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

Tuesday, October 30, 2007

New Facts! Good Facts!

While I was doing research for yesterday's entry, I learned three things.

(Oh yes, this thing may look like its been thrown together in the middle of the night by three illiterate marmosets on mogadon, but there's real effort go into this. Oh yes. Sometimes I'll open that oracle of truth, Wikipaedia, at the same time I'm scrolling though the-man-hole.com, which I read it for the gardening tips. Anyway.)

1) Neil Patrick Harris, best known as 'Doogie Howser, MD' is a Gentleman Who Colour Coordinates. Well I never. Although, I think in retrospect I'm not surprised; it's just because I never considered it. It's not like he lisped and raised an eyebrow every time he mentioned 'anal' on the show. It's also nice to see that he's following the Hollywood trend of going out with someone a little bit hotter than he is. Well done, dear. We approve.

2) The Bogaert and Hershberger 1999 study concluded Gentlemen Who Know Showtunes have, on an average, slightly longer and thicker penises than non-gay men. Well, fancy! We win again! And while it's rude to brag - Ryan Reynolds, I'd quite like to rub your face in it. Call me.

3) A 2003 study states Gentlemen Who Can't Catch are better at Object Location Memory. You know, the $10 way of saying we can remember where we put things. I believe this is a necessary evolution due to having sex in darkened places like a sauna or Hamstead Heath; you want to recall where that sweaty gorilla with the back hair and eczema like peeling paint is sitting before you accidentally wander over and get more than you bargained for. Like coming away looking like a flaky pastry pie exploded over your back.

Monday, October 29, 2007

The House of More Than One Queen

I'll have you know that country is being 'rocked' (tabloid speak for someone tutting in The Home Counties) by a royal scandal at the moment.

I don't know the full ins and outs, but the words 'sex', 'drugs' and 'gay orgies' are being bandied about. Hell, throw in the words 'alien overlords' and you've probably got the Nicole Kidman/Tom Cruise divorce papers right there. Anyway, someone asked me if I knew any more details about the gay sex bit; clearly they thought that, as a complete wendy, there must be some daily briefing that all Gentlemen Who Moisturise get about what we're all up to. Or I could feel it though some sort of gay Force that connects us all together. I don't think there is a gay Force, though sometimes I wish there was. And it would explain why we all black out when Mariah Carey's 'Glitter' runs on cable - it's like a mobile phone network overloading.

Then they went on to ask me whether it was gay as in man-oh-man, or lady-on-lady. An interesting question indeed. See, I wouldn't mind a bit of lesbionics in the Palace; it's always the Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners being found out for some shenanigans involving cocks and arses. It's always a gay scandal.

Do you know why lesbianism was never made illegal in the UK? The old story is that Queen Victoria never outlawed it because she didn't believe it possible for sex to happen between two women, though maybe it's because they closest thing a lesbian does to draw attention to herself is to lower her heel and shorten their name not-quite-masculine-but-still-leaving-the-HR-director-puzzled version of their given nomenclature. Lesbians don't have scandals. They have Whist Drives. And that's probably why they slipped under Queen Vic's radar in the first place.

Whereas we, the Gentlemen Who Have Clicked Their Heels Three Times On Many Occasions, are seemingly always up to something. It's all about show, darlings. It's all about the attention.

Lesbians are a little more stately, so maybe it would make sense for the Royals to have one in their midst. And lets face it, Princess Anne is a prime candidate for being a lovely licky lady - I've known similar types of women who are all wellies, head scarves and no foundation, and they suck up more carpet than a malfunctioning Hoover. Though poor Anne is cursed with a pair of regal gnashers that make it look like their sliding out her mouth; you know, the type that can eat an apple through a picket fence. I personally wouldn't want those teeth going near my metaphorical mimsy for fear of being hollowed out.

So come on, Ladies Wot Lick - how about a bit of scandal in the near future? You've got everyone gunning for you: the straight lads will think dreams have come true, and straight women will think it's all very liberating and modern.

And we gay men? Well, we'll be glad that the pressure's off for a while, meaning we can pop 'round the back and get up to some more mischief.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Lesbians and Lunges

You know, I always thought it was Hermione who was Good With Colours, not Dumbledore. The strong personality, the untameable hair - hell, she's already got the cat. All she needs now is an overstocked tea cupboard and the aversion to foundation garments and you may as well say the whole thing with Ron was a complete sham and say "See you down the Candy Bar!"

Anyway. My time with my new Personal Trainer is a dark period. I mean, I've done some things in my life I'm not especially counting as a high points; indeed as I think about it an incident comes to mind where I was under a Gentleman Caller who happened to be smaller on penis and larger of girth (it was the end of the night when he asked to come back; he was punching above his - considerable - weight and I was feeling particularly generous) and while he vainly tried to stuff his button mushroom into my moneymaker, heaving backward and forward with all the grace of a landed carp, you do think "Well, this isn't one of my more graceful moments is it?" But this is nothing compared to what happened today at the gym.

He made me do lunges! Lunges! I ask you. I haven't lunged at anything since I discovered Linda Evans was in the cinema seat in front of me during Labyrinth. Gentlemen don't lunge. They lunch.

And it seems that the muscles in my calves are a little shorter than they should be. This means that whenever I lower myself down weights in hand, my knees are drawn together like a theatre-goer clutching their Malteasers as someone tries to shuffle past to their seat. I mean, who'd have thought? I always assumed that whatever position I was in, my legs always naturally flew apart.

I mean, if they ever get around to making an action figure of me, it'll come with spring-loaded hips...

Monday, October 22, 2007

Bold 2-in-1

Why yes, there's a bit of a Life Laundry going on over in Glitter For Brains Towers at the moment. I've got myself a Personal Trainer (Alex, good chest, bad breath) and I'm just back from the induction. Well, blood pressure, reflex and strength is normal, but I seem to have lost an inch in height since I was last measured. I am agog. I always thought I was a six-foot wannabe (abet augmented with giant hair and large shoes you could walk over Hilary Duff in and do some proper damage). But now I should be said to be more of a middling five-footer. Such a declassification! I bet this is how ex-planet Pluto feels.

Although this was piecemeal to when he did the body-mass readout and I'm .5kg from being away from overweight.

To which (after much indignant spluttering) I raised an eyebrow and showed him my wrists, which frankly Karen Carpenter's bangles would slide off with a graceful ease.

I mean, I ask you. Overweight? On what scale. Geological? When he finally calmed me down, he then said that it was probably due to my muscle mass being what it was, which is clearly a good thing. Although it probably would have helped my case if I'd taken off my Beyonce-style hoop earrings before stepping on the scales. To which I called him a cheeky cat, squeezed his chest playfully and offered him a breath mint.

And so in a completely unrelated manner, I've decided to get myself a councilor. Well, as I get older, I notice its a lot more difficult to get men to listen to me talk about myself as the lashes I bat are now encrusted with age, decades-old Rimmel and the jizz of sailors who probably went down with the Exxon Valdez. So it turns out that I now have to pay for the privilege now. I bet he'll listen to me, telling me that I do not carry the excess weight of Britney Spears.

In the meantime, it's all stack shoes and baggy black jumpers. Nice. I'll look like a philosophy student.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

French Letter The Trois

It turns out The Boy's a bit of savant when it comes to languages, and can speak almost fluent French which was a surprise to both of us. He did teach me the basics, nine words that would get me out of any scrape I was in. You say them and five minutes later the waiter comes back with two Kir Royales! It's magic!

I have never understood French as a language; as you can tell my grasp of the English language is more of a stranglehold. I finally Took Against it when my charming Geordie teacher (which will explain why my wobbly french accent is via Newcastle and I still say things like "Je voudrais, pet") said, when asked, that there was no way to predict the genders of words. You simply had to learn it.

Well sod that, I thought at my tender coming-of-age. I can't absorb all that and the latest incoming technology as predicted by Dame Maggie Philbin on 'Tomorrow's World'. Something had to give, and that my darling viewers, was the language of our garlic-loving brothers. Thusly it was the only GCSE I got with a below-C grading and, lets face it, you have to be as retarded as whichever of the Spears children have been sucking down the mercury out of thermometers this week to fail one of those.

So instead of coming up against arsey French tour guides, we just walking the city and taking pictures, stopping in cafes and ordering champagne. Have a rest, a drink, then off again. Bliss! Though it did mean the pictures towards the end of the day thusly had a certain... avant garde approach.

ie fucked up.

Still, we happened to get in the background of the 10 o'clock French news by wandering past the Eiffel Tower at the right moment, careering about and trying to take a shot of what we thought was the Tower with our squinting drunken eyes. Turned out to be a novelty litter bin that was a lot closer than we thought. We didn't realise we'd been captured til we got back to the hotel and saw the repeat of the report and The Boy took a shine to the delightful slacks one of the embarrassing English tourists were wearing in the back of the shot. Oh well. We should be ambassadors, we really should.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

French Letter The Deux

I knew we were in trouble when The Boy stated the two places he wanted to visit in Paris were 'The Eiffel Tower' and 'Laboratories Garnier'.

Monday, October 15, 2007

French Letter The Une

What's it been? A month? Oh my darling viewers, forgive me for being so remiss, but the opportunity came up to be Britney Spear's defence lawyer and I told her it would be a laugh to try and get that bemopped retard out of the pickle she's in. To which she heard the word 'pickle' and kept asking whether there'd be "a ickle burger for ickle Britney to have, huh?" before tucking her dress in her t-shirt like a napkin and drooling glassy-eyed for fifteen minutes straight. Anyway, thank you for being so kind to all the guest writers. Didn't they do well? I'm presenting them with their complimentary soap and tiara as we speak.

Now, last week. Paris. I really should do a travelogue, yes? Although wouldn't it be a cheap common denominator just to sit back and go 'Oh look at the silly french and their hats and cigarettes!' But I know that you don't exactly come here to brush on your Derrida, so lets poke some fun at the cheese-eating surrender-monkeys instead, shall we? Yes.

Lets start with TV as that's clearly an easy target. But lets bypass the cheap TV shows ('La Roue de la Fortune' for example, has someone's dog wandering around the studio like a pub landlord's pet. And lets not start on the pre-op who's dollying in front of the letters, bless) and instead concentrate on the freaky-deaky adverts. I mean, I'm still scarred by this one that came on at dinner time that had several skeletons gyrating to an electro version of 'Stayin' Alive' in front of a giant cow before the cow lactates on them in fountains of milk. I mean it was everywhere and these skeletons were bobbing backward and forward like it was bathing in the elixir of life. I did a little sick up in my mouth just thinking about it while I write this right now, dear viewer. Although I think I really took against it as I imagined it to be how Jodie Marsh had the sex, coming up for air like she'd been artexed.

Anyway, the one that really set alarm bells going was an advert positioned between two adverts for cheese and one for bread. You know, for a country that prides itself on its cuisine, going by the telly all they stuff down their traps is Baby Belle stuffed in bread that'll take the roof of your mouth off, followed by a salami chaser. Nice. Anyway, this ad had a mother bringing over a huge bowl of cooked dry pasta. "Aww, mom!" the kids cry (I got The Boy to translate) insinuating they do actually have taste buds and would rather eat something other than the first recipe in the 'How To Cook' Cookbook, right after how to boil an egg. So what does she do? Does she whip up some vegetables to turn the carb-fest into something a little more healthy that won't have them buzzing their tits off gone midnight? Does she actually make a sauce for it, rather than leave the pasta mas drying husks that will compact to the roof of their mouths like the dried sludge around Pamela Anderson's overworked mimsy?

No. She goes to the fridge, produces three rolled up bits of ham and places them on top.

Madam, you are a culinary genius! The children seem to think so too, as they see this shambles of a meal and cheer wildly. The woman should be carted off by social services and certainly not applauded. Clearly they are delirious. And probably have scurvy by now. Oh you silly French.

Friday, October 05, 2007

A Slight Return

I'm back. Ish.

I'll tell you all about it in a few days when I get back from Paris.

In the mean time:

Monday, October 01, 2007

The Power Behind The Throne

Hello, Glitterettes. I believe I have come to be known as the Boy on here, and so I shall refer to myself as such.

Lee has asked me to take over from our delightful mystery guest and carry on blogging for him for a little while. Well, I say 'asked' but then it is quite impossible for a man who has seemingly fallen off the edge of the planet to ask you anything, isn't it.

Yes, dear Lee is MIA. (This does not mean Man At Argos as I thought for many years)

I last saw him a couple of weeks ago as we walked along Oxford Street shopping for pearls that we could clutch at key moments in conversations, and the next thing I know a stretch pulled up beside us and a slender, taloned arm stretched out and yanked him into the back seat. The weird thing is, I could see a red light moving back and forth in the darkness, accompanied by an unsettling 'fwoom, fwoom' noise. I'm sure I could make out five svelte figures in the murk of the back seat, but to guess at more than that would be pure conjecture on my part. I, as I'm sure all of you do, fear the worst.

Alas. Yet the show must go on. This blog has been our only source of income for a good six months now and I'll be damned if I don't keep it going so that I can carry on living in the style I have become accustomed to. Day after day of the most divine and extravagent meals lay out before me; mini kiev after mini kiev, glorious hosts of the most golden fish fingers and the most carefully constructed bowls of noodles, drizzled with sauce de tomate that you have ever seen in your lives.

And so until the return of my love machine, with whom I share a whole lotta history, I shall continue to write in the hope that he will read it wherever he may be and he will know that even though life got cold, he'll see the day when our sacred trust will bring him back home. He really is something kinda ooh.