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

Thursday, April 28, 2005


Ahoy there, mateys!

We on the good ship HMS Glitter For Brains have been trawling the high-seas of music for the last couple of months, despairing at the lack of silly gay songs there are on the horizon (while delightfully getting acquainted with the largest volume of seamen we could find). For weeks there has been nary a blip on our Pop Sonar, leaving us convinced that the blasted thing was malfunctioning. We had to make sure by firing Ensign Rachel Stevens into the distance and checking she registered. Oh she protested, but she was already greased up thanks to us all performing a Peter Andre number on deck, and she slipped into the chaff cannon with an easy 'shhlunk!'

Anyway. Mere moments before we almost gave up our search, swallow our pride and drop anchor in Mariah Carey Bay, what should happen but Lieutenant SeyHey should spot something on the horizon! Why, it was the good ship - well, average ship - Geri Halliwell! The beaten-up battlecruiser of popular music, still tugging along like an old man in a raincoat! And what was that blasting out? Was it a foghorn, or was she singing..? Well it seemed to be the latter after much debate, some absurd number called 'Desire'.

It can only be described as preposterous. A hilarious number full of those electronic bleeps and boobs that the producer nicked out of the bin of Britney Spears' 'Toxic' recording and then smearing Mz Halliwell's heavily-sandpapered vocals over it with the consistency of Marmite. We heart it. It is silly pop record, the likes we hadn't heard since the squelchy dance-a-thon of the aforementioned Mz Stevens.

But lo! We were just making our report back to The Gay Council about our bounteous find when all of a sudden the HMS Halliwell was torpedoed by her record company! 'Desire' may not be released at all, let alone her equally ludicrous new album! Is she destined to sink without a trace? We do hope not - for one, lets be a little cruel and point out she's got more than a decent amount of ballast.

But all is not lost if she does start to keel. For on the horizon are four ships ready to drag her to safer pop waters - the HMS Mel C, Mel B, Victoria and Emma are tooting their horns, ready to refit her back in her union jack colours. Hurrah!

Is It Just Me...

Or does anyone else get this SpiderSense-like tingling that the new Ricky Gervais show 'Extras' will be a pile of old cack?

You mark my words* it's beginning to sound more and more like a vehicle for Gervais' lazy, one-tone gurning. And I dislike star vehicles - the last I had the misfortune to catch was 'According to Bex', the sit-com created for dear Jessica Stevenson of Spaced fame. A vehicle with clearly no-one at the wheel, and a pleading look in Jessica's eyes whenever she looked to camera that undoubtedly cried 'Get me out of here!'

I feel one should approach 'Extras' with trepidation. And a big stick for poking.

( * 7/10 for overly-dramatic portent.)

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

The Deep North


JAY: What-ho, Beardface! I'm back!

LEE: Ah! Tea's on the table!

JAY: Why thank yo- eugh! It's cold!

LEE: Really?

JAY: It's got a skin on it.

LEE: But I made it just when you left to pop down the shops!

JAY: Pop down the shops? I've been to America!

LEE: Really?

JAY: Yes! I've been gone a week! Didn't you notice?

LEE: Er. Er... Yes?

JAY: No you bloody well didn't.

LEE: I thought you were sleeping in.

JAY: I was on the other side of the world, you hirsute fool!

LEE: Or there was a sale on or something. You do get very distracted in Games Workshop...

JAY: That was only the once, I tell you! And they were very nicely painted Chaos Lords, were the not?

LEE: ...

JAY: Anyway, I sent you a text message.

LEE: Yes, well, that. I was going to take you to task about that. You filthy beast.

JAY: What? It said, 'Enjoying the most delightful Yank. I'll take a photo'!

LEE: Oh. 'Yank'? Did it really say 'Yank'?

JAY: Yes. Why?

LEE: I thought your predictive text messaging was playing up.

JAY: Be quiet.

LEE: ...and you know the 'w' and the 'y' are on the same button...

JAY: You know what these are?

LEE: Your index fingers?

JAY: Yes, two of them. One for each of your eyes.

LEE: Ow! Stop that. So how was it?

JAY: The Colonies? Uneducated gun-toting savages the lot of them. Wouldn't know civilisation if it wandered in and offered them a nice finger buffet.

LEE: No, your tea.

JAY: Well, it just winked at me.

LEE: Hmm. I think it may have evolved in you absence.

JAY: You don't say. It's trying to put up shelves.

LEE: And hasn't it got a deep voice?

JAY: Good lord. What type of tea is it?

LEE: Camomile.

JAY: Ah. 'Lesbian tea'.

LEE: Ah well! That explains why it beat me at pool then!

Monday, April 25, 2005

Something Warm Inside Me

Coffee I can take or leave. I know some people who can't even leave their bed without it, the odd, caffeine-addled fools. No, I require a different kick of a morning so I like to start each day with a lumber-puncture.

I'm sure there's an old thing about 'I like my men like I like my coffee - strong and black' but I have no idea where it started and I can't be bothered to go to Google because someone sawed my fingers off. I like my coffee with two lumps, which I suppose is far less lascivious, but takes one aged, mincing prune of a man who expressed an interest out of the running. Thankfully. I mean, if you've had one bollock off, would you have a propensity for wandering around in cycling shorts? No. But there he is, thrusting his meat and one veg into the eye-line of anyone who cares to look.

The tin of Tesco Classic Roast Coffee in our work kitchen (a couple of cutbacks at our Swanky Meedja Office means we have to start buying 'home brand', which is fine until you start getting to things like Tesco Value wallpaper, as white and blue stripes strobe so when hungover) proclaims that its flavour is 'rich and fabulous' which is probably how I'd really like my men, but is the sideline to that mean that they taste like grit, too?

And I'm sure one of my exes said he liked his men like he liked his coffee - 'thick enough to stand a spoon in it'. But I thought that was just silly. Or am I actually just being thick? And I know a couple of people who like theirs weak with a splash and I have no idea what that's meant to mean and so steer clear of those people in case they want to turn my head into a lampshade or something.

And what about tea? Is that sexy? 'I like my men like I like my tea...' could be terribly English. Though that would be 'I like my men like I like my tea - yellowish and milky' although it means that David Yip in his Chinese Detective make-up may become flavour of the month.

Just a thought.

Friday, April 22, 2005


Good morning.

Well that's conjecture, of course. I do hope you're all having a marvellous morning - mine, whereas, commenced with a rude awakening thanks to... well, 'one too many' doesn't really do it justice. I'm rounding it up to fifteen to be in the ballpark area, meaning my cock-crow stirring felt rather too like a mummy's reanimation, and the sunlight streaming into my bedroom like a greased crowbar slipped in to somewhere intimate.

It was all Help's fault, I'm sorry to say. I'm a bit poor at the moment, so I didn't object so readily when she announced she was off for her usual light-fingered wanderings in Oddbins, returning with a bottle of the most curious shade and age (c.f. Dale Winton) which she claimed was 'at last, a shoplifting challenge worthy of her skills'. Apparently she had to distract the clerk with a fan-dance using her handbag and an overdue library book in order to pinch it, which must have been a sight. Though I'm feeling quite queer as it is, so I don't invite you to dwell on it too long.

But anyway, as the label was written in Arabic, and Help took great offence in my insistence that she could read it as 'she was Foreign too'. So we had no idea what it was best to mix with, and spent the best part of the evening trying various mixers in order to smooth the somewhat 'distinctive' taste into anything bordering the neighbourhood of palatable. The best we came up with after several goes was fabric softener.

And I remember deciding that the best idea in the world would be a Pot Poodle - like the student snack of choice, but when you add water, you get a ridiculous-looking dog instead of barely-edible noodles. And that we should take down the chandeliers and use them for earrings next time we have a ball, but after that it's a bit of a blur. Though when I woke up, Help and I had somehow swapped clothes. Ugh, polyester.

So - all together now - ooh, my head. One of you minions, be a love and nip and get me a bacon sandwich, will you? Ta.

Wednesday, April 20, 2005

Going To Birmingham To See The Queen (of Pop)

The House of Bamboo and Woodchip
Now normally I don't travel anywhere unless it's 4-star or above. But times are hard at Glitter for Brains after a spate of extravagances like our recent trip to Blackpool, purchase of the newest Beckham's afterbirth and a Tracy Emin exhibit we're going to use for firewood. So when my Evil Best Friend Declan suggested a quick trip to see Kylie in Birmingham, it was only a 2-star borstal that was in our price range. And one feels those two stars were only awarded for the recently fumigated waitresses.

Well, she's not subtle, is she?
Oiled men in gym-wear, cavorting around as she rose out the floor on a pummel horse. That's not even subtext. That's just text.

She rolled out all the hits with aplomb, valiantly living up to the 'Showgirl' name. 'Highly polished' doesn't just apply to her face these days; the whole even was timed at two hours to the very minute, was smooth and by-the-numbers. You can make up your own mind whether that's a negative thing - I like a bit of chaos. So while we were clapping and singing like window-licking Specials, you do have a feeling she's just trying to remember what her next dance routine and costume change is, poor love.

And my. It not unusual to see so many couples holding hands at a gig like this - but straight couples? There was a distinct lack of swivel-headed gays wheeling across the floor to get to the expensively monogrammed crop-tops for the first half.

Hilariously, I found them all in the loos.

Meanwhile, A Few Theatres Down...
...was the 'all new theatrical extravaganza - Love Shack!' starring Faye Tozer (Steps), Jon Lee (S Club) and Noel (Hear'Say). Written by Gary Barlow and based around some songs they cobbled together from a CD free in the Mail on Sunday.

T'was the story of a hen night and a stag do, and the hilarious adventures when they meet.

It never mentioned in the garish flyer at which party well-known theatre nancy Jon Lee was at.

My Moment In Hell
Kylie finished the gig by making us all do a Mexican wave.
As I saw the undulating wave travelling towards us, I accidentally yelled 'Eep! Tsunami!'

Even Declan was shocked.

Monday, April 18, 2005

Ten Things I've Learned About Updating Your CV

With thanks to Gertie, who proofed the original.

1) Do not get distracted while writing your CV to go and make a cup of tea. Especially when you leave it on screen. And you come back to find your boss writing a post-it note on your monitor.

2) 'Know all the dance moves to "Spice Up Your Life"' is apparently not a skill.

3) Using clip-art is a no-no.

4) Using 'Tom of Finland' clip-art is a definite no-no.

5) When writing to prospective employees, rumour has it that it is uncouth to write 'GETMEOUTOFHEREGETMEOUTOFHEREGETMEOUTOFHEREGETMEOUTOFHERE!!!' on the envelope.

6) 'My new office must be FILLED with kittens!' is not an attractive rider for any new employee.

7) Your management style should stated as be 'outstanding, with great people skills' rather than 'excessively flouncy'.

8) 'Have own wand' is apparently not a qualification.

9) Lie outrageously about your school qualifications as no-one checks these days. Meaning you can finally shirk that 'A' in Needlepoint from the record.

10) Do not use scented notepaper.

Friday, April 15, 2005

The Days We Went To Blackpool Pt III

So, slap-bang in the middle of this area of tacky nostalgia was a Doctor Who exhibition. Obviously the Department of No Surprises are their landlords.

I didn't want to go in that much - I was much more interested in the cock-awful likenesses of celebs in the 'Louis Tussauds Waxwork Museum'. Louis isn't directly affiliated with the well-known London exhibit, but seems to be a cousin or somesuch who showed a glimmer of hope with some plasticine once. Unfortunately, everything he's ever done since was with his left foot while drunk, and the museum's Marilyn Munroe has to be seen to be believed. Poor constipated thing.

Anyway after we'd done that delight, the Wife coerced me through the badly painted blue doors of the Who exhibition with the promise it would be a laugh. And it was, but for all the wrong reasons - the rotting costumes, the badly-made props. Yes, we knew that it would be wobbly, but I dislike seeing these things up close as it just shows it off how bad it was. Oh, my poor bruised childhood.

Still it was nice to see the Tractators in all their glory, and the robots from Warrior's Gate back from their touring performance of 'Anne Get Your Gundan'. And thankfully, someone had nicked Former Doctor Who Christopher Eccleston's rubbery face from the line of Doctors, stopping him beaming (in his forced way) out at you as you fiddle with his nob on the console. He's not a looker, is he? Despite what the publicity says. He's not sexy. At all. I mean the nose, the ears... in a strong gust of wind he's going to spin like a weather cock.

We like Billie Piper though. We're glad she's staying on for Season Two, despite seemingly being played by 80s Kylie Minogue in the poster campaign, thus:

Spot The Difference

Anyway. The Wife was utterly charming while we were there, bounding around all over the place going, "Do that have that air hostess outfit? You know, the purple one?" and "The monster from Peladon! Is that here? That used to scare me!" For someone who's never been a fan, he knows an awful lot about the Death Zone on Gallifrey.

I texted a friend halfway around. 'It's rubbish,' I wrote. He replied with 'Yes! But next year it's going to be rubbish with New Things!'

That made me weirdly happy.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

The Days We Went To Blackpool Pt II

We thought that Blackpool was shut simply because we'd flown so early. Apparently not - it appears that the town only stirs when the sun threatens to come out, or the combined critical mass of a hen-night comes near. So the Wife and I traipsed along the wind-blown seafront, ducking into the one or two things that were open and marvelling at the novelty candy therein.

You can get candy breasts in Blackpool, you know. And something called a 'Rock Cock'.

As you can see Blackpool is marvellously tacky; a dulled sequin of the north. You can't move for false promises: winning jackpots on bingo or seeing into your future with the Gypsy Putalengro and all her various clones. Blackpool is teeming with them - nay, infested - and every few feet is a booth announcing that this is 'The REAL Gypsy Putalengro!' It's like Sparticus went to a psychic convention.

The Wife decided to give Putalengro Clone #8735 a go in the afternoon; himself a seasoned visitor to said crackpots in the past. He came out chuckling to himself ten minutes later, saying she was predictably (ha!) rubbish. The closest she'd apparently got was stating he'd had some disappointment in the last two-and-a-half years in his love life. I raised an eyebrow and asked him what on earth could that be. He just laughed and said that he'd met me.

I made him buy the donuts for that, the hairy sod.

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Nature Abhors A Vacuum

More about Blackpool tomorrow; I have to explain the situations dictating why I should be walking through old London town last night carrying a hoover. For while my comedy housemate Jay and I have been living in our swankyLondonBridgePad for some six months now, we neglected to get a vacuum due to us possessing only the smallest patch carpet when you get through the door - equal in scale to that small Walnut Whip-shaped outcrop of hair that Bruce Willis insisted on sporting during the late nineties. So we basically did our best with a dustpan and brush, and Comedy Housemate Jay's patented Hard Stare alarming the rest of the dirt away.

Then a ridiculous weekend accident involving a squash racquet and some relative's ashes meant I finally caved and headed to top London department store John Lewis after work to purchase a hoover - although matters were complicated somewhat by my also arranging to meet Gertie there. We like to pretend we're a prissy couple arguing in tense, hushed tones over bedroom fittings whenever we're in large department stores. It's a brilliant game - one where you get so many extra points if you start involving unsuspecting members of the public. "I am right, aren't I?" you ask some shop assistant. "He's being completely unreasonable about the colour of the bathroom, just so it can match that awful painting his mother did for us?" Great fun.

Though complicated, as I say, by Gertie being unavoidably late. And I find there is a fine line between looking interested and looking shifty in a store. It's around seven minutes in my heavy-browed case. So as I was about to grab the mincing sales assistant in order to look less dubious, I was nigh-on pushed aside by some old witch who just insisted on talking to him about how awful Dysons were at picking up cat hair or somesuch, and how she wished there was a setting for 'Incontinence' on a Vax because of her husband's 'little troubles'. Meaning my selection process for said hoover wasn't exactly scientific. I just grabbed the first passing functionary, pointing at a vacuum that matched our kitchen cupboards just to allay the circling vulture-like store detectives.

So Gertie and I went drinking. And it turns out that the swankier the club you go drinking in, the less they bat an eyelid when you check your vacuum into the coat-check.

And I was going to buy some new porn on the way home. But Gertie pointed out that popping into one of those Private Shops to get your latest Gentleman's Recreational Video with a hoover in tow just gave completely the wrong impression.

Monday, April 11, 2005

The Days We Went To... Part I

The Wife was still none-the-wiser when we got into the airport, having asked not to be told where we were going. He said he likes surprises, though I can think of three separate incidents where he's circled around a large cake like a wounded animal for fear a woman jumped out at him. But for this morning, I'd just told him to bring a passport and be at the airport for a nice trip away.

I watched his face with great interest when we went to check in. "We're flying? To Blackpool?" he asked, hoping I wouldn't notice as he quietly stuffing his exchanged Euros back into his wallet. "You can do that?"

"Apparently," I said. "Though we have to fly back on Saturday. I think they use the runway for car boot sales on a Sunday."

For those overseas, Blackpool was once Britain's favourite holiday destination before we all discovered you didn't have to be a masochist with the freezing weather and that you could go to Greece and still get chips. Now it has fallen into slight maudlin disrepair and is only really used for gaggles of Scottish girls coming down for hen nights. I thought the Wife would appreciate the faded glamour, particularly as he'd been playing a lot of Liza Minelli lately.

And it was all because Ryanair were offering 99p flights; yes for the price of a watery ice-cream with a flake in it, you can fly to the north's very own Las Vegas to get your fill of Kiss Me Quick hats and candy floss. Brilliant. But, lets face it, for 99p you're not going to get quality, thus underlined by the bored-looking Swedish woman who checked us in. In fact the minty 'Sven of Nine' was also cabin staff, and responsible for getting the steps up to the plane at the other end. We didn't like her: she never smiled and had fat ankles. Not that we have anything against fat ankles - it's just because she was a stewardess and thus prone to DVT, we didn't want her exploding as she begrudgingly bent down to get a Mars Bar from her trolley.

And she tried to sell us Ryanair scratchcards. How fabulously common!

We spent most of the 40-minute journey pondering about Blackpool Airport. Who even knew that Blackpool had an airport? We agreed it was probably just a stretch of gravel with six tea-lights down it. But nothing could prepare us for the reality - a shed with a rather hopeful sign on it reading 'International Airport' stencilled on the side. And Customs was a plastic sign saying 'This Way Out' on it.

Utterly, utterly brilliant.

The Stalker

That tiring man is back again, I see. I tell you, the best thing to do is ignore the illiterate fool.

But - yay! - lynch mob! Thank you all for offering to do a Southern-style hanging. I even had a couple of emails from the pacifists offering to roast some marshmallows on the funeral pyre. I adore you all.

He is being dealt with - and as soon as that happens, I can tell you aaaaall about it...

Wednesday, April 06, 2005

A Small Vacation

Look, you can amuse yourself for a couple of days, can't you? I've left you some microwave lasagne tucked behind the dog, and I took the liberty of writing the number of the local pizza parlour on something... what was it now? Oh yes, your forehead. Do be careful when you're reading it in the mirror - backward 5's look rather like 2's, and I don't want you calling any mucky phonelines. Accident or no.

Where am I going? Ah, I'd like to tell you, but it's all rather a surprise for my poor Wife and I don't want him to know just yet. I'll tell you all about it on Monday in glorious detail. Needless to say, it's off the beaten track - as is often want by Gentlemen Who Adore Show Tunes.

So you behave. I'm getting the neighbours to pop in and take a look at you - make sure you haven't found where we've hidden the power tools like last time. And if you see any plug sockets we haven't taped up, do be a dear and don't lick them. It was very tiring for us last time, what with being called home from Mauritius because you were part of the national grid.

No, I've explained before - we can't take you with us. We tried getting you a passport, but the lovely people in Her Majesty's Government wouldn't put you down as our offspring. They wouldn't even put you down as the same species, but I thought that was just being unkind. So we'll see you all on Monday with tales and larks and everything.

Goodbye, dear. And no touching yourself in your special place.

(door slams)

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Meanwhile, In The Headmistress' Office...

Come in, come in, don't dawdle on the door jam - it's most unladylike. That's much better.

Now, Melanie. Melanie Chisholm. 'Mel C' as it says all over your rough book. Do take a seat. I suspect you're wondering why I called you here, aren't you. Well I'm just going to jump right in and say that to be perfectly honest we're not happy with your coursework. And so I just thought you and I could have a little chat, you know, before I had to call in your parents.

Don't tut, dear. One shouldn't tut in polite company.

Now, your latest effort... what's it called? 'Next Best Superstar'? Now, it isn't your best work, is it. I mean, we all had a listen in the staff room, and we all thought it was a bit of a joke. For one, your music teacher thought you'd sent in an essay you'd copied from your first year report and just changed the headings - and that's just sloppy. Is that what you want us to believe? No, I'm sure you don't. I mean, what do you think of it, Melanie? Hmm?

Don't mumble, dear. You'll never get a job in this world if you mumble. You think it's 'alright', do you? Well, 'alright' isn't really going to cut it here I'm sorry to say. There are plenty of girls in the lower forms who are doing a lot better than you are at the minute and you should really just watch your back as they'll zip past you like a shot, and they'll be taking all the best jobs and all the best men before you know it. And I'm sure all those nasty playground rumours are false, Mel dear. You would like to get married, wouldn't you.

And about your uniform - we here at Clithold School For Girls encourage the sixth form to dress out of uniform - not too extravagantly, of course. But every time we've seen you out of the grounds, you've been in the same jacket and trousers every night! Every appearance we've seen, it's the same little number. Which makes me wonder - is everything alright at home? I like to think you girls can come to me with any sort of problems...

Now I hope I'm not speaking out of turn but you used to be a so more fun when you were hanging around with those other girls - I know, I know, you were all for this 'Girl Power' thing, but all that really did was a bit of knock-and-run on the janitor's door. And we've all done that in our time! Don't look at me like that - I was young once, you know.

What was that? So were the dinosaurs? Now you be nice, young lady. But yes, you showed much promise after we expelled that awful Geri girl, flashing her knickers at the boys in the next school over. Tsk. You even stopped wearing those shabby tracksuits on mufty days too, and we all thought your work was really on the up. But this... this is just, well, not your best.

Sigh. We do want you to well, dear girl. But if you don't pull your finger out, expulsion is on the cards. It's harsh, I know, but we really only want the best for you - we really do. So will you go and think about it? I really, really don't want to have to call you in here again before the end of term. There, there, good girl. So go on. Blow your nose and go on, go back to class.

And be a dear and send in that naughty Natalie Imbruglia in on your way out...

Monday, April 04, 2005

Jesus Christ!

The moment the Pope died, the Wife and I were enjoying a white wine spritzer during the interval of an Am Dram version of Jesus Christ Superstar. Rather aptly.

Well, it was very modern. Very forward thinking, all polo-necks and shouting; I think they were one step away from calling him 'Pontius Pilates'. And I'm not sure of the use of shopping trollies on stage... I kept thinking 'would Dame Olivier approve?' But it was nice to see Sainsbury's getting a credit in the laser-printed brochure.

But the highlight of the performance for me was when some woman got told off very loudly for using a flash camera to snap at their child mid-song, and then they spent the rest of the performance sheepishly looking around at other people in the audience who were then going 'Look! That's 'er who used the flash camera!' Of which there were two: myself of course, and a rather lovely woman in a caftan across the way. Oh, how I envied Caftan Woman - she was almost within touching distance of the dancers.

Although she was only partly lucky in this respect as there was only one of the dancers I'd have given the time of night to, and you know how 'picky' I am. I think this, not sets or production values, highlights that ultimate difference between am-dram and proper productions. Here, in the whizzy West End, you're spoiled for choice for limber boy-totty. It's a veritable smorgasbord of talent. Down in the conservative wilds of middle England, I was left with one gentleman to whom I kept thinking 'Yeah, put your leg above your head again and I may drop my hankie at you at the after-show party'.

Ah, yes. The after-show party. It turns out that what am-dram actors like only second best to performing is getting together and talking through their own performance, scene by scene in minute detail. "Oh, there was one terrible moment when I went on stage in my leper's costume and I still had lipstick on!" shrilled one member of the ensemble. I nodded along like a bladder on a stick, thinking how it was obviously the complete downfall of civilisation as she clearly did.

"But then - then inspiration hit me!" she added. "I ended up just curling my lips around my teeth, like a desiccated corpse! I thought that would be particularly leper-like..."

She got nods and a round of applause for that. In all truth, we couldn't even see her face, let alone her rather tarty lipstick.

Hilariously, the whole thing did have the air of a Doctor Who convention, were people obsessed over the most minute detail with like-minded people attired in a similar way. And in a complete parallel, while all this going on, I missed the otheram-dram goings and doings of actual Doctor Who on Saturday night. Although, as the Wife cheerfully pointed out, "Never mind, it's not the end of the world or anything, is it?"

He got a slap for that.

But, you know, I'm still humming the songs from the show, though. Grr.

Friday, April 01, 2005

Change Of Position

Ah, t'is a sad day here at Glitter for Brains as we have to say goodbye to our lovely assistant Stacey, who's leaving us after five solid years of work.

Those of you who've visited us here in Glittering Passage will probably remember Stacey as being the person you confused with a vending machine. A husky lass, we decided to give her an interview straight after she'd come out of St Crudiete's convent school as we initially felt sorry for a former nun who had a bosom you could almost toboggan down. We also wanted to uncover why a woman who'd been living in God's house for the past twenty years was so huge she looked like a wardrobe with two spades leaning up each side. While I am aware God moves in mysterious ways, I doubt even He would see fit to grant his close followers with a Cake Bush.

But it was her fighting style that also impressed us the most, and she finally landed the job thanks to a quick rabbit punch in my back on the way out the door. And for a woman with her own weather system, she proved to be remarkably good at dancing - as we saw in the company pantomime not three months later. This was despite being in high-heels - meaning one memorable pirouette managed to strike oil during the final number.

Her quick wit, and her ability to get things done in an expedient and threatening manner made her utterly perfect for overseeing some of Glitter for Brains' more complicated schemes. Like the week when we were stalking Ryan Reynolds; it was she who organised the bins we hid behind. And our ill-fated pop career. And the time we thought it would be a good idea to teach the internet to speak... She was invaluable, and proved that beneath that 50-inch chest beats a heart of gold. And it seems fitting that we should have to say goodbye to Stacey due to her imminent marriage to an obviously very brave man. We wish both of them luck for the future.

Taking her place will be the office cleaner - obviously not the first choice, but Char has proved herself to be just as good in a corner. And we approve of how much she can shoplift - the woman's like an octopus in Oddbins, I tell you. So we're sure you'll be just as kind welcoming her to the team.