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

Thursday, November 27, 2003

Water, Water Everywhere, And Only Two Schoolgirls to Dispose Of

I’m rapt by the Huntley and Carr murders at the moment, mostly by the sheer open-mouthed audacity of Mr Huntley’s defence. Firstly he didn’t kill them, he hadn’t seen them, now it’s turned into a French farce where someone slipped over in the bath in an inch of water and drowned. Next week, the details to be released will involve a vicar entering the bathroom with no trousers and a French maid trying to hide behind the boiler, while a brass band waits to play ‘Capstan’ outside at the first sign of someone’s knickers.

Frankly, babies may drown in an inch of water because they can’t turn over. Teenage girls - no.

I questioned Gertie on why exactly it’s taken so long for this man to come to trial as he’s so worryingly and obviously guilty, and he correctly states that reports need to be run, and the full evidence collated. Although it felt like an age before he was brought to the bench, it was in fact only three months. During which time he attempted suicide twice.

Presumably, one guard thought the worse when they saw him drawing a bath with an inch of water in it.

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

Red! Angry! Red!

My other celebrity friend this week is Lulu.

And she’s full of surprises, I can tell you. For one, she’s only three foot tall, actually smaller than most hobbits, but can down three bottles of Southern Comfort in under ten minutes. The story of how we met is an odd one: I bumped into her hanging outside The Ivy. It happens to be on my way home, and I accidentally brushed past her lovingly while she’d popped out the back door for a fag, hollering at the paparazzi. But they just weren’t interested in taking a picture of her. For one, Shane Richie was coming out the front door. She looked so downtrodden that I simply had to help her out by screaming, “Lulu and I are having an affair!” The cameras whirred and she got to page 48 in the Croydon Herald, so that made her happy.

A thank-you dinner followed, followed by a thank-you foot spa and a thank-you cow’s heart (when asked why, she has a tendency to go all misty-eyed and whisper, “Oh, it was the happiest Christmas ever...” but refuses to be drawn further). The hard times of late have lead to the unusual occurrence of her actually living within celeb restaurant The Ivy thanks to a deal struck with the flamboyant matre d’. They have donated her a booth at the rear of the restaurant where she spends her time, drinking cheap champagne until she falls into the breadbasket around midnight. I was most surprised to see the waiters simply draw the curtains, hoover around her, and leave her until the morning.

Up close, I can reveal that Lulu actually looks younger than I. When pushed on the issue, it transpires that she is in fact an eternal, gaining her power from a black hole she imprisoned under Harrods. Due to harnessing the unique properties of the event horizon, with each Harrods hamper delivered, Lulu not only looks like she’s getting younger each day, but actually is. At the last count, she’s 22 years old, but still makes sure that she gets to bathe in the milk of an elk in the kitchens. Elk’s milk does curdle extraordinarily easily, and she has to take her bath between 8.48am and 8.54am each morning lest she smells like an eclair that’s been out in the sun all day. On one of these days, you are often to find her with a bluetit perched on her head, trying to pick through her hair to what it thinks is the delicious milk inside.

I don’t know why we get on, but we do. We are from separate walks of life completely: I’m a slatternly, pedantic midlander, and she’s a plastic effigy of Yoda in a red wig. Yet the hours dance by when we’re together, and she can spin out a yarn ‘til morning, no matter how drunk she is. For her, the amazement is in how fast I can knit while I talk, creating whole Tom Baker scarves in the duration of one tale about my local town’s Kwik-Fit and the men who serviced me within. Her one slight habit that causes exasperation is she is slightly egomaniacal; everything associated to her must be prefixed with ‘Lulu’. Hence where she lives is the Lulu-Booth. She smokes Lulu-Fags, and clears everyone out of the rear of the restaurant so she can drop her Lulu-drawers and take a Lulu-whizz in the Lulu-bogs.

One thing I can’t thank her enough for is introducing me to her wide and fabulous group of friends. These loyal allies have been visiting her since her relocation to The Ivy, smuggling in food so she only has to order bread from the menu to pay her rent. There was a little accident last time it occurred, leaving me surreptitiously mopping up a beefy source while the waiters had turned their backs: Lulu had an accident with her Pot Noodle before the water went in. As she is only three foot tall, getting the foil lid off is quite difficult to do, and in her haste to get to the beefy flavour within caused it to explode, scattering freeze-dried powder and pasta-y goodness all over her booth. Unfortunately, she was also seated with Patricia Routledge (a consummate bed-wetter) who literally pissed her self laughing and caused the whole thing to ‘stand for three minutes’ lets say, and now her entire alcove smelt of KP Food’s finest for a good six hours. Still, my mopping got most of it up, and I hushed her in her thanks. What else would a friend do?

Needless to say I got a cow’s heart delivered two days later.

But I can’t say that the friendship isn’t hard at times. Her habits have become very set after four hundred years of walking the Earth. New fangled things trouble her: not three days ago, I spent most of the morning trying to persuade Lulu to come down off the light-fittings (someone swapped her Moet for a bottle of Toilet Duck and she decided that she was a fly-on-the-wall documentary like Big Brother or something. Oh, she just needs to feel popular once more...) She is still up there, you know. Another half an hour and we will have to start hitting the chandelier with the Lulu-Brooms.

I can no longer imagine my life without Lulu, and in fact carry a little red-haired gonk with me wherever I go. This life-sized doll reminds me of my special friend, as does starting my ancient Vauxhall Cavalier of a morning: a cold sunrise is often broken by the sound of “We-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-llllll!” over the trees.

Fame. At What Cost?

The oddest thing. I’ve just had an email from the squeaky hamster in charge of everything Doctor Who in America. “Hi Lee!” he writes. “I'd love to have you join us for our next convention!”

It turns out that these are regular events, with this one on the 13th to 16th of February next year. Spring in LA – what bliss!

He continues with: “If there's something you'd like to participate on, that'd be great. And if you were interested, I'd love to do an 'Art of Lee Binding' panel, where you show slides of your work and talk about how things are created, and so forth.”

Well. I mean. It’s all very flattering, isn’t it? Despite the fact that most of the 'art of Lee Binding' is well-meaning nonsense, and I really don’t think I could string a whole panel out of it. But, apparently hoards of the great unwashed – the biggest Doctor Who fans in the literal sense – will be descending upon the hotel in February.

A thought hits me: this Who convention is on the Valentine's weekend.

Well, it's not like they have anything else to do on that date, is it?

Friday, November 21, 2003

They DID Go Upstairs! Once!

There is a gentle tingle running up and down my spine at the moment, thanks to the BBC suddenly exploding with all the Doctor Who nonsense going on. There’s links on the news page, there’s Gertie’s lovely little cartoon on, and there’s a veritable marathon occurring on Sunday on UKGold.

I mean, Doctor Who is currently on Blue Peter, wheeling out the clips. For me, it’s an exciting moment: not just so we can see all the old BBC Daleks wheeled out, but to find out on Monday how many of the master tapes they’ve managed to lose. We’re actually all very surprised that they’re allowing the Daleks on the show at all - the estate of their creator Terry Nation is currently embargoing them so they can get more money. And what is Doctor Who without the Daleks, hmm? Even sillier than normal, really.

Admittedly, the Daleks were not a favourite of mine. They were always so monotonous and appeared to be wearing a skirt in some photographs. Frankly, I have too many ex’s like that, anyway. And the way they moved – apparently the way they glided was based on Georgan state dancers. Yes, yes, you can fill in the obvious ‘stairs’ joke now, but real fans of the show have more original ways of ridicule: one of my dear friends was caught short after a trip to a pub once, and ducked into a poor unfortunate’s garden to relieve himself against the wall. It was only afterwards did he realise that it was the wall of William ‘the first, crotchety one’ Hartnell’s house. And that he was only five minutes away from the quarry they used to film a great deal of the stories. So, he went and had a piss there too. It then became a consuming passion to have a slash on as many places Doctor Who was filmed over its twenty-odd years. He considered breaking into Elstree just so he could squeeze the weasel in the corner of where the Planet of Evil was. There was even a trip to Paris so he could empty his bladder over the side of the Eiffel Tower, where part of City of Death was recorded, although I’m not sure whether that had anything to do with his quest, and more his hatred of the French. Either way, he relished the gift of a flask of tea with a list of the story names on it. He could tick them off as he shook.

This is not an untypical reaction for a Who fan, though. For a show we all love, we’re remarkably deprecating off it. Myself, this Sunday’s anniversary will be spent with the comedy housemate Ian pushing back the sofas so we can get Gertie in and other members of the BBC posse and watch as many episodes as possible through a vodka visor. Just to take the mickey out of the wobbly sets and shoddy ray guns.

And no Daleks. In protest, of course.

I say we go and dance on Terry Nation’s grave.

In the style of Georgian State Dancers, of course.

Thursday, November 20, 2003

Peasant Touches Queen. Not.

There’s not much that gets me enraged, but consider my dander up at the moment.

This ‘news’ story about the journalist getting into the palace for two months has riled me. Now, my memory’s not what it could be, so correct me if not. But there was a statement by the press not six years ago just after Diana’s death saying that the press would not interfere with the royal family, and stop the non-stories and scandals totally. I do believe that this breaches that.

I’m not a huge fan of the Royals: as far as I see it, she’s just a rival queen with better jewellery. When it comes to authority, they were castrated by government years ago, leaving them reduced to opening supermarkets like ex Eastenders cast members. Yet I can see their value to tourism, and it’s fun to suppose what they get up to behind closed doors. But when someone gets there, looks around someone’s room and takes a photo of where the Queen has breakfast - well, where’s the news in that? It’s just shoddy.

Thus I refuse to read this nonsense, so I don’t know the ins and outs of it all. All I know was looking over someone’s shoulder last night, seeing caption after caption of ‘Royal Bedchamber: I could have easily have messed up the pillows before the queen arrived’. Therefore I gather that the cover of today’s Mirror, with this journalist crouched next to some dogs implies that he could quite clearly have taped a bomb to the underside of the queen’s corgi.

It’s a complete non-story, full of supposition. Oh, what’s the other major thing we’ve discovered in this breach? The queen has Tupperware. I’ve been discussing it with my favourite ex Richard. “Do you think she has Tupperware parties?” he pondered. You know, I’d like to think so.

And that Margaret would have definitely organised an Ann Summers.

Get Away From Her, You Fat Bitch!

The oddest day.

It all started when I couldn’t find my pen - you know, the one that contains Jenny Powel's blood. The thing was we’ve got three burly men in trying to turn the air conditioning from Arctic to Prussian, so there are currently panels hanging off the ceiling and there are pipes and tubes everywhere, so the whole room is looking like the base in Aliens. I have a feeling the pen has slipped into one of the air vents, so I cajoled a young girl off the street to come in and run around yelling 'Riiipley!' and have a jolly old look for it.

Oh, and more news when I find the other colonists too.

Were you aware that there’s a deep fat fryer in Aliens? This bit is utterly true: during the part where they first find something on the motion detector, Ripley knocks something off the desk, making everyone jump. Look to the left of the pipe she hits, and there it is. Russell Hobb’s finest. When the colonists are repairing to their last stand, someone’s screaming ‘The deep fat fryer! Get the fryer! I can’t live without donuts!’ while a cry comes from the back, ‘I’ve got the SodaStream!’

After several brave days, were the colonists of LV-Four-Twenty-Six over-run by the aliens, or did they simply allow themselves to be captured when their Breville sandwich toaster stopped working? Enquiring minds need to know...

Wednesday, November 19, 2003

My dreams! My prayers are answered!

Look! Star Trek: Voyager's on DVD!

And is it me, or does the packaging look really gay? I mean, like, really gay?

Total Cult

It seems that all your interest has been piqued by my possibly inebriated musings on the world of sci-fi. While I can’t claim to be an authority, I do have to deal with cult geeks as part of my everyday job which, let me tell you, pretty much loses its novelty after the nth Avengers fan calls in first thing to list what Cathy Gale episodes are on DVD.

Well, darling Zbornak dialled in to ask what I thought of Babylon 5. Babylon 5 I did used to love with a passion until unequivocally scarred by a) the fifth season, and b) my evil best friend Declan and I having sex between watching The Parliament of Dreams and Mind War on video. Yes, this thought sickens us as much as it does every one of you.

I was so in love with the character of Ivanova that I used to book tables under her name. Of course unknowing that the Russians suffix of ‘a’ to the surname meant I was calling myself a lady, thus raising quite a few eyebrows from fey waiters. But she was just marvellous; while Delenn would be swanning around Bluewater trying to find a BodyShop, Ivanova would be in the Tesco Metro, slamming ready-meals down next to her economy tampons in the ‘12 Items Or Less’ queue.

I met Mira Furlan, the woman who played Delenn, once. She wouldn’t shut up about her blessed garden.

Dirty Dancing

The following conversation took place on Monday morning after the Friday night of dancing. The players are Sasha, beautiful buxom blonde work colleague, and Sarah, a friend of hers from Cambridge who’s eye I had apparently caught.

Sarah: Who was that young man with the goatee?
Sasha: Who, Lee?
Sarah: The one who was dancing really well to Kylie. Knew all the moves.
Sasha: Oh yes. That’s Lee.
Sarah: He was kinda nice.


Sasha: Er. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I think the key point here is ‘he knew all the moves to Kylie’.


There. Can you all see me up the back? Welcome to Glitter for Brains V1.3. Hopefully you can all now see the sidebar (which was more random in appearance than Martine McCutcheon in My Fair Lady), and it gave me the chance to fix with a couple of things that were really bugging me.

If you are having difficulty reading any of this, or anything has slid off your browser, do be a love and drop me a line. Hell, drop me a line anyway - I’m fickle and demand attention.

Monday, November 17, 2003

A Cult For Everyone

Dear old Gertie has had a rough old weekend. The 24-year-old disco-moppet upon whom he'd happily dedicate all the Doctor Who cartoons he makes has unceremoniously dumped him in a way that even makes me wince. Thus, I'm currently making little voodoo dolls out of the 'generic gay' figure in the Sindy range (you know the one) and daubing it with the moppet's name.

Later, it's going in the microwave with pins in its eyes.

You see, I'm not very good at emotion, but I'm great at revenge. I was a little lost when Gertie came over on Saturday night post-dump, but I dusted off my 'concerned friend' routine that's been pieced together from Clueless and all the ice-cream bits from Alias. But Gertie seemed quite happy with my fussings and offers of cake, and we did sit down and discuss oddness of cult television fans whom plague our lives. For this: most Doctor Who fans are gay, all Blake's 7 fans are lesbians, and all Star Trek fans are socially inept with hygiene issues. And there's no real reason as to why.

I suppose with the majority of Doctor Who fans being Good Listeners, there should be no smoke without a flamer. A possibility as to why there is such a huge mary following is this hero completely lacks any sexuality, getting himself into glittery adventures with a female companion whom he runs around with holding hands and most certainly doesn't kiss. Bluntly, is that not most of our nights out in Soho with our fag hags? This really is only one hero you could identify with as a child: a loner who travels around in a big closet and has the most popular enemy menaces people with egg whisks and sink plungers. He'll certainly do until you discover Joan Crawford, anyway.

And the Blake's 7 fanbase is formed primarily of lesbians. The show itself is terribly dull and has no sense of humour.



Thirdly, Star Trek fans are usually fragrant, socially awkward creatures living with their parents that idealise a tomorrow where all the women wear skin-tight outfits and can program computers. Everything is controlled by a mainframe; if you replace the word 'Computer' with 'mother' in a script, you get a very disturbing utopian vision. And even the showers of the future don't have water in them.

(I've always wondered about those sonic showers. If you turn them up high enough, can you just about hear Celine Dion scaring the dirt off?)

Needless to say, this is gross generalisation (the emphasis on 'gross' when it comes to the Trekkies) but we can use it in our sci-fi community as shorthand. If you ever come across a gentleman who's a little 'Doctor Who-curious', you'll know what to do.

Friday, November 14, 2003

Best described as:'Choking "Up the Arse" Hazard'

Oh my. I've just run this site through a pornizer.

The odd thing is, it's only moderately more filthy.

Here Comes That Man Again

The fit office totty is back from his travels. I know this because I bumped into his lithe, tanned form just as I came out of the toilet while messily blowing my nose into a hanky. Admittedly, if this were a Richard Curtis rom-com and I had red hair, he would have clasped my hands and found this terribly endearing, but this is real life and he just looked through me, whilst I managed to smear snot by my upper right cheek.

No, my powers of meeting people are only used as a force of personal good when I bump into an ex – a common occurrence, as I’m sure you’re aware. The last couple of times have been a delight for me, as, thanks to my special powers, I happened to be looking simply delicious while they looked like hell in a handbag. Like last night: I’d set up my stall in The Yard when in flounced (all bar one of my ex’s flounce, I’ve discovered in retrospect) Jez. He’d aged. And he flopped to the bar like the trophy holder of Little Miss Gay 1998, 1999, and after the Atkins diet, 2002. This was the man whom the first present I gave him was a little... infectious, lets say. But the joy was he thought he’d given it to me and spent the rest of the time we were together buying me guilt gifts.

Frankly, any one that silly needed to be taught a lesson.

You’ll be pleased to know that the Wife wouldn’t take anything of that nonsense, and is remarkably clued up for a blonde Australian. And while I can hear him audibly frowning at my fawning over the office totty, I put it forward that this is merely window-shopping. As for a nice, new jumper or smock. Admittedly, that means you can look, rub up against it, check the size, and most definitely try it on in the cubicle, but not take it home.

That’s certainly the plan for most of the ladies in the office. The jubilant cheer that went around when they found out he was straight was on the Richter scale. You couldn’t move in here the following day for breasts, forced horizontal by the balconette bras. To get to the photocopier was like running the gauntlet through a space hopper factory.

The whole company’s all out tonight at a birthday do, and he’ll get tired of the constant female attention, I’m sure. And while we have discovered he has a girlfriend, what really is the difference between straight and gay?

About two bottles of red wine, in my experience.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

Atomic Slatterns

It was my dear housemate Ian who pointed out to me that every single Atomic Kitten release has the same beat to it, enabling the Macbeth Witches of Song to dance in that identical three-step in each video. We imagine them in the recording studio, one ear cocked at the new remix: “This doesn’t sound right...” they puzzle as they are glued to their seats, only realising that when the engineer lowers the tempo that they can actually move to it.

All for the good. When you’re dancing around your New Look handbag, you don’t want to be going so fast you trip over the straps. I’d imagine.

I used to like Atomic Kitten before they were adopted by the North. Previously, they were slightly podgy good-time girls who just wanted to dance, producing tracks such as ‘I Want Your Love’ - a particularly pleasing pop song that I’d definitely rate in my music top twenty. Then they replaced Brian from Westlife’s cock-wash with new girl Jenny, slapped on the fake tan and Elizabeth Arden and got to number one, and are now churning out a dearth of songs you only hear at a fat girl’s birthday party.

During this meteoric rise to fame, we’ve been watching this Jenny with interest. Are you aware she can’t keep her hands off her hair? It’s something that’s slowly been spreading to the other girlies over the last couple of promos. The latest oeuvre, ‘If You Come To Me’, is positively a hair-fetishists wet dream as Jenny can’t keep her council mits of her coiffeur. I ask you this: the next time you see the video, just shout ‘Hair!’ every time she raises her hands to her head. You’ll witness one hand running through, two hands, even a cunning two-hander, then a cut to another two-hander on a different set! It’s like the poor girl has nits.

Exhibit A.

All this touching, during the hour after hour of video shoot, must cause a serious state of static cling. I hear that several times, the crew have had to pry her off someone’s woollen jumper. And there was one incident when she floated to the ceiling like a Christmas balloon and had to be beaten down by gleeful stagehands with long-handled brooms.

Next time, boys, hit her harder.

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

28 Gays Later

I’m sorry to get on my high horse, mainly because I’m wearing a short skirt and you can see yesterday’s pants, but the report of how people attempted to cure wendys makes for interesting reading, and more fascinatingly, a portion of the church’s commending this experiment. It tells of electroshock therapy and aversion rehabilitation in this country, which never worked as to really make a mary unhappy, you have to stick him in a shopless village and make him listen to Radiohead. With flat hair. And a roll neck.

The way the church is handling it treats it like a disease. And if it is a disease, then they’ve got it into their big-hatted heads that it must be communicable. Oh, semi-blessed creatures, if only it were that simple! One light touch on the arm means that men swiftly swap busses and become Good Listeners. Oh, a quick run-past in the gym changing rooms with your arms outstretched means the whole place will be bare-chested and appreciatively singing ‘Hello, Dolly!’ at the top of their lungs. What bliss!

Say it is communicative, then that would make some people are more infectious than others. I’d probably rate quite contagious, and I know I shouldn’t, but I delight in the idea that I’ve been passing this on to all and sundry for almost ten years now. This would certainly tally with several experiences I’ve had, including one where I got a job at British Gas and three people shot out of the closet a week later. Of course they claimed they were only within to read the meter, but I could clearly see they’d been experimenting with colours in there.

If we marys as a society (rather than a species) are an evolutionary ‘blind alley’, and always have been, how did all this start? There had to be someone at the beginning, infecting us all along the line: 250 million years ago, Thung the Homo Sapien was dragging himself out of the primeval soup, while his friend Fab the Homo Sexual decided to stay in for a little while longer as it’s the closest thing he’s going to get to a face-pack this side of the Ice Age. Was this Queen among Men the Patient Zero? Or more correctly, the Patient Disco? And if this has being going on since forever, it appears that the numbers of Men With Nice Nails on the increase - odd, as we can’t reproduce without a willing lesbian, a plastic cup and an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. Maybe being a wendy is not a disease, but a trip-switch for natural population control as, let’s face it, being ugly no longer stops people - I’ve been to Croydon. No, I see it as Mother Nature being a joyous landlady, and making sure she gets some people moving in who are going to put up some curtains and throw around some Shake’n’Vac every once in a while.

So it’s daft to think of sexuality as contagious. And there’s certainly not much point trying to treat it, whatever side of the nature/nurture debate you come down upon.

But to make sure, I’m still going to give my Impossibly Beautiful Housemate Mark a big hug when I get in, and I’m now off to the gym to do a wide-armed run-through.

You never know.

I Can See Wood!

I'm having a riot! I've actually managed to clear my desk!

I used a flamethrower, but I don't think it's cheating.

Tuesday, November 11, 2003

Why Friends Reunited Is A Bad Thing

For example:

‘hi lee

well what have i done since we last saw eachother about 9 years ago, mmmmmm let me think, r u ready !! well about 7 years ago i thought i would try st8 sex with a woman and errrr now we r married with 2 children both girls the oldest is 6 and the youngest is 15 months. there names r shanice and jodie and i must say i love them all very much.

i have to say i am very sorry about the way i left, it wasn’t the best thing i have ever done and i do hope u can forgive me. i will need to take a pic to show how i have matured, i have put on a little bit more weight than i used to be and now have glasses to see with.

i do have to admit now that i am needing a man to satisfy my sexual needs but being married with kids it is hard to, oh by the way my wife dosn’t know about my gay sexualaty at all.

anyway hope to see u soon and i think i miss u !!!! not a lie’

He knows how to sell himself, doesn’t he.

Addendum to Yesterday

Charles Hawtree would play Agent Smith.

Monday, November 10, 2003

Stop The Matrix, I Want To Get Off


I’m back. And you can stop trying to set fire to Christine Hamilton.

That’s my job.

Despite my weakened state, I can still feebly raise my hand to type... and to firmly stick two fingers up at the dreadful hacks called The Wachowski Brothers. If the third film were graced with the title Matrix Resolutions, I would have sued. There is no cohesive finale: while it does end, it doesn’t explain, resolve or any other things that it should. Surely if every one of the Smith clones died, the machines are without power? Is Neo dead?

And above all, do we care?

The worst muck I can fling at it is it feels wholly like a Season Eight episode of The X-Files: refusing to explain anything, nor give up the ghost. As far as I’m concerned, there is an almost-perfect slice of cinema history out called The Matrix, and then Vere Lorrimer came over to work on the next two spin-offs. The film was so ghastly that the Wife and I started playing our favourite game of recasting the film to make it fun: bring on ‘Carry On Matrix!’

Jim Dale as Neo
Barbara Winsor as Trinity
Bernard Bresslaw (blacked up) as Morpheus
Joan Simms as The Oracle
Kenneth Williams as The Architect
Frankie Howerd as The Merovingian
Amanda Barrie as Persephone

There. Just doing that has made it ten times better. Everyone else: save your money or go and see Finding Nemo instead.


Despite my weakened state, I can still feebly raise my hand to type... and to slip in an Alias DVD into my player. I am thrilled by Alias at the moment, a show based on all the wigs left over from Gerry Anderson’s UFO. It’s brilliant repetitive formula is keeping me coming back for Sidney Bristow’s daft and flamboyant adventures: if you care to write your own script, here’s what you have to abide by.

One: resolve terrible, earth shattering cliffhanger from previous episode. All pre-titles of course.
Two: Give Sydney a heartfelt moment showing that she’s still all woman.
Three: Briefing at SD-6. Collect comedy gadget.
Four: Flirt with Vaughn in plain sight of everyone.
Five: Go on a mission. Which will go wrong.
Six: Cliffhanger!

While all of you out there are probably foaming at the gash over Agent Vaughn, I’m girding my ardour towards dear Will Tippin. Oh, Will, you scruffy blue-eyed wonder. I haven’t felt this gooey over a man on TV since I almost literally came across J from 5ive on MTV one spring afternoon.

My evil best friend Declan naturally loves Alias. He wants to work for Credit Dauphine – unusually not to bring down the world, but so he can tell all his ex’s and stalkers whom he works for, instantly getting them killed.

How very neat.


Despite my weakened state, I can still feebly raise my hand to type... and to hoist a glass of whiskey to my lips. The party I was invited to on Friday night were most forthcoming about my illness and procured me a chaise-longue to rest my weary bones upon for the duration of the eve, tended to by the ever-beautiful Yaz (where she’d hidden the Plastic Population was not a subject to broach). Alas, they couldn’t find me a pouffe to put my legs upon, and no matter the amount of force-feeding whiskey to the delicious Graham, he still remained resolutely married to Astrid.

It was a thrilling experience being surrounded by former work colleagues, including birthday boy Tim with whom I worked with for a fortnight - until I realised that I was kidding everyone and couldn’t do the work at all. And I got to spend time with my former IT manager Jerry too. Ah, dear old Jerry. We’re all convinced he is Vulcan. He also has this bizarre ability to make machinery work whenever he’s near it, despite being dead in your hands ten minutes prior. Technology loves him. It must be his pheromones – if ever you go into a Comet with him (Heaven forfend; that’s where Linda Barker’s hiding her leatherette face at the moment) you will see all this technology rattling, then launching off the shelves at him a la Superman III. And you can always strike up a conversation by asking to see his iPod in action round the back of the loos. He’s very forthcoming, you know.

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

Ill Wind

Your ruler is sick again.

I bet I caught it off that snotty slag-bucket Britney Spears: she spent the whole time we were at that car boot sale wiping her nose on her sleeve, yet insisted on giving me an excited little hug every time she saw a pierrot doll. And I came away with my arms stuffed with the freaky little toys, so you can imagine the level of unhygienic, unwanted proximity from pop’s second-most desperate performer.


Anyway, this means that the morning has whizzed by thanks to my wheels being greased by Beechams once more, and I take Wednesdays off from ruling you all anyway. Unfortunately, you’ve got Christina Hamilton today, who’s been dying to get her mules under the throne-room table ever since I invited her over for one swift sherry one afternoon, and didn’t leave til the following morning. She’s brooked no hint, no. Not even when I’d thrown her coat at her and started hoovering around her chair at 3am. Honestly, some people do not know when they’re not wanted.

With any luck, she’ll accidentally wander into the Special Projects room, where we’ve been working on the ultimate predator – for my protection, of course. It’s a well-known fact we’ve been using herbivores to guard against any rebellious plant-life in the universe. And we omnivores can more or less slay and eat all the rest, yet for a personal guard we want something a little more deadly. So we’ve created the Aznavore. They’re small. They’re deadly. They’re French. Need I say more.

I’m going for a lie down.

Monday, November 03, 2003

Stuck on You

Another good thing about getting out of the city this weekend is that I missed the main Doctor Who celebration, an apparently shambolic nightmare run by a ninety-year-old bleach-blonde queen who's the bane of Gertie's existence. I didn't do anything even slightly Who-y.

Bar accidentally supergluing myself to a model of K9 last night for fifteen minutes.

Webb of Fear

My ongoing disenchantment with London drove myself and the Wife seawards this weekend, to Bournemouth, where the fashion is tartan headscarves and thermos flasks. It has all the trimmings of a gone-to-seed resort, including a raddled pier, a candy-floss stand with product so old it appears to be subsidised by the local sheep shearing industry, and only went decimal three weeks ago. Elderly denizens also favour it, earning it the moniker ‘God’s other waiting room’.


Marti Webb is a third-rate chanteuse that is brought out of storage if, heaven forefend, Elaine Page is too busy. She is not to be confused with Marti Cane, former singer-presenter of Opportunity Knocks who died of cancer a few years back. If you are going to mix up the two, do not point and back away from sea-front pantomime posters crying 'Zombie witch! Zombie witch back from the dead!’ as you will probably fall over, all while your Wife tuts and carried on eating his ice-cream.

So, Marti Webb (alive as she ever was) is currently sovereign of Bournemouth, playing the wicked queen in the production of Snow White on Bournemouth historic and wonky pier. What troubles us is the Dame Webb we know and love would never walk down the wooden walkway with the proletarians for each show. Fortunately, we were delighted to see that it was indeed beneath her, as just before a performance was to begin, we saw the diva bobbing along the surf in a speedboat to come in at the ‘stage door’ at the back of the pier. The following night we were even more astonished to see that the boat was being battered by ten-foot waves and she had to head back out to sea.

We thankfully learned she was all right, as a man with a delightful moustache that seemed to be made purely of extended nasal hair later amended the poster to read ‘Starring Marti Webb (live from Calais!) as the Wicked Queen’. Bless.

It seems that Marti has taken to the water like the proverbial duck, and can be seen on the horizon between shows on her new tuna trawler, belting out ‘Take That Look off Your Face’ from the top deck to all the errant surfers.


It transpires that Bournemouth is not really the quiet get-away we savoured. The seaside setting attracts a lot of gentlemen in ‘the entertainment and hostess industry’ – indeed, the whole staff at our luxury hotel were firmly on our bus; if you placed your hands to any wall within the building, it hummed with that special frequency that makes you think, “You know, I could just bake a cake...” You couldn’t swing a handbag in town without hitting a couple of them.

The Wife tried. He got slapped.

Anyway, I’d managed to book us a table in Bournemouth’s premiere mary nightspot, Rubyz. And it was fantastic. It serves a three-course meal with a juicy side of drag queen. It’s genius! The wine flowed, the singing started, and before long, the whole place was just swaying and doing the ‘why-why-whyyyyyyyyyy Delilah!’s so loudly that we raised the satin Bedouin tent of a roof.

We got chatting to the girls on the next table, who were all here on their first night out after dropping a child each (although not in a Louise Woodward manner). They’d all met in the birthing pool, it seems, a unique and personable way to be introduced to people with your legs in the air (Gertie, take note). Over that way was a hen party in full swing, a riotous time had by all on alco-pops and trying to get way too friendly with the waiters. The Wife popped to the toilet at one point, he came back to find these ill-mannered reprobates draped around me going “We’re your Bond Girls! Na-hahahahaha!” and taking picture after picture for some Argos family album.

It transpired that the woman getting married had a brother. Who was also a drag queen. He arrived during the last part of the set in a fabulous wedding dress, dragged her up on stage and sung It Should Have Been Me. I cried with laughter.

After this, the tables were pushed back and the dancing started. It emerged that most of the ladies in the room hadn’t clocked that the Wife and I were of the mary flavour (despite knowing all the words to the Cher songs the drag was belting out). It also transpired that they’d all seen too much Will and Grace and all wanted a gay best friend of their very own, and he and I were swept along the dancefloor all evening, passed from girl to girl who wanted to know the moves to Tragedy, whether we’d feel her breasts as she’d just had a boob job and wanted to know whether they were good, how to please her man in bed (‘Give him to me,’ is the most honest answer) and all other things that we were at liberty to impart.

Then came the usual ‘So, we couldn’t turn you?’ debate after the third bottle of wine. The correct answer is ‘No, but I love what you’ve done with your hair,’ leaving them distracted yet sated. Honestly, that show will be our downfall.


Rubyz also owns a club. Do not, under any circumstances, go. It was so full it took a full five minutes to push past people to get to the coat queue, chock-full of heaving masses of hair gel, swaying bodies pressed against each other. We stayed long enough to put one foot on the dance floor (the other, accidentally on the Wife’s) for a verse of Kylie’s Slow, and then shrugged and got our coats again.