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

Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Office Etiquette #563

"My, what a large and attractive corsage you have there. It looks lovely!"

"Fuck me, love. What's that strapped to your tit?"

Friday, January 27, 2006


The gayest animal, without a doubt, is the dolphin.

You see, I've been thinking a lot about gay sex, mostly because I haven't been able to indulge in any filthy BumFun(tm) now for a whole month thanks to the Wife being down in Oz. So I've been pondering as mostly pondering is all I've been able to do. And the conclusion I came up with was that dophins are definitely Good Listeners.

And scientific evidence backs this up. They form same-sex couples. They communicate in shrill whistles and clicks. They're very adept to balancing balls on the end of their nose.

And lets not forget that thing they do when they rise out of the water and clap their flippers together like any old Gentleman Who's Good With Colours does whenever he discovers there's a Bette Midler Special on.

So dolphins? Screaming. The only reason they're forever getting trapped in tuna nets is that they're trying to hang a nice pair of curtains around them.

Fortunately, pondering on such things can stop now as The Wife is back tomorrow. Those of you unfortunate enough to live in South East London - perhaps you were a Nazi in a former life, or maybe you were once rude about Cagney and Lacey - you should maybe put a couple of sandbags down by the front door. Well, lets face it, a month's a very long time.

Thursday, January 26, 2006

Jonathan Rhys Meyers

Is it just me, or...

Spot The Difference

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

Pink Pound

One of my favourite people Eden sent me this little gemstone, stating that Gentlemen Who Have Skipped earn on average £10,000 more than the male population at large.

Is it true? Oh yes. Brilliantly true.

The problem is, we spend approximately £10,000 more than this male 'population at large' on skincare products.

The study also found out we Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners spent about £3 billion on holidays for 2005 (Sitges is getting expensive. And not just the trips to the STD clinic afterwards. Er, one would imagine), forked out another £1.9 billion on clothing, and £1 billion on mobile phone bills.

And that just sums us up. No mention of disco drugs and Kylie's Greatest Hits CDs. Obviously they are tax deductible.

The Glitter For Brains Awards Ceremony

Alright. I'll do it.

I've just won a nice strappy dress on eBay (Hey! Just like Jada Pinkett-Smith going to the Oscars! Uh, allegedly). I'll give it a go when it turns up.

Thing is, it's coming from some spinster in the Welsh Valleys. Now I want to know the history of this dress more than anything.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

In Other News

Our newspapers are getting themselves into a bit of a tizzy at the moment, which is always hilarious to watch. Lets face it, the pink press is always in a tizzy ('Have YOU Seen Mamma Mia Yet? Witness The Gays That Haven't!') so it's nice that the broadsheets of the Ordinary Folk are getting in on the act.

For example, last weekend we had a whale getting hideously lost and finding it's way halfway up the Thames. It was more a surprise to most Londoners as its widely known that nothing can actually live in the Thames; the river is so full of toxins that it's rumoured Lulu uses it for a chemical face peel.

Ah, but then the whale died. The country was seemingly plunged into national mourning if you believe the papers as it was the biggest news story for two days. There was an eight-page souvenir guide in one. Ludicrous. And people started believing it too: one girl in my office admitted to saying a prayer for Whaley over a bar of soap that evening. Stupid girl.

Oh! Then we had the Lib Dems policical party! As far as I can tell, in the US the politicians are mostly about money. Here, they're all drunkards or closeted Gentlemen Who Are Secretly Good Listeners When Their Wives Aren't Around. Yet another one has been outed by a national newspaper as he steps up for leadership of his political party, with the revelation that he's been having an 'affair' with a rent boy for a 'lengthy period'.

The big question is: how does one have an affair with a rent boy? Surely if money is exchanging hands, that is not an affair, merely a prolonged transaction.

Or maybe it was a block booking.

Or more likely a 'booked blocking' in that case.

In other news, damn you all for remembering that I said I'd do the Halle Berry speech if I won the Blog Award. I was hoping that one would slip by under the radar and I could get away with that.

(looks slyly right)

Oh look! It's Jake Gyllenhaal in his pants everybody!


Monday, January 23, 2006

"Well Fuck Me!"

We won. We actually won the award! I'm currently clearing a space between the Angela Lansbury statuette and the signed t-shirt from one Tom Cruise with a note on the cuff saying 'I don't normally do this sort of thing, but next time you're in LA, give me a call!'

Perhaps I should submit it next time he goes to court. Anyway! A huge thank you to every one of you who voted. You're more special to me than Velcro. And you know how that makes me giggle.

Ah, this award comes at a brilliant time, for I elsewhere, I've been going a little loony.

I took on a freelance project just before Christmas that means I'm working 14 hour days at the moment. When it came up I thought 'what the hell, the Wife's off in Oz'. Besides, its good money and I like cutting out monsters from old episodes of Doctor Who. And it'll keep me out of trouble while he's gone and give my rectum time to remember that it's an exit...

But 14 hour days for the last fortnight. At the moment I can barely see or speak I'm so tired. I've also started going a little mad. Saturday night I was left alone, I hadn't left the house in days, my usually trimmed beard looking like the wild man of Borneo. Talking to myself? Pah! For amateurs. I woke up the Sunday morning to discover I'd tried to eat all the chutney in the house and found a picture of TV stalwart Elisabeth Sladen with hearts drawn around it in felt-tip.

My comedy flatmate is no longer letting me out of his sight.

Mostly as it was his chutney.

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Wireless Witchcraft

As I've spent more time in drab office situations, I've gradually discovered you have to Make Your Own Entertainment. Like bringing your own cheerleaders, as it spices up job appraisals no end.

So with taking fun as it comes as a new motto, I've been delighted in our company moving over to using wireless mice and keyboards. For in a fit of pique this very lunch time, I moved two from one desk to the other in a malicious swap.

Oh! The last hour has been spent watching two dizzy secretaries tapping their keyboards, one buggering up the other one's document and the other destroying a spreadsheet while complaining very vocally that nothing works and we should all go back to slates and chisels!

Oh life, be my wild mistress! I can't contain my hilarity!

I suggest this wheeze to my multitude of readers if your office contains any wireless keyboards. Except one of my charming admirers of this big pink column called Neil, who works in air traffic control.

That can only end badly.


Don't forget to vote! Click here to do it again. Even if you already have, some people can vote again!

Wednesday, January 18, 2006

The Easiest Job In The World

Next time you're at the checkout, I point your attention away from the assistant scratching her armpit with a Wispa Bar, along the stack of Atkins chocolates, and onto the magazine rack. No, ignore the shiny gloss of Bella and turn your attention to the Men's Health Magazine. That's right, the rag for Self-Hating Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners, and Their Semi-Heterosexual Brethren.

Well, bugger me. It's a black and white cover of a man showing us his six pack.

Now, see. My day job as a designer is hilariously easy. Most the time I forget I have one and spend the time at home enjoying Tyra Banks marathons on Living TV, ringing up Dame Shirley Bassey and swapping racy stories about the time we were in the Wrens. But I take my hat off to whoever is designing this magazine as they have got the money/old rope ratio spot on.

Does anyone buy it? I wish to know if the content is as identical as the cover each month. And whether there are photos of some guy wandering in, handing over a disc and go "There you are - there's your next four year's worth of covers. Mail the cheque to my Barbados account."

Although. There was a slight tint of colour on one the other day. I thought the world was coming to an end.


It's neck and neck between Glitter for Brains and the two gay dads! Click here to do it again. Even if you already have, some people can vote again!

Tuesday, January 17, 2006


Technology has been hating me for the last few days. Little things, like discs I burn don't work, my computer's crashing once and hour and I accidentally unplugged a heart monitor while I was at the hospital and they all thought she'd died. Despite her protests.

And Saturday I managed to slightly damage my new mobile phone. Just slightly, but just enough so one of the functions wouldn't work. So I checked my Expensive Insurance Policy and it proudly proclaimed that I could get a 'Replacement within 24 hours!' so I went and checked it in. Why is nothing ever as simple as they advertise it? There's all these terms and conditions, they don't have the parts gov'nor etc etc and so they've sent my beautiful K750i off to some workshop in Slough to be pummelled by a navvy with a mallet with a half-smoked cigarette hanging out of his gob.

'Oh, but it's not all bad news!' I mutter with a hate-filled look. Thankfully, it looks like the one thing my Expensive Insurance Policy is good for is that I do get a 'Standby Phone' while my own is being lost in the internal mail of Carphone Warehouse. So I'm currently the proud owner of some arcane talking-stick the likes of which I last seen being used by Bruce Willis in Moonlighting. It's ugly. It has no functions. And the thing's giving off so much radiation that the cup of tea I have next to it is still warm after three hours!

Honestly. If I get infertile thanks to this bloody radioactive brick, I'm going to sue.

Though god knows how we're going to find out.


It turns out that some of you can vote again when the day's out. Fancy doing it again? Because if I win - oh yes, if I win - I promise to recreate Halle Berry's Oscar Speech in photographs on this site.

Go on. Click here and give it a go.

Friday, January 13, 2006

Best Of Blogs

Now. I've been nominated for an award.

I know! Isn't it exciting! I haven't been nominated for anything since my needlecraft won me a 50p book voucher in my first year of school which I then went and spent on Sindy magazine because it came with a free hair-brush. My mother said it was the Moment She Knew, but I clearly have no idea what she's on about.

Click here and scroll down to Best LGBT Blog. Now the important bit - vote for me. I know, I know I'm up against Joe. My. God, but we should at least give it a good old try, shouldn't we!

Oh go on. I've got my outfit planned for when I deliver my speech and everything.


Return to Oz

As I mentioned, my dear Wife has sodded off back to the colonies for a month. A pity, as when he announced "I'm going down under for a long time," one thought one's luck was well and truly in.

He does like to go back every year or two, though its never fully explained why. One can only assume he's getting an annual coupon for a four-week acting stint in perennial Aussie soap opera Neighbours or something, leaving me to create a facsimile of him out of pillows next to me in bed. Sadly they are nothing like the real thing as they don't slap your hand away in the middle of the night.

He is missed very much. Maybe I should really watch Neighbours to check whether his handsome visage pops up, but it does conflict with cheerleading practice and TiVo's being a bitch at the moment and only recording Things With Sandra Bullock In for me for reasons best beknownst to itself. Perhaps it is actually gayer than I am. Perhaps it spends all day chortling along to Miss Congeniality while I'm at work. Or maybe its just mutiny because I filled it up with Girls Aloud videos.

Anyway. Neighbours. It's been doing longer than Elizabeth Taylor, and I'm sure you're all gagging to know what the Aussies getting in return for filling up our tea-time schedules with young boys in wetsuits trying to emote.

Well, we're sending them 'Rosemary and Thyme', the wacky adventures of two elderly lady gardeners who, wherever they go, solve murders.

Oh yes.

You see, we have a problem with our Sunday night programming over here. Everything shown on UK TV at around 7pm on the Sabbath becomes the cosiest little show, full of interesting local characters and japes to be had just on the right side of the law that leaves the local policeman laughing heartily into his cocoa come the closing credits. Honestly, you could put CSI on there and within two weeks Grisham would be wearing slippers around the office while Jorga Fox would have been misapprehended for poaching salmon from the local stream, all before they roll down the hill in an empty bath-tub with hilarious results.

Basically, imagine if every show became Murder, She Wrote without anything nearly as eventful as a murder.

Rosemary and Thyme comes from these spawning grounds. The Australian Broadcasters are billing it as 'charming'.

Dear the Australians. Do not watch this show. It will hurt your eyes. Run, run from it in the same manner you would from a room full of tactile coughers infected with Bird Flu.

And dear The Wife. Come back soon.

Thursday, January 12, 2006

My Religion

Being the professional screaming high-kicking Gentleman Who's Good With Colours, one does like take time each day to pop into church and nip in for a quick confessional.

Actually, when I say 'church', I mean 'gym'. And when I say 'confessional', I mean 'ending up on bended knees in a cubicle thanking the Lord for what's before me.' Oh, it's hilariously easy to mix up!

But yes, post-Christmas gym is always hideous. Full of fair-weather secretaries who will be back down the wine-bars come February, supping warm Wolfblass through a straw and talking about Big Brother. In the interim, we have them causing untold mirth as they try and use a Swiss ball with two-inch fibreglass fake fingernails. Oh! One almost had her eye out the other day in a particularly comical sit-up that went hilariously wrong. That was almost worth a month's membership on its own!

Anyway, with such popularity the instructors have taken to drastic measures to driving people away yet still keep their membership fees. And this is utterly true: the other day someone put cake-mix in the sauna. Cinnamon, you know. And as the heat (and cake) rose, the whole place was wafted with the scent of delicious cakey goods. You could see it going through the spin class like some sort of bake-sale tsunami. And with each turned head, you could see the look "Why am I here? Why do I put myself through this? I should be out there, having fun! Having cake!"

The result: it was empty this morning. And I was able to go into the dance class and do my impression of the pink leotarded Madonna in the 'Hung Up' video for the whole hour.

Tuesday, January 10, 2006


And on Christmas Day, the Wife got in a taxi and disappeared off to Australia for a month in a manner I've only ever seen in a soap opera. He offered to take me with him, but a new episode of Doctor Who was on in the evening so I passed.

The Wife's got a cat. Well, we think it's a cat. It has no tail and sleeps on its back and can't meow, but it's too small to be anything from Edgar Allan Poe, so 'a cat' seems to be the easiest shorthand for 'fur-shedding demon'. It's obviously missing him - it's taken to pissing everywhere in his absence, the little shit.

Here is a picture. Of the cat. Not the pissing, thankfully.

Blue in blue

Three o'clock on last Saturday morning, the Wife's housemate Rob awoke after an enormous explosion and ducked out of his bedroom to see the cat shooting past with his fur smoking. More incredulously, there was electricity arcing over one corner of the kitchen. He quickly turned off the house power, finding that the cat had taken a widdle on an extension cable, and thus literally getting the shock of his life. That'll learn it.

Rob ran upstairs to check on the cat, who was holed up in the spare bedroom with a look of unutterable fear on its face. And while it doesn't meow, it does croak like a hell-frog, which it was doing with most insistence, wisps of smoke rising from his arse. It was a hilariously pathetic sight.

Chortling to himself, Rob went back downstairs to clean up the mess. The computer was unharmed, the stereo thankfully the same. After a suitable five minutes, he went back upstairs to check on the cat, possibly soothe its nerves.

The bloody thing was asleep.


Monday, January 09, 2006

No Spitting

Well, look here! Someone's brought back Mystery Biscuits from the airport lounge of some hideous self-catering destination, as per the tradition in offices across the land. This week our taste-buds are delighted by something called 'Romany Creams', which the very name takes me back to a fairground of my youth where I met a gentleman of Romania who was more than happy to illustrate you don't have to be of a certain height to ride. And all the subsequent joys of a Big Dipper, of course.

Compounded by the other reason why I bring him up is that he used to spit like a navvy, and not just in the bedroom. And this came to mind this very weekend as there are hilarious calls for spitting to be banned in the UK by the Keep Britain Tidy campaign.

Keep Britain Tidy? Yeah, right. I can smell the mimsy hands of the Gay Council all over this, using some arcane government department as a cover. It's surely the first wave of new directives that are slowly coming in to make the UK a little more pink, like the banning ugly boys in the pants in soap operas, of which we've had a sudden glut over here. And while I believe that to be mandatory, should there really be calls for a obligatory EU chintz requirement in all homes?

Run free, say I. Don't let them get you! Buy one of our t-shirts, stating 'If You Loved Me, You'd Spit'. You know it makes sense.

(What are Romany Creams, anyway? I take them to be Gypsy Creams with delusions of free spirit and less goats, and possibly a better caravan?)

Friday, January 06, 2006

The Glitter for Brains Review of the Year!

2005. It was, as the Queen would say, 'a bit of a shit year, wasn't it?'
But it wasn't all bombings, earthquakes, and the arrival of the Pussycat Dolls. There were some good things too! Lets start to reflect - we know we are: we're wearing sequins. Onward!

Most Loathed Thing of the Year
50 Cents. This grumbling oaf of an entertainer has the showbiz presence of a wardrobe, and appears to rely on the sole claim to fame of being shot nine times.
That's not a claim to fame. That's just not taking the hint.

Album of the Year!
We don't know what we have against the vapid collection of singing mini-kilts known as The Pussycat Dolls, but you can guarantee that their debut effort is as near to this list as Myra Hindley was near a playgroup. 'Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?' Goodness no madam. I've seen less slap on a drag queen.

Meanwhile, up the other end of the speculum. plastic personality-vacuum Rachel Stevens gave quite a credible effort of a second pop album of jaunty tunes and giggly lyrics. Although the general public, not necessarily known for their discerning taste, decided that you must actually have a character in order to be interesting and unfortunately the album sold three copies. So now she's been dropped with such speed from the record company it brings to mind the incident with Eric Clapton's son.

And lo! Who's that at number two in our list, clinging to dancefloor credibility with her withered claws? Why it's aged disco-husk Madonna! And this time she's got her sticky fingers on pop, which she'll probably claim to have invented in the first place anyway. The album is, begrudgingly, her best in years, though she loses points once again for a couple of songs banging on about how hard fame is, and should she give it all up, and people should be nice to her because she's had such a hard life being an international jet-setting star. Oh boo-fricking-hoo.

So who's at number one? Why it's those premiere peddlers of pop tat, the immortal Girls Aloud, soaring in to the top of our personal charts. This time they swear! They sing about sexy role-playing! They rap! Oh, it's all too hilarious! Let's print a picture of the album cover before it was touched up, shall we?


Word of the Year
1st Place: Naughty
2nd Place: Soufflé

Man Alive!
Meanwhile, we do like a nicely-turned ankle on a gentleman here at Glitter for Brains, and this year has been so chock full of talent, our own ankles have been forced skyward quite regularly. So who's been making us drop our chips this last year? Well, rising up our poles, we have:

The lead guy from Stargate: Atlantis (warm)
Matthew Fox from Lost (hot)
Chris Evans from Fantastic Four (hot hot hot)

But who's causing our wanky-hanky to be so encrusted that it takes a cricket bat to fold? Why it's Jake Gyllenhaal! We know we're a late-comer (as it where) to Mr Gyllenhaal's work, but he gets applause for working as a gay cowboy in a film that's going to be parodied in the Gentlemen Who Like Soft Furnishings porn industry for years to come. 'Bareback Mountain' anyone? Why yes, thank you, I think I will.

Slipping out of the chart this year:
Dear Sawyer from Lost. He had a brief dalliance at the entrance of the chart, there is something wrong with his shoulders. It's abnormal!

Best Film of the Year
Nothing has us on the edge of our seat, dabbing away with a wet tissue more than a good flick. And sometimes we enjoy movies too! So what did we like this year? Lets say Narnia - well, an icy queen and a couple of talking beavers, why it took us all the way back to some cabaret we did back in 1984.
We have one question about the grown-up characters at the end of the film: surely they've had... urges by this point. And with them being the only humans in Narnia, well... you can see where we're going with this, can't you? And in all fairness, Edmund did give those centaurs a funny look, come to think...

Worst Film of the Year
Controversially, we're plumbing for King Kong. What a load of old rot. And hilarious for many reasons, not just the final scene where Kong dies and Naomi Watts looks around thinking "Right. OK. I'm now on the top of the Empire State Building in a pair of six-inch gold heels. You fucker."

Porn Film Title of the Year!
Coming Third: 'Oklahomo!'
Coming Second: 'Tracy's Local Pub Lock-In!'
And coming first: 'My Ass Is Haunted!'

And finally, Daftest Thing To Happen To Your Ruler Last Year!

3rd Place: Getting sent a parka from a reader!

2nd Place: Working on my all-time favourite TV Show, Doctor Who!

1st Place: Wandering around the console room set of my all-time favourite TV Show, Doctor Who! See? Look! I'm grinning like a special!


And - thank you all for reading. As ever. You're all lovely.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

He Shoots, She Doesn't Score

My mother's in love. Again.

A professional footballer has moved in next door to her, which is a bit like a gay sauna opening up one house along from Dennis Nilson. "Oh Lee," she cooed in her Brummie accents. "He's gorgeous." And then proceeded to list the incidents on which she's based an entire relationship with him in her head:

"My bin was out the other day, and when I came back, his was out too and they were touching!"

The courting ritual is obviously a lot more complex in the north of England. No wonder I didn't get a decent length of cock until I got to university.

I looked up from my Dalek jigsaw, "He's not in love with you, you silly mare."

"It's destined to be," she said dreamily. "When he moved in, I saw him carrying the boardgame Cluedo."


"So? So?! I love Cluedo!"

I rolled my eyes. She hates board games. And is always mixing up 'Cluedo' with 'a litre of vodka'.

The (Abridged) Rules of Work Christmas Parties

1. Never get drunk.
2. Never make a fool of yourself.
3. Do not talk to the boss if you've even had a whiff of alcohol.
4. Do not go near a camera.



Tuesday, January 03, 2006

In The Interim...

I went to a Christmas carols concert.

I've never had much truck with carols, bar Silent Night because a) the original can reduce me to a teary snotty mess and b) there's a very hilariously filthy version that this weird elderly woman at the end of our road taught me. No, for me, there's nothing more Christmassy than Phil Spector's 'A Gift For You' he did in the sixties, back when he believed that percussion on every one of his tracks was best achieved by recording a box of tambourines being thrown down the hall stairs.

And you get 'Santa Claus is Coming To Town' by The Crystals, who were clearly munching on a patch of magic mushrooms out the back of the studio. "Jimmy, I've just come back from a lovely trip alooooong the Milky Way," says Crystal #1, who for this instance shall be known as Crystal Meth. If you were little Jimmy, wouldn't you be thinking that Gran's been at the sherry again? Or possibly been sectioned, cause then she adds: 'I stopped off at the North Pole to spend a holiday'. Oh yes. If you were in any doubt that Santa Claus was real, dear old Crystal Meth has blunderbussed it out of the sky by putting it all together with her Club 18-to-Loony trip around the galaxy.

Anyway. This carol concert. It was the Gay Men's Chorus hosting it. And it was notable for one thing: they had an imaginary snowball fight half-way through and they still threw underarm. Hilarious.