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

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Sand In Your Crack

What larks! If this bubbling vial of holy water is anything to go by, my Evil Best Friend Declan could be on his way to the capitol! Joy, adulate, etc! Actually, I do know that he's coming because a) the horse in the next field over has just given birth to a dead, eyeless albino calf, and b) I've just had a text from him.

Fret not, fair London! We won't have another incident like the last time, for he and I will be popping down to Bournemouth for the weekend for a well-deserved break at the seaside with our buckets and spades. Indeed, if you live in Bournemouth, feel free to come up and say hi and we may buy you a drink! (I can safely say this as I know the hypercyberinterweb hasn't got that far yet. I believe it terminates somewhere south of Winchester with a piece of string with a tin can on the end.)

Anyway. A couple of days absence is upon us, thus, I leave you with two things: one is a new temporary Ruler of the Universe to look after you. May I present, star of perennial tea-time favourite Stargate SG-1, Amanda Tapping! She has lovely hair and a filthy laugh, so you be nice to her.

The other thing? Well, that's a motto for you all to digest and use. Thus:

God is watching.
So lets put on a show!

Have a lovely weekend. I may bring you back a stick of rock.

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

And What Did We Learn This Weekend?

I don't often write about my dear Wife - one must keep some things secret and besides, he's far too high-brow to fit into anything as pink and silly as this blog. So you can imagine my surprise when I was flicking through my usual domain of the music channels, he calls me to stop at a V video.

This boyband quintet, V, are apparently the new 5ive. I must confess that I was only dimly aware of them, far preferring the original. Even the name (roman numerals, dear, roman numerals) hearkens back to those blissful hits we'd cover our walls with Smash Hits simply because of band member J Brown graced the cover.

Yes, I was 22 at the time. So, crashing on:

I carried on advancing up the channels anyway, convinced that he'd told me to move on to Classic FM, as he oft-wants to do whenever Girls Aloud come on. But he grabbed the control and turned it back to the pop moppets dancing around, what appears to be, an ice-cream van.

"What?" he asked. I must've had some look on my face. I think it was incredulity, but I can't be sure. I asked him why we'd stopped.

"Ah, look. That one there," pointing into the maelstrom of teenage dancing and puberty. "He's bloody lovely!"

I blinked. This was wrong. My Wife fancies classical musicians. He does his gym workout to lesbian singer-songwriters.

"Look at him! He looks like a porn star," he said, somewhat lasciviously.

Good lord. Porn? My vision seemed to darken as I clung to the edge of the sofa as the world suddenly seemed so suddenly unearthly and strange...

Tuesday, July 27, 2004

And What Have We Learned This Morning?

We've learned that there is little worse than slyly eyeing up a gentleman because you think he's well-hung, only to discover it is merely a rather low-slung bum-bag.

Monday, July 26, 2004

Great Mysteries of the World Solved: Part XII

It was Cilla Black who first leaned forward and asked what the occasion was. This was despite the cake, the hats and the rather tatty 'Happy Birthday!' sign currently strung between two trees, which lead me to question the Mensa certificate she'd just pulled out of her bomber jacket. Cher had to take me aside later and tell me Cilla's name had been written in biro, too.

I just shrugged and said that I'd just wanted my friends around me to celebrate something I'd been doing.

"Well, every day is a celebration when you get to my age!" said Dame Angela Lansbury, pulling a bottle of champagne out of her carpet bag. I noticed both the bag and the bottle still had the security tags on them.

Cher - imperious as ever in her Cher-Chair(tm) - took the offered glass of bubbly, and raised it with a "salut." It was no real secret she hadn't eaten or drank anything since the war, but did like to feel included. Periodically, she'd tip a little of the champagne onto the grass, so when the refill came around, she could gratefully accept. Oh, the arguments that had caused between her and Dame Aggie when the stage-and-screen veteran had figured out what was going on.

"CHEERS!" yelled Brian Blessed from the other side of the pond. He was in his bathers, splashing around with some ducks he'd accidentally deafened on his last visit. They seemed curiously happy to see him again. But then, it may have been the loaf of bread he'd hidden in - let's just call it 'an area'.

I just hoped the RSPB weren't watching.

"So we're not here to answer some daffy question, chuck?" asked Cilla, waving her glass a little. Alcohol really worked fast on our copper-headed Scouser. "You know, like the time we all had to figure out where baby pigeons came from."

We all groaned at that. Awful, awful day. I said that it definitely wasn't the case this time around, casually waving some flies away from the cake with nerves. I looked up at the Happy Birthday banner caught momentarily in a breeze, desperate to divert myself. I'd managed to find it in Carol Smilie's old room. She'd been an interesting lodger - she had a tendency to wallpaper in her sleep, and every morning needed me to tell her where the door was.

I really should put them in the picture, I suppose.

I took a deep breath, as Cher shifted a little to get out of the evening sunlight. And I told them. I told them it had been exactly a year since I'd started writing my blog - a whole year of contributing to the hypercyberinterweb with my ideas, thoughts, and opinions.

There was a pause.

"Are we on there?" asked Cilla, tugging uneasily at blades of grass.

I nodded slowly.

"FAME!" yelled Brian Blessed. A poor couple on a row-boat were so startled by the noise, they capsized with a grand splash and a scream cut short by the water.

I was acutely aware of everyone else looking at me. "It's not just you lot," I said, uncomfortable under their collective gaze. "There's other things."


"Er." My mind was suddenly blank, palms glazed with sweat. These were my friends after all. "Oh! Girls Aloud. And Doctor Who. But mostly Girls Aloud, I suppose..."

"Is it any good?" enquired Cher.

I shrugged again. "Sometimes. Sometimes it even makes me laugh. And you lot seem very popular. I get letters, you know."

"You do?" asked Dame Aggie.

"Oh yes!"

That seemed to pacify them for a minute. More champagne was passed around.

"So what have you done in that year, chuck?" asked Cilla.

"Solved world hunger?" asked Aggie.

"Used it to get to number one?" asked Cher.

"Shagged more builders than you can name?" asked Aggie.

I slyly looked at her fingernails. They were so dirty you could grow potatoes under them. I shook my head - it was really just to remind me what I'd been up to. An aide memoir, as it where. I wished Judith Hann, doyenne of technology, was here - she'd know what to say. I missed her so.

"Well, I think it's a lovely idea, dears," said Aggie. "I think we should all start one."

There was an odd noise coming from Cher, low beeps and a 'screeeeeeeee!' noise that reminded me of something I couldn't quite put my finger on.

"I just have," she said, looking up suddenly. Ah. It was a modem.

I passed around the cake, telling them I was very glad that they were around to celebrate with me. The sun was heading towards the horizon, lengthening the shadow of the children's climbing frame to fall over our rug. We'd have to think about getting Brian out of the pond soon - and that normally only happened if we promised to get him a Happy Meal on the way home.

The mood had completely relaxed into drunken camaraderie as Dame Aggie rifled through her handbag for a tissue. She'd managed to get cake jam on her Darkness t-shirt.

"You know, I've never understood why men wear white socks with sandals. Why is that?" she said, out of the blue.

We all shrugged, minds suddenly kicking into gear through the pleasant fog of champagne.

"Now that indeed is a great mystery," said Cher.

I smiled inwardly and watched the sun sink lower, as the voices around me started to come up with more and more outlandish solutions. We'd probably be here all evening at this rate.

Ah. Happy days.

Friday, July 23, 2004

Things To Make And Do!

Well, look! The sun's shining and it's nearly pub o'clock, which can only mean that it's almost the weekend! And we here at Glitter for Brains, shall take you under our drag-like feathery wings to give you advice on Five Fabulous Things you may like to do over the next two wondrous days!

Sneak into Gentlemen's Clubs!
No, not the ones that comes with a free towel and a locker key when you get through the door. The other type - with memberships and surly waitresses! We Glitterites spent the whole of last weekend banding around these exotic locales, drinking cocktails and molesting celebrities - including former Doctor Who companion Mary Tamm! Although we couldn't get her to recreate this fabulous screen-grab from The Androids of Tara, no matter how much champagne she drank!

The Fourth Segment appears to be... my tuppence!

Speaking of which!

Drink Champagne!
Dear Rachel Stevens is currently advising us that the said tipple of choice does indeed make everything taste better-better, but by how much? We'd like to know! Because we rather like pie charts.

So, are any readers going to a funeral this weekend? If so, why not take a bottle of Bollinger! You could then tell us whether it does manage to alleviate the mood. Not only will it help us complete our empirical test, but will also make you look like a rather heartless fiend, and you're only there for the reading of the Will. Which we know you are because you're our friends, and we wouldn't want it any other way. Bless.

We would also like to point out that, after sneaking into said gentlemen's clubs, we say that champagne may make certain things taste better-better, but is just doesn't taste half as nice unless it's nicked or free.

Rediscover an Old Album!
Everyone has a summer album from years gone by - why not dig it out? We here are recently reliving the joys of Pulp's Different Class from the summer of 1995, which was just at the start of the healing process when we were horribly dumped by our boyfriend at the time. The little oik had run off with our best friend after walking out on us on Valentine's Day - oh, you couldn't get more soap opera!

And, while we did drink champagne at his funeral, we'd still like to hear from other readers as to their champagne/funeral views, as this memorial service was more a birthday present from our Evil Best Friend Declan (chink!).

Those of you outside London, why not come to our fabulous capitol? It's quite nice during the summer months, and there are parks and picnics and pony-rides and everything! And those of you inside London, why not visit the countryside? Our world doesn't necessarily stop at Zone 4, you know (although a great deal of civilisation does, so do take a large, fabulous hat and an English-To-Yokel guide with you). You'll all love the change of pace, we're sure.

Indeed, if you're feeling the need to be bustled around by arguing same-sex couples, why not go to IKEA? It's charmingly out of the way! And for an extra bit of fun, do what we Glitterites did on our last visit and set all the alarm clocks in the cavernous warehouse to go off at 5 minute intervals. Oh, how those plodding shop assistants run like headless chickens at the sound of numerous alarms!

Play Board Games!
They're the new rock'n'roll, you know! Dust off your Mousetrap, or get your fingers around someone else's Ludo - there's fun to be had a mere toss away! And don't forget those dusty old games where there's pieces missing - why, even they can play a part in your weekend! Why not simply combine all the spare games and all the rules to make one enormous board as we did the weekend before last? Oh, how the Glitter Towers shook with mirth as we all tried to win Guess Who's Buckarooing the Hungry Hippo's Downfall!

There! We hope you find that informative and wondrous. If you try any of the above, we'd love to hear about it. Try all five, and you'll get a badge with 'I Really Should Stay In More!' on it! Have a nice weekend!

Wednesday, July 21, 2004


Well, if you happened to be on the roof, hanging off a chimney pot with an aerial pointing north-west last night - and I know I was - you may have been lucky enough to see BBC Wales' feature on the New Doctor Who!
I can sense your enthusiasm from here.
Well to me, this was very exciting. I have to say my deep-seated love of Doctor Who stems from my mother's direct influence all those years ago - it was she who introduced me to it by calling me downstairs with "Doctor Who's on. You like that." To be honest, I'd never heard of it before - and now look at me. I can tell you she's also responsible for a couple of my more flamboyant spending habits, as well as being the person who showed me the joys of Girls Aloud.
I'm telling you, the woman's a menace.
Anyway, last night's feature showed Ecclestone in his costumed glory for the first time, which is an event in itself, yet is proving to be a little sticking point for me. Not because I remain un-wowed by the fact that he's wearing a simple leather jacket and a t-shirt. My problem is that most fanboys still haven't discovered deodorant, so you can imagine the smell at a convention when they're all wearing leather in the summer...

Oh! And especially if next door is a Matrix convention (boys: overweight, long leather jacket, sweaty, sunglasses) alongside a Buffy one (boys: overweight, long leather jacket, sweaty, blond hair), I'm telling you as soon as TV's Janet Fielding lit up her first of many fags, the whole place is going to go up.

Tuesday, July 20, 2004

The Last Of The Great Shoplifters

Oh, dear readers, I've been breaking the law again.
Fret not, it's nothing too severe - while my dark past does indeed include some hum-dingers of law breaking, I'm a respectable member of the community these days. Let's face it, the last time I had a wholly unwholesome brush with the law was at a toga party - and that was with a constable from the Home Counties whose sheet was too small. All he wanted to do was take me down and get my particulars. Well, he had a winsome smile and a gallon of vodka, so who could refuse?
Anyway. While it's a given that some of my more outrageous habits are dallying on the wrong side of a policeman's truncheon, I never thought that my propensity for walking around with a mug in my hands would be the one that could have finally got me into trouble. But then, Al Capone was caught on tax evasion, wasn't he? I have no idea where I picked this habit up from, but whenever I need a think in my hectic-meeeja-job, I grab my coffee cup and go a-wandering around the office until inspiration strikes. Or I'm caught - whichever comes first.
Well, thankfully I wasn't caught the last time I idly found myself walking around with a coffee cup in my hand. Because I happened to be halfway down the street from the Starbucks before I realised that I'd brought my charming ceramic mug with me.
I must say, I use my mug every day now. But is it used as a totem of shame, a constant reminder that I should be more vigilant against my own light-fingered activities? Or because it's a really cool mug that's so large you can try and drown Dame Kylie in it, before throwing her a jammy dodger as a life-line? You decide.

Monday, July 19, 2004


It has to be noted that, for some reason, we're about to spangle our pants at the thought of The All-New Doctor Who Show starting filming yesterday. It's finally happening!
Let it also be noted that the first scene apparently - apparently - involved a farm animal being chased down a space-corridor by Christopher 'Mad Eye, Moody' Ecclestone. The creature may, or may not, have been in a space-suit.
(sucks air through teeth)

Start as you mean to go on, boys!

The Glitter For Brains TeleMarathon: Enterprise!

Warning: Contains Spoilers!
What cock is this? Why, it's Star Trek: Enterprise, everyone! Goodness, did we have nothing better to do?
Captain Archer must stop the Xindi from blowing up Earth with a big weapon by any means necessary. But we know he'll probably use diplomacy.
The hopes and dreams of all Trekkies! Ho ho!
We must say, we were all rather surprised at Glitter for Brains when they announced that they were bringing Enterprise back for a third season. Here was the last gasp at milking the Star Trek cash cow, when - frankly - even the Hindus would have put a bullet through its brain and turned its hooves into pick-n-mix.
No. Well, sort of. There's a kind of ethereal sphere-builder lady-thing. But all she does is stand around in what appears to be a sauna on a gimball, chatting to her knitting circle. Not so much machiavellian as mumsy.
Oh, too many to mention! Every painful moment when they put the Vulcan Topov and the saucy engineer Chip together for a bit of 'chemistry'. Every time Archer tries to brood about what he's doing. Oh, and security chief's Malcolm rant about 'acceptable losses' - hilarious! And lets not forget the fact that there seems to be at least one welder per crewmember on board this year. Frankly, it's the only way the sparks were flying - there was sod all between the Vulcan and Starfleet Totty!
Oh, and the aforementioned sauna is also a joy. These all-mighty sphere builders are all there, posturing and saying 'We must do something!' while the camera zooms past them in a semi-stylish manner. But why is this funny? If you've seen the title sequence to 'Kath and Kim', the perennial Aussie comedy, you'll joyfully clap your hands like a spastic at the similarities.
Surprisingly few! The odd thing about this season is that it excelled everything we expected from the previous shenanigans aboard Enterprise, and while this still is in no way unmissable television, it is edging dangerously towards 'competent'. We had a story arc! Slight character development! A continually battle damaged ship that wasn't fixed between episodes! Alien sex and drug addiction! And even more of Chief Saucepot Chip in his space-pants! Hoo!
So we shall plumb for the outcome of dear Hiroshi's story arc, where she clearly should have resigned after that nasty Mr Archer bullied her addled brain into solving the plot, er, bomb codes with seconds to spare. Then, at the start of the next series, he could have tried to persuade her back, reintroducing her and the audience to the new and improved Enterprise. Well, that would have been nice, if it wasn't for the daffy cliffhanger.
Oh? Don't you know? Well look!
Why, yes! Yes it does! Hurrah! Of course, there's absolutely no reason for it! Which makes it even more joyous!
After all the action, dear Captain Archer wakes up back on Earth, and he's in a WWII Nazi encampment! On no discernable grounds! The final shot of the season is the camp's leader turning around to reveal he's an alien! Woo! Well, thank heavens we haven't had Nazis in Star Trek before in any way, shape or form, else this would look hackneyed and cheap.
Oh, we have?
'Dear The Producers of Star Trek,
Your fans are an obsessive, detail-obsessed bunch (often a little bit wiffy, may we add). Do you think you can honestly get away with re-hashing old scripts for the umpteenth time without anyone noticing?
All our heart,
The Gays
PS - Would it kill you to do an episode about the joys of deodorant? You know, it may just help...'
Good lord, it seems that someone's actually trying to turn Trek towards drama - no matter how hard the wheels protest. There was even stabs at acting in the franchise since dear Picard proclaimed that there were only four lights after all (we can't remember what they were on, but we'd like to think it was around a vanity mirror). And some of it came off well, some of it oddly awkward - so we give you our blessing to fire that useless actor who mans the helm.
And lo! A story arc that didn't seem plodding and weighed down, something that even the luminary Buffy The Vampire Slayer was guilty of. We'd like more of this next year, please! With some more original ideas, and less Space Nazis. Go on - we know you can do it!

 And that's that! Thank you for watching!

Friday, July 16, 2004

The Glitter For Brains TeleMarathon: Alias!

Warning: Contains Spoilers!
We're watching all the rubbish so you don't have to! Today, it's Season Three of Alias!
Even the most devoted fans no longer seem to know what is going on anymore. And not enough wigs this season by a long chalk!
 Ah, now. See. This is the thing. No-one seems to stay dead in the Alias universe. With the finale being called 'Resurrection', we half-expected Amy Irving to wander in with her improbable bubble-perm, back from the dead again. We're going to plumb for Evil Francie, due to the fact that she was shot fatally and then survived. And that, our dears, is the very definition of a TV pointless death.
(But secretly we're glad. We want Evil Francie and her relaxed, Jackie Brown locks back as the season villain next year all the way through.)
Oh, gods, too many to mention! Who isn't feminine, evil and up to no good? And that's part of the problem: with Sydney's sister prophesised to have a big scrap with her ("One will survive..." is the doom-laden message), Lauren's motivations all over the shop and Isabella Rossi- er, Derevko turning her gun on her niece at the last minute for no good reason, the show is plagued by them. Although they're not really machiavellian - that implies that they have a deeper agenda that they are aware of. Which they clearly don't, as characterisations are seemingly decided with a dice roll, with poor Lauren being the perfect example: was she actually evil? Misguided? Brainwashed by the Covenant? One week, she was happily having it up her from all directions that point Sark, the following she was incredibly possessive over Vaughn to the point of almost scratching that tubby gay best friend Eric for so much as looking at Vaughn hopefully.
Lauren getting a good spadeing by Vaughn. We, at Glitter for Brains, have always been a big fan of that 'klllong!' sound.
The season finale. The. Whole. Damn. Thing.
When it comes to Alias season cliff-hangers, we like a little bit of Rambaldi mystery, a decent cat-fight and for them to blow the special effects budget on some hilarious yet wonderful set piece. This year, we got the CIA Rotunda 'blown up' by dropping a couple of fluorescent lights to the floor and a bit of smoke, and the rest of the action set at some mine works somewhere. That transpire to have nothing to do with Rambaldi at all! Boo!
Second on the Missed Opportunity list is Lauren's last words. We were hoping for some pithy resolution, some catty remark to the woman she lost to. Instead she falls into a mineshaft, shouting some nonsense about bank numbers. Ask yourself - would you do that? Or would you just say 'Your father's evil and you're one big experiment! By the way, I hate your hair this season! Erk!'
We know we would.
Third is the severe absence of Will (Tippin' My Concrete Every Time He's On Screen). But we did get him in a pair of leather trousers for one ep. And bare-chested. (blink)
Oh dear. We seem to have spangled ourselves, the desk, and the legs of the person sitting opposite.
What is it with you and the Space Nazis?
'Dear Mr Rambaldi,
We once believed you to be secretive and mysterious. Now it appears that you've got an invention for everything, including impregnating people across time, and a magic printing press. Next season, we half expect your - now rather common - inventions to be turning up in the latest Sunday Mail supplement, or your on-screen endorsement of Remmington.
Love, as always,
The Gays
Alias appears to have jumped the shark. Particularly with the introduction of masks that enable Lauren to look like Sydney (i.e. giving her a foot in height and hiding those hamster-like cheeks away under those of a chiselled former dancers). Oh, and the satellite that can pinpoint brainwaves from anywhere in the world - if they ever have to find someone again and this isn't mentioned, there'll be trouble from the Glitter camp. Oh yes.
We know that Alias was never a drama per se, but with previous seasons, we could look forward to semi-solid characterisations and consistent motives - either you were good until tagged 'it', or inherently evil to start with. And we used to forgive Alias' little leaps of logic (getting from one side of the globe to the other with a mere flash card and no jet lag) but this season is now taking liberties. With the Rambaldi plot-thread now refusing to be resolved, Alias now feels like latter seasons of The X-Files that kept spinning it out its confusing 'mystery' for the sake of it. With that, the final of Season Three is a gloopy mess of misdirection and odd motives. And throws up yet another mystery about Sydney's childhood. Look, for goodness' sake, we've already had one of those!
Next: poor us! It's Enterprise!

Thursday, July 15, 2004

The Glitter For Brains TeleMarathon: 24!

Warning: Contains Spoilers!
Over the last couple of weeks, Glitter for Brains has been plugging away at the TV, watching all the nonsense so you don't have to! How generous! Well, here's the first of a triumvirate of assessments for what we have been watching with today being the turn of 24!

Fast forward through really boring Mexicans to Nina; the whole thing then becomes spectacle over substance from then on! Loved the jets! Not enough Kim.

Well, we all thought it was going to be the dear moon-faced Michelle, didn't we? As soon as she turned up in CTU in her 'going away' outfit - a nice new leather jacket - you knew she was doomed. Oh, and saying, "I just wish today would end". We all know this is a signal to the Drama Gods to strike you down, don'tya know? But lo, she survived! Hurrah! So, who gets the vote?

Why, it's Sheri Palmer. (gasp!).

Yes, it appears that the architect of destruction didn't see those bullets coming in a cliffhanger that's all about, er, needing a cliffhanger, and most certainly not about correct character motivation.

Sob. Sheri Palmer, 1961-2004.
She managed to hold the president to ransom while lying on her sun-lounger with a glass of wine in her hand. At barely gone midday, the lush!

Oh, too many to mention! Glitter for Brains' personal highlight of the season is when they're looking for a CTU agent to double for the Bad Guy's daughter. All of the top agents are too far away. "Who's second choice?" asked Tony Almeda (a man with an alarming metabolism - he actually manages to get fatter over a 24 hour period). The camera wobbles and zooms in on the daffy, accident-prone Kim. Hurrah! We know that it's all going to go wrong from here on in!

Oh Kim. Dear, sweet Kim 'stick me in a forest and I'll get my leg in a cougar trap, end up in a gas store heist and then in the cabin of a nuclear nut with a gun' Bauer. She had bugger all to do this season, bar getting this close (not to scale) to being called incompetent at her job. Oh, and wearing a wig that actually looked better than her new mop of a haircut.

Er, no.

'Dear Sheri.

You didn?t even get to cackle manically before you were shot. But you are still one step up from Lady Macbeth who dies offstage.

We will always love you, and miss that you never got to work with pissy Nina, for all the gays in the audience would have simply orgasmed themselves to death.

Love, The Gays.'

Big and silly, after a dull start, 24 Season Three justifies the hours we put into watching it with some ludicrous plot twists and some outrageous situations. Don't watch this for Kiefer 'I'm Breathless' Sutherland and his one-trick acting technique, watch it for the supporting characters who are way more interesting. And fabulous. And all dead now, worryingly. What of Season Four? Who can we sashay around pretending to be when we try on mink coats in Camden Market? Overall, a good effort. But what is it that every one of Kim's boyfriends loses a limb of late?

Tomorrow: tune in for Alias Season Three!

Wednesday, July 14, 2004

Based On A Story By Trigga

Young readers, avert your gaze. I found the following while rattling around my old computer, created to bait my My Evil Best Friend Declan by combining his twin loves of cheap pornography and Harry Potter. And it's based on his all-time favourite 'art-film' called Cock-Sucking Footballers. One doesn't need a B.Sc to figure out the 'plot' of that little flick.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

Sign On

So. In a story too hilarious to relate here, I happened to be running around a south London college campus dressed as a woman last Saturday. But the part of the story I can tell you involves coming across another in a series of uproarious signs that seem to be literally hanging around of late. This one was up in the common room kitchen; 'common' being the operative word - if Hogwarts had been a borstal, I would have been in Slytheryn's pride and joy.

Anyway, hanging above the toaster was this little gem: 'Under no circumstances are "Pop Tarts" to be inserted into this toaster'. This is hilarious for two reasons: one, it mentions glorious student-food Pop Tarts in an official notice, and two, you just know it's one of those retroactive signs that was put up after A Really Funny Incident Happened.

So, of course I stole it.

A further one that's been raising a snigger is Virgin's cheap CD sale poster, bandying the headline 'The Summer of £6.99!' in a suitably retro font. I like that. It's clever. But clearly knocked into a cocked hat by an advertising headline outside a Croydon camping shop I saw a few months back. Who would have thought that anyone in Croydon could read, let alone parody Shakespeare's Richard III? Still, there it was, announcing the camping sale with the best headline ever:

'Now Is The Winter Of Our Discount Tents!'


Friday, July 09, 2004

Great Mysteries of the World Solved: Part XI

From the back of the car came the well-modulated voice of a seasoned TV presenter: "Do you know, I have no idea how Schrodinger's cat works a philosophical concept." It was Judith Hann, doyenne of technology, announcing her statement with a wary air. There was suddenly an odd silence in the car - Judith admitting she didn't know the answer to anything that would be clearly covered in the green category of Trivial Pursuit... Why, it was ridiculous. It would be like Dame Aggie announcing she'd missed one out of the cocktail menu at closing time.

I confessed that physics has always been a little bit of a mystery for me too. Physics is far too logical. And it seems that you simply can't pass an exam in it by answering 'Because it just does!' to most of the questions.

"Perhaps David Bowie would know," piped up Cher, next to her in the back. There was an unusual warmth in her vocoded voice. It was David's house that we were driving back from - at speed - after spending a glorious afternoon in his gardens. He was a marvelous host, with the most charming way of stuttering over the word 'changes'. I believed Cher to have become quite smitten with the eccentric singer - here was a man almost as flamboyant as she, living as characters and enjoying half-hourly costume changes. Although we discovered he'd stopped inventing new personas and was now regressing though his previous ones, leaving us rather taken aback when he opened the door dressed as The Gnome King from Labyrinth. I think Cher may have recognized one of her old wigs, to boot.

The afternoon was only marred slightly by David insisting we took tea in the centre of his hedge maze, after stealing Dame Angela Lansbury's Playstation 2 from the back of the car as ransom. Apparently nobody had thought to bring an infant boy along, despite what the invite had said.

I was worried for dear Judith, as she must be desperate if she was asking three half-cut friends who couldn't figure out how Velcro worked for the answer to a philosophical question. I dimly recalled the idea for Schrodinger's cat states you first put a cat in a box with a vial of poison. The poison is supported by an atom that has a fifty/fifty chance of decaying, and therefore the poison could be knocked over and kill the cat. But if you seal the box so you can't see the cat - and here's the scrabbling jump of logic - the cat no longer exists, instead taking on the fifty/fifty possibility of being alive or dead.

"Well, I wouldn't want to put a cat in a box," said Cher.

We h'mmed in agreement. Cher was forever the humanitarian.

"Little bastard's scratch your eyes out," she added, causing Aggie to cackle and swerve. I just knew that Aggie's eyes were anywhere but the road, resulting in the vehicle slowly veered over towards the oncoming traffic. I could feel Judith Hann's slightly panicked hands squeezing the back of my seat.

"Aggie, do watch the road!" I cried, having to steady my Pimms with my other hand.

She swerved the car calmly back on track and smiled a toothy grin, some of which clearly weren't hers. "I was driving soapboxes before you were born, sonny! I'm one of the safest drivers on four wheels!"

"Yet you have two artificial hips..." opinioned Cher from the back seat.

"You can talk," cackled Aggie, She gave the windscreen a belated rub with her cardigan sleeve, and peered under the green sunstrip to the sky above, pressing her nose once again to the glass to check the state of the cloud cover.

"HEDGEHOG!" cried Brian from the roof-rack above.

There was a slight bump, and the car slipped slightly under Aggie's control.

"TOO LATE..." came the remorseful cry.

I glared at her, and we continued for a little way in silence. The car suddenly felt very stuffy in the afternoon heat and I cracked the passenger window a little, enjoying the cooling wind roar into the car. I turned to check that it wasn't ruffling Judith's gorgeous perm too much and she smiled a tolerating smile back. She wasn't a great fan of Aggie's driving style that simply seemed to consist of 'Stop' and 'Cer-rrrist!'. And her ancient Ford Anglia in which we currently rattled down the country lanes had the suspension of a step-ladder. Aggie absolutely refused to trade up to a newer model; after all, it had taken us the best part of ten years to get her to give up her Transit van with the stained mattress in the back.

Brian Blessed, of course, loved the car. The roof-rack was huge and he could stretch out right across it and have a whale of a time. It was the only way you could get him to travel these days: he would get dressed in his Prince Vultan winged costume from Flash Gordon, slip on the goggles, and tie himself to the roof. We would then tour with him having his arms out like he was flying. And, secretly, I did enjoy pulling up at traffic lights and watch him bellow huge parts of the classic movie to a surprised passerby.

Last week, he deafened a traffic warden.

"I wonder why is it never Schrodinger's Hedgehog," I mused, breaking the peace. "Or Schrodinger's Bunny."

"I like the idea of Schrodinger's Piranha for some reason," said Aggie.

"Surely they'd be much more reliable test subjects. You put a cat in a box with a vial of poison and - by golly - you know whether little spitting and hissing Tiddles is alive or not."

"That was our theory. We thought we'd definitely prove it by getting something incredibly loud in a box and seeing whether it existed in a state of quantum flux," said Cher. I could hear the whirring from her analytical mind. Possibly literally.

Judith seemed somewhat excited at this news. "You mean, you've actually carried out the experiment? What was the result? What did you use?"

Cher pointed straight up. It took us a couple of seconds to figure it out.

"You used Brian?" I yelled, unbelieving.

"It is the loudest thing we know," she replied. "We just stuck him in some Tupperware with a small amount of poison and recorded the answer."

"Which was?" asked a wide-eyed Judith.

"More importantly," I interjected, "Where did you get some Tupperware that was bigger than Brian?"

"Oh, we just used his lunch box," said Cher.

"TRUE!" piped up Brian from outside.

"So what happened?" asked Judith.

"He shouted a bit, ate his sandwiches, and went to sleep."

"But that's just what he usually does!" said Judith in frustration.

"Well, let's think through this," I said. "What is there to gain from putting anything in your box and not feeling if it exists or not?"

Aggie screeched like a witch. "That's what it was like with Anthony Newley! I've seen more meat on a Linda McCartney sausage. It was like chucking a chipolata down the Channel Tunnel!"

She was off again, squealing with laughter like the Wicked Witch Of The West. I leant over and grabbed the steering wheel before we shot off into a neighboring field, ruing the fact I hadn't argued harder for her to let me drive. We'd bickered on David's drive: she claimed I was too pissed to recount all the members of the Nolan Sisters and therefore too pissed to drive. Besides, her liver was ceramic.

"Well, lets look at the result," said Cher. "I think it's a principle of quantum mechanics that states if you can't prove the existence of something, it doesn't exist."

I pondered this for a moment. Then gave a gasp of incredulity. "The lazy little monkey!"

"What?" exclaimed Judith.

"It's simple! Schrodinger concocted the whole experiment so he wouldn't have to wash up!"

"Do what?" asked Aggie.

"Or cleaning his bedroom!" I continued. "This theory is simply so he could sit down after a meal and watch 'Neighbours' untroubled by domestic tasks! For when he was asked to slip on some rubber gloves, he'd simply close the kitchen door and claim the washing up doesn't exist!"

"I don't think they had 'Neighbours' in turn-of-the-century Austria, did they?"

"Ah! But can you prove it?" I asked, a twinkle in my eye.

"Yes," said Cher.

I fluttered my hands, brushing aside the argument. "It was the same with tidying his bedroom. When asked to do it, he'd simply turn away and claim that the bedroom no longer existed!"

"Idle bugger," said Aggie.

"It's quite simple really," I said. "You just have to think of it as why he invented it, rather than the point of it."

From the corner of my eye, I could see Judith nodding at this, clearly satisfied with the result. I was glad I could make her happy - she really was a most handsome woman, with a terribly clever mind. My heart fluttered as I our glances accidentally met in the car's side mirror.

For some reason, I felt I had to further prove my intelligence to her, and scrabbled for some further philosophical fact to talk about.

"So then, why is Occam's Razor so important?" I asked.

"Oh, that's easy," said Judith. "Not everyone suits a goatee."

Ah, happy days.

Thursday, July 08, 2004

Hate the Voice, Lose the Chin and the Attitude

Being A Gay automatically means I like Will Young, apparently. This is the well-thought-out opinion of those elderly female soothsayers in that cluster around in our office kitchenette, sipping tea and sighing 'Oh, it's such a shame' about him, myself - and even Michael Barrymore, oddly. Nothing will shift them from their perches, you know. Bug bombs, roach traps... you can just about tempt them out to their desks with a copy of Heat Magazine, but then it's back to putting the world to rights via leaning on the draining board all day.

And for some reason, they think that because we're both Good With Colours, we'd be ideal for each other. And that we know each other from the Secret Lodge that all gay men go to on a Sunday, or something. Well, I've never been, but I hear it's decorated fabulously.

Well, I like to get this out in the open now: I can't stand Will Young. He ranks up there just under mushrooms and ITV1 'dramas'. I met him once, and his attitude can only be described as 'mimsy'. And the Wife fancies him too, and that makes him fair game for assassination in my book (Alistair Appleton, you may want to start putting your affairs in order). Even his music galls me: I did purchase 'Your Game' from the hypercyberinterweb as I missed the glory days of Moulin Rouge, and rather fancied something showy. After listening to it several times, I discovered I liked the orchestration and all - indeed, everything bar Young's voice. It is reminiscent of the time I caught an angry wasp in a coffee can. Go on, have a listen. Particularly on this track - it buzzes weakly like your lesbian housemate's bedroom when she thinks everyone else is out.

So, in short, it's not a shame. You're more than welcome to him, soothsayers. Oh, I'd much rather date a mushroom that's been in an ITV1 drama than touch him.

Wednesday, July 07, 2004

A Fabulous Letter

Dear the lead singer of The Rasmus,

We find a nice sturdy hat to be an absolute boon, and may help keep away those pesky crows that appear to keep flying into the back of your head.

Lots of love,
The Gays

Tuesday, July 06, 2004

Art is Life

Last night I went to a fabulous gallery collection opening, in which my annoyingly talented sister was being exhibited. Bless her, she's not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree, but she has this maddening ability just to do things. Like shrugging, saying she's going to university and studying photography. Three years later, her pictures are up in a London gallery. Hmph.

Well, never one to be outdone, I made sure that I mimicked exactly what one should do at a London gallery opening a la the best and informative programme on TV, Alias.

So I went in a wig.

And I pretended to look for something by Rambaldi.

I was thrown out after ten minutes, unfortunately, and so I skulked off home, Rachel Stevens' new one on my Porn-Walkman. Now, as per the video, the incompetent bewigged leader of the girlie gang is quite capable of stepping along in time to the throbbing beats. I tried, and I fell over. Readers, she must have the tiniest of legs. Whenever she walks in real life, she must be accompanied by the 'tinkle-tinkle-tinkle' noise from the top end of the piano - just like when Jerry is running away from Tom.

She could be being worked from the back, of course.

Speaking of which, I'm very much missing my dear Wife today.

Monday, July 05, 2004

A Fabulous Letter

Dear Rachel Stevens,

If you're going to raise an army of denim-clad schoolgirls from the sewers to do your bidding, as per your latest video, why not be a little more adventurous with your zombie minions? Why not proceed to the seat of British power and impose your pop will on all of us, or instead of clustering around a milk float and spraying all the boys who wander past with Evian?

At least this is a step up from the last time we're sure we saw you ordering your gaggling army, running through Topshop and stripping the racks like a horde of wolverines.

Yours with love,
The Gays

It Rained. Hilariously.

My favourite thing about the BigGayOut this weekend? No, not that I didn't go - I was at a far more fabulous party in the south of London. I happened to be dressed as a cowboy with some lovely people, and some who are the missing link between us and the flouncy gay Marco from Big Brother.

Anyway, my favourite thing about the BigPayOut was when I got the shiny literature from my Housemate Who Is Good With Colours, and it had the most marvellous typo in it. In big letters, the titmatisizing Peter André was billed as:

'Peter Andre (accent)'


Thursday, July 01, 2004

Known So Well

So. Yesterday we all traipsed over to a printing plant, the idea being so that I could have a go at them all for fouling up some of my artwork jobs a few weeks back.

They held the meeting in a room with a full-sized Jonny Wilkinson cut-out.

Man, the afternoon was lost as far as I was concerned.