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

Friday, September 26, 2003

Bags Are Packed, As I Recall...

Ladies and germs, I bid you adieu.

In the interim before I come back and thrill you all, I shall leave you with my all-time favourite joke.

Q. What crawls along going 'ding-dong! ding-dong!'
A. A wounded Avon Lady.

There. Be good, play nice... and a big warm welcome to our first guest ruler, Judith Chalmers, to look after you all...

Thursday, September 25, 2003

A Joke for Three People

From BBC news:

‘Sarah Parkinson, the writer and producer wife of comedian Paul Merton, has died of cancer at the age of 41. Merton's statement said: "She faced the situation with courage and died serenely and without pain in the early hours of Tuesday morning."

Lorraine Heggessey, controller of BBC1, said: "Sarah was a wonderful woman in every way." She went on to add, “But no matter how popular she was, we’re still not bringing her back.”’

Wednesday, September 24, 2003

Form An Orderly, Talentless Queue!

You will be pleased to know that when I leave you this weekend for the shores of the US, the universe will not be without a z-list rudder to guide it through the fortnight. Didn’t we have such fun last time when Linda Barker took over the managerial duties for the day? No? Oh. Oh well, don’t worry, we have a cavalcade of former daytime TV presenters, failed popstars and reality TV stars popping in to oversee the planets! Already confirmed to appear are:

Maggie Philbin!
Lindsey Wagner (only because we told her there was a Lifetime movie being filmed in our back bedroom about a girl with cancer)
Emma Bunton (only because we told her there was a free pasties in our back bedroom)
Des Lynam, star of the Sure deodorant commercial!
Former Doctor Who companion Sarah Sutton!
And Grange Hill’s Michael Sheard. Because you can’t keep him away from these things!

Leave me a comment as to who you’d like to see running the universe while I’m over playing with the yanks, and I'll drop a line to their agents. Otherwise, I’m determined to find out whether these Americans really are hung like draft excluders.

Frankly, I find that very hard to swallow.

State of Mind

I see Frank Bruno's been locked up in a cozy room with ten rolls of rubber wallpaper. Some claim it's the drink that driven him off the cliff, others claim that it's been all those years he's spent being battered around the ring.

Ah. You can see the joke here before I say it, can't you?

Tuesday, September 23, 2003


How very dare they even suggest it? My slim sirens of song, Girls Aloud, are apparently putting on the pounds to such an extent they're not going to be able to fit into their pink and black Sound of the Underground tracksuits! That the amount of baco-foil to be used during a live set of No Good Advice would be equal to that the whole of Doctor Who's history!

If indeed it is true, perhaps they should just come out as porkers, and we could have the first fat girl band! Stop photoshopping the front covers. Remix the album! Call them Girls A'lard! Have the album include such hits as 'Sound of the Underwear Straining, No Cod Advice and White Pies'!

Return of the Mac

I have a distrust of anything cleverer than I am, which is why I live in a remote crystal castle with only the corpulent assistance of Stacey for company. It’s not that she’s dumb, but she does have a tendency to break things down into rather simple terms of ‘edible’ and ‘not interested then’. But when machines show more intelligence than I possess, that is when I start to worry, as proved by this story about computers may be able to fool humans into believing they are intellectual. I simply require my computer to be dumb, to be able download porn without anyone noticing, and show me pop-ups of genuinely fabulous things, like a full-sized Scott Speedman, or the home address of J from 5ive for $3.

Anyway. At the other end of the scale, Macintosh machines are evil in the extreme; far too clever by half. Anything that looks that friendly and welcoming instantly rises my ire. Cyanide smells of almonds. Domestos comes in a friendly yellow bottle. Macintosh computers look like a big Quality Street.

At least PCs have an air of drunken elderly bachelor, stumbling through their programmes with an air of instability. I can relate to that. Macs remind me of a prissy airline stewardess doing their job with a reluctant smile, where everything’s just fine until the second before a crash. This is where they cheerfully tell you something is wrong, but won’t tell you exactly what. ‘An error has occurred!’ she’ll say with that fake beam. ‘What kind?’ you’ll ask. ‘Oh, just an error. No need to worry about it. Another cup of coffee?’ She doesn’t elaborate, but you know she’s already hidden the only parachute under her seat.

But not only that, Macs talk to you. Or more correctly, they talk down their nose at you to tell you off for leaving files open, or you shouldn’t be doing this or that. We had better stop this before it spreads: what could be worse than a talking microwave, outfitted as a Jewish mother? ‘Oi-vey! You’re not eating this junk, are you? You’ll never grow up to be big and strong like your uncle Erving. How am I meant to become a happy grandmother when you’re not big and strong, huh?’ Or worse, the final fusion of the gay and the closet, where your wardrobe is the personification of that shrill, hideous queen you hate in all pubs: ‘What do you think are you wearing, girlfriend? Mmm, I can sense TopMan about you... and you think you can get away with that skinny t-shirt? Honey, you ain’t been skinny since The Spice Girls were number one! Come on, reach in – there’s a mu-mu up the back with your name all over it, sister...’

Lets just burn the bloody Talking Tupperware before this madness begins.

Technically Flawed

In our on-going series, we discuss the errors in in the Dr Who Technical Manual, that shiny blue bible which have contributed to Doctor Who mythos for almost twenty years.

14: The Sonic Screwdriver
According to the scale next to the Doctors wonderful device with three settings, it is over two meters tall.

15: Dalek Anatomy: The Energy Dispensers
These are the indicators of a Morris Marina that are on the top of a Daleks dome. They are there to release excess energy which often builds up in Dalek power cells, which often happens when there is an excess of static electricity around (see Doctor Who and the Dalek Invasion of the Planet of Tights 2450AD). Assuming that the energy is only released when the Dalek speaks - hence the flashing - what happens when the Dalek is particularly reserved? Are we to suppose that at certain times, Daleks go mumbling around Skaro? Perhaps they have a safeguard that, when the reactor starts edging towards the red, they start singing Girls Aloud under their breath. It is also presumably why you dont see any Dalek monks: after three months of taking their vow of silence, they explode.

16: The picture of K9 in colour.
The one of him from The Leisure Hive on the beach. You can clearly see the wires pulling him across the beach. This photo is a mock-up, as K9 is real and would never need any assistance from something so lowly as fishing wire! Fake, we cry! FAKE!!!

Monday, September 22, 2003

Warning: May Contain Nuns

I’d like to claim ownership of the joke about the black-white-red-all-over nun. Well, they started the war between us, and I’m sure you’re aware one of the most powerful tools in conflict is propaganda. There was a time when my war cabinet were coming up with several of them a day, from ‘Candles out, girls!’ to ‘That’ll be the cobbles...’ all with the aim of discrediting the sisters so they’d stop bothering me. Yet their counter-measures meant that by 1997, my fear of nuns was such if I so much as got a few bars of ‘How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria’ I would drop down dead.

Fortunately, I think we sorted a truce and I managed to get on an immersion therapy course to embrace, cherish and champion nuns in all forms, the draw being the name: ‘Get Back In The Habit!’ It was a very relaxed thing; they started off by showing us pictures of Sister Sledge, and flashing up images of friendly-looking penguins, and by the end of the first day, we were all singing along to Whoopi Goldberg’s magnum opus Sister Act.

The nuns had instigated it all, bringing the fear by a slow grinding down by a crack team of SOS nuns in Leicester who decided I was the quintessence of all evil, and should be followed around the fair city. The times did I turn around to find there was a nun gliding behind me are too numerous to recall, their hands steepled in prayer, eyeing me with a look of holy intent. After three years of this, just the swish of synthetic fabric or the low rattle of rosary was enough to make me power-mince away and hide somewhere sinful. And that is my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

Yet thanks to my therapy, nuns are now the staple comedy ingredient in my life. Anything is funnier when it’s in a habit, including frying eggs or riding a motorbike. So, imagine my delight when dear Gertie gave me a copy of A Nun in the Closet, a story of two holy sisters having to leave the convent to sort out a bizarre inheritance, and end up embroiled in the most wonderful mystery. I was reading it on the train last night and laughing so hard, I cleared all the seats around me.

For some reason, the nuns have stopped following me these days. Perhaps they are holding to our treaty, or I’m now on the morally gay and narrow, so don’t need watching. Perhaps they’ve discovered my evil best friend Declan and are swooping down on him like VTOL Flying Nuns as we speak. Yet the war seems to have been abated.

Myself and ASDA checkout women... well, that’s another matter entirely.

Shock Of The Weekend

Is there anything worse than coming across your ex when you're fingering boyz in The Yard?

Friday, September 19, 2003

My Fabulous Showbiz Lifestyle

Every now and again, being paid to raise an eyebrow at DVD covers and managing minions working on TV products reaps odd rewards for me. I’ve spoken to Jenny Agutter on the phone once. Pissed off Patrick Moore, which was fun. But I’ve just been invited out for coffee with a cast member of Farscape.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Ben Browder. Sigh.

Commencing Transmission

Dearly beloved, we are gathered once more in the hallowed halls of popular music for our Daily Girls Aloud briefette. We’re sorry that it’s having to be held in the elevator, but the main floor is being used for Louise Nerding’s public relations festival for her single launch. Three people have turned up so far - a record! But think of this as Willy Whoopsie’s Great Gas Elevator, mind the closing doors, and off we go!

First floor: Hand Clare, Abs and Fast Food Rockers. Going up!

Liberty Ten are returned to us! The lovable quintet have escaped the machinations of the evil Mr X and give us this wonderful dancefloor filler. We note with interest that with each subsequent video, the girls are wearing less and less while the boys are wearing more. One popular theory is that the band has a limited fabric budget, and Mr Tony had a rather fetching knee-length jacket made for the shoot, leaving the girls with three bits of saucy felt and a necklace apiece. How ungentlemanly.

Second floor: Spice Girls, Sheryl Crow, Alanis Morrisette. Going up!

Emma Bunton rolls herself onto the screen with her new Sixties-by-numbers melody that appears to be as catchy as herpies, and just as sociably acceptable. We picked up the transmission of her latest video in the staff lounge last night and noticed that it had duel effects of making us want to have a sexy party and wondered why we all had a sudden craving for pasties. Some Good Advice: dear lady, if you’re going to go for liposuction, you’re meant to have it taken out of your face and stuck in your arse. Not the other way around.

Third floor: Kylie, Sugababes and Baccara, Betty Boo, Girls Aloud and Tori. Going up!

Apparently Rachel Stevens is stopping traffic, with people breaking when they see her new poster. That is because she looks like a back end of a bus.

Fourth floor: J from 5ive, Lee from Steps, the pretty one from Phixx – most certainly going down!

Thursday, September 18, 2003

This One's Dedicated to Zbornak...

Basking in the afterglow of my birthday, one could only be more surprised when my lovely wife managed to get me tickets to Bea Arthur at the Savoy on Tuesday as a little post-celebration celebration.

I must say that she’s come in for a critical savaging in the tabloids of late (the only one I’ve come across was in the Evening Standard, which I don’t read unless it’s over someone’s shoulder. Well, it’s infuriating - it was trying to tell off Soho for having too many bars last night, for goodness’ sake) and I think it’s a little unfair. Yes, it was a little over-rehearsed in places, but it was good fun. And her attitude to singing was to take a run-up into a song by speaking the first verse, and then coming in with a note that may or may not be close to the sheet music for the chorus. But if you delight in seeing an 80-year-old lady saying ‘fuck’ and singing about oral sex, then the two hours she was on stage will whiz by.

Indeed, it did have the air of when an elderly aunt gets drunk and starts to tell familiar stories at a family get together. And I was further charmed by the fact that she looked like Jon Pertwee in every angle but profile, with this remarkable throbbing vein on her right temple of such a size that it appeared to be picking up taxi signals when one drove past.

Still. If you want a night out surrounded by hundreds of clapping, whooping queens, hanging on the every word of some glamorous chanteuse who may or may not keel over at any point, come out for a drink with myself. If you want the same, but with Angela Lansbury referred to as ‘that foul-mouthed truck-driver Angie’, do go to the Savoy. They do serve a marvellous quiche.

Tuesday, September 16, 2003

Preach to the Stars

There’s something in this world that makes people visibly tense more than spiders and the theme tune to Star Trek: Enterprise, and that’s street preachers. We are spoilt for choice here within the capitol, from the corpulent housewife who bellows from Revelation outside LaSenza, to the African beard with a man attached outside Sainsbury’s Local, yet none retain the majesty of the leathery uber-preacher outside Oxford Circus tube station. If I were to say to you ‘Why be a sinner, when you can be a winner?’ and your eyes light up like the proverbial burning bush, we are aware that you’ve come across him on your delectable travels.

You can often wonder why these preachers are doing what they are doing, humiliating themselves in front of so many people on a hourly basis; with this righteous eighth wonder of the world, you just know he got a catchphrase that he appears inordinately proud of (“Why be a sinner, when you can be a winner?”) and bought himself a microphone and went from there. God likes winners, apparently. Which is nice, as I hate to loose. I’m positively an animal at Connect 4. Unfortunately I also like most things on the list he gamely reads out, including filthy bumsex, swearing and coveting my neighbour’s ass (particularly when the wall between his and my bedroom is so thin).

He is, however, nothing like the son of a preacher man described by the divine Dusty, for I certainly wouldn’t be walking through the back yard and looking into his beady eyes. As the streets of the big city can blind you with bright lights, slimming aids and prostitution, it’s nice to know that humanity’s moral compass is easily accessible on the Central line.

Several people have run across him when he’s not shouting and trying to be friends with people, including my lovely housemate Ian while in a pub. He appeared at the bar, downed a pint and wandered off back out into the streets to win, not sin. We were left perplexed, pondering whether alcohol was a heavenly crime to this man until we surmised that the blood of Christ was 60% proof anyway, and so beer must be Jesus’s sweat. Goodness knows that the awful vodka you can get from Tesco with the laser-printed label and the potato nigh-on floating on it is as close to Christ’s piss you’re ever going to get.

Anyway. Preacher man has been known to approach people to talk to them about sinning and winning, for which the reactions are delightfully extreme from these possible convertees. He’s never come near me - his beady eyes have flicked over to me when we cross paths on the street, but I think the feeling is I may convert him first. Indeed, I believe sinning to be relative: to him swearing, jealousy and everything else is a sin. To me: wearing white socks and neglecting deodorant is the most damnable crime. We are at loggerheads it seems.

Thus, I am tempted to beat him at his own game, a showdown if you will. I shall buy a megaphone. I shall stand before him, bellowing Girls Aloud lyrics like they are from the Book of Genesis. One of us will go down in flames, I’m sure, but it will be worth it.

May the loudest survive.

Oooh, Shut That Catflap!

Just so you know, that mad cat of mine brought another cuddly toy home this weekend.

We hope to train him up so he brings home other things from the Generation Game conveyor belt before Christmas.

Friday, September 12, 2003

Daniel Beddingfield

I’m not sure what happened with this one. I’d quite happily filed the odious little dwarf away under ‘That Noisy Garage Nonsense’ upon the release of his first single. Which was filmed in glamorous Poplar DLR station, I highlight for all you location hunters, you. Anyway, then he starts bombarding us with a collection of screechy ballads whilst bare-foot and in white flowing shirts which, due to his rotund nature, look like a space hopper attacking a bed sheet.

Yet these things are making him incredibly popular with housewives across the country. Heavens - why? Can someone please write in and explain it to me?

Thursday, September 11, 2003

Five Ways to Boredom

You know what this pasta salad I'm currently eating could do with?

A fucking big slice of gateaux atop it.

Get Your Coat, You're Pulled

Apparently you are either a shoe man or a coat man. Think about it: do your pleasures come from a nice high-turned boot? Or do you thrill at the love of a shiny lining, dapper lapels and a deep capacity pocket?

I’m a coat man. My fabulous footwear tends to be alongside the more functional boots, I can’t get enough of a long length coming down to my knees. And it is in these weeks of the year when there’s a slight nip in the air do department stores whip out their winter line for my delectation, which, for me, is like when Doogal landed in the land of the sugar lumps. This year, the fashions are for two large furry flaps (which I naturally avoid) and things so broad and thick you really have to be careful how you walk after using one (my perfect choice).

To celebrate this year’s purchase of a rather expensive number from a certain up-and-coming retailer, I thought I’d thrill you with some marvellous COATS OF NOTE!

Joseph: Why do people claim this to be the nicest coat ever? It’s a patchwork monstrosity of all the colours under the sun - how on earth are you meant to accessorise with that?

Butlin’s Red Coats: H from Steps, Shane Richie and Stephen Mulhern (moon-faced assassin of joy) were all former red coats. Shut down this spawning ground at once.

Bambi’s mother’s: now available on eBay. ‘One slight hole and soaked in a generation’s tears’ I assume that means it is colourfast, then.

Jill Masterson in Goldfinger: Lovely coat of paint. Nice of this brassy bird to lie so placid while they undercoated her, buffed her and then went for two top layers - all while Bond was in the shower. Perhaps they used a version of Dulux’s Solo range for speed, although they would have to make sure the whole surface was smooth before they started applying it. Thank heaven James Bond had been filling in the cracks for the previous two hours.

Wednesday, September 10, 2003

Commencing Transmission

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here once more in the hallowed halls of pop for our daily Girls Aloud briefing. Please make sure that all baggage (chiefly Michelle from Liberty X) is stowed in the overhead locker, and your Justin Timberlake is returned to its proper, upright position. I know mine is.

Now, if you open your information packs to page four, you will see our New Favourite Thing is Lisa Scott-Lee, late of the Steps Band. We all knew Steps’ time at the top was at an end as the video for Chain Reaction showed them sitting on sofas and rugs, stuffing up their CVs to show they can do DFS adverts too. Yet with the scattering of pop’s triumphant gods into the wind, the smart money was on Huntley and Carr - I’m sorry I’ll read that again - H and Clare being the ones to be worshiped by the Men With Nice Nails.

Yet, the most notable thing about this traitorous duo - bar a disappearance down the back of pop’s sofa faster than Supersister - is that their website, typography and advertisement always crushed their names together to create the gestalt entity ‘Hand Clare’. While they were the fair choice to go on to give us killer beats and ridiculous dance moves, they only provided Steps-Lite(tm) and were knocked off their twin thrones by an unusually discerning public, snatching away their Elisabeth Duke crowns with a cruel snarl.

Today we celebrate the underdog, the phoenix rising from the Tragedy that was Steps. All hail Lisa! Your sexy pop and strappy outfits are an inspiration to us all, and long may your dancefloor-filling funk make us all put our Baccadi Breezers on the side and get on down.

Over there under the arch, you will also notice Rachael from Sclub (pron. ‘shclub’) similarly cavorting around over there in her pants. Do not pay any attention to it, such writhing is unbecoming to a lady of such little celebrity status. She’s obviously trying to get a couple of column inches, and not in a good way.

Now, we go over here to see how our appeal is going. Before we finish our to scale totem of Girls Aloud Sarah out of gum wrappers, lets just check our totaliser... and it appears that we have a stonking three interviews for Louise Nerding in local papers! Yes, this self-financed comeback is really coming on leaps and bounds, and we hope to get her in the Dulwich Echo before the month it out.

Much apathy meets Justin Timberlake’s new single; the only delight is that if it bombs, he’ll have to take his top off to promote the next one in Mizz (subscription copies will be circulated upon your exit. The make-up tips are a dream). If that bombs too, he can always fall back on being a Butlins Redcoat, as his calling out at the end of this song is so like.

Next on the agenda is another former band member who’s fate teeters in the balance. Mark Owen’s comeback single ‘Four Minute Warning’ has come and gone, a cheerless but hummable ditty that, according to our files, is only 3.41 long. One wonders what the four minute warning was about: do check the video as it appears that it is a Public Information Film warning us that the only things surviving the Armageddon will be a multi-coloured umbrella and Mark Owen himself. Better kill this pop cockroach now before he succeeds us all...

Thank you all for attending, I shall be coming around with a complimentary wipe for you. Especially you, sir.

Tuesday, September 09, 2003

A Bear of Very Little Brains

While I am thrilled that my cats love me, I used to think I would be wonderful if they could get me something other than half a dead bird by my back portal upon my entrance at night. Last night it was a rat, one of a whole cavalcade of presents that they’ve politely stunned, chewed the legs off and deposited around the house for us to find.

I gather it’s a left-over from their clan mentality, where they see us as their family and they are teaching us to hunt. They place the dismembered rodent down and re-enact it for you, giving you a running commentary how they killed it so you can do the same. This also explains why they are all over the shopping when it gets delivered by the char, as they think we’ve been hunting in the shiny halls of Sainsbury’s and wish to know how it is done. Fortunately, gold cards seems a little beyond them.

But not hunting. Gilbert the boy-cat completely outdid himself last night, providing a dead rat, half chewed, still warm and twitching so, and wished to show us the dramatic battle that resulted in half its spine being eaten. Comedy housemate Ian, who is not Gilbert’s greatest fan it has to be said (witness him trying to put him in the washer to recreate the title sequence from the Pink Panther TV series) scooped it up with a spatula and flung it over the hedge. Gilbert obviously took great umbrage at this, watching it sail into the oblivion, taking it as the gift wasn’t up to our standards.

So, bless him, off he shot into the night again to get us something else. He returned half an hour later with something furry, grubby and yellow in his maw, dumping it in the kitchen and running off to perch on the stairs to await our appreciation.

It was a teddy bear of nearly half his size.

There was a mutual stunned silence from the housemates. Where on earth did he get a teddy bear? Was there a poor five-year-old out there, stunned and clutching her slashed cheek, arms empty of dear little Rupert? Enquiring minds need to know...

Monday, September 08, 2003

I Most Certainly Will!

Things I have learned from attending a wedding this weekend:

• There is always a single woman there hoping to meet a man so she can relate the story of how she met the man of her dreams at someone else’s wedding. Do keep away from anyone who clutches your hand a little too firmly during the dancing.
• There is always a lady there who is ‘wacky’ - identifiable by her parrot earrings and excitingly dyed hair. She is not as fun to be around as she seems, as the creases of desperate fun around her eyes reveal.
• If you are going to piss off the gay, it is not best to do it while he is behind you, has in his presence a glass of red wine, and you have a white linen dress on.
• Further more, lady in the linen dress, if you do wear white and are a little - nay a lot overweight - do not think you can distract from this by accessorising in hot pink. And most certainly not with a bag that came free with Cosmo last issue, as the gay that you may have pissed off may tell people.
• EVERYTHING is funny if you do it in a wedding dress. Including running across a main road, line dancing and using a children’s slide.
• You organist will never know the tune, to much hilarity. In fact this one was so troubled by what she had to play that she got to the complicated bits, fluffed a bit and then raced on two pages to the next bit she’d learned. Also, do let your cat wander up and down the keyboard for effect to mystify your audience who are already alienated by centuries-old dirges called hymns.
• Straight men cannot dance, and have a tendency to jump on each other when drunk near the end of the night. If you have been masquerading as a non-mincer for the whole day, you may find this is your opportunity to leap on the best man and cop a feel without arousing suspicion.
• The most interesting people can be found around the bar three hours before the end, clutching a bottle of wine and with a face like thunder. They are more often than not a distant friend who is here to make up the numbers, is more bitter than the lemon in her twelfth margarita from 4pm, and more fun than women in wedding dresses line dancing.
• Everyone there who is not married will be planning their own wedding. The wife and I have decided to have Kylie as the hymns, and snigger heartily when they say ‘Do you take this man?’

Friday, September 05, 2003

Never Be Too Friendly With Them

One always wondered what would happen if I threw my fabulous portal open to the Argos end of the gene pool. Would they converge en masse on my fabulous deep shag, or just stare at the gates like the aforementioned old couple peering fearfully into the depths of hell that is Old Commotions Street? Well, one prole did venture up to the bell, as you can see. Her name was ‘Anna F’.

UR just SOOO Cool!!!!“ she writes, dulcet Essex tones scraping against my inner ear. “U RAWK!

I can never claim that I’ve been ‘down wi’ d’homies’ - unless you count a incident in the harsh winter 1967 when I invited in our delightful Jamaican post-person for a hot toddy, in return getting shown his ju-ju stick - and so I have no idea what ‘rawk’ means. Frankly, it sounds like something pterodactyls say on the cover of Doctor Who books. I can only assume it is a good thing as she follows up with a mischievous:


Well. Not without dinner and dancing, my dear!

Then she commits a sin. I’m sure I have an educated audience out there, and you all know of the Turing Test. If not, this is a wonderful test created by well-known wartime mary and mathematical genius Allan Turing who spent a great deal of time on the war effort, and then what must have been about ten minutes coming up with this experiment which examines whether a machine can think. This next sentence fails said test:

BRITTNY SP3RS IS B8R thn GrzAlowed AN U NO IT!!!!!"

In truth, we had to use the Enigma machine to crack what it meant, but as it was stuck in 1940s configuration, we received the translation thus: ‘Young Brittany Spears (well known harlot with only one good song to her name) far outranks the talented baco-foil lovelies Girls Aloud, and you are fully aware of this fact, you curmudgeon!’

Well! Such impudence! Consider the date off, child of the lower orders! I shall take my good intentions and shiny tuppences elsewhere!

But wait. Wait one second. That name... ‘Anna F’ - surely short for Anna Friel, well-known actress who played the lesbisexual luvverlee in TV’s Brookside. And Spears is spelt with a ‘3’ which smacks of over-egging the pudding… I feel this is a forgery, put upon this glorious blog by comedy lesbisexual housemate Kimberly! How very dare she!

The blog war rages on...

Thursday, September 04, 2003

You must… love me…

We now have a Comments facility on this dastardly pink site! Show me how much you adore me. Go on. Please. I can’t function without your approval.

Middle of the Road

I’m normally tolerant of you peasants that wander before me, infesting public transport and getting on your soap boxes while I’m trying to read The Metro, but of late, I’ve been having opinions thrust down my throat from complete strangers that not even a dark look will silence. Tuesday night I had to listen to the conspiracy theories of a Nigerian madman on the way back to Peckham about how the world wasn’t fair because of skin colour, yet when I told him I was a complete mary and we still had segregated pubs, couldn’t hold hands in public and were still seen as the two-dimensional comic relief in sit-coms - like his people 30 years ago - he looked at me like I was the spawn of Satan.

I’d like to think that it was because I’d started to unbalance his argument, not because he was revolted by myself, although the chances are more the latter than the former. I don’t often get on my high horse to talk to people about gay rights, mostly because I can’t ride and you’d be able to see up my lovely dress, but I feel that we’re coming out of the Dark Times in most people’s opinions thanks to some very good PR. Heavens, what’s the worst people have to say about gay men? ‘Oh, they have lovely nails’, ‘They smell so nice’ and ‘Lovely hair on that man!’ - who wouldn’t want one in their office or home - perhaps even a mobile one for your car? There’s just a few who object to our ways: there was a fantastic incident while walking past the ghetto of Old Compton’s Street last night, and an elderly couple were before me. They turned to peer around the edge of the shop, right into the main drag of Compton’s Street. Much to my joy, the woman turned to her husband with a look of horror that suggested that she’d spied directly into Dante’s Inferno, not a couple of poofs drinking and quietly miming to Kylie outside the Admiral Duncan.

It seems that while Mary Whitehouse is dead, her legacy of puritanical life lives on in small pockets. My new favourite thing is the Parents Television Council, a group set up to watch the most ‘hideous’ things on American television and warn others off it if it contains anything racy, or violent. Their website is just wonderful, particularly for their entry for Will & Grace which lists very funny lines and then tells you why they are wrong. This, of course, just makes it ten times more funny.

And what of this Council? They have even gone to the lengths of getting screengrabs of the worst moments, meaning that someone has to tape all these shows. I like the idea that these are stored in one member’s house, in a room insulated from the rest of the house by smiling wholesome pictures of Oprah and Martha Stewart to stop any evil getting out. And imagine the polling meetings - women with blouses buttoned up to their chins tutting and ‘ooh’ing through episodes of Big Brother, rating them by how much steam was on Myrtle’s glasses. Then having to detox with a nice flapjack and a Touched By An Angel marathon.

It’s a difficult issue, for if we start ignoring them, we become as intolerant as they are of us. We can best hope that they come around to some middle-ground of thinking and throw off their twin-sets and come and sit in the sun drinking Baccadi Breezer. But not before they pass on their recipe for flapjack to me – it really was divine...

Wednesday, September 03, 2003

Captain Picard Goes To The Sale

We are getting an awful lot of junk mail at the moment. While I normally throw away such detritus, I have of late been leave it in the hope that it is possible to have too much junk mail, and this mountain will start repelling like, and it becomes impossible to thrust further attempts to sell me mobile phones and holiday insurance through my entrance.

Still, whilst waiting for something fabulous to happen yesterday, I was idly flicking though one such DFS catalogue that had landed near the top of the pile. DFS is a marvel: how can they perpetually be having a sale? Spring Sale, Summer Sale, Christmas Sale, Boxing Day Sale – it just goes on at the whim of the seasons it appears, getting more desperate as time goes by: Easter Sale, Back to School Sales, Ethel Merman’s Birthday Sale... Still, does this mean that they legitimately have to have one day where items are not reduced in price? Lorks, you’d be pissed if you went on that day to buy a new pouffe.

Anyway, within this glossy tome did I spy a most wonderful sofa, three-seater, that looked uncannily like Captain Picard’s chair from The Next Generation. It was then we realised that the good captain missed a trick when he got his ship - sofas are the way forward. Sofas are perfect for lolling around on, hungover. A sofa would invoke a more family, Blue Peter-stylee version of command with Riker, Troi and Picard perched like Valerie Singleton and co. Far more friendly way of greeting the Borg with a cheery wave and a ‘Hello!’ and the possibilities of a ‘make’ later where you can fix a laser pen to your ear and pretend you’re the leader of the Collective - what a wheeze!

Admittedly there are downsides to this: if the good captain was sitting in the middle and had to clamber over Troi to get to his little readout pad affixed to the arm – it’s a fair journey, I grant you. And heaven forefend he looses his recorder down the flaps*... Oh and what of the day when Riker was in charge, watching the viewscreen, lying there in his pants and eating crisps? One shudders at the thought.

I do like the idea of Worf giving it a bit of a Dustbuster once over in between scenes, though.

* In the sofa, not Troi. Shudder.

Tuesday, September 02, 2003

The Shortest Joke in the World

“...and so the hamster went back to God and said ‘No, I wanted to come back as a gangster!'

This joke comes courtesy of that courtesan of comedy, Mr Jayson Gallagher, whom has been trying to cheer me after a particularly horrid day by describing his 1940’s swimming trunks he’s going to buy - much to my amusement, and not to his. Jayson is a very dear friend to me and infuriates me so by actually having ‘Jay’ on his birth certificate, and doesn’t respond to Jayson no matter how loud I shout it across the balconette. I’ve noted this stubborn attitude with most Northerners, particularly my rough newspaper boy Grizelda who never comes when he’s called, defying me further by wearing the name badge ‘Steve’. Such arrogance.

I met Jayson on a train. He tells the story much better, and with more props these days. Needless to say, when two Men With Nice Nails get together in a confined space, for some reason they end up in a toilet together. Why is that? You’d never get lesbisexual ladies involved in such shenanigans as they’re far too classy. It would be a different world if Ladies Who Lick were going around Ikea and then grabbing other in the rug department, for want of a better phrase. But as it stands, it’s only the mary men who’ll whip off into a public loo for a bit of below the belt action. I suppose it’s the immediacy - and it does say ‘convenience’ on the door, after all.

Anyway, since that fateful incident, Jayson and I have been championing hats for lovely people. The more lovely that person, the bigger the hat. Jayson, therefore, would merit a large stove-pipe at a raffish angle; I would get a decent sized fedora because I am a little sod, although it would have a very wide brim. There was much argument on whether a tiara comes under this hat law as we both want one, but instead have awarded a Carmen Miranda-stylee fruitstall to New Favourite Thing Alistair Appleton. Well you do have to be fair.

The use of this hat regulation also benefits the non-lovely: very plain hats would be mandatory for people under five foot, although if you are under five foot and fabulous, you do have the chance of upgrading to a nice cowboy hat or similar. If you are a tourist, you will have to wear a blue balaclava that points you out as someone who will stop dead in the street at any moment, and thus gives everyone fair warning and stop you getting an irate dig in the ribs from a swarthy poof who happened to be behind you. If you are a tourist and under five foot, you are no doubt a menace to society and a hat will stop you having to use an umbrella that just happens to come up to eye-level with normal sized London denizen. This hat law also stops any clusters of Japanese tourists with umbrellas moving en masse around the capitol like a patch of malevolent chattering mushrooms - something I’m sure we’re all wishing to wipe out.

Go on - try a hat for size today. You may thank us.

It's Official

Jazz is bad for you.

I’ve been telling people this for years.

Monday, September 01, 2003

Plane Sailing

Like Miss Helen before you, I shall have to bid my leave of you shortly for I am to journey to the Land of the Free (and DisneyWorld) at the end of the month. Your ruler will be going on holiday for a couple of weeks to enjoy the sun, sand, and gym-toned Americans over in Florida with a whole cavalcade of lovely people to go riding. Rollercoasters, et al.

I would like to take a laptop to keep you updated, but I fear my luck with airports and airplanes in general will cause it to crash and not boot up on request, making the officials think I’m a terrorist and cause me to be unwittingly violated by a sweaty, hairy man without dinner and dancing.

And while I have a sauna flashback, you may ponder the rest of this.

I must state I’ve had atrocious luck at airports, and the increase in terror alerts shall only heighten that, I’d wager. Last time I was trapped in Canada for seven hours - a fate I wouldn’t wish on anyone, frankly, as it is a very tedious country - as most check-in staff had gone for their lunch. Yes, I wondered how many courses they were having if it took us seven hours to get through, but it did. Perhaps they were so fat by all this that the meal only took four hours and the remaining three to waddle back to the office, or in the case of Big Ron, had to be moved by rolling him along on rollers in a manner similar to how they constructed the pyramids, whipping unwitting prisoners captured from their aimless wanderings around the carousel, waiting for their Samsonite.

Anyway, I make a poor flyer. Bad things happen to me on planes. Sit-com things. The one time I actually fell asleep on a long-haul flight, I did so with my hand resting on my cheek, awaking two hours later to find I’d cut off most of the blood supply to my gums and thus my teeth were loose. Not just loose, but you could flip them up like cat-flaps. I then had to hold still for the next three hours with my mouth slightly agape until my teeth regained their blood supply and I could close it without the fear of calcium being fired across the flight deck.

Nuns. Nuns are bad luck. If you’ve ever seen any Airport film, there’s always a nun on board and that means you’re doomed. Guess who chartered a flight with a nun convention?

But by far the worst happened on TunisAir, the pre-war carriers coming out of Tunisia. It’s a vile country, with even worse transportation. The airport was a shed fastened to the back of a concrete facade, and when your plane was ready, you were called to a window where they pointed to your ride outta there. You then had to run across the runway, diving out of the way of outcoming airplanes and making sure your luggage doesn’t split or get stolen. Now, here’s a complete gem of truth, there is no word of a lie about this bit whatsoever otherwise it’s just a stupid story: while we were clambering up the steps from the runway, there were three Tunisians on the wing muttering and pointing. As I went past, one of them bent down, looked around him, and surreptitiously got out some duct tape and tore a piece off to stuck something down on the wing.

No word of a lie. Of course, who do you think got the window seat next to the wing?

I spent the journey looking out, watching this length of tape. It was while we were passing over France did the end finally flip up and start to come loose, much to my boyhood surprise. There I was at 15000 feet trying desperately to evolve telekinetic powers while wardrobe-sized space waitresses calmly tried to dispense Dairylea with the name scratched out. It was not a pleasant flight.

I am taking no chances this time: the wife and I are in first class. I’m wrapping myself in bubblewrap and knocking myself out with vodka. If any nun comes near me, I’m stuffing their guitar up their arse and pushing them out of the door. And if any terrorist even tries anything, I’m going to hold a plastic fork to my head and threaten to smoke during take-off if I don’t get my complimentary headset. America, I’m coming, ready or not!

Sorry, I'm A Lady

It is with terrible sadness that we mark the passing of one of this blog’s daftest and most cliché’d readers, Dame Helen Rugburns-Stonelake. While she may not be dead, she is no longer under my protective gay-ze working at the reception desk of our fabulous media company and disappeared off into that generic oblivion of ‘going travelling around Europe’. Aww.

Helen has been labelled by anyone in authority as ‘highly inappropriate’, and dressed for work like someone had been dragged through her bush backwards, frankly. She was typical sit-com receptionist: ditzy with an overt fondness for plastic jewellery, mouthy yet caring when she needs to be near the end of the episode, and a complete fag bangle. She was never above letting me squeeze her bosoms in company to make a ‘honk!-honk!’ noise. For the past couple of weeks she’s been extolling the virtues of younger men; like myself she has a penchant for the older gentleman, but when this 18-year-old youngster took her asunder in a tent at some grubby festival, she wouldn’t shut up about it. Lithe, she said. Firm, she whispered. Like a baby’s arm clutching a she tried to say before I clamped a hand over her mouth and pointed her to the bathroom to wash her mouth out with soap. Then she showed me the most impressive set of rug burns on her back I have ever seen. She was, and always will be, a complete lady.

Helen, if you’re reading this, we miss you, and we hope you’ve found happiness in that topless pole-dancing club in Burro-Burro.