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

Monday, August 27, 2007

Doodle Bug At Line 20

What's even better than a surprise party (thanks guys!) on your birthday, you may very well ask? Why, how about an automated message from your favourite band for pre-teen girls and gays alike, Girls Aloud? Wee!



Look at them. Do they look very happy that it's my birthday? Do they bogroll. They look, frankly, like they've just been sitting in something wet. And gawd bless Nicola, Our Favourite Member. There she is, perched on the packing crate she arrived in, shark-like eyes surveying all. I grabbed the original image and checked it in Photoshop, and what do you know - there was a bit of the picture underneath one of the layers:



Aww, bless our favourite Cylon! She actually thought she had to go in and sign them all herself. There she is, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she concentrates on the perfect 'o', loving what she's doing in crayon!

Oh yes. She likes the red one best. It matches stranger's blood.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Twenty Nine Years and Thirty-Six Months

Today's my birthday - ah now, no fuss as I'm already too drunk to notice thanks to a Breakfast Martini the size of a dishwasher - and I've been reflecting internally. Mostly after my 'dear' housemate put sequins in my lubricant for a laugh.

He took me out to dinner to apologise, and we got chatting as to what we had been doing exactly a decade back. So out came the dusty 1997 diary. Exterior: black leatherette. Interior: the contents of if a 8-year-old schoolgirl's head (eg. August 28: 'Oh my god, "Romy and Michelle" is so me!'). As soon as I opened it a note saying 'Brad, I simply can't leave yet! My hair isn't 1950s enough!' fell out. I have no idea what this means, but I loved it anyway.

So I scan-read the whole thing on the tube on the way in to work this morning - it's brilliant, baffling stuff. It's back when emotional maturity had completely skipped me by for yet another year; seemingly as did fashion sense, as I went clubbing one night in what's only described as 'knee-length boots, Daisy Duke shorts, t-shirt and a waist-coat'. Oh lord, I remember that night well. At the time I thought people were pointing because I was setting trends. Oh yes, isn't hindsight a marvellous thing?

Indeed, that lack of emotional maturity is manifest in all entries: things are either loved or hated, or veer wildly from amazing highs (July 22: 'Babylon 5 and a boyfriend, can my life get any better?' with better underlined three times) to embarrassing deep-funk lows where All Life Seems Bleak And Hopeless (September 1: 'I feel like a pawn, clinging to someone else's beat' Just what?). Never a middling ground, always one or the other.

I have this friend who's exactly like this now, and his Facebook status updates are always unintentionally hilarious: '[friend's name] is currently thinking of slitting his wrists because he is so down, but went to see Tori Amos last night and still has some cigarettes left, so things aren't all bad'. Well, I say 'friend' - he brushed up against me in bry-nylon and I had to strike up a conversation as my fun-fur caught on the static. I'd sever the ties between us as he's so tiresome in real life, but his hapless emo updates are always a riot over my first vodka of the morning.

Thank heaven I've got a bit of self-awareness in time. Only a bit, mind - there's still going to be enough blog-fodder in the next decade, I know. And on reflection (have you ever tried expelling sequins?) I can honestly say that I wouldn't go back and give myself a talking to if I had the chance. Well, I'd pop a note through saying 'waist-coats are dead, give it up' and urge myself to be bold and spend more than £3 on a haircut once in a while. But on the whole, I'm pretty happy how I turned out. Instead I shall roll forward, ever closer to the time where I end up dictating this blessed thing from a chaise lounge to some young fella-me-lad who I can introduce to all my friends as "My work associate" with a knowing giggle. And that, my darlings, is how I hope we all end up.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

PS: (October 19: 'SPICE UP YOUR LIFE STRAIGHT IN AT NUMBER ONE!' *rolls eyes*)

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Pin Drops

Quiet in here, isn't it?

Well, to be honest, I think it's just you and me in here today as every other bugger's sodded off on holiday. Tell you what, you put the kettle on and I'll get the nice biscuits out. No, not the Nice biscuits - they, for me, always invoke the taste of what's behind an old man's foreskin after he's been drinking Amaretto - but something with a chocolate topping. And maybe a sprinkling of mogadon to help 'Woman's Hour' pass with  a delightful fug.

Really, no-one's about. Gertie's gone north and, perhaps in a reaction to this, most of the usual Gentlemen Who Can't Pass A Branch Of Habitat have obeyed their flocking instinct and have gone south for the summer to Sitges. Land of the Free (and easy), of foam parties, conjunctivitis, sun burn and STDs. Which are like the four main food groups for we wendys.

Even my Evil Best Friend Declan has relinquished his Throne of Suffering to 'take in the sun and read a Jilly Cooper' for the first time since, well, Madeleine McCann went missing. I'm sure it's just a coincidence, I really think it is. But he did say that on his holiday play list he was sure to be including a bit of Lisa Stansfield. "You know, the one that goes 'Been around the world and I can't find my baby..."' he said between breathing in a packet of Capstan.

Myself, I managed a mini-break to Plymouth last weekend after finally organising an armed guard to escort me out of Zone 1 and into the provinces. Really, one can't be too careful - I hear that it's completely gone to rack and ruin out there, and you can't even get a delivery from Heals past Henley. And what a strange and remarkable place Plymouth turned out to be; I never saw a face of any colour bar white (well, slightly blue thanks to the cold) past Reading, and thusly an ugly undertone of racism was rife. Oh no, they don't like anything 'different' down there; the local radio gaily proclaimed "All the hits! From the 70s! 80s! And 90s! And no weird stuff!" And you can always tell you're in the provinces when you're talking about local restaurants and they say "Oh yes, it's Mexican, but they do have a proper menu too."

It's nice to be back, darlings. Now, one lump or two?

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Girls and Wardrobes

I'm sure you're all a-buzzing like a housewife with two new D-batteries at the sight and sound of the new Girls Aloud video. But what's this, I hear you cry (I've been hearing voices ever since I took to sniffing Lorilu non-chip nail polish due to the price increase in snuff): there's actually a budget behind it? And a concept? They haven't just thrown the girls in Top Shop and waved some fuzzy-felt butterflies around the screen. Or in the case of band member Nicola - sheep dip and hair curlers.

Ah, all is well on the pop landscape once again - we even have a new Kylie album coming our way! It's a good time to be a Gentleman Who Videos The Oscars, it really is. And even over the fence in the garden of the R and the B, I'm sure you'll be delighted in the news that 50 Cents has declared that he's going to give up recording albums if sales of his next one don't top that of rival Kayne West.


Oh yes, I do have an opinion on these things; I have one of Kanye's recordings that I accidentally purloined from a more... masculine Gentleman Caller's record shelf. I do say accidentally as it was incorrectly stored in an S Club Jr CD case, one I hadn't got, that I stuffed in my 30-denier nylons as I bent over to pick the cash up off the tumble dryer. But I was pleasantly surprised by the album; I think Mr West is much more lyrically dexterous and also uses the 'n'-word - you know, the one that would get you thrown out of a Big Brother house - to great effect. In comparison, 50 Cents is a rumbling wardrobe who raps like he's had a stroke and has one claim to fame: he was shot nine times. That's not a claim to fame, that's just not taking the hint.

Clearly I'm imploring you not to buy 50 Cent's album - which won't be hard as I predict there'll be a complete lack of hand-claps and dramatic key-changes (which is what we Gentlemen Who Can't Catch do enjoy the most). But instead, maybe think about Mr West's latest offering instead, just to put the boot in a bit more.

Oh yes, while our garden of Pop is verdant and pleasant, the big scandal in that other dell that is the Hip and the Hop is what's happened to the third Harajuku girl that was in Gwen Stefani's backing line-up? Oh yes, there were three during 'What You Waiting For' and now there's only two in 'Escape'. Is there one to be culled every solo album (if so, the remaining two must be sweating like Rob Lowe in an orphanage). Or perhaps she had to be retired 'to the farm'. An beautifully pastured place where Pepsi and Shirley gambol free, where Sinitta runs unfettered through the tall grass. And where George Michael pops by to play a bit of jazz.

Oh yes, he's a big fan of straight-blowing, that man.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Needless Bellowing

Clearly I have many wonderful stories about riding the tube, but today I would like to talk about the London Underground instead.

Clearly the Underground is some sort of crazy magnet, leaving you trapped in a metal box with people you wouldn't normally go within a hundred foot of on a good day with the wind in the right direction. I've seen all sorts of things on there - though none will ever mystify me more than how women manage put their make-up on while the tube's juddering up and down like Micheal J Fox without his medicine. It's an art form, it really is, and leaves me with utter wonderment that most the women in the city don't go to work looking like they've had their slap put on by Jackson Pollack.

In fact I saw a woman doing her make-up and reading Harry Potter the other day, clearly flaunting her female brain multi-tasking skills to our simple one-task male brains. Hell, we can barely stand there; if we need to do anything other than talk, our brain has to divert all attention to that and we crash to the ground like Lindsey Lohan's film career. And this is why, ladies, we only grunt our responses to you when you're talking to us. It's not that we aren't interested in your work colleagues attempts to lose two pounds to get that man in I.T., its because we're trying to save your face by not falling over by responding. Oh yes.

The appearance of Harry Potter No. 7 on the tube has thus developing a weird kind of Tourettes within me that, whenever I see one of those overly-large tomes, I have an almost uncontrollable urge to go near them and bellow the ending in their ears. Well, it serves them right for being so slow; even I am in a post-Potter wasteland, and I read like a retard. Seriously - my finger was aching by the time I got to the last chapter and my mind was wandering all over the place to the extent that I was wondering if you could buy Horcruxes from Argos as they sound mighty useful to have around the house. You know, for when difficult guests pop around and you haven't got a pot roast ready.

If anything, bellowing the end at people would stop them having to carry bags twice the size than normal to carry the bally thing around with them. There's no space on the tube at the best of times, with rush-hour meaning that the carriage is as full as any of Janet Jackson's sweat pants. Honestly, I went to work the other day with my face pressed in a strange gentleman's armpit while three woman's magazines and a Curly-Wurly were pressed into the small of my back. And I haven't done the like of that since my 'modelling' career back in the day. Hey, those shots were artistic and tasteful, I'll have you know!

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

Boom-Bang-A-Bang

I suppose, living in London, it was only a matter of time before I was involved in a terror alert.

Now we're no stranger to explosions, unfortunately. We've had the capital bombed from underneath us for almost a century now - the very genesis of our Blitz Spirit. We've had the wars, the IRA and now Al-Qaeda and its affiliates, London is basically like Kim Catrall's bedroom: there's only a brief period in the fifties where there wasn't any bangs. And that was because I hear she got the clap.

Anyway, Saturday morning, just as we were passing a generic white van, a troop of police screeched up in two vehicles, slamming the side door open and yelling "Put your hands on the wheel! KEEP THEM WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM!" to the occupant. We turned in surprise to find an armed policewoman right in our personal space shouting "Move! Move! Move!"

Well I thought, clutching my pearls, I barely take orders at the best of times and certainly not from anyone who's a stranger to Mr. Foundation. Besides, I was brought up knowing 'a gentleman should walk and never run' so if the van had have gone up, at least my dignity would have been intact - if not my body.

Fortunately, we were out of the danger area by the time we turned to take a look at what was going on - just as a very Essex pair of girls went wandering by us, straight towards the melee. And this pretty much sums the British up; one turned to the other and said "Oh look Ange, they've got machine guns."

And then she sighed and said, "I suppose we'd better cross over then."

Friday, August 03, 2007

Red Rag

Oh how I miss the comedy prat-fall stylings of Sandra Bullock.

I recall a heavenly golden time when she was in every summer blockbuster; remember she graced us in 'Demolition Man'? I'd completely forgot! In fact, you couldn't move for her endearingly kooky gurning every summer break - and where is she now? All she seems to make is a lot of films involving her clutching the cuffs of a bulky sweater in her palms and staring wistfully out of a rain-soaked window. This, clearly, isn't right.

No, while she's off bothering ghosts in cable-knit, her absence means we have Adam Sandler being the one that brings in the $100 million dollar movie. A shocking turn of events I'm sure you'll agree.

Though I do have a confession to make: him on the cover of 'The Longest Yard'? I so would. And before I realised what a buffoon he was, when he flashed his arse in 'Airheads', it somewhat addled my young teenage mind. I'd never seen a derriere so... excruciatingly biteable before. It was idyllic. A peach of a posterior. I spent many an hour thinking about it in my bedroom - to which my teenage sheets ended up looking like Jackson Pollack had been sketching his latest work on them in egg white.

My nostalgia was stirred by the Boy showing me Miss Congeniality - yes, yes, I know I'm a bad gay for not seeing it til now. The problem is that there's so much culture for we Gentlemen Who Hum Showtunes In The Shower that some of it is bound to get mislaid down the backs of our exquisite sofas. Oh yes, back in the day we barely had any televisual culture of a pink ilk, bar a few repeats of Falcon Crest and 'Now Voyager' on video, whereas these days it's wall-to-wall. There's barely enough time in the day to watch all the Ugly Bettys, Housewives and hilarious adverts for Cannestan (have you seen? There's no bones about them these days: "This cream is smeared on my flaming drip-tray, this tablet I take to give me a slight buzz!")

Perhaps we need Dame Bullock to do a Cannestan advert, get her back on form. Then she could point at her enraged area, trip over a dog and prat-fall into a trash can, all while under the gaze of some fella she was giving doe-eyes to in the first reel.

You get the tickets - I'll get the popcorn.


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DVD Extra!

The Gentlemen at Modern Fabulosity wanted to interview me. Which was really sweet of them. Do go and check it out here if you want to pass a bit more time between getting the tea and watching EastEnders.