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

Friday, December 23, 2005

Unfortunate Moments of My Life #3195

Let's finish this year on a personal high, shall we?

I was sitting with my legs stretched out before me, crossed at the ankles, trying to look relaxed by casually glancing around the foyer. Not much to see - it was typically featureless, large, garish posters hiding bland concrete with messages of 'brand values' and 'marketing communication'.

The receptionist saw me looking around and caught my eye. "He won't be long," she said, and smiled the generic disarming grin. It didn?t really make me feel any better.

I smiled back, nodding my understanding. I was nervous as fuck - this was going to be a big meeting. I subconsciously shuffled my notes and tried to relax. Breathe in, breathe out, think of kittens, think of everyone in their underwear.

Including that gentleman opposite me. Well, hello, young fellow-me-lad... I didn't notice you before. You're a bit of a catch, aren't you? Swarthy without looking too rough. And lovely green eyes...

Uh-oh. Lovely eyes that are looking at me. Quick, bury your head in your meeting notes. Pretend to care about repagination and gutters and those sorts of things.

Quick glance. Oh. He's still looking at me.

Actually, he was looking at my crotch

Well! Excuse me. I'm a married man! I can't be doing with any of that. It's fine for me to look, but not for them to reciprocate - that's just not done. So I shuffled my paper and turned away slightly in disgust.

I momentarily glanced back over my notes a minute later. He was looking slightly confused and now reading the paper. Well, I don?t blame him for looking initially - I did look utterly fabulous today. I cut a good figure with a nice shirt on, let me tell you.

"Mr Binding?" asked someone from across the room. I got up, removed my gloves, and went to shake their hand. But, just to be kind, I gave the gentleman opposite me a nice smile. It's always good to return attention. 'Gay It Forward' as it where.

He opened his mouth to say something, but I'd whirled off.

It was two hours into my meeting did I realise he wanted to tell me my flies were gaping open.

And a merry Christmas to all of you at home. See you all in the New Year.

Wednesday, December 21, 2005

A Squirt And A Wipe

In a fit of pique, our cleaner resigned a week or two ago. It was after a silly run-in about her seemingly spending most of her employment locked in the bathroom and sniffing the Toilet Duck.

Still, rather generously, she did offer a replacement: another Polish lady of her acquaintance. We agreed because, frankly, she couldn't be any worse than old Paulina the Cleaner, who we'd only employed because her name rhymed with her vocation anyway.

But the new girl isn't rubbish. She's marvellous. All of a sudden, surfaces we never knew we had are gleaming, the bathroom is spotless, and the dust-bunnies look like they've just been given myxomatosis.

"I clean good?" she asked the comedy housemate in her charming broken English when they accidentally bumped into one another. He was rather taken aback - she was all spiked heels and glamour before she shirking off her fur and whipping out the hoover. It's just not what you expect to be brandishing a loo brush. And God only knows where she's getting the rest of her cash to live on, but I tell you the eagerness she got to her knees with the Mr Muscle gave the game away a little.

We love her. Everyone should have a glamorous cleaner. The only problem is she's a little too thorough. By the side of my bed, there's a cloth for any... let's call them spillages. A 'glop-mop', if you will. Each time I come back after her visits, I find the room spotless, everything on the floor tidied away, and the wanky-hankie folded miraculously at the foot of the bed.

Three things come to mind. The first is, of course, 'ew'. The second is that I hope she thoroughly washes her hands afterwards. And the third is, bugger me she must be strong. It took me a cricket bat and a lot of leverage before I could even make a dent in that encrusted rag, yet she practically gives it hospital corners.

Friday, December 16, 2005

Doing Reps

Oh yes. I've even been too busy to go to the gym. My biceps have now atrophied into looking like sparrow's knee-caps.

I was talking this over with my Comedy Housemate. He really doesn't really get the gym, and seems to feel that if he simply goes and breathes the same air a toned instructor he will get a six-pack. An osmosis Adonis, if you will.

"I don't see why I should pay all that money, and not get them to lift things for me," he said, his logic faultless. "Those instructors are doing nothing but shouting at people, and their muscles are obviously a lot better than mine - let them move the weights from one place to another."

It's a nice idea. Although he did come back rather proud of himself the other day: "I did two reps!" he cried with glee.

I congratulated him heartily. Until he said he never got their names, and it turned out he was talking about two sales reps he'd found in the sauna.


Hello hello. Yes, my apologies. I've actually been too busy to breathe over the last couple of days. You know that thing when you're working and you look at your watch and you realise it's later than you thought? I did that - and it was half-past Thursday.

In the meantime, have a picture of London's Christmas tree. As per some tradition, Norway each year sends over a spectacular fern for us to put up in Trafalgar Square in the very heart of the city.

God knows what we've done to piss them off, because this year they sent this twig.

The Christmas Twig

Look at it. Elisabeth Taylor is keeping it together better!

I tell you, we'd better not vote against them in the Eurovision Song Contest again. Otherwise next year we'll get a stick rolled in tumble-dryer fluff and spray-painted green.

Monday, December 12, 2005

Glitter for Brains at the Movies! War of the Worlds

We go so you don't have to!

Bit of a long time coming, this. Mostly because we didn't go to see it at the cinema in protest at the Cruise/Holmes comedy double-act that were doing the rounds at the time. Did you know the teachings of L. Ron Hubbard are buried in the desert in a mult-million dollar bunker? Oh, if only someone would do the same to those two. Anyway - on with the show!

RUN TITLES. War of the Worlds

TOM CRUISE arrives at his HOUSE, which is strewn with CAR PARTS, just as MIRANDA OTTO arrives to drop off his own two children.
All this shows that his character is COMPLETELY HETEROSEXUAL.

Come on in. Don't expect any food to be here, for this is a swinging heterosexual bachelor pad.

Right. My new husband and I are off to the end of the film to give you a hollow goal to head towards. Here are your two kids so you have something to emote against. See you later!

Hi dad! I'm as cute as a button!


Meanwhile a STORM is brewing. TOM CRUISE wanders out and sees LIGHTNING strike the same place TWENTY TIMES. Slowly, an ALIEN TRIPOD rises from the EARTH.

Those machines have been buried for many years. And something came down on the lightning.

He's remarkably well informed for someone who shifts crates for a living.

Something alien.

So it took them twenty attempts to get in there? Sheesh. Well, we?ve been like that with our house keys when drunk...

The ALIEN TRIPOD starts destroying EVERYTHING. PEOPLE run for THEIR LIVES. TOM CRUISE legs it, turns a corner and pauses for a moment to ADDRESS THE CAMERA.

Of course, this is just a fiction - a playlette, if you will. Aliens are really visiting us to be our friends and mentors, as per the teachings of L. Ron Hubbard. But lets play along, shall we?


Crash! Bang! Wallop! Gritty! Even more grit!

The movie becomes like SAVING PRIVATE RYAN, but with lots more HOODIE TOPS. TOM CRUISE eventually gets back to his CHILDREN.

We have to get out of here. NOW!

Playing the difficult teenager role, I am obliged to say I don't want to.


(shrugs) Dunno.


STEVEN SPIELBERG laughs to himself and throws some more grit at the camera.

Well, anyway, we're going. NOW!


Do you see Dakota Fanning's about as tall as him?

Do you mind? I'm trying to craft a realistic-and-gritty war film.

THE AUDIENCE: long shots, you can't tell who's carrying who. Hey! What's this in my popcorn?

Grit. Everything must be gritty.

There are LOTS of PEOPLE RUNNING. Lots of PEOPLE DYING. More PEOPLE DIE in many various and HORRIBLE WAYS. TOM CRUISE crawls through MUD as people DIE around him.

(breathless) We... have to... save Private Ryan...


(breathless) We... have to... get to Boston... NOW!

More PEOPLE DIE everywhere. THE AUDIENCE slowly becomes IMMUNE to it.
Suddenly TOM CRUISE runs into TIM ROBBINS.

Hi! Come in my house! I've got plenty of food and water!

PSST! Tim! Play it like the Republicans are outside.

(eye twitching) I've got a plan... oh yes... I'm going to kill them all and then molest Dakota Fanning.

TOM CRUISE kills TIM ROBBINS because he is AN EVERYMAN WHO WILL DO ANYTHING TO PROTECT HIS KIDS. And also because he actually hasn't DONE ANYTHING DRAMATIC in this film at all.

And then the ALIENS DIE.


It's in the original book. Oh yes. Gritty.

They die, susceptible to our bacteria.

Oh. Er. Um. Well, god help us all if they ever come back with some Beechams Cold and Flu...


(for Ron Hilton)

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Fascinating Facts! Barbra Streisand

Today, we examine that icon, songstress, actress and eBay-addict, Barbra 'Call me Ms' Streisand!

Barbra was born on 24th April 1942 in Brooklyn, the daughter of a cotton mill and a coal mine. She grew up an Unorthodox Jew until someone turned her Torah the right way up in class.

While we all know Ms Streisand's real name is Melvin Super, not many people know how Babs picked her stage name. It actually comes from her first ever gig appraisal, where she tearfully took the each letters of the harsh review 'drab artisan, banjo arse' and rearranged it to form 'Barbara Joan Streisand' to remind herself she must do better. And lose a little off her bum.

She dropped the second 'a' in 'Barbara' when her car went over a bump.

Ms Streisand has had an extemporary career in film, to whit several of Babs' classic films have gone on to rouse several pornographic versions. These are, in no particular order, 'The Thighs of Laura Mars', 'Up The Dirtbox', 'A Star is Porn' and the water-sport themed classic, 'On A Clear Day You Can Wee Forever'.

At great expense, realistic-looking prosthetic eyes had to be created for Kris Kristofferson for the kissing scene in 'A Star Is Born'. These were placed over his real eyes to protect them from Babs' prodigious nose when she leant in for the kill.

It is impossible for Barbra Streisand and Barry Manilow ever to meet face-to-face. This is because she is allergic to pianos.

Barbra can hold a note so high and so long that the dolphins have secretly proclaimed her as their queen. Her month-long vanishings can now be attributed to her making public appearances off the Great Barrier Reef to open fishy supermarkets and do the dolphin's TV Christmas address, and also explains why she always flips tuna up into her mouth at dinner parties. And why she claps like a seal.

Barbra is hard as nails, and been implicated in several gangland executions. Babs is also the second highest-selling artist ever, after Elvis Presley. Elvis Presley is dead.

When she and Neil Diamond had the 1978 smash hit 'You Don't Bring Me Flowers' it was not the first time they had played together. They had, in fact, accidentally duetted in the bathroom half-hour before, both favouring the fart-trumpet as their instrument of choice after coincidentally having curry the night before. As usual, Barbra held a note so high and so long that the porcelain shattered, ruining her tights.

Barbra Streisand has started selling her blood in bottles. It is called mescaline.

Barbra is ageless and deathless and will never retire, but secretly plans to go live in The Oval Office when her work in stage and screen is done. She has drawn up plans that show her bed to be under the Roosevelt Desk, with a shower cubicle installed in that little passage between there and CJ's office.

Barbara Streisand secretly wants a coat made of 101 Dalmatians.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

Unfortunate Moments of My Life #3194

Being a gentleman of a hairier persuasion, I'm sure you've figured that certain areas must be bush-wacked on a regular juncture lest I get hunted down as a sasquatch each time I went to the gym. Thankfully, more permanent methods have since been taken to the stretch of lawn that was my back. But prior to that industrial lasering, I did Immac quite regularly.

So. T'was the night before the Work's Christmas Party some years ago. As part of a sketch I knew I'd have to drop my trousers with all appropriate hilarity. As a safe bet, I thought I'd better mow my back as well in case that got an airing for an encore, and slathered up the whole area with depilatory cream and got in the bath.

Now I do love a good bath, usually replete with foam and a rubber duckie. It's a perfect way to relax. So while I was day-dreaming of getting tipsy and staggering against some of my male work colleagues and muttering 'You don't need to phone your wife... no-one (hic) knows what a man wants more than another man...' I blissfully slid down into the bath. Unbeknownst to me, in lowering myself so I'd scraped a swathe of hair remover off my back and it was currently resting on the rim of the tub.

I still didn't realise this when I laid my head backwards in a sigh of bath-time bliss. That I was actually resting the back of my head into a clump of hair removal cream.

Oh yes.

In fact I didn't realise until I dried my hair, and the whole of the back of my hair-do fell off. I had to go to the work's Christmas event the following day with a huge circle of bald in the back of my head. And let me tell you, that took a lot of lying to cover...

Friday, December 02, 2005

My Christmas Present

Oh yes, I'm sure I'm right at the tippy-top of all your lists when it comes to buying Christmas presents. But what do you get a refined Gentleman That's Good With Colours-about-town when clearly he's had the world at his finger tips? And on more than a couple of occasions, on the tip of his tongue?

Well, fret no more, my lovely people! For I have found this diabolical happening - a Girls Aloud tribute band, hilariously called 'Girls Alouder'! As if the real thing wasn't cheap enough, this very site's worshipped group have got a scraped-together homage with even worse roots than them! Who'd have thought!

Oh god I love tribute acts. I recall the horror that was 'Zig-A-Zig-Ah', a Spice Girls homage I saw in a club some years back. Five middle-aged women with flabby upper arms stomping their way through the repertoire, with barely a passing resemblance to the Spices between them. Most of the club looked on, open-mouthed.

"Would you like another hit?" asked the apparent Geri after three ghastly tracks.

"No!" cried someone at the back of the crowd.

"Well, tough," she said, rolling up her sleeves. "We've been booked for the hour." And the backing track struck up once more.

"Make the bad noise end!" hollered someone else as they started to take against '2 Become 1'.

Ironically, their next song after was the number 2 classic, 'Stop'. They still didn't take the hint.

Crayola Update

Tonight I shall be rubbing something else over my naked body, for I decided to give the crayons to a colleague who has a lovely little girl. She draws pictures with such concentration, she pokes her tongue out the side of her mouth when she's trying not to outside the lines.

There. One good deed done today - that'll get me into heaven! Ignoring the fact that they weren't mine to give away, he's now guilty of accepting stolen goods, and that I once ran over a kitten. With a lawn mower.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005


My love of stationary is almost pornographic. Which is good, as my love of pornography is nigh-on religious fervour.

But let's thankfully concentrate on the pens this time around: who cannot gain a little sliver of joy from a new ballpoint, popping the lid for the first time, and cry out in elation as the ink - so new, so viscous! - comes thick and fast over your virginal page? Or seeing a rack of new pencils, sharpened to a stiletto point, lined up so? Oh, I look at those pointy pencils and pity any passing vampire.

Which is why the following is proving to be such a difficult dilemma: someone has been 'let go' from our company. This someone was working alongside me when it came to promotions. And this someone gave me three whole boxes of brand-new, not-out-of-the-box Crayola crayons to look after.

(sneaky look left and right)

And now they could be mine.

No-one knows I've got them. I could easily sneak them back home, taking each one out of the box and run them under my nose like a fine cigar. I could spend hours rubbing them against my naked body, laughing like a stoat.

But the Big Question is: should I? Should I sneak these little slivers of joy out of the building? Should I rekindle my life as Raffles, Gentleman Thief? Here's your chance to be my own usually-absent moral compass!

Do leave your thoughts below, poppets.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

Stupidity Is...

...Absent-mindedly wandering into a communal gents toilet while not wearing any shoes.

(wrings out socks)


Monday, November 28, 2005

New Favourite Story!

While carousing down the local tavern, glass of port in one hand and waiter in the other, I came across my old chum little Timmy in the corner. I apologised profusely and offered him a hankie, and while he dabbed himself he offered to tell me a story that 'I would love' in exchange for a beer.

Well, I let go of the waiter and ordered him to the bar, poste-haste, for I was all ears for little Timmy. He spins a good yarn, and isn't bad-looking to boot. His story went thus:

Some years back, he went to an all-access Sheryl Crow gig. He subsequently got chatting one of Old Shazza's roadies, who toured with (get this) Cher a few years back.

So, as part of this tour, Cher was to be lowered from the sky on a big glitter ball - as all Elderly Women Who Are Playing To Gentlemen Who Are Good With Colours are want to do. And all this while wearing a glittery leotard/frock. Imagine the adulation from the pink throng beneath her. Why, I'm nearly fainting with pure Gayness at the thought!

Unfortunately. Oh yes, unfortunately, the winch holding Dame Cher aloft over the doting pooves broke slightly, and she got stuck in mid air. She was arse up, and the glitter ball continued its decent, banging away at her as it continues toward the stage.

Apparently, when they did manage to wangle the old crone free she later referred to herself as some "fucking drag queen Piñata."

Oh yes.

Are you still laughing? Because I am.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Sport Billie

I think the first major inkling my parents had about me being a Gentleman Who Adores Shopping was when I got an A+ for a sponge cake in class. The second was that there was never any need to wash my PE kit.

Oh, how all we Gentlemen hated PE, and I certainly did with a passion. And while it would be years until I came to appreciate lithe teenage bodies pressed together in a shower room, the thought of being sent outdoors to get kicked, dirty and wet simply made me clutch my hand to my pearls and whisper for protection from the Goddess Streisand. Although after five years of squealing whenever the ball came near me, I did discover several ways of Getting Away With It. For the most part, the art was to pretend to be taking part without exerting any energy whatsoever, and here's a quick guide of how to do it:

Football: oh, always go in Defence. The ball would come near the goal, you could run a little way out, do a faux-kick in its general direction (think chorus line, but without jazz-hands) and shrug apologetically when it zips past you into the goal area. For at that point, it's up to the goalie to sort. Hurrah! Absolved of all responsibility, and go back to pretending to be Kate Bush in the Wuthering Heights video when teacher's back was turned.

Rugby: Even easier to avoid the ball! In fact, it's positively encouraged for people to spread about the pitch in case they have to pass the ball to you. Fortunately I was fumbling all balls at that age, including that of several boys in the same year. So you could wander up and down, affecting to take part - although I discovered that if the ball came near you, you should at least pretend to make a play for it. Squealing, and skipping away leaves you to be found out very quickly.

Cricket: a deathly boring game that was blissful for Gentlemen Who Bowl From The Pavilion End like me. In this case, you had to stand in a field, ready to catch a ball. Oh yes! They did try a couple of times to get me to do that. Do try and seize the approaching ball like a passenger from the Rainbow Special Bus trying to clap. You were often consigned to the edge of a field on your own completely unsupervised. Or, in my case, singing to myself while I planned how to hide Craig's towel while he was in the shower.

Volleyball: Oh they tried. Once. It was hilarious.

Cross Country Running: Now this was a hard one to fudge, and often depended on how exasperated your PE teacher was with you. If, like mine, he'd given up after a term of trying to get you to hit anything with a bat, let alone a moving ball. So we were able to plod off for a bit, hide around the back of the school while trying to sculpt our hair into that of Spandau Ballet, and return 30 minutes later, puffing away like a knackered steam train. Brilliant!

And no, after all these years, not much has changed. I'm still employing very similar techniques at work. Only with considerably more jazz-hands!

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Christmas Comes Early!

Apologies for not being around yesterday - we spent most of the day rolling around the floor, laughing our cocks off in glee after we'd accidentally caught a glimpse of the new Girls Aloud Special Edition album cover. Look upon it! Look upon its fantabulous garishness, and wonder why we love them so much!

T'is Better to Give Than Receive!

Well, all bar the ginger one, naturally. Despite being packed up with what appears to be three bottles bottle of Caffeine-Sodium-Benzoate in this shot, Nicola still retains the dead-eyed stare of one of those robots from Battlestar Galactica.

Doesn't it look festive? And I'm sure at least one or two readers can see a jolly nice bird on there who deserves a good stuffing... What a marvellous Christmas chez The Aloud it would be! Can you imagine, them getting a little tipsy... maybe a little lesbionic as the night wears on? Just messing around...

INT NIGHT: Girls Aloud Kitchen

Cheryl: Wahey!! Wooo!!

Nadine: Oh Cheryl!! Mind the brandy butter!!

Sarah: Oh, Kimberley!! More!! More!!!

FX: Giggles, slapping noises. General fun.


Cylon eye noise.


Tuesday, November 22, 2005

Any Port And Lemon In A Storm

I was meant to go to three birthday parties this Saturday. All important.

In this inclement weather, one must forgo a little glamour to keep warm. And as the night was as bitter as a lesbian who's Life-Partner had run off with a man, so out goes the sensational cocktails, and in is wheeled a little something to warm my cockles.

Oh yes, I've taken to drinking port in my dotage - a good hardy drink to fend off the bad weather. So I started the first party off with a good couple of glasses. Just to warm me up, you understand.

After some time, I went back to the bar:

"Same again sir?
"Oh, I think I'll have a double."
The Bar Functionary stopped cleaning his glass for a second.
"Sir, you've been drinking doubles all evening."
"I have?"
"We only serve port in doubles."
I narrowed my eyes, waiting for a reaction from him. A grin or something to give the game away.
"Well," I said leaning a little too reliantly on the barstool. "In that case, I'll have a triple - no wait. What's the double of a double?"
"A quadruple."
"A quadruple is a double of a double?"
"Yes sir."
"You're very good at maths."
"Thank you, sir," he said, genuinely pleased. "Here's your, ah, quadruple. And have another one on the house."

Oh yes. I was meant to go to three birthday parties this weekend. By the end of the night, I was barely there for one.

Cold Update

Last night, while I slept, my nose ran.

It ran with such volume and viscosity that, when I woke up to kick my alarm clock into submission, the left side of my face had bonded to the pillow.

'Ew' indeed.

Monday, November 21, 2005


I've finally succumbed to the office cold. Snot everywhere - which is no fun whatsoever when you have a beard, let me tell you. Lets just say the words 'matted' and 'shiny' are good adjectives for my chin at the moment.

Anyway, I can probably hang it on the fact that I ran out of vitamins this very weekend and was too lazy to go and get some more. So it's my own silly fault.


Hey! I'm a homosexual who thinks vitamin pills are the answer to everything!

Look at me! I'm Tom Cruise!

Friday, November 18, 2005

It's All About Meme, Meme, Meme

A chance to talk about moi? No, really I couldn't!

No, wait! Come back! I was only joking! Of course I will.

This comes via the handsome tornwordo at Sticky Crows, and you're meant to put the first thing that comes into your head. Alas, my first thought is usually the noise a BBC Micro used to make when you turn it on, I had to go for the second choice. Read on. And feel free to pilfer it for your lovely selves, you gorgeous things.

1) My mother once: killed a goat. Not in a ritualistic manner - she just tied it too close to the coal bunker and it ate all the coal. She told us it 'had gone back to the farm', despite being clearly seen taking something wrapped in a coat that was the size and shape of a dead goat up the back of the garden as we were coming home from school.

2) Never in my life: have I regretted 'going commando' more than that day in 1996.

3) When I was five: I covered my hands in glue and pretended to have a skin complaint to piss off the kid with excema.

4) High School was/is: dangerously close to being like the 'Beauty School Dropout' from Grease, in retrospect...

5) I will never forget: my first pay packet. I lay on my bedroom floor and rolled around in ten pound notes for two solid hours.

6) I once met: royalty. We had no idea who each other were.

7) There's this person I know who: used to believe it was 1912. He refused to travel on the tube lines that weren't around then as he was convinced they didn't exist.

8) Once, at a bar: in Barcelona, I jumped on it and danced all the moves to 'Can't Get You Out of My Head' in front of all my work colleagues. The horror, the horror...

9) By noon I'm usually: throwing a shoe at our useless PA. Ten points if you get her on the back of the head while she's eating a sandwich.

10) Last night I: danced around in my pants to the new Girls Aloud record. I got so excited, I burped falafel.

11) If I only had: more dignity.

12) Next time I go to church/temple: I'll flush when I've finished.

13) Terri Schiavo: sounds like someone who advertises their own brand of nasal hair trimmers

14) I like: making people laugh til they cry.

15) When I turn my head left, I see: The rest of the office.

16) When I turn my head right, I see: My lifesize Condoliza Rice.

17) You know I'm lying when: I compliment you enthusiastically.

18) In grade school: I used to sniff cleaning powder.

19) If I was a character written by Shakespeare: I'd be poorly-spelt and use a lot of exclamation marks.

20) By this time next year I: hope to have found a use for those six months we wasted on learning 'the crop rotation cycle' in third-year History.

21) A better name for me would be: Flipsy the Christmas Weasel.

22) I have a hard time understanding: emotion. I had my tear-ducts lasered shut in 1957.

23) If I ever go back to school I'll: be too big for the desks.

24) You know I like you if: I haven't complimented you outlandishly.

25) If I won an award, the first person I'd thank would be: whoever I'd blown to get the award.

26) I hope that: I wasn't really serious with the above answer, but I'm beginning to question it...

27) Take my advice: camels are NOT to be trifled with.

28) My ideal breakfast is: a bottle of chocolate syrup. Brought to me by a naked Ben Browder. Hilarity ensues.

29) A song I love, but do not have is: 'Shirley Bassey Sings Charlotte Church.'

30) If you visit my hometown, I suggest: bringing a bulldozer. No, really. It's hideous.

31) Tulips, character flaws, microchips & track stars: I'm more of a pansy.

32) Why won't anyone: tell Madonna.

33) If you spend the night at my house: you'll have to be careful on the turnstile I had installed instead of a bedroom door.

34) I'd stop my wedding: if the dress wasn't big enough.

35) The world could do without: women in front of you stopping suddenly at clothes store windows, beguiled by New Fashion.

36) I'd rather lick the belly of a roach than: watch any more CSI.

37) My favorite is: the button marked 'Destroy Celine Dion'.

38) Paper clips are more useful than: BBC Breakfast News.

40) And by the way: that outfit? *Fabulous*.

41) The last time I was drunk: I stuck my hand in a birthday cake.

42) My grandmother always: watches over me. Bless her.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

The Gayest Cake Disaster Imaginable

This Saturday was Aunty Drama's birthday! Jubilate all! And to see her into her glorious third century, we decided to smash a bottle of champagne against her hull and bake her a cake. Oh, but not just any old cake - it was to be The Gayest Cake Imaginable!

In retrospect, we should never have played with such primal forces.

Why not join us on a whirlwind of baking discovery to ascertain what you can - and cannot do - with three gallon of fondant and a rolling pin!

17:10pm (2 hours 50 before the party)
Step 1: Grease Your Pans!


In order to have to optimum baking requirements, every surface should be coated in flour. Including the inside of your pants, just to be on the safe side! And remember - baking goods also respond well to music. So if you're baking The Gayest Cake Imaginable, why not start off with the new Madonna album? Oh, you can taste the glitter in the air!

17:15 (2 hours 45 before the party)
Step 2: Beat Yourself Into A Froth

Beat away!

Look at that hand action! Look at that effort! Who else is getting flashbacks to 'Showgirls'?

17:30 (2 hours 30 before the party)
Step 3: Spread Your Load


As a jaunty chorus of 'Mr Sandman' was sung, the pink colorant added. As you can tell, the mix is already starting to glitter and glow. We're having to wear goggles with Condoliza Rice painted on the lenses in order to stop the Fabulous permanently searing our retinas!

17:35 (2 hours 25 before the party)
Step 4: Lick It Out


A brave move from the Wife there. That much Gayness taken in its pure form can lead you to think that highlights are a Good Idea or, in extreme cases, believe you are Liza Minelli...

17:40 (2 hours 20 before the party)
Step 5: Plan Your Attack


With his Special Thinking Glasses on, Lee plans exactly what is going to grace the top of the Baked Glorious. You should also consider such fastidiousness - simply putting 'You Are Old' on the top won't win you any friends, no matter how fancy your buttery swirls!

18:20 (1 hours 40 before the party - and seconds from disaster)
Step 6: Spread 'Em For Daddy

It got everywhere!

It's time to start oozing your sticky love all over the soft, receptive area. But a WORD OF WARNING: do not, as we did, put jam down first, and then try spreading the icing on top. The top part of the cake started to break up and started sliding down the icing like tectonic plates! It, like Britney Spears, was collapsing under its own weight!

No matter how much patching up with icing, the cake was sliding apart!

By 18:25, the cake was ruined.

18:30 (1 hours 30 before the party)
Step 7: Always Swallow


The cake had buckled under its own mass. But the Wife is never one to let anything go to waste! In the meantime, we were distraught. Not only were we without a cake, but we also had to safely dispose something that produced so much background Gay Radiation that people's hair was being done whenever they came close!

19.15 (45 mins before the party - Lee is 30, The Wife is 37)
Step 8: The Second Coming


Bereft and cakeless, that clever spark Lee suddenly remembered that he had a gay cake at his home! Why it was in the fridge, ready to celebrate the release of Madge's new album on Monday! Hurrah! So everyone trapsed over to his FabulousLondonBridgePad, their icing bags banging together!

19:50 (10 mins before the party)
Step 9: Eat Me Out


The icing is finished! No-one would ever know that it was meant to be for her Madge-esty! Why, it even looks good enough to eat!
Quick boys! Hie thee to Old Street, fast!

02:15 (5 hours 15 after the start of the party)
Step 10: After Glow


A semi-success! And it contained so much sugar that people who had it didn't have a hangover the following day! Brilliant!

Alas, this wasn't the Gayest Cake Imaginable. Here is our previous effort, which was even GAYER.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

The Door Bulges

Well, wasn't it nice of Daniel Powter to re-release his first song for those who had missed it the first time around, now with the new name of 'Free Loop'? It's that kind of charitable thought that makes us glad most of his playdoh head is almost completely encased in wool.

Anyway. This Saturday morning, he graced the couch of some garish pop show, gaily chatting away while the Wife and I read the papers. We've had, uh, 'Concerns' about young Mr Powter for some time. So it was with interest that we watched him answer the question 'Name three women you fancy'.

"Gwen Stefani," stated Powter after a nervous smile.

"Ding!" said the Wife. He peered over the top of his 'Environmentalist', ear cocked, pausing in his bookmarking things about The Evils of Teflon.

"Er," Powter squirmed. "Er.... Madonna "


"One more," urged the presenters.

The Wife leaned forward.

"...And, er, Diana Ross."

"Ding-ding-ding! You are OUT! my friend," said the Wife.

Well. There you have it.

Monday, November 14, 2005

Confessions on a Toilet Floor

Well. Thanks to us taking the piss out of pop's very own Mrs Overall on Friday, we had a call from 'her people' over the weekend. Apparently, Madge wanted to put the record straight to all we accused her of, and could fit me in for a quick interview between Smash Hits and The Lady if we wanted. Well, who could refuse talking to an icon? Here's the transcript:

(Door slams open)


G4B: Good lord. Do sit down. A woman of your age really shouldn't... you know.

MADGE: What, motherfucker?

G4B: I was going to say 'high-kick' but I'll settle for 'be wearing a leotard'.

MADGE: I've still gorrit.

G4B: Now Madge, thank you very much for coming in for an interview. Cynically, we only thought you'd agreed when we said the magic word.

MADGE: 'Kabbalah'?

G4B: 'Gay'.

MADGE: Insert something positive and uplifting about The Gays.

G4B: But it would be fair to say that this new album panders a little to Gentlemen Who Admire Curtains. Or is it a natural progression after being inspired by dance music for 'Ray of Light' and country and western for 'Music'...

MADGE: Do you want me to be a cowboy? I can be a cowboy for you...

G4B: Madge, please. Sit down.

MADGE: I can do anything, you know. Cowboy, cop, Indian, construction worker. Anything.

G4B: Shall we talk about your new album, 'Confessions on a Dance Floor'? Releasing two versions of it seems like a bit of a desperate attempt to get a bit more extra cash, wouldn't you say?

MADGE: Are you going to finish that pastry?

G4B: Yes, why?

MADGE: No. No reason. I've never stolen anything in my life. All my ideas are perfectly my own.

G4B: Hey! Give that back!

MADGE: I think you'll find it was my pasty all along. In fact, Gwen Stefani has been trying to nick all my baked goods for ages.

G4B: Er. So. Regarding your album, and lyrics in general. I think I have them written down here...

MADGE: Ooh, so do I... It's at the bottom of my handbag...

G4B: Here we are! Now, please explain these lines 'I don't like cities but I like New York / Every other city makes me feel like a dork'.

MADGE: These ones here?

G4B: Yes. Oh - your version seems to be written in crayon! Have you been letting Lourdes to write these for you again?


G4B: Are you sure?

MADGE: I did them. They're wholly my idea. I didn't steal anything.

G4B: It says 'Wot I Did In My Hodilays by Lourdes' at the top!

MADGE: Lourdes? No. That's just my new logo. You see the mirrorball in the 'o'? That's me, that is. Yes.

G4B: Madge! You've been nicking things off your own children! Haven't you?
Well? Haven't you?
And why are you pulling that face?

MADGE: You're... standing... on... my... saline... drip...

G4B: Oh, sorry. I didn't realise.

MADGE: See? I'm still in good shape for my age! I can get my leg right over my head.

G4B: It's fine, really. And I'm hoping that grinding noise was the builders outside...

MADGE: You see I'm so versatile, I can do anything. Watch me! Look at me. You want me to be a belly dancer? I can do that. Or what about a sailor? I could do that for you! I can be anything you want!

G4B: Would you kindly-

MADGE: Love me.

G4B: I'm sorry?

MADGE: Love me. Please.

G4B: Madge, I think I shouldn't keep you any longer. Thank you for your time. And please - keep the chair that you're trying to stuff into your handbag.

MADGE: It was my chair all along.

(The new album is really good, though. How vexing.)

Friday, November 11, 2005

The Stars Are Closer To Home

We always like a bit of celeb-spotting here at Glitter for Brains - why, only two days ago did we wander past the lizard-skinned homosexual from 'Star Trek: Enterprise' in the street. But we reached a personal zenith the other week when we noticed an Awful Lot of filming equipment just up the road from our fabulous bijou home. And some security guards appeared to have hi-jacked a slack-titted, gap-toothed bag-lady, who was being escorted to the set.

It transpired that dear Madonna was filming her video for 'Hung Up'.

For those of you who haven't seen this latest Madge-num Opus, the plot of the video appears to be thus:

Three black street-dancers (remember children, Madge's music is all-embracing) who dress like Wal-Mart shelf stackers dance at each other, then get into a cab and flee from their run-down neighbourhood. It is clearly America (remember children, Madge's music is all-encompassing).

Meanwhile Madge is gyrating in a leotard. As you do.

The three dancer then arrive in our fair London Bridge area. In a London cab.

Yes, dear readers. It seems these street-dancing homies are independently wealthy - not only to have caught a plane on what seemed to be a whim when they heard Madge's Pied Piper siren call, but also taking a cab from Gatwick when the Tube is clearly cheaper and quicker.

Now this narrative jump is what we call a 'segue' in the business, a bit of a cut to join two bits of story together. Although dear Madge, never one to let any spare pence slip through her wizened claws, is rumoured to be releasing the version where you can hear all the shenanigans in between these bits of action. Oh yes -

Marvel! As the sounds of a disinterested check-in official slowly allocates seats over a disco beat!

Embrace! As the safety demonstration is weaved into the middle eight!

Spin! As the Spanish woman in the seat behind them keeps putting her feet up on the seats, much to their annoyance, but they don't want to say anything so just put their headphones on and try to watch 'Madagascar' again!

Carousel! As they have to wait until last to get their bags out through customs -all to a purloined ABBA beat!

It's fourteen hours long and perfect to do the housework to. But mostly the hoovering.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Live DVD - And Two Dead Eyes

Now available in the shops for you to keep and keep again (and keep on keeping) is the second DVD in which I grace the contents. Hurrah! I shall exist eternal in the digital medium, immortalised in a soon-to-be-defunct format! Er, oh.

Anyway, you're probably wondering what it was, aren't you? Actually, some of the clever ones of you out there are wondering what the first DVD I was on, but I'm not going to tell you. I shall merely say that I needed the cash and thought it was a genuine advert for a builder's mate.

This second DVD, whereas, will be no surprise to discover is the new Girls Aloud DVD, Live (ha!) at Hammersmith Apollo. I'm in the audience. Cheering my little gay ass off as the Four Songstresses of Pop (plus Nicola) dance and sing (while Nicola hoofs it over the stage, visibly counting her dance steps).

Oh, I know. We shouldn't be so cruel to poor, ginger, band-member Nicola. She can't help it if she thinks looking out of the DVD packaging with eyes of a stunned gazelle actually equals 'sultry'. You can see evidence of this on the cover - she's the one on the far right who appears to have just been for electroshock therapy:

They were live. No really


And here's what HMV are cunningly doing to increase sales:

No dead eyes!

Poor Nicola. Poor, poor Nicola.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Unfortunate Moments of My Life #3193

In those dubious days before I fully discovered boys, I did toy with the ideal of finding a nice ladyfriend to wile away the rest of my life. Though, as I look back, I very much doubt the lucky girl would have to have been wholly fulfilled with a life of baking cakes and spending long weekends getting her hair platted.

Oh, all this was quite a long time before That Fateful Incident In The Woods that set me anything but straight. So picture the poor unfortunate in my class that had recently become the object of my affection; she was quite attractive, slender, and more importantly had the longest hair - which is darned important with any foresight to platting, let me tell you.

Now I was a greenhorn boy with little or no social awareness - and certainly so when it came to matters of the heart - I decided declare my intentions by giving the girl in question my first ever Valentine's card. Do follow my dubious train of thought here: despite wanting to pronounce my affection to the world, I also realised that Valentine's cards were meant to be anonymous and secretive and all sorts of Cyrano De Bergerac-type things. I also madly figured this girl I'd never spoken to before would be able to figure out my handwriting at ten paces. And so I decided to disguise the entire creation.

Thus, I wrote the whole thing using clipped out letters from a newspaper.

And in no way did the whole card look like a scary ransom note whatsoever.

Sheesh. I never did live that one down.

One Sign You're A Middle-Age Gay

Slapping your forehead in the middle of a management meeting and saying "Damn! I forgot to buy Quorn!"

Friday, November 04, 2005

My Crotch Stiffened...

The marvellous thing about 'going commando' is the sly liberated feeling one gets in a supermarket queue. The downside is that well-worn hole - you know, the one that slowly widens with wear between ones thighs to show your breakfast - does appear a lot sooner than it really should.

Said hole recently appeared in my favourite pair of jeans, so it was off to Mr Mend-It in London's trendy London for a bit of a repair job.

Well, I was expecting a couple of stitches in there to prevent any sort of spillage, but they've gone and what can only be described as upholstered the seat. It's a stupendous job - you can't see the join at all, but out of nowhere, some sort of reinforced fabric has all but welded in place, and appears to be thick enough to survive atmospheric re-entry. It's like they've installed a drip-tray, a steel plate to weather the hardiest effects of three-bean curries from the night before!

Although it is most distracting walking to work with what feels like scaffolding in your gusset.

Suddenly, my trousers have doubled their weight, and one must resort to wearing a belt. Now I have a thing against belts; the Wife has a large collection of big cowboy buckles which do look marvellous, but are wholly inconvenient when it comes to oral sex. Oh yes, I could tell you of a whole host of times I've come into work with 'Texas Cowboy' imprinted in reverse on my forehead...

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Unfortunate Moments of My Life #3192

It is very true to say that I like a bit of hair on my men. Nothing too gauche, naturally - one does like a bit of 'grass on the pitch' when playing. But I do draw the line when potential gentlemen callers have to shave their foreheads in order to watch television

So it was with great delight that, upon returning from shopping one day, I saw a trio of hirsute gentlemen walking towards me with their tops off.

'Goodness,' I thought, catching one's breath. What fine specimens. Taught muscular bodies. A little grubby - let's say they've been rolling around in the mud while playing football. Oh yes. Together. Rolling around, playfully snapping at each other's shorts during half-time. Having to miss the bath because someone had run off with the one on the right's towel and all sorts of hilarity had ensued.

I skipped on towards them, happy with these thoughts.

And as they were getting closer, I started swinging my shopping in what I thought was a coquettish manner of 'Well, gentlemen, aren't you lovely!' It got their attention right away, and I shivered slightly as their gaze took me in. The one on the left, who looked positively rough, broke into a smile. A stained, yellow, broken-toothed grin. It looked like the tombstones of Highgate Cemetery.

"Spare some change, govn'r?" he asked.

I stopped skipping. Good lord. They were tramps.

I coughed into my silk hanky, pressed it to my nose and walked on by them, ignoring their pleas for monies.

Well. I ask you. Tramps. In my glorious area.

Although I probably still would have still done the one on the right.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Lulu (Part III)

(Enter Lee, wiping his hands on a towel)

LEE: What a long night! Spending five hours delivering Lulu's bizarre offspring. I'm knackered.

(a beat)

What's in the bin bag? And come to think of it, why is it so quiet in here?

(a beat)

And what's with the brick?

JAY: Let's just say that, if anyone goes rifling through our bins to steal our identity, they're in for a bit of a shock.

LEE: You didn't!

JAY: Beardface, the little things were lame anyway. And we wouldn't want the creation of another dead-eyed daytime presenter on our consciences, would we?

LEE: Aww. But the lank-haired one was so cute! I wanted to keep her. Her first words were 'Cubic Zirconia'...

JAY: We have bigger problems, Beardface. Listen. The assembled d-list divas have stopped attacking.

LEE: That's a good thing. Right? That is a good thing, isn?t it?

JAY: Not necessarily. They could be marshalling their strength for a bigger attack...

LEE: Oh my god. They're using Aretha Franklin as a battering ram!

JAY: Clever girl.

ARETHA: R! (slam!) E! (slam!) S! (slam!) P! (slam!) E! (slam!) C! (slam!) T!

LEE: They're coming out the goddam walls! THEY'RE COMING OUT THE GODDAM WALLS! Ow! What was that for?

JAY: Pull yourself together, man! We have to get out of this. Now think! Why would these d-list divas be hammering on our charming pied-a-terre?

LEE: Errr... I do a mean shepherd's pie.

JAY: That grey lump with the cheese?

LEE: That's the toad in the hole. The shepherd's pie is the brown stuff that looks like dog vomit.

JAY: Oh yes. That. Well, you're not having the divas around for dinner.

LEE: I know, they'll rip our heads off.

JAY: And we've only got six chairs. And two of those would be needed for the corpulent Dame Judi...

LEE: Of course, it's obvious - they're all after Lulu!

JAY: Why on earth would this army of semi-fabulous be after Lulu?

LEE: Well, look at her. She's three-hundred and nine and still got skin smoother than my peachy behind.

JAY: That grey lump with the cheese?

LEE: I could go off you, you know.

JAY: Well, there's only one way to find out. There! We! Go!

LEE: Oh! You can't throw Lulu out there! She'll make them more powerful! Oh I can't watch!

JAY: Oh. They've all kind of gathered around her.

LEE: And?!

JAY: They're kind of sniffing her a bit, and - oh.

LEE: What? What?! What's happening?

JAY: They've ripped her to shreds.

LEE: Ohgod. Ohgod. Ohgod. Lulu! And we're next!

JAY: We have to think why they're here. Why, Beardface! Come on - you've got a degree.

LEE: In needlework, you fool! Oh, heaven help me! I don't want to die at the hands of a former Coronation Street star!

JAY: That's it! Wasps!

LEE: What?

JAY: Wasps, you bushy buffoon! When you kill a wasp, it released a scent that drives all the other wasps to attack. It must be the same with divas. This all stated when Cher had her accident!

LEE: You mean you knocked her head off.

JAY: Details, details.

LEE: So all we have to do is create a convincing Cher for them to call off their attack!

JAY: I've got a mop!

LEE: And I've got two plastic cups for the breasts!

JAY: Strap a tape recorder to it playing 'Believe' and we're all done!

LEE: There. Throw it outside.

JAY: And it's gone!

LEE: What's happening?

JAY: They're sniffing it... and slowly approaching... shit! One of the breasts fell off!

LEE: It's alright. That always used to happen with the real thing all the time.

JAY: They've reached the Cher...

LEE: I'm scared.

JAY: They?ve picked it up...

LEE: And? AND?!

JAY: ...they are taking it with them.

LEE: They're going?

JAY: Every last one. Off into the night, probably to find the warmth of a Green Room to sleep in.

LEE: Aww. Brilliant. Well done, you. How did you know about the wasps?

JAY: People tell me things. I'm very approachable.

LEE: Like fudge you are.

JAY: Well, one thing is certain. No more pets for you, Beardface. Deal?

LEE: Deal!

(Exeunt Jay, whistling 'To Sir With Love')

LEE: I just won't tell him about little Cilla Black sleeping under my bed...

(the end)

Lulu (A Slight Aside)

Dear Canadians, etc,

If you are unsure of who Lulu actually is, we at Glitter For Brains have created a handy factsheet for you. It is 100% accurate and true. Oh yes.

Monday, October 31, 2005

Lulu (Part II)

(Enter Comedy Housemate Jay, with a blunderbuss under his arm.)

LEE: No! Don't! I won't let you shoot Lulu!

JAY: Eh? What are you on about you hirsute fool?

LEE: Put the gun down before I have to call your mother again.

JAY: Oh this isn't for Lulu. We've just have Shirley Bassey trying to crawl in the bathroom window.

LEE: Oh. Oh! Well, that explains it!

JAY: What?

LEE: 'Goooolllldfinnnnn-BLAM!-crumple'

JAY: She wasn't going easily, either. Do be careful when you shower - her false nails are still embedded in the Imperial Leather.

LEE: And to eBay we go!

JAY: I tell you, Beardface, god alone knows where all these d-list divas are coming from. It's like they're being attracted to something.

LEE: I know what you mean. I've had to board up the newly-installed Lulu-Flap in the door. Dame Judi Dench was having a good old try at getting in this morning.

JAY: But she's the size of a washing machine!

LEE: I know. I had to hit her with a frying pan until she retreated into the bushes. You can still see her, beady eyes, waiting...

JAY: Beardface, this is all very sinister.

LEE: Hmm. Oooh, I taught Lulu a new trick while you were upstairs.

JAY: Where is that red-headed rapscallion anyway?

LEE: Just having a rest in her basket. She's been running around all morning, sniffing this and that...

JAY: Aww.

LEE: Was that a flicker of emotion?

JAY: No. If I have to clean up another one of her little 'accidents', she's going for a ride in Mr Blender.

LEE: Don't you dare! Look, see! She's looking at you now... It's almost as if she knows what you're saying...

JAY: I simply would like to point out I object to all these little puddles of Flora Active I keep skidding in. Honestly Maurice Gibb must have spent a fortune on cleaning up after her.

LEE: Oh, look! She's getting up! I don't know why, but she always wags and barks the TV when David Bowie appears.

JAY: Good god, man! Look at the size of her! What have you been feeding her?

LEE: Flora margarine.

JAY: Beardface!

LEE: It's the only thing her contract allows her to eat! It may mean that she'll put on a little weight....

JAY: And that she's very slippy to pick up. It's a good job you weren't here earlier - I gave her a squeeze and she shot upward and hit the light-fitting.

LEE: No!

JAY: Rather like soap in the bath. Now what on earth is that banging?

LEE: Oh for goodness sake. Look. Joan Collins is trying to flap down the chimney.

JAY: Right. Don?t worry. I'll be back in a moment.

(Exeunt Jay, cocking blunderbuss)

LEE: Come here, girl. Let's give you a hug. You ignore the nasty man and his squeezy hugs.

LULU: WWWWwwweEEEeeeellll...

LEE: You don't sound well at all. Let me see... Oh good lord. Lulu's pregnant!

(to be concluded)

Friday, October 28, 2005

Lulu (Part I)

(Enter Comedy Housemate Jay, poised to open the front door)


(Front door slams shut)

JAY: Beardface! Beardface! She's here again.

LEE: Who?

JAY: That bloody Lulu woman.

LEE: What?

JAY: Honestly, ever since we had Cher staying with us, word must have got around we're the drop-in centre for d-list divas.

LEE: Oh yeah. Because the Cher thing went so well.

JAY: It wasn't my fault her head fell off.

LEE: I think you'll find it was.

JAY: Do I have to show you the back of my hand again?

LEE: Oh yes, I'm still finding pieces of her around the place. I found what I think is her larynx under the sink the other day...

JAY: Oh that's what it is. I've been draining my vegetables with it.

LEE: Eww.

JAY: You'll probably want this bit back too. Brought a lovely shine to the coffee table.

LEE: Is that..?

JAY: I neither care nor wish to find out. Here, take it.

LEE: No way. Smells foul. I'm not going near that without a pair of oven gloves. Anyway, what did Lulu want?

JAY: How do I bloody know? I opened the door and she started bellowing 'Weeeell' again.

LEE: Perhaps it's a cry for help.

JAY: Perhaps she's going to get her eyebrows shaved off if she's not careful.

LEE: Ooh! Or she's found a well in our back garden!

JAY: I blame you for this. Two-foot Scottish gnomes singing about plumbing on our doorstep.

LEE: Wait. Listen, can you hear that?

JAY: What?

LEE: That tinkling. I think she's got a tambourine with her...

JAY: Oh no, she hasn't found God has she?

LEE: Do what?

JAY: She's only gone and joined the Salvation Army. They've given her a tambourine and told to recruit those heathen Gays!

LEE: How devilishly clever! We must listen to what she has to say!

JAY: Don't open the door! The purity will come in!

LEE: I have to! The power of Gay Icons compels us!

JAY: Noooo!!!

LEE: Oh look!

JAY: No! If I cast mein eyes on her godly visage, I will go blind when I think about lovely cushions!

LEE: No, see. It's not a tambourine.

JAY: What?

LEE: They're just miniatures. Little gin bottles tinkling together.

JAY: Well, why didn't you say! Thank you, Lulu. Been stealing things from airplanes again?

LEE: She's a little tinker, isn't she?

JAY: Yes she is.

LEE: I think she wants to come inside.

JAY: What makes you say that?

LEE: She's humping my leg. Aww, bless. Can we keep her, Jay? Can we? Huh? Huh?

JAY: I'm not so sure... remember the last time. With Cher. Kaboom and all that.

LEE: I'll take her for walks and everything. I'll even try and resurrect her dead career!

JAY: But-

LEE: Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease!

JAY: Oh OK then. But you've got to look after her.

LEE: I will!

JAY: Sigh. This has error written all over it.

LEE: This has 'Emma' written all over it?

JAY: 'Error'.

LEE: Oh. Right. I could never read your writing...

(to be continued)

Thursday, October 27, 2005


Well. We're never one to shirk off high-brow, erudite topics here at Glitter for Brains, as we're sure you're aware. So onward and upward! - in every sense of the world - as we stick our head into the mucky subject of anal sex.

The reason being is I do get an awful lot of sport-playing heteromosexuals fixing me with a glassy stare after several pints and asking why on earth Gentlemen Who Moisturise are willing to have anything Up There. Usually followed by several hilarious tipsy admissions that they've tried to force all sorts of things up their hoop to see why we Gay People are always so happy. It's simple really; that's where the male g-spot is. And if that's not the Lord's jolly old way of saying 'Ah go on! Give it a go!" I don't know what is!

(Although the reason we're always so happy is usually thanks to the smug inner knowledge that we can run up a set of fabulous clothes out of a pair of curtains at the drop of a nun's habit.)

Of course, using something for not which it was really intended can lead to certain troubles, and that certainly 'follows through' with a gentleman's rear. Which is why getting jacked up and your undercarriage examined at the local Clap Clinic is wholly encouraged. Although, ladies, we sympathise with you on the trips to the gynaecologist. There's a rather charmless examination where they lie you on your side, lift your leg up and stick a plastic funnel up there to get a result. Now, most of us Gentlemen Who Have Bite Marks In Their Pillows have had experience of this sort at over our lives, but usually dinner and dancing has preceded it. The indignation! Although that's mostly because, when the hospital functionary is bracing themselves to force the funnel upward, the conversation proceeds thus:

"Now brace yourself. Most people have real difficulty ge-"
"Goodness," he'll exclaim. "I almost lost my watch."

Because that's what happens! You use a muscle often, it becomes stronger. In fact, a rather coquettish gentleman of my comedy housemate's acquaintance suggested that they may see whether they could have a go at getting two or three plastic things up there as he wasn't busy that afternoon. We often refer to him as having a 'face like an angel, an arse like a cement mixer'. And there's more than a passing rumour to an incident in a pub where he removed all the bottle tops while crouched over a crate of Budweiser.

Which, oddly, no-one accepted when he passed them around later.

Of course, there are disadvantages to being the one with an arse like a bill-poster's bucket at the end of a sesh. Like the hilarious incident of your sphincter remembering it's an exit not an entrance some time later, oft at the most inopportune moment. But on the hole (ho-ho) gentlemen, if you are thinking of taking a ride up the chocolate whizz-way, we widely recommend you plough ahead.

There. And with alienating my whole readership, I thoroughly expect a whole zero comments on this post.

TOMORROW: Penal Reform. Do we really need their shapes to change?

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Pussycat Dolls

Fabulous news via the gossipy ananova: Girls Aloud, this site's mascot band, are launching their own brand of dolls.

How bloody brilliant? And these toys are apparently aimed at six to seven-year-old girls. And as we all know, absolutely anything aimed at six to seven-year-old girls also means that Gentlemen Who Wanted to be Princesses When They Were Little will crossing their fingers come Christmas morning, hoping that their respective partners have braved the toyshops to get them their very own Cheryl Tweedy (with 'real punching action!')

It's a measure of love, you know.

No news as yet as to whether the sets will be expanded to include a white limo, single mother pram, or club toilet play set.

This news, of course, puts paid to us playing with our new Billie Piper Doctor Who doll that we were looking forward to getting. Poor Rose Tyler will be tossed to the back of the room with nary a second thought as we try and back-comb that awful fringe off Nadine.

Hang on. Waaaaait a second. How about if we start playing with them together?

I see a whole raft of adventures coming up! Oh, oh! Perhaps one of Girls Aloud turns out to be an alien! Rose Tyler could join the band in the hope of discovering which member has the tell-tale signs of being unable to dance, piercing their victims with their lifeless glassy stare.

Whoever could it be?!

Who Could It Be..?

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Of Nipples and Mattresses

We lay in bed together, staring at the ceiling.
"I'm hungry," I announced, kicking my feet.
"But it's so comfy..." he said, sounding far too content. I knew that he wasn't going to move unless I physically pushed him.
I sighed and looked around a bit more. The room was too bright and there were tiny little pink flowers on the duvet cover. I casually started picking at them; not exactly masculine.
"Come on," I implored after a few minutes. "Food... Hunger!"
He turned, burying his head into the enormous pillow. "Five more minutes."
"Look, we'd better get off. The sales assistant is looking at us funny."
He groaned and sat up. "Oh, let her. I'm sure she's seen a couple of fags shopping for beds before. Besides, if she comes over, I can tell her that her blouse is too small and her nipples aren't level."
"Be nice. You want this bed."
"I want this bed," he stated, hugging the pillow.
"I know you do." The Wife covets beds in the same way women covet shoes. Unfortunately his taste and his bank balance rarely tally.
He swung his legs over the side and stood up reluctantly, his hand trailed behind, refusing to let go of the sheets. He looked at the pricetag once more, as if the numbers would suddenly rotate, or if he'd made a mistake and the decimal place was in the wrong spot. Bless him.
"Well. We could... you know..." I said, raising an eyebrow.
"You know. Do the business. Soiled goods. Get you a discount..."
He seriously considered it for a full five seconds before bursting out into the most enormous grin.

Friday, October 21, 2005

Parka Club

Back in the time of space hoppers and Brut aftershave, everyone had a parka coat. They were blue, had multiple pockets and - most excitingly - a fur hood that could be zipped up leaving a tiny circle of pelt that was just big enough to eat a Curly-Whirly through. You looked like a curious blue periscope, lending it an adventurous air. And so everyone had one. And it was probably the reason why child abduction was so high in the Seventies; mothers would just grab the nearest blue parka and drag it home, regardless of what was in it.

I had a parka coat about the same time as having mittens on strings. We all used to feed the string through the coats arms, which could be dangerous if you scratched your nose as someone could yank your other arm and you would punch yourself in the face.

* * *

Several days ago, one of the clever, clever people in that links section mentioned a parka on their blog. I blithely waddled up and related this horror-filled tale about how dangerous parkas were.

Little did I realise someone was listening. The email arrived a few hours later.

* * *

When you were eight and your imagination wasn't wholly spent trying to undress the nice boy in Sales, parkas were also great for pretending to be Superman. You put your head in the hood and, leaving the arms free, could run around with your coat billowing behind you just like a cape.

Unfortunately, Superman was shown on TV about the time of some very nasty black ice in our playground. Someone dislocated their knee trying to escape from the exploding Krypton, and we all spent the rest of the week indoors colouring in pictures of Jesus.

* * *

"You've got a parcel," said Diana, our statuesque receptionist. She presented it with a look of casual curiosity.

At the time, I was trying to look busy with an Excel spreadsheet. It appeared impressive, but really I was trying to colour in the cells to make a mosaic of Joan Rivers.

"What is it?" she asked,

Expertly wrapped in a tight cylinder, in a feat of engineering in itself, was a blue parka. It smelled of school.

"I think someone's sent me a parka. A blue one."
"I don't know."
"No, really. Is this some gay thing?"
"No. I just got an email off someone saying that they're going to send me a parka the other day. I thought it was a crackpot."

I checked the label. No post mark, and the label was written in block capitals.

Diana shrugged. "You'd better thank them, then."

* * *

So I did. And I got a reply.

'Welcome to Parka Club' it read. 'Feel free to zip it up and look like a periscope.'

How astonishing. And generous. And odd. I'm part of a club. I haven't been part of a club since I accidentally wandered into the KKK thinking it was Bed, Bath and Beyond. Well, all those sheets in the window were bound to throw a Gentleman Who's Looking Forward To The New Kate Bush A Little Too Much. There was more:

'One thing I would ask is that you post one or more pictures of you wearing your new parka.'

Well. I've posed naked for a magazine before. Well, a magazine and a bag of sweets, but it was a fair swap. A picture of me in a parka was the least I could do.

And twenty years on, I still wanted to run around pretending to be Superman.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

Fun With The Queen Part II

Here's something you can all make and do!

Take an ordinary UK bank note. Any one will do, but better do it quick before Liz carks it and we're stuck with Charles' ugly mug on all our beer tokens! Here's one I prepared earlier. Or more correctly, kicked a tramp in the goolies for.

Her Madge

Now, here's a handy guide to what we're going to be doing. Note the Lines A, B and C. Ooh, it's just like an Ikea booklet!


Fold along Line A, like so. The trick is to make sure that the line of the fold goes along the corner of HRH Liz's mouth, right through her eye. Gruesome, but necessary.


Now, Line B. Move to the other eye, very much in the manner of the Yorkshire Ripper! Fold that backwards too.

Genuine pub fun!

Now the hard part, as they'd say on Blue Peter. Pinch the creases of A and B together, pushing down and creating Line C between them.

The hard part!

Flatten out your note a little, and you should see the following! Look! The Queen is smiling at you, and you alone! She, as a benevolent being, is grinning down on all you, the little people, for giving her lots of your moneys so she can wear nice hats abroad.

Grin! Grin like your heritage depends on it!

But! If you tilt your flimsy currency downwards - lo! Her beatific smile vanishes! Perhaps that horsey Camilla woman has been spotted in the driveway again? Or Margaret has run over another corgi? No! No, your majesty! Don't fret so!

She will terminate you now

Quickly, you fool! Tilt the note the other way! Ah, that's better! The Queen will smile at you once again, and all is well with the realm. Huzzah!

Happy Queen!

There. Who said we weren't educational here?

Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Fun With The Queen Part I

We do love our monarch here at Glitter for Brains. Anyone who has their own currency touched up to look a bit younger than they are is all right in our glittery books. And her email is probably 'liz@uk' too.

Here's something you Johnny Foreigners probably don't know: whenever she or her jug-eared brethren want to use a product, the manufacturers can use a little crest on the package that says 'By Royal Appointment'. It's like a pop-star endorsing something - and probably means that she gets a bucket-load of them free.

Which may be open to abuse. Can you imagine?

"Ere, Phil," she'll cry in her cockney accent down a palace corridor. "Phil! I want one of those new plasma screens!"

"You can't afford it, Liz," he'll shout back from the next room along. " You've just ordered another batch of oddly similar dresses, the ones with the high bust and half-sleeves!"

"Oh get 'em to slap a By Royal Appointment on it," she replies, lighting a fag. "And make sure it gets here before Countdown's on. And they've haven't skimped and left the batteries out of the remote too!"

Oh yes, By Royal Appointment can be found on lots of things now, which means you can more or less see what HRH Liz been shopping for. And we do like a bit of a nosey around other people's shopping baskets, don't we?

Thing is, she's getting on a bit these days. Not long before Veet upper-lip hair removal and incontinent pants are By Royal Appointment!

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Glitter for Brains Interactive!

Push your red button now!

Halloween is a-coming! And the Wife and I have a glittering invite to a fabulous fancy dress party!

Now, with last year, we went as Sigfried and Roy, post-mauling. This year, do you think it's a little too close to the knuckle to go in two blood-stained and ripped saris, covered in brick dust?

Vote now!

Monday, October 17, 2005

Meanwhile, in the Headmistress' Office...

Now. Madonna. Do come in and sit down.

Don't slouch, dear. It's unladylike.

You're probably wondering why you've been sent here, aren't you? Well, I'll get straight to the point. Your teacher has found out you've been copying.

Now, now. Ah-ah-ah! Don't start pointing the finger and saying things like you're a 'social chameleon' and a 'international trend-setter'. The fact remains that your latest essay called - what does it say? 'Hung up'? - contains huge parts of another essay called 'Gimme Gimme Gimme' and it simply will not do. I know two boys in the sixth form called Benny and Bjorn who are most upset about it. I've had their parents on the phone. And my Swedish isn't very good, but their voices were very loud.

I know you've been trying to hang around with that drama group, and I think your work's been suffering, my dear. To put it kindly, we all know you're not really an actress. I mean, your turn in the school panto was just embarrassing. The whole staff room thought 'Swept Away' was going to be a gay little romp about housework, but then we find you're almost, well, taken the wrong way on stage. Poor Mrs Hooper nearly choked on her buns, let me tell you.


No, we do not say 'Good' when things like that happen. It's most unladylike.

Now, I'd like you to take this away and try again. And we're going to be writing a nice letter to Benny and Bjorn's parents, aren't we? And we can only hope it's going to be better worded than this little effort, madam. I mean... let me get my glasses... 'Every little thing that you say or do. I'm hung up. I'm hung up on you.' Really, dear! It sounds like you've been letting that Lordes girl in the nursery class write it for you! Terrible, terrible effort. Did that fall from the horse in Games impair you head in some way?

Excuse me, dear? I know you love the gays. We all do, dear. And I'm sure they all like this too. But they really have no taste at times. I mean, stick a glitter ball in the middle of the gym and tell them we're showing a back-to-back marathon of Grease, and they flock like moths to a flame.

But, you see, you really should be disappointed in yourself more than anyone. And certainly not disappointed in being caught. You used to be so original! Oh, remember when you came to school with those lacy gloves on, and the whole school were wearing them the week after? Oh yes, even Mrs Hooper thought she'd be able to carry a pair off, which was hilarious in itself. But these days, it seems the other way around! I heard that little Alison Goldfrapp had her music notes stolen last week, and all of a sudden, you're offering to hand in work that looks suspiciously like her handwriting?

Now, now. Stop crying. It's not all bad. I know this year can be stressful, but you really must learn to help yourself more. Here, have a hankie and get back to class. Go on.

And send in that Lisa Scott Lee on your way out. I feel an expulsion coming on...

Friday, October 14, 2005


Well. Daniel Craig is the new James Bond.

Lets just be kind and say that he's 'care-worn'.

Or in need of some moisturiser.

Oh to hell with it. His face looks like a crumpled map page, and if you ever had the misfortune of shooting your load over that leathery visage, you'd get to see a scale version of the Egyptian irrigation channels in action.

There. I've said it.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Brother Tongue

Oh yes. Having whisked around the world on my mini-world tour the last couple of weeks, I've got quite used to the oral vagaries of strangers. How rough the Spanish tongue is, and how interesting is a New York twang to roll around the mouth.

But none more curious to me than the Welsh language, which I was plunged into last week. It uses all the same inflections, accents and sounds of English, but with the noises in the wrong order. Why, when I was stationed in the very luxurious offices of TV's 'Doctor Who or Whom' the week gone, my tiny window looked down upon the outside set of 'Pobol y Cwm', the Welsh soap opera that appears to be like our perennial favourite EastEnders, but with more mining and TB. The day wasn't complete without the Welshy translated sounds of someone shouting "You slaaaaaag!" drifting up to my steamy portal.

They're very proud that the whole thing is in their native language; a klaxon went off one afternoon while they were filming and we were all evacuated from the BBC into the car park. Half the people thought it was a fire alarm, the rest thought it was because someone had accidentally said something in English.

I'd like to learn more dialects, though it's something I show no natural affinity for. As I'm sure you know, dear reader, my grasp of the English language is more of a tortuous stranglehold, so trying to get by in France, the next country along, is sheer hilarity in itself. For some reason, all my words come out as feminine. So I'm in constant awe of people from the backwater of the world who manage to find themselves in good old Blighty with a nice grip of the lingo. Although slightly suspicious too; certainly after being followed around a discothèque by an Iranian who didn't know the English for 'I have a boyfriend', yet could happily announce 'You have a nice cock' when he suddenly appeared at the next urinal along.

Although you can explain that; I have, in my time, managed to pick up a little Hungarian thanks to some of the Gentleman's Recreational Videos I have acquired over the years. Though it's hardly conversational, it will get you some ice from a hotel porter, and I do know how to get my plumbing looked at.

Both with hilarious misunderstandings.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

Fire In The Disco!

Two terrible bits of 'arson around' this very week! Firstly Southend pier goes up in flames and slides into the Thames. Our concern, of course, for all those Gentlemen Who Peruse Kitchenware Catalogues A Little Too Carefully as they'll have nowhere to shelter after the clubs close! Why yes, they are a friendly bunch under that pier - forever hugging each other to keep warm, as far as we can tell. And providing support behind when their new friend bends over to retrieve a lost contact lens, seemingly.

And the other shocker was the warehouse where Aardman Animation stores all its props also went up like Liza Minnelli near an open flame. They're the marvellous plasticine animators behind Chicken Run and the new Wallace and Gromit film. No! The horror, the horror!

For it now compels the question what is Farrah Fawcett going to do for spare faces now?!


Q. What happens if a group of Gentlemen Who Bowl From The Pavilion End decide to make Hello! Magazine even gayer?

A. Coo-Ee!


Tuesday, October 11, 2005

Christmas Came Early!

Oh! More another fax from the House of Dubious Sexuality - Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes are having a baby!

Is anyone else fooled? I thought not. So unless this is the coming of the new messiah via an immaculate conception due to there being no way Mz Cruise is actually going to plough his self-custard up her immaculate mimsy, one can only assume that the turkey baster came out for a bit of a show a few weeks back.

Well, my advice for you is not to visit chez Cruise for Thanksgiving.

Monday, October 10, 2005

Adventures in Time and Spain Part III

And on the third day it all went horribly wrong. A HUGE row. And I mean a stand-up in the street, histrionics, accusations and tears. A big EastEnders style ding-dong on the largest street in Salou. We even attracted an audience.

As a family, we never argued. My now-absent father would bellow and beat us; my mother would be the peacemaker, trying to moderate everything doled out, leaving my sister and myself to become pass-masters at being passive/aggressive, winding the situation around ourselves and showing our displeasure by then picking at food and sighing sullenly and dramatically. For weeks, if need be.

And as per all arguments, it started by the smallest thing. My sister was refusing to talk to me because I'd shouted at her a few days back for carelessly throwing the towels in the bidet. I'm not blameless in all this, but I did believe I had a point.

"I have not been miserable! Besides, if I had, you deserved it," she declared.

"Oh, you've been following us around like a bitch under a bad cloud for the whole week. What, are you pre-menstrual or something? Why do we have to suffer your blob-strop?"

I was aware my hands were on my hips. And that I sounded a little too close to a drag queen at closing time. There was an intake of breath from the assembled audience.

"This holiday's just gone from bad to worse!" cried my mother and turned to find a taxi. Well, that answered where I got my melodrama from.

"It's not my fault!" protested my sister. "You started all this! If you hadn't shouted at me, I wouldn't be angry!"


And then it clicked.

My sister was so used to getting her own way that this just didn't make any sense to her. She was oblivious as to why we were pissed at her, but only to why she felt bad. She was unconsciously trying all the tricks in her usual armoury to make it all better for her, from trying to transfer the guilt to bursting into tears at the drop of a hat. A little bit of my heart went out to her - she really didn't know what she'd been doing wrong. She'd go into any argument with a whole series of breadcrumbs laid out, right back until it was your fault.

"Why are you being so horrible?" she screamed.

Goodness, the girl must be teflon-coated.

"We're not," I said quietly. "We've tried to be accommodating, forgiving and as kind as we can. But there are limits to my patience. Yes we shouted at you, but that was because we both believed you'd done something wrong. And that's the centre of the matter - you had done something wrong."

"But... I... Mom," she turned, pleading, "is this true?"

My mother nodded slightly. Almost imperceptibly. After years, the peacemaker had picked a side, if only for a second.

My sister burst into tears.

Real ones, this time.

* * *

We came back to the hotel, barely speaking. My sister had been wiping her eyes with the balls of her palm and has smeared her mascara sideways all the way to her ears. She looked a mess, and rather like a girl from a Robert Palmer video. She seemed to be coming to terms with a lot.

My mother announced she was going to bed as the taxi drove off.

"We can't leave it like this," sniffed my sister. "Come for a drink in the hotel bar."

I still had my arms folded. My mother was looking at her shoes.

"Please," she implored.

We followed her in. We sat, we drank. We started to talk. We drank some more. We started resolving issues. We talked some more. And then in this quiet bar in backwater Spain, the oddly British pastime of bingo was announced. And finally - finally - after all these years, we bonded a little more as a family when my mother won a cheap bottle of rosé for a line of numbers.

Not ideal, but it worked.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

Adventures in Time and Spain Part II

On the second day, I sorta broke into a cathedral.

As it stood, the only real sightseeing available in our resort was one gentleman with nice pectorials who'd taken to wandering around topless by the pool at 11.40 each morning. He was a good sight. Until his scraggy wife hoved around the corner that is, scattering cigarette ash over the pram she pushed, barking and whining her general displeasures at him. In my eyes, that little look he gave me each morning as I passed coquettishly was 'Rescue me. Take me away from her, and I'll pleasure you in ways you haven't yet dreamed of' but more likely to be 'If I just keep nodding, she'll wear herself out and I can watch the footie this afternoon' in retrospect.

The other nice sight I saw on holiday was when we braved the bus service and went over to the next town. I'd gained a little knowledge of the local tongue thanks to a little Spanish rubbing off me a few years back; I forget his name. Unfortunately time had eroded what I'd learned so long ago, so I was reduced to pointing in the general direction I wanted to travel, saying 'por favor' and offering cash. Unless I wanted to thrill the bus driver with the completely unforgettable Foreign for 'Duck! I'm about to spill my self-custard!'


My sister was still pissing me off, and had now taken to walking around demanding ice-cream because we'd shouted at her the day before for being demanding (no self-awareness, that girl) so I'd found a cathedral for us to visit. Mostly because even she would have to be quiet inside.

It was shut. And she wasn't going to be quiet.

So we rounded the corner and took a rest in the gardens. While she complained to my mother some more, I kicked about a bit, examining the fountain, picking at the columns and loving the magestic building towering above us. Which is when I noticed the door.

It was old. Naturally. But but like an attendee of a Gentleman's Health Club, face-down on a mattress at 11am on a Sunday, just begged to be forced open and whatever inside enjoyed. So I stuck my hand in an jiggled around a bit. There was a satisfying groan and the passage was opened.

My mother got up with a start. "Lee! Whatever are you doing?" she exclaimed. I put a finger to my lips and grabbed her hand, beckoning her into the cathedral. She wasn't sure, but I gently pulled her through anyway.

It was like another world after the heat outside. The midday sun poured light through the stained glass, embellishing the floor with royal blues and lavish reds. Dust, disturbed my our entrance, floated in the motes of light. As our eyes adjusted, we could start to make out the roof seemingly miles above us. I breathed out an impressed sigh.

"Well, bugger me," whispered my mother as she stepped up beside me. She span on her heels to take it all in.

I grinned at her, and took out my mobile phone and clicked it to camera. Just one picture...


And then all the bells in the world started ringing.

"Run!" I yelled, pelting for the door.

* * *

We got our breath back on a wall half a mile down the road after making sure there were no torch-carrying vicars running after us.

"Well I hope you've learned your lesson, young man," scolded my mother.

"Of course I have," I said, still slightly breathless.

"Never break into anywhere," she said, folding her arms.

"No. Never take photographs as the cathedral clock is striking three. It's bloody loud inside."

Her face fell. Then she checked her watch and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Adventures in Time and Spain Part I

On the first day, I was already planning to kill my sister.

Two hours into our Spanish holiday and she'd completely take over the apartment, idly throwing all the towels in the bidet without a thought so she could hang out her washing. And that more-or-less summed up her one major character flaw: she doesn't care one jot about anyone else but herself.

It's difficult to describe in full, so I'll tell you about the time when some Evangelical Christians came a-knocking once. This should help you understand.

(Scooby-Doo style flashback effect)

Christian #1: Good morning, madam. Have you ever thought how glorious the world is in a morning?

Nicola: Yer what?

Christian #1: Isn't the sun rising and the magnificence of each day just proof of an almighty being?

Nicola: Mate, I woke up yesterday and found I'd been sick in my make-up drawer. Now what you talking about?

Christian #1: We'd just like a few moments to talk about the Divine with you...

Nicola: Are you even speaking English?

Christian #2: Do you believe in The Lord?

Nicola: Oh! You're God-Botherers?

Christian #2 (slightly taken aback at the bluntness): Er, yes.

Nicola: Right. Got ya. You here to sell it to me?

Christian #1: Well, not really sell, madam. We'd just like you to have a read of this little pamphlet and we'll pop back and you can tell us what you think. How's that?

Nicola: Mate, I hate reading.

Christian #2: Oh.

Christian #1: But it's just a little thin pamphlet. Barely a page.

Nicola: I can just about do the pizza menu without zoning out.

Christian #1: And this side is mostly pictures...

Nicola: ...and even then, I got my housemate to ring what I normally order. Haven't you got it on DVD?

(a beat)

Christian #1: Sorry?

Nicola: So, I don't really do reading. So I'm thinking you Just give me the DVD and I'll take a look.

Christian #2: We haven't...

Christian #1: We couldn't...

Christian #2: We just didn't think that...

Nicola: Well, that's rubbish, innit?

Christian #1: Er...

Nicola: Isn't it?

Christian #1: I suppose...

Nicola: Anyway, so how do you know God exists?

Christian #1 (on firmer footing) Ah. Well. Imagine the best feeling inside When we think of Him, we get the happiest feeling.

Nicola: Ah, got ya!

Christian #1: You have?

Nicola: Oh yeah. I know exactly what you're on about.

(The Christians look at each other; has progress been made?)

Nicola: I get that feeling when I buy new shoes.

Christian #2: I don't think that's really the sa-

Nicola: So you don't believe in new shoes?

Christian #2: No, we're saying-

Nicola: But here they are. I can see new shoes. Can you see new shoes?

(she bangs her heels together like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz)

Christian #2: But we're talking about the Almighty Being, not some Clarkes!

Nicola: These are from Aldo! They are not Clarkes. That's like mixing up Jesus and Buddha!

Christian #1 (completely apologetic): I'm so sorry.

Nicola (fiddles with hair): So can I become a preacher?

Christian #1: (even more confused) You'd want to spread the word of God?

Nicola: Not really. But I bet the pay's good. I bet it is, isn't it?

Christian #1: We do the Lord's work for free.

Nicola: How mad are you?! What about the wine?

Christian #2: The what?

Nicola: The free wine.

Christian #1 (cottoning on): Communion? That's not us.

Nicola: Ha! Bet you're gutted.

Christian #2: We merely believe in a path of honesty and belief.

Nicola: So does that mean you have to be truthful about everything?

Christian #1: Yes.

Nicola: Good. Here's a fiver - nip over the paper shop and get me some fags, would you? See, being honest, you won't nick the change, will ya?

Christian #1: Er...

Nicola: Silk Cut, if they've got them. See you in five.

(door slams on them)

Christian #2: What are we going to do?

Christian #1 (looks down at money in hand): I suppose we'd better get the cigarettes...

And they did.

Oh yes. I was going to be stuck with my sister for a week.


Friday, September 30, 2005

Sibling Rivalry

We're a godless bunch now Dame Kylie is currently out of action.

It's all rather like that village in the Indiana Jones film; without our icon, our crops will fail and our water runs muddy. The swivel-headed gays in London's trendy London just don't know who to pray to, and chaos is reigning supreme in the clubs. Crime is on the up, morale is down, and no-one can stuff balloons up their top without feeling some sort of remorse.

Which is why we should be more vigilant to any pretenders to her glittering throne.

Oh, we've seen off Lisa Scott-Lee, and I personally winged Rachel Stevens with a bullet down Tesco car-park, but this week the threat comes from a more insidious source: Dame Kylie's very own sibling, Dannii. Now, we're never one to cast aspersions - but that is because we are gay and couldn't throw if there was a signed key to Liza Minelli's medicine cabinet as a prize. But is it a coincidence that her Lady Macbeth of a sister has suddenly geared up to do some disco tracks of her own while Dame K has to suffer the indignity of headscarves?

Perhaps leading one to believe perhaps Dame K isn't sick at all, and that filthy Dannii merely stapled a pickle onion into the inside of her sister's bra?

Look at her. Look at a still from her latest video. Cast ye eyes over the pretender to the throne. And Take Against Her.


Thankfully, the track is rather asinine, so should slip down the back of the DJ booth without a stir. Dame Kylie's place is secure, the gays are happy and all will be merry down Old Compton Street.


Perhaps we're reading a little too much into it. How could the woman we accuse be tending her ill sister and then go on to plan world disco domination? I mean, how silly would you be to try and take her place while she is ill?

She couldn't really be trying to take Kylie's place, could she?

(looks back at video)

Could she?

It's A Snood Off!