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

Friday, March 31, 2006

Never Forget A Face

So I bumped into an ex the other day walking down Old Compton Street.

Which in all fairness, is as easy as hitting an autistic at a Star Trek convention, but this one was special. He looked like a pop star, was rich (rich!) beyond my wildest dreams, and lived up to the pre-publicity in the sack too. Oh I was completely besotted. Drew hearts and practiced writing my married signature. I even sent a note to the post office: 'Dear postal functionaries. I have found a gentleman who looks like J from the popular band 5ive to nail. Please forward all mail c/o his left leg. This is what I shall be clinging to for the foreseeable future'.

Come to think of it now, I never got their reply. Typical post service.

Anyway, I saw him walking towards me after all this time, causing me to draw a quick intake of breath. Which was unfortunate as I was eating a Star Bar at the time and almost got a nut lodged down the back of my windpipe. He didn't clock as he wasn't wearing his glasses (vain bastard) and wouldn't notice me until I was about ten yards away.

What to do? What to do?

It's alright, I'd just had my hair teased by my Teutonic hairdresser Iris, and was looking as pretty as a princess. So should I say hi, see how he is, and bask in the glory of him noticing I'd lost three stone since we last met?

Fifteen yards.

And what do you say in these situations? 'Hi, remember me? We almost crashed your car when you mistook something else entirely for the gear-stick?'

Thirteen yards.

Or. 'Ah, you! You look good. Remember me? We used to knock around about six years back. When you were still obsessed with Evita and made us watch the DVD every other night. And - fer fuck's sake - it was the Madonna version!'

Eleven yards.

Or 'Hi. Remember me? I very much doubt it. I was the guy under you when you used to call your ex's name when we had sex. And while I never did meet this Steve guy, I'll be sure to pass on your regards - and the tissues we used to wipe up afterwards while you were still clearly thinking about him.'

Nine yards.

He looked up and saw me. Clearly his eyesight is getting worse with age, though he fixed me a look with those eyes the colour of the Mediterranean sea. I swallowed, and fixed a quizzical look of 'Hmm, I'm sure I know you from somewhere, but at the moment it's quite escaped me' and sauntered past, turning up my iPod as I did.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Wisteria Game

Every now and again, you hear of a product or a film coming out, and you think "What? Are they just making that for me?" Mostly because I'm a raging egocentric, but then who else is going to buy the Desperate Housewives computer game but a bunch of silly homothexuals with too much time on their hands? Personally I can't wait! Mostly to discover the cheat code that enables you to gaily enable the plumber to walk around with his top off.

Now, a quick question about the game play. It's all well known that we Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners don't tend to be very good at the ol' Shoot-Em-Up games. 'Slap-Em-Up', yes. 'Shoot-Em-Up', no. Leading me to believe that when the good Lord was putting us together, we gladly and gleefully traded hand/eye coordination with that with colours. Much more useful. It does mean that when we drive it's rather like an old incontinent lady careering around a supermarket - but honey, that's why chauffeurs were invented.

So if they are aiming this game at the pink pound, how on earth are they going to keep us notoriously difficult marys enraptured? Gasp! Perhaps it will be based more on real life, with one of the final levels being a recreation of the famous 'swimming suit' incident! Or maybe there's a botox shortage in Wisteria Lane, and you have to guide Teri Hatcher to the last of the supply! I tell you, her immobile face is going to be piss-easy to create in the computer - she looks like she was created by Industrial Light And Magic as it is.

Monday, March 27, 2006

New Celebrity Friend

Every now and again, they do let me near celebrities.

So there I was, standing in the green room in a sunny part of America when in walked an actress I'd admired for years. How marvellous! A chance to make a new friend! And thus began the elegant dance around the room in order to position myself next to her; a whirl of 'Hello!'s and 'Don't you look fabulous!' until I was beside to my personality of choice.

Now. Celebrities are like goody-bags at fund-raiser functions. It's always nice to take one home, but you have to be careful of getting a duff one that only got some face-cream and an advertisement for the local kennel club. Now this charming lady, although being upper c-list, was enchanting and a little shy, and as she picked apart a donut with her fingers I fully resolved at that point to make her my New Best Friend and do her hair immediately. We'd go for lattes and pedicures! And I'd finally get to the bottom of the scandalous chitchat going around the location that she was carrying the baby of a fellow actor. Oh she'd apparently been getting a regular length off him for some time. In fact the only reason he was here on this production was she was employed first and they'd twisted his arm into coming. I'm sure it wasn't completely mercenary on her part into ensuring this happened, but you should have seen the size of her trailer. And I admire that kind of manipulation in a woman. We were going to get on famously!

So as I tipped my head to one side and curled my gorgeous locks around one finger in an effort to appear glam yet attentive. She smiled and went on a little more about what she was up to, giving me a chance to have a sly look at her bump. I inwardly whistled. She looked about three months gone and would have to announce soon anyway. And being her New Best Friend meant I would be first in line to be the Fairy Godmother for their little b/c-list offspring!

She interrupted my taffeta-filled daydream of skipping through parks with their lovely child by saying she was off for a smoke.

"Oh!" I said, somewhat taken aback. "Are you really sure you should be... you know. In your condition."

She tilted her exquisite head. "What do you mean?"

"Being pregnant."

She drew in breath through her teeth. "I'm not, actually."

Ah. Oh. Fuck.

Friday, March 24, 2006

Things To Make And Do Again!

It's Friday! And lo! An entire weekend looms before you! However shall you fill the time between Top of the Pops tonight and Songs of Praise on Sunday evening? Why not let Glitter for Brains help you!

Get Yourself Invited to a Premiere!
These things are the best fun! If you haven't been to one - perhaps you're one of the poor class, or from the North or something - they can be a riot! A chance to rub shoulders with reality TV stars for ten minutes? Yes please! Count me in.
All you have to do is linger long enough in somewhere like Leicester Square in London's Trendy London and one will happen. Now, you can either stand still and they'll build the fencing around you, or just camp out in the Empire's toilets when you hear Tom Cruise is coming to town.
Oh that wacky dwarf! He's always so fun-loving at those premieres. All together now, "Oompa-Loompa-rhyming-with-'gay'..."

Text an Ex By Accident!
We're sure you still have their number squirreled away somewhere. Their business card tucked into the book they gave you on your first anniversary, which happens now to be in that occult circle you created to drain them of their very existence and happiness. We know we have!
Well get it out and drop them a line! It's time to be outrageously flirty with someone you barely remember for anything but hogging the duvet. And who knows where it will lead? Ex Sex is back in fashion!
Or, if your heart was rent from your chest by them running off with your best friend, don't shilly-shally with your words. Send one that's addressed to someone else, but just saying how darn fabulous your life is at the moment. Hey, it's shallow, but then so are we. And it may have been why they dumped us in the first place, but hey - who managed to get the crockery in the split? Hmm?
Anyway!

Make Up A Religion!
Oh, they're all at it these days. And do remember that nigh-on the whole East side of the globe hates Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners, so isn't it about time we redressed the balance? We all worship clapped out divas anyway - why not make it official? Soon the Church of Cher can march on the bearded infidels of Basra, and convert them to our ways of Wigs Are Good and Skiing Accidents Are Bad.

Cook a Mystery Meal!
Here's fun for you. Tired of the same old meals? Why not go and buy several cans of food from your local supermarket - anything that takes your fancy! - and remove the labels when you get home. Now, open them, and try and make a nice meal for two! Oh the fun of trying to do something with meatballs and chicken in white-wine sauce!
And why not spice it up by putting a can of dog food in your basket at the same time. I tell you, my bolognaise hasn't looked back since!
And my coat is somewhat glossier, too.

E-Bay the Contents of your Attic!
Including the boiler and the lagging!

We hope that you find that interesting and marvellous! Now, get to it - the sun's almost shining!

Wednesday, March 22, 2006

Objects In The Rear View Mirror...

The official version reads that I lost my virginity two days before my sister's 16th birthday party. He wore this terrible Lynx deodorant, which was forgiven in hindsight because I was wearing Mickey Mouse boxer shorts. And I yelled "Well, bang goes my virginity!" when we'd finished.

How very romantic.

We did go out for a while, before I dumped him over the phone while flicking through a porn catalogue in my landlord's bedroom. I remember him calling me a cunt for doing it over the telephone and that there was a special on cock-rings with your first order. The luminous one caught my eye, and I did have to agree with him. I'd ended it for no real reason other than it wasn't going anywhere. And that he was rather too fond of rock opera - you know the Jim Steinman epics that you have to pity the drummer on. Think Animal from the Muppets. Or an epileptic, and someone's flicking the studio lights on and off.

You could always tell when he was feeling frisky, as out would come 'Bat Out Of Hell', or on more troubling occasions, a mix-tape of Jim Steinman's Bonnie Tyler songs. Of which there are about four, but we all know that 'Total Eclipse of the Heart' lasts for around thirteen years anyway and so it was still possible to get your moneys worth in the bedroom. Up until that point I'd loved Bonnie Tyler. She sounded like she used car battery acid for mouthwash. And when she finished a song, had put so much effort in that she spent the next hour coughing up blood into a bar-towel.

And so he liked to punch the air when the chorus kicked in, just as Bonnie was dry retching. Actually, he liked to punch the air a lot. During climax and watching Star Trek IV. And as we all know, I take a very dim view of enthusiasm at the best of times.

A straw - though not the final one, was certainly in the last bale - came when he tried it on during the Steinman classic 'Dead Ringer For Love'. Now I know what I like, and I know I don't like touching boys parts whilst listening to Cher. Cher is for clapping along to. Cher is for impersonating whenever you buy a new mop. Cher is many things, but not the perfect seduction music.

He apparently had a nervous breakdown after I left him. I doubt that the two things are really related, but it's a good claim to have. Like me being Bonnie Tyler's love child.

Although I can't back that up at all.

Tuesday, March 21, 2006

Mind And Body And Stuff

Yoga! Ancient form of muscle relaxation and exercise, or fifteen lycra-clad self-proclaimed 'enlightened' secretaries hoofing about on gym mats, counting down the minutes to their one glass of Wolfblass in All Bar One?

Who cares! For it was my first exciting lesson this week, down in the concrete bunker of a gym I seem to be spending too much time in of late. It's all very exciting. And we're in safe hands, as our teacher wears orange sportswear, so is clearly a Bhuddist fetish gay.

Well, when he first turned up, I thought 'hello.' A fellow Gentleman Who Moisturises. He met my eye line, and we did the noncommittal nod of recognition between those who ride the Rainbow Bus. And then we began.

Now. I have no balance. I found this out when I tried to be a ballerina princess when I was four, smashing a coffee table. And later when I was ice-skating, pretending to be Torville and Dean. And reaffirmed to my horror during that almost fatal tryout for the cheerleading squad. Hideous, hideous time. Apparently Sarah Carnott still wears a built-up shoe. Nor did they ever get those pop-poms down from the emergency light. They hung there, like desiccated insect cocoons, for the whole final years of my time there. Mortifying.

Anyway, back to the mat, present day. Trying to balance. Wavering like I was fifteen pints down, stumbling about like a sun-stroked tramp. The mary teacher sidled up to me as I sighed and reset my position for the fifteenth time.

"Not too good at this one. Don't worry," he cooed. "It'll come in practice. Trust me."

"Besides," he added after a pause. "We're about to put our legs over our heads now. I bet you're brilliant at that."

Cheeky mare.

Friday, March 17, 2006

No. Sorry. You've Lost Me.

Wasn't it Einstein who said that time was not a constant? Or was it 'The Gay's Reaction to Desperate Housewives'? Anyway, clearly the man was a genius because he based this entire argument on looking into the future and seeing that the internet was capable of sucking away the hours like a Latvian in a Gentleman's Health Club.

Who hasn?t lost hours surfing the hypercyberinterweb? Like when you've just checked your emails and think, 'well, one quick tour of the mucky sites' and before you know it you've been pulled into a Porn Vortex and hours, nay days have passed. You surface after what feels like half an hour later, only to discover that embalmed pop-magpie Madonna's had another comeback (they are monthly now, right?) and emerge, blinking into the sunlight, like Cilian Murphy in '28 Days Later'. Only with your trousers at half-mast looking for a wankie-hankie, not the rest of civilisation of course.

And, dear readers, I've just come back from such an expedition on the super highway, after my apparently butch friend Clint sent me the link to The Gayest Site On the Internet.

Go at once! You can dress up nasty pictures of celebrities in ghastly clothes created by people with the user names like sxy_single_grrl and babybling96! Why this very morning, I spent hours making Katie Holmes look like a bag-lady hobo! Hurrah!

There's Britney, and Xtina and Girls Aloud and everything! Kylie and Madonna in their bras and pants! It is just genius. And the crème de la crème? Jennifer Garner from Alias with a series of wigs.

I'm sorry. I've got to go back. This is the Gentlemen Who Played With Their Sister's Dolls When They Were Teenagers' equivalent to crack cocaine.

Of course, they're missing a decent dress-up doll of Renee Zellweger. One that actually looks like her, I mean. You're best cutting out this picture of her lying down and using it instead:

_________________________________


There. Enjoy!

Wednesday, March 15, 2006

Through the Chiffon Veil

So I've been asked to join a gay psychics group. Something, in retrospect, I really should have seen coming.

I can't remember whether I told you about my hilarious adventures in the ether. A while back I trained to become more 'open' with friend of mine in the London College of Psychic Studies. Now, you know me - I'm open to all and sundry at the drop of a hat, so we went along to train. Though we were very disappointed to find out our teacher wasn't some old woman with lots of bangles and an odd smell of biscuits.

Now this was some time back, and you do tend to fall out of practice very easily. Mostly as I can't keep my mind concentrated for more than two minutes without planning what I'd be wearing for my first trip into space or something (can you get diamante space suits?). And also as my Comedy Housemate keeps drinking the tea-leaves I tend to use.

So I've decided to accept the Gentlemen Who Like Showtunes offer to come and break the veil. Get back in practice. I've been told I've got to take it very seriously though. God knows why. It's a gay psychic group. All we're going to be doing is trying to discover what next season's colour is, and then try and channel Karen Carpenter...

Tuesday, March 14, 2006

Old Lady Juice

So. Some of us are careering towards senility like a wobbly old woman towards a stack of discounted baked beans - with predictable hilarious results - thanks to genetics firmly dredged from the shallow end of the gene pool.

Who'd like to see what senility is like with a simple experiment? One that you can do from the comfort of your own armchair!

Why not watch a long-running soap opera that you used to watch a long time ago and try and compare and contrast with the version now. For example, I just come back from watching long-running Australian stalwart soap 'Neighbours' today for the first time in about since the Conservative Government was in power. The sets were all the same, but the people were different, and in some cases, the same character played by someone completely new.

I sat there, noting to myself "Didn't you used to have blonde hair?" Why is she living with you now?" "So, are they the grandson or the nephew?"

I was so confused I almost wet myself. Ta-da! Experiment complete!

Next week: pretending to be epileptic by the use of strategically-placed car batteries

Monday, March 13, 2006

Smoky Eyes 'Cross A Crowded Reception

I'm an old flirt at heart, really.

And I've got a killer smile in the right light. That being mostly dark, at forty paces with my back to you, but you get the idea.

So, for almost the last two years I've been going to the same gym, day in, day out. And upon the door is this charming blonde girl who's quite dishy if one were into that sort of thing. You see, for a Gentleman Who Knows Showtunes, we take a more holistic view of such beauty and tag these things to being rather akin to Macs and PCs - you admire the design, but the chances are that when it comes down to it your equipment is not even remotely compatible.

So each day when I go there, she'd give me this charming little smile, and I'd flash the old gnashers at her in a coquettish manner, looking through hooded eyes - eyes you'd probably see across a smoky gentleman's club before getting a little note saying 'Room 316 - yours Count van der Qulate' or somesuch. And then Gym Girl would turn with a sly smirk, swipe my card and hand it back with an almost embarrassed-to-meet-your-gaze look about her.

So sweet! This was Our Thing. We did it every day for the past year and a half.

And in that time I never once spoke to her bar a cheery 'hello' at the start of our little routine, and a wink as I sailed through the steel gates of fitness freedom at the end. But this week, I want to join the yoga class that's happening, so I bounded up with my cheeky smile firmly in place. This is how the conversation went:

"Hi, I'd like to join the yoga class. Do I need to do any trial sessions first?"

"No, that's fine," she said, wiping a stray hair away. "All you have to do is put your name down on a Tuesday and we'll reserve you a place."

"As simple as that? Alright. Tuesday?"

"Yes, Tuesday. You are a member of this gym, aren't you?"

I blinked, almost physically wounded. Did she..? Was she..? Almost two years! We had Our Thing! I was utterly downtrodden!

I tell you. Women. I'm glad when I travel, it's up the Chocolate Motorway with a Gentleman Driver, because you lot are just confusing.

Friday, March 10, 2006

The Showgirl Princess

Aw, bless! Kylie Minogue has propped herself up in her sick bed at last, leaving the whole swathes of Gentlemen Who Can't Catch sighing in relief. As morbid as it seems, most of us can't pull of a black armband unless we go down the gym more, and there's only so many hours in the day thanks to 'Desperate Housewives' being back on.

And it seems she's been busy in her repose, crayoning a children's book. How lucky are we!

Now before you all jump to the Comments box and say 'Madonna did it first!', let me highlight that aged disco-husk has been on this Earth longer than granite so the chances are she's done everything there is to do now. Well, everything but learn to play the guitar properly. Did you see when she tried? Hilarious. Like a cautious school-kid trying to pet an electric eel.

Anyway. the press release claims Dame Minogue is aiming the book at a marvellous target market: "six year old princesses everywhere who love to dress up and have fun".

Which basically means six year old girls.

And The Gays.

It's weird being lumped in with that demographic, it really is. I'd like to say it's not fair. But I don't know any Gentleman Who Moisturises who hasn't had a wand at one point. Even if they just taped a bit of tinsel on the end of their pencil and hissed 'Turn to shit!' at their line manager.

'The Showgirl Princess' will be released by Puffin Books in September. Available at all good bookstores, Toys R Us, and next to the lube and 12-inch Black Nobblers in Prowler Stores soon.

Wednesday, March 08, 2006

Year Long Weight

I was asked recently whether my gym's a cruisey one.

I must admit I had no idea. Usually my head is buried into my chest listening to the homosexual joys of my iPod, which I recently discovered is very much like a night at G-A-Y compressed down into a small white-and-silver wipe-clean case. I am grateful it is wipe clean, for who hasn't finished a night at that club getting tossed off by some fifteen-year-old in the back row? I tell you, that entire area is a jizzy death-trap these days. Like a swamp. They stopped putting those 'Careful! Slippy Surface!' yellow placards around, and started putting warning signs up in fathoms.

Aaanyway. Cruisey gym. Today I decided to have a proper look as I wasn't capable of doing my usual workout, thanks to the doctors syringing two pints of blood out of me this morning to run tests. Oh, nothing serious, bless you all for asking. Yes even those of you who want to know if they're in my will for the complete set of Girls Aloud Barbies. But hilarious blood loss meant that I couldn't lift my usual Gay Weights and had to go back down to Girl Weights. Which, as far as I can tell, is the body-building equivalent of balancing on an exercise bike, peddling slower than you'd walk with a frappachino in one hand and a Heat Magazine in the other.

So perched atop my exercise bike, this gave me ample chance to look around at who was checking out who. And in answer to the question, no. My gym is not in anyway a cruisey hangout for Gentlemen Who Spot Weights A Little Too Closely To Their Partner. That is apart from this one mini-homosexual-on-wheels who prowls the cardio machines like he's worked by magnets underneath the floor. No takers for his swivelling charms, alas.

My supermarket, whereas? I tell you, it gives the term 'Meat Rack' a whole new meaning...

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Pavlov's Dog

So every morning, I happen to walk past a fire station. A red-brick monument to testosterone mystery.

There's something just so... alien, so arousing and masculine about it. As a filthy Gentleman Who Was Gutted Brokeback Mountain Didn't Win Best Movie Oscar, it's a fair bet that I'll never set foot in this hallowed hall of heterosexuality. And thinking about what possibly could go on in there leaves one weak at the knees.

I wonder whether it's a genetic thing: my dear mother's got a little thing for firemen. To the extent where she's got a map in the garage rating all of the stations in the area. "I tell you, Lee," she said, forth Kia Royale clutched to her busom, "You don't want Walsall firemen rescuing you. Bunch of rangy old dogs. No, Bloxwich firemen is what you want sliding down your pole..."

I left the matter as to whether she was being filthy. You could never tell with her.

After she'd split up with my father she happened to bang her wedding ring and had to have it cut off. Whether it was on purpose or no is still a matter of contention at family picnics, but despite being in complete agony, announced that she was to be driven twice the distance to the Bloxwich station to be dealt with by the officers there.

Even if it wasn't an accident, it was deliciously symbolic.

Anyway, back to me, each morning wandering past the fire station. It's silly to believe they're all in there, touching each other inappropriately to a heavy porno soundtrack, no matter what that scholarly documentary 'Firemen Anal' says. I've seen some of the men that come out of there. Chiselled Adonises the lot of them, nipping over the road for a quick packet of fags before ducking back in for topless horseplay with their colleagues, soaping each other down as they wash the charred fire engine. I'd imagine.

So each morning I wander past, hoping against hope that I suffer some minor injury like a bee sting or a snapped heel, and my Penelope Pitstop-esque "Hey-alp!" attracts all of the soapy firemen out into the street to tend to me, just so I can get brought inside and find out what happens to them, and to me.

But the reason why I bring all this up? I walked past this morning to hear a pumping techno porno soundtrack being played rather loudly out of their gymnasium shower block.

(blink)

(blink blink)

All together now, "Hey-alp!"

Aaaaand We're Back!

God knows what happened there. One minute I was chatting to a gentleman caller in a bar, giggling away and being the belle of the ball. I remember taking a sip of my fabulous cocktail... then naught. A void. My memory is like the Nothing from NeverEnding Story.

Next thing I know I'm lying flat on my back with my legs in the air in some alley somewhere, with a sticker for 'Bangor, Maine' on my forehead.

Well. Nice to be back.

Sunday, March 05, 2006

Glitter For Brains Climate Control

What's this? Posting on the weekend? Whatever next?!

Actually it is just a quick apology for Friday's post, which has now been taken down for being written completely under the influence of three large bottles of sake. We're sorry for any unintentional horror caused to you marvellous readership.

Still, Oscars tonight! We'll be back tomorrow with some gay gumph about the dresses, or possibly a diatribe about firemen.

Thursday, March 02, 2006

Rubbish Place Names

See, one of my problems is I don't pay attention. It's fairly true to say I'm not exactly the brightest sequin on the cocktail dress.

Actually, my real problem is I can't put my hair in bunches and toss them around while swinging my Dora The Explorer lunchbox as I skip, but in the interim I'm just going to complain about my inability to retain details.

For example, my hometown is a place called Brownhills. We're a simple folk from North, far too busy dying of tuberculosis and poverty to name things like 'Ashby de la Zouch'. So some lowly peasant saw a couple of hills that happened to be brown and - ta-da! - a crime-riddled market town was born.

Wisely, they have put a bypass around it, as there's nothing there bar a Kwik-Save and a tire store. And now, as you leave on this new speedway, you get an enormous sign saying 'Hints. Please drive carefully'.

Now, see, I had my head firmly implanted in Men's Health magazine (I buy it for the gardening tips) and thought that it was nice that they were doing this, if a little pandering-to-the-stupids. I mean saying it was a hint implied there was a trick to it all. Whatever would the next one be - 'Hints: Don't wear blue and green'? 'Hints: the woman in The Crying Game is not who she appears to be...'

Nothing.

Turned out that the next town along is actually called 'Hints'.

Now THAT, I think you'll find, is a truly cock-awful rubbish place name.