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

Thursday, June 28, 2007

The Horror of No Kleenex

Now where was I? Oh yes. Many things scared me as a child. The sheer cold, vastness of the universe. The fact I may have to get married one day to Debbie Toddle just because I'd accidentally chewed the top of her My Little Pony multi-colour pen - which, in Primary School, meant we were going steady.

And dirt naturally; I remember always having to have a blanket in the back garden to sit on when I was having my tea party, ne'er venturing off into the dirt for love, money or cookies. Of course my sister was always off yomping in the long grass, down the back of the garden to the muddy bit and and licking the underside of snails, but there I would be, pouring Earl Grey for Big Ted, Little Ted and Grupo their little Spanish 'friend' - a dynamic I'd modelled on the inhabitants of a bungalow up the road who's curtains much delighted me from a distance.

And for some reason my father was utterly surprised when I turned out to be a Gentleman Who's Good With Colours.

But the thing that put the willies up me much earlier than Richard Joules while we were in Detention, the thing that absolutely mortified me as a child was this:



Well, it was the Eighties, so nothing was more terrifying than those sideways pony-tails and polka-dot ra-ra skirts, but the above clip was the one thing that gave me more nightmares than any fluorescent fashion item. Up until that point, Superman III had been skipping along, all Richard Pryor and Pamela Stephenson, and then it becomes that. Utterly horrifying. The silly comedy sidekick gets completely absorbed.

I've been thinking why it caused me to wet the bed right up until I was, well, last week frankly, and it's hard to put my french-tipped finger on. I don't think its the dehumanisation aspect - Star Trek covered that, and with the arrival of the Borg Queen and Seven of Nine (or 'Norgs of Borg' as we took to calling the top-heavy assimilant. Honestly, that woman must live on back-pain tablets...) just made being cybertized a bit camp. There you are in a rubber suit with flashing lights, covered from your bald head downwards in glistening KY jelly... you can see where I'm going with this can't you? It's not scary, it's an average night out for some of my more 'fisty' friends.

Then saying that, the original Stepford Wives makes me very uneasy too - and you don't really see what those merry housewives undergo. So is it simply that I can identify with these characters more, and that what makes it real? I mean, I've seen terrible, terrible horror films and they do little for me. But combine horror with housework and I'm a gibbering wreck.

So back to Vera Webster and her cyber-transformation. Why so scary? It's because I could identify with her. She's the camp one. She wants it all. It's because of the fight she gave. The final scream. And ultimately, the frizzy hair and pale skin she has when she emerges.

And frankly, that's what's horrifying above all.



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Another addendum. Bob of BobzyerUncle fame is currently in the Big Blogger house and needs your votes. Now I like Bob cause he does a mean cocktail, so go here and vote for him. You'll get it all back in karma.

Tuesday, June 26, 2007

Creativity

I was moving the Boy this weekend; a two-day celebration as he finally moved out of that seemingly gay-only situation of living with his ex. This means I can stay over without petty arguments and me drawing moustaches on pictures of the ex - who I lovingly refer to as 'the Also-Ran'. I mean, I'd draw moustaches on the photos of the ex's mother scattered about the place, but she really doesn't need any of my help.

Oh yes, I did everything to help - lifting, moving, cleaning - the lot. Admittedly it was not the first weekend I've spent on my knees, working away, but it was the first where I'd come back covered in Cillit Bang and with housemaid's knee. And I tell you, dear reader, that's love that is because it's simply perilous at my age and I may never do the one-two-splits in the am-dram production of Bernard Shaw's 'The Dark Lady of Sonnets' again. Well, its very integral to the final act of the first half I think you'll find.

"What I like about you," said the Boy as we sat around in his lovely new lounge "is that you're creative. You're always thinking of the details." I think meaning that while he was lifting the heavy stuff I was thinking about where his Lichtenstein prints would catch the morning light the best. Well, yes I've always been creative, I suppose, but at the moment the word has all sorts of connotations. Some of them not pleasant.

I mean my day job is a graphic designer. Oh lord, please don't tell the tax people; I'm registered as playing the piano in a brothel as the tax cuts are marvellous. And with typical poor timing, I just told my mother that my day job actually involves earning a living with crayons, rather than hammering out 'Knees Up Mother Brown' when some client comes out particularly victorious. In a typical motherly way, she now thinks I'm responsible for every piece of design going at the moment, including that shocking TISWAS logo that we have for the 2012 Olympic games.

As a result she keeps ringing me up and asking what the hell I was drinking the night before I came up with that. It's taken several irate phone calls to state that I'd have gone nowhere near that logo, my loves. It wards off designers like garlic to a vampire.

We did get chatting about what I would have done if I'd got the chance. We narrowed it down to a few options: firstly I'd have taken the money and ran. Faaaar away.Secondly, I'd have just spent the time sketching the male swim team in their Speedos for inspiration, you understand. Or thirdly, I'd have just drawn a big red circle with a line through it in a 'Keep Away, Boring Sport'-inspired motif. I mean, gays and sport? We know nothing. That's why they gave it to the straight designers and it came out like someone had tipped a load of neon Fuzzy Felts on the crazy glue.

Of course creative types beget creativity, although recently someone asked me whether I was 'creative' in bed. Clearly I didn't know what to say, but the answer he was not expecting was "Well I've done wonders with bolster pillows and I find an accent on the valance really brings out your Laura Ashley..." It turns out apparently we 'creative types' are well known for throwing ourselves into the deep end of sin. With Pride coming up, you're expected to be out there in a pair of arseless leather chaps with all sorts of things clasped to anything that dangles.To be honest I wouldn't know what a nipple clamp was. If one came to me in the post, I'd just assume that Heals had sent through a new sample of the picture holder that they're stocking.

No, these days I get my kicks from full-fat yogurt and damn the consequences!

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A huge shout out to Cameron (was it Cameron? I apologise if not - I was several sheets to the wind on neat rum by that point) who came over and introduced himself and shook my hand on Friday night, saying he was an avid reader. Made my night that did. Aww.

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

Here Comes The Space Bride

I wish I knew more about Scientology. But all I know is people stopping me in the street and asking me for a stress test, and what Tom Cruise forcing down the throats of his co-stars (well, everyone except Katie Holmes, natch. I'd pity her, but she made her single bed, she can lie in it).

What is that stress test anyway? One woman stopped me by Goodge Street Tube and asked if I'd like to take one. "Do I look stressed?" I asked, indignant. She sized me up and said "Actually no, you look hungover." So I shot her a look, swirled my cape around me and stalked over the road into Habitat; I needed the feel of mid-range wood products around me to centre myself after that, I can tell you.

So Tom Cruise has ascended (I bet that's the word they use) to being their high priest, and this means he can perform marriages in Scientology terms - as apparently he will do for friend James Packer soon. Now, for me, Scientology is just one step away from putting 'Jedi' on your application form, so is getting married in the Church of Cruise even legal? I mean, this religion is based on the scribblings of a right-wing menace with a sci-fi fixation, so I can imagine how the service will be: all skin-tight white Lycra and ray-guns, and Cruise will come down from the ceiling in a big laser display before the space-bride and hyper-groom touch elbows and pretend to rip their faces off like Diana from 'V', now meaning they're married. The reception after being like The Rah Band's Clouds Across the Moon.

Look at that. Fabulous.

Of course, if this goes ahead, this'll mean that Scientology is indeed forward thinking if it lets in gay priests (just ducking for the incoming lawsuit, there.) I've had a quick look up at what they think of we Gentlemen Who Admire Bette Midler For Her Acting Skills As Well As Her Singing, and it's all rather unfortunate. Scientologists see us as 'hypocrites' and 'turncoats' - the very subversive creatures that'll bring down Governments and countries. Uh, how exactly? No, really - how? Take your fingers out of your ears and tell me exactly how we're going to do this, please. Because if we had this power, by Cher, we would have used it to some extent - if only to have brought back 'Cagney and Lacey'.

From the Scientology book 'How To Choose Your People' it claims that:

"Homosexuals don't practice love... Their relationships consist of: 1) brief, sordid and impersonal meetings or 2) longer arrangements punctuated by dramatic tirades, discords, jealousies and frequent infidelity. It could hardly be otherwise since the tone is made up of suspicion and hate, producing a darling sweetness interspersed with petty peevishness. Their 'love' turns to deep contempt eventually."

I tell you, author Ruth Minshall, has probably just been reading my friend Gertie's blog. But what really gets my Abercrombie's in a twist is that this behaviour is not confined to we Gentlemen at all. Frankly, most men I know would be utterly happy with point 1) if they could get away with it, and most literature I know is based on every aspect of point 2). This is mainstream culture anyway; imagine a world where homosexuality was the dominant culture. We could equally level these observances at the heterosexual ten percent, say it's unholy, and claim its far too messy and you get another child at the end.

Although if I'm asked to imagine a world where the gays rule, I'm more inclined to picture a mad project to mirror all the continents. So when you look at the Earth from space, it looks like a giant disco ball.

The thing that gets me about Scientology is that it appears to be completely hypocritical - as per most of these religions. Organised religion is perfectly fine as a concept, but as soon as you start including people in it, it all goes to shite. Yes, yes, we know that Tom Cruise says he's happy diving around in the furry cup for years, but no smoke without a flamer, I say. But again, we can take the positive aspects and go with them: if two people do love each other, let them be joined together in matrimonial bliss.

At least this way Tom Cruise is getting his secret wish and finally gets to marry a man.

Tuesday, June 12, 2007

Paris in the Springtime II

Well, clearly Glitter for Brains has more sway than we previously thought; our plea to send Paris Hilton back to prison was heard by the deities we prey to and that straw-headed fool is back behind bars! Such is our power that I'm now sitting in a towel - fingers crossed, legs not - waiting for Ben Browder to arrive, just so we can reenact Glitter for Brains' perennial favourite porn film, 'Drill Bill'.

I shan't bang on about Paris too much - the more we do, the more we promote this silly idea that she's somehow famous. And yes, this is kicking her when she's down but lets face it, the woman's one step up from a Pinata anyway - and while I have no problem of us all crowding around her and hitting her with sticks, all that would come out would be dust, hair, straw and a particularly virulent strain of VD. In fact that's one of the conspiracy theories that the net is rife with at the moment; this 'unspecified medical condition' that had her released after just three days was apparently some sort of hideous, stress-related herpes that had expanded all the way around to her back entrance. I know I should say 'exit' at that point, but you know full well that she's had more cock in her than a KFC processing plant so its 'any hole a goal', I'd wager. My mother frowns upon this naturally - while she's fine with we Gentlemen Who Know The Films of Reece Witherspoon and their bedroom shenanigans, but she feels ladies who indulge are just grubby: "If the Lord wanted you to go in that way, he'd have put the welcome mat at the back," she says.

So a strain of the Galloping Green Gash Rot that is almost life-threatening? Well, it sounds like Paris Hilton - the woman's so virulent that, personally, I'd rather take my chances shagging a hornet's nest. But that's not all on the conspiracy front: the other X-File that's opened regards Paris' pre-arrest antics; did we all notice how calm she was at the MTV Awards the night before she was sent down? The theory goes that she knew that she was only going to be in for three days due to the sheriff who owns the jail being big friends with the Hollywood community. He's accepted donations from Paris's grandfather in the past, as well as other celebs; he was the guy who let Mel Gibson off after his anti-Semitic comments. Paris was meant to have served three days, have left, gone 'boo-hoo' to the cameras and gone under house arrest. Oh lord, if this is true it's going to make her reentry into jail as glorious as Cher's Oscars entrance in 1986. And that was so momentous that the shockwaves are still being felt through the gay community to this day. It must have measured 9.8 on the Sontag Scale and blown the wigs off drag queens across the globe.

Anyway. Paris. Now she's away for her 45 days, Paris is taking a little bit of time to 're-brand' it seems. Everyone who's spoken to her says she's "learning so much" in there. How can she learn? If you electrified some shoes and said 'Look, Paris! Free footwear!" first you'd have to explain what the word 'footwear' was, then she'd come back three hours later with hair all frizzy going "Shoes make Paris all tingly!"

My main worry is that she's going to come out of there and think she's instantly some UN Ambassador or something. She's been back in less than a week and already she's making noises to work for charities, including work for breast cancer after her gran passed away. And while I applaud the idea of charity work, may I remind you that this was the woman who wandered around with a copy of the Bible for a week before she was sent down, and when that didn't work she grabbed the first Buddhist text she could find. Having her dealing with breast cancer will result in slogans such as 'They're Not Just For Jizzing Across!' And the first advert I get with Paris Hilton going 'Hi, I'm Paris Hilton, and I'm here to talk to you about breast cancer' and my collection of Girls Aloud fashion dolls are going to be put through the telly. Not only is it going to be insulting because the way she'll dress (she's seen scientists on telly before, so will wear a lab coat, glasses and her hair up so she can let it fall down halfway through the spot) but also her tits are so small that it looks like someones papered over the light switches. And frankly, getting Paris Hilton to talk to us about breast cancer is like getting Sarah Michelle Gellar to host a seminar on how to have a successful film career after TV...

Friday, June 08, 2007

Paris in the Springtime

And so I look up from my pelvic floor exercises this morning to find that Paris Hilton has been let out of jail. I tell you, I almost spat out my martini.

Almost.

Now normally I approve of the US system of crime and punishment - although the death penalty leaves me a little confused. I'm two minds about it: one side says this is an unjustified killing of a human being, and the other side says 'Fuck me, it's Paris Hilton! I'll throw the switch and you get the marshmallows!' But now La Hilton is out after, what, three days? Due to 'unspecified health issues'? What probably happened is that some other inmate slipped her a piece of paper with 'Please Turn Over for Escape Plan' written on both sides and the poor little thing kept flipping it over for three days solid.

Paris is like the whiny bitch who everyone hated at school, so to see her thrown in a cell and all privileges removed was a joy to us all. I don't subscribe to the 'Heat' mentality of exposing celebrities' humanity at every turn (if I ever want to see 12 pages of excitable sweat patches, I'll show you my photo album of me watching Ryan Reynolds in 'Blade 3'). But this was fun as it brought some simple airhead from a rich family who thought she was better than the rest of us down to our level. I would say 'lower than us' as she's gone to jail, but I must admit to having spent some time away At Her Majesty's Pleasure due to an unfortunate incident in Fortnam and Mason, but thanks to the vagaries of the British legal system, I was back out on the street two days later with little more than a smacked bottom, a home-made tattoo and several phone numbers. To this day, I never have to buy a drink in the East End.

So the media circus rolls on with her back in the spot light. I really can't see the reason why she's even on our radar; hell to see her as a sex symbol is bad enough - I witnessed the horror of her on the cover of a magazine once 'clad' in a bikini that was basically two postage stamps and a saucy bit of string, and while I don't think we ever need to confirm that I Bowl From The Other End of the Pavilion, there was the final proof in glossy, perfect-bound glory. Ladies and gentleman, even though she'd been airbrushed to buggery, she still looked like a bony little boy with nary a boob to speak of. How is this sexy? I must admit to have seeing that sex tape of hers (well, I needed to check what was on before I taped over it with 'Rosemary and Thyme') and it wasn't very nice at all. That poor man that she's with - she's so thin that her conquest looks like he's just trying to put up a deckchair in a high wind.

And now she's out, allowed home, abet on an electronic tag. So from a 96 square foot jail cell she has moved to her home where she will have a 3000-4000ft radius of freedom - and she's still gonna think she's being hard done by. Hell, she'll probably be out on the road by noon in some deathwagon of hers. No wonder she's always crashing into stuff - she's always got those eyes half closed. I think she thinks she's being sexy - I just think she's got too much mascara on and probably needs to tip her head back just to get her eyes open all the way.

The most annoying thing about her is she's Schrodinger's Celebrity - she only exists because we look at her. So all this vitriol and hate I've just poured over my keyboard (and a small amount of Bloody Mary, but someone nudged my arm while I was having breakfast) is fuelling her time in the spotlight.

Hie her bony arse back to jail. At least we may have a chance at 45 days without her pap shots of looking at the camera with those half-opened eyes every-bloody-where.

Tuesday, June 05, 2007

It's War!

There are many important questions in the life of a Gentleman Who Can't Throw, like do these season's colours really go with my complexion and should we actually like Gwen Stephani. Sure, she's one of the more accessible rap artists, but frankly the last album she's done contains yodelling and I can't not imagine one Gentleman Who Dances Well having a nervous childhood flashback to 'Heidi' at that one.

Yet something even more important is on the horizon. For anyone who's strayed into H&M lately (and survived the static shocks from all that polyester) will have noticed that culture magpie Madonna has set up stall in there, getting her withered claws on a range of clothing especially for the ladies. Though I refuse to say 'of a certain age' - Madge may be from the Dark Times, but she's very with it, yes. And if you're looking for a mid-range pair of kitten-heeled silver strappies, look no further.

And while I was passing said store, I noticed several of these items in the window and something strange came over me. I wanted them, dear reader. Not in a tranny way - let me say it's been a while since I've been in a pair of tights. And it was for a good cause: to this day Jake Gyllenhall thinks he just got pissed and slept with a very hairy woman with back-door proclivities. But eyeing up these mixed-cotton separates through the protective glass, I decided that these items of clothing weren't just for average women to get sick all down on the last bus home - they were merchandise.

You see, we gays are a godless bunch on the whole. Not necessarily by choice - as I've said here and here, it's mostly because we've often been told that 'God has turned his back on us' as soon as we started raising our legs skyward instead of our prayers. Of course, I dispute this - She would never have deserted us then have created low-fat dressing, the feathered head-dress, and put Matthew Fox and Speedos on the same planet, would She?

As I stared at Madge's faux-silk halter-top and wondered if it was through this that The Gays would find religion? You see, we are capable of worship, but we tend to like our sermons in a snappy four-minute format with a good beat behind it. You may admit to yourself that you know more about Madonna Ciccone than that of most religious figures, and it does make sense to worship what you know. I must say that I've never felt the urge to pray to Madonna; I'm more a Kylie devotee. Madonna for me is more the Catholic model - 'I exist therefore you must worship me'; whereas Kylie is a little more Buddhist in her relation to her fans - 'You worship me therefore I exist'. But saying that, Our Lady of Melbourne has recently been through her own trial and resurrection, appearing 40 days and nights later she's back with a winsome smile and a kicky little headscarf. Perhaps we Gays should be taking her as our icon after all.

Course this means that Steps are the Scientologists of the group - no-one knows why they're being worshiped, but their followers think they know better than everyone else and one day there will be a reckoning, oh yes. The Supremes are the old Gods of Greek mythology: a group of deities that, it turns out, one of them is more powerful after all. And Lisa Scott-Lee is the Jahovah's Witness, as no-one knows or talks to them either. Oh yes, if this all became doctrine, and we Gays did find find organised religion, the one possible conclusion is Holy War. For instance, the same H&M have just employed Kylie to do their lady's swimwear this season, meaning that this store is our very own Palestine, with both sides wanting the territories for worship and not before too long you'll have Suicide Bummers in the woman's separates.

Although, come to think about it, we're a passive people at best and we wouldn't do well at war. I genuinely think we, The Gays, were put on this earth just to jolly it up a bit, make it that little bit more fabulous - not to fight, oppress or force anything down any one's throat (well, not without dinner and dancing first, natch). Let the other bullying religions battle it out; we'll quietly sit on the sidelines with our little statues of our Lady Madonna on the dashboards of our cars, and the velvet prints of Lady Kylie above our fireplaces. We'll come 'round when you're done and tidy up the mess you'll make of everything.

You see, the Gay Holy Wars could never happen. No-one would be willing to fight if America's Next Top Model was on the telly that night.