xx
 

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Jennifer Garner's Pregnancy

ABC Internal Meeting. Memo of Minutes.
Location: Secret Bunker in Hollywood
Reason: the Alias Season Five Production Meeting.

Present:
JJ Abrams - Yoda-like creator of the show.
Sarah Caplan - no-nonsense chain-smoking producer
Jeff Pinker - old school tie
Jeffrey Bell - big ideas


ABRAMS: This new season. More highkicking. More intricate plots.

CAPLAN: Plots, dahling?

PINKER: What are-?

BELL: He means 'wigs'.

The group goes 'Aaaah!' in realisation.

PINKER: Slight problemo with the old action, JJ. We've just heard that Jennifer Garner's... you know, got herself up the duff.

CAPLAN: She's what, dahling?

BELL: She's pregnant?

Shuffling of notes to see how this fits into the production schedule.

BELL: Well, that does open up some interesting possibilities...

CAPLAN: Does it chuff, darhling. How long do babies take to, er, cook?

Shuffling of notes.

BELL: Nine months.

PINKER: ...meaning the old girl will be ready to drop in December. Ah.

BELL: Ah.

CAPLAN: Right in the middle of our dahling shoot.

PINKER: Well, what do shows normally do in these situations?

BELL: Well. On The X-Files, Gillian Anderson took to wearing a large mac. Oh! And on Star Trek Voyager, Banana Torres all of a sudden started to wear a Starfleet cardigan. That was cooo-ool. And she had some nifty SpacePens in her top pocket too! Wow!

PINKER: Cool?

Pinker and Caplan start giggling behind their folders like school kids.

BELL: Well. I liked them.

PINKER: So baggy overcoats all round?

CAPLAN: Yah. Yah! And we could have Marshall make her a Teflon-coated computerised overcoat that turns into a speedboat! Yah!

ABRAMS: Alias is different.

There's momentary quiet as their leader has spoken.

BELL: Yeah... Yeah! Different. I've got it! A whole new direction to head in!

CAPLAN: Yes, darhling?

PINKER: Come on, give it up, old boy!

BELL: Yes! Wigs... and - get this! A cape!

General murmurs of agreement: 'Fabulous!', 'dashing!' 'Not like the X-Files at all!' etc.

ABRAMS: She's pregnant for real.

PINKER: (confused) That's right, old boy.

ABRAMS: Sydney is pregnant.

CAPLAN: You mean 'Jennifer is pregnant'?

Abrams waves his hand like it doesn't matter.

ABRAMS: It's all part of my Big Plan.

Silence in the room for a beat.

PINKER: What was that, old boy?

ABRAMS: Big Plan. Planned it all along, I did.

Everyone else exchanges looks.

PINKER: Blimey.

CAPLAN: Are you alright, JJ dahling?

BELL: You're telling us you planned that Jennifer Garner would bump into beer-swilling, nacho-munching Ben Affleck? That she, the sylph-like creature of grace, would dump the frankly beautiful Michael Vartan to marry this man with moobs? That he would lurch his lardy carcass onto her and cough his alcoholic love-jam up her clopper at exactly the right point so you could write it in as part of your master arc?

ABRAMS: How else would you explain it? It does sound like one of my ludicrous character switches in either of my shows.

CAPLAN: He has a point, darhling.

PINKER: Well. Right you are then! So moving on - who's for Michael Vaughn being pregnant too!

All: AYE!



(Characters mentioned are not really based on anyone. I have to say that.)
 

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Marvellous True Story

My sister, the loud flibbertygibbet she is, has been living in her rented cottage for the past nine months. Within these nine months, they have had overly-popular parties, accidentally broken their windows, locked themselves out, locked themselves in, and had the police around on five separate occasions. She's not a quiet creature, my sister. And a complete stranger to a jigsaw to, I'd bet.

Now. It's a charming area that she lives in, and the cottage is one of a trio, with her and her cronies taking the one on the left. As you can imagine, the neighbours in the middle are utterly agog at what goes on in their otherwise quiet little area. So when my sister bumped into said neighbours and told them that she was moving after having found a place that was £60 cheaper a month, there was apparently quiet, restrained jubilation in that neighbourly cottage for most of the afternoon. They even offered to help her move.

She declined, politely. She said that there was a van coming in the morning, and she would be out of the house by lunchtime. Bless these neighbours, they even popped out to say goodbye as the van was loaded up, waving to them as the van moved... a whole hundred yards.

Oh yes. The house she's now moving into is the cottage on the right.
 

Friday, July 22, 2005

All Seeing

Enter Lee, carrying a mysterious holdall.

JAY: Beardface!

LEE: Gallagher!

JAY: Where have you been? I wanted you to witness the majesty of All I Have Created!

LEE: Your eyes go all weird when you say things like that. Did you know?

JAY: Yes.

LEE: Right you are, then. So what have you, uh, created?

JAY: Lo, the bridge and the river I have carved with my very hand!

LEE: ...

JAY: Well, go on! Start witnessing!

LEE: I am. They're... They're... well.

JAY: A marvel to stare upon? A joyous event for the eyes?

LEE: Well. A wee bit small.

JAY: What do you mean? They are perfectly in scale!

LEE: Yes, but the bridge is only two inches high. How are we going to play Pooh Sticks across that?

JAY: We're not. They're for my Orcs to maraude and slaughter the oncoming armies of my foes!

LEE: Ah. They're for your War Gnome things. Right you are.

JAY: But good idea on the Pooh Sticks. That was marvellous afternoon we spent playing that...

LEE: I did like your idea of forgetting twigs and using children instead.

JAY: Thank heaven you brought the chloroform in the picnic basket.

LEE: And fat girls do get up quite a speed, I discovered to my joy.

JAY: Yes, there was me going for the sylph-like form of a gangly five-year-old, when your fat little ginger cow zipped past thanks to the added ballast of three ice-creams she'd just enjoyed.

LEE: Ah. Happy days.

JAY: Indeed. Now. Are you going to tell me where you've been, you shaggy oaf?

LEE: I've been at my night class. You know - psychic studies.

JAY: Ah yes. How was Hogwarts?

LEE: Shut up. It's nothing like that. Though it was quite sad - it was my last lesson.

JAY: So does this mean you're a fully-qualified psychic?

LEE: I guess so, yes. Though we missed a lesson two weeks ago because it was cancelled due to the bombs on the tube.

JAY: Of course the question is: was it cancelled before or after they went off?

LEE: You're going to hell, you know.

JAY: My dear boy, I'm driving the bus there. And I'm choosing the radio station.

LEE: Ooh. Nasty. 'Jazz FM'. But yes, I think that - if I'm not completely psychic - I'm a way there.

JAY: Interesting. So, what am I thinking about?

LEE: It doesn't work like that!

JAY: Go on. What am I thinking about?

LEE: I said -

JAY: Go on! NOW!

LEE: The new The Wood Elves of Athel Loren figures with no dry-brushing and carved display stands.

JAY: That is incredible.

LEE: Not really. It's what you're always thinking about.

JAY: Oh. By golly, I think you're right! So why so cheerless, my hirsute housemate?

LEE: Well, that was my last lesson. I don't know what I'm going to do now.

JAY: Well, then you're clearly a rubbish psychic after all!

LEE: Am I going to have to curse you?

JAY: Don't you dare pull your wand out at me, beardface! You remember what happened last time you did.

LEE: Ow. The cold spoon. Yes.

JAY: Anyway, was there a graduation ceremony?

LEE: Er, no... No there wasn't, actually.

JAY: How terribly remiss of them. You should be sent off into the world as a fully-fledged gypsy.

LEE: Eh?

JAY: Given a marvellous headscarf. Oh, and all the cheap gold bangles you can carry on your forearms.

LEE: (uneasily) Ahaahaha. That would be silly,

JAY: Good. Carry on, then. I'm going to lord it over some lesser mortals.

LEE: You going to play War Gnomes?

JAY: No, I'm going see how many waiters I can make cry at dinner tonight. Goodbye, beardface!

Exeunt Jay carrying bridge under arm.

LEE: Hmm. I wonder how I can tell him we've now changed our names to Gypsy Pollengrah and Gypsy Umlaught, and have to go and live in a gaudily-painted caravan in Blackpool...
 

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

Cash First, Sex Later, Headline After That

Apparently Jordan's designing underwear.

For those uninitiated (or Canadian) Jordan is the darling of our tabloid papers. As so many celebrities won't play ball with the mucky rags lest their 'bedroom secrets' get blasted across an indifferent nation in 20-point text, the tabloids have created their own celeb to be at their beck-and-call for whenever they need a filler headline that isn't about asylum seekers. Step forward Jordan, the augmented girl who - whoops! - always appears to have fallen out of the taxi and - how careless! - exposing herself just as the paparazzi cameras were poised to go off. I tell you, the woman's hilariously accident prone!

This means she is the perfect model for a perpetual motion engine: she is famous because she is in the tabloids / she is in the tabloids because she is famous. She's celebrity ballast, clinging onto every slight bit of fame by her fake nails. Every other week, she's on the cover of our Fabulous Soar-Away 'Sun' revealing her 'Saucy Bedroom Secrets!' Bluntly, she's been on the cover promising this for the past three years, so one actually wonders if she's got any left - and is probably up to how to get rid the underside of the bed of dust-bunnies by now.

Hmm. Perhaps I should give it a read...

Anyway, her last big scandal was the terrible deflowering of stuttering songlette Gareth Gates, runner-up in our first Pop Idol contest. Everyone was agog that this charming boy could ever be seduced by an old slapper who appears to get her make-up done by a car resprayer. A woman who's been 'romantically linked' (tabloid's words) or 'shagged so often her clopper looks like a bulldog eating porridge' (our words) by most of the footballing, soap and pop world, so you'd think this nice 19-year-old would have given her a wide berth. But no - and you could just imagine her writing her own headline as the moment the poor boy coughed his Filthy Yoghurt up her voluminous minky.

So this news story about the knickers has to be ironic. As far as I can tell, the woman thinks underwear is something to kick off the end of your foot while your skirt's hitched up around the back of Faces Nightclub. And if we're in the arena of 'celebrities trying to do ordinary jobs' then frankly I feel as comfortable about Jordan designing underwear as I do about a Parkinson-riddled Michael J Fox doing my heart bypass operation.
 

Monday, July 18, 2005

Harry Potter and The Wizard's Sleeve

Here's a hand-written chapter we nicked out of JK's handbag while she was off having her face creosoted. Enjoy!

The autumn sun was breaking through the heavy drapes as Harry Potter self-righteously slipped on his glasses. Ah, Hogwarts - his favourite place to be, far away from those awful lower-middle-class Dursleys.
It seemed that everyone had enjoyed an eventful holiday - no more so than Hermione who, though some accident, was now a rotund 35-year-old man with a hairy chest and a taste for beer. While she was never a Quiddich player, she'd taken to standing on the sidelines and hollering all sorts of crude suggestions and bawdy songs while the matches went on. They'd even distracted the token black character so much that he'd fallen right off his broom.
Harry self-righteously got out of bed and called to his best friend in the world, Ron.
"Come on, Ron! Get up! Fun and japes to be had!"
But there was no answer from his friends bed. In fact, it looked like it had barely been slept in.
Ron had disappeared.

Harry was so confused that he could barely eat the feast before him.
"Do you think we should tell someone? Like Professor McGonagall?"
"Don't be ridiculous," muttered Hermione, nursing her morning hangover. "You know we never do anything sensible like that until near the end of the book. We have to solve it ourselves before Dumbledor comes along with a satisfactory explanation."
"Yes I know!" exclaimed Harry self-righteously. "But for once, can't we break the pattern?"
Hermione gasped like he'd suggested like he wanted to put his hand down her pants - despite nothing like that ever happening at Hogwarts. No, never.
"Look. Harry. You know as well as I do that it goes a bit of nonsense with the Dursleys, then the elation of being at Hogwarts (despite something happening to make the journey difficult), then we find a mystery that either we - or the teachers - would never believe. Then we solve it ourselves while you're put in mortal danger, there's a bit of Quiddich and the we're done! All back to normal for next term!"
Harry nodded dejectedly, pushing the magic chips around his magic plate. "It's just..."
"What?" asked Hermione.
"Nothing!" yelled Harry, in a sudden pique of teenage hormones and stormed off.
Hermione shrugged. "Well, that was realistic and in character," she muttered under her breath, tone laced with irony. "It was almost as if we had to be reminded by someone who doesn't know teenage boys what a teenage boy was."

Hermione caught up with Harry outside Snape's lesson. Harry's head was held low.
"Hermione, I'm sorry," he said, still with a self-righteous air. "I don't know... It's just..."
She put a hand on his arm. "It's alright, Harry. We all miss Ron."
She stared into his green eyes a little longer than normal. Harry unconsciously licked his lips. Hermione wasn't too bad when her five-o'clock shadow was gone...
Then the door to the dungeon was flung open, and the pallid face of Snape was framed in the darkness.
"Harry Potter," he rumbled in his snakelike voice. "You little oik. Get in here."
Harry sloped into the class, slowly and silently followed by everyone else.
Harry hated Potions more than anything. Not just because he wasn't very good at it, but also Snape seemed to hate everything that he did. And Harry knew in his heart of hearts he was far better than anyone here.
"No, no, no, NO!" yelled Snape, looking into the potion Harry had prepared. "A first year could have done better with a Blinding Charm on!"
"Why are you so nasty to me?" blurted out Harry.
Snape shrugged. "I must admit, my motives have been so cloudy since your first term, even I have had trouble keeping track as to why."
"Then why can't we just get on?"
Snape smiled a wicked smile. "Because, my dear Harry, I'm the quick-fix plot obstacle you must overcome every book. Fifty points from Gryffendor! Detention for a month!"
The Slytherin table burst into whoops and cheers, and Harry had never felt worse in his life.

Harry slunk back to the Gryffendor common room with an unnatural gloom. Hermione followed him in and sat down opposite.
"Ron had been acting strangely for the last couple of days," she said matter-of-factly.
Harry nodded. Despite school rules, he said that he'd been practicing with his wand in the dormitory. He told Hermione this. "He even wanted me to have a go with his wand one night," he admitted. "He just wanted me to touch it while he said he was going to cast a spell. He said he wanted to know what it felt like."
"But Harry! That's really dangerous! Anything could happen!"
"I know. So I didn't."
They sat there in silence for a minute.
"I bet there's a clue in Ron's bed!" yelled Harry.
"What makes you say that?"
"I dunno. The books are normally full of narrative jumps like this."
Hermione shrugged her hairy shoulders and padded after him over to Ron's four poster.
"I noticed something was odd with him last night," said Harry self-righteously. "He was moaning in his sleep, thrashing this way and that. He was even calling my name under his breath!"
Harry threw back the blankets. Hermione gasped.
"Gasp!" gasped Hermione in her deep voice. "Look at the sheets!"
Harry did - they were covered in little silvery patches that glistened in the candlelight.
"Wow - do you think Ron's been eating Succulent Slugs in bed again," asked Harry, poking at the dark linen with his wand.
"I'm not so sure," said Hermione, a sudden realisation on her face. "I think they're something else entirely..."
"Gosh, you're right! I think Ron's left us a clue! They look like maps - little silvery maps of an island..."
"Yeah," said Hermione deadpan. "Yeah, lets go with that."
"Do you reckon that this is the location of the mythical Island of Pederast? The one that Dumbledor warned me he'd take me to?"
"Harry... You know how Ron was a 'Champion Beater'? I think he was living up to his name..."
"I think it is!" said Harry excitedly. "I think Ron's been captured and sent to the Island of Pederast!"

To be continued. Until there's enough money for me to buy Scotland
Kissy-kissy, JK.

 

Friday, July 15, 2005

Anthology of Interest Part III

Well look! It's Friday once again, my fair chickadees! The weekend is upon us - stretched before us like the legs of some comely gentleman caller, begging for us to climb aboard and have some fun! But lo - you're just planning a trip to the supermarket and maybe painting the hall? Tish and pish, young reader! There's so much fun to be had out there. Why not let Glitter For Brains give you some lovely suggestions on how to spend these two days of bliss!

Learn Alchemy!
Ah, a power as ancient as Cher herself! Why not dabble in the Dark Arts this weekend, and learn how to turn lead into gold, water into wine, and a Will Ferrell film into something watchable? You'll be a hit at parties, never be stuck for jewellery, and it's apparently really easy to do. All you need is lots of lead - easily available from your local hardware store or church roof - and harness the huge electrical power of lightning. And that's even easier to get - just make sure you're tapping into the mains wherever Penelope Cruz is next having electrolysis and you're away! Doubloons for all!

Clean Out Your Wardrobe!
With a heatwave currently straddling both sides of the Atlantic, isn't it about time we engaged in a little necessary clothes-culling? Lets face it, with so many fabulous garments, If you're anything like me, I'd wager you haven't been up the back of the closets since bursting out of them while watching Xanadu during our first year of college! It's time to sort out your sensational swag - and who knows, you may even find something a little more more showy in the ankle department!
And who knows, this good-will to clothes may just spill out onto the street and stop this awful fad of grown heterosexual men wearing pink t-shirts - something we're currently infested with in our fair capital. Don't worry. I've Had Words with someone, so it shouldn't last too long!

Hang Around The Playgrounds, Shouting The End of The Harry Potter Book!
For no other reason than we love seeing other people's children crying!

Create Your Own Cocktail!
It's time to raid the back of those cupboards and get rid of all that shite you bought in Spanish Customs to get rid of your pesetas! It'll be the perfect base for your new, self-named sozzler that you're about to whip up in a galvanised bucket. Pimms? Pah! You're going to need something a little more fabulous to enjoy on this sizzling weekend. How about making a 'Summer Barbecue' - lager, vodka, pimms and some paraffin. Or how about a 'Mr Fisty' - five fingers and you're fucked!

Live Your Weekend In The Style of An Eighties Teen Movie!
What better way to pass the weekend than bringing the joy of dance to your stuck-up, Bible-loving, parochial town? Or pretending to be a strong-yet-sensitive woman who's a welder by day and a dancer by night! Why yes - it's time to scissor-kick all your way down the shops in your Fame-style legwarmers and pay in sweat, not cash! (Thus probably getting arrested - but fingers crossed it may be by Sergeant Mahoney!)
The Wife and I are veering towards spending the time creating a saucy Kelly La Brock using my Commodore 64, his Barbie doll, and a pile of brassieres that neither of us will admit to owning. Weird Science indeed! Although my '64 hasn't worked since I spilled a can of Quatro on it in 1987, so we're probably just going to end up with some d-list British star trying to be cheeky with us in the power-shower. Probably that Carol Vorderman. Can you imagine? "I'll take two from the top and one up the bottom!" indeed!

There! Fun for all - have a blissful time and see you back here on Monday!
 

Thursday, July 14, 2005

Snow White's Legacy

'Son I have sum news for u' twittered my mother's text message. 'Ur fathr got remarried 3 wks ago.'

Apparently it was as much a surprise to her as it was to me. As per the tradition of most Children Who Prefer Art Lessons Instead Of Physical Education, I've never really been that close to my father. Oh, we tried bonding a couple of times: he tried to show me what a chuck-key was for, and how to brew beer at home. I sat him down with Xanadu, and suggested he wore something than the functional beauty of nylon as a clothing fabric.

It didn't go well.

So over the years, this slow erosion of contact has grown into a breach. And the implications of his wedding are sinking in: I have a step-mother. Oh I do hope she's wicked. For one, I've discovered her name is Stella, so I've immediately Taken Against Her. 'Stella' instantly conjures up images of leopard-skin lycra leggings, gold shoes and handbags, and a fake tan that's more satsuma than St Tropez. Someone with false eyelashes so long she has to tip her head back to open her eyes. She's going to be someone I'm going to meet around my father's hospital bed in years to come, holding his hand and stiffening when I walk in the room, and forced to make small-talk because of a dalliance crudely bolting on a whole chunk of family neither of us wants. No, this I don't like. The only way she can redeem herself in my eyes is to have had the maiden name 'Artois'.

On a similar line, my mother feels a little odd signing her name 'Mrs Binding' now as she feels like she is no longer the definitive article. Poor love. I suggested 'The Original Mrs Binding' to give her the flare she deserves, but she looked at me and said that she signs everything in biro, not the dramatic peacock feather I use for all my missives, mores the pity. So meanwhile, my sister's gunning for us all to change our names to get away from Binding altogether, though she just keeps suggesting 'Von Trapp' to everything we say. Always has. Whenever I start a sentence with "So..." she'll always yell "A needle-pulling thread!" in return. Odd girl.

Hmm. I wonder if I can get away with suggesting we change it to 'Rimswell'. Or 'Gandersnatch'. Or 'Hooters'. Something suitably sequin-y. Instant drag queen name - just add wicked stepmother.

And if she ever sends me a fruit-basket, remind me not to eat the apples.
 

Tuesday, July 12, 2005

The Postman Only Rings Twice

Meanwhile in a theatre somewhere, before curtain up:

"Val Kilmer!" exclaimed the Wife excitedly.
"I wonder if he'll be Difficult," I mused.
"Don't diss the Iceman."
"Pardon?"
"The Iceman. You know, Top Gun."
"Oh. That. I've never seen it."
"What? How could you have missed it? It's on ITV every other week. Gah, next you'll be telling me you haven't seen Footloose!"
I slid down in my seat a little.

We waited some more. I flicked through the programme.
"Hang on a cotton-picking minute! This isn't what I thought it would be!"
"What now?"
"Look at the title!"
"Ugly logo, isn't it?"
"No! Look! Your note said it was completely different!"
"What are you talking about?"
"It said 'The Postman Only Rims Twice'!"
"It did not."
"It did! Your handwriting's appalling, you know."
"Well yours is hardly copperplate. It's like an epileptic spider fell out of an ink pot."
I folded my arms. "You'll be telling me it isn't a musical next!"
The Wife glared at me.

We waited some more.
I looked around the set - an impressive, two-tier affair with a café at the bottom. And a car on the upper section. Dust and glass covered the rest.
"Striking," I said.
"They could have dusted," said The Wife.

We waited a little more.

"Did you hear that?" he asked.
"I had my head in a bag of Revels."
"The announcement. Val Kilmer won't be on tonight." There was an edge to his voice.
"The Iceman not commeth?"
"The Iceman not commeth."
"Oh. Shall we go?"
The Wife shrugged. "We should hang around. The understudy must be bricking himself. We should support him."
"You are noble, you know."
The Wife steepled his fingers. "Theatre. It's a dying art."
"Gmumpnh," I said through a mouthful of chocolate.

The curtain went up.

The Wife and I sat forward together.
"Well, he-llo, Mr Understudy..." we said.

There was more play.

"So where was the postman?" I whispered.
"What?"
"Was that him on the phone then? I noted it rang twice," I said, pleased with myself that I'd been paying attention.
The Wife sighed. "The postman's metaphorical."
"Oh, like mine. Oh he says he rang. But you leave the front door for a second and you've got a little note through your door saying 'While You Were Out We Tried To Deliver A Parcel.'"
The Wife hmm-ed an agreement. "The Postman Only Tapped Lightly On My Door With A Fingernail."
"The Postman Looked At My Door."
"Perhaps that's why Val didn't turn up. Someone should have rung three times. Loudly."

The interval.
"Well, that was impressive!"
"Oh yes."
"The car accident - the way the car crashed through to the other set! Was that metaphorical?"
"I think so. Though a car accident is pretty much a certainty if you're driving around on a sky-lighted café roof."
I couldn't tell whether he was serious, throwing my whole understanding of the play out of the window.
"Where's the ice-cream functionary?" asked the Wife, looking around the emptying auditorium.
I gasped. "Perhaps that's where Val is! He's run off with the girl who doles out Hagan Dazs!"
"You're building up to a joke about 'IceCreamMan' aren't you?"
"No," I lied.

There was more play.

"The car's still hanging through the roof of the set," I whispered.
The Wife concurred quietly with a nod.
"Is that metaphorical too?" I asked.
"I think so," he said back in a low voice. "It could represent that everything now is overshadowed by the car crash."
"It's very distracting."
It was. Actors were having to move around a dangling car every time they wanted to cross the set.
"Perhaps it's a mistake?" I asked.
"No, can't be."
Someone almost hit their head on it. The Wife and I exchanged glances.

The play ended.

"Marvellous!" I cried.
"Bravo!" said the Wife.
"Very moving," I said.
"Could have done with more musical numbers," said the Wife.

And then we went home.
 

Monday, July 11, 2005

Aftermath

Understandably, I haven't felt like posting the last couple of days due to all the sad events that happened in London on Thursday. But hey, this dastardly pink blog has a mission statement to cheer and eddy you all on regardless. So here's a quick list of things that we can still be joyful of in this dark age!

The Comedy Housemate and I have finally got around to getting a Cleaner!
Her name is Poulina. Poulina the Cleaner.
We gave her the job mostly because her name rhymed with her profession. And we aim to carry this on as far as it will go.
So far we can't get our bathroom tap fixed because nothing rhymes with 'Plumber'

Girls Aloud have a new single out in August!
Like you really need me to justify why this is on the 'It's Good' list.

You never have to see another Star Wars film again!
The giddy, hilarious joy of Revenge of the Sith closes that book on several hours of my giddy, hilarious life I've wasted. But no more! Hurrah! No more of George Lucas' uproarious attempts to paint femininity in characters by having them stand to one side and brush their hair! No more tittering at Amilala's wardrobe - did you see that night dress she was wearing? "She heaved herself out of bed looking like a drag queen!" laughed the Wife. "She was about to pop down to the Starlight Calypso Ballroom and do Streisand!"
Though we will be sad that we will also never get to see a Rabid Fan in the front row again. He'd brought his own lightsaber, bless. And twirled it around like a baton as the credits rolled. Aww.

The 'Public Are Clever' shocker!
No-one's buying the Katie Holmes/Tom Cruise romance! You clever, clever bunch. We all know she's got a five-move contract and a sweet divorce deal already signed and delivered. But if you can't stand the idea of this bladder-on-a-stick getting anywhere in Hollywood, go here to pick up that kicky little t-shirt!

'Harry Potter and the Cock-Sucking Quiddich Players' is out on the weekend!
Not really, but whatever the sixth tome is will be released on a gawping, fawning public. This means that a) the tiresome chav children on the estate behind our luxurious house will be all in for a week, trying to remember how to read, meaning that b) corner shop crime will go down a marvellous 98%, meaning that c) the over-ordering the store-owners will have done to compensate will leave them with a surplus of stock, meaning d) they'll have to give it away before it spoils! Hurrah! Free Cornettos for all! Welcome to our Utopia!

The Queen has an I-Pod!
This pleases me. Although, one wag of a friend suggested she should really call it her 'one-Pod'.

Boom-Bang-A-Bang!
Lulu is safe.

There. Feel a warm glow about you! See, the world isn't that bad!
 

Thursday, July 07, 2005

The Challenge

Several years ago, sitting around in our gentleman's club and smoking a fine Cuban (never got his name) my colleague Paul and I were accosted by an acquaintance of ours. Ribald comments were exchanged - several lewd suggestions too - all culminating in a wager being set.

We were bet that we couldn't go around London and take a picture for each line of Charline's 2am karaoke classic 'I've Never Been To Me'. The task must be done in one night, using no props (unless bought during the challenge) and stopping complete strangers in order to take part. Impossible, you say!

Well, almost.

Notes for the Straights and The Canadians:
Pleasuredrome is a mary sauna. It is far from being any sort of Xanadu at all thanks to so much ManJism flying through the air at one point, it is actually possible to get pregnant from the toilet seats.

And being subjugated by two women in nurses outfits was completely lost on us. Not even a stirring. Sorry. Anyway. Here we go.



hey lady, you lady


cursing at your life
you're a discontented mother


and a regimented wife


i have no doubt you dream about the things you never do


but I wish someone had talked to me like I wanna talk to you


oh, I've been to Georgia and California


and anywhere I could run


took the hand of a preacher man


and we made love in the sun


but I ran out of places


and friendly faces
because I had to be free


i've been to paradise


but I've never been to me...


please lady please lady


don't just walk away


cause I have this need to tell you why I'm all alone today
i can see so much of me still living in your eyes


won't you share a part
of a weary heart that has lived a million lives


oh, I've been to Nice


and the isle of Greece


when I sipped champagne on a yacht


I moved like Harlow in Monte Carlo


and showed them what I've got


I've been undressed by kings


and I've seen some things that a woman ain't s'pose to see


I've been to paradise


but I've never been to me...

Hey, you know what paradise is? it's a lie
a fantasy we created about people and places as we like them to be
but you know what truth is?


it's that little baby you're holding


and it's that man you fought with this morning


the same one you are gonna make love to tonight
that's truth that's love


sometimes I've been to crying for unborn children
that might have made me complete


but I, I took the sweet life
I never knew I'd be bitter from the sweet


I spent my life exploring the subtle whoring
that costs too much to be free


hey lady I've been to paradise


but I've never been to me...


We thank you.
 

Olympics IV

I'm beginning to worry about my friends.

My Evil Best Friend Declan has gone and settled down with a nice man, and last phonecall contained an awful lot of references to what paint he was using in the lounge. And Kimberly Lesbian is currently speeding far away from the Island of Saphos by riding out of the port on a rather charming man called Nick.

Seemingly all is not lost, though. Even through the hearts in his eyes, I got this text message from Declan last night:

'Bad news, we got the Olympics. Good news, we get the Special Olympics thrown in for free. Shall we get tickets and just laugh?'

I heart him.
 

Olympics III

You know we're really going to cock it up. So here's the new logo:


 

Wednesday, July 06, 2005

Oh

Bugger.

So, I stood against The Olympics.
I blogged against Bush coming back for a second term.
I even promised something vauge and bitchy if Christopher Eccleston was to be cast as Doctor Who.

Anyone else get the oddest feeling that this gaily-coloured blog is cursed?
 

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

'Last Boarding Call For Paris...'

Now. The Olympics.

I mention it now as we're just about to find out whether London is to host this event in the space year 2012. I know, London. It's as almost as if you can hear '...with hilarious results!' already being tacked on the end of that statement.

We don't do spectacle. Britain is indeed sometimes governed by idealists. But our workforce are a tea-supping group of jobsworths who shrug at the grand plans laid before them, blaming the weather, their tools and the time period they had to complete their allotted tasks. At the (Liza) Millennium, our 'glorious' Thames was meant to have been lit in a 'glorious' River of Fire, miles long, to herald the coming of the new age. An easy task you'd wager: that river contains more flammable effluent than the programming schedule of ITV2, and one match would have seen to the whole thing go up. But no - we couldn't even get that right, and come midnight the river remained as dark as our spirits.

So do imagine how embarrassing it would be when the Olympic flame finally gets to the concrete nightmare of Stratford, only to find it won't light. And we're left with ten be-capped navvies tutting, scratching their heads, saying "Nah, the pilot lights gone out, mate," and they'd love to be able to get you the right parts but the place you need to order them from shut at three and they won't be able to get a van down there til Tuesday.

And I mean, Stratford. Which is probably being deliberately confused with the beautiful Shakespeare country of Stratford-upon-Avon by our Olympic bidders to make it more palatable. No, if you really want to Make Poverty History, carve off Stratford and let it slide into the Thames.

No-one can explain to me why this whole shebang is going ahead. It's going to cost millions and millions - and call me Mr Cynical but that's not done unless it's for A Very Good Reason. So what am I missing? I know some very intelligent people and it remains as much a mystery to them as to why 'Charmed' is a still a popular TV show. Big Business never shells out for anything unless there's a good reason, and the current party-line of 'it's for the joy and prosperity of all!' just makes the hackles rise. Oh no, I really can't believe that there's no gain to be had out of this other than 'National Pride'. Oh, we have none of that, thank you. We voted Michelle McManus in as our Pop Idol.

Further puzzlement: we are utterly rubbish at sport - which will be even more embarrassing to watch our constant defeat considering we invented most of them. So could it be that we're only hosting it so that visiting nations will take pity on us? So we can churlishly say "Let us score a goal or we're taking our ball in!" If we host it, we'll have no-one to blame our inabilities on but ourselves! And that's just not The British Way of Doing Things!

All this is purely academic anyway as the weather will probably stop play.

So. What if we do, by some hilarious mistake, get to host it? Where does it leave us, the discerning Gentlemen Who Can't Catch, Let Alone Stomach A Fortnight Of Televised Triathlons? We shall do what we do best under pressure, scrutiny and discrimination - we shall throw a party. We drink, booze and dance, and shall hang around long enough to see most of the boys arrive in lycra. Then I suggest we all go off to the South of France until all this nonsense blows over. And quietly laugh ourselves sick at the thought of anyone trying to get a decent haircut, martini or pair of curtains for a fortnight - let alone at the state of the London Transport System crashing and burning as it inanely tries to cope with The World travelling on the Central Line.

So. No to London in 2012, thankyouverymuch. Let the French have it. We can tut, mither, and blame them for why our athletes are absolutely rubbish. Just as it should - and always has been.
 

Monday, July 04, 2005

Those Armband Things

I'm much more interested in 'Making Pottery History'.

Personally, I can't stand Stoke-On-Trent.
 

Mixed Signals

I met a marvellous girl at a party. She had her hair in bunches and carried a Miss Kitty bag, and looked like bit like Billie Piper. Of course the gays flocked - she was fabulous.

"...and wasn't it a shock that Richard Whiteley died this week!" I gasped, gesturing a little too vastly with a flagon of Pimms.

"Oh yeah! That was really sad. He was, like, the first person on Channel 4, or something."

"Closely followed by the dead-eyed clotheshorse Carol Vorderman. I wonder if they knew what they were releasing..."

"Yeah, I had a tear in my eye. S'like the time I was walking down the street last week and I saw this pigeon getting hit by a bus! There were guts everywhere."

"Oh no! That's terrible! Of course Whiteley would have been a consummate professional, even if he'd seen a bird being hit on telly."

"I always hoped he'd slug that Carol Vorderman one," she said, rolling up her shirt sleeves like a bouncer. "She's a smug bitch."

"And do you know the celebrities in Dictionary Dell aren't really that good at finding words that fast. They have a former Countdown winner up in a box doing the puzzles at the same time. He speaks the longest word he can make to the celeb via an earpiece."

"Do they? Well you learn summink new every day, don't ya? Did you know that pigeon blood is more scarlet than ours. Oh, I don't like to think about it - that poor bird. It really scarred me it did. I was with Louis, my boyfriend, and I just held his hand and started crying. I mean, I hates pigeons, but this was so helpless, flapping around. I didn't know what to do."

"Ho - sounds like Dina Sheridan. She's a guest they have on Countdown who's as deaf as a post. And so while the contestants have eight or nine letter words, and you have a man up in the Gallery yelling the answer into a microphone and dear deaf Dina looking up and going, 'Well. I got 'cat'...'"

"Poor Dina! And poor pigeon! You know, in the end I made Louis go out into the road and pick it up. I couldn't watch - the poor thing was really terrified, guts hanging out everywhere. I ran home crying."

"I bet Richard Stilgoe did the same when he learned Richard Whiteley was dead. You couldn't get him off that programme. They tried greasing his piano stool, but he'd still turn up week-in week-out to make hilarious musical jokes about cats in your duvet. All while surreptitiously banging his organ under the desk."

"Eh?"

"He always smuggled in his Hammond to get a musical joke in somewhere."

"Right. Anyway, when I got home, sobbing me eyes out, there was a knock at the door."

"Well it couldn't have been Stilgoe - he'd have made an amusing jingle about not having his keys. You'd have heard him through the letter box."

"Yeah. It was Louis with a box in his arms. And you'll never guess what was in the box..!"

Ooh. I knew this one. I'd seen Brad Pitt in Seven. "Gwynneth Paltrow's head!" I exclaimed.

She looked puzzled. "No..."

"Richard Whiteley's head?"

"No. The pigeon."

"Oh," I said, completely confused. "Oh! Right. With you. And you can't flush a pigeon, can you?" I added lamely.

We looked around the candle-lit garden, further words sticking in my throat.

"Did they lower his coffin in to the Countdown music?" I asked after a moment.

"The pigeon?"

"Richard Whiteley's."

"No."

"No. No, you're probably right."
 

Saturday, July 02, 2005

Great Moments In History

"So where were you when Live 8 started?" they'll ask.

Well, I think the real answer - that I just happened to be looking at my fabulous bank statement while hoovering up a slab of left-over chocolate birthday cake - will have to be tempered for the masses.

Friday, July 01, 2005

Tom Cruise

Is it just me, or is he getting on everyone's tits at the minute?