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

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

R.I.P. G.A.Y.

I suppose I should mark the passing of 'London's Premiere Gay Club' G.A.Y., which finally closed its doors this weekend, sliding back into the ground like the House of Usher with an offer on alcopops. I've never been a fan of that hideous chicken coop; you go where you fit in, I find. And I never fit in with clientèle who look like they can only attend because they've blown off their homework, standing around trying to look cool despite the TopMan sales rack having exploded over them, and clapping their hands excitedly when Steps come on because they're "so retro!"

Bunch of cunts.

As ever when there's an 'event' to be marked at G.A.Y. - such as the final night - the whispers spread far and wide that a 'super celebrity' will attend. Of course, in the brain of a Gentlemen Who Enjoys the Theatre, this only equates to Kylie or Madonna. Cher used to be in the equation, but she is still engaged in her 20 year farewell tour, orbiting the Earth in a gas dirigible so she doesn't have to pay taxes. Anyway, this time word got out that it was Kylie and Madonna, so there were queues around the block to get in hoping that the two bionic divas would do a duet of 'Especially For You'. Only with typical G.A.Y. disappointment, you got Sally Sparrow, ahem sorry Sam Sparro, and The Feeling. The only highlight was apparently the leather-skinned, owl-eyed, swivel-headed club owner Jeremy Joseph introducing his 12 year old partner. By which I don't mean a partner of 12 years.

I will be sad that G.A.Y. is closing for one reason and one reason only: it is a place for baptism. Forget your first dance to Madonna, your first kiss on a dancefloor - G.A.Y. was forever the place where you got your first blow job in a club conveniences. I remember thinking as I washed my hands and tipped the toilet attendant a decent amount so we wouldn't be disturbed, that if the sperm bank were paying for donations, the soon-to-be-removed toilet walls of the Astoria must be covered in liquid gold...

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Facepoke

Forget all the stalker problems and hideous applications about being a pirate vampire, the true horror of Facebook is when you see that your morbidly overweight uncle 'went from being in a relationship to in an open relationship' in your news feed.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

10 Things I Learned While Watching Wall-E

Twinkie Bars have a Best Before date of over seven hundred years

If you love someone, show them you can set fire to things

If you love someone, stare at them while they are unconscious and they will eventually love you

Kids will now want a pet cockroach

The film's main theme is not how a robot can give humans back their humanity, but how Apple peripherals are still compatible with each other - even after half a millennium.

Even in CGI films, they reuse sets to save money

If you can't be bothered to deal with the difficult issue of the main plot, shunt it into the a couple of slides during the end credits

Humanity's entire culture is now based on 'Hello, Dolly!'

...Meaning most of the new generation will grow up to be Gentlemen Who Can't Catch.

...Meaning we won't survive another hundred years

Monday, July 21, 2008

A Trip To The Theatres

And so, the cultural exchange between Ryan and myself continues. He took me to see 'The Revenger's Tragedy', a Jacobean play about decaying moral values and a lust for the Elizabethan era. And I look him to see the play of 'Mamma Mia!'

Now, if I were a better reviewer, I'd evaluate all the subtle nuances and similarities between the two. But I'm not, so all I can point out that they both had revolving stages. Oh and one actor who really annoyed me. Wobble forth Adjoa Andoh, who played the Duchess in 'The Revenger's Tragedy'. Now, Adjoa I know from TV's 'Doctor Who' where she played Martha's mum, and was lovely in that. For one, she did things with her eyebrows that would have cost the effects house thousands on a lesser actress. But here... well, as I say, I'm a bit new to this whole theatre lark, but surely she should have stopped moving at some point? As far as I could tell, her bottom half was being played by Tina Turner and her top half by Diana Ross, circa 'Chain Reaction'. It was all very handsy, like a Pan's People's traffic cop. In fact, the only time she did stop moving was during her sex scene. Make your own mind up there.

As I'm a fair novice at theatre, I didn't know that the sofa, with its column raised skywards with a statue of the Virgin Mary on it, was meant to be a phallic piece. Especially when the Duke's son lay across it and talked about having it away with the hero's virgin sister. I just thought it was a nice sofa, until it was pointed out by Ryan as being "as subtle as a breeze block". Oh, I thought, and promised to pay attention to the plot for the second half, and not trying to decide whether the Duke's bastard son was actually fit, or just plain irritating for playing the whole thing as The Hooded Claw. In fact, I still can't definitely decide whether it was the worst thing or the best thing that he had most of his scenes with Adjoa's Duchess - it was like trying to watch an episode of 'Penelope Pitstop' on boat on choppy water.

But it did live up to one ideal I had about theatre: all plays are full of either deaths or marriages. And this one had deaths in droves; so I could look forward to all the marriages in our next theatrical outing. 'Mamma Mia!' has that all important exclamation mark to show it is fun unfortunately didn't live up to everything that solitary piece of punctuation promised. I know, I know. I'm a bad gay - but perhaps I am the wrong market. This may come as a shock, but I'm not that keen on ABBA, and musicals often leave me a bit cold. Certainly musicals that don't advance the plot through song are doing a bad job, yes? Flutter forward 'Wicked' for that one - and your songs were rubbish. I didn't like 'Wicked' at all - all the interesting stuff was going on off-stage as far as I could see.

Anyway, 'Mamma Mia!' is certainly guilty of the non-song-plot-advancement. What I thought was the squeak of the revolving set could very well been the protests from the crowbar used to get the songs into every scene. You know, they based one entire production number around mishearing one lyric in 'Voulez Vous'? Changing "masters of the scene" to "masters of the sea" to justify ten men in speedos and flippers hoofing their way across stage? And you think this would have made me start dripping like a fucked fridge, wouldn't you. In fact, the whole thing seems to have been designed to make me think it was the best thing since Lindsey Lohan introduced a range of leggings with knee-pads in, the whore. Pretty dancers, some slack-moralled woman having three men one after another, leading to a misunderstanding (and a minky that must have looked like someone was making porridge in a blender) and some songs from a camp old band belted out on some Shirley Valentine tavern with a light-up dance floor. Actually, what it was like was being at New Years party where everyone's forced to have fun, and I certainly Took Against them having an entirely new stage for the encore. That implied it was happening anyway, whether we were enjoying it or no. Like those gentlemen callers who push you face down into the pillow even after you had that searing curry last night. Uh, one would imagine.

When I'm not sure about a film I've seen, I always look to see whether it has made me want to go out and buy the merchandise. Going to 'The Revenger's Tragedy' made me want to wear spectacles with clear glass in the lens, like whenever Cheryl Cole has to go to court and look clever. It made me want to buy the phallic sofa. 'Mamma Mia!' only made me want to download 'Voulez Vous' in mild annoyance to point and yell "masters of the scene, you idiots!" I most certainly did not want to buy the t-shirts as even if you use it at the gym, you'd look like a one-man hen party. And that's never a good look.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Sitges, Part III

Before the holiday, I was in quite an intense training program.

Not the gym, but booze.

You see, my traveling companions are somewhat seasoned drinkers, often 'on the green' first thing in the morning, much to my envy. I won't say they were pessimists, but their glasses were almost always empty - often with a musing "Oh, doesn't it sparkle when its empty?" from the Lady Vyse, holding his vacant glass aloft for all to witness; a cry for some functionary to come fill his vessel poste haste.

For all my talk on here, I've never been that good at downing the booze - well, not at a sustained level that is. So before I came away, I took great pains to have a couple of glasses of splishy-splashy every night before bed, varying the content so my stomach wouldn't quite know what was going in. This is, I find, a fair preparation for any adventure with Lady Vyse and a cocktail menu. He's like the drinker's Stanislavsky - 'There are no small drinks, only small measures'. Coupled with this were the holiday's organizers: the incomparable traveling companions Stuey and Robbie, both old hands at the bar. Though when they weren't drinking they tended to be half asleep watching 'Frontier in Space' in their suite. Yes suite. Their sofa was bigger than my bed, I tells you. 'Frontier' came with us because I just grabbed a load of DVDs from beside my bed when I was packing - my copy of the appalling 'Doctor Who' story 'The Sensorites' is also now an overseas traveler. I gave this a go while I was there while I recovered from my sunburn, and hooted all the way through. Part one has the crew of the ship talking about their previous adventures; someone mentions the harrowing antics in 'The Aztecs' and quick as you like, Babs just goes "Oh I´m over all that!" rather glibly. Part two, fey companion Susan has to think of three words. And promptly faints. That´s the sort of girl she is. I can´t wait for the next part - I hope we get to see the Sense Sphere. As the Sensorites themselves walk around like they´re carrying invisible clutchbags and keep looking at each other as if to say¨"Yes well, my Janine got into the bake sale this year" I´m imagining the planet to have an awful lot of antimacassars. The Sensorites are like a pride of elderly aunts, if you ask me.

Anyway, I digress. As you can imagine, the whole week turned out to be a drunken debacle, with many, many incidents of having to help each up the hill to our hotel. And Friday was to be our last big blow out, the drinking of champions! We were to drain the pumps dry, being so bladdered that we ran the risk of being turned away from the airport. I don't know why they worry about this - when I'm drunk, I just go a bit giggly (well, a lot) then fall asleep. They were probably afraid that the recycling of the air on the plane would pass my 90% proof breath onto the BA stewardesses and get them tipsy. Can you imagine? They may actually crack a smile that reached their dead, dead eyes.

But this drinking was not to be! My erstwhile companions cried off... oh, sure they blamed the seafood from the previous night, but I think it was just the inability to keep up with my Herculean drinking. I was the new queen of Sitges! I am drunk, hear me pour!

And so I staggered up the hill one last time, the last one (just about) standing. Ah, my first gay holiday. Completely not what I was expecting when I booked it, but brilliant fun while I was there. And so, I stood on the top of the bay, looking out over the town, the church and the sea.

I bowed slightly. Thank you and good night.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Sitges, Part II

Surprisingly, it takes more than a few drinks to get my top off - even more than it takes to get my trousers down, let me tell you. My youth was often punctuated with the deafening clang of dropping knickers, yet my chest has remained unexposed to the sun in a manner similar to a Austrian cellar daughter. So with years of going to the gym with variable results, I finally thought I'd take the plunge and willingly remove my t-shirt whilst on holiday. Well, it was A Big Moment for me.

Well, you see, I thought I'd have to get used to wandering around in scratch all as I was very excited by the prospect of the weekly foam party that was in the offing. I've wanted to go to a foam party ever since viewing 'TISWAS' as a child. So I dutifully cantered out to the beach in little more than a pair of shorts to get a bit of colour in my cheeks. Though which cheeks I shall leave to your poor imaginings.

And promptly got sunburnt.

Well, I'd slathered myself with all sorts of Factors, but clearly not nearly enough, and my legs looked radioactive within an hour. With the normal forest of hair down south of my thighs, I thought I´d be safe, but noooooo. I was having to slather myself with aftersun almost bi-hourly. It was getting a little bit 'Singing Detective' in our room, let me tell you. And so it was touch and go as to whether I'd actually make it to the foam party after all. Oh, not because there may be an allergic reaction off the foam, but because I was worried that people may think that red means "stop".

Anyway, thankfully I recovered enough to grace said party. Good lord, you should have seen it! It was wonderful. Attractive men stripped down to their pants, writhing around waist deep in foam. If Belinda Carlisle was right and Heaven was a place on Earth, she'd clearly been looking through the porthole window of Trailer one Wednesday night! There are only two things I can recall from this point onwards: the fact that the whole building is marble, has many staircases and foam is very slippy (cue all sorts of bruise inducing hilarity); and that over in that corner, people started having sex.

Well! I couldn't get my hat on! It was like a bacchanalian orgy sponsored by Fairy Liquid! It was filthy! And breath-taking to watch, let me tell you. I gave it a full hours viewing, then collected my clothes and quietly left. Well, as quietly as I could after having been drinking for 12 hours straight; I remember clattering around, not being able to get my boots on because my feet were covered in foam, so I walked all the way back to the hotel barefoot. Blackened, they were. Oh, I thought I'd never get my feet clean. This was the antithesis of my beard - I don't think it had ever been so scrubbed. It glistened as it caught Thursday's first light. It was glorious. Like Aslan's mane.

I think the whole thing was notable for many reasons. But the one that will stand out for me the most is I believe its the first time I've had to come home with my underwear in a plastic bag.

Well, the first time I'm telling you lot about, anyway.

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

Sitges, Part I

Hello!

barrels in, covered in after-sun, sand and swinging a bucket and spade

I've been on holiday! All the way down to Sitges, that gay holiday destination du jour which, I have to say before you give me that look, was booked some time before my glamorous boyfriend Ryan was invented. Meaning there was a swift about-face for my expectations of what was going to happen on some sun-kissed away-day for the Gentlemen Who Aggressively Tan: in my experience, it's not a proper night out unless I'm being pressed a little too hard up against a Spanish-languaged fruit machine by some jerez-breathed navvy pawing at my backside with hands the size of shovels. Instead it was going to be me being the one to hold the handbags whilst my other three traveling companions go off and get into all sorts of trouble, leaving me and my usually-featherlight heels to swing uselessly on a barstool.

Equally, another two of our little... festive brigade were in a relationship together, leaving the fourth and final member, The Very Lady Vyse, to be our ambassador for the conquering of the Spanish. Before we got on the plane, there was a bet on his part that he wouldn't cop off with any of them to a princely sum of 20p. While I can neither confirm or deny whether this bet had been collected upon, we were then only attending bars which we classed as "one pound and over." Get us.

And yet, two days in and I hadn't strayed, you´ll be pleased to hear. The ones who have made an approach to my beardy visage have always been a bit too... keen, I think you´d call them. While sitting outside Parrots bar downing my foofy drink, I actually had someone eat an ice cream at me. It was most disconcerting...