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

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

A Marvellous Series of Events

Oh, t'is the party season! Why, it doesn't seem there's a day gone by in the last week when I haven't crawled into work, last night's crumpled party frock stinking of smoke and rucking up around the knees, my make-up sliding down my face. Here's some highlights:

Something Old!
The best wedding ever on Friday night - so marvellously laid back. When we arrived there was no catering at all - which was a little odd, particularly as I could have eaten the arse out of a low-flying duck by that point - so I settled to line my stomach with a couple of filling vodkas. A couple of hours passed, when we were all a couple of sheets to the wind and the girls were doing that special drunken dance move where they think they're sexy and slide down your body, the kitchen door burst open and three enormous platters of bacon sandwiches where wheeled out.

I was so happy I almost started crying.

Something New!
The Charming Jay and I had a housewarming party a couple of days back, and we were presented with a plethora of gifts in order to gain access through our fabulous portal. These ranged from flapjacks, to phallic fridge magnets, to a paper shredder - which I'm totally besotted with. I am utterly delighting in its destructive nature, and have been feeding it with everything that comes through the letterbox. Hopefully in the misguided notion that it may get fatter, and therefore bigger, and therefore be able to start eating Jehovah?s Witnesses.

Later this evening I am going to introduce Jay to it. With a little bit of luck, when he?s a couple of gins down and wearing a tie.

Something Bottled!
Every now and again I forget why I like my high-flying-meeja-job. For one, we had a team lunch yesterday that we decided to go on until we'd finished. Seemingly not just the food, but the whole bar.

That's the first time I've come back to the office so drunk and so late that all I could do was get my coat and go home.

Something Blue!
I have an invite to a porn actor's birthday do this week. When I normally get introduced to someone I've heard of I say, "Love your work!" and I have to ask, is it uncouth in this situation?

Friday, December 17, 2004

The Top Ten Christmas Facts

Several bits and pieces about the holiday we all love a little too much.

* It is a well known fact that Germany's Prince Albert proliferated the use of Christmas trees across Europe, insisting that one was installed in Windsor Castle in his first year there. What is less known is that Albert also brought across a couple of other things along with his tree and his propensity to have his penis pierced - did you know he is also accountable for the popularisation of mince pies, mistletoe, as well as 'Nur Dummköpfe und Pferde Weihnachten'? Or as we know it 'The Only Fools And Horses Christmas Special'?

* Christmas is now wholly owned by Microsoft.

* Every year, it is traditional for the reigning British monarch to broadcast a jovial Christmas message to their subjugated masses while they are enjoying their customary luncheon of coal and jam. Our current sovereign Queen Elisabeth II has recorded forty-seven of these messages and, over the years, has accidentally said 'fuck' in them ninety-eight times. The current fastest time for the potty-mouthed princess was the 1976 broadcast which came in at 3.08 seconds when it started with "So, is this fucking thing on, then?" There then was a sigh, followed by "Fuck. I've fucking gone and done it a-fucking-gen, haven't I? Fuck."

* Santa's reindeer are not 'Dancer', 'Prancer', 'Vixen', 'Dixons', 'Comet', 'Woolies', 'WH Smith' and 'John Lewis'.

'Boxing Day' is so called as it is the day when you put all the cheap tat your extended family have gotten you back in their boxes, ready to take back to the store the following day.

* It is estimated that over the Christmas period, over 38,000 tonnes of glitter and tinsel are bought in the UK alone - although not all of that is used in the decoration of houses, offices and Christmas trees. An appropriately-named ballpark figure of 19,500 tonnes is estimated to be used by fat, single secretaries on a night out to decorate their expansive cleavage in an attempt to make themselves look 'fun', and possibly dazzle and blind and entrap any men-folk that wander into their own personal gravity.

* Before settling on the name of Tiny Tim for his character in 'A Christmas Carol', a few alternate names were considered by master of depressing literature Charles Dickens. These were 'Little Larry', 'Puny Pete' and 'Small Sam' - all now believed to be references to several of Dickens' male lovers that scorned the slack-arsed author over the previous years. In fact, the book almost never published after Dickens then sneeringly suggesting 'Miniature Manhood Manny', 'Lies There Like A Bloody Hay Bail Thomas' and' Comes Even Before I've Got My Top Hat Off Stephen' before the publishers threatened to break his wanking arm.

* Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer is a modern invention, and is actually based on Dame Judi Dench's antics with two coathangers after imbibing three bottles of sherry at the BBC Christmas party.

* According to the Bible, Christ's birth may actually be in March, and the festival was moved to December to fall on a Pagan festival already on that date. Further research also suggests that 'donkey' can be legitimately replaced by 'Ford Sierra' and 'stable' by 'Little Chef outside Worksop'.

* Christmas chart favourite 'I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus' is a happy festive song about a child spying on his mother having a bit of a tonguing-and-a-tumble with a complete stranger, theorising how hilarious it would be if his father found out. For obvious reasons, the b-side of this record doesn't seem as popular, and 'I Told Father When He Came Back From The Pub, And Now Mommy And I Are Living In A Motel Room For Christmas With No Presents Where I'm Beaten Hourly For Being A Bloody Little Snitch' has never entered the charts in its own right.

Thursday, December 16, 2004

All I Want For Christmas...

Ah, Christmas. It's a time for benevolence and good will to all men.

I mean, when else would you willingly listen to Mariah Carey?

Glitter for All!

...but then that's no more so a coincidence of what's going on around my fabulous house at the minute. As you all know, I have a long history of going to work for a new company and, not a fortnight later, at least two members of staff previously unsuspected of being Good With Colours have leapt out of the closet, singing show tunes into their new Nicky Clarke hairbrush. So is it a coincidence, we ask ourselves, that once I've moved into my SwankyLondonBridgePad, a fabulous florist has opened up a few doors down? That on Saturday morning, you can't move for men who are obviously Dancing Down The Other End of The Ballroom, looking through estate agent windows, arm-in-arm? That the corner shop has suddenly and inexplicably started stocking Babycham, and there's now a bloody big poster for Kylie Minogue at the very end of our street?

Enquiring minds need to know.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Control Wants To Be Lady-Like

It was ironic that my Evil Best Friend Declan was the one that introduced me to the method of curtailing any incidents with ugly men and drink; ironic because he's oft falling foul of both to this day. But, in my more... loose days way-back-when, he gave me an utterly priceless piece of advice and, as I'm in a generous mood, I shall divulge it to you. You lucky things.

It's no coincidence that there are a lot of muntingly ugly gays in my old university town - most of the beautiful ones have moved to London, fulfilling their dream to make their fortune in retail or, indeed, pornography. And it was also no coincidence that they'd often trot up to Declan towards the end of the night as he's quite handsome in a certain light. And this is where the trouble began as, if either of us had reached the Point Of No Return, we'd happily be bought a pint by said gentleman, and the next thing you know you're walking back from their house at 8am, smelling of sick and trying to scratch what you hope to God was an impromptu midnight yoghurt out of your beard.

Now. What priceless information Declan suggests is once you get into a club, find the ugliest, fattest, just-fallen-off-the-bells-at-Notre-Dame gay you can. So darn munting he's come out with his munting socks on and carrying a huge munting stick. Then designate him as the control, and stick to him like glue for the rest of the night. For each drink you have, take a look at the control. And if he looks in any way, shape or form attractive, push your drink away from you with force and determination. It is time to go home. And most certainly alone.

Honestly, it's proven most effective for the last three years. Oh, and the name for this poor unfortunate creature..? 'The Lard-stick'.

As He Wiped The Console Lovingly...

Tegan: Finished?
The Doctor: Yes, it looks rather splendid, doesn't it?

We felt like we needed a little bit of a spruce up at the ol' Glitter For Brains, so we've got out our crayons and had a jolly old redesign. Hope you like! Huuuuuge thanks to Rob over at Onan Online who helped us out when we'd got ourselves into a HTML knot. And the phone was going. And the bath was running. And all sorts.

Monday, December 13, 2004

Glitter For Brains at the Movies: Blade Trinity!


Now, we at Glitter for Brains did like the two previous instalments of Blade, it has to be said. And with the added enticement of the fabulous Ryan Reynolds in the third outing, what's not to love?! Well, as it turned out, there was so very, very much. So, we heartily present...



Why does it smell like a hamster's cage in here?


Woah, Blade! Woo-woo-woo!

THE GAY AUDIENCE (with hands over nose):
Ah, that's why. We're completely surrounded by teenage boys in, yes, long black leather coats.

The CGI WESLEY SNIPES fights some more, before getting CAUGHT by the POLICE. He then ESCAPES in A BUSTLE of more CGI, thanks to attractive newcomers RYAN REYNOLDS and JESSICA BIEL'S BREASTS. They WALK down the STREET in SLOW MOTION to a THUMPING SOUNDTRACK.

By this point, THE GAY AUDIENCE is left wondering whether THE REAL WESLEY SNIPES is actually in this film at all; THE STRAIGHT AUDIENCE are just TIT-NOTISED by JESSICA and COOL WEAPONRY.

CGI WESLEY SNIPES raises an EYEBROW and says a line that will probably be used in the trailer.

CGI WESLEY SNIPES is taken to RYAN AND JESSICA'S HIDEOUT containing lots of G5 MACS, several PERFUNCTORY BUT NON-ESSENTIAL CAST MEMBERS, and a CUTE KID. As per the LAWS of HOLLYWOOD, the CUTE KID will be CAPTURED in the THIRD ACT and used as RANSOM by the BAD GUY. All discuss the PAPER-THIN PLOT which revolves around a VIRUS that will wipe out all VAMPIRES.

Well, that's Blade dead then.


He's half-vampire, you dullards. And this is a trilogy. Therefore he has to die.

The PLOT is further explained. And conveniently revolves around getting a sample of the NEWLY-RESURRECTED FIRST VAMPIRE, DRAKE (as in Dracula, we are frequently and helpfully told).

Drake? As in Dracula?

Yeah, man. Coooool.

THE GAY AUDIENCE rolls its eyes. But before we all drop off, or notice how FLIMSY this all is, RYAN REYNOLDS pulls up his TOP and DROPS HIS PANTS a little to show the TATTOO on his groin indicating he was once a VAMPIRE.

THE GAY AUDIENCE (drooling):

Come on, dudes...

Oh look, Jessica is taking a gratuitous shower in slow motion.


Meanwhile, DRAKE (as in Dracula) is walking down the street in SLOW MOTION to a THUMPING SOUNDTRACK. He stops at a GOTH STORE, and notices that there is lots of DRACULA merchandise. It is run by two disinterested GEN-X GOTH KIDS with more make-up than CHER.

All this merchandise... it's me... I'm evil, so I'm obviously going to take umbrage at this. Probably because there are years of licensing money I never received!

The TWO GOTHS are KILLED. THE STRAIGHT AUDIENCE suddenly looks uncomfortable.

Hi, I'm David. I'll be your writer, director, producer and all-round architect of the Blade franchise for the evening...

Get 'im!

DAVID S. GOYER (cont):
I just popped in to show you how clever I was, showing that product placement and merchandising is plain wrong. Well, if you need me, I'll be out in the lobby, signing Blade posters, magazines and computer games...

There is more FIGHTING, after long, lingering shots of JESSICA loading up her I-POD. This is an incompetent FOOTNOTE for the SOUND EDITOR to include some THUMPING SOUNDTRACK here.

RYAN (to the audience as much as the CGI WESLEY SNIPES):
She likes to hunt to music. Thumping soundtrack music. Available from Amazon now. All for your i-Pod.

DAVID S. GOYER shrugs and runs to the FOYER before the BUCKETS OF POPCORN can hit him.

The 'PLOT' 'advances'. CGI WESLEY SNIPES raises an eyebrow and says a line that will probably be used in the trailer.

I have to ask - do you ever blink?

Shush! We haven't built that into the CGI model!

CGI WESLEY SNIPES walks off. Unconvincingly. In SLOW MOTION.

You do realise if you stopped all this slo-mo shenanigans, the film would be half hour shorter?

Dudes, it's coooool.

And stop talking like that. You're from Enfield and all live with your mothers.

Meanwhile, CGI WESLEY SNIPES' HIDEOUT is attacked by DRAKE (as in Dracula), and all the NON-ESSENTIAL CAST MEMBERS are killed. RYAN, who happens to be Shirtless, is CAPTURED. This means THE GAY AUDIENCE lose even more interest in the POORLY-EXPLAINED SHENANIGANS. Suddenly a NEW GUY who's character is basically his COMEDY ACCENT turns up to advance the plot and play a message from NATASHA LYONNE, one of the dead NON-ESSENTIAL CAST MEMBERS.

If you're watching this, I'm already dead. So feel free to ignore what I'm saying while you puzzle out how I managed to record this whole message in the seconds I had before Drake - you know, as in Dracula - got me. Basically, I transferred the virus information to The New Guy.

THE NEW GUY (avec les accent tres comedié):
And I synthesised it. Yes, in the half-hour or so I've had. I've now placed the virus into this Armour-Plated Plot Device that can be fired at Drake via an arrow. Or a gun.

Oh, and Wesley. We don't know whether the virus will kill you, what with you being half-vampire and all that.

THE GAY AUDIENCE shoots a 'told-you-so' look at THE STRAIGHT AUDIENCE.

And, according to The Laws of Hollywood, my cute kid is alive and being held captive by Drake. You know, as in Dracula. So go get 'em boys!

JESSICA and the CGI WESLEY SNIPES slowly tool up. The CAMERA PANS LOVINGLY across each WEAPON in a SLOW and VOYEURISTIC MANNER. It's the closest to SEX that most of THE STRAIGHT AUDIENCE will have ever gotten to.



THE GAY AUDIENCE (drooling):

He is tortured by CALLUM KEITH RENNE and PARKER POSEY. We discover that RYAN'S ONE-LINERS, though said with conviction, are really PAINFUL in the emaciated mess of a script. There follows some CONVENIENT BOBBINS about a TRACKING DEVICE that means that a CGI WESLEY SNIPES and JESSICA can find him and EXPLODE DRAMATICALLY through a SKYLIGHT.

Oh now, come on!

Why are you even in here, guys?

Phantom of the Opera was full.

Dudes, that sucks.

Well. Um. Oh look! They're walking together in slow motion!

Oh. Coooool...

There is lots of CGI FIGHTING. Jessica rescues the CUTE KID. The CGI WESLEY SNIPES glitches and fails to MATCH whatever BACKGROUND he's in. There is even more FIGHTING, now between DRAKE (as in Dracula) and the CGI WESLEY SNIPES. In SLOW MOTION with a THUMPING SOUNDTRACK.

Then, with no build-up, DRAKE (as in Dracula) is killed. All VAMPIRES are dead.



But -ah! - you were wrong! Blade didn't die! See? So ner. And if you hated this film so much, why didn't you walk out?

We couldn't get out, for one. Look. We can't move in here for Forbidden Planet carrier bags. And while we're on the subject, we'd like to introduce you to the concept of personal hygiene...

Blade, of course, was a law unto himself. He's still out there, carrying on doing what he has to do.

And that would be..? No, seriously - all the vampires are dead. What's he doing? Unblocking drains?

That was coooool...

Oh hush. It was bobbins.

Ryan Reynolds.

THE GAY AUDIENCE (drooling):
Behhhh... Eh? What? Right - Jessica Biel!

Behhhh... Right. Wesley Snipes!

(silence in the theatre)

Hum. Right. Shall we get out of here?

Lets. Oh, and we'd like to talk to you about those darling skull earrings...


Thursday, December 09, 2004

Best Of One World

There were an exceptional amount of pretty boys at the gym today.
And the best thing about that? Communal changing rooms.

We Are The Gays.
Resistance Is Futile.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Worrying Advertising #7472

Easily captioned with: "Darren, I hope that's snow..."

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Doris Strokes

In a shocking turn, I note that Baccadi Breezer profits are down. This could be for a number of reasons; perhaps teenage schoolgirls have eschewed them for a week so they can wisely spend their dinner money on the new Girls Aloud instead of getting trollied before double maths. Or maybe it's simply because I'm still ill and haven't been able to drink for almost a month now.

I know, I know, shocking isn't it? I'm seeing the world for the first time without my Vodka Visor on for the first extended period since Sixth Form. And the scales have fallen from my eyes - The Cheeky Girls aren't a semi-talented novelty act, but an embarrassing tuneless shambles! I'm shocked!

I couldn't even drink to make my work colleagues more bearable the weekend gone - the most hardcore I got was snorting a line of Lemsip, chopped up using a company credit card. Rock on.

(It does make your snot remarkably lemon-fresh)

So with my illness still raging, I popped into the doctors yesterday, steadying my special 'illness turban' and swishing my mink around me. While I do live in a very enchanting street, there is what appears to be a council estate within a stones-throw of my suburban dream, and I find that a little glamour will soon get you to the front of the queue of some council tuberculosis-riddled mine-workers. Once there I was blissfully seen to by an enormous black nurse called Doris - all swishing hips and a bosom that was nigh-on horizontal. I could tell she brooked no nonsense from the way she snapped on the rubber glove and dived straight into my urine sample.

"So, am I normal," I asked with weak cheer as she checked the results.

She said, "Well, your urine is. The rest of you - well, it's the best of a bad job, really..."

I heart her. Everyone should have a Doris.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Je Suis Anglaise!

Ah, France, France, France. Just saying it conjures up romantic images of gendarmes and the Eiffel Tower, of whizzing around on scooters and shopping in fabulous boutiques! Well, you'll be pleased to know the reality is nothing like that at all - why, that's like trying to imply that London is pretty, clean and rain-free! In fact, Paris is remarkably... unfrench, which is a tad disappointing. For in my heart of hearts, I have perpetually hoped that on the continent there exists the tiny little French town of Cliché, where men in striped pullovers ride around on lethal-looking bicycles, sporting a string of onions around their neck, being rude to all and drinking wine for breakfast.

As you know, I was dragged over (well under) the water by my work in order to have some 'fun' with my work colleagues. Well, my hitherto unknown skills at lock picking soon gave them the slip and I was free to start wandering around this fabulous city by myself, idly listening to conversations and shoplifting croissants. Now French is a terribly romantic language, n'est pas? There were these two pretty boys standing outside my three-star hotel (ha! 'Three star'. The wallpaper alone was sponsored by an Indian restaurant) who pounced on me when I left the building. Whether they were after my wallet or after 'business' I'll never know - but I listened to them talk to me with a dewy expression for a good couple of minutes before patting them on the arm and wandering off, full of love.

You can tell my French is not amazing - lets just say I was too busy 'practicing for the oral' behind the bike sheds with Craig Astbury to take any notice of the actual school lessons. In fact, I lost a little weight while I was away simply through forgetting the French for 'breakfast', and did simply result in pointing at things and saying 'Oui! Avec jambon, s'il vous plait!' loudly. It's all I could remember from my Tricolour Level 3, alas - but did make my choice of ice-cream interesting.

Equally so was my 'three star' hotel, fuelling the argument that the star system means absolutely nothing on the continent - La Hotel Est was basically a three star shantytown. Some rooms purportedly had baths, but from what I saw, they were sinks with ideas of grandeur. Possibly slightly deeper shower trays. Anyway, I had a boon due to no-one wanting to bunk with The Only Gay In The Company, so I put in a room on my own which had both a single bed and a double for my own pleasures! Wow! Two beds? That's practically a fleet of Wanking Chariots!

Speaking of which, my name Lee sounds like the French for 'bed', you know. Causing much hilarity for some poor chatty girl in Starbucks who thought I was trying to suggest something improper with the whipped cream she was offering on my latte.

One final thing - as I left to catch the Eurostar back, I finally bumped into a refugee from the town of Cliché. It was as if he'd been laid on for me especially, for there he was, travelling the Metro with his beret at a jaunty angle and playing enthusiastically on the accordion. He'd even started on those twiddly tunes that are so French they are played over establishing shots of countryside in cheap British sit-coms to show they are abroad. And when he finished, he simply moved from this carriage to the next without asking for money, and just started up again. He was just doing it for the love of being French. How very marvellous.

Thursday, December 02, 2004

Gay Paris +1

I have managed to lose my gloves - vexing for innumerable reasons, but mostly as I haven't been able to properly challenge anyone to a duel in days. Equally vexing as I'm meant to be in Paris this weekend with the company, and the weather promises to be a barbaric one degree Celsius.

I know it's ungrateful, but I really can't face being in a foreign city with a group of people I can barely abide. I've been trying to make excuses about extended illness, jury duty, and the fact I have to train for my NASA Mars program, but they don't appear to be buying it. So my fridge is plastered with post-it notes to remind me to take my passport, and also to take that enormous spliff someone gave me out of my travel bag.

Hang on a minute...

(light bulb clicks on above head)

Completely True Story

So, I was out with the most glamorous lady last night, putting the world to rights and comparing notes on radio anarchy ("I completely believe that the Archers is real...") when thirty young, shirtless Vikings burst into the bar.

Well. You just can't top that, so just we decided to go home.

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

What Would The Neighbours Say?

Never interested in the easy route (despite what was banded around some bars in Perth a few months back) Glitter For Brains gives you a review of the album! But not the songs!


Track 8 actually means 'Lick Me Out'

Despite not even referencing the tinfoil-tastic Sound of the Underground, it gets a huge thumbs up from us here. The colour for girl bands is white, as well we know (c.f. The Spice Girls, Atomic Kitten's designed-by-the-receptionist albums) and it's nice to see that The Aloud are following suit. And inside, why you have a huge picture of a hastily-discarded patent yellow stillies! How marvellous!

Oh, and we also have to comment on Nicola's 'Thanks to' section, where she proclaims 'Firstly, I'd like to thank God.' Honey, he ain't listening. You're ginger.

Did you know it's considered unlucky to put a question mark at the end of a film title? It's true - and this is why 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit' doesn't have one. So, would 'What Would The Neighbours Say?' prove this rule? We found a pikey fruit machine - the kind of thing that Nadine may-or-may-not have been addicted to in her last year of school - and gave it a whirl, each time with a different album on our Porn-Walkman.

While playing Sound Of The Underground, we spent five English pounds and won back £2.30. Although we did get a record number of nudges - but they were mostly from an elderly gentleman at the bar who'd taken a shine to us and wanted to take us back to his for a quickie. It was obviously pension day.

Another five English pounds were put in during What Would The Neighbours Say? and we only came away with 50 pence. We would like to say this proves the rule, but as we were wrapping up to go home, they started showing 'Xanadu' in the bar. How marvellous!

Thus, this experiment is inconclusive.

We've often rated our men on how far they can be tossed, and we thought we'd do the same with our Girls! For no other reason than we could, we decide to test how far the disc will travel when tossed down our fabulous gated community! So, when tossed under-arm, Sound of the Underground covers a fair old distance, and almost beheads a delivery boy before smashing into a skip and shattering. What Would The Neighbours Say? appears to have the weight behind it, and did manage to get it right up to the bins! Hmm, maybe there's something subliminal there...

We would have liked to have checked the result against an over-arm throw, but all the people we know are Good With Colours and haven't been able to throw properly since a fluke incident in their second form PE lesson.

What Did The Neighbours Say?
Loud, loud, loud. That's how we've been playing this fabulous disc over the last couple of days, with the speakers turned right towards the lucky neighbours we're wishing to alienate. Just what would the neighbours say? We thought we'd put it to the test, and see how long we could play certain tracks at certain times before we got a thump on the wall, urging us to desist!

Pleasingly, 'Here We Go' was by far the winner, where we managed to keep it on repeat for a total of 20 minutes 35 seconds. Obviously a bit of a crowd-pleaser there. 'Love Machine' came in second, with 18 minutes 55 seconds. 'I Say A Little Prayer For You' came in a surprising third, but that was probably because Mrs Agnew had just got in the bath in her usual post-Coronation Street habit, and just couldn't be bothered to rise from her Radox bliss. Everything else came in under 10 minutes, with a hearty thump usually coming just as a chorus was rousing.

Interestingly, the dull 'I'll Stand By You' managed a full five seconds before a enthusiastic pounding occurred, along with 'We're calling the police!' Obviously, even putting an exclamation mark at the end of 'I'll Stand By You' on the front sticker will not and shall not make it any way more desirable!

We're classing What Would The Neighbours Say? as the winner as we're really very fickle and like new things! Well done, the Girls Aloud! Now, please release 'Here We Go' as the next single as our neighbours like that the best.

Monday, November 29, 2004

Of Golfballs and Wonderfalls

Right, you lot. Turns out I was a lot more sick than I thought I was. Here's a couple of things I found out in the last week...

My new doctor is one Dr Stefen Lipinski, out of Vienna. I don't like him. He initially claimed my lump was 'a spot'. When made to examine further, he said that I had 'a severe virus with infected lymph nodes'. Though my lymph nodes are apparently in the wrong place, and the words 'genetic abnormality' were banded about far too readily, I feel.

All elderly women behind the counter in chemists are monsters. It is probably because they haven't had anything up their clopper since decimalization, are drier than The Sahara, and then have to go and sell condoms.

'Tricia', our very own TV agony aunt, is as fabulous as it is rumoured to be.

Wonderfalls is the greatest show never made. And has elevated the beautiful Tyron Leitso (right) to Def Con Spangle.

Upon my return to work, I was asked how I was feeling by the very beautiful Armenian colleague who I've had a girlie crush on for a while. I said it was very much like trying to swallow something the size of two golf balls and you end up with a nasty taste in your mouth. He gave me a look that is going to make the company trip to Paris this weekend very interesting...

Headline over the weekend that a woman killed her child with too much salt. He son obviously being a slug, then.

The Wife kindly took me in and looked after me for the last couple of days of my Spectrox Toxemia. We were wondering why Girls Aloud weren't in the Band Aid 20, when they'd clearly got such 'luminaries' as Rachel Stevens and Will Young to pop in and screech into the Fairlight. "It's probably because they couldn't fit a white limo in the parking lot," said the Wife.

Tuesday, November 23, 2004

See Through

The very lovely Kimberly Lesbian was staying with us this weekend. We made her suffer the Smash Hits Pollwinner's Party, just because Girls Aloud were putting in an appearance.

"Good lord," she said as they shambled across the stage, counting the dance moves in their head and miming away to their last hit. "Why on earth do you like them so? It looks like some producer has rounded up a hen night from the streets of Soho and given them a pop career!"

I knew she'd get it eventually.

Oh William, The Pain, The Pain...

Divine readers (yes, both of you) forgive my 'petit absence' as I've been a little sick.

Now, blogging about being ill seems as common as talking about one's pets/children/partner, so I do try and keep it to a minimum unless it's particularly dramatic. Though all my illnesses require me to lie back on a chaise-lounge, lightly coughing blood into a lace hankie while bustled women touch my arm lightly in concern. This one is no exception of course, though a little bizarre: I appear to have an infected saliva gland. Thus meaning I have a lump on the side of my throat that is the size of a marble and the temper of a bag of rabid children.

All seems to be going well though, and the marble has gradually decreased to a pea. One hopes that it will continue to shrink and that this isn't just a relapse. Because, let's face it, that's so Liza Minelli.

More funny soon, I promise.

Friday, November 19, 2004


...I'm feeling somewhat under the weather. Thus, my usual lunchtime sojourn to the gym to go and make weights go 'ting!' can sod right off. And instead, I amused myself by going upstairs and watching all the Farscape Peacekeeper War DVD extras that I have to crowbar onto the new discs come early next year.

So far, the extras have contained the words 'I'm here for the child support' and 'big donkey penis extension' thus making them 100 times better than many other DVD extras.

And Ben Browder is so sweet in his little interview, I have fallen in love with him all over again.

A Joke For Four People

Thursday, November 18, 2004

Even A Bourbon?

Ten minutes ago...
Still stoned from last night, I decide the following: Fuck it, I'm having a cup of tea and inhaling several biscuits. Witness reports say that some of them may be chocolate, but nothing has been confirmed yet.
Back to the studio.

Five minutes ago...
My excursion to this company's biscuit barrel proves somewhat less than fruitful. The biscuits are Hovis. I'm not sure whether they count as biscuits or as tile grouters.

And underneath? Garibaldi.

Humph. The one day I decide to break my fast, The Biscuit Fairy has fucked off to Jaffacake Land and left us.

Wednesday, November 17, 2004


...and another reason I don't like this time of year is that now that Old Master Time keeps marching on, and with the blond in my beard getting rather more white than platinum, every time I go into a department store they keep trying to hire me for Christmas.

Tuesday, November 16, 2004

Fashion Is Going To The Dogs

Of course, the only reason we had to get out of London is that the Wife was having one of his... turns. He'd just saw his seventh poncho of the morning, and he just, well, snapped.

I'm not sure what his aversion to the equivalent of wearing a dog blanket around your neck actually is. But as we oft gaily walk along London's glorious South Bank taking in the sights, there's not a ten minute period without him shouting "PONCHO!" and pointing at some bedecked woman like she's just given birth to a goat. Well, if you can't beat them, join them say I - and my rub is the multitude of lady joggers who grace the side of the Thames, bounding along without the hint of a sports bra.

Well, it is most unladylike. There you are, enjoying the centuries-old historical majesty of St Paul's when a glut of overweight maidens huff their way past, jiggling like a birthday blancmange accidentally left on your Zanussi. So, while he's there loudly indicating the fashion mistake of the last year, I'm yelling "SPORTS BRA!" in return to the unenlightened lasses.

How the hours do dance by, I can say.

Of course, being an educated Creature of Light that he is, The Wife also detests the way that the glorious fashion house Burburry has fallen in with the chavish, market-buying Croydonites of the parish. What was once a brand Madonna enjoyed has fallen into the oil-stained hands of the car-stealing council house dwellers. He also takes great joy in pointing out those sporting such knocked-off rubbish to all that will listen. Although this happened Saturday morning:

"Lee," he hissed, raising his stun umbrella. "Look."

I turned to see a woman leaning against some railings, wearing a hooded poncho. In Burberry.

And that's why we left the city for a bit.

Addendum to Yesterday

"Of course she's going to have a lot of crockery," said The Wife yesterday, out of the blue. "Phil's Greek, isn't he?"

Monday, November 15, 2004

The Queen is In

You know, I never guessed how close Windsor Castle is to Burger King. It's right over the road! The Queen could shout her order out the window if she wanted, and I bet she orders the Whopper Royale for a laugh.

It's me, dearies. I own you all!Anyway Windsor Castle, for those unenlightened of you (i.e. the more rabid American readers) is a splendid stone castle the Wife and I visited this weekend, which happens to be the preferred home of our lovely old Queen Liz. She is a marvellous woman whose sole job is to open things, nod interestingly at people, and wear lots of bright, synthetic fabrics. She also appears to have inherited the family trait of being obsessed with crockery, as there are rooms and rooms of plates and bowls and cups as you take the royal tour, although this may be simply because you're lead through the crockery section because the golf club section leads right up to her back door or something.

In fact, she was home this weekend so we could have just gone and asked her. Yes, dear Americans, we're all related to the Queen over here in dear old Blighty, so she doesn't mind us popping in and asking for a cup of knighthood, thus I spent a good portion of the time trolling around the Great Halls, Not So Great Halls and china cupboards, peering around corners in the hope of catching her with a ciggie on, bitching away with the servants. It's also alarmingly easy to picture her running across the minstrel's balcony near closing time, wrapped in a towel, and clutching a bottle of Radox.

The Wife, whereas, was convinced that Her Madge gets around using a series of secret tunnels that actually go under the town of Windsor, enabling her Fabness to do her Christmas shopping in peace. On closer examination, there did appear to be a rather mysterious door at the back of Laura Ashley, and we're sure we saw a tiara bobbin up and down in the changing room at Fenwicks.

Anyway. Crockery. Makes you wonder what she eats off, given the rooms and rooms of choice. Or does she just find it easier to nip down the souvenir shop and nick a couple with her face on, leaving 'MINE' spelled out in Alphabetti Spaghetti for the servants to clear away? And do you think it's true that the only reason we had an empire is that one previous monarch rumbled 'Get me china!' and someone went out and conquered the country?

Enquiring minds need to know.

Friday, November 12, 2004

Who's There

Jubilate! The Wife, bless his heart, spent yesterday afternoon recording a Doctor Who adventure! As you can imagine, this pleases me greatly as it means that, not only will his delightful acting get listened to by the seven people who buy these things, but I now have a canonical boyfriend! Thus sating my autistic fan-boy side by him being catalogued in several Doctor Who publications and reference guides!

Thank you for listening. I can now go back to counting red cars and doing groaning.

Wednesday, November 10, 2004

Thought For The Day

Why is the 'S' section in any music store so gay? Rally up there and you'll find the iconic Mz Streisand, Mz Dusty Springfield, Eighties chanteuses Sonja and Sinitta, and Spice Girls and many, many more. Fabulously, I admit that I do get subliminally lured to it every time, drawn by the radioactive waves operating in the pink spectrum. Or as we know it, 'gay-diation'

I even saw 'Cher' albums stacked up in there once, but that was in Croydon, and people there have probably licked a whole lot of things from the left side of the periodic table while in primary school.

Tuesday, November 09, 2004

Black Cat, Black Kitten

I'm not sure where my mother has learned to drink, but I have a horrible inkling that it was the George Best School of Alcohol. And that her end-of-term certificate was presented by Peter O'Tool. Thus, this week is gradually becoming a write-off thanks to some inner monologue on Saturday suggesting that "Ha! You can keep up with your own mother!" Apparently this is not so. Nor a clever thought, as she was off ordering doubles and had already got so drunk she'd blagged a holiday to Oz from a woman she'd only met ten minutes before.

There's a new boy started working with her, 22 years old and quite naive. He is gradually working out that there's something not quite right with her - like her insistence that she can dance like Beyonce (she can't - and getting on the bar to do it certainly doesn't help) and that her arse is just like Kylie's (it's not. At all).

In fact, she's told everyone at work that her rear end is just like Kylie's so many times, and that she's so insistent about it, people are willing to let it go. So when she rounded on the new boy and said "Don't you think my arse is just like Kylie's?" there was a collective department sucking in their breaths, waiting to see how the new kid would do.

He took his time, mulled it over for a second or five and said "Well, I suppose they're spelt the same, aren't they?"

We like him. He can stay.

Monday, November 08, 2004

Black Cap On Fire!

I just happened to be in a gay bar last night when a fire broke out. Nothing serious, bit of smoke and a lot of squealing from the Men Who Are Good With Colours as the realised that they were wearing synthetic fabrics and far too much hair product, and the whole place could go up in a series of mini-incendiary explosions if they went near any flame.

There was a disgruntled air as we all slowly filed out, swiftly passing when we heard the distant wail of sirens. Firemen! Several of the boys nabbed pocket mirrors from the ladies to check their hair. Several girls grabbed them back to check theirs, as it was the closest they were going to get to a straight man all evening and they weren't missing the chance.

We're not sure whether it was forethought on behalf of the emergency services, but they must have a special squadron that attends all gay bars and offices full of desperate women. Because all the firemen who arrived moments later frankly looked like they'd just fell off the bells at Notre Dame. And thus had no problems getting through a bunch of marys with grasping hands.

We watched the spectacle for a couple of moments before getting cold and bored. I was idly toying with the lighter in my pocket. In theory, if the Ugly Squad were now busy, we'd get the real stuff if the McDonalds down the road 'suddenly' sparked into flame...

Friday, November 05, 2004

The Top Ten London Facts

Several bits and pieces about the playground we all love a little too much.

London actually started life as a Roman settlement called Londinium in 43AD, constructed out of crude cardboard to fox the Roman's enemies into thinking the city was bigger and more impressive than it was. In actual fact, all it contained were three occupied houses and an early Starbucks, and seven burly Romans in large boots making as much noise as possible.

For a week, London had the most advanced sewerage system in the world.

Currently, the most famous landmark is The Queen. Measuring three foot fifteen high, she was installed in her current location by London Borough Council in 1952. Few people realise that this isn't the actual real Queen, but a fake constructed for a mid-Eighties TV special. The real Queen now lives in Highbury, spends most mornings in the local greasy spoon café drinking tea and reading the paper, then spends the afternoon in the Dog and Duck playing the trivia machine. To date, she has won £5320 and knighted three bar staff.

Contrary to popular belief, charming chanteuse Julie London does not own London. Patsy Gallant does.

The reason the Underground Tube system is so dirty is due to the intervention of several animal rights groups in 1972. Up until that point, specially bred miniature Highland sheep had been allowed into the system. Small enough to fit under the trains, and woolly enough to pick up most of the dirt, they roamed free on the Underground, lightly dusting as they went. Now we merely have mice with tiny brooms and maid's outfits. Though you can still see a group of wild Tube Sheep wandering around Cockfosters, but visitors are advised not to approach them as years down there have given them a dangerous amount of static electricity has built up in their wool and there's a mad glint in their eye.

One feral Tube Sheep can power the Regent Street Christmas Lights for a whole day.

Royal architect and well-known prankster, Sir Christopher Wren designed a great deal of the city after 4/5ths of it was destroyed in the Great Fire of London in 1666. With incredible forethought, he designed the layout in such a way that, when lit at night, it spells out the words 'COCK OFF!' when seen from above. The impressive dome of his St Paul's Cathedral forms the lower dot of the exclamation mark.

The world's longest running play, Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, can still be seen running in London today. The reason for its success is that a skilled hypnotist passes amongst the audience and wipes their memory of the previous intolerable two hours at the end of the performance, leaving a feeling of almost post-coital bliss in its place. There are fifty-seven people who have been in the audience for almost twenty years now, and they are frankly beginning to smell.

In London, there is no reason why we drive on the left (or the 'wrong side of the road' as some tourist brochures will have it) other than to injure slow-moving, overweight tourist who aren't paying attention. It's a hilarious sport, you know.

Famous landmark The Houses of Parliament was originally built in the market town of Peterborough as a place to keep Wellington boots. The King at the time, Susan, liked it so much that he ordered it be brought to the country's capital and be used as the seat of governmental power. In return King Susan sent London's then most famous landmark, The Key Theatre, to replace the missing edifice. Two additional facts: they've never been able to get the smell of Wellington boots out of the place. And The Key Theatre is so named as, if you look at it directly from above, it looks like an enormous theatre.

Wednesday, November 03, 2004

An Actual True Story. For Once.

So, my Evil Best Friend Declan went on a date a few nights back. I know, I know - we tried to warn the young moppet by showing him pictures of car crashes and dead foals, but he did seem very insistent on going through with it, so I basically left them to it and went and played hopscotch.

I get a call an hour later. All had not gone well.

Declan, it must be said, can often attract the- well, let's just call them the lame ducks, to be kind. This one worked out so well on paper. 22 years old. A dancer. A little camp, maybe. Had a colostomy bag.

"A what?" I screeched, dropping my skipping rope.

"A piss-bag," said Declan. Who was obviously enjoying himself a little too much at this.

"Couldn't he have just bought flowers on a first date like normal people?"

"I don't do normal people. Hilariously. He mentioned it in passing. I said 'What, like Dame Shirley Bassey?' and he went all wide-eyed and nodded. The freak."

I had to bring the obvious subject up. "So, was there any chance that the two of you could have had sex?"

"Not unless I squeezed him very hard and hoped for a backwash."

"Oh. Right. So, I gather you were your usual tactful self?"

"I was for about fifteen minutes."

That was good for him. When he was bored, he normally just stubbed out his fag and left. Usually in your eye socket. "Then what happened?" I asked.

"I'd had a couple of pints by that point. You know what goes on after a few pints. Well, I couldn't help it. All the jokes started tumbling out."

"You didn't..."

"I did. Spent the rest of the night taking the piss."

Cue rapturous laughter over a freeze-frame as the credits ran...

A Fabulous Letter

Dear The America,

We are very disappointed in you. Don't make us come over there and take it all back.

Love, The Gays
(under new management)

Tuesday, November 02, 2004

Call Centre Confidential

My lovely housemate Jay has just zipped off to the States and left me with one simple task: get a phone line installed in the new house. Actually, there were two - something about not blow anything up, which I managed for a whole day and I'm sure he never liked that toaster anyway. But yes, the phone. I called BT, the main supplier of telephonic apparatus in this country. After ten minutes of being on hold listening to some awful R&B, my patience was as thin as bony ol' Sarah Jessica Equine. Then a disinterested call-monkey answered the phone:

"I'm sorry to keep you waiting. How can I help?"
"I'd like to get a landline connected."
"Can you give me your address?"
(I do)
"Hmm. That doesn't appear to be coming up on our system. Are you sure the property exists?"
"No. I really sleep in a box under a bridge. I just thought I'd get a phone put in."

And so, we descended further into said call-centre madness:
"So, we'll get an engineer out to you to check the line. It'll be £74."
"It'll be what?"
"Just to check whether I have a line, simply because your computer doesn't tell you my house exists?"
"Yes. I'm booking in the 17th for you."
"Let me just check..."
"It's a Wednesday. (pause) Sir."
"I'd like a Saturday."
"I can't."
"For £74 you can put me down for a Saturday."
"I'm sorry sir, our engineers don't work Saturdays."
"Oh fuck right off. Cancel it all. I'm going to try someone else."

I'm really sorry, Jay. I did try. Now I've got a horrible feeling that there is no one else, and I'm going to have to go back with cap in hand...

Monday, November 01, 2004

Wanna See What We Did For Halloween?

Siegfied and Roy - Now Mauled!

Ladies and gentlemen, it's ze Siegfried unt ze Roy! Post ze mauling, that is of course. You can still see frisky little Montacore haz a little bit of Roy's lovely blood in hiz little tiger mouth. Naughty Montacore!

Happy Halloween

Halloween is always a busy time for my Evil Best Friend Declan. What with the veil between this world and the next being so thin, he's able to do a couple of things that he normally can't. Like get his shopping delivered, that sort of thing.

"I've been doing a quick inventory of my curses," he told me, steepling his fingers. I winced at this - bad things happen when he realises he hasn't met his quota. All I shall say is that it is possible that David Boreanaz once turned him down, and hence the former svelte heartthrob now waddles to work in a manner akin to a Victorian wardrobe being shifted.

He continued with a cheery air: "I've got two spare weight gains and an impotence you can have if you want. Just let me know!"

I loved the way he said it like a housewife cleaning out her fridge. Bless, he always gets very excited about this time of year, though you can always feel the disappointment that children no longer come to his door for the trick or the treats. He says that it's because he goes a little over the top, what with the gingerbread walls and trail of sweeties to the over-sized oven. I say that it was because of the time he gave a kid a Mars Bar with a razor blade in it three years back. He just sniffs, and says "Well, he was from a council estate."

I despair at times, I really do. I refused his kind offer of the curses (and the subsequently produced Mars Bar) and told him he'd better get going - he was pulling at the hem of his reaper's outfit in happy anticipation. He smiled, and departed with one final note:

"I've got a very special curse for Flatley this year," he said, over his shoulder.

Ah, jubilate!

Thursday, October 28, 2004

Glitter For Brains at the Movies: Alien Vs Predator

We went so you don't have to!

What an enjoyable film! The Wife and I had an absolute ball watching this pile of nonsense, as it becomes so preposterous that we laughed throughout the whole thing. Go and see! Or, if you can't be fagged, ladies and gentlemen, we present:


THE MOVIE opens with a shot of what appears to be the ALIEN QUEEN in SILHOUETTE. As it rotates, it turns out to be a SATELLITE IN SPACE.

Cool! Maybe this film will be clever and imaginative and all sorts!


Oh my god. Look at that!

Other MEMBERS OF STAFF wander around in puzzlement as to what. Despite a WHOLE WALL of MONITORS FLASHING RED.

The Audience:
(sighs) Oh. Wait. There goes that credibility.

Meanwhile, Ripley-clone WOODS is climbing a solid ice-face miles, away from anywhere. This is to establish her as a STRONG, RESOURCEFUL WOMAN. Right on cue, her FOOT SLIPS.

Then her MOBILE PHONE goes.

Cor. What network is she with?

It is COLIN SALMON on the line. Offering her AN ABSOLUTE CLOPPER-FULL OF MONEY if she takes people to an ANCIENT PYRAMID they have just discovered under the ice.

You're going to destroy them, not to study them?

Excuse me?

How do I get out of this chicken-shit operation?

What have you got there? Let me see. Oh, it's the script for 'Aliens' with your name written over everyone elses! Give me that!

Enter RAOUL BOVA, somewhere in the DESERT. All the GAYS in THE AUDIENCE sit forward a little.

Ah, look at this. Our leetle expedition is almost at an end. We are almost out of cash.

He is scrabbling around in an ANCIENT DRAIN somewhere, trying to find a LOST ARTEFACT. We expect, after the cliché of the last scene, for him to dig up a MOBILE PHONE with COLIN SALMON on the end. He doesn't. It's a BOTTLECAP. How we LAUGHED.

Meanwhile, on the way to the PYRAMID, EWEN BREMNER is playing with a CAMERA.

Och, aye. I'm taking pictures of everything. For my children, y'ken?


Nobody else gets an introduction. They are also all MARKED FOR DEATH.

Right! Listen up marines - I mean, crew. If something goes wrong - which it will - don't be a hero. We are miles away from anywhere. No-one can help us. No-one.


WOODS: (cont)
You get that? NO-ONE.

Yeah yeah. You're alone. We get it.
We bet you still get a mobile phone signal though.

They land at AN OLD WHALING STATION. They EXPLORE. In that tired old method of tension, EWEN goes EXPLORING on his own in the DARK. By law, something rattles some pots behind EWEN, so slowly walks backwards... right into WOODS! Ho, no-one was expecting that! AT ALL!

(overly-jittery) Oh, it's you! So, what's making the noise?

Well, it can't be a cat. That would be silly.

It's not. It's a PENGUIN.


Meanwhile, they explore the pyramid. On the surface, THE PREDATORS arrive. They SLICE through the EXTRAS and PEOPLE ONLY CALLED BY THEIR SURNAME, so it is neither involving, spectacular nor cool. Inside the PYRAMID, half the team have found the ALIEN EGGS and now have FACE-HUGGERS on them. Below them:

Look at this! It's a calendar! A big battle takes place here every century! They came back 100 years ago! And 100 years before that!

Hmm. We bet it was absolutely teeming with life around here two centuries ago.

UPSTAIRS, the OTHER TEAM now have ALIENS BURSTING out of them.

Hangonaminute. In Alien, it took days for the creature to gestate. In Aliens, they went into hypersleep and went half-way across the galaxy, and there were still bursting out days after the marines got there! What are these people here? Toasters?!

Of course, seconds later, there's full-sized ALIENS walking around. The PREDATORS ATTACK. The ALIENS ATTACK. The PREDATORS and ALIENS ATTACK each other. There is much CGI. The DIRECTOR, PAUL W ANDERSON, has clearly WHIPPED HIMSELF into such a FANBOY FROTH that a TARPAULIN has to be LAID DOWN.

Look at this! Are we the only one's left?

Seems like it. Come on - let's move. Assholes and elbows!

Wait! Look at this! It's a back-story!


(Picking it up) This doesn't mean we're married or anything.

Look! See how I have made the woman the strong and smart one!

(coughs) Like Ripley.

She is really the only one who figured out the whole thing!

Like Ripley.

This whole thing is an allegory for how strong women really are!

WOODS battles an ALIEN, accidentally killing it with the PREDATOR'S STAFF. She has now gained the respect of the PREDATORS, and they make her a shield from an ALIEN HEAD and they become best pals. Now, cue lots of hilarious SLOW MOTION RUNNING through SMOKE together. BEING BUDDIES. It stops just short of WOODS opening a CAN OF PEDIGREE CHUM and SCRATCHING HIS STOMACH.

Hang on. As the predators represent the pinnacle of macho, this still shows that she is subservient to the male symbolism. She's carrying a huge phallic symbol as a shield!

Er, you lost me.

You know. We are not surprised.

Anyway! The bit you've all been waiting for! WOODS finally gets to face up to her NEMESIS - who she's never seen before, but lets not let that stop this car-crash of a movie - THE ALIEN QUEEN! And she's not in a POWER LOADER, but a T-SHIRT AND JEANS. Yes, kids, in the middle of the ANTARCTIC!

Right, Woods. You're about to meet the Queen. You've got one shot to impress us with a line that will go down in film history. Think 'Get away from her, you bitch!' but for the new millennium!

Ok. Er - Move aside from her, you cow!


Stand away, you pregnant female dog?

THE AUDIENCE hangs its collective head.

You ugly mother-!

That'll have to do. Move on. If we wrap this up quickly, we can be out before they announce the sequel.

WOODS and her PREDATOR CHUM fight the ALIEN QUEEN. It is not as exciting as the director obviously thinks it is. The QUEEN ends up UNDER THE ICE, and PREDATOR CHUM is KILLED. Hilariously, WOODS is left in the MIDDLE OF THE ICE in ANTARCTICA in just a T-SHIRT and JEANS.

And meanwhile, somewhere, a PREDATOR/ALIEN HYBRID bursts from PREDATOR CHUM'S STOMACH.

You're telling us, that in all the years that these lot have been battling, this has never happened before? Give us a break! Paul W Anderson, you're hoping for a sequel, aren't you? How much has the box office made?

(Checks till) Er. Well, it is a Sunday. And not many people like coming out in, er, weather...

How much?

Two pound fifty.

And that's what we paid for the pop corn! Shame on you, Paul W Anderson! Shame!

THE END. We hope.

(with apologies to Rod Hilton, who does these far better.)

The Birthday Invite

Yesterday afternoon:
(phone rings)

Me: Hello?
The Wife: It's me. We've been invited to a party tonight. Champagne, fabulous fabulous people.
Me: Aww, I can't. I promised I'd do something else.
The Wife: The invite is printed on Perspex.
(a pause)
The Wife: (cont) Just like something out of Blake's 7.
Me: What time's it start?
The Wife: Around nine.
Me: Say 'Nine O'Space-Clock'.
The Wife: 'Nine O'Space-Clock'.
Me: I'll be there.


Yesterday evening:
The Opium Rooms. A place where they couldn't play Girls Aloud as it would have been a far too knowing comment on the clientele. The birthday girl - who I had no idea who she was - had decided that she was coming as Alison Goldfrapp and had done her hair by dropping her toaster in the bath with her. She was the perfect example of what works on the styled printed pages of a magazine does not work in real life, especially when surrounded by every other woman dancing in the High Street's 'finest'.

Apparently we couldn't take pictures. The official reason was 'there is an official photographer', but I feared that setting off a camera flash near all that prime New Look polyester... It may ignite the static and start a stadium fire.

And - get this - she'd only hired the club so she could do a live PA! It was like a sheep being raped! So while she warbled her way through some tunes which obviously meant something to her and her three trollish mates thanks to last year's holiday to Ibiza, The Wife and I sat up the back and tried to nick as much champagne as possible. Oh, it wasn't free, but the Wife's very light-fingered when he wants to be, as you can imagine. Anyway, she finished her set and the audience gave her that polite 'clap... clap-clap... clap...' - and one cry of 'Make the bad noise stop!' - and we were so pissed by that point that we went dancing. And ended up between three women, one of who apparently had fake breasts and we had to keep having to guess which one of the trio it was. Which involved a lot of breast squeezing in front of some straight lads, which is always fun. Anyway, the one with the fakes, she was fab - she spends her days as a topless, painted human statue at weddings.

Which was nice.

I am now thoroughly broken, so you can entertain yourself for a couple of hours. Go on. Be off with you.

Wednesday, October 27, 2004

Hangman For Dummies

Now, I don't normally play the games on my mobile phone, but lately I've found that I need something to pass the time. On trains, or while people are talking to me - you know, that sort of thing.

So I downloaded one called Hangman, but the problem is, I can't seem to change the settings. Currently its set to 'Sharon, Befuddled Secretary' to appease the various Neanderthal Croydonites who play the games when they're not planning their next night out. Loudly. Five letter word in 'Geography'? 'SHOPS', apparently. Five letter word in 'Plants'? 'LARGE'! Oh! How could I have been so blind!

Bluntly I don't stand a chance.

And more disconcerting is that we have a gingerbread man instead of a hangman. So rather than the normal gallows being built and a man being hanged, you are given a gingerbread man being slowly eaten. Which sounds good on paper, but you're often left with limbless, semi-merry quadriplegic, grateful to be saved from the maws of death. Or just a sinister smiling head. Now, is that quality of life?

Well, I'd ask Christopher Reeve, but I'm a week or so too late.

Monday, October 25, 2004

The Name's Bonds. Bonds T-Shirts.

The Wife picked up an absolute bargain a couple of weeks back. A poison-tipped umbrella.

From where, he never said. He has been a bit secretive of late, and I've caught him talking into his watch a couple of times, too. Mostly to order pizzas, but there you go.

For those of you new to this, the Wife is a lovely Karmic fluff, so he's taken the poison out and put some sort of sleeping drug in ("God Bless Nytol," apparently...) Though it proved easy to remove the poison, it transpired that the sleeping drug was a lot harder to get in its place. So for a full two hours I could hear '"Ow! Fuckit!" (thump!)' from upstairs, only to be resumed with a groggy air ten minutes later. It was kind of hilarious to start. And then, well - there's only so loud you can make 'Time Team', you know.

Since road testing it on his bizzaro cat ("MeOW!", evil glare, thump!) he's been using it to stun people with pashminas, his latest hate-crime. Just a quick jab and they fall to the floor like they've had their strings cut. It's best in Starbucks, apparently. Especially when they have a little cardboard tray of four coffees. The mess is spectacular.

"It's brilliant in banks, too," he said yesterday, twirling it dangerously close to some screaming child as we walked along the South Bank. "You just have to hit the one in front of you, and the whole bank erupts into chaos thinking there's a sniper."

Thing is, I found a bra in his room yesterday. I kinda hope that it came as part of the set, else we're going to have to have a looooong chat.

Thursday, October 21, 2004

The Other Me

You know that advert for perfume with Beyoncé Knowles writhing around on a beach? You know, she's looking all sultry and singing 'I'm Wishing On A Star'? Yes, well - I was up for that.

No, I was. We'd got to contracts and everything, but then came the creative differences. I would only do it if I could sing Britney Spears' 'Toxic' but they felt that it "didn't key in with the advertising touchstone" And that the song had already been taken by an upcoming tampon advert, apparently.

Besides, do you know how painful it is to writhe with your undercrackers full of sand? Poor Beyoncé - oh, if she wasn't a Christian, the next man up her would be grated like a carrot.


Ooh, it'll go straight to your hips! Well. Glitter For Brains has just had its 10,000 visitor. I think that calls for Gay Cake, don't you? Hurrah! Help yourself to a slice!

(PS - just who the dickens ARE you people?!)

Wednesday, October 20, 2004

Design 101: Colour

Handy Tips for You Fabulous Things!

Picture the scene: you're kicking back in your office, eating donuts and looking through eBay, wondering whether you should bid for a fabulous antique fish-kettle, when your boss comes in. What? Oh yes, you're allowed to change the details - the type of donut, what you're wearing - but not the fish-kettle. Anyway, he says that you have to do a movie poster! In under ten minutes!

As this is always happening to me, allow me to ease the process. First off, you're already limited in your pallet, as years of conditioning tell us what we're about to see. Witness -

White: Romantic Comedy (cf. Bridget Jones, Wimbledon)
Pink: Peppy teenage comedy (cf. Mean Girls, 13 Going on 30)
Black: Space! Anything with yer sci-fi elements, unless it's sci-fi comedy, where it has to be Yellow.
Blue: Psychological horror. Usually has smashed glass on it too.
Orange: Denzil Washington has pretty much cornered orange, oddly.

And never the twain shall meet. Oh, but it has! Imagine my horror when I saw the poster for Aliens Vs Predator - the white monstrosity assaults the eye! See?

What nonsense

But, as you can see from the above list, comedies have cornered the market on white backgrounds. Or more specifically, the romantic comedies that spew forth from our own tiny movie industry every year. The gosh-darn thing looks like a romantic comedy, with the Alien leaning in to whisper acidic nothings in it's tin-hatted comrade's ears! Should the tag-line not be 'Whoever Wins, We Lose... The Fashion Show!'

Although, hilariously, it is possible to then cross-breed said scary film with some white-backgrounded comedies. Observe the new Bridget Jones...

'Skulls cleaned today: 6. V. Bad'

...and the far more interesting About A Boy!

I do hope you've all learned your lesson. Class dismissed.

Monday, October 18, 2004

In Which I Move House

'Edwardo - Move Me!' - Part I

Now. As I am the Ruler of the Known Universe, it is fair to demand a little glamour in my life. Hence when I moved house this weekend - well, candidly one expects being carried across London on a sedan chair by Messers Pitt and Clooney, trumpet fanfares sounding as I take my new residence as seventeen oiled and fabulous men toil behind me, carrying all my splendorous possessions in ermine-lined boxes. So you can imagine my surprise when I open the door to find two odorous men, half-heartedly mumbling that they're here to "move me".

"Not without you taking a bath and me lowering my standards," was something I almost said. As was, "But I ordered attractive!" A quick spy left-and-right confirmed that there was no Hollywood stars around, and this Would Have To Do, so I let them in and offered them tea as I believe this is what one does to the underclasses.

Moving A Gay, as it turns out, is a hilarious event. Mostly due to my two removals men slowly cottoning on as to which side of the church I sat on. Dale, the lumbering one who used his finger to read, quietly commented "'Ere, mate, you got a lot of clothes, ain't ya?" as we filled my fabulous wardrobe. Alan, the short Irish one, held up a box labelled 'Skincare - Bathroom' and observed it was "Rather heavy for a man."

"Heh, you carting it for your girlfriend?" asked Dale, jamming a pencil behind his ear. I was never sure what the pencil was for - he'd shown an astonishing level of illiteracy by writing my name so slowly and with one of the 'e's backwards.

With somewhat perfect timing, my flouncy new housemate Jay arrived and dispelled any allusions of heterosexuality. Where I had two burly workmen, he'd just emptied the local gay bar and grabbed a load of marys in various states of inebriation to help him. They then proceeded to open boxes and squeal at the things they found.

Hilariously, Dale and Alan doubled their efforts and were out of there in under half an hour. They didn't even stop for the glass of Babycham I offered.

Heh. Naughty Lee.

'Edwardo - Move Me!' - Part II
Oh, that reminds me. Tea bags...

Typical gays - we went to IKEA before we went to the supermarket.

'Edwardo - Move Me!' - Part III
World-renowned fashion designer Zandra Rhodes lives in a building half-way down her street. I do hope I don't accidentally spy her getting into the shower when I'm idly watching the neighbourhood. With my high-definition army-issue sniper sights.

'Edwardo - Move Me!' - Part IV
Never, ever go to IKEA with people who have seen through its shiny Swedish exterior. For once the scales fall from your eyes, the whole business just becomes an (IKEA) catalogue of disasters. Oh, and the people! Oh, the screaming children!

What used to be the shiny yellow entrance to affordable yet stylish furniture now looks like the River Styx to me.

Friday, October 15, 2004

The Palace of Pain

Gyms are not for fun, no matter how you look at it. While there are some indoctrinated into the idea that 'I can't get by without twenty reps"* here's actually nothing more satisfying than sitting around with a bottle of wine and a bloody big pizza. This is A Fact. The only way that gyms are fun is that it gives you a legitimate excuse to stare at boys in their pants while you're in a committed relationship.

My gym had balloons around the door today.

This is wrong.

That says, to me, 'Come in! Come in! It's one big party in here!' when clearly it's not. Parties have jelly and alcohol and stuff. If I so much as jumped on that little trampoline with an ounce of joy, they would have given me a stern look and told me to lift heavy things. And the only thing close to jelly is that brave man who is several stone overweight, but insists on going on the running machine in lycra. It's hypnotic to watch, I tell you.

By the way, on the way out, I burst a balloon with my house key. I know the only way I would be losing weight would to tie said balloon to my arms, but I felt so much better. But according to the tutting receptionist, I was the fourth to do it in the last hour.


* Whatever that means! Look, I heard it once while I was looking at some boy warming up. He could get his leg riiiiight up my his ear, you know...

Thursday, October 14, 2004

The Top Ten Internet Facts

Several bits and pieces about the playground we all love a little too much.

* The Internet is actually run by a man called Bob out of a trailer in Oregon. Microsoft tried to buy it off him, but he turned the hose on them and called the sheriff. But not before stealing their rather lovely pens.

* Professors at Stamford University running the 'Skynet' Project did try and give the internet sentience in 1998. The experiment used the web's enormous processing power like a big brain, but they were horrified to discover that the result had personality that was obsessed with pornography, and simply couldn't decide who was the better Star Trek captain between Kirk and Picard.

* The result currently works at Blockbuster video in Margate, and spends weekends modifying its car.

* By 2014, search engines will be so powerful it will be able to rifle through your pockets. And then maybe under your bed. And then tut.

* The word 'internet' is actually a misnomer. Rather than created from the words 'International' and 'network', the word comes from the type of sheer stockings favoured by the internet's inventor, Al Gore.

* All Russian brides advertised on the web actually come from Norwich. Before they are sent out in their special boxes, they are forced to watch Welsh soap 'Pobol y Cwm' while given a sharp electric shock so they forget their native language.

* It is possible to connect your cat to Google.

* Internet shopping is also a misnomer, as you can't actually buy 'an internet'. You can only buy some internet , and that currently costs 32p per pound, and has a very high sugar content. This is why most internet users are several pounds over weight and wash themselves with a rag on a stick. That is my dream.

* It is actually possible to substitute a Bodum for a modem when using the web. The result will be the same: you will be up all night, and be slightly irritated by the whole affair.

* Pop-up adverts, the bane of most user's lives, are usually created by The Women's Association in Stockport in needlepoint, and then scanned in. They receive exactly 1p per each of the ads that they create, which usually goes towards their biscuit fund. They like chocolate Hob-Nobs. The WA have to use a very special Microsoft wool for flashing ads, and member Ervie recalls her favourite one as being 'Teenage Dorm Sluts strip for you' because she managed to get a rather fine counted cross-stitch on the lady's clopper.

Wednesday, October 13, 2004

The Midnight Hour

So I sat there, determined not to learn anything. My brain was already too full, and I was scared that something important was going to fall out if something tried to take its place.

But dinner with Suze is always an entertaining affair. She was one of The Wife's gorgeous friends from Oz, and we were here to say goodbye to her before she hauled herself and her extra suitcase of "fabulous London fashions" back Down Under. She is one of my favourite people in the world, ever. In real life, she's a teacher - a damn fine one at that, simply because you learned things from her when you least expected it. She'd coat it in innuendo, or as a comic aside, and before you knew it you were an expert on the French Revolution thanks to some filthy comments about bustles. Fortunately, the conversation had been steered around onto Cinderella, which I did consider a safe subject. After all, I knew the story backwards - literally, thanks to a rather harsh primary school with a teacher who was left-handed and loved mirrors like a budgie.

Suze picked at her Thai food, and looked at the assembled table with her deep eyes. Fabulous lashes - you'd wonder if they got a millimetre longer whether she'd have to tip her head back to open her eyes. "Fairy tales are really quite filthy, when you think about it."

I kinda knew about this. I think. I may have been to an exhibition on the subject way back, putting me to think that maybe my brain isn't like a box with a finite space after all, but more like an old VHS tape. Bits and pieces of programmes laid over each other, and every now and again, the end of something bizarre from BBC2 breaks through the static. I think I had been to an exhibition on it, but it may have actually been a trip to the Science Museum when I was five. The quality wasn't that good, but I did recall the distinctive marzipan smell of Play-doh definitely being present. Which didn't help. Suze had carried on, talking about the symbolism of pumpkins.

"You know, there may have been a mix-up with the translations," she said. "The glass slipper - pantoufle de verre - may mistranslation of pantoufle de vair" Her French, I think, was perfect. If not, it was enthusiastically throaty, almost needlessly erotic. I crossed my legs.

"Vair, basically means fur. How rude is that? The Prince is searching for a girl's 'fur slipper'. And he only chooses one of the right size. My kids really start to look deeper into the literature when you put that spin on it."

She leaned in closer, with a conspiratorial air. "I just like the idea that Cinderella was wearing Ug boots."

Damn it. She'd done it again. I'd gone and learned something.

And with dismay, realised I could no longer remember how to juggle.

Tuesday, October 12, 2004

More Utter Tat I Have Found While Packing

Exhibit B: The Lament Configuration Puzzle Box

A joy of pure loveliness!My, what have we here! Why, it's a replica of that dastardly Puzzle Box from the Hellraiser films! For those of you a little unsure, it turns out that this is the very Gateway to Hell itself, and not dear Vanessa Feltz's undercrackers after all. Phew!*

Lovingly mass-produced in plastic, no self-disrespecting goth should be without this flimsy box! Just think, with a little imagination, you could slide back the top and find the ultimate in pain! Or, alternatively, a couple of pencil sharpeners, some plastic jewellery and a badge saying 'Bumsex - 50p'. Larks!

Lets hope that the actual Gateway to Hell is a little sturdier than this highly-generic copy - as it would be a lot simpler to quell Pinhead and his devilish army of Cenobites if darling Kirsty simply sat on the thing by accident, popping the sides out and shooting a purple bangle right into some Will & Grace DVDs. Just as I did when trying to find a space for it in a crate! If anything, it would have given a much needed comic moment during the film, ideally lightening the moment where her Uncle Frank is torn to shreds by fish-hooks during the climax, and turning it into a Terry-and-June-style farce! Oh, the hilarity!

* So, it transpires those stains aren't the slaverings of demonic Hell Dogs, but where Vanessa failed to 'dab the lettuce' properly on her last trip to the loo.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

Such a shame I'm leaving. Next weekend, Peckham's own Black Empowerment Community will be hosting a Beauty Contest.

Hoo. The wallpaper in my house is already starting to peel thanks to the relaxer fumes.

Monday, October 11, 2004

Utter Tat I Have Found While Packing

Exhibit A: The Star Trek Voyager Alarm Clock

What cock!Why on earth was this little gem hidden atop my gorgeous wardrobe?* Why, it's a totem to the days when everyone hoped that Voyager was going to be the Next Best Thing, and not Some Scripts We Never Bothered Doing For Picard's Lot! The Voyager clock comprises a half-moon of off-white plastic, with a delightfully forced-perspective ship leering out at you. It just yells excitement! Look at it. Yelling! And best of all? It has Kate Mulgrew's voice stored as the alarm!

Why not wake in your loved one's arms to the barking voice of Mz Mulgrew, yelling "The USS Voyager is 70,000 light years from home and we are desperate to get back!"

And then, with a wry edge to her hacksaw voice, she adds:

"Are you going to lie there all day?"

Why no! Not with you yapping on like a Great Dane on helium we're not! For then, she repeats it, again and again. Why, it's just that that seminal** Voyager episode, Coda! Until you hit the snooze button, cunningly disguised (?!) as a bright blue rocky outcrop. Ho, the designer of this must have gone home that Friday, smiling at a week's work well done!

But lo, even with the snooze, you're not free of our very own Poundstretcher Kate Hepburn. For now, she's telling us:

"Attention all those in sleeping quarters! Move now or be left behind!"

Oh, our collective ears! I can't, for the life of me, think why I stopped using it as an alarm clock!

* I don't have a closet, natch. It was destroyed in the explosion of my not-so-much-coming-out-as-shooting-out.

** 'seminal' as in 'a load of old wank'.

Away Day

Apologies for not being around for a couple of days. I've been remarkably absent-minded - even for me. Forgetting to pay bills, forgetting I had a blog, that sort of thing. I also appear to have come to work with a lightbulb in my pocket - and I can't think why. I have, however, been using it to great effect during a brainstorming meeting. Every time I speak, I hold it above my head.

Anyway. For those of you who are interested, one of the things I did in my brief sabbatical was finally create a website. Check it out, if you want, here. It's not even remotely funny, alas.

Wednesday, October 06, 2004

Cher Around

Honestly, you leave her alone for two minutes...

The Moving Moment

Apparently, moving house is up there in the Most Traumatic Experiences, right next to giving birth and death. Presumably 'fat girls in ponchos' came in fourth, but I don't make all the rules, clearly. Well, a move for me may very well be on the cards for your fabulous Ruler, although there are no real details as yet, other than it looks like I may hilariously have the word 'cottage' in the address.

Goodness, there's an awful lot of nonsense in my current place.

This fact painfully came to light last night when I was estimating how many burly men I would be needing - plus the two to do the actual moving, I yielded. Piles and piles of things I never knew I had! Damn that eBay. For one, it turns out that I'd been using the lost Ark of the Covenant as a washing basket - which go some way to explain why one of the former housemates disappeared after one day offering to do my washing - though it does get whites whiter than white. Almost pure, you may say. You know up until that point, I thought I'd been allergic to the washing powder, what with the pain and the smoke every time I'd put on a jumper, but it just turned out that the cloth couldn't stand my unholy, sinning skin. Larks!

It was just after I'd found one of Cher's spare heads did I find the bottle. Hmm, I do hope that the sixties songstrell hasn't been listening in to any, uh, 'night-time shenanigans', though I believe she hasn't been fitted Bluetooth yet. Anyway, the bottle had rolled under the wardrobe and was labelled 'Rachel Stevens' Talent', on which the post-mark was dated two months back, in the gap between 'Some Girls' and 'More More More'. I don't think I need to labour that point, do I? You're a clever bunch.

I also found an awful lot of t-shirts from ex's. I have no idea why just t-shirts, or indeed why there was so many. Although a dust-covered book going by the name 'NO! - The Word, Its Meaning And Usage In Modern Conversation' next to it may have been a clue to the latter half of that question.

I still can't understand anything that book has to say, you know. Three pages in, I can remember why I threw it across the room in the first place.

Tuesday, October 05, 2004

The Best Laid Plans

I'm a big fan of style over substance. Huge fan.

Though my love of Girls Aloud actually comes from the love of the substance over the style. Particularly as that substance is pure, unrefined Croydon. Which is on the Periodic Table as 'Cr', with an Atomic weight of 'Kitten', and is positioned between Ratners ('Ra') and Cider ('Cn').

Anyhow. I saw Hellboy movie a hugely long time ago, and thoroughly enjoyed it, right up to the climax where it is suddenly held in an ancient castle full of booby-traps. What put me off is this: the film is actually quite good (substance over style) but then you get an ending which is a perfect example of style over substance. Why this castle is never really explained, other than it being The End Of The Movie and thus must have A Spectacular Place for The Climax to play out. The bad guys actually needed Hellboy alive for some nefarious purpose, so pitting him against several death-traps seems a little at odds. Now, had the whole film been an exercise of style over substance, this would have fitted perfectly (c.f. The Awful Chronicles of Riddick). But it wasn't - it was a good and thoughtful movie up until that point, and that's why it jarred.

Maybe I can explain it better. Picture a lost scene: we have the two baddies, Rasputin and, er, some Nazi girl who's name I forget. They are preparing The Big Finale to their plans...

RASPUTIN: Right then. They'll come down here, and we'll just swing a big, fuck-off hammer at them!


RASPUTIN: And that'll destroy the bridge! Yes! And that will trap two people! Four left!

NAZI GIRL: Why don't we just put guards on the door?

RASPUTIN: ...and lets not forget the room that splits people up having walls shoot up through the floor! I! Am! Brilliant!

NAZI GIRL: You're not listening, are you? You've spent twenty years of your life booby-trapping this castle when you can just grab Hellboy when he comes to the door.

RASPUTIN: ...and then they'll get to the room with the robot Nazi assassin! Oh, it's all too much!

NAZI GIRL: Just grab him, take him down here, and do whatever you're going to do. Simple.

RASPUTIN: And then the devil dogs!

NAZI GIRL: You've never been one for yer simple plans, have you?

RASPUTIN: No. I'm evil.

NAZI GIRL: Fuck it. I'm going to stand over the door with a big net. Lets see who gets him first, eh?

(exeunt NAZI GIRL)

RASPUTIN (calls off-stage): Is it a big, evil net? Powered by the Twelve Ancients and winched up by a three-story pulley?

NAZI GIRL (off stage): Fuck. Off.

This is why you never see Nazi Girl speak in the film, you know. She had all the sane ideas, and they just edited them out.

But, other than that one niggle, it's a good film. Go see.

Oh, and as a side point, the impossibly hard substance Diamond White is commonly mistaken for an element, but is actually an alloy, formed when you mix Croydon with Cider. There. Just so you know.

Monday, October 04, 2004

Ah, Peckus Interuptus

Said Kimberly Lesbian as I leaned in close to kiss her goodbye - "You come any closer and I'll put gum in your beard."

Friday, October 01, 2004

Great Mysteries of the World Solved: Part XIII

It was Jean Michel Jarre who brought up the subject: "So, how does ze Earth stay where it iz, and iz not flung into ze... howdusay... out into ze galaxy?"

I leant away from the Frenchman. I couldn't believe that, despite several best selling albums and many world tours, someone somewhere hadn't told him his breath smelt like a flatulent sewer rat has died in his throat. I have to say without guilt, it was at that point I decided at that point that the French were not a breed to be trusted. And it was not a baseless assumption, particularly after that gruesome stay Stockard Channing and I had in 'La Maison Merde' last year. All I shall say is we thought the name was ironic when we booked.

Dame Angela Lansbury moved her attention from her knitting, taking the thought in. Knitting was a new hobby she'd taken up to stop herself smoking, theorising that it would give her hands something to do. I actively encouraged it, especially after the last week when her 'idle hands' had lifted several bottles of champagne from Fortnum and Masons. That handbag of hers is surprisingly roomy.

"Ooh, that's a good one," she said, rolling a boiled sweet around her mouth. I had no idea Nicorette came in Imperial Mint flavour. "If you think about it, we're spinning around at, ooh, lots-per-hour. Why aren't we flung out to the edge of the solar system with the momentum?"

"67,000," said Cher, with some slight feedback in her voice. It just meant that someone nearby was using a mobile phone.

"Excuse me, dearie?" asked Dame Aggie, pulling herself a little higher with indignation.

"We're travelling at 67,000 miles per hour," said Cher simply.

"Oh. Oh, right then," said Dame Aggie, backing down. "I thought you were casting nespersions, or something." I raised my finger to correct her, but she'd already moved on, and dropped several stitches. "So even more point to ask the question."

I scratched at my head, half in thought, half due to the paper hat made my head itchy. It seemed odd that we were meeting again for a birthday, but then they did have a tendency to fall whenever I was at my poorest. Though it was very sweet of Cher to think that the home-made cake was an extra-special gesture, even if both of us knew that she wasn't going to touch a crumb. I had already decided that I'd make it up to her on her 'unofficial' birthday in a couple of months time; she had two - the second one we now only refer to as 'The Taussauds Incident' - that glorious night when we all almost got arrested and blacked out the whole of Central London.

Dame Aggie had started the party several glasses back with the ritualistic "So, how old will you be?" We'd all cried "37!" along with the slender songstress - the age she'd been for what seemed forever. Almost certainly all the years I'd known her. Her real age was apparently lost in the mists of time (or The Great Fire of London, she'd joked once. We all giggled that odd, strangled laugh of people who weren?t sure whether someone was making a comic aside or not).

"Do you know, when ze toast, she has cooled, ze crumbs stick to ze plate with ze same adhesive power as glue? It is true, yes?" I nodded, trying not to breathe. "Well, per'aps ze Earth, she iz stuck in place with some sort of super-crumb. Like ze superstring, yes?"

"It's a good theory," said Dame Aggie. "Supertoast. I like that."

"Yes," said Cher, with an odd tone. "Shame we can't ring up Stephen Hawkin to ask him."

Aggie and I winced slightly at that. We'd been drunk one night and phoned him up, using a Speak & Spell to talk. He'd thought it was his long, lost brother on the line - until Dame Aggie couldn't take it any more and burst out laughing, that is. Now he wouldn't talk to us.

"More cake, anyone?" I asked, trying to change the subject.

"Oh, I'm as full as a fat lady's shoe, dearie" proclaimed Dame Aggie. I eyed her suspiciously; she'd been hanging around with that foul-mouthed northerner Judi Dench again, you could just tell.

"I will 'ave un morceau - uh, a piece," said Jean Michel, sticking his 'Lilo and Stitch' paper plate right in my face. A scowl clouded my features momentarily. "Would you like a breath mint, too?" I enquired before I could stop myself. The party froze. Jean Michel shook his head, but from everyone else's reactions, he could tell something was wrong.

I flustered with the crisps while he picked at his cake for a second in discomfited silence before announcing he was off to turn the monkey bars into a laser harp for later. As he retreated, I gave an apologetic smile and a shrug to Cher, and whispered I was sorry. She shrugged back, saying she'd only bumped into him in Maplins and felt obliged to invite him along. Apparently they met when Cher was first experimenting with lasers - for sound, as well as for shooting them from her eyes at Sonny Bono when their TV show started to flop - and they'd had a begrudging respect for each other since. Well, that explained that great mystery.

"Are we really travelling at 67,000 miles per hour, dear?" asked Aggie, flicking her wrist so a tangle of wool came free of her handbag. I couldn't tell at all what she was knitting.

"Yes," said Cher. "Amazing, isn't it? You'd think we'd at least feel some effect, wouldn't you?"

"Well, it just puts more into my theory that drink is not only a good friend, but it helps you see the universe as it really is, dear."

I had no idea what she was on about, and told her such. She sighed a happy sigh and raised her glass.

"I tells you, dearie, another seven of these, you close your eyes and you're really going to be able to feel every single one of those miles spinning around." She drained it. "Well, six. Judi Dench and I tried it once, and - well, it took her another five on top of that, but then she's carrying so much extra weight, ain't she?"

"I think it's something to do with gravity," said Cher after a pause.

"No, she's definitely big boned," said Aggie. "Honestly. I saw her give a cow a fireman's lift once."

"Probably straight to a barbecue," I chipped in with cheer, hiding my dark thoughts.

"I mean, gravity is why the Earth doesn't fly off. The Sun is generating such a gravitational field, it's holding everything in place. The Sun holds Mercury, and that helps hold Venus. All three keep us in orbit, and so on."

"Blimey," said Aggie. I echoed the sentiment. We really couldn't believe that everything was so well balanced. I sat back to marvel at this, about the infinite complexity and wonder the universe slowly reveals to us. All running like clockwork, and has been for millions and millions of years.

"You know," said Aggie with a sigh, "I hope my niece is born a spastic - I've really fucked up the arms on this."

"Aggie!" I hissed.

There was a blast of a c-sharp, a child's cry and the smell of pork crackling on the breeze. Followed by some swearing in French.

And sometimes, I mused, the universe just enjoys showing how unbalanced it is.

Ah. Happy days.

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

The Terrible Price of Fame

Larks! Over breakfast this very morning, I saw that Dannii Minogue has released another single. Oh, we really must get that lock seen to... Anyway. The video sees our Second Favourite Aussie Popstrell(tm) in a whole host of bizarre situations! Here are the events as they happen. You can gladly gasp along, as we did!

* She comes in with a gorgeous boy-thing! And kisses him goodnight!
* She strips off her unflattering blue Can-Can dress, and starts cavorting around her oddly small flat!
* She runs herself a bath!
* She and her four flatmates (where do they all sleep?) dance around the apartment in weirdly choreographed dance routines!
* (Actually, we approve of the last point, as it's how we spent most of our Friday nights)
* She cavorts around in her pants with her imaginary hunk! (Note that she never kisses on the lips. A point to be raised later...)
* She charges herself on cocktails!
* Her flatmates install her in her unflattering blue Can-Can dress!
* She's off into the night with the gorgeous boy-thing!

Now. As you can see, this poses a whole world of problems.

Firstly, does the narrative suggest that Dame Dannii is a prostitute, a lowly whore completely at the whim of her horrid flatmates? Note that she comes in, dressed in a frock that is so covered in spangle that it has started rucking up at the front, and refuses to kiss the gentleman caller on the mouth? Then she's whisked around the flat by her minxish pimps, given a healthy rohyphol cocktail, and forced out into the night with yet another gentleman caller before she's even been able to take advantage of a lovely Radox bath? Meaning that this punter is going to be 'stirring the porridge' for the rest of the night?

Or. Has Dannii done something to anger The Time Lords of TV's Doctor Who, meaning that they have put her in a time-loop? Is she forever destined to travel the same 3 minutes 30 of mediocre pop history again and again and again for some hideous crime that transgresses the Three Laws of Time laid down by TV's Rassilon? The most logical one that comes to mind is that she's knicked a TARDIS and turned it into a bland apartment - as it's the only explanation how she and her trio of friends could possibly fit in it, you know.

Lets face it, number one is more likely than number two. Not because the Time Lords don't exist, but because it's a very good explanation how she's got a new record contract. So we must break her free of this drudgery! I myself shall be trawling phone boxes of Ol' London Town for her card and break into her tiny flat armed with mace to subdue her pimpy housemates! Who's with me?! Together we can rescue a b-list celeb! Raaaa!