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

Friday, April 30, 2004

Ever Decreasing Circles

I’ve been thinking about Hell a lot of late. Mostly because I haven’t seen my Evil Best Friend Declan in a while. Oh, and because the marvellous Peckham Palace in which I abode (abide?) has further continued its journey into fabulous disrepair by the boiler being flooded.

Exactly how a device that is stapled to the wall in a cupboard on the first floor becomes flooded is another mystery of a house where we keep seeing patches appearing on the wall that look like Cher, but needless to say, with no warmth, the house is now as cold as the Ninth Circle of Hell. Especially when you wake; I’ve been late three times this week simply because I’ve thrown back the duvet to experience an inrush of cold air that can only be exclaimed as “Fuck me!” Oh, and the two lovebirds I’ve trained to whistle Grieg’s Morning Chorus at 7am every morning froze on Tuesday.

Anyway. Hell. I finally got around to checking my contract the other day – you know, the one that proclaims me Ruler of the Known Universe – and in that, it proclaims that I have dominance over some of the Circles of Hell, and have the power to cast some of the more annoying showbiz names into it. Bliss. So here’s my list:

Circle I Limbo

Mary-Kay and Ashley, children of the corn
Circle II Whirling in a Dark & Stormy Wind

The Wachowski Brothers, for not leaving it be
Circle III Mud, Rain, Cold, Hail & Snow

Mick Hucknall
Circle IV Rolling Weights

Pat Sharp
Circle V Stuck in Mud, Mangled

River Styx

Producers of Enterprise, for making pure eye-rot
Circle VI Buried for Eternity

River Phlegyas

50 Cents, the Rumbling Ape
Circle VII Burning Sands

Will Young, the Twittering Ape
Circle IIX Immersed in Excrement

Circle IX Frozen in Ice

Design your own hell

Apparently they can get out for personal appearances, etc, but only at a terrible price: they have to nosh off - to completion - Anne Haddy, Matron of Hell.

So, next time you see Will Young on Top of The Pops, you’ll know that’s not a beard he’s growing.

Thursday, April 29, 2004

Two Things for You

Here's a poorly-written review I did here, and Gertie's review of me, here.

How very odd.

From BBC News

Robotic bollards that can quickly move across a carriageway to close off lanes have been developed by US engineers.

Each 130cm-high robot takes the form of a bright red barrel which sits atop a three-wheeled motorised base.

A University of Skaro team has told New Scientist magazine the robots could improve roadside safety. These remarkable robots come from the incredible mind of top scientist Dave Ross. Called the Mark One Travel Machines, he claims they are able to quickly move across a carriageway to close off lanes.

“They are fully capable of blocking the course of humanity,” confirms Mr Ross.

Plans are already on the drawing board for the Mark Two and Three, possibly with the latter being armed for extra safety. When questioned on the danger aspect of this, Mr Ross stated that, “Yes… yessss… I would do it! Such power would set me up amongst the gods!”

As to whether the bollards were carrying the scarred relics of the mutated Kaled race, Mr Ross refused to comment.

Wednesday, April 28, 2004

Fascinating Facts! James Bond

Things We Found Out Using The Web In Under An Hour

Easy fact first - James Bond got his name while author Ian Fleming was looking around his study for inspiration. His eyes settled on his copy of The Birds of the West Indies, written by one James Bond and the super spy was born. In return for naming a spy, James Bond named a couple of rare Jamaican birds after Fleming. One presumes 'Rusty Lee Fleming' and 'Halle Berry Fleming'.

You can’t die from skin suffocation if you’re covered in gold paint. What actually happens is there’s no release for body heat so your enzymes start to denature - a very horrid death. One wonders about the family funeral - did they ask for an open coffin? Or was she just driven to the Oscars and left standing against a wall?

No matter how many women handle his weapon, no man knows Bond’s tools like Q. Major Boothroyd is Q’s real name, so called after the army major who advised Ian Fleming on what weapons to use in the books. The name Q comes from Quartermaster, the name given to an expert on army weapons - just like Gertie ‘Bushwank’ Goss, one would assume.

Q has been responsible for some pretty silly flights of fancy within the Bond films, including an electric shaver that doubled as an electronic bug detector, infra-red camera with built-in Geiger counter, and an invisible car. But the biggest suspension of belief came when they cast Denise ‘Head and Shoulders’ Richardson as a Nuclear physicist. Nothing says ‘believable scientist’ like those cut off shorts and a boob top, honey!

I bet she also said ‘nuculear’

Are you shaken or stirred? Shaken is the correct way to make a martini as shaking makes the drink colder in less time. It also puts more air into the mixture making the flavour stronger. In the twenty films, Bond orders a total of 18 martinis - five of them himself, and two of those he never receives. And Sean Connery only says the line ‘dry martini - shaken, not stirred’ once.

Time for some gay maths! James Bond has made love 79 times in twenty films, meaning an average of 3.95 times a film. British men can last an average 15 minutes before orgasm, leading to an extension of just under an hour’s running time to any Bond film if the sex scenes were shown in full. Only 16 ‘Oh! James!’ exclamations have been heard on screen, meaning that 63 of those 79 times he wasn’t really trying, bless.

Tuesday, April 27, 2004


Confused by 24’s poor plotting and inconsistent characters? So was I until I found this little delight! Click on it to see what inconceivable thing Kim’s been up to this week!

Monday, April 26, 2004

Elephants of the Skies

I apologise for not being around on Friday; I’m sure you got by simply by flinging glitter into your own eyes for a change. Myself and the fabulous Wife were off to Scotland to visit some of my oldest friends. Very old, in fact.

Being fairly flush at the moment due to being named in Nicki French’s last will and testament (oh, the irony) we settled on flying up to Edinburgh via the rotten empire of British Airways, now sullied by low costs and competition. Despite this drop in quality, the staff do remain as minty as ever – possibly moreso as they have to deal with the great unwashed who are now allowed up their sky-bridge to thieve their complimentary nuts. The general atmosphere one gets when boarding is that a BA flight attendant is only really happy when there are no passengers to attend to at all.

Have you noticed the correlation between the way BA stewardesses imperiously drag their luggage and the way princesses move when wearing a dress with a train? It can’t be a coincidence. It must be in the training manual, along with the hours that go into the expression they have when doing the safety demonstration. ‘You think I give a fuck about your safety if the plane goes down?’ they’re thinking. ‘The first thing out of that door will be my luggage, you know. You can all burn before the Louis Vuitton. I bet you couldn’t even spell it, you mindless peasants…’

I was watching three of them as I lackadaisically checked in, stepping along the concourse like royalty, before I was brought back to reality by the harridan on the desk currently holding my passport as if it were a rather fragrant sock. She seemed to take umbrage that it wasn’t a gold and blue one from the good old days of the Empire.

“Tickets,” she hissed from behind her pile of sacrifices, hidden as a formica check-in desk. The three stewardesses behind me stopped dragging their luggage and started cackling around their cauldrons in Hogwarts Terminal One like the doom-laden sisters of Shakespeare.

Even though they will suck your soul as soon as look at you, the stewardesses do tend have a glamour about them. Well, used to, may one add: the woman serving us our moist towelettes was definitely too plain for a plane. One was reminded of Hi-De-Hi’s Peggy finally getting her wish to graduate from cleaner to Yellow Coat. It was the Wife who pointed out that this one must be the same: there was a distinct smell of Toilet Duck in the air whenever she dragged her dowdy hairstyle past to the galley. Was that a yellow marigold poking out of her popsock?

We finally confirmed the fact by placing two identical piles of white powder on our fold-down trays. While the one on the left had the other stewardesses were chugging down and dancing, it was the one on the right that was favoured by our unattractive hostess.

Indeed, it was not the Devil’s Own Dancing Powder, but handy surface cleaner Vim.

A Fabulous Letter

Dear ABC, the makers of Alias,

Please could you make Sydney ‘black up’ for a mission, possibly going undercover as Tom and Jerry’s housemaid? Lets face it, it’s less racist than some of the things you made Dixon do in Season Two…

With love,
The Gays. xx

Thursday, April 22, 2004

Musically Bent

What a tiresome day at work! So, some silly Doctor Who humour for the few of you who care – here’s part of the musical I should be writing. Ladies and gentlemen, Miss Zygon!

(curtain up)

Scottish Men: The heat is on for the Zygons.
They’re stranded on our land.
One of these gits could be a Zygon.
God, the tension is high, what have they planned?
The heat is on for the Zygons.
Is there an invasion on?
Don’t ask, I ain’t gonna tell.

Zygon Sergeant: What are we doing here, Broton?

Broton: Sergeant! We gotta take the Earth!
We should infiltrate and invade
as the Duke of Forgill.

Sergeant: I tell you, buddy, I’ve had it.
Our plans will come to nil!

Broton: The heat is on for the Zygons,
but till they tell me I’m gone,
I’m gonna turn you into a nurse!

I’ll write some more when I can be fagged.

Wednesday, April 21, 2004

...Goes The Christmas Weasel

Much of the pop community have been braying on about our new saviours, ‘Pop!’ – a manufactured pop quartet ‘from the makers of Steps!’ - much in the same way that SC Johnson makes Glade as well as Toilet Duck Rimblocks. Well, with naught from the Girls Aloud camp for a while, my wandering eye finally came across the band as I was glazed with hangover first thing this morning, and I have to say that I wasn’t that struck. But then, when you think that I loathed Steps’ ‘5, 6, 7, 8’ with a fiery passion that is normally reserved for Daniel Bedingfield, and now boast a fine collection of danceable remixes, I can oft be accused of being fickle.

Still. Silly nineties techno gayness? Surely not. I thought we got over that when I had Nicki French assassinated at Brighton Pride… I mean, er, oh nothing. So, in the quandary that I am, I shall do what my psychic says, and make a list of all the things of good and bad points!

Good points of Pop!:
• The ladies wear kitten heels. Even during impossibly energetic dance routines!
• The video has benday dots in it – just like Glitter for Brain’s favourite artist Lichtenstein!
• We’d all like a go on the dark-haired boy!
• And even the blonde one is pretty fit! And you could never say that about Steps!

Bad Points of Pop!:
• The song is bobbins. Bar the key change at the end, natch.
• The boys and the other lady all mime along with the song, even though there’s only one laydee singing. Although this could mean that they all could sing in the same voice – a pretty amazing feat – or even more fantastically, they could be telepathic and sending pure waves of pop to their receiver, Jade. Which would be even cooler!

Well, using our fingers, we make that four points in favour, two against (despite the top-heavy fraction of the song being shite). So therefore I officially like ‘Pop!’.

And God have mercy on my soul.

Fascinating Facts! The Underground

Things We Found Out Using The Web In Under An Hour

Brace yourselves, this is going to be a long one! But not as long as the underground itself, he said in a breezily showbiz way, as the total track length is around 244 miles. If you laid it as a single track, it goes from London to Manchester with still around 44 miles to turn into a rollercoaster at the Arndale centre should you wish.

The Underground was opened in 1863 with a single track between Paddington and Farringdon, and was a world first. The term “Underground” didn’t appear until 1908. Until then I like to speculate it was called Edison’s All-Electric Population Shunter.

Two tube personalities you may have heard of on your tubey travels: one is Inspector Samms, who - bless him - doesn’t actually exist. The announcement “Will Inspector Samms please report to the operations room” means a single fire alarm has been tripped on the station, and should be checked out before station evacuation. The other personality is one of the female automated voice announcers, who is named Sonia - because her voice “gets on yer nerves”.

A skeleton was once reported as a lost item on the London underground.

The shortest distance to travel on the tube is between Covent Garden and Leicester Square, a mere 26 meters away. With all the stairs and lifts at either end, it’s actually quicker to walk, you lazy bastard.

The peak hour for tube suicides is 11am.

Escalators! The first ones were installed in 1911 at Earl’s Court. The public were initially sceptical of the installation and didn’t want to travel on the new-fangled contraption, so London Underground employed the one-legged clerk of works “Bumper” Harris to ride up and down it to show how easy they were to use. Nevertheless some people remained skeptical, thinking they knew how he had lost his other leg. On the other hand, the newspapers reported that some passengers were breaking their journey at Earl’s Court just to ride the escalator.

As you know I love a happy ending, I’m pleased to report that Harris was subsequently to make considerable wealth and retire to Gloucester to make cider and violins.

Waterloo has the most escalators - 25 in all, and the longest one on the entire system is at Angel. At a staggering 27.43m long, it’s possible for Kylie to have at least three comebacks before you get to the top.

It’s been discovered that pigeons regularly travel from West Ham in East London to central London on the tube in order to get more food - and I’ve seen it to corroborate this. It’s true to say that the Tube isn’t the most hygienic of places, and it’s possible to find traces of urine and semen on the seats - moreso if Neil’s been to one of his Zone 2 orgies. Upon one train that was examined, a previously unheard-of fungus was discovered under the seat. It is estimated that it is generally healthier to smoke five cigarettes a day than to travel for one hour a day on the London Underground.

There is an underground system which runs along side the London Underground which carries small trains for Royal Mail post. Most people in London have no idea it exists, but now you do.

The Jubilee line is the only one that interconnects with every other line on the tube network.

In 1924, there was a delightful accident when the first and only baby to be born on the underground came into this world on a Bakerloo train at Elephant and Castle. She was named Thelma Ursula Beatrice Eleanor (check out the initials). That train, with its splattermarks, is probably still in service.

Tube drivers are a rum bunch, and there’s a lot of inter-line rivalry. In the canteen, different line drivers won’t sit with the other ones. But being down a hole for your entire day can drive you a little potty: this is what one driver on the Waterloo and City line was heard to have been saying - ‘Well good morning everyone and welcome to your Waterloo and City Line service on this lovely, yummy, lemon-scummy day. This is your Waterloo....’ then realising that he had already said Waterloo and City Line service, ‘train...service...thingy’. Then they approached Bank, he started with ‘Well ladies and gentlemen. I can see a light in front of me which I think is probably Bank station, so that’s good isn’t it? But I personally was hoping for Calais. Perhaps next time, eh?”. Bless him.

Monday, April 19, 2004

A Fabulous Letter

Dear Maroon 5,

I don’t care one jot for your songs, but if there’s ever a video which requires you all to be topless and writhing, we’ll gladly be on hand. Any of your hands. We’re not fussy.

The Gays xx

Bush Bonanza

Poor old Kevin Spacey. Just the other day he had his phone stolen by a trick – I’m sorry, I’ll read that again – a tricky gentleman while walking his dog. Yes, children, at 4am in the morning. One wonders how much of a dog the 19-year-old black man was who actually went off with his phone, or whether he did get a bone for the price too.

Dear Kevin may have fallen foul of the risks we’ve all run while hanging around the bushes for a quick furtle. Honestly, you really can’t protect your wallet or your mobile when your trousers are at half mast with a stranger’s hand in them. Er, I would imagine.

Indeed, that happened to an associate’s boyfriend. Well, I say boyfriend… he was sixteen years old, and my associate was kindly referred to as Coffin Dodger by myself and Declan. He was nudging the back end of forty (as well as the back end of sixteen, one would assume) and could be often be seen in the drinking houses of the province forking out for ‘Bacardi Breezers - and don’t forget the straw’ for the little tyke.

Anyway, one night this child didn’t come back, causing Coffin Dodger to get a little frantic. He finally rolled in at 4am, looking a little sheepish and glowing. It transpired that he’d ‘fallen asleep’ in the local park - a well known cruising area for regional gentlemen who were suddenly flush with their pension, lost his baseball cap and his phone somewhere while he ‘slept’. He was terribly hangdog in giving details, so we just left it at that.

We just assumed he was embarrassed that he’d fallen foul of the cum-gobbling, baseball-cap-stealing, phone fairy.

Friday, April 16, 2004

Fascinating Facts! Mariah Carey

Things We Found Out Using The Web In Under An Hour

Today, we’re looking at that perennial favourite songstress, the warbler with the heart, Mariah ‘I don’t do stairs’ Carey!

Mariah Carey is one of the biggest artists in USA with 115 million sold albums globally. She has had 13 number one hits more US Number 1 singles than any other artists during the Nineties and her singles have been longer on #1 than any other female artist in history, coming in at a grand old total of 58 weeks. To put it in perspective, Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’ was at number one for ten weeks. We’re talking almost six times that in a decade. Be afraid.

Mariah Carey had a number one single in every year of the 1990s. She remains the best-selling female recording artist of all time: in 1994, it was more probable that you owned her musical delight Music Box than it was you dying of cancer.

Here’s a delight of how stupidly wonderful she is: her rise to fame was due to Tommy Mottola, the president of Sony Music. He discovered her when she was 17, after she pressed a demo tape into his hands at a party. Not so stupid, you may think. Ah, but - he only got to listen to the tape when he was in the limo, and by the time he’d turned around, she’d left the party. Yes, she’d already left and *hadn’t bothered to leave any contact information with the tape.* Fortunately for us, Tommy spent a good couple of days tracking her down.

Speaking of stalkers, Mariah was in good company when 210-pound Gabriel Aranda Espinosa started leaving her gifts. He’d previously left items for Christina Applegate and Madonna, and had threatened to kill a sheriff on one of their behalves. Aww. One day she hopes to have a stalker of her own.

Charity: Dame Mariah runs the summer camp Camp Mariah, for city kids who has never been out in the nature. It is a peaceful haven offering hospitality, enrichment, inner growth, and integration, and has guest speakers from the music industry to come along and put kids on the right track musically. Aww. No record has been made of the décor, alas. There are many reports that she is a modern-day saint, and in one interview was credited as saying “Whenever I watch TV and see those poor starving kids all over the world, I can’t help but cry. I mean I’d love to be skinny like that, but not with all those flies and death and stuff.” As well as being anti-sense, Mariah is also said to be completely anti-gun.

At the grand old age of 24, she married Tommy Mottola, 19 years her senior. The couple built a hideous house in Bedford Hills, with 12 bedrooms, a recording studio, ballroom, helicopter pad, two swimming pools and, um, a firing range.

Mariah Carey composes all her material. All. Of. It.

Her movie magnum opus Glitter cost a staggering $22 million dollars, starred her, Max Beezley and a cat who mysteriously didn’t age. It took an awful $4 million at the box office. With the cash that was lost, you could have bought 1,355,421 copies of the soundtrack album and have enough left over for a Starbucks latté.

If you lay all those albums end to end, you could leave a trail 129,469 meters long, equivalent to a hundredth of the diameter of the Earth.

Mariah is 34 years old and already rumoured to have had a facelift.

In July 2001, after posting several rambling and plaintive messages on her website, Mariah apparently went and attempted suicide. She survived, fortunately for us, and the numerous cuts on her body were publicly announced as ‘an accident with plates’. In the same year, a woman died from cancer after her collection of dinner plates manufactured before World War I was found to be radioactive. Plates are the hidden killers amongst us.

Much has been made of her diva mentality, but you have to adore a woman who kept motorists waiting in a mile-long tailback in London when she parked her limo illegally so she could apply her make-up. Other diva-demands include requesting whilst on-set for her MTV appearance in London to have a litter of puppies and kittens with her. Additionally, she asked 20 assistants to completely redecorate a shop toilet because she wanted to use it during an in-store signing. She also apparently pulled out of one television interview when she found out she would be expected to walk down some stairs. “Ms Carey doesn’t do stairs.” Aww, bless - and that’s why we love her.

Thursday, April 15, 2004

And What Else Have We Learned Today?

If the thought of something makes me giggle for longer than 15 seconds, I am to assume that I am not allowed to do it.

Rainy Dinnertimes

Sorry I’m late, dear things. Long and funny story. I was gassed and ended up in The Village from the Prisoner, so I haven’t really prepared anything major for today. So instead, here’s a list of board games that I have made up and demand that we all have a go:

• Tango
• Pointyclick!
• Slide Jack Backwards
• Smuggle Those Drugs!
• Beauty School Dropout
• He’s a Steg!
• Rim
• Get Away from the Rim
• Paedophile - The Board Game!
• The Questor Tapes
• Escort Blues
• Aunt Fanny - Shoplifter! (this was based on a US board game ‘Aunt Fanny’s Snatch’ - it had to be retiled for UK distribution)
• Listen to the Voices
• Clench!
• My Mother’s Diary (A popular game where the objective is to stay one step ahead of your parent, while sneaking a look in her most treasured thoughts to find out whether you were wanted or not)
• Rohypnol!
• Constipation!
• My Favourite Ex! (Spend a spin around the board getting asked questions by the other players, playing your ‘concerned friends’, as you try and mull over which one of your ex’s you want to get back with in your lowest, drunken moment)
• Llama-Rama
• Trolley in the Canal!
• It’s Padded!
• Embarrassing Ikea Argument (Where you and your partner wander around the cheap yet potentially-stylish warehouse, talking in low, hissing voices until it escalates to a full-blown slanging match. Winner is the first out of the checkout with the car keys and without their partner)
• Escape from Ian and Myra – The Board Game!

Wednesday, April 14, 2004

Wise Words

"If you feel that you are not very handsome, remember it is a well-known fact that beauty comes from within. 'Handsome is as handsome does,' as my Gran points out, 'but a huge cock is a joy forever.'"

A Fabulous Letter

Dear 'Tru Calling',

Do be a dear and wake me up when you do something original. Like get cancelled. So Joss Whedon can go and make his ‘Faith’ series.

Lots of Love,
The Gays xx

Bye Buy

It was all rather embarrassing, and I really should have paid more attention, I suppose.

Like the time when I bumped into my former landlord in a local shopping centre. We never saw eye to eye really – he and his wife were fundamental Catholics, so they kept going in and spraying my sheets with holy water during the day. Still, being polite, I chatted to him and asked after her while actually being more interested in my dog currently outside which was about to start mating with a Labrador-shaped charity box. So it was with one ear that I heard him say, “Oh, Marion is fine. Just lost her mother, though.”

I wasn’t even looking at him when I absent-mindedly said “Have you looked down the back of the sofa?”

Oh lord.

But anyway, this morning’s embarrassment was caused by being all part of my health kick. Since being kicked out of my usual gym while they redecorate, I’ve passed two months without ne’er a press-up nor a curl. To compensate, it’s been apples and bananas, fruit and veg all the way, usually purchased at the Tesco Metro on my way into work. My favourite till is staffed by a larger black lady, A-line from the neck down. Looks like the checkout was built around her, not the other way around. We’re on smiling terms with each other.

First thing of a morning is never very good for me, either. And to be frank, the supermarket itself isn’t that super; their sandwiches aren’t delivered until after the morning rush, and for some reason they tend to frown when you’re buying your morning vodka and a pack of straws. Still, they are delightfully stocked in the fruit department, and even carry the ‘Cox’ apple brand, of which I’d completely forgotten about this morning. Which was really the crux of the matter.

So I placed my Granny Smith and two bananas on the checkout, and waited patiently at the other side to pay, humming a commercial to myself. What completely threw me was when said checkout operator started to speak as I wasn’t expecting us to be on talking terms for at least another six months. In retrospect, she was obviously talking about the apple, but my brain was busily elsewhere.

So, what I heard:

“Is this Cox?”

So, what I replied:

“No, dear. They’re bananas.”

Oh lord once again.

Thursday, April 08, 2004

The Oddest Confession

While reading Billy Bathgate’s site (New Favourite Thing – more on that later) I was reminded of a letter I myself found a few weeks back while clearing out a drawer. This was penned – well crayoned – when I was six years old, addressed to Jim’ll Fix It, and read as follows:

“Dear Jim,
Please could you fix it for me to see if Doctor Who [played by Peter Davison at the time] is really an alien? You can do this by making him take off his trousers because an alien will have two or more willies.

Signed, Lee (age 6)”

What a very forward-thinking young gentleman I was.

Get Down With The Ruler

You know those terribly awkward moments at parties when you’re introduced to people you really don’t like? It happened to me on Saturday when a mutual friend thrust my hand into that of the evil Eighties magician, Professor Rubik. I feigned a smile and idly wondered where the hors d'oeuvres were.

As Ruler Of The Known Universe, I once saw fit to create a company policy to invite over all the pretenders to the throne, the most ambitious and dangerous of you lot - mainly to keep an eye on them, but to also to show them a PowerPoint presentation as to what would happen if they try an usurp me again. That always goes down well, particularly after dinner.

My loathing of Rubik wasn’t to do with his hair being like a mad woman’s breakfast, but of the fact that he’d almost succeeded in the slyest possible way. He had sat in his castle for years, coming up with this time-consuming device, a cube that people compulsively had to solve. The whole populous almost fell foul until we planted a guy on Blue Peter to solve it in under ten seconds. After that, people just felt like a retard if they couldn’t do it in under a minute. The cubes were simply defeated by apathy.

Oh, and we made sure you could just take the stickers off too. That really fucked it up.

I asked Rubik what he was up to these days, staring over his shoulder in a manner which, in retrospect, was incredibly rude. But Will Young had just turned up – a further attempted ruler - and I had a slap with his name on it I was desperate to hand out. Rubik claimed he wasn’t doing anything bar gardening and listening to Radio 4, but I knew that was a lie. I’d seen deliveries of glue and coloured plastic being driven into his castle at night.

We’d finally managed to close down Rubik after he fragrantly bent the laws of physics with his last attempt at domination. He’d produced ‘Rubik’s Revenge’ – making no secret of his anger at defeat. But this time, it was a four-by-four cube, not the three-by-three standard. If you think about it, the three-by-three works because you can put a spindle through the central points and rotate around that. Rubik’s Revenge – there is no central point! How does it work?

Black magic, that’s how.

This was the final thing we got him on. You can’t give kids toys that disobey the fabric of the universe – it’s just not on. So we pulled him in, gave him a real dressing down and confiscated anything square or cuboid from his castle. He was really pissed he couldn’t make Oxo gravy, you know.

He was still holding on to my hand after his diatribe about the shipping forecast so I managed to extricate myself by feigning a heart attack, something I heartily recommend in awkward situations. One of my guards pointed him in the direction of our Nintendo GameCube, and he wandered off with an eager glaze over his eyes.

I dusted myself off, and looked around. Both the hors d'oeuvres and Will Young were coming into arm’s reach. I mused that the party may turn out to be fun after all…

"Wrong Way!"

See? Now they're all at it!

Wednesday, April 07, 2004

Dead on the Money

There’s an old adage that says that there’s a bullet with your name on it somewhere. Which means you really have absolutely no chance if you’re christened ‘.475 Widley Magnum’.

Anyway. What it really means is that your method of death may already be out there, be it bullet, bucket or ballet dancer bending you to death. Why I myself almost fell foul of the latter in a bizarre cubicle incident in one of London’s more unwholesome of public houses, but I oddly knew it wasn’t my time to go. No, I’m of the long-standing belief that I’m going to die in a road accident, with the driver of the car flaunting the law to such an extent that I won’t stand a chance.

Oddly, this was raised by yesterday’s post: this mortal fear of mine is that I’ll be crossing a one-way street, I’ll be looking the right way when some useless barrels along in the wrong direction, knocking me off my rather expensive boots. My dying croak would be “Wrong way!” – which almost happened with the ballet dancer too, incidentally – and there I would pass, gracelessly in the middle of the road.

Well, it almost happened this morning, my dear readers. Death does indeed stalk London, and it’s a battered black MG Metro, covered in dust and driven the wrong way down a one-way street by a mad woman in a crocheted blanket trying to do her make-up in the rear view mirror. I didn’t see whether it had my name on it, but I’m sure it would have been easily added under the witty ‘clean me!’ on the filthy driver’s door.

And this! This just mere hours after a child threw eggs at me while I was walking down the Pentonville Road last night. Thankfully, he threw like A Gay and completely missed, but I’m gradually thinking my number is almost up. Honestly though, if people don’t like my Doctor Who covers, they just have to tell me!

Well, if I do die, bury me next to Kate Mulgrew.

And no, I don’t care whether she’s dead or not at the time.

Tuesday, April 06, 2004

Motorcycle Loneliness

Did I ever tell you about the time I joined a motorcycle gang? It was around the time of Fab lollies and snorkel-parkas, when the world was sepia-tinted and my only worry was when Knight Rider was on. Well, I say motorbike: my friends and I were playing around with a moped that in all reality was a chopper with a hairdryer engine attached. I was trying my hardest to be butch and hang around with a gang of boys who did manly things, but my one contribution to running the bike was the suggestion of hanging tassels off the handlebars, which saw me drummed out of the group faster than you can say ‘I only really joined to watch you get covered in grease, Craig’. Ah, happy days.

I hope you all recall snorkel-parkas. Everyone had one of these coats when we were young: blue with a florescent orange lining, cross-stitched to diamonds. And – bliss – the fur-lined hood could be zipped up all the way, leaving a little circle of pelt through which you could just about stick in a Curly Whirly. Brilliant for when you were ignoring your mother.

Despite this, when they were zipped up, you couldn’t see bugger all. There was one delightful afternoon when we were watching the bike zip backwards and forwards down the Brownhills backstreet with Craig careering around. He’d borrowed his brother’s leather jacket, which was a) too big, and b) light brown, so a motorcycle bandit he did not make. Still, I was slightly smitten and enjoyed watching him trying to pull a wobbly wheelie whilst eating my chips.

Craig turned around for another pass as I noticed, from between two cars, a snorkel-parka emerge. As I said, it was zipped up so the occupant couldn’t see anything, leaving it swivelling around like a periscope. It moved to cross the road, and gave a cursory glance left, then right, then stepped out into oblivion. Well, Craig’s path.

The collision wasn’t spectacular, but the parka was thrown up in the air. Craig thundered into a Ford Allegro and sat there on the road, rather bewildered. I rushed forward to the felled occupant of the coat, lying a few feet off on their front. Before my eyes, the parka slowly raised itself off the tarmac in the manner of a geriatric getting out of a bath, before setting off across the road again like nothing had happened, despite dragging its left leg somewhat. I called after it, but it didn’t respond, and just carried on limping towards its goal.

And that’s the day snorkel-parkas were banned. Until Oasis brought them back five years ago, and have single-handedly been responsible for hundreds of road accidents in the Midlands alone.

The Little Things

I'm terribly sorry that this blog hasn't been updated in such a long time: the Wife has returned from his glorious travels, so I'm giddy with happiness and emptier than the Exxon Valdez.

In the meantime, we've taken over another company in my fabulous media job - which was a surprise to all concerned. We've all been taken aside to be nice to all the new members and are duty-bound to show them all what a united and strong company we now are. Personally, I don't care about the way we've all been moved, nor about my workload doubling. I concern myself more with my - my - Dalek mug has been missing in action for a fortnight.

I bet one of them fucker's knicked it.

Thursday, April 01, 2004

Lo! Look at that! Money EVERYWHERE!

While my first love will always be opium, I do state with an odd sense of pride that pornography is my sixth or seventh love. You know - the kind of love that owns a bedsit in Euston and thinks After Eight mints are classy.

Some people are without this love. Dear Gertie (speaking, oddly, of Euston bedsits and After Eights) doesn’t get the idea of porn at all; his one video called Tales From The Foxhole was last seen sitting somewhat dejectedly under a copy of Doctor Who’s Tomb of the Cybermen adventure. My collection, whereas, is large enough to rival the impounded acres of Mucky at the Vatican - so much so that I do have one of those delightful guards in the garish pyjamas posted by my bedroom door on all days but Fridays.

The collection itself is beginning to trouble me. For porn has properties similar to the universal constant of gravity; like gravity, get enough porn together and time starts to slow in comparison to areas outside the MSR (or Money Shot Radius). This explains why hours will pass by when you’ve just, er, popped on the web to take in some of the more arty of the left-handed websites, and before you know, you’ve been in a porn vortex for three days and the cat’s dead.

Further example. Has anyone ever been to Colt Books in Soho? It’s basically someone’s lounge with loads of videos in, warmed by an antiquated three-bar fire. Was it the case that the poor gentleman in charge simply bought one too many videos, and the sheer volume just turned his front room into a porn store, replete with that musty smell of ‘Is That What I Think Is On The Carpet?’ by Haze. Will this happen to me if I continue in this path?

Well, that’s for me to worry about. But thanks to my vast experience in this area, I can at least thrill you with a little guide to popping out to some of the more sticky of Soho shops!

When Buying Arty Flicks:

• Hardly ever go to Clone Zone, or the big gay supermarket known as Prowler. Like many of the video covers they show, they have you over a barrel and the price is slightly higher than it should be.
• Always hold your head high, and be proud when walking around. Although beware of catching anyone else’s eye for they are sinners and destined to go blind.
• ‘Load’ are generally a good brand – kudos to them for putting a DVD chapter in for each of the bumming checklist, enabling you to skip through the more delightful steps of knickers off, oral shenanigans, greasy dirty man love, and the money shot with deceptive ease.
• Always go for the three-for-two offer. You’re ‘A’ choice does have the potential to be a dull and contain horrid underwear not advertised on the back of pack.

Go on, treat yourself. Spend some money on a money shot! And always be nice to the greasy gentleman in the grubby vest behind the counter. It may be yours truly.