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

Thursday, August 31, 2006

The Look Of Love

Well, personally, I don't think it's at all wrong for dumping a man simply for the face he pulled at the moment of orgasm.

Callous, moi? Never! I'm simply into the more aesthetic things of this world. And if a gentleman is going to look like an emerging turtle after someone's stuck a lit firework up the back part of their shell, surely you too would be dreading the eventual moment when they're going to crop-spray their sticky-white love up your hoop? I know I was, so after a few 'turtle-moments' he was firmly told to sling his hook.

Or more correctly, I stopped returning his calls and hid from him when he came in the bar.

Oh yes, I'm all class, me.

Ah, the male orgasm face. Not a pretty thing. I find that it's best to have a bit of a 'dry run' as it where, you can't do much wrong by spotting a sex-face is down the gym. Clearly I'm being male-centric here; so far I've never seen a lady tossing her head back in utter ecstasy on the rowing machine. Well, not without a bag of Galaxy Minstrels clasped in her hand anyway, But the men - every time they lift something, you get an odd glimpse into their bedroom happy-face. All that grunting and straining, panting and - oh, the eyes! The eyes! We're not a pretty breed when we're about to chuck our muck, are we?


Anyway, the most criminal thing about the cum-face? Well, let me tell you a story: I recently managed to pursued a Very Attractive Man into bed. Very attractive. All muscles and everything (I can now hear my Tragically Single Friend Gertie howling in anguish) but there was one thing wrong with him. As he was reaching the moment of happiness, his face started to contort. The eyes became wide, the mouth became pinched. Somehow - somehow - his face turned into that of Jack Black in the Natcho Libre poster.

Well, what's a girl to do when you all of a sudden you find a wide-eyed Jack Black on top of you, pummelling away to a happy finish with all the finesse of a steam-train?

Well, there's only one thing I could do! I told him to stop, that I wasn't a fan of any comic actor trying to make it as a serious thespian, and kindly showed him the door.

Not really. Grin.

(removes blindfold and wipes chest)

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Nay Sayers

Poor old Matthew Broderick, the once-beautiful-now-settled actor - and for that you can gaily read 'porky' or 'now goes to the same tailor as David Boreanaz'. Not only is his film career now inversely proportional to the pie he's been eating, but he's also married to the equine Glitter For Brains favourite Sarah Jessica Parker.

Yes, we love Sarah Jessica Parker over in our glittering corner of the web. If we ever see her hoofing around London, we doubt we'd be able to contain the urge to stroke her nose and give her a sugar-lump, giving her a firm, flat slap on the back rump as she whinnies down the red carpet. Have you smelled her new fragrance, 'Sarah Jessica Parker's "Lovely"'? A heady mix of sweat and hay, we'll have you know. And they may be a slightly smug Hollywood couple (bar her urge to nag - ha!) but the rhubarb in their part of the garden is exceptional...

Anyway. You can see why we almost swallowed our own tongue laughing at this.

Oh yes. Why the long face, Sarah? Hmm? Do tell.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

On The Run

There's something oddly decadent about waking up on your birthday covered in someone else's 'coughed yoghurt', wouldn't you say?

Oh yes. I'd almost completely forgot that I'd notched up another year. To be honest, I'm too busy notching up the bedposts - I tell, any more this week and the whole thing will be matchsticks. I was only reminded by a card being popped through from my mother - it had puppies on and sang so clearly I threw it across the room. I retrieved it ten minutes later to shut it up, and with the vain hope that she was now senile and thought I was fifteen again and popped a fiver in there. Well! The cost of BodyShop Tea Tree Scrub ain't cheap, I'll have you know! But no such luck, although there was a note saying 'I saw this and I thought of you. Because you'll hate it.' And, you know what, she was right. Bless her little greying head.

I also had something in my slot from perennial homosethual dating site 'Gaydar, Gaydar and Sons' saying 'our records show that it may be your birthday. So wishing you kind regards'. How terribly mechanical of it all! Is this what life has come to - getting birthday wishes from a site for touching boys? Welcome to the wooooooooooorld of tomorrow!

What wasn't added was 'hope you see your new year in with a bang!' but in a rather callous move, concluded with an advert for their Premiere membership - whatever that may be. They keep advertising it, but details are sketchy. Does it mean you get to have a go on the more attractive members of the site that are normally out of your league? Or you get an ordinary member but they're willing to pick up a pizza at no extra cost.

Someone else make the joke about 'a twelve inch meat feast with a bit of cheese on the top' will you - I've been drinking since I opened that card... God, 31. You can sense I'm slowly becoming invisible to the Gentlemen Who Can't Catch. A society so obsessed with age and beauty; above a certain vintage, you simply become the Schrodinger's Cat of the gay scene. You may or may not exist to everyone else. You can buy drinks fine, but no-one will talk to you.

Hang on. Isn't 31 the age that people are killed in Logan's Run? Someone send me Jenny Agguter - I'm going over the fence!

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Faster Pussycat KILL KILL

The Pussycat Dolls must be destroyed.

Don't get me wrong: as a fully paid-up member of the Homosethual Brigade (we're like the Fire Brigade, but our siren goes 'OooooooOOOOOOooooo!' and we only turn up for when there's danger of a Bake Sale going up, or when Farrah Fawcett goes too near an open flame) there's nothing I like more than going into company meetings with a girl group on my pencil case. It shows my allegiance to pop. It shows my air of professionalism. It shows that I can hold court, produce valuable work, and still suck on the end of my Cheryl Girls Aloud pen. Multi-tasking, that's what that is.

But these Pussycat Dolls. A more useless bunch of ravening maenads I have never seen, swooping around a right into our Pop Engines like six cawing birdstrikes. Why? Why are they here? They're not even a proper girl group as there's no fair division of labour: there appears to be one singer that the rest just maypole around her, doing that jiggy-jiggy thing with their flat backsides that looks utterly ridiculous on a white girl. It doesn't look so much as 'down with the kids', more 'shaken by a British nanny'.

Even Girls Aloud divides the workload evenly, and their almost a member down with Nicola being a there. She's the one you can't help but watch and go 'bless...' rather like the simple child at the wedding. Yes, even she gets a solo now and again.

So, tell me this. Why have they started advertising for a seventh member? And more importantly, why is this search for the next talent-vacuum going to be cluttering up my TV schedules? A whole series about the Next Pussycat Doll Member - woo.

Maybe it's to cover the talented one if she wants to go on holiday or, heaven forefend, has a nasty fall off her high heels and leaves her with her femur poking out of her leg. With no-one to go 'Hi, we're the Pussycat Dolls!' while the others gurn and mug behind her on channel linking materials, perhaps the group would simply shrivel up like a spider on a barbecue.

But. If the job is just staring at the camera with sexual intent, then turning away with a vicious hair-flick, why don't they just get a temp in? Its not hard. Even Nicola from Girls Aloud could -

Never mind.

Monday, August 21, 2006

Body Art

And then, all of a sudden, I'm the Other Woman.

Oh yes! Here I am, gadding about and seeing a gentleman caller with a boyfriend. I know! Aren't I terrible! On my tax return I can put my occupation as 'Dirty Little Secret'!

This, of course, is perfect for me. As I once more find my feet in London's whizzy world of the gay homothexual - although it turns out my feet can mostly be found pointing skyward in the back of a bar at 3am these days - it's lovely to have someone that is all forgiving of said antics while he sorts himself out. And he is brilliant. And has the same name as me. And the same beard. And the same sense of humour.

Oh god, my narcissism know no bounds, does it?

Apparently not; at least I can scream my own name out during the moment of climax without him twigging on. What larks!

In fact the only difference between him and my lovely self is he has some tattoos and I do not. Well! I've never had a thing for tattoos before - never been against them, never been for them. But there's something quite sweet about him when there he lies, curled up into my pillows all post-coital and snoring like a bronchial warthog, and I lightly trace the geeky body art he has on his chest. Actually, hell, it's slightly stalker-ish, but what is attraction if a bunny doesn't suffer along the way, hmm?

In fact, tattoos have been making a bit of an appearance in my gentlemen callers of late. One of them had a barcode on his backside - I didn't dare scan it lest it said '2 for 1 deal on porridge' or something, and one of them - well! Tender readers, all I shall say was it was most impressive. He took his top off, and I gawped - there was this tattoo that went all the way up his back.

Frankly, I didn't know whether to mount him or throw a six to start.

Oh, me.

Tuesday, August 15, 2006

Dead Stop / Full Steam Ahead

So, shall I recount the innumerable times I've been maneuvering my bags of Diesel goodness through the packed streets of London and I accidentally step on a woman?

Ladies, why do you do it? Why do you just stop dead in a busy street simply because you have seen a nice blouse in a shop window? You are beguiled by fashion, enchanted by frocks to such an extent that you are willing to risk life and limb on a busy capital through-way by halting in a dead stop just to wonder, '...maybe that would fit me...'

Sure that peasant skirt could be fun - maybe even with a kicky little belt just hanging off the hips - but I really don't think you need to examine it in minute detail in the rush hour. Slowly, through increased exposure (such as now, when the autumn/winter fashions are making their debut) I'm gradually beginning to notice the signs in girls walking in front of me; the almost-imperceptible slowing of the step, the sudden glassy quality to the eyes. If you catch it in time, you can move to avoid. But sometimes you can't and you pile into the back of this fashion-addled creature. Who always stirs from her blousey reverie and stares at you like its your fault that you're now ankle-deep in her knock-off Louis Vuitton. Honestly, I ask you.

Although I do have to stick my manicured hand skyward and say that the fairer sex is not alone in this halting in the street. So, you may very well ask, stops men in their tracks? What is the primal trigger that just makes them halt and gawp?

Building sites.

Oh yes. You watch them. One whiff of an articulated crane and a hole in the ground and they're slowing to a crawl to examine every exposed pipe and rubble heap in sage detail. It's quite sweet to watch, actually...

Now, as I'm quite close to the subject, I've been asking myself what on earth it is that stops the 'alternative sexes' in their tracks - or, if we're specifically talking about the Ladies of Lesbos - their Birkenstocks? For the last few days, I've placed a sign outside my house to watch and entrap any same-sex couples wandering by, offering such things as 'free waxing', 'life coaching', 'same-sex couples counseling' and 'Brokeback Mountain Special Edition HERE!'

The one that caused the most trouble was any combination of the three words 'Tickets', 'Free' and 'Madonna'. But before that, all you have to do to stop a gay couple in their tracks is to put an estate agent in a nice area.

And if you want to make a lesbian couple stop like there's a sale on B&Q powertools, simply add 'Comes with free loving cat! Can't take her with us when we move!'

Me? Of course I'm above all this. There's absolutely nothing that can distract me from my tra- ooh! Look! Sequins!

Grin.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Back on the Horse

What is the acceptable time period between splitting up with your long term partner and turning one's mind to the unfairer sex?

I mean, in the high-kicking world of the Gentlemen Who Watch Too Many Awards Ceremonies, the average time is about, well... to be honest they often just over-lap - we're not a proud breed, it has to be said. Like rats up a drainpipe, even. But I now have to consider that horror upon horrors: dating. Or more correctly, talking to new men in the hope of 'getting somewhere'.

And, thankfully, I don't mean Guilford.

It's been four years since I've been 'back on the horse', as it where, putting myself out there on the singles scene. I was heartened to discover it hasn't changed that much - there's still the offer of an unglamorous shunting in a back alleyway after a few drinks with a 'concerned friend'; there you are, left raising your eyes skyward, wondering why-oh-why you insist on letting yourself get into these situations as you wipe his 'coughed yoghurt' off the back of your legs with a McDonalds napkin.

For the baser urges, one can turn to that perennial dating site for the Gentleman Who Can't Catch: Gaydar, Gaydar and Sons. For those of you few heteromosexual readers out there (I know there's one or two, I can smell your Joop) I shall explain: you set up a page nigh-on setting up your stall for all gentlemen callers, who then swing by and drop off positive comments on your personality and interests like 'Wot U lookin 4 m8?' and 'Free now lets bareback'. All good, wholesome stuff.

But I've never been any good in filling those page things out. What do I want in a partner? Someone who'll get rid of spiders, and laugh when they catch me miming to Baccara on my iPod, with all the movements. There's no tick-box for that sort of thing on the site. And when writing one's profile, is it a significant fact about me that I happen to keep my sewing kit next to my pornography?

Perhaps I don't need gaydar, I need something a little more... mature. Matronly. Is there such a thing as 'Chintz-Dar'; Lord knows I'm more than often inclined to put a doily down before I Have The Sex. Who wouldn't, when you've deigned to go back with some chunky necklaced navvy, who's serving warm rose wine out of mismatched glassware before ducking out to 'wash it under the tap' as you're left staring around the council flat at the peeling wallpaper, and dog-eared copies of Buffy The Vampire Slayer on VHS wondering if he's actually been and got some lubrication or whether that bottle of cooking oil is going to be slapped up your undercarriage in about ten minutes time without so much as a by-your-leave.

(pauses)

(clutches pearls)

Oh my, I think I've just convinced myself I should do it.

I'm not just 'getting back on the horse', it's going to be the Grand National!

Thursday, August 10, 2006

The Fourth Wall

I'm a huge believer in television. Moreso than fairies, ghosts and whether Sandra Bullock can pull her career back from the precipice with shoddy rom-coms. But one thing my belief falls down on is on soap operas.

I know. And me a pillow-biting, disco-dancing homothexual and everything.

I've never got soap operas. Why, if you want a bit of escapism, do you want to go to a grubby launderette in Walford when the stars await? Although thanks to my mother (that peddler of multiple camp ills thoughout my life) I was been there for some of soaps seminal moments: the climax of 'The Colbys', Bobby in the shower in 'Dallas'. And the one where Todd from 'Neighbours' dropped his jockey shorts and we got to see his arse was nigh-on a literal seminal moment in my youth, and I had to run upstairs with a pillow over my crotch. And I remember being similarly facinated by Sue Ellen's shoulder pads and wondering if she kept two bottles of Jack Daniels in there as they were the same size and shape.

And the only things I have learned from all this is that you get more attention from men if you look like you're on prozac, the only way to cross into another series is to be captured by a UFO, and that America does soap operas better; take 'One Tree OC' and '24' for examples.

I think the subliminal reason why I just don't get soaps is they were the first thing that made me see that television wasn't real. I was a four year old (abet a precocious four-year-old who already wanted to be a doctor, or a nurse, or a ballerina. Or if I got low marks, a spunky yet go-getting housewife called 'Whilamina') watching 'Crossroads', the cheapest soap imaginable that was clearly written in a lunch hour on the back of a fag packet and made on someone's Super 8 in their back shed.

And there was a specific moment I'm thinking of when I went 'haaaang on...' - Miss Diane had just had some terrible news, and so dialled someone in the US on her trim-phone. Not only did she remember the whole fourteen-digit number off the top of her head like it was her bank card pin number, she then went 'Hello, is that America..?'

And that's when figured out television wasn't real, and I've never forgiven it for it.


* * * * * *


Oh, someone's just told me 'The OC' and 'One Tree Hill' are two seperate shows.

Hmm. Not from my airplane seat they weren't.

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

The White Swan After A Break Up

First thing you should do after you split up with someone is Get Out There according to all of my friends. This seems to involve going and standing in a bar while all your mates nudge you, going 'Ooh, look at him. He's nice' while you ponder Dark Thoughts about how many bacteria there is in the ice in your drink and whether any of them are fatal.

So off we went to The White Swan on Saturday, a spit-and-sawdust place (or 'spit-and-swallow' if you wandered into the wrong cubicle in the loos) down in the East End. Where they had a stripper on, who came on as a cowboy.

'Hello,' thought I. It's a well known fact I do like a bit of wild west action, but my suddenly hardening ardor stumbled at the first hurdle when he took his hat off: clearly he'd taken the cowboy theme too far and made his skin look like an old leather saddle with eyes.

Most strippers in this country follow this pattern: come on for three songs, smother themselves with that milky-looking baby oil, smack their engorged members (that they've been banging against the dressing room sink before tying an knot in it) around the face of some bunny-in-a-headlights gay and then get off-stage before the maddening crowd realize that he's wearing a wedding ring and just doing this so he can get his peroxide witch of a girlfriend a brand new hair straightener.

But yes, these three songs he was on for were what I took against. Well, that and his nasty wedge haircut we haven't seen since the likes of Bronski Beat when he finally took off his hat. The first was a Shania Twain remix. Ok, you're coming on trying to get a crowd whipped up into a foaming frenzy. You want the boys to love you, and the women - well, you want their neathers so moist it would be like sticking your hand in a bag of slugs. What you don't want to be doing is coyly flashing your snake-like Womb-Broom around while Shania wails 'That Don't Impress Me Much' do you now? It just seems daft.

Then we had the theme from Big Brother (?!) while he whipped off his chaps (or shed his skin on his legs, you couldn't tell as it was all the same texture). And then onto the finale, the climax if you will, as he started whirling his Love Musket around like a windmill, spraying the front row with baby oil.

And what did he play while all this was going on?

Girls Aloud's 'Jump'.

A paragon of sexual energy, I'm sure you'll agree. And rule number one when you're stripping in front of a group of drunken homothexuals, never play gay pop songs that are more interesting than your act. En masse, we just started dancing, like Pavlov's Gay Dogs.

And after the final verse, we all turned around to see he'd gone. Bless.


* * * * *

By the way, thank you for all the emails and comments of support. You lot are lovely.

Monday, August 07, 2006

On The Fifteenth Day

Enough of dragging this out. The fifteenth day.

When you've been blogging for a while, you imagine certain entries you may have to write. The one about being diagnosed with something hideous and the way you're going to tell the world to get the most comments in sympathy (oh come on, you have). Or that Ben Browder finally responded to that unsolicited email four years ago, has decided that, yes he would like to run away with you, and he'll be there in fifteen minutes so you'd better grab your toothbrush. And idly, at odd times, you wonder what you were going to write when you split up with your long-term partner.

You're not going to know the details, the reasons why or how. Most of my friends don't even know why it was the case, so I'm not tell you lot, lovely though you may be. But it was short and sharp when it happened, a grand total of fifteen minutes to cap off four years; I laid my keys to his house on the kitchen work surface and walked away from him, left the house and got ten feet before I couldn't walk any further. The crippling agony of what had happened almost doubled me up; I could feel the bile rising and my head throbbing with pain. I supported myself on a tree (the tree that we both jokes about them never cutting - oh god, the first of those portentous signs I would start seeing of our life together) and my chest heaved and heaved, drawing in raw breath like I was suffocating.

On the train on the way back, two teenagers got on with me and took the next to me as I silently cried my eyes out behind sunglasses: it was a laughable sight in retrospect. I can remember every sentence of their conversation even now, the banality of them going on about baps from Marks and Spencers while I felt like my stomach lining had ripped, their comparisons punctuated by me thinking 'Fuckofffuckofffuckoffjuststoptalkingaboutbreadyoumoronsjustfuckoff'. It is impossible to surround yourself with normality at that point.

Two days after the breakup, I got a note from the post office. There was a parcel there for me. I have a feeling that he, my now-ex, has just packaged everything up of mine and posted it off. I've not been to collect it yet; some childish thing inside me realises that if I do, That Will Be It.

Stupid, really. But that's how we all feel when it all comes crashing down.


* * * * *

So what do I do now?

I seriously considered giving this blog up; do you want to hear about break-ups and their aftermath? You come here for fine jokes, wine, women and song! Can I provide enough glittery distraction?

I think so. I'm almost fine. Its been a rough couple of weeks, but here I am again. There will always be pop music, there will always be a shabby c-list celeb to take the piss out of. Of course there will be boys - oh yes! What the web needs is another gay sex blog, doesn't it?! Those things aren't as common as people from Croydon. So if that does offend, you may want to take this out of your Favourites from this point onwards.

So yes. Onwards and, indeed, upwards.

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

Glitter for Brains At The Movies: Superman Returns!

We go so you don't have to!

And on the fifth day, I went to see Superman Returns. I didn't like it:


SUPERMAN RETURNS: THE ABRIDGED SCRIPT

THE AUDIENCE:
Ok. Tell us why we'll like this film.

BRYAN SINGER:
Every frame will be polished! Every person will look gorgeous! Every scene will finish will a pan back from the action to a beautiful and elaborate CGI shot! You'll love it What I'm doing is bringing the 70s matinee films back to the masses!

THE AUDIENCE:
So have the characters changed?

BRYAN SINGER:
The characters are steeped in history. You can't change them.

THE AUDIENCE:
So the story is a modern retelli-

BRYAN SINGER:
Well, I thought the first film was so good than we'd do that again.

THE AUDIENCE:
So, all you've done is tell exactly the same story with new CGI effects?

BRYAN SINGER:
Ah. Um.

BRYAN SINGER looks SHIFTY.

Anyway!
The TITLES RUN.
They are EXACTLY the same as THE OTHER FILMS, including the music. Only with more CGI POLISH and THX SOUND.

KEVIN SPACEY:
Ahaha! Campy campy campy. I shall base my performance on Sir Ian McKellen's panto dame from my very own Old Vic, and Rock Hudson smarmy businessman in Pillow Talk.

THE AUDIENCE:
Ha! Of course we know what they had in common.

KEVIN SPACEY:
What?

THE AUDIENCE:
Oh nothing.

KEVIN SPACEY flounces off and INHERITS MILLIONS. THE AUDIENCE, whereas, are more interested in PARKER POSEY. Because she's not trying AS HARD. And has more than TWO DIMENSIONS TO HER CHARACTER.

PARKER POSEY:
Aw, what a nice dog!

THE AUDIENCE:
(pointedly) Doesn't it look like Kevin Spacey was 'walking' when he 'met' that nice skinhead on Clapham Common!

KEVIN SPACEY looks SHIFTY.

Meanwhile, BRANDON ROUTH returns to EARTH. He spends the time looking FLAWLESS and MOPING AROUND so he can remember in FLASHBACK becoming SUPERMAN. This doesn't include allegedly blowing BRYAN SINGER, but basically where they condense SMALLVILLE down into FIFTEEN SECONDS. This is PLEASING as you can't get a SLOW-MOTION TEENAGE ANGST ROCK-BALLAD MONTAGE in that short a time.

BRANDON returns to work at THE DAILY PLANET. Even comedy sidekick SAM HUNTINGTON is a PORELESS, BEAUTIFUL CREATION. THE AUDIENCES teeth now have that feeling like they've drunk too much cherryaid, and are coated in a TART, SACCHARINE SURFACE.

MEANWHILE, somewhere, somehow, an EXPENSIVE CGI CATASTROPHE is unfolding. And KATE BOSWORTH is involved. Oddly the CATASTROPHE is not her NASTY HAIRPIECE she is wearing, which looks she's SCALPED A GIRL'S WORLD MAKE-UP DOLL and elastic-banded it to her head, but a PLANE falling OUT OF CONTROL! You know the one - the bit that's in all the TRAILERS.

BRANDON takes to the skies in a flurry of JOHN WILLIAMS MUSIC, before we PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT.

On the PLANE, KATE'S SEATBELT has FAILED. She's thrown against the rear of the BULKHEAD with a force that would have KILLED a lesser human. Thankfully, her THREE-PLY WOOLLEN HAT that's masquerading as HAIR seems to absorb most of the IMPACT, and she is FINE.

After we PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT, BRANDON guides the PLANE down onto a BASEBALL FIELD. You can practically HEAR all the AMERICANS in the cinema audience STANDING UP and singing the NATIONAL ANTHEM IN TEARS.

(THE REST OF) THE AUDIENCE:
Considering they spent all this money CGI-ing out Brandon's flaws, they could have gotten rid of that wig line going across Bosworth's forehead. Look at it! It looks like the top of her bonce is going to flip up and open in a swift gust!

MEANWHILE, back at THE DAILY PLANET:

FRANK LANGELLA:
Look at these shots! They're iconic! They're great! And they were shot on a cameraphone by a kid!

THE AUDIENCE:
A cameraphone with an SLR lens and 60 megapixel imagery by the look of it.

FRANK LANGELLA:
Oh shut up. We're only doing this scene so we can crowbar in the 'Is it a bird, is it a plane...' joke.

THE AUDIENCE:
Sigh. Carry on.

We PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT.


MEANWHILE, KEVIN SPACEY is in his LIBRARY. Which happens to be on a BOAT so we can PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT as often as possible.

KEVIN SPACEY:
(throwing books around) It must be here!

PARKER POSEY:
What is it, darling? The way to defeat Brandon?

KEVIN SPACEY:
My motivation! There! Must! Be! Something! Do you know why I'm trying to defeat the Man of Steel? Do you? You must know - your character's more fleshed out than mine!

PARKER POSEY:
I dunno, hon. (files nails) Why did Lex Luthor in the previous film try to destroy him?

KEVIN SPACEY:
...because he could..?

PARKER POSEY:
Well there ya go, honey! Just go with that! I'm now off to some things. Like crying and laughing and all sorts of character things. You just stay here and do some monotonous shouting. Bless you.

MEANWHILE, we haven't had an EFFECTS-LADEN SET-PIECE for a while, so all of a sudden there is a ROBBERY.
TWO PEOPLE are about to be SHOT - but BRANDON SAVES IT JUST IN TIME!
THE CROOKS are about to GET AWAY - but BRANDON GETS THEM JUST IN TIME!
Every time SOMETHING MAJOR is about to happen, BRANDON SAVES THEM JUST IN TIME. It is HORRIBLY PREDICTABLE.

But then BRANDON is shot in the EYE by a CROOK. It BOUNCES OFF.

BRYAN SINGER:
There! That's addressed that little argument people have had for years!

THE AUDIENCE:
We can't hear you!

BRYAN SINGER:
Is John Williams' old music cues too loud?

THE AUDIENCE:
No! We just can't hear for the fanboys wanking themselves to death in the back row.

Meanwhile, CUT TO KATE BOSWORTH'S KITCHEN. Which is SPOTLESS as she barely looks like she's EATEN ANYTHING SOLID since 1987 and is a DEAD CERT for any lead role in a CARPENTERS BIOPIC.

JAMES MARSDEN:
I love you, Kate Bosworth and your bizarrely absent backside. And when you stand in flourescent light, your hair looks like its cordoury. Everything you do I am entirely understanding of. This means the audience will love me and still be understanding of your love for Brandon.

KATE bends over the KITCHEN SURFACE. There is a sound like a RUSTY HINGE.

KATE BOSWORTH:
Thank you, James Marsden. I'm just popping outside for a sneaky cigarette. This is symbolic as it shows my life has gone bad since Brandon went away, and that I'm also adept at keeping secrets from you.

JAMES MARSDEN:
Sheesh, that's laboured.

KATE BOSWORTH:
You wait until we do the fly-past on the house.

She EXITS. And goes to LIGHT UP.

This is when the MOST SURPRISING THING happens in the movie: BRANDON ROUTH wanders into a BAD PATCH OF LIGHTING.

THE AUDIENCE:
He has pores! He has bags under his eyes! He's real!

BRYAN SINGER:
Shit! Er, look at this..!

We PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT.
Then PAN BACK.

KATE BOSWORTH:
Brandon! Why did you leave us? Why did you leave me? Was the world becoming too much for you?

BRANDON ROUTH:
(kindly) No, it was simply as we had absolutely no screen chemistry together at all. Look at us. My character can't lie, can't do anything but look good and simper at you. And you're barely able to hear anything I say with that yak's pelt on your head.

KATE BOSWORTH:
Can we go flying anyway?

They FLY. KATE'S HAIR DOESN'T MOVE.
They slowly pass KATE'S HOUSE, where her family and life are. She turns to the HOUSE. She slowly turns to BRANDON. She slowly turns to the HOUSE. She slowly turns to BRANDON. She slowly turns to-

THE AUDIENCE:
We get it already! She's got to make a choice!

BRYAN SINGER:
Sorry.

We PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT.

MEANWHILE, KEVIN SPACEY is back CRUISING. With a LITTLE DOG.
On his BOAT, we'd like to stress.

KEVIN SPACEY:
I've got it! I'll blow something up to give me character! Yes! Goodbye USA, hello Spaceyville! A land populated by beautiful people having fun and walking their dog at ANY time of night! Think Gran Canaria without the hideous shopping mall! But not gay. No, not gay at all.

KATE BOSWORTH:
Ah, I have stowed away on your boat and now know your evil scheme. That was clearly thought of on the back of a fag packet in a lunch hour. Which is fine, and I respect that, because your character was obviously jotted down on the accompanying match-book. Now I, and my lovely screen son, have stowed on board to expose your evil scheme!

TRISTAN LAKE LEABU:
Mummy! One of the evil man's wigs is missing!

KATE BOSWORTH looks SHIFTY.

KEVIN SPACEY:
Ah! A foil! I capture you, Kate Bosworth and your annoyingly cute screen son, in order to force an end to this meandering picture!

He sets his PLAN IN MOTION. All of a sudden, METROPOLIS IS IN DANGER!
A SIGN falls from a BUILDING - but BRANDON SAVES IT JUST IN TIME!
Some PIPES are about to EXPLODE - but BRANDON SAVES IT JUST IN TIME!
Someone FALLS from a BUILDING - but BRANDON SAVES THEM JUST IN TIME!

The whole thing is HORRIBLY REPETITIVE, so we PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT.

THE AUDIENCE:
Oh for god's sake, will this ever end?

So BRANDON arrives on SPACEY ISLAND. In between the 'Bed Bath and Beyond' outlet and a charming bar called 'The Man Hole'. They FIGHT. But lo! BRANDON is weakened by KRYPTONITE - like we didn't think that was going to happen - and KEVIN SPACEY almost WINS.

But then! Slowly! BRANDON ROUTH slowly gets BACK HIS POWER and FIGHTS BACK, and TRIUMPHS.

The whole thing is HORRIBLY PREDICTABLE, so we PAN BACK from the ACTION to a BEAUTIFUL AND ELABORATE CGI SHOT.

THE AUDIENCE:
Is that it?

BRYAN SINGER:
Wait - I'll give you a tacked-on campy scene with Kevin Spacey and Parker Posey on a desert island!

THE AUDIENCE:
But... the ending..? It's really just... well.

BRYAN SINGER:
It's how they did it in the old glorious films back in the 70s!

THE AUDIENCE:
Oh for goodness sake. We've evolved since then. And that bit on the beach at the end - was that really Spacey, Posey and that little dog?

BRYAN SINGER:
Yes, why?

THE AUDIENCE:
Not sure. It was just a tiny, bedraggled, wet-looking mop. We were just wondering what had happened to Kate's wig...


THE END.