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

Friday, January 26, 2007

Windy Cassocks

This week, I've been signing a lot of petitions.

The first one was against Bindi Irwin, the child of late crocodile-botherer Steve Irwin. Not because I think her being pushed into the spotlight is cruel and opportunistic, and flagrant child labour. But because her being pushed into the spotlight is cruel because she's so damn ugly.

The second one was to endorse the Equality Bill that's heaving itself through Parliament at the moment. It's a Bill to allow everyone of a different sexuality equal rights in all matters of business and commerce. Brilliant, you may think. Well clearly not the men of the cloth who would be out burning effigies of drag queens if only they could afford the sequins.

To which we have to ask ourselves, why do Christians hate we gays so much?

Is it because we took their slogan of 'loving your fellow man' and ran with it?

For a section of people who are trying to promote world peace and brotherly love, they're a bunch of miserable, xenophobic, homophobic zealots, aren't they? Several high-placed people in the church have stepped forward and condemned this Equality Bill, claiming that it's wrong and people can't practice their beliefs correctly. Churches are uniting to close orphanages in case the children get placed with gay couples, and are baying that Christian printers will now have to print gay literature - by law. Good lord, do they know how ridiculous it is? Can you honestly imagine that we'd deliberately go to a Christian printers to get our 'propaganda' (their words) printed? No, we'd support our own. And only go to them if we were printing lots of humongous cocks, as that'd really blow the wind up their cassocks.

Despite that, we gays have no evil agenda. We really don't. We only exist as a people to pretty the world up a bit and show people that yes you can be a man and moisturise. We don't want to rape your children. We don't want to drug you and have sex with us. The worst we're going to do is bitch about your hair and support bad pop music. That's it. Honestly, there are much more... 'difficult' races out there in the world today, but the Christians won't go near them as they've got guns, beards, and are bigger than them. So all this hatred from them seems to me to be picking on the smaller kids.

And I wish it would stop, although my ideal of world peace is inherited from my old RE teacher, who was convinced we'd all get along marvelously regardless of religion, race or creed, if we all learned to say 'Thank you' and not push in front of each other in the lunch queue. My big bug bear is that Jesus consorted with prostitutes and lepers and seemed fine; you're telling me that any Gentlemen Who Used The Red Sea Mud For A Facepack is below that? Of course, this is all based on the Bible, a book known to have been messed about with in the 12th Century to make it much more misogynistic; maybe the Gentleman Who Wore More Fabulous Togas got short shrift too? Maybe there was a Disciple stricken from history - Damien, the thirteenth Disciple. He's the 'festive' one missing from the Last Supper, the one who supplied the tableware and wouldn't have the bread because he was on a carb-lite diet.

Still, they attack us at every turn; last year's Pride march was besieged by Christians handing out literature about how we should 'turn back to the light'. We would turn back to your light, darlings, but you've always got such hideous lampshades. Seriously, though - you carry on with this and we're going to start turning up outside your churches on a Sunday and start handing out flyers as to why our way is better; more disposable income, better sense of community, and certainly better wardrobes.

Do you know, to put it into perspective, a friend's father blames us gays for everything. Including the fall of the Greek Empire.

Are you kidding? As if we'd destroy an empire that encourages naked Olympics and same-sex bath-houses?

See. The gays. Completely misunderstood.

Monday, January 22, 2007

Hop Along

Wait, what's this note someone's pushed through? Madonna's coming back and doing a hip-hop album?

Sorry, yes - that was us rolling our heads back and laughing like a spastic on helium. Just the mere thought of this octogenarian popstrell getting down with her homies is hilarious - especially after her insistence that she's now an 'English Rose' and plastered those shots of her tramping through the woods of her London home all over the glossies; you know, the ones with a shotgun over her arm and dark green wellies up to her artificial hip. So the thought of her flashing her bling on the corner of some Harlem street is not incongruous in the slightest. For one, she's not hard enough to do hip-hop! The only reason to spend the national debt of Belgium and shell out on a ticket to watch her live is in case she falls over on stage. She'd shatter; her bones must be breadsticks these days.

And lets not forget that we Gentlemen Who Secretly Had Lace Gloves Around The Time Of Like A Virgin - we're not particularly well disposed to the hippity-hop music. And I'm not saying we have the final word on these things, or possibly even a great bearing, but I think we all took a look at what was going on with the 'American Life' album and said 'Er, honey - there's no way we're wearing a beret to go clubbing in' and the album disappeared without a trace.

I've decided that Madge is a bit like Mr Benn, trotting along to the local fancy dress store and donning that personality for a few hours before something new comes in. What we got left? She's done cowboy, disco diva, bondage and The Earth Mother act. Why there's only a moldy costume of Spiderman with a baggy crotch left.

Hmm. Her new look. You read it here first.

Friday, January 19, 2007

Pixel Gay

The Boy kindly gave me The Sims 2 a few days ago. Cynics amongst us may believe that it's because the 'World of Warcraft Expansion Pack' has just come out and he's thrown this at me to distract from his antics of digitally twatting dwarves across the screen for the coming months. Me, yes, a 'Warcraft Widow'. The shame. And me running for the Women's Guild too...

Now. I haven't played a computer game in what seems like ages; I remember Babbage's Differential Engine trouncing me at tic-tac-toe at his gentleman's club back when there was all that scandal with the chimney boys. And some Russian thing where you had to fit all the bits together (that wasn't a game, that was at the same club and I can never remember what that Russian was called). But since then the whole of the genre has passed me by. I thought 'Ratchet and Crank' was a bike repair shop run by lesbians. And thought an 'XBox 360' was something entirely different.

But when I started this game, I found an awful lot of bugs.

For one, I created a couple of Gentlemen Who Can't Digitally Catch (who may or may not be modelled on the snake-hipped beauty of the Boy and myself to see how long we could live in the same house before killing each other or trying to microwave the cat). And when you first arrive in the game, you only have enough money to buy a little rundown one-roomed hovel in the middle of nowhere. The tiles on the kitchen floors alone was enough to make the freshly topiaried hair on the back of my neck stand up. I'm sorry, but no. One of the reasons we homothexuals don't have kids is so we can have much more disposable income, buy gorgeous things at Heals, and smile sympathetically while all the time laughing behind our hand at the father who's having to maneuver the pushchair around the wardrobe department and trying to find something functional and hardwearing. And we're not just talking about the fishwife who's hanging off his arm.

So I hied it over to the net to find the cheat for the money. Then spent the next two nights building and furnishing this fabulous Georgian-style home, and doing the garden with a delightful maze and gazebo. And it's gorgeous. I'd live there. And I keep going back and tweaking, redecorating and buying more things.

Oh yes. There's apparently some game attached after this. But clearly the gays couldn't be less interested.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

Clarence

I think I want to shag Ryan Reynolds so hard his eyes would uncross.

Well, have you seen them? Those beautiful brown orbs look like he's staring at a rather nasty blackhead dead-centre on his nose. Or, as my beloved mother would say "one eye's going down the shops, the other's coming back with the change". I find it rather endearing; he looks a little simple. Like that captain of the rugby team who was a little too slow to realise what you were doing, how drunk he was, and why there were rose petals on the bed and champagne chilling in your dormitory's sink - until it was far too late. Uh, I would imagine.

In fact, whatever troubles the Boy and I go through, we will always be united in our love for Ryan. We were practically having a spiritual threesome in the foyer when presented with the poster of his new movie; they say American movies often make you want to go out and buy things - this one made us want to smooth down the duvet and check the pot pouri was topped up as we waited for the doorbell to go, all the while holding each other's hand saying 'It won't change anything, believe me'.

But back to the film. It turns out that 'Smokin' Aces' is quite good. Although clearly aching to be 'The Usual Suspects', right down to twists you see a mile off and an awful lot of limping acting going on. There seems to be a slew of violent Indie romps with limping in lately - all I shall say is Meryl got their first and won an award for Best Supporting, so you may as well just forget about it. So 'The Usual Suspects' with limping, a shoe-string budget and a TV star-caliber cast - naming no names, but all I shall say is if 'The Love Boat' were still sailing, we'd already have our list of guest stars for this season. And you can tell its made for less money than a Diana Ross hair-do, as most of the big names are written out as soon as the cash runs low. You can hear the producer going 'Look, you can have Andy Garcia for another reel, or a whole new whore wardrobe for Alicia Keys..."

So, very enjoyable, which is odd because it barely registers on the Naked-Ryan-O-Meter ('Blade III' gets an '8' for that topless scene and allusions that he sleeps with older men; the usher had to escort me out of the theatre for biting the hat of the woman in front of me at that bit). But this film? A '2' at best. He nary takes off anything - not even a sock. All I shall say is there were two Gentlemen Who Can Recite Any Dynasty Catfight with their nails embedded in the arm-rests, poised - I say poised - for a bit of chest, maybe a hint of butt, and all we got was some sweaty shirt and an unkempt beard.

And, frankly, if I were attracted to that, I'd be licking the mirror whenever I had a hangover.

Friday, January 12, 2007

The Glitz, The Glamour

Recently I was nominated in the Pink Paper's Readers Awards in the Category of 'Best Blog'. Prior to the nomination, I never heard of this particular award, but I was still flattered and honored to be included alongside such luminaries as Matt Damon, Helen Mirren and the Mazda MX5.

Held in the glamorous surroundings of Forest Hill's Harvester restaurant, where they'd gone to great lengths to hide the plastic tablecloths and 'Please Don't Let Your Child Play On The Fruit Machine' signs with perky displays of foxglove and baby's breath. I'd braced myself for swathes of paparazzi on the entrance, even smearing myself in Avon's Non-Shine Foundation Whip, but to no avail, so I just got my partner for the evening, the Boy, to run around me a few times with an Instamatic and annoy some of the other guests before taking my place alongside my fellow bloggers.

And I have to say, though I'm terribly biased, ours was certainly the best-behaved table, or certainly the best dressed. All I shall comment about the 'Best Sports Group' was there was a terrible wiff of Lynx and TK Maxx, even though my paper napkin. And bless the table for 'Best Clubs in the Midlands or East' - they turned up in an awful lot of man-made fibers, which made for daring and compelling viewing whenever one of them reached over the candle centerpiece for a low-sodium cracker dip. Oh and all the girls from 'Best Lesbian Gift Shop' - the shoulder-pad-blazer-on-a-woman-look went out with Coke Tab and Jan Leeming's first nervous breakdown.

Still, I did notice the Ladies What Lick had made an impressive set of shelves out of the breadsticks during the category of 'Best Moisturiser to Use After Waking Up in a Gutter After Being Kicked Out Of G-A-Y at 4am'. Perhaps it's like magpies building nests - they just can't help themselves when they're near any construction material.

There was a bizarre mixture of camaraderie and tension between all us fellow bloggers, where we'd generously ask each other questions like what was used to power their blog (a lot of polite laughter when I said 'vodka') and what the hit count was, each inflated by ten-thousand each. But there were also a lot of fixed grins and false hand-holding, rather like a Miss Teen USA competition where you can tell they're just dying to rip out each other's false nails. Which would make for fair more entertaining telly, I know. But I resolved to thank each and every other person on the table when I went up to accept the award.

I leaned in close and asked if the Boy thought I was over-dressed, but he said no. A full-length satin dress was de regur for any awards ceremony, even if we were next to a ball pit and an indecent amount of child's spit-up on the floor. So I pulled up my satin opera gloves and politely applauded the next category, lost in a whirl of possibility. As it got to our results, I could think of nothing I'd want more than that A4 laser-printed award in an Athena clip-frame, and how gorgeous it would be above my desk next to the signed Kate Mulgrew and diagram of the security system of Ryan Reynold's house. I could think of nothing else I needed from life, other than to be on the stage there with my fellow nominees in our swimsuits, being asked by Richard Arnold what five words best sum up our personality. I was away in my reverie and lost in a beautiful fantasy world, rather like that in Buck's Fizz's video for 'The Land of Make Believe', and the Boy had to keep nudging me to applaud.

All too soon it was time for our category; every other entry had a little video clip accompanying the nomination played out on a portable television (though why everyone hissed and booed when Rosie O'Donnell appeared seemed a little harsh I thought) but clearly we, as bloggers, had no television presence so they were content to flash up candid snaps nicked from each of our Flickr accounts. I'll never forgive them for using that one of me cackling so hard you can see the bagel sticking to my back teeth, but the Boy thought it summed me up perfectly: always laughing at my own jokes and completely Jewish with money. I shunned him slightly and smoothed down my dress, ready to walk graciously to the stage.

So you can imagine my surprise when I wasn't named as winner.

I can't remember who came first, I was still in shock. I recall wondering what sort of a name is that for a blog and you'd never get it in a search engine for love nor money. What had happened was Glitter for Brains was voted second out of the group - and then the Zen-like state descended upon me: I'd come second in a national blogging contest. Second, out of all those people who write marvelous and clever blogs which I still think are ten-times better than mine. I whispered a silent thanks to every one of the readers who had taken the time to vote for this garishly pink blog, and beamed a smile.

We decided we wouldn't stay for the rest of the categories: oddly I didn't care much to find out who was the winner in 'World Sexiest Woman'. So the Boy escorted me down the stairs and out of the front doors.

"Are you disappointed?" he asked, clutching my hand.

I breathed the night air in a bit. "A little. But nothing a family tub of Haagen-Dazs won't fix."

"You'll get spots."

"Fuck it. It's a blog, no-one sees you anyway."

"Well. Gold screams success," he said philosophically. "Silver whispers it," and we had a jolly old laugh about seeing Martina Navratilova sitting on the floor and eating with her fingers.

I paused on getting into our taxi, hand on hip. "You know. Maybe it's really like a beauty contest, and if the winner is unfit, the second place has to carry out their duties..."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," I said. "Back in a minute."

"Lee," he said sternly as I gently placed down my Dior handbag and ran back through the doors in my heels. "Lee! Get back here! And put that ice sculpture down of Moria Stewart! You're only going to get into serious trouble..!"

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Programmed to Snooze

Insomnia.

You know the worst thing about it? Not the laying awake at 3am with the song going around in your head, or the one blessed thought cycling around. And for that matter, it's never a pleasant thought, like being trapped on a desert island with Ryan Reynolds and Ben Browder, and they're all like 'So who's the hot guy with the beard and the tasteful line in Abercrombe beachwear? For we are now gay after that hit on the head when our catamaran capsized.' And I'm all 'Please! Guys! You'll damage my new Dior belt if you both go at me like that - let's do it one at a time. At least until I get used to the idea because I do have a boyfriend back home - who will never find anyone else because I would kill him - and besides, Ben can start on our shelter, which will have a sundeck, games room and garbage disposal.' I tell you, if that thought also included free gym membership and a ticket to the Island's Oscars, I may never come around.

No, the worst thing about having insomnia is rolling up at your work, looking like shite. And when asked what the problem is, you say that you didn't get any sleep last night.and then they go 'Oh really? Oh, I slept like a baby last night! All the way through!'

Fuckers.

Frankly, that's just cruel. It's like going up to that pig-ugly girl in the office who's barely keeping it together and saying 'You're still a virgin? Good god, I've had fifteen men up me in the last week alone! I tell you, I can't even sit down on a bar stool in case I just simply slide right down the length of it!'

And, though appreciated, don't come to me with 'cures' in the suggestions box - I've tried everything. Drink, sex, drugs, breathing exercises and whale song - I've tried them all. And on one occasion, all together; it was like I was a flaky secretary conceiving and giving birth all condensed down in three hours.

Although my latest stab at sleep is hypnosis, thanks to my good friend Jonathan. Now I've been hypnotised a few times, once to be regressed, and once to remember Balthazar Getty's phone number (I saw him once writing it on a napkin for a fan). Not because I wanted a date, just drop him a voice mail to sort out that bizarre eyebrow of his. But anyway, back to the story: Jonathan took me under and started all the neuro-linguistic programming that I'd need to drop off at night, talking me down some imaginary steps to the bottom, where upon I would fall asleep. On the way down, he told me to imagine a sleep hat that I could place on my head and instantly feel tired. All well and good; but you know me and hats. As soon as I imagined a lovely hat in my hands, it was a glorious three-foot number in red taffeta with a bird cage, sparkles and fireworks ready to go off any moment. My first thought was 'I can't sleep in this..!' clearly defeating the object.

But anyway! The whole hypnosis thing seems to be working. I can now get back to sleep a heck of a lot faster than before, though I do still wake up every few hours. It's just unfortunate that he's tied the sleep-trigger to the image of me going downstairs - I ran down the escalators to the Tube this morning, and passed out into someone's trio of Samsonites.

Still, it killed an hour...

Monday, January 08, 2007

The Glitter For Brains Review of The Year!

2006. What a bizarre year this was. Did anyone get out of it unscathed? Well, clearly Lindsay Lohan aside - what is that woman, Teflon? She can bitch and whine and slowly implode in a cloud of lunacy, but she's still getting the roles. Madness. But for the rest of we mere mortals, 2006 was a year of change, drama, and no-one watching Desperate Housewives. Lets take an glittering look at what went on, shall we?


Film of the Year
For the first time this year, we truly cared about the Oscars. We know - as a fully card-carrying Gentleman Who Applauds Jodie Foster's Apparently Single Lifestyle, we're meant to be up and watching every year. But frankly its on 3am in the morning here in the UK. And no matter the promise of a parade of fabulous frocks, or maybe a hint of Ryan Reynolds in a tux is going to lever us out from under our duvet while it's darker outside than John Malkovich's under-crackers. What? Well. What can we say - he just looks grubby.

Why we were caring about the Oscars? In our honest opinion 'Brokeback Mountain' should have won best film. But noooo. Stupid silly Hollywood went for 'Crash' instead.

I was distressed. No more so distressing than Rachel Weisz's hideous just-got-off-the-Mayflower outfit, or that Theron woman's nasty mall perm. And while we're on the point, why do they invite Matt Dillon to these events? He's never going to win anything. It's a bit like inviting Paris Hilton to the MENSA coffee morning - though I'd love to see where that'd go when they ask her whether she's experienced any Balzac.

Anyway, film of the year? It was a bit of a dearth, wasn't it? Come on, when someone starts swinging around 'Garfield 2: A Tale of Two Kitties', you know you're in trouble. So I'm going to have to go for the laugh-out-loud 'Over The Hedge' because it made me snort my Galaxy Caramel down my nose, followed by 'Casino Royale'. Because every blockbuster should have Dame Judy Dench in it.


Worst Film of the Year
Superman Returns.
I know, I know. It had bright, shiny cast with bright shiny skin, and bright shiny story - all ingredients that usually bedazzle we Gentlemen Who Like Showtunes. But honestly, Rachel Weisz's Oscar dress hung together better, and we came out of the theatre feeling almost as hollow as Kate Moss after a visit by the All-Black rugby team. Nil points!


Man Alive!
And what a dirth of gentlemen to idolise there has been too! I mean, not personally - I decided a bit of catch-up after my four year hiatus and proceeded to have more pricks than a second-hand dartboard. But TV and movie-wise, what did we have? Nothing! There's a bit of a stirring over the BBC's new Robin Hood (I did some touching up of some pictures of him, and I can say he dresses to the left. VERY far to the left) and maybe Helo in the new Battlestar Galactica could rattle the bars of our cage. As a result, we're just going to have to go for Brad Pitt. Because we haven't nominated him before, and he still has a smile that can cause the onset of puberty. And in 2007, he's going to be playing a dual role in a movie with himself. We tell you, if there's even a hint of a sex scene between the two of them, the usherette is going to have to pry our teeth off the seat in front with a crowbar.

Slipping Under:
We have to mention Vince Vaughan. Not because we'd ever want to ride his love-pipe, but we could appreciate that he had a certain something a few years back. Well, recently, those 'certain something' has been all the pies he can cram into his smug-looking trap. That man is huge! And what in heaven's name is Aniston woman doing with him - we mean, from Pitt to that?! Someone check her fingers for splinters, cause she's been scraping the bottom of the barrel like buggery.


Downturn of the Year
Poor old Martine McCutcheon. 2005, she was still enjoying being the darling of the stage and had the lead role in a very successful British film. Then all of a sudden it goes a bit quiet from Miss McClutchbag, with only a guest role in ropey fantasy-drama Spooks to bulk out her CV. Which was fine because we, the British public, had long suspected she was a bit of a bitch underneath that 'corks lummy, how did little-ol'-me get this far?' act she was trying to project, so any time she was off our screens was welcome. We at Glitter For Brains hoped she was simply taking the time out to sort out that rather distracting visible facial hair problem she has.

But still, by the end of 2006 a rather fabulous nothing from her. In fact, we hear she can be found outside The Albany Theatre, begging for walk-ons these days.

An honorary mention goes to Tom Cruise, who almost got the Worst Film accolade for Mission: Impossible III, only we didn't go and see it. And neither really did anyone else, showing we're all blissfully sick of his sofa-antics and the bizarre marriage to bladder-on-a-stick Holmes. He's clearly madder than John Malkovich (John, darling, we know that hemp clothing makes you feel morally superior, but it looks itchier than a night down the Gentleman's Recreational Health Club and it's a bitch to accessorize with, unless you count sack-cloth) and so Paramount are suing him for '15% loss of expected earnings' after his mad outbursts about all and sundry.

So we would give him the award, but actually we don't believe he exists, can be treated with vitamin pills, and is a scientific implausibility. Now lets all join hands and worship the mothership.


Album of the Year
Did anything decent come out in 2006? We mean, Madge's Confessions was late 2005, and even stalwarts Girls Aloud gave up the ghost with a Greatest Hits compilation stuffed with b-side rejects to more padded out than Nicola's bra. So who's left? Gnarls Barkley? Do cock off. Instead, we give a joint award to The Puppini Sisters and The Pippettes, for reminding us that old-style swing and 50s rock can be cool.


Success of the Year
All hail Dame Kylie! Back on tour, and even madder than ever. We had the delightful opportunity of witnessing her new tour; it's as if she's gone "Bugger me, I almost died - so fuck it! Get out the glitter and feathers, I'm back!.

Oh lord, imagine if Dame Kylie had finally hung up her silver space heels, - Gentlemen Who Moisturise across the land would have been inconsolable. There'd be a national gay day of mourning, and lord help you if you were after a haircut or a decent latte if that happens. So we are all deliriously happy that she's back and on tour - let us raise our drink to her beating breast cancer!

Just the one cup, though. Grin.


Highlights, Lowlights, and Perms.
Well, I met David Tennant this year. A real gentleman, and terribly interested in what I did - right up until I slammed his trailer door in his face. Whoops. My card's marked there.

I've gone freelance, meaning now I'm parachuted into places that need things prettying up. I'm like a gay superhero. With crayons.

I lost a great person when my four-year relationship went tits up somewhat unexpectedly to both of us. I still miss him and I hope he's doing well this year.

But I gained a comedy co-star with my new beau, who's currently wowing all my friends with how wonderful he is.

I'm up for another award (this is just daft) and you can still vote. Oh go on. Do.

And, naturally, I'd like to thank you all for reading another year. You, yes you, are lovely.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Midnight Covered In Pints

Don't forget! Vote for Glitter for Brains in the Pink Paper's Awards! Click here for details!



Happy new year to you all, dear viewers!

I do hope you saw yours in with a bang. I saw mine in on London Bridge, watching the fireworks and avoiding all the foreigners having a brave but futile stab at that Auld Lang business - darlings, we don't know the words and we've had over two centuries of it. It was a quiet end to a turbulent year and I was glad to be sailing through it all and was home within 20 minutes. That's what I like; I'm getting far too old to be out past midnight these days and besides, I'd had all my drama the previous night when I was thrown out of a pub.

Now, I'm as surprised as you, darling viewer, to realize that this has never happened before. Probably because I'm often found with faded feathers in my hair, in the dress I used to wear, sitting there so refined and drinking myself half-blind that I thought I was in a brawl with Tony and Rico and his big diamond thirty years ago. Oh well. It also turns out that I've never been to Club Tropicana either, dammit. Curse you, The Eighties.

You don't need to know the whole details, other than there wasn't a Lady What Uses Power Tools involved at all. I know! Yet another surprise - I do believe that most of my Lezbee friends don't think they've had their money's worth in a club less they've smashed some pint glasses and been punched in the tit by an ex-girlfriend. I'm not one to judge, but I like to think you can have a much more positive end to an evening. I tend to treat my final moments in a bar pretty much the same way I am post-coital: fix my hair, throw a couple of notes down in front of whoever was serving me, before walking out to a standing ovation.

But not this night, no. Due to various friends leaving early I'd been maneuvered onto a table with three complete strangers who somehow we'd got chatting to. The pre-New Years Eve bonne homme was clearly flowing early and these three were tourists who'd only come over after they'd packed their clich├ęs: one was a squeaky-voiced, big-breasted fag-hag, one was a snippy gay with tonsured hair and flint eyes, and the other was an overly-cheerful chap from the Orient. He was called Michael, and while I chatted on to the latter, the former duo started a bit of a to-do with the gentlemen on the table next to us. I'm not sure how it started. Something about a jacket. But then the words got more colourful, and someone got slapped and a bouncer came over. Then there was drinks flying over everyone, someone was on the floor, the jukebox screeched to a halt and I was grasped by the collar and manhandled out, protesting heartily.

And the next thing I knew I was contemplating the pavement while the large-jugged, squeaky one suddenly became a vengeful banshee covered in Carlsberg, hammering on the windows and screaming blue murder. 'What larks!' thought I as I rolled over and got up, listening to the crashes and screams behind me as I walked on slowly to the tube station. No point sticking around, I didn't know them from Adam.

For some reason I started grinning as I heard a police siren wail in the distance, so I put 'Murder on the Dancefloor' on my iPod and skipped home.