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

Wednesday, July 26, 2006

On The Fourth Day

I'm sure you all know that doing things backwards comes with the genes, the fabulous hair, and the love of Dame Kylie. So a few days in to my new job, I take a few days off to pop back to the old one to sort everything out.

Well, when I say sort, basically 'remove all those pictographs of barely-dressed ruffians and down-on-their-luck urchins posing for a bag of oranges and a shiny tuppence that were cluttering up the server for five years'. I think I gave them back a gig-and-a-half with one swift move, you know.

But yes, five years. I've seen some changes there. People coming and going, the invention of the internet, decimilsation. The Vietnam War, and the resurgence of the puffball skirt - all sorts of atrocities. I wasn't looking forward the end as it meant that it was horribly real, that I would finally be freelance proper and that meant no pension, no healthcare, no sick pay. But on the upside, I now get to work in my underwear and scare the milkman and if that isn't worth a BUPA membership, I don't know what is.

I wasn't looking forward to saying goodbye to everyone there. Half a decade, you become part of the furniture. You barely wonder if anyone's going to notice you're gone - you're like the lame old dog that everyone takes for granted, though I haven't pissed in the potplant in a few years. It's always difficult knowing where the line of professional 'friendships' and mates are drawn, and I tend to keep everyone at arms length anyway so I didn't cherish the idea of goodbye drinks in my 'honour'. Well, come on - they're more or less a chart of how popular you are in the company, and as we all know I'm a cumudgeonly old fucker and was expecting three people and a pizza to turn up.

Almost the whole company did. Rebecca from Licensing had got me a whole box of Doctor Who toys, including a radio-controlled Dalek (almost died with happiness). Richard, the MD, came down and presented me with a lovely bag from Diesel ('not my taste, mind. I just tried to think "gay"...') and in the meeting previous Jon, one of the directors, gave a lovely speech that frankly I wouldn't have minded being my eulogy. Cards, wine - oh, lots of wine! - and a standing ovation as I left the pub at the end of the day.

Goodbye, fair company. I will miss you. You made a cumudgeonly old fucker very very happy.

Tuesday, July 25, 2006

On The First Day

I'd forgot all the things that go with a new job. The first part of the day when you've got no log-on, no password and no network access, and you have to pretend to strike the balance of 'efficient yet busy' by shuffling back and forth the reams of notes you've been given by jaded colleagues that have been here for years. I call it being a First Day Fraud. And I earned over 200 quid just passing pieces of A4 around in a sharp yet official manner.

In fact if you wear glasses, you will find these becoming invaluable at this point, as you get to take them off, wipe them, and nod sagely at each thing you're pretending to read, while all the time wondering whether you've gotten away with it.

But here you are, parachuted into the middle of a group of people and their politics, their world and 'their mug - keep off!' The 'here's the fax machine, the nine sticks', the 'milk, two sugars for me!', the 'don't mind him, he's like that...', and the 'we get ice-creams on a Friday when it gets over 30 degrees!' Foibles and fancies to assimilate. Computer wallpaper giving little clues to subterranean personalities dimmed by years of office working.

I got introduced to over thirty people in the first day, and studiously noted down their names in my little book. After five I wrote 'the nice one with the legs'; by ten I was rating them by fitness. I still don't know who most of them are, bar the ones who got two ticks and a crude picture of a penis next to them, with space left for a phone number should any office parties go my way.

Speaking of which, by the end of the day I noticed my first bit of inter-office flirting. They haven't done it yet, which is good as he's married. And I think she's may very well be a princess of Lesbania. But it's something to watch when you're not shuffling paper officially, isn't it?

Monday, July 24, 2006

Fifteen Days

I'm back.

I want to say tanned and rested, but that's far from the case. My utter adoration for Dicky for taking over for the last fortnight, and not actually making good on his promise to spill all the beans on my Darkest Secrets. And, oh, does he have some doozies. For those of you who emailed me, yes he is real, yes he is my ex boyfriend, yes he does sound a bit like me doesn't he, and yes he is devastatingly handsome. Check out some pictures of him here.

So what's been happening?

On the first day I started a new job.
On the fourth day, in a backward turn of events, I left my old job.
On the fifth day I went to see Superman Returns.
On the twelfth day my mother met some firemen.
And on the fifteenth day, my dear boyfriend, The Wife, my partner for the last four years, split.

The next few days are these stories.

Saturday, July 22, 2006

The Catholic Church vs The People

Settle an argument for me, will you? When I was younger and more supple I used to listen to Catipal Radio. Nowadays I get forced by work colleagues to listen to Jeremy bloody Vine and Steve bloody Wright on Radio Two... mainly, I think, because no one wants to have to listen to the same six adverts every half an hour all day long. Catipal, being an independent radio station, carried advertising. One advert was for a newspaper called the Daily Sport, and it had a catchy jingle, which were I able I'd sing for you. It went something like this: "The Sport gets Britain up in the morning!" to a generic radio-jingle tune. Talking to my flatmate Tom, I said that you had to admire how they slipped a knob gag through, even if was only local radio. The Sport you see, is full of smut, and famous for it's "stunnas". Tom reckons it just my dirty, *dirty* mind. What do *you* think?

(Even if you agree with me, and I feel you ought to - it's only polite... it's not my favourite tits-and-tabloids-related joke. That honour goes to The Sun for their "News in Briefs". They get some 19-year-old topless model to stand around in her pants and comment on the bombing in Iraq.)

We were only talking about all this because Charlotte Church (making an improbable second entry in my blogging stint) had called the Pope a Nazi. And with good reason. Pope Benny, as I'm sure you know, was in the Hitler Youth. It's all very well for him to say "I vas forced into it" or "it vas just vat you did in zose days" (apologies to any Germans, that was shameful), but I reckon that when he was asked to sign up he should have said, "Get stuffed, Goebbells, one day I'm gonna be the fucking Pope".

Tom, however, hates Lotty Church and being the son of a vicar (albeit one of the more cuddly Anglican variety) probably feels he should defend the religious realm. "You can't criticise Gary Bushells," I said, "for being a homophobic wanker. And then says it's OK for the Pope. More people probably listen to the Pope for a start."

"People who read the People listen to Gary Bushell," said Tom.

Which led to a discussion about whether, asked to list ten tabloid newspapers, I'd even think of The People. And that's when we got talking about the Sport, and whether or not they had promised to give us wood. In the morning.

It's academic, as I'm writing this in the evening. Even more so than usual The Sport is of no use to me, and I'm just going to have to find my fun somewhere else...


Lee is bungy-jumping off the southern coast of Italy.

Thursday, July 20, 2006

Hit Me, Baby!

I put my left leg in. I put my left leg out. In. Out. In. Out. I shook it all about. Quite how a stand-up comic got us all doing the hokey cokey on the hottest day of the year wasn't entirely clear. Still: I came, I saw, I conga'd - though not necessarily in that order - and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

Ida Barr's geriatric antics and self-styled "artifical hip hop" helped us pass the evening quite pleasantly. It was all very funny in a queer kind of way. There was even some stuffed olives and salted peanuts on the table, and the chance to win a bottle of the old Blossom Hill. How they spoil us! I'm off to Edinburgh next month, for the festival, and I'm guessing it won't be anywhere near as cosy.

Now, we all need a laugh, and I'm sure you're itching for me to relay a few of the cracking gags I heard last night. Regrettably, I can't really bring any to mind right this second. The first act did a bit of local humour... Apparently the police who shot the innocent Brazilian on the underground last year have been cleared, but there was some "health and safety" issues.

Today's big news is that the Metropolitan police are doing a great job... which means there'll be another dozen film crews blocking the entrance to Stockwell station. But if you ask me, I'm not sure violent crime *is* down. They start young around these parts. I was assaulted by a toddler this morning. She was being carried by her Mum who was running for the bus, the littl'un swinging her arm as they went. And as they passed me by: wallop! Not even a fucking apology. I wouldn't be surprised if another vicious infant was filming it from a pram across the street. Happy slapped by a two-year-old.

I hope they missed the bus.


Lee is unavailable to comment. First time for everything.

Tuesday, July 18, 2006

The Feminist Organ

If you've been wondering - and I don't suppose you have - where I've been, I've spontaneously combusted. Like Johnny Vegas in Bleak House, only with slightly less fuel on board. Oh! He must have burned for a while.

I forgot that drinking white wine often gives me a headache. I was led astray... A whole bottle at lunchtime on Monday. And then, in the afternoon, the baking sun hit my side of the office, streaming through the windows. Oh! Didn't I feel woozy. It'd be a lie to say that I almost wept with gratitide when I was allowed to go home at quarter to six. But only because I'd been marshalling every ounce of concentration remaining to present a studiously unpissed facade.

All I could do on Monday evening (after a miserably circuitous journey home following the closure on Waterloo) is prop myself up and peer glumly at the TV. I watched a programme about feminists on BBC2 ("We needed to discover what it meant to be women outside the framework of a male dominated society. So we wore sensible shoes" Tough women), Mark Lawson's interview with David Baddiel on BBC4 ("That's you that is!") and a couple of programmes about Kenneth Williams (was pleased to hear he had a fling with a handsome Australian. Otherwise: more bitter than Fuller, Smith and Turner's distillery).

It's nice to stay in and watch telly sometimes, but last night it was a bit cooler and I actually managed to venture out. A friend had called and asked if I'd like to join him seeing The Organ at King's College Student Union. Well, how could I pass up the opportunity. Students *and* an Organ! As it happened, the Organ were five Canadian girls who, I thought, played some good music. Mind you, funny name for a bunch of girls. Luckily there was a bit of organ, otherwise a stern letter may have been necessary.

And now it's the middle of the week already! I have some chilled fizzy drinks, some posh ice creams and tonight I'm off to see some comedy. They'd better make me laugh. Ida Barr is the main attraction if that means anything to you. I shall get back to you. Until then, stay cool people!


Lee is hiding. Under ground.

Saturday, July 15, 2006

'Flame Grilled' & 'Virtually Fat Free'

Right that's it. I'm throwing a fucking strop. In tribute to Nikki. How could they get rid of her? Big Brother DIED today. Nikki may merit a celebrity ASBO and be popping into KFC on the way home from Elstree, but I just hope I'm there next time she misses a train and throws a particularly public tantrum. I shall be discreet, of course, and watch her out of the corner of my eye as she flails around, turning a vivid shade of puce. Incidentally, Jayne (now, she can fuck off) reckons Nikki's off to Australia. A few Australians have been leaving comments on this blog. BEWARE! PANIC! HIDE! Move to New Zealand!

I love KFC myself of course. It's, like, a special place for me and my boyfriend. Staggering back from Camden in the small hours. Clawing at the windows of the branch in Swiss Cottage, as the staff stack chairs and flick 'V's in our general direction. My man's moved to Islington now which kicks all the fun out of it, but at least we have Mecca Bingo.

Meanwhile, in the absence of any burger action at King's Reach Tower (where I've been working this week) I've been on the trail of good sandwiches. The local pubs and Eat are beaten hands down by Pret A Manger... but only because of the sticker they have on the tills that says, amusingly I think, "Sorry - We have to charge VAT on items when you eat in. Nightmare!"

Carrying my little paper bag from Pret, back to my desk, up 29 flights of stairs gives me lattitude to do the whole "I look down on him" routine... but I don't think I'll bother. I would hug a hoodie, but we're scared shitless of each other. No good would come of it.

If you were here the other day you might have joined us in musing about how sexy 21st Century science can give us a leg up on the malicious eugenics front. I suggested people might want to wipe out the woopsies. Qeeny wanted the world chav-free. But (and I realise that this is old news, 'olds' if you will) this week's story was that men are no longer needed. I heard it first on Radio Two.

Basically, they've finally developed artificial semen. I'm betting it's all part of the advertising campaign for Coca Cola Zero. Spunk Zero, for a less fattening blow job. You know, a while back I heard of this pill you could take that flavoured your man juice. Made it taste of apples, I think. Tired of that dull, savoury suck? Pop a couple of these and you can be coming Creme de Scrumpy.

So, the girls will be able to get articifially-generated spoo by the bucketload. "Well, well," chortled radio's Ken Bruce, twittered the tabloid press, giggled the odd TV panel game, "what good are men now?" I'm no fool, I know full well this is just a harmless, fluffy, Monkhouse-inflected excuse for some vintage comedy. Opening jars! Catching spiders! Mowing the lawn! Oh, the battle of the sexes! Keeping the greetings card industry in work year after year! I ached, I tell you, ACHED for my mate Zeena to come on the radio and say in her best Kim Cattrall voice, "Oh, honey, fake jizz is one thing, but we all need a big hard cock."

Because women like sex, like drooling over men, and I thought we'd got past pretending that they didn't. Even if they do think all men are cunts, and that it's a nuisance you have to put up with so much shit to get a shag. Gay men - same problem, but in some cases rather more literal. I reckon that some lesbians just pretend to be dead grumpy so they don't feel left out of this man made mess.

Of course the above argument occupies the ground between a generalisation and complete bollocks... but it's probably more sound than, "Oh no, Ken, my husband does *all* the hoovering". And, to go all Carrie Bradshaw on yo' ass, it set me thinking. Men - and to clarify I mean your actual motorcycle-riding, cattle-neutering straight men - would never say "oh who needs women?" because they're all rampantly sex mad. Right?

I'm a man - albeit gay as a goose who, for this similie to work, is fond of other male geese - and *I'm* rampantly sex mad. And as I staggered asthmatically up the East staircase of Kings Reach Tower the other day, I wondered if I'd prefer to shag a beautiful, *beautiful* woman in favour of a fat, ugly guy. I know chunky men with an unconventional kind of beauty have their followers. That's great. But I'm prone to furballs. Some straight men must have wondered if stud beats moose. Would they rather go without? There you go! Some hope for all those gays out their who hanker after straight boys. Just kill all the pretty women. (Actually, please don't. I don't want to get the blame.) I'm happy to stick with, or to, the gays. They do it for me, and I'm not sure any beautiful, *beautiful* women would have me anyhow.

I've rambled on for long enough. I must get to bed or, by the time I drag my sorry arse from under the duvet tomorrow, all the shops will be closed. And there'll be no breakfast for Dicky. Nightmare!

Goodnight you.


Lee is, I'd imagine, fast asleep

Thursday, July 13, 2006

The Universe In A Handkerchief

Imagine, for a second, that you devoted your life to unravelling the secrets of human DNA. I have no idea what that involves, but it's probably a bit more taxing than unravelling some unloved knitwear so you can use the wool to make a snazzy balaclava helmet. I had a balaclava once. It's a mystery why anyone would want to wear one of those, but that's nothing compared to the complexities of chemical base pairs and all that shit.

It's well boggling - especially if your head for figures only extends as far as giving head to people with a good figure. And that's not the end of it, because if you sign up for this Herculean feat, you also have to keep an eye on ELSI. That's what the Human Genome Gang (a bit like the Happy Days gang but with lab coats instead of the leather jacket) call their 'responsibilties' programme. I think it stands for Ethical, Legal and Social Issues. Well, we all have issues.

(Talking of being principled - and Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Days! - I recently completed an article about Big Brother for top entertainment magazine The Works. You may have seen on the news that the Australian Prime Minister wants Big Brother axed. I don't know how the production team felt about that. It was probably a bit of a slap in the face. Anyway... tapping away ten to the dozen, I inadvertently called the Australian leader 'Ron Howard'. It would have been embarrassing if that had sneaked through. Although, perhaps Australia would be more fun with Richie Cunningham at the helm. Who am I to say?)

Where was I? Oh yes - ELSI.

I reckon these boffins have spent so much time fiddling with As, Ts, Cs, and Gs (the four chemicals that make up DNA), that they've gone a bit acronym crazy. You'd be amazed at the percentage of their research budget that has been ploughed into finding the gene that bestows the ability to generate amusing abbreviations. They need all the help they can get: the best they've managed so far is HUGO (HUman Genome Organisation - cheating there, I'm sure you'll agree), ANGIS (the Australian National Genomic Info Service. Poor) and, of course ELSI.

Once they've worked out what BERRL stands for (answers on a postcard) they might set their brain power to unknotting some of the troubling implications their work throws up. Of course, like most people, I have my head up my own arse (always a good place to look for answers and, if you're Lee, lose things) so the ethical question *I* want answered is whether all this research will enable scientists to wipe out all those dirty filthy gays. I reckon it would be troublesome. I'm going to put myself forward as a subject for study, having been born without the shopping gene. The shopping gene must be all tangled up with the gay gene. And the enjoying musicals gene. And the looking after your mother gene. She was fine, by the way.

It's a thought isn't it? But, if I were you, I wouldn't think about it too hard.


Lee is busy coding non-linear DNA

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

My Best Friend's Book

A while back, before the World Cup turned my neighbourhood into a flag-waving, horn-tooting Portuguese ghetto, I went for tapas with my friend Dorothy. (Yes, I know. If I only had a heart.) After a few plates of chorizo sausage we went back to mine and I ordered her a cab back to the wilds of South London, where she stays when she's back in the country. Luckily there's a shop that's open all hours on South Lambeth Road, because I'd forgotten to stock up on gay tea for her visit. She flew back to Sydney the following day, leaving me with 18 lemon and ginger tea bags. I've been trying to develop a taste for it, but to no avail.

Dorothy has lived in Australia for over a year now. She swears by having pins stuck in her - actually, I'm with her on that one, I'd swear if someone stuck pins in me - and she writes books. Now, I know loads of people who write books, and good books too... but they always seem to be about some supporting character in a Dr Who audio play, or the third series of Gene Roddenberry's Andromeda. Dorothy writes proper grown up books. Stories about real situations: chocolate addiction, complicated relationships and men who can't get rid of their erections. I imagine that her books are read by a lot of women but please, *please* don't call them chick-lit. Unless you're very sure you're never going to bump into the esteemed author. She's Fierce. Fuck knows what that means, but they're always saying it on Big Brother, and I think it might fit the bill.

At the risk of this turning into an advert, her latest book, My Best Friend's Girl, is going to be on the Richard and Judy book club on 26 July. Well, it will... as long as Richard Madeley isn't too busy telling the nation what a nice pair of tits his wife has.

Well, I'd better get down the station. I'm off to see my Mum.


We lost Lee down the back of the sofa. Again.

Tuesday, July 11, 2006

...In A Storm

I spent last weekend in Cardiff. Cardiff has it all. A nice leafy park on the banks of the Taff, a Norweigan church down the bay that serves cream teas (not enough fruit in the scone and insufficient jam, but I didn't like to make a fuss), a castle and, of course, chippy alley. It's called Caroline Street really, but it's home to 48 chip shops. They saved my life. It was late. I was drunk and I *needed* chips and beans. Well worth a visit...

Charlotte Church has her own seat in Tony's. She can often be seen down there of a Friday night, propping up the deep fat frier, swigging a cheeky Vimto. I like to imagine that the cheeky Vimto (blue WKD combined with port) is what turns a sweet angelic girl from the Valleys into a Crazy Chick.

Which brings me to my first fabulous fact about Lee. Last time I got him down the pub, he asked me to get him port. Port. An old man's drink. OK, not such an amazing fact... but I like to think that if anyone was irresponsible enough to spike his drink with a noxious alcopop, he'd be swearing at the press and staggering around with Gavin Henson's thighs round his neck before you can say Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch.

An average night out for our lord and master, I'm sure.

Well, I'd better get a wiggle on. My love to you all.


Lee is down the shops

Monday, July 10, 2006

Please Don't Leave Me

Can you hear the sound of the door swinging in the wind? That's Lee, bolting out of the door, on his way to a Whole New Life, leaving a trail of glitter in his wake. Don't worry - he'll be back. But I suspect he'll be a changed man... oh, who am I kidding... he'll still be churning out the same old camp nonsense. Perhaps there'll be a slight tweak in the wigs to smut ratio, but only the most ardent followers will notice.

The poor love is a little snowed under (actually, I'm not sure you can have degrees of being snowed under - either you are or you aren't, I reckon) and, in the meantime I'm filling the gap. Let me heave my bosom to underscore that innuendo. I'm not as practised in these matters as Lee... but I'm hoping to hit my stroke by the end of the week.

Now, before you all start weeping into your lace hankies, wondering how you'll get by without Lee to tickle your fancy, let me say this: I Know All His Secrets. So, if you have any questions you've been dying to ask, just pop them into the comments box and I'll do my best to reveal all. Oh yes.

Meanwhile, let me introduce myself. I'm a designer, I'm Lee's ex and although I'm just as qualified to witter on about Dr Who as him, I have fan shame so I'll be trying to keep it to a minimum. Before I do, however... Catherine Tate. Bet you weren't expecting that. I'm slightly disapppointed that she's not doing it as Nan... it would add an extra relative dimension to the whole filming Christmas in July. There'd be David Tennant scratching his sweaty areas in his itchy nylon suit, and Nan could heave a heavy sigh. "Awww! Innit 'ot? I'm roastin'. I'm gonna 'ave to take this long multi-coloured scarf off I tell you."

OK, back soon. I'm off for a fuck off big pizza with a foxy young man. Ha. See soon. x


Lee is busy filing his nails.

Thursday, July 06, 2006

High On A Hill...

It's a little-known fact that we Gentlemen Who Can't Catch like the theatre.

I know, I know - you can feel the pillars of reality crumble as I spill this secret before you. I bet you all thought we liked that footskitball thing that's currently going on. But no - give us a bit of show and we're happy.

You see, with all this free time I've got coming up, I was wondering what to do with my time... Would it be days of sitting around in my pants and watching soaps, circling things in the Argos catalogue with a red pen, thinking 'That'd do lovely for the back bedroom...' while doing cock-awful covers at ten-to-five to pay for all the Pot Noodles I can eat? Or shall I do something constructive and go back to my theatre roots?

I do a mean Maria Von Trapp, you know.

All we Gentlemen Who Has Confidence In Me can - it's in our bright pink blood. You get us anywhere near the required number of children and all of a sudden we've whipped off any curtains in the vicinity and are swirling around, trying to marry anyone who owns a big enough house.

We did a production at school once and they laughed - laughed! - at me because I was a boy who wanted to play a nun. I was never clear why; whether it was a boy who wanted to play a girl (a fine Shakespearean tradition!) or that I was going to play a nun when, by that tender age, the men I'd already had were numbering sixteen (going on seventeen). But I fought for it tooth and nail - no-one drunk more tea with jam and bread! No-one climbed every mountain higher! No-one had more favourite things! And I nailed that part just like Daniel Fox nailed me behind the tennis courts. I tell you, there's something about a nun's habit that gets teenage boys riled.

Of course, my mother let me down on the night of the big performance. Couldn't get curtains. Had to use blinds.

Made a bit of a show of myself when I got the pull-cord caught in Liesl's hair and revealed myself to the whole dress circle with a 'fwip!' noise.

Brought the house down.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006


You know those episodes of soap operas where nothing happens? Those days that seem to just slide away from you, while you swing your legs and idly check your watch? The kind of day you can imagine Huckleberry Finn having? I'm having one of those days.

It's all winding down for me here at my current job. Only a few days left before I have to pack up my Captain Janeway photo, my Oscar and my many bottles of wine before I have to hie it out. So many sips left from my Doctor Who mug, so many times I'll just get bored and type in 'gay porn please!' into Google. Ah, sad news.

So I kick up my heels, The Wife is off being a film star again. I know! It's all glamour when you've got leonine locks like Samson, isn't it? It's a shoot directed and written by one of my very good friends (and someone who guest-blogged on here once - I shall remind you all of this when he's famous). I believe it to be going well. Though I did get a message a few hours back:

'As near as I can tell, I'm in a porn studio!' he texted excitedly. 'There's more animal print here than Jackie Collins' luggage, a pole in the living room, and a sign saying 'Try not to use baby oil near the camera equipment'.

Lorks. How very thrilling! How enviable.

The most exciting thing I'm doing today is snacking on prunes. Then eating a handful of soya nuts. Then more prunes. Ah, they're healthy, and I was wondering what's going to happen

Hmm. I just can't help thinking 'buckshot'...

Tuesday, July 04, 2006


Oh my dear viewers, it's far, far too hot.

London is besieged by the heat; listless sweaty taxi drivers hanging out of their cabs, secretaries with too-big sunglasses clogging up any bit of grass they can find in their lunch hour.

I'm just here in a pair of shorts, barely able to lift the mouse. There's something about the heat that makes a gentleman want to... indulge in those dark desires, ones that'll send you blind and cause hairy palms. I personally can barely muster the energy to lift a mouse, let alone indulge in anything so rigorous. I may resort to lobbing my member through a hole near the door and pretend it's a door-pull. Then ring for a pizza.

Do you know the horrors of being a swarthy, hairy gentleman in this heat? It was EuroPride on the weekend here in our fair city; temperatures were up in the 30s, and several hairy gentlemen actually caught fire when the sunlight was reflected in the sequins of the Gay Lifeboat Association. Apparently it was a fun event; they're still hosing the streets of CK One as we speak.

I elected to stay home and ride it out in my underwear - anything above 28 degrees leaves me sweating like Jessica Simpson in anything close to an actual audition. Leaving the house means dressing up because there's some sort of movement that says that I really shouldn't go outside with my top off, not with a hairy chest.

I did try it once. Next thing I know I've got a tranquiliser dart in the back of the neck, and hearing some wag saying he's caught Bigfoot before I blacked out.

Please... send... ice-cream...