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

Wednesday, June 30, 2004

Love the Lalla

One person whom I haven't yet had the pleasure of striking up a conversation with is dear Lalla Ward.

Of course, there's a great deal of famous people I'd like to have the pleasure of (lie down Ben Browder, et al) but I've decided that Lalla Ward, former Doctor Who companion, would be ideal to have as a famous friend. She redefines 'icy'. One of my friends accidentally spoke to her on the telephone one day and came up with this golden description of her antics: "I've just spoken to Lalla Ward on the phone. She says 'hello' like most people say 'cunt'."

Hence Gertie and my splendid series of retorts, all of them you can say in public: 'Lalla Ward is holding on line one for you', 'There's a greetings card here. Oh, it's from Lalla', and 'Fax here for you - it's Lalla!'.

My decision to try and wheedle my way into one of her dinner parties came about from listening to the commentary track to Doctor Who and The Leisure Hive. She mercilessly digs at her former husband Tom Baker, and speaks of the great joy of getting to dump the rather heavy K9 in his lap.

On the opposite side, the splendid MissMish had met her former husband Tom Baker in a tale too bawdy for me to do justice. I do hope she posts it to her blog one day; let it be officially known that I am also deeply in love with Mish, a lady who brings a rare glamour to the hypercyberinterweb. One feels she's always typing with the most magnificently large hat on, and her computer's firewall lowers like a theatre's safety curtain whenever she logs on.

Anyway, final proof of Lalla's brilliance. Her character on screen is going on about tachyonics and sumsuch. The director, who's commentating with her, gushes "Oh Lalla, you really sound like you know what you're on about there!"

"Of course I bloody do," she says.

(fanboy splurge)

Monday, June 28, 2004

After The Show

I hope you were, like myself, queuing up at the doors of HMV to be the first to get their sticky mitts on the new Girls Aloud single at Unearthly O'Clock this morning. And if you were that ten-year-old girl in front of me, I'm terribly sorry about the back of your knees, but no-one comes between me and my Girls. Besides, some men find crutches terribly attractive, I hear.

So, what are we looking forward to now? Well, the Camp Countdown is now ticking merrily away until Rachel Stevens gives us her Richard X-penned magnum opus 'Some Girls'. A song so poppy that even the dear Wife took off his sensitive-singer-songwriter-filled headphones to tap his foot along to it this weekend. Bless.

(He managed to get away with it by letting it get to the end before muttering 'Alison Goldfrapp should sue'.)

Still in the meantime, here's a tip: get Girls Aloud CD 2. Not only do you get a passable remix (a first for The Aloud, and no mistake) but also a game! A blissful game where you can guide one of the Girls through the salon to wax and beautify men, and pick up items to help!

Unfortunately, when you click on 'pick up' and then 'man by pool', it oddly says you can't do that. But then, I was playing as the dead-eyed ginger Nicola...

Whisky Galore

This Saturday, I went to a party where the cocktail punch was basically getting whatever bottle anyone bought and emptying it into a bucket, giving it a stir and putting a little umbrella in it. And off when the night into giddy abandon - for what had started off as sangria had now turned into a bubbling bucket of hate so potent that the haze coming off it started to warp the wood behind it, and people about to light up were grabbed forcefully by the elbow and lead from the kitchen. Rather in the manner of a store detective.

Er, I would imagine.

Apparently this was all the rage in Oxford when Gertie was attending. We met up after I'd escaped into the night from the do, staggering around Kings Cross station at midnight like so many of the children you see there during the sunlight hours. Well, their excuse is due to, hysterically, there being a sign on one of the brick walls towards the back of the station with 'Platform 9 3/4' on it, and several deeply ingrained blood stains around three-foot up where willing children with crossed fingers had run at it in the hopes of reaching Hogwarts. Anyway, Gertie had fallen foul of a couple of these 'bath parties' while studying, where people (hopefully) cleaning out their bath, put in the plug, and whatever drink came through the door was tipped into the tub and swirled around a bit. Oh, and there was food dye too, just to add that extra sense of mystery.

People would ask whether you'd went to the blue party last night, or the red one - when it was frankly obvious from the colour of their teeth. Messy. Very messy.

At any rate, the two of us ended up at the Black Cap, one of North London's more spit-and-sawdust dens of iniquity. After an hour of dancing, I somehow accidentally managed to pull an Armenian, even by keeping my eyes to the floor at all times as I am want to do when I'm out without the Wife. He seemed nice and intensely proud of his accent but, on closer inspection, had the face of Gordon Ramsey. Gertie is wonderful to have around in these situations: not only does he provide a bizarre camaraderie that makes most people think we're a couple, but his nigh-on epileptic dancing fits meant I could position him between myself and foreign Gordon. And I know of no-one brave enough to attempt to push through his whirling movements when S Club 7 is on - Gertie doesn't so much 'throw shapes' as hurl them.

This morning, I enquired after the state of the bucket via the party's hostess. Apparently it had melted through at 3am. Which was a little off-putting - it had been galvanised steel.

Wednesday, June 23, 2004

I Love My Job

I've just had my appraisal.

One of my objectives during the next six months is to go shopping.


The W.I.

So. My Evil Best Friend Declan has finally discovered the joy of chatting to men on the hypercyberinterweb. Which, I feel, is a little like giving Sauron the keys to the Ratners jewellery counter.

For you non-Gentlemen Who Are Good With Colours, let me tell you of Gaydar. It's the number one site for ordering in a 12-inch meat filling in under 30 minutes - or your money back! - and is most commonly used when coming back from the local hostelry when pickled in Babycham, without any gentleman callers in tow. Most of us refer to it as the Women's Institute.

Oh, many moons ago, I used to be the blight of said site, and am severely enjoying Declan's maiden voyage into the WI's darker recesses. Such as the revelation that if you put a picture of yourself on there, more people will chat to you. Seasoned users are right to be suspicious of any gentleman who didn't post a photo on there; chances if there wasn't a shot up, it was for very good reason. Like they're not really 25 years old, unless you're counting in hexadecimal. Or 'body type: stocky' was literally taken to mean you are as wide and heavy as the wooden gallows that were once at Tyburn Tree in Marble Arch.

Yet, even with a picture, you can't be a hundred percent. One gentleman started chatting to me and claimed to be 30 years old. The images he posted afterwards were clearly taken on a box brownie.

And lets not forget that the ability to post mucky images of yourself - yes, romance is dead to many in this day and age. Everything goes, much to Declan's astonishment: "I've got chatting to this fellow in Venice who wants me to pop in and see him," he said, slightly perturbed.

"Oh, really?" I asked. "What's his name."

"He signs on as 'BottomForTourists."

"Ah. You can feel the love."

"The thing is, I clicked on the pictures. I didn't think the scenery in Venice looked like that!"

Tuesday, June 22, 2004

Lock Down

There's one thing on a par with chatty taxi drivers, and that's a chatty hairdresser. I've never really got the confiding aspect of a hairdresser's job, mainly because I know a cluster of them and they gaggle and bitch about their clients like a bunch of, well, hairdressers. And as went in to get my mane teased last night, there was already an elderly woman in stretched lycra several hours into her confessions: "Oh!" she gasped, throwing her hand to her mouth. "You know more about me than my gynaecologist!"


In truth, I miss my old hairdresser - a charming broad-shouldered girl of Romany stock who didn't speak a word of English. We'd communicate through the medium of her Girl's World - a dilapidated plastic head resting on the magazine table, pulling the fibrous tresses into a style that would befit me. And without another word, she'd be off with the shears, scissors and mousse - the only danger would be catching her numerous gypsy bangles in my gorgeous locks, or trying to curse me with a soul. Her hairdressing transcended words, and by the time it came to presenting the mirror behind my head, an immaculate job had been done.

And it was bliss to be in her hands; no chatting about where I was going on holiday, nor the last football result. Nor the state of the government. I don?t want to have to pay attention. I want to be able to just relax as my tresses are teased this way and that, to be washed, rinsed and styled. And I do have to pay attention, thanks to a social mishap a few years back where I was idly nodding and laughing at what the barber was going on about, until he stopped, utterly horrified. Turns out he's been talking about one of the murdered children in the news that week.


So, there I was with the new guy, who appeared to have verbal diarrhoea. I now know everything about him, should I ever wish to hunt him down and destroy him.

The problem is, he'd done a fabulous job.

Kill Kingsmill

Oh, children. You have no idea how dangerous it is to have this song from the Kill Bill soundtrack on your walkman whilst walking down the street.

Particularly if you've just bought a French stick.

Monday, June 21, 2004

Coming Over All Derren Brown

I had the oddest fortune to catch a little of Crocodile Dundee on Friday night. Of course the Wife gasped and snatched the remote out of my hand; being a fully-paid-up Aussie, he has to watch it by law or he gets deported. And his Yahoo Serious film collection is quite extensive. Well, he has Young Einstein, which I believe is all of them.

Anyway. Crocodile Dundee. We'd managed to join it at the moment when there's a bull in the road and Mick Dundee gets out of the 4x4, raises his hand and hypnotises a bull to letting them pass. Oh, who didn't try that on a rabid dog after seeing that? For a full month in 1986, kids were coming into school with bloody hands and fingers missing, which made remedial maths interesting as they could now only count up to nine. Mark Astbury did find a way to work in base-ten, but soon got expelled.

Being a more, um, 'sensitive' child, I was a little more reserved in my hypnotic meddlings. Thanks to mid-eighties Saturday morning kids show, Number 73, I do know how to hypnotise a rabbit. Legitimately. You place a rabbit on a blackboard and draw a line in chalk from the mid distance right up to its nose - the rabbit follows this with its eyes and instantly falls into a trance for no reason other than it is simple. One should really try this on Peter Andre.

Anyway, the problem is that this little parlour trick is that I can only remember the first part of it - i.e. the bit where I can hypnotise the rabbit, but not how to un-hypnotise the wee creature. Which, I must say, made for a very embarrassing closing to a children's party I attended three years ago.

Poor Snowy.

Still, his quality of life has improved considerably with the invention of carrot-flavoured saline drips.

Thursday, June 17, 2004

Dribbling Into My Box

Apparently - apparently - if there's any more rioting, England will be kicked out of this hideous football tournament.

Oh this, officer? Tickets to Portugal and a baseball bat? Oh, they're gifts. For my nan.

Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Do Not Enter 'The Forbidden Zone'

While I do like the new Jamelia song 'Boy's Eyes' currently doing the rounds, the video for said song is proving a little difficult to digest. Here, the dusky songstress is dressed in army garb and ogles some rather fit - Russian, I believe - military gentlemen in a rather unabashed manner one may argue is unbecoming for a lady.

While the video itself is fine, due to what I'd been watching upstairs from my personal, um, 'archive' not ten minutes before, this lead to an incident simply too hilarious to relate here.

A Definition of 'Cosmopolitan'

After three bottles of champagne, two pitchers of cocktails and a decent measure of vodka last night, this morning was agony to step out into blistering sunshine without my late pair of sunglasses.

The problem is, I have no idea in which hemisphere of the world I left them in...

Tuesday, June 15, 2004

After The Love Has Gone...

T'is a sad day. I have just taken the last Steps track off my iPod-like Palm Pilot (just like the real thing, but shows porn too!). But to be frank, their 5, 6, 7, 8 was starting to smell a little. And the Summer of Love ended three years ago with a pregnancy and a Spanish waiter fired.

Steps tracks are dangerous to Gentleman In The Entertainment Business: many an hour was spent in the bedroom tossing your arms around learning the specific dance moves. Liken it to the elaborate dance that bees perform in communication - this was exactly the same. To our community, how well you could perform A Deeper Shade of Blue can be a good indication of how well you can perform, er, elsewhere. I myself was once ousted from the podia upon which I was throwing some wicked shapes by two stick-thin disco moppets as soon as the first strains of One For Sorrow were heard across the dancefloor.

"Out of the way," they cried. "We're bar staff!"

"I wouldn't brag about it," I rejoined, but I fear my witty retort was lost within the 'oof!' I expelled from being manhandled from my vantage.

Of course they were marvellous, pulled the best boys in there, and were signed up for a fabulous six-week holiday right then. Damn their emaciated bodies.

For myself, learning such moves was a long and arduous process. Taping videos from CD:UK and quietly retiring after dinner to work on the middle eight - it was no picnic. Leaning near disco-moppets in such clubs to learn were not without hazards: as one misplaced movement can lead to - at a minimum - a smack in the head.

Steps themselves performed to a packed Pride one year, all attendees copying their gesticulations. Seventeen people were blinded.

So, they are now passed on to the great musical hall in the sky, leaving nothing but a suspiciously large legacy in some Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners' CD collections, and some race memories in dance moves. The latter being a problem in itself: one can get lost in one's own world when listening with headphones, so much so that the muscle memory takes over when Steps comes on and - before you know it - you're half way through the dance of Better Best Forgotten in Waitrose.

But no longer. Ne'er more will I get the urge to throw my arms skyward in the international gesture of Tragedy in HMV.

Unless they cancel the Girls Aloud album release, of course.

Monday, June 14, 2004

Two of Three

Now. I was trying ignore Natasha Bedingfield. I'm sure you're all aware of my feelings on her dopey brother, the over-stuffed love-mattress for sexually starved housewives across the country. A mite suspicious then, that as soon as Daniel is, um, 'taken out of action' in a car crash, another one pops up.

Like dandelions. Or warts.

For your information, I can indeed account for my whereabouts when Daniel smashed his neck in. I happened to have been at a party. A fabulous party. And it was a pure coincidence that there was a storey-high picture at the back of the shindig of someone's scrappy bearded mug, and the legend 'Daniel Bedingfield 1979-2004' beneath it. Or that the coasters had ' Gotta Get Thru This' on them.

Anyway. As I say, I was trying to ignore his stripling sister, but as my hunt through the video channels for Girls Aloud's 'The Show' is becoming almost a 24-hour quest, I can't help but find her thwarting my every turn with her annoyingly infectious blandity. Every other flick, and I come across her.

Oh, man alive - that sounds terrible.

And if my theory that the charts of the new millennium can only survive with a Bedingfield at their core, I know for a fact that if I get rid of Natasha Bedingfield, the only one left is their octogenarian gran who has a liking for drum and base. One simply has to lard the top step of her nursing home and set off the fire alarm. A squawk, a crunch, and a blissful empty silence in which to enjoy The Show.

I'm doing you all a favour, you know.

Friday, June 11, 2004


Now. I was just going to post something about my memory, and how appalling it is, but I've forgotten what it was.

No really. Genuinely.

My Dream Episode Of '24'...

Thursday, June 10, 2004

Pyro Maniac

Declan was on the phone last night. "I see Tracy Emin's tent burnt down," he said. I could just hear him playing with a lighter, and wondered whether the police had actually caught anyone. "They'd have a job to burn down anywhere with all the names of the people you'd slept with written on it, wouldn't they? I mean, for example, the Millennium Dome is so well protected..."

You know, he probably did do it, just so he could set up that joke...

Tuesday, June 08, 2004

Happy Birthday, Ma Binding

While I hold great truck with the nature side of the nature/nurture debate, I have to say that my dear mother had more than a gentle contributing effect upon my being raised a screaming mary. And as today's her 48th birthday, I thought I'd give you a bit of an update as to what she's been up to.

One trip to Ibiza with my sister and one dalliance with a mechanic later, and it seems that she's well and truly over the lumbering oaf of a creature that is my father. This is a Good Thing, and not just because of all the mechanic jokes we could make in front of her, to her lessening embarrassment. Sex wasn't really taboo in our house, but neither was it discussed in any great length. My sex talk from my father occurred when I was fourteen and consisted of him stumbling drunk into my bedroom and saying, "Now son. About the birds and the bees..." In honesty, schoolmate Paul had stumbled into my bedroom drunk a few months earlier and I'd far enjoyed learning more about the bees and the bees.

So, mother is back on the horse, as it t'were, and well on her way to becoming the scourge of Singles Nights in Birmingham. A few weeks back, she was in attendance with her two chums and slightly under the weather due to a cold. She'd been taking her antihistamines, benylin and then vodka shots, and while her two companions had managed to sink their teeth into some gentleman flesh on the corner of the dancefloor, my dear mother was now hanging around the bar, blotto. To her, some fuzzy, blurry man-shape approached to get a drink, and they get chatting. The next moment:

"Oh, Lee. I don't know what happened! Next thing I know, I'm hanging off his face for the rest of the night..."

Alas and alack, all was not to go to plan, though: while she was happily showing the text message she'd received the following day around work - 'with four kisses!' she took great pains to point out - the subsequent date itself wasn't what she expected. For one, she couldn't remember his name. For the other, she couldn't remember what the heck he looked like. So as the car arrived carrying her new beau like the white charger of fairy tales, there was a certain sense of romantic mystery to the whole thing. It wasn't to last. Here's what happened in her own words (remember to add the lilting Birmingham tone):

"Well. This man got out. I thought it was his dad come to drop him off. But noooooo... And he was ginger! And grey! All at once! Oh Lee, it looked like he had a tabby cat on his head!"

The date didn't go well, and while he'd already planned their future together, she made him take her home after dinner. And avoided kissing him goodnight, and his hands and tongue in general.

Good girl. I taught her well.

So, last night, I gave her a quick call, and she was being remarkably sheepish. Well, for her.

Well, it turns out that she's got another boyfriend. Jubilate! And this one seems to have been going on for a few weeks too, the secretive little minx. I was hoping that he'd be a fireman. There's some good mileage in fireman jokes - sliding down poles, hoses, etc - and we'd all grown tired of the mechanic ones to the point where she was making them before me. And hearing about your mother's 'drip-tray' is not something I want to repeat.

Anyway. She told me about the new guy. I couldn't keep my hanging jaw off the bed: she's taken up with a 33-year-old, bleached haired, 6-foot-5 motorcycle rider. A gentleman two years younger than my own boyfriend.

Wow. She really is one leopardskin jumpsuit away from being a complete gay icon.

Monday, June 07, 2004

Fascinating Facts! Milk!

Things We Found Out Using The Web In Under An Hour

Here we go, as I run some facts past your eyes. Geddit? Oh, please yourselves. Now, normally at the start of any Fascinating Facts, we go into how the item was discovered, and the impact that it has had on the world. Now we've always wondered, who exactly was walking past a cow and saw that thing dangling under it and thought 'By jove, that looks like a riot! It'll give it a squeeze!' And then, not only that deciding to drink the outcome? One can only assume it was one of Traci Lord's or Marc Almond's ancestors.

Cows provide 90% of the world's milk supply. Goats supply 1.6%. What, my goodness, supplies the rest? Well, I have it on good authority that sheep's milk is a bland, slightly sweet fluid, and human use of buffalo, water buffalo and yak's milk is commonplace in the areas where these animals are found. Soya milk is quite common too, but goodness knows how you milk those tiny little beans. Probably very slowly, and with tweezers.

It is true that a glass of milk before you go to bed can help you sleep as it contains tryptophan, and this helps the body to switch off.

Alright, welcome to 'Eeeew! Central' It's time to put you off your milk forever! When cows are milked, there's sometimes a great deal of blood that comes out with the milk. This tainted milk can't be sold, so companies use it to make chocolate milk since cocoa hides the blood. Oh yes.

We love the famous 'Got Milk?' campaign in America: it shows various lovely foxy boys with a foamy white top lip (step forward David Boreanaz with your smeared mouth. Please). I gather they wouldn't be too happy to learn that the milk moustache is actually a creamy layer of mucus, live bacteria, and pus that floats to the top of the glass. Yum.

Moloko means milk in Russian. I'll forgive if you skimmed past that one, though. Ay-than'-kew!

Ernie The Fastest Milkman in The West was the tragic tale of Ernie and his gold tops by perennial bald-man-slapping favourite Benny Hill. It reached the dizzy heights of number one in the UK singles chart in 1971, and a jolly good romp it was too. The idea of slap-and-tickle hanky-panky between bored housewives and randy milkymen has been a common theme for a good hundred years though, with some of the first films featuring hard-core pornography presented an unending line of travelling salesmen, icemen, repairmen, handymen, milkmen and grocery boys visiting lonely, frustrated women in their homes to 'deliver' their 'wares'. Even physicians made house calls to administer 'Dr. Hardon's Injections' - though office visits to doctors and dentists led to the same end, as it where. As these were silent pictures, you never got to hear the lady say to the dentist 'Go on - put your tool in my mouth' but as a bonus, you may have got a nice man playing with his organ in the front row - very much like the last time we went to see The Mummy Returns at a late night showing, really. Happy days.

Milk is bleached to give it that lovely white colour.

In 1852 it is said Disraeli delivered his budget speech to the House of Commons with a glass of milk. It is unclear whether he was drinking the milk at the same time, as in the style of "gottle of gear, gottle of gear - up twelve gercent!" but we'd like to think so.

Jokes about former Prime Ministers shows how cultured we are, doesn't it? Aha! Oh, alright. Next!

Time for some more Gay Maths. There are approximately 25000 herds of cows in Great Britain at the moment, comprising of typically 80 cows in a herd, producing 20 litres per day over about two milking sessions for 300 days in the year. Meaning that there are 4 million litres of milk produced daily. If Kylie was really a pint-sized pop star, cows could produce 7,040,000 pint-Kylies a day. This is far more efficient than the traditional method of producing Kylies (having a paper shop clone her, exiting, dropping her washing, going around in a circle, meeting a clone and picking up her washing) which takes four minutes three seconds to produce a total of five. To get the same amount of Kylies as the cows produce in 24 hours would take the washing-dropping cloning method 95040 hours. Or enabling the cows to hum the whole of the album Fever roughly 125373 times.

There are unique links between cows and music. 1) it is proven that most cows give more milk when they listen to music. 2) Barbra Streisand.

I shall now credit the Americans with a unique piece of ingenuity. In 1943, the New York Times reported that - horror of horrors - US airmen couldn't get a regular supply of ice cream. Ah, but they could get fresh milk, so what they did was built a special canister for the milk and attached it to the tail gunner's compartment of the plane. The plane's vibrations plus the icy temperatures at the high altitudes of a normal mission turned the mixture into a creamy dessert by the time they got back to base. Rare genius.

Camel's milk does not curdle.

More proof that ants are going to take over the world eventually: they too keep 'cows', and even build tiny barns of leaves for them. The cows are aphids, or plant lice. The ants milk the cows by stroking them on their backs with their antennae, giving them a sweet, clear milk called honeydew that's fine with the fish, but I wouldn't have it with the red meat if I were you, sir.

New Favourite Thing! Milkman jokes!
'Early one morning, a milkman is doing his rounds. He goes up to one of the houses and knocks on the door to collect the milk money. A small boy answers the door smoking a huge Havannah cigar, swigging from a bottle of lager, his arm around what appears to be a call girl. The milkman looks at the small boy and asks, "Is your mum or dad in?" The little lad replies, "Does it fucking look like it?"'

Milk paint! We're not making this up! Milk used to be the main ingredient in paint, and the formula can be dated back to Ancient Egypt. Up until the middle 1800's paint was not sold commercially. People made their own containing milk protein, quicklime and earth pigments, and giving a variety of colours from browns to greens. It's also incredibly durable and many examples still exist that are hundreds of years old and whose finish is just as true as the day the paint was applied.

More milk colour oddness: feeding a baby hedgehog on a goat's milk solution turns its droppings from the normal green to light blue. Oh, and yak's milk is pink. We just thought you'd like to know. I would carry on along these lines, but I've realised that I'm just milking it.

Friday, June 04, 2004

Gym'll Fix It Indeed

Well. I've just seen my personal trainer - a feckless girl, all ponytails and smiles - and limped back to the office to surreptitiously get the new boy in accounts to rub my throbbing parts. His deft fingers on the Casio hand-crank are a joy to behold, and he's more than willing to offer such relief for little more than a cup of tea.

It's now been three months since evil gym nemesis Lady Marmalade threw me out of the other gym for 'renovations' - one hopes it was her orange frontage they're working on, as she did have a face like a robber's dog. And now I'm going to a proper gym, much to my chagrin. It's not half as enjoyable, so I do have to wonder why I put myself through this daily gymnasium torture. It's not because I enjoy gaping at the men getting changed (one of the numerous benefits we have up on the hetermosexleals in general) and nor is it so I can jog along to my fabulous favourite hits (hand gestures erring anywhere near 'disco' are very much frowned upon).

I think, when it's completely boiled down, the only genuine reason I do all this is that if I ever meet Alias beauty Bradley Cooper I'll be so toned and defined, he'll instantly drop whatever he's doing and raise his hand to hail The Other Bus so quickly, a sonic boom will occur.

Oh, and his ticket would get such a punching, let me tell you.

Parts on Show

So far, Dolly and I had spent over an hour and a bottle of wine attempting to decipher the lyrics to Girls Aloud's 'The Show'. Dear Dolly is a partner-in-crime of mine in many fabulous activities and, like myself, initially passed off his mighty love for the Aloud as highly ironic. Mine is slightly less believable due to my track record, and the Spice Girls figures lined up in my bathroom - though I do claim they're for target practice.

So far, we'd rattled through and reached the line 'Nobody sees the show until my heart says so'. It was causing the greatest of trouble, being the crux of the song and all.

I sipped my wine and looked around for inspiration. Then a gasp from Dolly; if he was still a smoker, this would have been the point when he'd leaned back in his chair and had a jolly good poof on his pipe. Which, incidentally, was exactly what happened to him last weekend - abet 'poof' in this case being a shirt-lifting male homosexual and 'pipe' being the male organ for procreation, and he was proudly sporting the love-bites to prove it. Candidly, it was slightly off-putting chatting so amiably to someone who looked like he should be working as a cashier somewhere, and I found my eyes oft-drawn to his gruesome Tesco Slag-Tags.

"I think, in this instance, 'The Show'," he curled his fingers in air quotes around the name, "Is referring to 'my fanny'." More curling.

He waited until it had sunk in, and sung - loudly - "Nobody sees my fanny until my heart says so." He asked me what I thought.

"Well, it doesn't rhyme, for one," I said. Besides, if ever there was a girl group coarse enough to call a single 'My Fanny', Girls Aloud are definitely it.

I happened to be on the phone later that evening to the dear Wife and mentioned what we'd been up to. There was a puzzled pause from his good self, and then a slightly worried reply:

"I have this feeling that you're no longer doing this ironically," he said.

Ooops. Rumbled.

Thursday, June 03, 2004

Train Wreck

I am astonished for two reasons. The first bewilderment is that one of you grubby patrons landed on my fabulous doorstep by putting this in Google:

'Just let me fuck Jenny Agutter'

What a desperate plea! Clearly, this is someone who's had a deep-seated desire to do Mz Agutter since that fabulous split-leg ensemble in Logan's Run. And I agree - it was a glorious outfit, rivalling that low-cut snood that Dame Minogue was wearing in I Can't Get You Out Of My Head. And that was so low-cut that - if you turn the volume up on the video - you can hear three monks in the background praying so as she doesn't fall out.

But the second confusion comes from who on God's would want to diddle dear Jenny? Bless, she's a very handsome lady and no mistake, and I'm sure she goes like the train she was waving her knickers at in The Railway Children. But - no. Just no. It's wrong. It's like thinking about stolid BBC newsreader Moira Stewart in any sort of sexual passion.

Oh! And think about the two of them together! That has to be a double negative! Greased and fighting - Moira trying to read the news, and Jenny's desperately fighting her down so she can do her monologue from the end of Spooks, Season One. And they'd be slipping and sliding everywhere and everything!



Hmm. Someone better call the Gay Police. I think I just had a heterosexual moment...

Wednesday, June 02, 2004


Now, I'm very conscious of turning this dastardly pink blog into a podia for ranting. In my humble opinion, podia exist purely to dance to Spice Up Your Life on, but I've been wanting to get something off my chest for a long time - and in this instance, a damp tissue simply won't shift it.

Basically, I loathe chatty taxi drivers. As I am Ruler of the Known Universe, I've been trying to invoke some sort of Fabulous Law that states if you are behind the wheel and are wearing anything from a catalogue or Mr Byrite, you should have your mouth sewn up, as I for one certainly won't care for any opinion falling out of it. Unfortunately, taxi drivers actually come from a Dark Place outside of The Known Universe known as 'NotGoingSouthOfTheRiverMate', so I have no jurisdiction at all.

So I propose that they can indeed go about their business, but when they mention any of the certain buzz words, 2400 Volts of divine intervention is shot across their beaded car-seat. Carefully chosen, these are as follows:

"As black as the Ace of Spades, he was!"
"They just let 'em in the country!"
"Now I'm not racist, but?"

Or in fact, anything to do with the words 'seeker' and 'asylum'. And not necessarily in that order.

Oh, don't worry - it'll be perfectly safe. As soon as they are electrocuted, the engine is cut, and a car is sent around from Fabulous Cabs. You know - the ones that have a glitter ball dangling from the mirror and play lots of Lulu. And don't talk to you. I am not in need of any half-baked opinions about the current state of the world, thank you. A journey home should be a sedate affair, not spent wincing at every comment. The dear Wife and I had the most god-awful journey on the weekend with a cabbie who was so right-wing, I'm surprised we didn't end up going in circles.

They're mercenary bastards, too. A friend of mine actually shagged one to shut him up, and he still had the gall to ask for payment. And he's left the meter running. Thank Cher my friend had just been to a Will Young concert and was on a hair trigger anyway, lest the fare wouldn't be fair at all. When it came to a tip, my associate did lean in and say "Wash under your foreskin more."

Thank you for listening. Enjoy your ride home. And do what I now do: tell them to shut up and drive. Nicely, of course - one doesn't want to appear too opinionated.

Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Troubles Down Below

I demand to know why the women in Cannistan adverts appear so damn smug they've got thrush. Perhaps it is the green silk scarf they're always sporting - obviously a tag for everyone to know that their drip-tray is currently moldier than two-month old bread. But there they dance around sunny shopping centers, gladly taking their pills before going off to fabulous lunches with friends.

My other demand on this subject is that there should be some gritty realism to these things. Like a tagline that says, 'Dragging yourself across the floor like an itchy dog? Try Cannistan!'

And that, ladies and gentleman, is why I'll never work for Saachi and Saachi.

Breaking the Veil

I'm typing this with my bloodied nose, dear reader, so please excuse any spelling mistakes.

It all started with that televisual mind-bender Derren Brown holding a seance on Channel 4 last night. Now, I find this Derren oddly attractive, but I can never be sure whether I've been hypnotised into thinking that.

It may just be his frock coat.

Anyway. I dislike any seances, televised or no, purely because my Evil Best Friend Declan tends to start spitting, talking in tongues, you know the sort - and before you know it, they're on to his human form and all hell is literally breaking loose. So, I dutifully sent him a text to warn him of the troubles ahead and he told me he'd already taken care of it.

Now, I've known Declan for years, and when he says that he's 'taken care of it', you normally start to worry. But I was a good third into a Patricia Cornwell and a good half into a bottle of sherry, so I foolishly didn't think any more of it and went to bed. It transpires the little monkey had diverted all his energy to me. I'd become his evil answerphone.

So I then spent the night throwing up and shouting. The problem is that the line I was meant to be shouting was sent over using a rather poor fax, and I ended up bellowing 'Your mother darns socks in hell!' and, before I knew it, the door was thrown open and I was on the bed being straddled by a priest. And I didn't get a wink of sleep all night!

Frankly, it was like that camping holiday in 1992 all over again.