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

Wednesday, January 28, 2004

Great Mysteries of the World Solved: Part VII

It was Cher who sat back in her specially-designed lounger - or Cher-Chair™ - and first wondered why on Earth it was called ‘Head and Shoulders’. We all looked at her blankly; for one, she hasn’t had a hair on her head since before the War, so her interest had to be purely academic. She helped herself to another biscuit; “It’s not like you wash your shoulders with it, is it?”

We all nodded in slow realisation, mulling it over until Angela Lansbury put forward that some of the truckers she’d had possessed the hairiest shoulders in Christendom. “Perhaps you get dandruff there,” she supposed. We tried to add it to the argument, but kept getting sidetracked by the thought of Dame Aggie with burly roadies, resulting in a fifteen minute diversion about the lay-by sex she’d engaged in during the filming of Bedknobs and Broomsticks. “I can’t really... ‘get off’ unless someone has Castrol GTX under their fingernails,” she confided.

Nobody really touched her seedcake from then on.

I discounted this theory as shoulder hair is quite thin in all cases, meaning that there’s no way to trap errant skin cells. Thus no dandruff. We pondered some more, happy to enjoy the sunshine and the impromptu skiffle session performed by former Tomorrow’s World darlings Judith Hann and Maggie Philbin. They were surprisingly good.

Cher leant forward with a pneumatic hiss. “Perhaps the idea is that it stops dandruff landing on your shoulders,” she said. “BUT YOU’RE STILL NOT WASHING YOUR SHOULDERS WITH IT!” shouted Brian Blessed from across the pond. It was the best place for him, for the man has a voice of twenty decibels. Last time we were picnicking out there, he’d been poured a gin and shouted “Gordon’s alive!” and deafened poor Stephanie Beecham. So we just put him over there with a large ear trumpet so he can still take part. In truth, we were all far happier.

We finally put two and two together an hour later. “It simply has to be called Head and Shoulders,” said I, “Else you’ll be going into the chemist and asking for ‘Head’! And I do believe that’s illegal in 49 states of America alone!” There was a pause until everyone “aaah!”ed in comprehension. We had finally found our answer.

Dame Aggie looked up from her rummage around her handbag for a tissue “There are 50 states in America, dear,” said. “Hawaii, and all that.” She’d managed to get scotch egg all down her front – unfortunate, as she had to return the dress to Selfridges later that day. She was just going to say she was manhandled by a porter with a penchant for egg sandwiches and, if that didn’t work, threaten to have their royal appointment removed. Being a dame has its privileges. Being in the same wine-tasting club as the Queen has more.

“OHIO!” yelled Blessed, scaring the ducks.

“He’s right, you know,” said I. “It’s not illegal there.”

“What’s so different with Ohio?” asked Cher.

“There’s a three year waiting list to be a chemist,” I said.

Ah. Happy days.

Tuesday, January 27, 2004


I really cannot divine why Arthur C. Clarke is considered such a classic writer, I really can’t. I’m currently trawling through 3001 in what is turning out to be quite a pacy read as it is nothing but exclamations on how fabulous the future is. Clarke is treating the first hundred pages like his own personal World Fair, showing off his yet to come versions of televisions, travel and habitats. Which wouldn’t be too bad, but Clarke’s ideas stagnated around the time he proposed the space satellite, so we’ve had better ideas popping up in that wonderful ‘Innovations’ catalogue that comes through the door every month. Where, Arthur dear, is the home gym in your future? The Big Slipper for two feet? And the device for opening jars for the elderly? Hmm?

So 3001 is surprisingly sparse in ideas and motivation. To me he writes just like Terrance Dicks, an author of Doctor Who books known for putting ‘he said’ and ‘she said’ after lines in the camera script. Clarke writes exactly like this but mentions foreskins more. Still, the book is slimmer than Karen Carpenter on one of her ‘troubled days’, so I should be done with it in the next day or so. Wonderful.

You know. One of my first shags back at school was desperate for his foreskin back. He felt robbed and slightly embarrassed by it all. “You can get a fake one that you heat up and press on,” he said one day out of the blue. “From Boots,” he insisted.

I would have dropped to my knees laughing if I wasn’t already down there. Things seemed to take a turn for the worst from that point as the zip went up, the emotional shutters came down, and Richard never came over my house again to ‘revise’.

Well. I’m sorry. From Boots?!

Monday, January 26, 2004

"I'm In..."

Have just bought the soundtrack to Alias. Now I can run around my house in my blue wig properly.

My Special Friend

In all truth, the below joke comes from my charming little Australian friend called Rob. He is a wonderful creature that originally called one my house to look at the spare room, and in a manner only befitting those pornographical pictorials we all know and love, we had ended up in bed together before we could say ‘ Hello, I’ve come to see your spare room’. Thus began one of the longest 'relationships' I had ever undertaken, which was unfortunate as I was already seeing someone at the time. Who happened to be called Rob. So I didn't have to change the tattoo at all. Which was nice.
I am sure you are all aware of my weakness for Americans - 'one yank and my trousers are off’ ho ho - well. With Australians it is even worse, and Rob is a proper Aussie. Such a sweet and interesting and lovely guy. I am utterly smitten with him and am terribly protective too.

Rob announced that he was straight right after I started going out with the Wife. And while I normally mourn the passing of a gentleman caller over to Straightsville, I appreciate that he unknowingly has now taken himself off the board, as it where. Well, he is dangerously attractive and the only chink in my otherwise stolid Amour Armor that keeps the boys away while I’m seeing the Wife. This way, the urge to touch is somewhat diminished as he now likes ladies.

And I would like to claim that I am solely responsible for this life-style change: well, the evidence points to me becoming sexually unavailable, so he starts looking over his life and - unable to have me - he sighs and goes onto the other breed. I’d like to believe that, but I know it’s not true. Besides, I do know of at least one more incident where he slept with a boy post this: Gertie managed to get his feral paws into him on one occasion. And, frankly that would have any man with a strong constitution running for The Other Bus.

Or a HAZMAT shower.

God Of War And Water

So I misread it. I thought that a waiter had been found on Mars.

In Conversation With My Evil Best Friend

''I defy you," said Declan, "to describe the shape and purpose of a speculum without the words 'fanny ratchet.'"

Layer of Complaint, Vol IV

Slightly sweeping generalizations from the world of Glitter for Brains.

Japanese tourists. Why on Earth do they feel the need to catalogue every moment of their trip? I have seen them videoing menu cards. I have seen them photographing toilets. Why? Why the need for such excruciating detail? I have a theory that the Japanese were put on this world to catalogue every possible detail. Possibly in case the world should end. And possibly because they want to put in an insurance claim.

Women. Despite this world of equality, it seems that the fairer sex still finds paying for things to be completely new to them. Why else world they spend ten minutes in a checkout queue staring at a copy of Bella they have no intention of buying, only to reach the waiting cashier with a surprised look on their face. Then begins the rigmarole of going through the handbag for the purse. Then going though the purse for the credit card. Hey! Here's an idea - why not have your card ready when you reach this bored single mother operating the till? You may actually get through faster. And if this works, why not apply what you have learned in queues for cash machines? Your life will never be the same again!

Friday, January 23, 2004

Lost Marbles

For years, I thought the Elgin Marbles were tiny glass balls from ancient Greece. I’d even unknowingly gone past them in the British Museum on one of those occasions when my dear Wife had dragged me away from Sabrina The Teenage Witch to try and educate me. They are, as I’m sure you all know, they are some of the best preserved and detailed carvings from Ancient Greece. Which we happen to own.

The Greeks claim that we pinched them. We British claim that they were chopped down in 1801 by Lord Elgin (who happened to be British), and then sold to the British Museum, so we rightfully own them. And in no way can we be prosecuted for accepting stolen goods.

So, the Greeks have lost their Marbles and they’re not happy about it, and there’s a new round of talks beginning to get them returned to where they belong. They have gone as far as setting up a campaign group called ‘Marbles Reunited’, which presumably is a website detailing such things as ‘Left Column Bit With Zeus On - left Greece is 1801. Doing well for himself in London. Would like to contact anyone from the old hang-out’.

We, of course, have got the typical reaction: “Well, you can’t have them back,” we say, crossing our arms. “You’ll only put them outside or something. No, it’s best that we keep hold of them. We’re British. We know best.” Hiding the fact that they were doing fine for around 1800 years before we came along and nicked them.

In all truth, there’s not much in the British Museum that’s actually British. It’s just all the stuff that we’ve gone around the world and pinched! The place may as well have ‘Swag’ written on the side of it.

Still. It does a lovely quiche.

Thursday, January 22, 2004

Playing To Your Audience

You have to wonder why there are so many WeightWatchers adverts during Star trek Enterprise.

Breasts. As Far As The Eyeful Can See.

Forgive this dastardly pink blog being left by the wayside for such a time, but lots of things have happened. The most drastic thing being that my dear Wife has left the country and won’t be coming back for two months, leaving me slightly distraught and with a enormous pile of washing. He’s gone off to pursue his country and western career, and I’m left on this side of the globe to look after celebrities. This means that Marti Webb, recently returned to the west end (slightly grubby so the deposit was lost) is coming over tonight. Lucky me.

It appears that without my dear, dear boy, I’ve become more obsessed with breasts than normal. Perhaps it’s motherly instinct, heading back to something I equate emotionally as my boy. Subconsciously, I have been making arrangements to see all these wonderful love pillows with fabulous people attached. Why last night I was in the delicious company of Anne, a Catholic girl with the biggest norgs this side of Seven of Nine. Catholic, but not repressed in that way. No, she uses them as arsenal, weapons of mass distraction, if you please. In meetings, if she can't what she wants, the top gets that little bit lower until her budget gets higher.

I feel left out. I mean - I don’t want to play with lady fun-bags. I just want some. I world adore a pair of enormous knockers for a weekend so I could wear fabulous low-cut dresses and swagger into hotel receptions. I would ask for the ‘Keys…’ seductively while bending over the counter to give the concierge a fabulous eyeful.

And tomorrow - tomorrow! - I shall be in the company of the wonderful lesbisexual Kimberly! Her jugs are even rated by the stars; in her bathroom has a signed napkin from Eddie Izzard noting 'To Kim. A woman made entirely from breasts'. She, therefore, must be the zenith of breasts. The tip-top of tits.

Sigh. It’s beginning to worry me slightly. I am hoping that it is part of a hitherto unknown urge to get back to the womb, and it will pass shortly. Or maybe it is simply that the last couple of mornings I have awoken to find that I’ve moved across the royal bed so far to find my wife that I’d slipped between the two pillows, burying my head up to the ears.

You straight people: it’s very warm in there, isn’t it?

Friday, January 16, 2004

Divine Morning Glory

The difference between Christians and myself when we wake:

Them: Good morning, God!
Me: Good God. Morning.

Wednesday, January 14, 2004

Get Your Plumbing Sorted Again

I have the builders in at the moment, going some way to explain my foul mood and why my tits hurt like buggery*. You see, the fabulous wood-floored palace in which I reside belongs to a madwoman who, when I first moved in, was a successful city lawyer. The following week, she’d given it all up and taken to having anal sex on the lounge room sofa with her drug-dealing boyfriend while we were all at work**. This I can respect, but she then spent most of her time at home completing some of the building work herself, resulting in every pipe being blocked more times than she was on a weekday. So, as she’s left the country, out come the proper builders to make everything that’s pretty actually work. Two charming elderly Welshmen, conferring in low gutteral noises rather like drunken, red-nosed Boohbahs, that will occasionally turn to us and go “Right, boyo – that wall’s gotta come down!” I think it’s very funny. Probably because I’m not paying. And the sight of one’s upstairs bathroom on the front lawn is always good for a surreal titter.

One of these gentlemen just happens to be the madwoman’s father, a charming chap who seems unfazed by most things in this day and age. “I’ve heard about this internet thingie,” he says, when we point out a cable he shouldn’t be cutting lest the housemate Ians can’t get porn. “Apparently you can sell your kidney on there or somesuch,” he said, scratching his head before making himself a tea and going back to his world of u-bends that he actually understands.

Yet, last night, the oddest thing. “Now, Lee,” he said in his deep valleys voice, “You’re going to have to explain to me this whole gay thing sometime. I just don’t get it.”


Blink. Blink.

And there was I thinking I’d gotten away with it again. Although it does explain why, when the Wife and I emerged from a little ‘afternoon lie down’, he looked me straight in the eye and said “Oh, boys – you finished, then?” Well, I mean. What do you say to that? “Yes, and a fine afternoon of bumsex it was too, my friend! Maybe you could cajole the good lady wife into trying it up the bonus tube this very weekend. It is heartily recommended, I say what!” Instead, I just mumbled and made a cup of tea, the last refuge of the emotionally-repressed British.

Isn’t it marvellous when people surprise you, though? Here’s someone who’s lived his whole life in a little town in Wales, and he’s more liberated, inquisitive and at ease with the world than most people I know half his age. So, last night, when he said, “About the sleeping arrangements. I thought-“ I held up my hand. “When we said that we needed our plumbing seen to, we meant in the bathroom.”

He laughed like the drain he was trying to fix. I do believe he’s my New Favourite Thing.

* Not that I’d know. I’ve never ever travelled full steam up the chocolate whizzway. No sir. Hmm-mm.
** Perhaps I could ask her, he added innocently.

Tuesday, January 13, 2004

In Cars - Na-nuh-dah! Cars. Na-nuh-dah!

I find that when dealing with straight men, I can apparently be quite butch. Yes, this is as much a surprise to you as it is to me, and one can only assume that I’ve spent too long around lesbians. But while I’m chatting on to these football-supporting ogrons, I’m all ‘oi-oi’s and ‘wotcha mates’. I must be able to get in touch with my inner thug with surprising ease.

Whatever next? Shall I be stealing my housemate’s beanie hat and causing crime on the estate? Hotwiring cars and joyriding to Habitat? I must admit, I’d quite like a car after being driven around by a batty Australian woman for some of the weekend: the liberation was akin to the first day I went to school in boxer shorts. Classmate Richard Ward was in for quite a shock, let me tell you.

Anyway. Cars. I would delightfully get one if London wasn’t so anti-car, but I can imagine going a little overboard on the extras. The Wife and I:

We have to get a large stereo.”
“I’m not driving anywhere without a headscarf and Celine Dion pumping out.”
“Leopardskin seats?”
“We’ll steal them from Jackie Collins’ bedroom.”
“Go faster stripes.”
“In diamante, of course.”
“Of course. And ‘Jef and Lee’ along the windscreen.”
“A little tray to hold the gin and the vodka!”
“And window boxes along the side!”
“Wind-swept pansies?”
“Only if we have the roof down, dear...”

Monday, January 12, 2004

Sun Yourself

I was very much surprised to find Gertie - shivering and looking like a drowned rat - camping outside our front door as I left for work this morning. It appears I had accidentally let slip that Impossibly Beautiful Housemate Mark had once again split from his girlfriend, and our favourite feral friend ran all the way from his home in Euston to get first dibs on him.

The surprising split of Mark and Caroline gave an otherwise lovely weekend a bitter coda that could well have been missed out (c.f. The Matrix Revolutions). The Wife and I had spent the most delightful time drinking cocktails in the Oxo Tower, being driven around London at speed, and popping to St Pauls Cathedral to try and sneak our way into the choir line-up. I think that a) we both have beards and b) I can’t carry a note in a bucket gave the game away, and we had to hide in a larger-than-average priesthole until the bishop ran by.

Also, we finally got to the Tate Modern to see the - frankly unimpressive - giant sun they have there. The most delightful thing about the exhibit is that they have mirrored the whole of the ceiling, leaving loads of heathen tourists and wannabe evaluators lying on their backs on the concrete, staring up at themselves and waving. It finally proves that these nodding art critics to nothing more than budgerigars. I, personally, cannot wait for the V&A’s forthcoming ‘Cuttlefish’ exhibition.

Oh. And I shall be charging Gertie for the spoon-marks in our front door, too.

Dance Yourself Silly

Hands up who’s looking forward to the next Tim Burton film ‘Big Fish’? Well, if you are, I have some delightful gossip for you from one of my less glittering media contacts whom I lunching with on Friday. ‘Big Fish’ is actually going to be part of a trilogy, with the following films coming out Summer and Winter 2005 respectively.

Their names? Why ‘Little Fish’ and ‘Cardboard Box’.


Friday, January 09, 2004

Darn it

If only I'd let the tyre down a little more

Thursday, January 08, 2004

The Oddest Thing

I was about to dust off my Remington Electric and fire off a quick missive to Bella magazine as, in the past, it has proved a most helpful guiding light. I don’t jest; back in 1992 I had an epistle printed asking about the wisdom of partaking in role-playing games after the spate of idiotic deaths in the US. I asked where they safe, and they came back with a resolute ‘yes’, and off I went to start some serious rolling of my D-12 at some orcs. Unfortunately, Bella didn’t warn me of the way my hair would suddenly part when I got through the door, or how my deodorant would give up after ten minutes, so I soon stopped and took up knitting and pretending I lived inside a computer like any sensitive child of the era.

The reason why I was going to ask for guidance is something that has been lightly bothering me since before Christmas. There’s a gentleman in our company who, being kind, is not the most attractive of men. He ticks all the other boxes, though: he’s got a great personality, great threads and is in good shape. In essence, he’s a real Back Beauty. And while I often hang with all the girls during the “Ooooh! So who would you shag in the company? Giggle!” conversations, his name did pop up. I spluttered my tea and said “No!”

Interesting side note. I don’t normally drink tea at all, preferring to keep my silken skin pure with water. As days have gone by, I find that a cup of tea to be on your desk an essential comedy aide, particularly as you can splutter it at the most opportune of instants. After much practice, I can now get a 110-degree arc at a distance of three foot, which does qualify me for a Prince’s Award, apparently.

Anyway. Back to this gentleman. My reaction got back to him via one of the girls, to which he was genuinely put out - yet not for the obvious reason. I’d like to highlight that he is straight, has a girlfriend all last year, yet his retort was “But! But I’m very camp!” He’s not, but bless him for thinking it, and I resolved to bolster his ego at the next opportunity - which came surprisingly quickly. There was an invite to a fabulous media party the following day, and he sent around the invites.

“Are you going?” I typed in reply. He sent an affirmative. I rejoined with “Aww! Shame I can’t make it, then. I could have pushed you into a corner and given you a quick snog!”

What reply did I get from this ebullient chappie? Absolutely nothing. And that was the oddest thing - did he not take it as a joke? I believed I’d completely crossed a line, and became resolute to just keep my big mouth shut in future. Oh, you fool! You’ve alienated another one of your colleagues, leaving only one German guy in Contracts and the coffee machine! Sigh.

Now. When it comes to people’s body language, I am all over the place. It takes people to hit me on the head and say ‘Look! They fancy you!’ before I realise. There is a pattern with short, fat women behind tills finding me nice; the latest being in a supermarket I frequent, and she’s always that little too chatty and interested in what I’m buying. Which can be a smidgen embarrassing when the Wife’s coming over for the night, but if she hasn’t guessed I’m a complete mary from what I purchase, more fool her. And when it comes to reading the signals myself, if I’m not looking, it always passes straight over my well-coiffured head. So imagine my surprise when I started getting these signals off this certain gentleman a few desks down from mine. Catching him looking at me in company meetings. Finding him lightly leaning against me as I talked to a colleague. It really is most perplexing.

I may just be reading something into nothing but, dear readers, what should I do?

In Semi-Reference to Ian Huntley

Sigh. Why are the bad ones always so pretty?

Wednesday, January 07, 2004

Magic and Sparkle

By nature, I’m slightly superstitious and prone to believing old wives tales. There’s one down the road - ancient she is - and I always get suckered in to her tall stories about how she used to be Scottish and once sung with Prince, or other such claptrap. But it was this toothless old wife that happened to point out to me this morning that I forgot to take down my Christmas decorations. Thus, according to legend, this means that something unutterably terrible is going to happen, like my house burning to the ground, or a new series of Rosemary and Thyme.

Why I believe her, I don’t know. When it comes to superstitions, I deem it’s always best to err on the side of caution, and write off not walking under a ladder as a matter of safety. Who knows what sort of thing is going to happen to you whenever you walk under a burly workman?

Well, in the past I’ve had a fair idea. And is very lucky to ‘touch wood’ in these circumstances, is it not?

Friends think I’m terribly naive for reacting every time a black cat crosses my path, or I accidentally slam a gentleman caller against my mirrored headboard a little too hard. I suppose I am, but my yardstick for gullibility is a former housemate whom we managed to persuade that a kebab was a small, boneless animal about the size of a child’s sleeping bag that undulates across the Arabian wilderness. He drank in the tale that they were speared on swords and roasted, thus explaining their unique cooking method. We were only rumbled when he discovered the widespread availability of chicken kebabs, but almost wavered when we said it was down to genetic modification. So, in comparison, my superstitious leanings make me positively Scully.

Anyway. My mother was a great source of superstitions, peddling them like sweets, and could explain anything with a toss of salt over the shoulder and a knowing wink. Whilst watching a soap opera, and boggling at the revelation that a character had gone away and come back with a changed face, her puzzled six-year-old tugged on her skirt hem. Said she shrewdly: “It’s because the wind changed.” Ahh. That’s alright, then.

Another gem was that you shouldn’t play with your bellybutton. Terrible Things Would Happen. Tony Bennett apparently fingered a little too deeply whilst on tour, and before he knew it, his posterior had disengaged and was on the floor of the tour bus. Unfortunately, a sharp corner shot the derriere out the open door, and it was never to be seen again. Hence his song ‘I Left My Arse In San Francisco’. They had to clean it up for the record release, of course.

So, this evening, I shall be taking down the decorations a day later, with an odd fear in my eyes. I feel I should resolve not to let this irrational nonsense rule my life and actually take a flight on the 13th, and open umbrellas in the house to avoid getting wet. And stop touching the sink three times before I open the fridge in case I’m sucked into an alternative dimension.

I say ‘should’, as you can imagine my surprise when I just poked my finger into my bellybutton too far and, with a deceptively loud ‘clunk!’, my bum fell off.

Monday, January 05, 2004


Honestly. I leave you lot alone for five minutes and the world goes mad.

Here’s one report for a start: a gentleman goes in for an operation that that requires removal of a piece of vein from his leg for a heart bypass. In doing this life-saving operation, the surgeons happen to slice though a tattoo on his calf reading ‘I love women’. Hilariously, it now says ‘I love men’.

I’d be delighted in this Mirror-reader’s fate if the cretin wasn’t going to sue. Well, I mean. One wonders why he had such a council tattoo on his ankle in the first place.

Perhaps it was a reminder. When he was there clutching his ankles, about to have his man-petal poked by a burly, hairy-backed builder, he’d see this little note to himself and think “No! Stop! It’s lady-lovin’ I require after all!”

A note to all hairy builders - if you know this man, do be a dear and don’t take no for an answer.