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

Thursday, July 31, 2003

Meanwhile, over *there*...

I have three housemates, all of whom can’t figure out how to use the washer. There’s the Impossibly Beautiful Mark, the Wonderfully Dark Ian – and Kim. Kim is the Best Lesbian in the World, and is pretty, clever and has a sense of humour – thus kicking every lesbisexual stereotype out of the way with a kick of her comfortable shoe.

Well, *almost* all of them, then.

She’s just set up her own blog over here, and gets a mention as she’s just quoted me as being one of the inspirations for her tap-tap-tapping on her keyboard to outpour her fabulous brain. This is only partially true: we were sitting watching รข€˜Vill unt Grace’ last night when I said I’d found a new way of clearing my brain of clutter by putting it on the web, and now I could fill it up with Girls Aloud lyrics. She nodded in her schoolma’amy way while rolling a fag and stated that she may give it ago. My one concern is that kd lang lyrics are certainly more complicated than Girls Aloud ones, so she’s going to write like a demon to purge enough space for the whole of 'Ingenue’. Lets give her all the support we can.

She also says I’m funnier than her. This is only the case when we’re both wearing big afro wigs.

Oh My Good God

The Cheeky Girls are doing a How to Dance DVD.

Eau de Pleasuredrome

I’m just eating hummus, the light-brown gritty substance that has become world-famous thanks to the fabulous B3ta. I had to stop two-thirds through when my normally passive brain chipped in with ‘this must be what the floor of Pleasuredrome tastes like’.

For those of you who are delightfully ignorant of the place, Pleasuredrome is one of those wendy saunas full of elderly corpulent gentlemen passing the time by patrolling corrugated corridors and trying to make eye contact with anything under 45 years or 30 stone. One recalls that scene from Labyrinth when Jennifer Connelly was slipping down a hole and all those hands were trying to grab her. As it’s open 24 hours a day, 365 days a year, you wonder when they clean the place – well, in truth it appears that they don’t. The Jacuzzi has a worrying oily film on the top of the water, and the floor is that aforementioned gritty texture that could be deliberate for safety, but is more likely crystallised salt from... well, you know what. Hence it’s beloved moniker: ‘The Palace of Grit and Jism‘.

I understand that it has recently had a refit – heaven forefend what would have happened when they moved some of those mattresses. They say that those pesky Romans had condoms made out of the muscle tissue of their enemies, and the oldest European condoms were found at the site of the battles between Oliver Cromwell and soldiers loyal to King Charles I in the foundations of Dudley Castle near Birmingham. It was a close-run thing as there are some down the back of a mattress in Pleasuredrome that clearly belonged to Edward II by the look of them. And there was one clearly labelled ‘Geronimo’.

Pleasuredrome was a rare pleasure for me: my haunt was a little more upmarket. Sailors Sauna in Limehouse was on the way home, you see and upmarket in the sense that they had Changing Rooms on in the TV lounge and not porn. Of course, I haven’t been back in over a year, but I was told that they’d erected a blue plaque on the wall, and a glass case rests over my last towel, glued to the crash mat on the third floor by numerous emissions. It is said that whoever manages to remove it will call me back to the place, to roam the corridors like a white-towelled minotaur and spear anything that comes across my path.

Just like the old days, really.

The Devil Sent You To Lorado!

As mentioned on the gorgeous Zbornak’s site, the New Favourite Things is Baccara.

Two gin-raddled Spanish waitresses, all gold slingbacks and leopard skin, belt their hearts out about whomever the love of their life is this week. I can advise with my dubious longstanding fixation for these bizarre waitresses of pop you to track down ‘Ay Ay Sailor’ - a fruity little number that follows the usual Baccara template: one member comes back from a voyage of sexual discovery and recounts the blissful antics to the other one, who no doubt has her hand over her face in polite shock. This one, one of them had found a sailor man. After thinking she loved a tailor man. You can see that their grip on the English language is more of a stranglehold, can’t you? It’s not their first language. I doubt it’s their second. It’s probably their fourteenth, somewhere down *there* past Baatchi and Klingon.

Other ones to watch out for are:
The Devil Sent You To Lorado: the girls are somehow in the wild west, leaning up the saloon bar. In comes a man that gets them wetter than an otter’s pocket, asks for a whiskey and offers them tequila. They theorise that this man is so gorgeous that the devil must have sent him to stuff his hands in their fur-lined love-knickers, and they gasp in realisation and awe at how lovely this man is.

Yes Sir, I Can Boogie: one of their more famous hits. The identity of this male authority figure is who is questioning their ability to dance is never revealed, but they do start getting a bit shirty in the second verse when he apparently asks them again, responding with ‘Yes sir, as I’ve already mentioned in the first verse. And in the chorus. But I will give you one more chance.”

Parlez-Vous Francais: from the opening bars that sound like the Virgin Trains announcement noise, to bandmember’s Mayte revelation that the man she was after was ‘as tall as a tree!’, Parlez-Vous Francais is bliss. It even has the best bit of talky nonsense between the two girls at the beginning, where one is slowly cajoled into spilling the beans on who she shagged on a recent holiday, with questioned interjections from the other girl (“In the sun!” / “In the sun?” / “Having fun!” / “Having fun?”). It proves that while she and this man had no language in common, it’s the International Language of Lurve that binds them together. Which really is like us and Baccara. Aww.

Wednesday, July 30, 2003

The Greatest Day

Favourite thing at the moment: 24. Here’s why.

Jack Bauer - Here’s how to act like Kiefer, it’s very easy. Step one, you should master staring around a corner with a gun, and then breaking out into a run. And Step two (worryingly, the final step) you should be able to breathlessly state ‘you have to believe me, Mr President/Kate/Tony’ with an insistent look. You should grab your charge’s shoulders if they are female to show you are stronger than them and therefore must be trusted. If they are male, stare imploringly up into their eyes as you are only three foot four, yet you are demonstrating your whippet-like abilities at speed and reasoning.
These are all you will need to support yourself in a mainstream primetime hit.

Kate Warner - Jack is Doctor who, Kate is the companion. She is onboard to ask the questions that the audience are *supposed* to be asking like ‘What’s a datachip, Jack?’ or ‘What are foreigners, Jack?’ rather than the ones the audience is actually asking like ‘Did he get fatter than last hour, Jack?’ Sarah Wynter’s quite an attractive actress, though is playing Kate with one constant expression: complete confusion, combined with a down turned mouth of crumbling horror. You get the same wide-eyed look if you hold the tail of a rainbow fish and spin it several times above your head.

I would imagine.

Kim Bauer - And now the cream of the crop. Poor old dim Kim, she has become one of the funniest characters in TV and one of the main reasons we were watching the show. A pivotal part of the first season, she has been side-lined to comic relief in the second season, all in the aim to show what’s happening to the ‘everyman’ during a bomb threat in LA. Well, she would be an ‘everyman’ if she actually listened to advice - her dad says ‘Get out of LA’ - she comes back someone’s kid. Then she gets charged with murder after the police find a dead body in her car. After too-in and fro-ing, she makes her escape, and at the point where the producers run out of things to happen to her, she goes into the middle of the woods in the night and gets her foot caught in a cougar trap for an hour. Brilliant. Oh, but she gets better - she’s released by a nut-job with a shotgun, and he says ‘Well, you could go back to the road over there with safety and lights, or you could come back with me to my darkened cabin where no-one’s around?’ Fade back up from adverts and she’s piling through the door, taking off her top and jumping into the shower.
We love Kim. I like the idea that this isn’t an unusual day for her, and that Jack’s always getting calls via CTU for her. ‘What is it now, Kim?’ / ‘Dad ? I’m trapped in a blazing lift with a bear! Help!’ etc etc repeat to fade.

Tony Almeda - obviously when CTU exploded, the donut machine landed *very close* to his desk.

Robert Warner- Up until 11am, it looked like most of the villains had grown a goatee in order for you to helpfully identify them as bad - including the white-clothed Mr Warner. When Sherri Palmer turned up, I was at least expecting her to have a strappy beard held on over her ears with elastic. Oooh, but didn?t she look *evil* when she gained access to the President’s lair? It was like that time that Doogal found himself in the land of the sugarlumps? so, speaking of witch (sic):

Sheri Palmer- Love her. Gay icon. Season one: bomb goes off in her hotel - she goes off to fix her hair. Season Two, complete and utter bitch. I’m looking forward to the end where she seizes power from everyone and becomes President of the World and makes them all have relaxed afros. Yes.

Tuesday, July 29, 2003

Don't Stop The Music!

From Ananova:

"Dannii Minogue accidentally started a new dance trend at an outdoor concert when she tried to alert the crowd to a capsized boat behind them. After the show, Dannii said she had wanted to stop singing and shout for help, but was then relieved to see the man was safe."

Or - 'It was all on tape, and she couldn't stop without looking like a tit'.

Motto For Life

All of you, heed these wise words:

Love like you've never been hurt,
Dance like no-one's watching,
And fuck like you're being filmed.

That is all. Move along now.

Chick Lit

Sick to the absolutely back bloody teeth of posters on the tube with too many exclamation marks and single women in dire lifestyle situations. I’m starting my own!

I’m a WOMAN, not a Doctor!
Set Your Phasers to FUN!

On the run from her old flame, the gorgeous French stallion Jean-Luc, Doctor Beverly Crusher heads back to medical school to heal her broken heart.
Soon, she’s a swinging CMO with a doctorate in party! But her path to true love is never easy and when Jean-Luc said he’d pursue her across the galaxy, it was no idle threat! Soon the French hunk is setting his sights on her and will do anything to get her back, including trying to make her jealous with her maid, Kate Pulaski!
Along with Aylissa Ogawa, her hilarious slitty eyed nursey friend, and Data her hilarious gay flatmate, Bev has to choose between decorating her new fabulous San Fransisco apartment, or a life amongst the stars. Who said being a Doctor was easy?!

Sleep is for tortoises

I loathe sleeping; always have. I got the Doctor Who Technical Manual for Christmas ‘83 and was so envious of Davros altering his body so he didn’t have to climb the wooden hill each night. Um, as it where.
It’s hardly insomnia, but for a couple of nights every couple of months, sleep is a stranger to me. And while I would think this was a wondrous thing and I could get on and do all the lovely things I can never do due to having no time, it’s never quite that easy as you think *any second now* you’re going to drop back off again. You daren’t do anything else. And you get the song from Look and Read going through your head.

I did get up at four this morning and shaved. Finally got off at five and had the most marvellous gay dream: I fantasized that it was so hot in Australia that children weren’t able to dance. So Madonna organised an appeal to install chilled dance floors in all the discos in the country, and she arrived in a flurry of publicity with Christina Aquilibra. They got off the plane onto a gorgeously chilled runway and did a spectacular, ever more elaborate dance number together until I woke up an hour later, strangely refreshed.

The big question was: where was Kylie while this was going on?

Monday, July 28, 2003

I Thought The Pop Revolution Started Here?

The Third Single Must Be A Ballad.

This Is The Law.

It Has Been, And It Will Always Be.

Dear, dear Girls Aloud. You shook up reality TV with your guitar-riffing Sound of t’Underground. You made us buy tin foil so we’d dance around our bedroom like yourselves in No Good Advice’s fabulous video. Yet you could have bucked the trend and given us something other than the obligatory ballad for the third single. And I’m not too sure on the video... you look cold. Was that it?

Oh, you’d better be releasing ‘Girls Allowed’ next or there’ll be trouble, missies.

The Hunting of the Spark

Get cable. Your days will become as mine: hunting, obsessed, for the Girls Aloud videos on the music channels.

441 to MTV Hits - gah, it’s Justin Timberlake. Again. Skip to:
448, The Music Factory. Usually a good chance, but no. Denied. It’s Beyonce’s Crazy in Love.
Up a bit to Kiss. Just catch the end of S Club 8, and wait to see what’s next.
It’s tATu’s latest. Hum along and then:
Up to Smash Hits. Best chance here, but they’ve got Justin on too. Skip!
Up to Magic. Adverts. Love their blips - v gay.
Up again to Q. Nothing of use here, normally, although sometimes you get a bit of Holly Valance, nekkid. The harlot. Often strangely fascinated. Up, skipping Kkranng.
Up, up to The Chart Show. Christine Aqualibra’s latest. What is she wearing? Is she pretending to be a Lilt lady? Onward!
Up to Video Vault. This channel has been promising to start at 12am every morning for the last three months. Still hasn’t.
Skip down to Magic to see what’s on. It’s Magic at the movies, so Berlin’s Take My Breath Away. Again.
Back up past Chart to Hits. Love this channel - they always use Kylie in their adverts. Here we have Busted on bikes. Bless.
And back down to 441!

I spend entire weekends like this.

Accidental Tourist

Actually, following on from the last post, I like the regional Prides because they actually feel a little proper, and you don’t have the owl-like Jeremy ‘360’ Joseph prowling the grass looking for ten pences and ten year olds. I’ve had a spate of running into them; the wife and I popped up to Birmingham one weekend and discovered a thronging mass of marys around the town hall. We thought there was an Ikea sale, but it turned out just to be some soap c-list on the top of a stepladder with a megaphone. She had nice hair.

Accidentally, I went to the Leicester one. Leicester is the home of my former poly (nee ‘university’) and where I got my bubblegum degree from, and where I met my devil-worshipping best friend Declan (oddly on holy ground). My reprobate friend James – or ‘Gertie’ – was arriving to join me in a ‘university exchange’, where I show him my alma marta and he shows me his. We’d managed to get the last two hotel rooms in the city - ‘Leicester is full’ stated one website. Of what came as a complete surprise - gays. It was Pride.

We toured the bars on the Friday night and ended up without any degree of surprise at the one mary club in Leicester. It’s called Streetlife, and probably because ‘it’s the only place to go’. As we left, we discovered that the Harry Potter book was out and WHSmith was having a midnight opening, and with my last sheckles I bought the sizable tome and fell asleep under it at 2.30 that morning, causing considerable injury to myself.


Pride itself was a let down, which was fun in itself. Three tents, a drag queen and a man dressed in a chicken outfit. The latter clucked up to Gertie and held out his hand, and the young boy foolishly took it. “Look at that,” crowed the costume to the ‘crowd’. “Out in the middle of the field with a stranger’s cock in his hand!”
He should have crowed it nearer the bushes; they were rustling with an intensity that one would have thought that the badgers were terraforming. We lasted an hour; we saw Old Mother Tatchell stalking towards the VIP area with a look on his face and decided to beat a hasty exit. Which also was going on in the bushes, I believe.


We went clubbing again in the evening and danced to Girls Aloud.


Sunday we caught the slow train back and was going to upgrade to first, but the only difference between first and standard was a different antimacassar on the head rest. While I hunted for the buffet bar, I caught the eye of this swarthy gentleman sitting up near the front of the train. I thought nothing of it and returned to my seat to where Gertie and I were battling through the injuring Potter book.
Half hour later, I saw the certain gentleman stalking along the train, checking each carriage. He saw me, stopped and turned to stare with that intense look out of the window that only means ‘I’m not looking at anything.” A moment later, he moved back to the door area, standing pointedly next to the toilet. I sighed, and leaned forward to Gertie and told him what was going on. “Be a dear and go and service him, would you?” I asked. “He’ll only be hanging around for the next half hour otherwise.” With a raised eyebrow and a feral look in his eyes, my Ambassador For Toilet Sex stuck in his bookmark.

Rain Stops Gay

Pride? I’ve never been that proud, except for a couple of embarrassing incidents on the bus. But like the good little gay I should be, I should have been trotting along to some marsh to watch Hazel Dean come out her sarcophagus for the umpteenth time, bumping into ex’s and getting delirious in the sun from the fumes of the ‘lesbian only’ tattoo parlour. I didn’t, because I’m far too sour for such things and instead spent the time wandering around a gorgeous country house and eating National Trust biscuits. Far more civilised.

I love that people get a thrill out of the exhibitionism and the dancing and the jolly japes to be had by blowing whistles. I’ve never really got that, though and previous Prides have resulted in:

• getting dumped.
• pulling ugly strangers
• losing your friends, and not being able to find them due to the mobile phone network going “aaaaaah!” as 350,000 pop moppets try and get through to someone called Steven to screech that “we’re by the Fist tent! I’m dressed in a white thong and nothing else! Cackle!”
• Finding nothing interesting going on, not even in the bushes.

For goodness sake, Girls Aloud weren’t even there this year. Unforgivable.

I think the best way I’ve seen it summed up was here.

Still, while I was wandering around my lovely country house, the wife and I looked out of the window and noticed that the heavens had opened. The thought of the rain tipping down on all those unlucky marys and flattening their hair made us smile. And we had another biscuit in celebration.


I’m very much tempted by a nice G3 tefalone, purely so I can take pictures of Girls Aloud when they’re on telly and send them to my lovely wife just to annoy him. I want this one. Not for its functions, not for its size, but because it looks like Lady Penelope’s fabulous two-way compact from Thunderbirds.

Friday, July 25, 2003

Gorgeous Young Thing Gets Plumbing Fixed

I live in a gorgeous shared house in South London.

There was a bit of a problem the other day when we all discovered the washer had decided to stop doing what it does best.

After much flapping due to us being unable to fathom what was the matter, we called a nice gruff man called Dave up and got him around. He took one look at it and went ‘Ahh...’ and tutted. Apparently there’s a filter where fluff and dust and bits of green paint collect when you’re washing your fabulous clothes, and this can get clogged up with money and things. We could have done it ourselves, apparently.

Still, as the machine was under guarantee, and the tea I made him was particularly workmanesque, we got a free call out. In fact, we’re 22 pence up after he emptied the filter, and we’re going to split it. And buy bubblies.

What a lovely day.

The First

gong sounds

raptuous applause

Well. How nice. I do like a warm hand on my entrance.

So, I suppose I should start being entertaining, shouldn't I?