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

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

One A Night

Someone was asking me about the etiquette of the one-night stand.

Only because she'd never done it. It had taken a crowbar to pry her legs apart in college, and when the football captain had finally got his wicked way with her (the lucky cat) they'd practically slammed back shut with the force of a mousetrap.

As Gentlemen Who Have Pretended to Be Stockard Channing Singing 'There Are Worse Things I Could Do' At Least Once In Their Lives, we find it somewhat easier to have 'le petit shag' one supposes. As men, we're genetically geared to spread our seed as much as possible; so get two men together, and the seed's practically going to be crop-sprayed around the room if you know what I'm saying.

But what to do afterwards was the source of conjecture; there's the whole argument about whether you should let them stay over. Personally, I'm against this. Just because of the space issues, and certainly not for the commitment. Wll there's a whole raft of beauty regimes to be done before we Gentlemen can turn in for the night, and you can't really whip out your Nivea Q10 and apply in front of someone you've just convinced you're more manly than Colin Farrell, done by growling during sex, slapping them about a bit and rememberingnot to call them 'dearie' when you're offering them the prerequisite cuppa beforehand.

And besides. Forgive me, but two gentlemen equals twice the mess. At least you can kick them out and stand more chance to find some area of the bed that isn't the wet patch - though in most cases your bedding will look like someone's flicked a bag of melted marshmallows all over your valance.

The argument for letting any passing trade prop up your pillows all night is that you may get another pop at it in the morning. This depends on certain factors that one may take into account beforehand: what if they snore? What if they talk in their sleep? And the cardinal sin, what if they saw you first thing in the morning without your hair done? There is always a sly shuffling to the bathroom first thing of a morning during the first faltering steps into any gay relationship - hair is done, spots covered and teeth cleaned, all to pop back under the duvet to appear to wake fresh as a pansy. Do you really want to go to all that effort for someone you've picked up in your local supermarket. Not even a bar. The beans isle of your Aldi.

Saying all this, there is one factor that'll sways this for me: penis size. Now I'm not a size queen by any length (ha!) but isn't it nice to find one that just... well, fits? Oh, I've had some cocks in my time that have been far too big. One... I didn't know whether to suck it or throw it over my shoulder like a kicky shawl. Those gentlemen are shown the door pretty sharpish with their tail literally between their legs. Indeed, to get rid of said shag, always follow up with 'Oh no, you don't have to go'. Phrase in the same manner as being confronted by a Big Issue vendor, or maybe Charlene Spiteri begging for her life. They'll get the message.

After all that, my friend from college was somewhat agog by this; the mere idea of 'coming and going' just didn't sit with her at all. She wanted romance, flowers, and considered any man who even saw her in her sports bra to be considering engagement, or at least a long dating period including a viewing of one or more of Drew Barrymore's romantic comedies.

I said she was the sick one.

And that's coming from me: I don't mind what they do as long as they roll my nightie back down once they've done, and left £50 in Luncheon Vouchers on the sideboard.

Monday, February 26, 2007

T.L.A.

You'd think as a detail-obsessed virgo that I'd be pretty good at acronyms. But no. I *always* get NTSC and NSFW mixed up.

Still, it made for somewhat hilarious circumstances when I was put in charge of operating the projector at the last company do.

Thursday, February 22, 2007

The Tooth Will Out

I just lost a crown while on the treadmill at the gym.

Nothing to do with teeth. An actual crown.

I'm kidding, I did actually loose half a tooth. There I was, chewing away at a power bar when I thought 'This is a little on the crunchy side for a delicious, high-protein work-out enhancer' when the next thing I know, my chewing action sounds like a horse on gravel and there's a hole in my molar you could fit celebrity porker Joaquin Phoenix through. I went through the usual panic very quickly: was I meant to put the tooth in milk to save it? Well, I'd accidentally swallowed most of it, and besides, we'd only got soya milk in, and frankly that's got the use and viscosity of your fourth ejaculation of the day. You know - mostly water with slightly lumpy bits to it.

The bit that I did cough up, some part of me wanted to put it under my pillow as I dialled the local dentist. Mostly to see what cash kids are getting these days - it was 20p when I was a youngster. Is the tooth fairy index-linked? Parents, feel free to comment on what you leave your kids. Me, I've never believed in the tooth fairy anyway after one night when my mother was trying to retrieve my milk teeth late one night and making such a botch of it she woke me up. And these days, the only fairies I have in my bedroom tend to be the ones that wipe their cock on my valance when they're done and leave a £50 on the side, not a shiny new coin and a note to stop eating chocolate. Although one punter did say that to me once. So I hit him with his zimmer and stole his pension book and bought more ice-cream. Hey, what goes around...

So now I've got a temporary filling and a slight swelling to the gum. But as always when you have something foreign in your mouth, you can't help but probe it with your tongue (and by 'foreign' I've had French, German, Spanish, Eskimo - the whole set) So as I sit, dictating this to you from my glamorous chaise-lounge, I can only think of long afternoons ahead of me, with my handsome dentist leaning over my prone body with his tool in his hand, telling me he's going to drill me to within an inch of my life.

If I were wearing pearls, I would clutch them.


(pause)

Bet you're all wondering what an Eskimo's like in bed, ain't ya?

Grin.

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

You Know...

...sometimes you have to chain yourself to your keyboard to get wring the jokes out of the headlines.

And sometimes they just write themselves.

Tuesday, February 20, 2007

To Baldly Go

When someone says 'come and see Britney shaved!' you normally expect some dodgy pap shot of her minge as it is dragged across the floor of some limo. But not this time - the girl's finally gone mad.

Now, we Gentlemen Who Can't Catch do like a faded idol. Although there are rules to this, which I shall explain in a moment. In this case lets take Dame Britney (though you'd need a pick-up truck if you were going to take her far these days). A few years back, she was a top-of-her-game pop princess. Could get away wearing PVC outfits in videos and singing songs about being so bored with being a star. Her with Madonna; oh we lapped it up like a lesbian in a fish restaurant. But then, there's a weird tipping point where her antics off stage become more interesting than her PVC pop productions; where nobody is really buying her records because they want to see whether she'll drop her son on his head again as she runs down a hotel corridor.

We, the Gentlemen, do forgive such things. We have a bit more of a tolerance for fallen ladies of pop (else why else would be Dannii Minogue be buzzing around the gay clubs desperate to perform? We're the only ones who'll give her the time of day) so any shenanigans with an unfaithful husband and a bit of drink and we're all going to clutch our pearls and go 'Oh we know honey, we know...' We like a bit of drama. A bit of pathos. A bit of oh-no-my-husband's-run-away-with-a-stripper, tell-you-what-I'll-release-a-kicking-pop-tune-in-retaliation. Do this, and you're well on your way to capturing the gay's hearts. But with Britney, she didn't take that step. In fact, she didn't even break off her relationship so we, her adoring public, got tired with her marriage before she did.

The painful exception to the Gays Loving A Faded Diva rule is one who comes back with a dramatic new look and a big cloud of expectation, only to fall back into wherever they came from. For example, Whitney. She's making her Big Comeback every time she manages to buy some new wigs and get her false teeth in. You're dangerously close to being a bit Paris Hilton here; she is Schrodinger's Celebrity - someone who doesn't exist unless a camera is pointed at her. We hope that one day, the clutch of photographers following her around will turn away all at once and she'll disappear with a puff and a cry of 'I'll get you, my pretties'.

The rule is you only get one stab at a comeback every ten years. Dame Britney should 'retire' for a few years, go back to the simple life. Then burst back in her mid-thirties as a high-haired diva singing about how fucking awful men are, but she'll give 'em a try. Oh we'll lap that up.

Though she should definitely not try and trade on being sexy. She's gone waaay too far the other way. When she first started out, there was a schoolgirl mystique about her that had the paedophiles across the States rubbing their trousers and hanging around the Girl Guide huts. But she will never be sexy again. Never. Every man who fantasised about her school-girl charm are now far too intimately acquainted too many shots of her chugging a Pepsi and waddling to her SUV in sweats; the idea of her being a chubby, drunken cock-vaulting harlot who's popped out a couple of sprogs. Her minky's going to look like a ripped-out fireplace. Not that enticing, is it?

So, Britney, we'll hopefully see you in a few years. And if you flash anything that's shaved, we'll have to see you ten years after that, won't we? Hmm?

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Faster, Smarter, More Common

Joy upon joys, they're apparently bringing 'The Bionic Woman' back! Do you know what this means? Oh yes! More Jamie Summers dolls to 'confuse' young boys!

Did you know that they didn't want to call the original show 'The Six Million Dollar Woman' because it apparently made her sound like a prostitute? Good lord, if you consider back in the Seventies that's a whole lot of moolah for a little bit of lady-plunging. Even these days, would you spend that much on getting a bit of action with Lindsay Wagner?

Well, no because a) she's like royalty to us, b) her snatch would be like a busy mother's leather holdall, and c) we're all gay and the mere idea of waving our wands over any wizard's sleeve is enough to make us clutch our foreheads and swoon, only to be revived by a quick marathon of 'Designing Women' and a low-carb grain bar. So it's a daft notion in the first place.

Now, while this looks like a complete sham from the actress's agent, this new bionic heroine (probably worth six billion by now) comes from our own fair shores of the UK where she's best known for a role in long-time depressing soap 'EastEnders'. It's one of those poorly-acted drama where there are far too many kitchen products are on display and all the actors are seemingly on barbiturates. You know, one of those roles that Sally Fields just loves to play in a dowdy cardigan.

Here's a shot of the new girl, Michelle Ryan. Doesn't she look sweet?



We wish Michelle all the best of luck, but we have to ask: over six billion dollars are going to be spent on you. Make sure they fix that enormous forehead of yours. Cause if they don't and the show starts flagging mid-season, it's the first place the network are going to sell advertising space.

Friday, February 09, 2007

Sofas in Heaven

Poor Anna-Anna-Anna-Nicole. She was so outrageous.

Almost all of these celebrities who are famous-for-just-being-famous get my back up; in fact, you can almost hear Paris Hilton plotting some bizarre health scare because she's been out of the headlines today because of this. But Anna-Nicole, for some reason, I had a bit of a soft spot for.

I only knew her through watching her TV show, which was, as far as I can see, a 26-part testament to how difficult it is to buy the perfect throw cushions so of course I am going to relate. And there's the sleeping with an old man for money. What? Me? Oh yes. Just the once, but I didn't have the correct change for the parking meter and it just seemed so much easier than nipping in a shop and buying a Twix.

The thing is, with that TV show, it's fairly easy to make anyone look good in an edit. So either they'd got the teaboy to chop it all together, or Dame Anna actually was that monged out. Probably on three-hundred weight of ant poison she'd just sniffed up after someone put it in a line by the back door. If that was the case, I think when she passed, it was peacefully as she won't have felt anything since 1986 at that rate. I hear that the judge wants the body preserved for a proper autopsy; frankly they'd better do it fast as I hear there are a few Columbians who may want to get hold of it. They could have two years off if they managed to empty out that cadaver. Go to the beach, make a few sit-coms. That sort of thing.

I only hope they give her a send-off she deserves. Leopard skin should be de rigor. People should be off their faces. Some woman with huge funbags should spray the crowd with champagne before falling flat on her arse, cackling like a witch. She was a good time girl, and we do like those.

Anna-Nicole, we salute you.

Monday, February 05, 2007

And Then There Are Space Cassocks...

Sorry I've been gone for so long. But you think that it's a coincidence that Ryan Reynolds has split from fiancée Alanis Morrisette in my absence? I couldn't possibly kiss and tell. Or say whether I'm named in legal proceedings by either party. But - ho! - isn't it ironic, Alanis? Isn't it? Like raaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyynnnee on your wedding day?

Which you're not going to have now are you, woman.

Now. I did want to mention Scientology after last week's post about religions. As religions are responsible for almost every war ever, we have to take our fabulous hats off to the Scientologists for so far not even bothering to pick up arms against anyone. There are two possible reasons for this - one, their faith actually does embrace every single person on this planet (and any planet up there too). Or it's just five people in Hollywood who wouldn't know how to load a gun unless a stuntman did it for them?

Secretly, I do have a soft spot for these people; they're kind of like all those A/V geek school kids who got together and put 'Jedi' as their faith; something they're going to regret whenever they're reminded of it at a school reunion. Yet, here we are, another group of god-and-space-alien-worshippers, and they don't like we Gentlemen Who Like Showtunes. Which, like Alanis says, is ironic as they have just proclaimed Tom Cruise as their Christ figure. Now I'm not going to start casting around any rumours about Mz Cruise - but anyone who chooses to take their edicts from a disipline called 'Dianetics' has to be a little bit fruity. Is it me or does that sound like an exercise video that comes with an infomercial fronted by Diane Sawyer?

And how do they know that space aliens don't like we Gays? As far as we can tell, all space ships are about fairy lights and glitter - we should be embraced! Adored! Exalted! We've all seen 'V' - there's that other Diane (yes, ironic, Alanis) who ate the hamster. She's the biggest fag hag going..!

Although the big worry is that Scientologists haven't taken up arms because they're waiting for the laser pistol and the thermal detonator to be invented. Shudder.

So there we go. Another probing and insightful look at religion. I'll be tackling world hunger next. I suppose I should stick to what I know, silly gay asides about daily life. Like after my trip away, I got back to find our washer's buggered. No idea why or how - it just won't spin. And no amount of cajoling, kicking or tinkering will make it work.

Sigh. I really should get a lesbian in - they're like the horse whisperer when it comes to white goods.