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

Friday, April 28, 2006

Glorious Sunshine

Oh doesn't this marvellous weather doing us all a world of good? People are smiling, and everyone suddenly has an urge to drink rosé wine, sit in parks and ignore the tramps!

Myself, as I lightly waft myself with this pamphlet for diabetes, the slight heat transports me back to a fabulous holiday romance I once had, oh many years ago. The sun was boiling and I was sipping a crème de menthe in a Tunisian bistro (oh I was wild back then!) when I caught the eye of a rather rakish young thing handling a hookah. He looked at me, I looked at him, I looked up the 'Intimate Friendship' section of my guide book. And romance blossomed.

Well, I had to point at a diagram, but then romance blossomed.

And it was there I learned the Tunisian for 'active' and 'passive', which I dutifully scribbled in my guidebook's appendix. As well as why most of them are circumcised. Damn that sand!

Mere weeks later, we waving each other off tearfully and promised to write. Unfortunately I'd taken his address down wrong, and he could barely string two words together and there's only so much meaning you can get from getting crushed seashells in the post every Thursday.

Still happy times, eh? Oh I often look back at those halcyon days of romance with a fond glow. Mostly as I barely get to use my well-thumbed 'Intimate Friendship' section of any guidebook for some time afterwards. Not through want of trying, mind - it's just that I'd mastered the art of non-verbal communication and chances are I'd be round the back of a bar, legs at ten-to-two, with a waiter repeatedly yelling 'Allah!' not three hours into the holiday. Five minutes later I'm trying stop him wiping himself on my t-shirt, cadge a fag and get what feels like half the Sahara out of my ass crack.

Oh yes. I do love the sun. Isn't it lovely?

hums the overture to Lawrence of Arabia to himself

Thursday, April 27, 2006

I Know Where It's At

I suddenly had this horrible urge to go home and fill up my iPod with All Saints tracks.

Ye gods. Someone stop me.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

We're To Blane

Ah, the sun's come out in London.

That kind of 'shine that really just urges gentleman to shed your apparel and simply enjoy the new warmth. Why, even I have remove my top-coat and wandered around in my shirtsleeves - and spent a blissful half-hour staring at a building site as twenty burly navvies lifted and moved things in nary more than a pair of rough shorts and sturdy boots.

Oh yes. It's the kind of weather that makes you glad to be a Gentleman Who Can't Catch. And also fifty minutes late for work. Whoops.

But the sun's really shining because that lanky beardlet David Blane has decided to hold his next challenge not in our fair city, but over in New York. Bliss! And while we'll never really know the reason why he's gone back to his home town, I bet that when he was suspended in a box down by Tower Bridge, we took great delight in pelting the fool's Tupperware container with eggs and golf balls was certainly a contributing factor.

Aren't we just terrible?!

Apparently Blaine's spokesman Pat Smith said the magician did not expect to receive similar attacks in the star's 'home town' because "New Yorkers are cool about this kind of thing."

Oh but we are cool.

We just happen to hate droning personality vacuums who blight our national monuments with dull stunts. Being in a box for a few weeks? Ye gods, man! A hamster can do that! Are you really saying 'look at me, I am your god!' or 'Next time, put a wheel in, would you? I was a bit bored.'

So for the next challenge, he's clearly listened to our shouts of 'Go drown yourself!' by volunteering to live underwater for a week.

Now, dear New Yorkers. Come on, show you're as cool as we are. We dare you to stand by the edge of his water tank with a plugged-in toaster.

That'll get the fucker worried.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

Meeting Kate Mulgrew #2

Part One here.

I have a friend called Paul Vyse. You'd like him. He's a complete tour de force, and doesn't seem to enter a room without you imagining dry ice and a pneumatic lift out of the stage. It's all about the show, he'd say. Eyes and teeth. Eyes and teeth.

There has been so many times that channelling Paul Vyse has got me out of some very sticky situations. Job appraisals. Dealing with stalkers. Although such channelling has also got me into several sticky situations, but thankfully there was a cloth to hand and a calming glass of vodka after. And for tonight, for the attempted meeting with Kate Mulgrew, I was going to need every ounce of help.

By now, I'd manage to stagger to the bar, my eyes blinkered on the goal of getting a round in for Tim and myself. After that was territory as unknown as a ladies privates. I was now standing next to Kate. The fact alone was making me shake like I had Parkinson's. And there was she was chatting away to her co-star of the night with her back to me.

I had in my mind a plan. Kate was nearly at the end of her big glass of wine. I would buy her a new one along with the round I had for Tim and myself, we'd get chatting, she'd become my new best friend and we'd go on picnics together and throw expensive sandwiches at the proles. Just one glass of white wine would win her over, yes.

"Can I help you sir?" asked the barman.

"A Coke and a vodka," I stammered, completely chickening out and blowing it. Fuck-fuck-fuck, I cursed under my breath.

"Anything else, sir?"

I could feel my jaw seizing up. "Yes. A large glass of white wine," I said through clenched teeth.

It's all about the show. Deep breath, large smile. Eyes and teeth. And action!

"Darling, you looked a little dry so I got you a refill," I said, wheeling around and handing the glass to Kate.

Ignore the look of shock and just get on with it.

"I have to say it's by way of a thank you. You were both marvellous this evening."

"Why that's very kind of you," said Kate Mulgrew.

That voice! That gravel-toned voice. I was being addressed by that voice that could cut marble at thirty paces.

"And I just have to add-"

...that I have a signed photo of you on my desk I fought for weeks for on eBay. I've been doing impressions of you every time I go near a cheese counter. I once wrote a musical about you called 'In The Janeway', where you had a major showpiece singing 'Mad About The Borg'.

"-I really hope I don't get you drunk. These really are large glasses, aren't they?"

"Yes they are," said her companion. Henry someone. He was headlining with her apparently. I recognised him from an advert. "Do you work here?"

Uh-oh. Dangerous territory. "No, I don't."

"Ah, I just thought I'd seen you around here before. You look very familiar."

Goodness, sir. Are you flirting with me?

"Oh no," I laughed. "I've just been stalking around here!"

No-one found that funny but me.

"So, thank you again, and it's lovely to see you in London, Kate. I hope you enjoy the rest of your time here."

"Thank you."

And I smiled and went back to my seat.

Tim was there, looking impressed. My head was hammering, and I could feel a vein trying to escape on my forehead.

"What did you say?"

"I can't remember!" I blurted. "I think it went OK. She seemed nice."

"Is she drinking her wine?"

"I don't know! I can't turn around and look. I'd look like a stalker!"

"But you are," said Tim, puzzled. Good point there.

"She's not drinking it," said Tim, craning over my shoulder. "I think she's about to leave."

And I didn't care. I had met Kate Mulgrew.

"I think you scared her off."

I didn't care. I had met Kate Mulgrew.

"Oh Tim, it's all downhill from now. Buying my first house. By some miracle of science having my first child. Hey!" I said, noting Tim's look. "Tom Cruise can, so I can too."

There was a moment's quiet. "Turkey baster," we said together.

"She's definitely going. And she hasn't touched your wine."

"Ungrateful cow!" I turned around to check. And just after she pecked her co-star on the cheek, she picked up her bag and gestured to the door. For some reason, I felt slightly hollow.

Then she picked up the wine, chugged it back, laid the empty glass on the bar, and left.

Tim and I were slack-jawed. "Did she..?" he asked.

"Oh yes." I stood up to watch her exit, a silent standing ovation. "And that's why I love her."

Monday, April 24, 2006

Meeting Kate Mulgrew #1

Coffee. Black.

My love affair with Kate Mulgrew started when she first put her hands on her hips and blew the fuck out of something with a photon torpedo. Oh, we'd had a whirlwind seven years before she went back to her true love - theatre - and leaving me with nothing but memories and an alarm clock shaped like the USS Voyager that barked me awake with her charmingly acidic voice.

Many years later, I'm sitting in a theatre bar with my friend Tim. Almost post-coital. We'd just seen her on stage where she was appearing in 'Exonerated'. An oddly-uplifting play constructed from the testimonials of Death Row inmates.

"It feels like my entire life has lead up to this moment you know. Here I am, in a bar after just seeing Kate Mulgrew on stage. I'm in the same building as Kate Mulgrew. And," I said, pointing theatrically at the table, "Do you know they filmed my favourite episode of the olden Doctor Who here? I tell you, if I never manage to get my hair in any fabulous style past this point, I will still be happy."

Tim's a devote Trek fan, not Who. So this extra layer of geekery was slightly lost on him. Still, we'd just spent the last ten minutes discussing the pros and cons of a Seven of Nine lead figurine. It would make a great paperweight but would be awfully top heavy. 'Norgs of Borg' we used to call her. '36DD of Nine'.

"The Doctor Who ep was 'The Chase'," I pressed. "God's honest truth it contains the line 'Pubic lice in secret tunnels'. And possibly the worst fake American accent in TV history ever."

"When was it filmed?"

"1965."

Tim coughed. "Perhaps it was the retaliation against Dick Van Dyke's first strike in Mary Poppins."

"Speaking of accents, didn't that second man from the end look and sound remarkably like Danny Glover? Spooky, in fact."

"That's because it was Danny Glover."

I recoiled slightly. "You're kidding me."

Now I'm not very observant. I didn't realise that they were going to all get off at the end, despite the play being called 'Exonerated'. All I saw was 'Starring Kate Mulgrew' underneath it. As far as I was concerned that's what it had been called.

"She looked directly at me, you know," I said with a wistful air. "When she said the word 'privacy'." Tim was rolling his eyes. "No! Really. We had a real connection. Perhaps there was a sly meaning in it. You know what I mean."

"I really just wanted her to say 'Coffee. Black.'" said Tim, studiously ignoring my waggling eyebrows.

Heathen child. "It doesn't all come down to Trek, you know," I tutted. "She was in Mrs Columbo and everythi-"

I stopped. Tim was grabbing my wrist; my watch biting into my skin.

"Kate Mulgrew is at the bar," he hissed.

The world went quiet around me. All I could hear for a second was my pounding heart.

"Where?" I hissed back.

He gestured with his eyes. And there she was, ordering a large glass of white wine.

"That's Kate Mulgrew," I whispered.

"Ordering a large glass of white wine."

"A very large glass of white wine."

We looked at each other.

"We have to go and talk to her," I said.

"Jesus, it's not just a large glass of wine. It's a goldfish bowl on a stem!"

We stared at each other for a moment, willing the other to come up with a dramatic solution to the state of affairs. "We can't," I said after a moment, completely chickening out. And all of a sudden the magic was broken, the devil-may-care camaraderie where we could conquer countries.

"It's wrong," agreed Tim, slightly relieved.

"She needs her space," I added. "She's just come off stage."

And we slunk down in our chairs, hiding our disappointment with overly-macho laughing, trying to be funnier than we actually were. But we couldn't really meet each other's gaze.

And then I thought 'fuck it.'

"Lend me a tenner," I said.

"What?"

"Lend me a tenner! I've got no money." I rose from the table, praying that my legs wouldn't let me down.

He handed one over. "Where you off to?"

"Get a round in."

And I headed over to the bar.


To Be Concluded tomorrow.

Friday, April 21, 2006

Hues and Cruise

Doesn't that Tom Cruise dress well? He's very good with colours, isn't he?

And in a completely different tack, let's have a quick chat about being a Gentleman Who Is Good With Colours. Did you know we are quite good with colours? Oh yes. Sorry to dispel that little mystery, but there you have it. The secret is having an eye for matching them up. Well, bar my friend Gertie, who insists that military shade of avocado goes with everything. It does not; though later opinions feel he's just constantly wearing this so he can cruise in the bushes with perfect camouflage.

Now, you can reach the next stage of Colour Nirvana by 'having your colours done'. Whether this makes you even gayer is open to debate, but it was about the time Desperate Housewives started showing and I made a pact with the Devil to come back in the next life as Bree Van Der Kamp, so draw your own conclusions.

Having your colours done is a simple process: you have natural fatty tissues in your skin with their own hues. And it simply is a case of making sure what you wear doesn't clash with that. And all this was helped by a lovely Scottish lady with hair like a mad woman's breakfast, who sits you down and discusses whether you're an autumn or a winter while throwing scarves over you. Fabulous.

And of course you won't be a bit surprised that my colours are the pitchest black, probably to match my heathen soul. My swatch seems to be based around the colours you get on a black eye. Opening my wardrobe is like looking into an undertakers' convention on an overcast day. See?

Colours!

Now this leaves me in a quandary as, while it is very easy to dress smartly, when I do it has to be in a black shirt and trousers. Or a white shirt and trousers. And each time I go out, it has to be with a jacket as it makes me look like a waiter. Bah.

Anyway, what as I talking about? Tom Cruise? Oh. isn't it going to be funny when that child is about five and will look nothing like the father! Hilarious.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Honey to the Bee

Bees are seasonal creatures, most notable for their yellow-and-black markings, distinctive buzz and hive system.

When provoked they will sting, piercing the skin of their injured party with a specially-designed tip that extrudes from the rear of the body, the other end of which is attached to the lower contents of the bee's abdomen. Due to an interesting development in the sting's design, the end of the tip is hooked and will latch on to the skin of their injured party. As the bee withdraws, it leaves with it the sting, as well as a good portion of its internal organs.

So this results in their guts being ripped out. They will then do an exhausted little dance before slowly dying.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is exactly how it must feel to spend £200 on tickets for Madonna's new tour.

Postscript
Actually, I've been thinking about this a bit more. Bees are rather too similar to we Gentlemen Who Can't Catch when you get down to the nuts and bolts. Well, they too love bright flowers, sport gaudy colours and worship our queens. Oh, and often communicate by dancing.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

Happy Easter

Did I read somewhere that Jesus was meant to have risen at 3pm on Easter Sunday? Is that a given fact?

And if so, what an odd time. It's almost consciously saying to people 'Aaaa! You mortals get up at 5am! The Son of God is completely different from you. 3pm! 3pm!' Which all adds to my argument that the Bible does stretch the truth a little. And while I think Christianity as a concept can be a Good Thing, I think the Bible is, on the whole, a load of old toot made up by some bearded misogynistic ninnies who wanted to keep the populous in check.

Anyway, lets say that the you/Him/3pm thing is not completely different. I mean, we've all stumbled around in a cave for a bit, tried to find our pants, got a cup of tea and went back to bed when he realised they've moved Popworld to Saturdays now. And if 3pm is a given fact, can someone please explain this to the church opposite our house, which took great joy in ringing in that Christ Had Risen Again at half eight in the morning? Bunch of gits.

Oh yes. We live next to a church. I'm sure you're surprised that we Gentlemen Who Aren't Particularly Favoured By The Bible live so close. We almost didn't take our fabulous cottage. I mean, where does their religious influence extend to? Surely everything in the church is holy, natch, so does this go on to the plumbing? We have to share a stopcock with the vicarage, which is perilously close to my porn collection, so does this mean that 'Czech Please!' is now capable of warding off vampires?

Enquiring minds, and all that.

Anyway, we took the house after we found out the church was called St Mary Magdalene's. And if that's not a sign from God, I don't know what is.

Thursday, April 13, 2006

An Audience With Avant Niplette

As we're having a bit of a week talking about the ungentlemanly act of Filthy BumSex, I'm reminded of a eye-opening conversation I had with a brilliantly unconvincing drag queen, oh, years back. When I was a mere strip of a lad, freshly out, and drinking cider - as one does when one is a cheapskate student ingénue. He'd taken a bit of a shine to me, and told me a tale of toe-curling horror I thought I'd pass it on to you, the ordinary folk, as a special Easter treat.

So picture the scene: the formica-tabled joy of Leicester's only nightclub. They were playing Whigfield (they still do) and I'd just come back from the bar with half a cider for me, and a glass of wine for him. Off we go!


"Oh. Your glass has lipstick on it. Shall I take it back?"

"Darling, it's mine," he wheezed. "I tell you, once you start using the slap, you'll never go back." He suddenly got intense. "Do you know I'm really seventy-five under all this foundation."

I gagged slightly on my cider. Up close, he was the same texture as elephant hide. That had been creosoted. I wondered if Rimmel deliberately did a foundation called 'Terracotta Rooftop'.

"Wrong hole, " I coughed, beaming in what I hoped was an innocent manner.

"Oh you remind me of a young squaddie I once had. Grin like a searchlight. Ah, those were the days."

"What on earth were you doing in the army?"

He laughed like the starting of a chainsaw. "Oh I wasn't in all of them darling. Just that one. I'd been invited onto the base by an ex of mine - ha! Don't let them tell you there's no gays in the army. Teeming, I tell you. He never had so much sex in his life."

"Really?"

"Well, except the time he was in prison. Talk about banged up!" He laughed so hard I thought he was going to cough up a lung. He flicked ash of the end of his ciggie and placed his hand over mine. "But anyway, this squaddie. No more than nineteen. I was doing my act in the mess hall, and he wouldn't stop smiling at me."

"But you were doing your act. Surely..?"

"I said smiling. Not laughing. There's a difference."

"Oh."

"Anyway I finished - to rapturous applause, naturally - and went back to my dressing room. And blow me, if I didn't get a knock at the door ten minutes later. There he was, standing in his army fatigues, looking up at me through his fringe."

"Looking up?"

"I was still in my stilettos."

"So what did you do?"

"I kept them on, of course!"

"I meant with the squaddie!"

He harrumphed. "Well, I let him in. And I tell you, I have never met a man so willing to be buggered. Dropped his trousers there and then and bent over the sink in the corner, begging me to do him right away. Now, this was well before the days of HIV and all that, so I just grabbed the nearest thing to lubricant I could find. I ended up leaning over and whacking a dollop of my make-up remover up his crack!"

"No!"

"Oh yes. So there I was, easing my way into him. And he starts screaming - screaming! - like a banshee. Bear in mind we're still next to the mess hall, so I'm telling him to be quiet, but he's screaming and screaming, and I'm thinking "I'm not that big..." but he's insisting that it hurts really bad and I should take it out."

He swigged his wine, smiling to himself. I poked him in the side to break his reverie. "And..?"

"Well, I took it out and there was blood everywhere. The poor lad was cut to ribbons."

"Oh my god! How?"

"I figured it out after he'd grabbed his trousers and hobbled out the door. You see, every night I took off my make-up with that one tub of cream, and each night, a good portion of glitter and sequins came with it..!"

"Oh my god!"

"Yes, there I'd been, banging backwards and forwards with sequins. It was like a cheese grater had been up there!"


And if you're not sitting with your sphincter clenched now, you're obviously completely without passion, or baggier than a refuse sack down there.

Don't have nightmares.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

A Warm Hand On My Entrance

Now I think it's fair to say I'm not exactly sexually repressed. Which comes as an indirect fact that, over time, I've had more pricks than a second-hand dartboard.

I've done things hygienic and not (and paid the price), been the latter day Cynthia Payne in my local town, tried all sorts of things with all sorts of gentleman callers. And in a former life, I'm sure I was a 'Covent Garden Nun' who used to service passing policemen for a ha'penny a trick.

So can you tell me why I get unutterably freaked by sitting down on a loo seat and finding it's still warm?

(shudder)

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Mohammed Coming To The Mounting

Those who know me know I have no shame. No, as the crowned beauty queen Miss Walsall 1987, 1988 and - thanks to the electrolysis - 1989 doesn't allow himself any such emotion.

But situations arose where I would have to nip out and buy some condoms. Something that in this day and age we should be positively encouraged to do, yet I - we - can often turn into stuttering wrecks of nervousness when coming up against a Teutonic fishwife on the supermarket till. Why is that? Is it just with this purchase you're clearly announcing to the world 'I AM WANTING TO BE HAVING THE SEX WITH SOMEONE TONIGHT!' A sudden insight into someone's private life, no more revealing than a ready-cook meal for one and a copy of Men's Health in the bottom of the basket, surely.

I told myself I was being silly, so I relaxed, and shuffling forward in the queue, kicking my basket onward with a deliberately nonchalant air. Slightly calmed by hiding the offending articles under a bag of spinach leaf salad. On the till tonight was a fabulous black woman; a proper good time gal, all painted talons and hair so high it was in danger of strangling the air conditioning. All good. I bet she'd know all about a man's needs. Even if she twigs they are with another man. Fine choice of queue, Binding. Well done.

Although... she was saying goodbye to each of her customers with a cheery "Enjoy your weekend!" Oh ye gods and little fishes, she's going to get to the bottom of my basket, find one-hundred weight of sexual equipment for the gays, and have to say 'Enjoy your weekend!' But the context will be 'Oh, you will be having a good weekend, won't you sir? Sodomy left, right and centre, I'd say.'

Suddenly I'm nervous again. Her benailed hand reached into my basket, and the first thing she plucks out was the KY Jelly lubricant. She examined it with a curiosity like she's just dug it out of a Mexican archaeological dig. What was she thinking? Then came the sly look under her fringe at me as she brought out the box of condoms.

Enjoy your weekend, indeed.

"Mohammed! Mohammed!" she squealed, every last syllable as piercing as her talons. "We have a shoplifter!"

I froze, completely taken off guard. A robust gentleman the size of a shed was running towards me with a speedy gait I thought uncommon for gentleman of his stature. What to do, what to do?! It's true that I thought, momentarily, about stuffing the box of Durex up my jumper to avoid all the Dance of the Checkout Operator, but had thought better of it. Also I hadn't done my hair, so this was no time for mug shots.

"I... uh..."

Perhaps I had stuffed them up my jumper and had clean forgot.

In front of me, Mohammed lept in the air like a panther, log-like arms wide to embrace. And landed... landed... on a man standing behind me.

"He was trying to steal a joint of meat!" caterwaulled my checkout operator. "Check his trousers! Check his trousers!" And indeed, a huge portion of meat was pulled out of his tracksuit bottoms. Make your own joke there.

But! While all this was going on, I managed to swipe my card and load up my shopping. I was free! Free of embarrassing looks in that dead period when you've handed over your cash card and trying not to make eye contact until you have it back. I hastily counted my blessings - a shoplifting incident, just as I was trying to buy the third most embarrassing items in the supermarket. The Gods had smiled on me, and I was grateful. I smiled at her, against a backdrop of Mohammed wrestling the poor skinny shoplifter to the ground.

"Enjoy your weekend," she called after me with an even tone to her voice.

Damn.

Friday, April 07, 2006

Unfortunate Moments of My Life #3196

While we Gentlemen Who Can't Catch tend to push out the SS Moisturiser boat daily, nary is it more all-hands-on-deck for when we have dates, dinner or a job interview.

Now, as I haven't been on a date since Joan Rivers had her original face (think Medusa with less manageable hair) this alarming tale I reluctantly spew is regarding a job interview I had not long back. It all started with a power cut in my office. Tired of sitting there in the darkness with nothing to do, and a glut of secretaries screaming as one of the managers took advantage of the gloom to start goosing them, I thought 'Well! I'm not going to be missed. Why not skip over the road and have a quick suntan?'

And I do love those tanning booths. They're like sci-fi survival capsules. And they play music so loud that you can dance around in it and pretend you're Olivia Newton-John just before she comes out of the floor in the glittering finale of Xanadu. Although that's probably just me.

Twelve minutes later, I skip back to the office with a rosy, healthy glow. Still no power at my glorious desk (I'd recently fitted it out like a Bedouin tent so as to throw the cleaner) so trotted over the road to the gym. Full work out there, and then - then - came my horrible downfall.

'I know what'd help even more!' I thought, with typical not-thinking-it-through head on. 'I'll just nip in for a quick sauna. That'd really help make me look young and attractive!'

Well, dear viewers. It doesn't do that. It doesn't do that at all. For the sauna strips your skin of any moisture it has. And with a fabulous fan working its way out, that was precious little moisture in there at all.

In short, I came out with skin drier than Dame Judi Dench's ladygarden.

In fact, you know the colour of Madonna's hotpants in the Hung Up video? Oh, who am I kidding, you all know the colour of Madonna's hotpants in the Hung Up video otherwise you wouldn't be here. Well, I was that colour. A very vivid puce.

And with a job interview but hours away. What to do?!

A frantic trip to the chemist ensued. Make-up wasn't working - I looked like I had been base-coating a burns victim. And wearing a burgundy shirt to try and detract didn't work as I just looked like I was naked from the waist down. The only result was to lie horribly. So when I met this lovely lady in a place I really wouldn't have minded working, we had a jolly old chat, a nice time, and near the end, I casually dropped in that my hay fever was really playing up and causing an allergic reaction and turning my skin a colour you only really get for touching up London Busses.

"Strange," she said, leaning in close. "When you look carefully, you can see the rings where you were wearing those little stick-on shades in the tanning booth."

I went bright red.

Well, moreso.

And for some reason, I didn't get the job.

Thursday, April 06, 2006

A New Plaything. At Last.

We'd been watching him out of the corner of our eye all night, casting rather odd looks. The fly in our fabulous fairy fragrance. And after seven pints, he came over.

"Now, I'm not gay, like," he said.

"I'm glad to hear it," I interjected. "Mucky, mucky business."

He seemed thrown for a second. "But I thought you and... you and he... were, you know..."

I looked over to where he was pointing. The Wife was holding court, or more correctly, the ample bosom of a friend of ours. We Gentlemen Who Know Showtunes do tend to appreciate a lady who comes with her own airbags. And there he was, jubbling away like a kid in a ball-pool.

"Oh him. Yes. We're at it like knives."

He screwed up his face a bit as he swayed on the spot, clearly revolted. It passed and he leaned forward, breathing the Breath of a Thousand Pints.

"See, now. I have to ask. Just how does it work with you and him? And the stubble?"

"Well, it's more li-"

"I'm not gay, of course," he said, leaning his hand on my arm to reiterate the point. He left it there for a moment, before he realised he was touching A Gay. Then his arm shot back like a cut snake.

I harrumphed. "Anyway, the stubble. It's more like velco, really..." I said.

That clearly amused him.

"Ah yes. We're quite funny. The gays. Of which you aren't one."

"I'm not gay," he recapped.

"Clearly." I said. "For one, your hair looks like it's been done by the council."

Now. We'll let you heterosexuals into a bit of a secret. If you keep reiterating that you're neither Good With Colours, Listening or Catching, the chances are you're trying too hard to prove it to yourself as much as everyone else in earshot. We all know this. It's the ones who are completely comfortable around Gentlemen Who Moisturise that are well and truly on the Hetty Bus.

"So you're not gay," said the Wife in silken tones, joining us from off-stage.

He shook his head, which almost made him fall over.

"Not even one little experience?"

He though for a second. "Well, there was this one time..."

"Do go on."

"Uh, um, when I was seventeen, I did snog a male Doctor Who fan... But I'm not gay."

"Of course you're not, Cleopatra," said the Wife.

"But what if I told you that's how I started?" I said.

We left him looking visibly aghast.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

GLITTER FOR BRAINS AT THE MOVIES: FAILURE TO LAUNCH!

We go so you don't have to!

A film starring our gay pin-up heroes Justin Bartha and Bradley Cooper? In topless scenes? Well, we don't care if we have to sit through the average antics of Matthew McConaughey and face-like-a-foot Sarah Jessica Parker to get it, book us in!

We actually quite enjoyed this, by the way. But for those single lady readers who can't wait to get this on DVD and eat chocolate cake while bemoaning all men, here - without further ado - is...


FAILURE TO LAUNCH: THE ABRIDGED SCRIPT!


CUT TO: PARAMOUNT OFFICES.

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
So, like, dude. I really wanna do a romantic comedy or something. Raise my profile and shit. Get away from those rumours about how much dope I do. And bongos.

TOM DEY:
Well, I'm directing a film with the perfect role for you! A thirty something guy - well, we'll do something about your skin with good lighting - who won't leave home. Brilliant! So how will you play the part, do you think?

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Oh, like I've just smoked fifteen doobies, each the size of a baguette. Hey, wanna toke, man?

TOM DEY:
No thank you. Action!

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY falls backwards off his chair, mumbling about Mars Bars.


RUN KOOKY, PASTEL ROM-COM TITLES!


TERRY BRADSHAW:
My son's 35 and he still hasn't left home.

Enter MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY, topless.

THE AUDIENCE:
(mutters) 35? Yeah right. Round the neck he's 35.

Kathy Bates:
I know. We'll hire someone to emotionally manipulate him to leave our house! Then we can suggest that we'll be having lots of Old People Sex! Oh, warm up the KY, Terry!

Cut to: A LEATHER SOFA STORE. Enter SARAH JESSICA PARKER.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Hey. Matthew McConaughey. I don't normally sleep with a man on the first date, but for you I'll make an exception.

THE AUDIENCE:
Are we meant to love her because she's easy? Or delight in the idea that sex with her would be like trying to put up a three-sticked tee-pee in a high wind?

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Hell, I'd sleep with me on the first date. For I am a man. And that is what men want!

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
How romantic! Lets go to dinner.

THE AUDIENCE:
My god. It's the oldest teenagers in town.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Hey! You lot! We're young, hip swingers!

THE AUDIENCE:
The only thing swinging about you is your neck, love. Your skin looks like an old saddlebag.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER and MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY engage in more FLIRTY BANTER. Then they sit back in their LEATHER RECLINERS, almost post-coital.

THE AUDIENCE:
Well, that's just great. They're the same colour as the leather. All we can see are two beaming grins like conceited Cheshire Cats.

TOM DEY:
Uh-oh. All this girly-swirly romance shtick is going to put off the men who were dragged to this date movie. Quickly! Cue the two comedy macho friends and the mountain-biking!

BRADLEY COOPER:
Duuuuuuuude!

JUSTIN BARTHA:
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude!

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuude!

They then eat FRIES together in the manner of VERY HETEROSEXUAL MEN IN MOVIES and laugh a lot with their MOUTHS OPEN.

THE AUDIENCE:
Is Matthew McConaughey stoned? Oh, we're not going to get him answering the door naked playing bongos again are we?

THE GAYS IN THE AUDIENCE:
...

MEANWHILE:

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Honey, I'm home!

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
Hi roomy! In case you'd forgotten since you went to work this morning, I'm here to provide a moody, stereotypical sounding-board to you, Sarah Jessica Parker. The audience is meant to slyly hate me and thus adore you.

THE AUDIENCE:
We can't! You're too loveable and well-drawn! You even make a sub-plot about a bird outside your window keeping you awake endearing!

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
Hate me!

THE AUDIENCE:
Um. Hey, how about we all hate Sarah Jessica Parker instead?

SARAH JESSICA PARKER looks up from her NOSE-BAG and STAMPS HER HOOF in protest.

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
Anyway. Have you predictably fallen for one of your clients yet?

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Oh yes! No! Yes! No! Yes! No!

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
(deadpan) Geez, Sarah. You're really good at showing us 'inner turmoil' aren't you?

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Oh, but he's so dreamy...

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
Well, you'd better sort all this out before he finds out his parents hired you.

THE AUDIENCE:
...Like a cheap hooker?

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
Like a cheap hooker.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
I can't. Anyway, drink some more of that Moet that's clearly product placement.

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
Pop!

CUT TO: SARAH JESSICA PARKER and MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY on another DATE.

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
...naw, if I was going to buy another boat it would be a wooden one. A good, solid wooden one.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
How romantic. So you can feel nature beneath you?

THE AUDIENCE:
(under breath) He wants something to match his acting.

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Uh. Um. I'm not sure. I think I only mentioned it so we have something set up for the final scene

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
OK. So, uh, I have something to tell you...

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Shh! If this is about you being a plant by my parents, you can't say anything! I have to find out from my macho comedy friends, ditch you, and then resolve everything by the final reel to show that we love each other!

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Oh. Right. How long will that take.

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Right about... Now!

CUT TO: BRADLEY COOPER and MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY playing MANLY BASKETBALL. MANFULLY.

BRADLEY COOPER:
Dude, your girl is being paid to be your girlfriend by your parents so you'll move out of the house!

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Shit, man. That's so uncool.

CUT TO:

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
You done?

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
Yeah. All done. You're dumped.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
But I've decided I love you!

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY slams the DOOR in her face. Or where her FACE would be if it didn't already look like it had been FLATTENED by the back side of a SPADE.

Cut to: SARAH JESSICA PARKER's flat.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
I'm leaving. Sniff. In an ironic turn of events, I'm going back home to live with my parents.

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
You do realise I'm rolling my eyes at you. Besides, I'm now having sex with Justin Bartha, one of Matthew McConaughey's geeky macho friends!

THE AUDIENCE:
Yay Zooey! A believable romance at last!

TOM DEY:
(through megaphone) Zooey Deschanel. Put the movie down. You are not walking away with the movie.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Fine! I'm going!

Exit SARAH JESSICA PARKER.

CUT TO: EVERY ONE OF THE SCENE-STEALING SUPPORTING CAST around a TABLE.

KATHY BATES:
Well, clearly they love each other.

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
If only there was a way we could resolve this in an unmemorable manner...

JUSTIN BARTHA:
...and get them onto that boat, as foretold halfway through the movie!

BRADLEY COOPER:
Why not just lock them in a room until they sort it out?

TERRY BRADSHAW:
Hell, that's lazy writing. Who in god's name would believe that? There's got to be another idea.

SILENCE FOR A WHILE.

KATHY BATES:
Alright then, we'll go with that!

So they lock SARAH JESSICA PARKER and MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY in a room. And they TALK. And it is RESOLVED QUICKLY and UNMEMORABLE.

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Finally we can do the boat scene!

MATTHEW MCCONAUGHEY:
(smoking like a chimney) Duuuuuude...

THE AUDIENCE:
Yeah yeah. Anyway, cut back to Zooey and Justin! More interesting!

ZOOEY DESCHANEL:
Sarah. I'm sorry the audience loved me more than you. Um, would you like a carrot?

SARAH JESSICA PARKER:
Neigh.

THE END.