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

Wednesday, May 31, 2006


Sunday was going swimmingly until the Wife spotted one of those Smart cars. Those tiny little vehicles that are popular with stumpy secretaries and middle management who think they're 'being green'. So for all his tree-hugging hippy karma shit, his outburst was all the more surprising.

"Oi! You! It's not a proper car you know," he bellowed to its occupants as it rolled past. "It's a lunchbox on wheels!"

The occupants were as taken aback as I was.

"Oh look. They've slowed down," I said. They'd turned the corner and pulled over. "Uh oh. I think you riled them."

"What they going to do? Throw their sandwiches at us?"

We walked past. They were glaring. And as we moved on, they pulled out and stayed level.

"They're still following us!"

"Stop it! You're not threatening! You can't be menacing driving something that came free with a Happy Meal!"

I couldn't look, I was laughing so hard. It was like being menaced by an iMac. They'd pulled around another car and were now stopping level to where we are.

"Yes, taunt us with your ability to park anywhere! It's bloody easy when you've only got half a car, isn't it?" shouted the Wife.

We moved on further. They pulled up level again.

"Go home! You're driving a Dyson!" he hollered.

And the occupants looked at each other. It was like the scales fell from their eyes and they realised the errors of their ways, and they drove off.

"Anything else?" I asked the Wife.

"I think I've got it all out of my system."

"You sure?"

He breathed deeply. "Oh yes. Much better."

"What about Teri Hatcher?"

"Oh come on! Everyone hates Teri Hatcher!"

Friday, May 26, 2006


I'm sure by now you've all realised there's a... type of men I like.

Not those smooth, waif-like gays with the silly hair. I like them burly. Workman-esque. All boots and toolbelts. The ones that are going to take it out and wipe it on your needlepoint cushion of Stephanie Beecham, completely ruining your post-coital glow.

I think you're getting the (very vivid) picture. And probably honking into your tea with horror.

But I want you to picture the scene. It's 6.30am and I'm riotously hungover. I've also awoken to discover I'm in a hotel in Cardiff and there's a note on the bathroom mirror saying 'Go to the gym, you fat knacker' and an arrow pointing to my kit that's been cleverly laid out on the floor. I hate it when I'm drunk. I tend to do things that are sadistic to myself the following morning. Like agree to come and work in Cardiff.

So out the door I go, and call the lift, fumbling for my GayPod as only the heeling power of The Spice Girls are going to sort me out before I go and use that really gay gym machine that looks like you're skiing. And the doors open and I'm presented with The Lord Almighty himself.

I have never known beauty like it. Flawless skin, touselled hair. A mere teenager - but what a wondrous creature! He could have the straightest Daily Mail reader fall to his knees and praise Liberace for showing us the way. He seemed to be emanating light, he seemed to be perfect. And he looked up from the bit of paper he was holding to turn those exquisite eyes to meet my blood-shot piss-holes and nodded a greeting.

It was like I'd been shown the error of my ways. Why sully yourself with those filthy workmen when you could have marvellous, ethereal being? I almost started to cry. I noticed he was carrying a Doctor Who shooting script too. Oh, was this the most perfect being in the world?

So. What did I do.

I got so nervous and, blinded by love and hangover, pressed all the buttons on the lift control. And as headed from floor to floor, he looked at me as if to say 'So is this your floor then?' I hung my head in shame, and fiddled with my GayPod to distract myself. Ah. But the lift is all mirrored. Wherever I look, I can see his faultless eyes staring at me, looking down at my shambling frame as a god would an ant.

He's on telly tomorrow night. Playing the son in Idiot's Lantern. Oh. Oh so beautiful. Of course the television doesn't do him justice at all. But try to imagine it.

* * * *

Three hours later I bumped into the episode's author over breakfast. It was clear what the conversation was going to be about.

"Oh yes. Don't worry. He's over the age of consent," he said, and we both hugged each other in celebration.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

An Expensive Hussy

Someone accused me of being cheap the other day.

I know! Me! Who's given his life over to charity! And yes, I can say that with a straight face - I must have been extremely charitable some nights I've been out clubbing for some of the Gentlemen Callers I've come round next to. Nothing stirs you from your hangover like seeing a pair of saggy brown undercrackers disappearing off in the direction of the bathroom, their owner scratching their contents while listlessly cocking a butt cheek to fart.

Ah, romance.

I mean, I didn't want to be known as a bit of a loose-moralled lass, but when you're known by your friends as the newest tube line ("we've seen how many men have ridden you in rush hour!") one must take every precaution so as to not just end up with any old stranger drilling you in the dark. Remember the resurgence of fluorescent pop socks a few years back? That was solely my fault. For I just found it very useful when you're wearing your ankles as earrings to have some light source close to your face. Unfortunately, I'd only managed to find the pink ones, so each of my conquerors was lit by an unflattering red glow like you get in horror films. After a while, they all started to look like Freddie Krueger.

So anyway, I'm not cheap. Those pop socks cost a pretty penny, let me tell you. And it's a lie that you could have got me into bed for six Cheeky Vimtos and a kebab.

It was seven.

See? Charitable. I've been single-handedly keeping inflation down at 2% since 1986.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

The Big Tuesday Question

Someone pointed this Big Fact out to me on Saturday evening. Well, I think they did - we were having a Eurovision party and at the start of it, there were 12 bottles of rosé wine, and at the end of it there were none and a bottle of vodka had evaporated too.

For the Canadian readership (I have no idea why I have so many Canadians as readers. Do I smell of maple syrup or something?) Eurovision is a brilliant white elephant left over from an ideal when all television in Europe would be brought together under one roof. With grand plans for cross-continental soap operas and showbiz events that never materialised, what's left is a global talent show that's meant to bring us all together in multiple culture happiness, but degenerates into the Greeks voting for their neighbours, the Dutch voting for theirs, the British pretending to be above all this, and the French each year pissing everyone off by demanding that the whole thing be done in their native tongue. To which everyone but the Spanish always boo.

So as you can see, it's a perfect symbol of cultural interchange and relations. 500 years of invading and hating each other can't just be brushed under the carpet. Oh no. But what we cando is coat everything in sequins and hang a mirrorball over the event, have a bit of a sing-song and everyone seems a little easier about the whole affair.

Anyway, this big revelation. It was while we were totting up the scores from our 'Outfits' part of the scorecard when a fabled friend said the Big Fact upon the room, and we all thought about it. And lo, it turned out to be true.

So I ask you the question. The great public. And more specifically, the Gentlemen Who Are Good With Showtunes.

All gay men had a typewriter when they were a boy.

Comment below.

Friday, May 19, 2006

Another 15 Minutes

Big Brother 7 started last night, much to my ambivalence. I normally pop in for the first day, see what the décor is like, and turn straight off when the first squealing homothexual wheels in front of the camera, screeching 'OHMYGOD! OHMYGODDD! OHMYGOOOODDDD!'

I didn't have to wait long.

But speaking of hollow fame, both the Wife and I have been lightly touched by its fickle hand over the last month or so. He's spent a good deal the last month off down in Wales playing the lead in a low-budget vampire film. I know! Movie star boyfriend! I'm very proud of him. And I've already chosen my dress for the premiere. It's like Liz Hurley's famous dress, only less safety pins and more spit, glue and a Matalan Loyalty Card to jimmy the lock.

And me too! What's my role in this business called show? Why all of a sudden am I the talkofthetown?


Oh yes. Those lovely Ladies Who Prefer Birkenstocks discovered that I recently met darling old Kate Mulgrew. And I didn?t realise that dear Mz Mulgrew has a huge following with the Ladies Who Are Good With Power Tools. I know, in retrospect it sounds idiotic that a woman with sensible hair who a passion for big guns wouldn't be idolised by the lesbisexuals, but I'm a simple creature who ate a lot of Play-Doh as a child.

And after I'd posted it to this, my big pink column, it wasn't long before I happily fell in with a sect who were obsessed with the idea that whenever the cameras weren't on them, Captain Janeway and Seven of Nine were at it like knives.

Well, scissors. Well-lubricated, mucky scissors.

And thus they all wanted to be my friends.

Which is good as I've run out of lesbians. Completely. All the ones I had amassed over the years have either gone to ground in their IKEA-laden apartments to learn how to dive, or are now 'back on solids' and firmly riding the Man Train - first class with a non-stop ticket to Orgasmville in at least one case I could mention.

But these new breed thought I was hilarious, and I thought they were brilliant and we had several chats about Janeway changing her hair in Season Four so completely, And for a brief but marvellous while, I was elevated among their ranks. I felt the tangible worry about having to put up shelves or boiling my own lentils completely evaporate! They even went away and made t-shirts of something I said!

All because I'd spoken to Kate Mulgrew. I was their connection to their god.

It's like I was the lesbian Ark of the Covenant.

Which I'm sure we imagine to be a nice, functional-looking box with a tasteful decal of the Indigo Girls in the corner. And when you open it, it offers to set your video recorder correctly.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Update About Last Night

Don't I remind you of a young Dolly Parton?

I woke up in my afro half an hour late for work and smelling of Brut.

So no change there from normal.

PS - she burst into tears right on cue. Amazing.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

The Mystery of the Fairy Wings

We've got a company event this evening, and - oh! - the champagne will flow! And so will my bitter resentment!

Now tell me. What is this urge for girls of a particular size to come out dancing with fairy wings on? We've got one tonight who's already wearing them, by now covered in glitter - the poor thing thinks she looks marvellous when, frankly, she looks like a glitter ball that an albatross is resting on.

I can already see them looking over at me through their files. Hunted, I feel. For at some point in the evening I shall be brought before these be-winged behemoths who, having watched Will and Grace, have decided by half-past-the-third-cocktail-jug that everyone in a New Look dress should have a gay best friend. At which point I'm normally heaved into someone's mighty cleavage with a 'Oh aren't you just the best thing ever?!' And while I try and recover my dignity (and possibly my tiara from that cavernous breach betwixt her well-plumped love pillows) she'll grab my manicure and drag me to the dance floor.

And I'm not too hot on the dancing. Well, not at my age. One tends to seize up when there's a slight breeze these days, which is wholly ironic considering the volume of lubricant that's been up me over the years. No wonder one has an oily t-zone...

Anyway, the big mystery for me is why does anyone wear these fairy wings? They seem to be uncommonly bad luck for any girl who wears them will be, without fail, crying by 1am.

Perhaps it's the realisation that they don't look as fabulous as they think. And in fact actually look like Mavis Cruet from Willo The Wisp.

Friday, May 12, 2006

Porn Review: Bareback Mountain

Now, we like a good flick.

We also like a good movie (ho-ho!) so imagine our joy when we discovered our favourite film of last year was being made into the obligatory porno! Larks. Why don?t we compare and contrast the two?

Brokeback on the left, Bareback on the right. With one or two slight amends to make it Safe For Work!

Bare and Brokeback Mountain!

Brokeback: The short story by Annie Proulx, which first appeared in The New Yorker.

Bareback: A couple of cowboy hats left behind after a hen party in The Yard.

Brokeback: This one did, inspiring a raft of parodies.

Bareback: The minging one in the white cowboy hat.

Brokeback: Good lord! Spit-on-hand action in a tent somewhere, where Ennis manages to get it in with a wince-inducing lube-less shunt meaning either a) Jack's as slacker than Paris Hilton's fish mitten, or b) Ennis doesn't live up to what his name sounds like.

Bareback: Real-life couple Jed and Ted (or something) show us how 'hot' things are in their bedroom with a quick bareback dalliance over the hotel pool table.
Clearly Jed or Ted (whichever one's 'the lady') was talked into doing this film as a last-ditch attempt to save their floundering marriage as, forgive me, he doesn't like to take it up the poo-tube that much. Which considering you're a) making a porno and b) have to get an average-sized member thrust up you on cue is clearly a disadvantage. But there he lies, shuddering in pain with each thrust, clearly making us want to be watching as much as he wants to be there.
In the interim, we get flanks of those pinch-faced homothexuals diddling each other on a series of wicker furniture. Why wicker? It looks slightly rustic, one supposes. Especially next to the well-sprung bed with leopardskin bedspread.

Brokeback: Ostensibly deliberately bleak and depressing. Although someone gets some formica wipe clean surfaces in it halfway through. And it's not one of the gays! Shock!

Bareback: Well, looky-loo! Someone's put a stuffed moose's head on a motel wall.
Oh wait, that's the one in the white hat again.

Brokeback: 'Love Is A Force Of Nature'. Aww. As impenetrable as the films ultimate message. Which is directly and inversely proportional to how seemingly impenetrable Jack Twist is.

Bareback: 'Love Is A Right Of Passage'. See?! They even fucked this up the wall! This is a porn film, from an industry responsible for such classics as 'Shaving Ryan's Privates' and 'Drill Bill'! There's always a pun. If anything, it should be 'Love Is A Right To Passages'! Fools. And love? Please. Never since the dubious (and real) 'Piss Boys In Love' has the subject of romance in pornography ever come into question.

Brokeback: A couple of catchphrases that'll plague schoolkids who aren't very good at Physical Education. 'I wish I could quit you!' springs to mind.

Bareback: Barely any dialogue at all. You'd think that these people had been hired for their looks, wouldn't you? Well, you'd be wrong about that too.

Brokeback: Yes.

Bareback: No.

Brokeback: Snot and tears everywhere by the end of the movie. I'd say this one.

Bareback: Well, an obligatory spaffing by the third chapter, but you'll only feel dirty and wrong for it.

And there we have it, ladies and gentlemen! Conclusive proof!

Have a good weekend, y'all. Yee-haw.

Wednesday, May 10, 2006

Country Star Howe Gelb

Flash! Aaaaagh!

Nice to see that Ming The Merciless is still getting the work.

(I mean, come on. You'd think someone told him before he left the house of a morning, or something.)

Tuesday, May 09, 2006

'Please Go To Checkout Number 2'

So, do tell me. You're waiting in queue to pay for your delicious series of ready-meals in a well-known local supermarket when you're called down to your checkout operator. What exactly is the correct etiquette when, upon getting down there, do you discover there is a drag queen on the till? Not an extravagant, hair everywhere, teeth and claws diva, but a drag queen nonetheless?

Should you:

* Avert your eyes

* Avert your eyes and prey you didn't put a copy of well-known listings magazine 'TV Quick' in your basket in case of any misunderstandings.

* Watch her adam's apple bob up and down under the diamante choker as she asks you whether you want cashback.

* Yelp "Teri Hatcher! I loved you in Lois and Clark!"

* Grasp her manly hands and state that she's doing wonders for our cause, with a liberal spraying of glitter and eyelashes so long she has to tip her head back to open her eyes.

* Yelp "Teri Hatcher! I loved you in Desperate Housewives!"

* Wonder if it's actually a health hazard to have that much hairspray so close to fresh fruit.

Yelp "Teri Hatcher! Weren't you in Return to Oz? I do recall this evil scarecrow that was a bundle of twigs with a slightly immobile orange head in it."

Personally? I did the first one.

Then the last one. Grin.

Friday, May 05, 2006


Don't you love it when secrets come out?

My one vain hope in this world is that this mortal body does actually survive longer than alleged bum-botherer Tom Cruise, so we can all bear witness to a cavalcade of boy-totty leaping out of the closet to attend the funeral and claim him as their own. That's a point: how do Scientologists have funerals? I suppose if his casket is laid out on a pink ribbon float that travels down Broadway down to where they're showing 'Wicked', we won't have to wonder any longer, will we?

But anyway. The other secret that caught my delectable green/grey eyes this very week is the US government considered developing a Gay Bomb. How utterly marvellous!

For those of you who's imagining a device that drops behind enemy lines, projects a 15-foot hologram of Cher before releasing a cloud of 'cK One' and a recipe for stuffed porcini mushrooms, apparently you're wrong.

If I could turn ba-BOOOOM!

Fabulous, but wrong.

The plan for a so-called 'love bomb' envisaged an aphrodisiac chemical that would provoke widespread homosexual behaviour among troops. Provoke? Clearly these people haven't seen the, uh, Gentleman's Recreational Film 'Standing to Attention!' where it seems the whole of the Navy, Army, Fire Department and a quick cameo from the 'fifth emergency service', the Automotive Association, decide to go at it like knives. Although I do believe the latter was a rather laboured plot device to get in a scene with a bicycle pump. Not wholly expected. And seemingly not by the actor in the scene, either.

So. Hilarious Gay Bomb. That clearly comes with a subscription to Homes and Gardens when it goes off. Can you guess how much this whole charming endeavour would have cost?

$7.5 million.

Oh darlings, I've got better results out of straight men with two bottles of wine and a bit of straight porn. Total cost - £22.40.

Hey. I'm cheap, but at least I get the job done.

Have good weekends, y'all.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Pretty Average Weekend

Made a cake.


Shaved the cat.


(Before you get all RSPCA on us, his fur grows far too long and the vet suggests we shave him every summer. He hates it, naturally.)

Tuesday, May 02, 2006

Nose Dive

It seems that you can't actually survive in this office unless you know exactly what's going on in the world of reality television. Baying secretaries, forever like the trolls under their bridges, won't let you pass their desks lest you know exactly who's been knocked out of the Big Brother House.

Of course, it's all a mystery to me. Bar the last round of The X-Factor, judged by Simon Cowell, some aged wendy, and Sharon Osborne from under that Nicky Clarke pagoda of industrial hairspray. For last time it has been responsible for one good thing: this gentleman here. Shayne Ward.

Look at him. Look at him!

Well, I would.

Oh does he not have all the promise of being a bit of a rough shag? Even the name 'Shayne' reeks of someone from the Lower Orders who they've poured into a Topman suit to get on TV. There you'd be as his sausage-like fingers pawing at you as you try and force him off with one hand, the other hand's reaching around to flip back the duvet cover and steady your bedside lamp.

Now I do like a bit of 'skanky-panky'. Bit of slap-and-tickle with someone from the local estate with a bit of dirt under their fingernails and a tool belt in their white Transit van that's waiting outside your box hedge.

And now look. They've just done a waxwork of him. I may have to go on a bit of a pilgrimage.

But now. See. We have to wonder whether they only made a waxwork of him as he looks like one anyway. Look at that skin! Nary a pore on it. Does he sweat, do you think? As he's pummelling away, nary a thought between his beautiful eyebrows other than 'Must go harder...' do you think you'll be dripped on from his furrowed brow? His back glistening in the morning sunlight as you remember you didn't even get a chance to pour his tea?


Sorry. Lost it for a moment, there.

Anyway, the reason I bring you all here is to give you a warning.

DO NOT buy this man's records.

For one, I have a bet going with my mother that he won't have three number one's this year, and if she loses she has to buy me the Girl's World she refused to when I was eight.

But the real reason is the sooner his star begins to fade, the sooner we get him in one of those career-nosedive naked photoshoots for the gay magazines that always follows a 'celebrity' as their career shuffles unceremoniously towards the trash can.

I tell you, I can't wait.