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

Wednesday, December 22, 2004

A Marvellous Series of Events

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

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

I was so happy I almost started crying.

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

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

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

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

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

Friday, December 17, 2004

The Top Ten Christmas Facts

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

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

* Christmas is now wholly owned by Microsoft.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, December 16, 2004

All I Want For Christmas...

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

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

Glitter for All!

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

Enquiring minds need to know.

Wednesday, December 15, 2004

Control Wants To Be Lady-Like

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

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

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

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

As He Wiped The Console Lovingly...

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

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

Monday, December 13, 2004

Glitter For Brains at the Movies: Blade Trinity!


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



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


Woah, Blade! Woo-woo-woo!

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

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

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

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

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

Well, that's Blade dead then.


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

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

Drake? As in Dracula?

Yeah, man. Coooool.

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

THE GAY AUDIENCE (drooling):

Come on, dudes...

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


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

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

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

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

Get 'im!

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

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

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

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

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

I have to ask - do you ever blink?

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

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

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

Dudes, it's coooool.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



THE GAY AUDIENCE (drooling):

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

Oh now, come on!

Why are you even in here, guys?

Phantom of the Opera was full.

Dudes, that sucks.

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

Oh. Coooool...

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

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



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

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

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

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

That was coooool...

Oh hush. It was bobbins.

Ryan Reynolds.

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

Behhhh... Right. Wesley Snipes!

(silence in the theatre)

Hum. Right. Shall we get out of here?

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


Thursday, December 09, 2004

Best Of One World

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

We Are The Gays.
Resistance Is Futile.

Wednesday, December 08, 2004

Worrying Advertising #7472

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

Tuesday, December 07, 2004

Doris Strokes

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

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

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

(It does make your snot remarkably lemon-fresh)

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

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

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

I heart her. Everyone should have a Doris.

Monday, December 06, 2004

Je Suis Anglaise!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thursday, December 02, 2004

Gay Paris +1

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

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

Hang on a minute...

(light bulb clicks on above head)

Completely True Story

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

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

Wednesday, December 01, 2004

What Would The Neighbours Say?

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


Track 8 actually means 'Lick Me Out'

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

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

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

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

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

Thus, this experiment is inconclusive.

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

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

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

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

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

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