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

Wednesday, September 27, 2006


I was on the tube the other day wondering why on earth my nipples were so delightfully tender.

I was also wondering why they were saying that the Jubilee Line had 'good service' , when clearly a 10 minute wait and pressed into the fragrant armpit of some dockyard matlow is no way near 'good'. I take good service to mean a decent sommelier and a discrete matre 'd who turns a blind eye to the third different gentleman caller you've brought in here this week.

But back to my nipples. They hadn't been this tender since I accidentally took my mother's HRT for a week thinking they were Neurofen. Didn't clear up my headache, but I could spot kicky little handbags at fifty paces and was a whizz at bingo.

You see, mine have never worked. They're rather like an unwired doorbell, actually; all too often I'd find a double glazing salesman, or on one instance a Jehovah's Witness, pushing away at it with no result. In my worldly experience, it's always the second place gentlemen head to when you're getting over-friendly. For gentlemen who do have sensitive nipples tend to rip open your shirt and nosh away like they were Geri Halliwell and your tits contained talent. And because mine never did anything for me, I thought that everyone else's was the same, so I'd just skip over them and go straight for the 'main course' as it where.

Or, in one or two cases - the cheese course. Until I made them wash it.

I'm curious - but not envious - about the whole thing. I do want to know what the fuss is about. Like Coke Tab. Or Penelope Cruz. And I bet I'll be left similarly disappointed. Is it a direct relation to size? I mean on a cold day, one of my friends had nipples like someone had wallpapered over two light switches, and you can nigh-on make him spaff his undercrackers with a well-timed flick. Would I want a button on me that did that? On me?

I'd much rather have a button that caused me to ooze Nivea Q-10 from my pores last thing at night. I hate having to slather my face as it is; I always put too much on, and look like I've just accidentally wandered into a bukkaki car-wash.

Er. Not that I'd know what that looked like at all. Grin.

Monday, September 25, 2006

Moving the Veil

When I finally come to shuffle off this mortal coil, I've decided what I want to do. I shall become a poltergeist. And go and live in an obsessive-compulsive's house.

And just move things.


Thursday, September 21, 2006

The Best A Man Can Get?

Sex sells. Particularly razor blades, it seems.

You have to admire Gillette - haven't they been peddling the same old advert for centuries now. Here's that well-trod template in full!

Show a technological breakthough so spectacular that you will dearly wonder how you have been scratching a life out of the earth like a Neanderthal for the last however many years of your life. What on earth is that you have been shaving with? A mammoth bone? Good lord man, what you need is... this!

Present the latest dream-product, in close up, zooming detail, possibly using a bit of computer imagery to show you that it's SO NEW its barely off the production line. It says we love you that much, take it! Take our prototype! Take those handsome scientists that are nodding smugly at a job well done who are probably going to go home and have wonderful sex with their wives now their minds are clear of furthering mankind with a blade that can now shave closer than before.

Meanwhile we, the bedazzled audience, positively licking the screen in ecstasy at a leap forward on par with that to halt global warming, are treated to more computer graphics of how these five blades will lift, separate, and tease your hair. Oh! And don't forget that shot of your just shaved, chiseled chin being stroked by some honey-haired lass, as she admires the smoothness, comparing it to that of Teflon and how it won't rake across her love pillows during a good stumphing later on. Now you have shaved you can go and raise a family! Bike ride! Sail! Yes, the very encombant nature of your beard stopped you doing this - why the wind-drag of your whiskers alone would have previously sunk the catamaran you're now manfully handling!

End with a lilting tag, sung by a gravelly-voiced man, implying that you would be a FOOL to even contemplate using anything else near your skin, for every other razor is a rusty old cutthroat that'll give you hepatitis-C if you're even in the same room as it.


Of course, this sort of thing is completely wasted on the Gentlemen Who Record The Oscars. Our interest is piqued by the odd shot of the topless meat before it's shaved, styled and foisted outside to go on what looks like a terrible adventuring holiday in Centre Parcs. But why on earth would we want a product that saddled you with some dire-looking harridan after your love porridge everytime you went near a razor?

I'd rather not. I've grown a beard, thank you.

The thing is, they're now so wrapped up in their own mythology that they've started creating adverts that nigh on parody their own idiotic stylings. The latest one, for Gillette Fusion, has a delightful looking FEMALE scientist. I know! How forward thinking! She too has honey-coloured hair, although she wears it up as per all TV scientists, and a lab coat. And she strides purposefully into a darkened room, right before laying a high-security briefcase on a pedestal before a topless, hunky man.

She opens it up, revealing shaving foam. "It's ready" she says.

I'm not joking. Firstly: who carries shaving foam around in a specially-designed briefcase? Secondly, who hangs around in a darkened hanger while topless, waiting for a clearly-not-a-scientist to come in and present them with shaving foam? I mean, really. Just because she's got glasses on doesn't disguise that she really looks like she gets her money rithing around astride a greasy pole, pillow-fighting with breast-augmented wenches over a pit of jello.

Meanwhile, he's looking at her, smiling in the manner of 'You have done well.'

She smiles knowingly in return. With a look over her scientist glasses that says 'My, now you're cleanshaven, you're going to be poking my scientific womb with that splendid pump-action custard-chucker of yours any second now!'

Honestly. It makes no sense. The whole premise is so detached from reality, its like Paris Hilton is responsible for the ad campaign.

But you think we men have it bad, have we seen the advert for the lady version? 'Look!' says Gillette Venus. 'It's pink, it's waterproof and it vibrates! Oh yes. Bet you're thinking what we're thinking too!'

Good god. Give us strength.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006


Secretly, I've always wanted an exotic limp.

You know, exotic as in 'hmm, that gentleman across the room - he seems windswept and interesting. I shall hand him my dance card at once!' rather than 'sounds like a macaw'. I love limps on actors - its a ham's first vestige of making a character stand out in an ensemble cast, followed by an accent, a moustache, then a wig. "Oh," they'll say in dress rehearsal. "I really see this character with a colostomy bag...'

Note for actors. You can only do this if you're thinking of doing the Shirley Bassey mini-series. I'd, uh, imagine.

So, limps. Of course they are interesting until you actually have one - rather like an eyepatch, or 'The House of Elliot' on DVD. So I now have a limp thanks to a rather embarrassing incident a few days back when I drunk one tequila cocktail too many, thought I was She-Ra, Princess of Power, and leapt off a wall to save Cowl, twisting my ankle. It now feels that the bone is made of breadsticks - so I'm having a unique insight into being elderly. Or Madonna.

Oh! Just thought! It was very much a case of 'one tequila, two tequila, three tequila - floor'!

I shall chalk this up to another one of Gay Sustained Injuries, of which there are many in my life. If I were to ever get an eyepatch, I'd wager it would be after the time I give in to one of those 'extend your lashes!' adverts that mesmerise me. Who wouldn't want to get long, Maybelene lashes when they show how long they could be?! Look at them! They're brilliant! You'd have to tip your head back just to open your eyes! Although if I did that, I'd probably hit my head on a shelf behind containing sixteen copies of 'Now Voyager' and have to be taken in with concussion.

So I'm limping. Half my friends are going 'Good lord, what did you do?' while the rest are looking at me with a snide grin asking 'Good night, was it?' No sympathy! None whatsoever. In fact the only advice I've had from my so-called friends is to elevate my legs. Before adding 'You'll have no trouble doing that, now will you?!'

Bunch of gits. I'm expecting no such behaviour off you lot.

Looks daggers at the comments box

Friday, September 15, 2006

The One (or Two) Rings

So one of the best things about being single is the opportunities.

And I'm not just talking about the sheer joy of M&S Meals for One - those things are like a party in my mouth and everybody came! - but the possibilities presented for one Gentleman Who's Good With Colours About Town.

You see, I've always wanted an office affair. I know, I know, sheer Bridget Jones, but just imagine the fun! Coming in five minutes apart, pretending you've been on separate trains. The flirty emails when you're supposed to be on deadline. The staying late together so you can have a quick fumble in the store cupboard before he has to go home to his partner. Look, I never said I was classy now, did I?

Hopefully a married man. Oooh, applause! Someone who's playing away from his battleaxe of a wife. I don't think I've had anyone 'straight' in my long and varied career. I mean, there's always the odd builder who pats you on the arm and says 'Thanks mate' in a gruff voice as you're smiling politely and wiping your chin, thinking 'you may have been hung like a horse but this is dry-clean only you know'. And there was this gentleman I was seeing for quite a while who never invited me back to his place because it transpired his girlfriend and baby were always in. But I didn't class him as straight as he nigh-on presented like a mandrill as soon as he got through my front door.

So yes. An office affair. What fun!

Of course, there are many bad things about suddenly being single.

And one of the most troublesome is all those men I used to put off with 'I'm sorry, I find you really attractive, but I have a boyfriend. Maybe if things were different...' only to find they are now sniffing around like Cher outside a plastic surgeons.

Ah. Hoist by my own petard. I'll just make up that 'I'm just out of a relationship and I'm not ready' or 'I've got an STD' or 'I've just bought the Paris Hilton album' - all are clear signs that you're madder than Margot Kidder with a bat in her hair, and no self-respecting homothexual will come near you.

Oh well. If you want me this weekend, I'll be hanging around the supply cupboard, ready to pounce on anyone with a flash of gold on their left hand. Rather like a gay Golem.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

The Best Piece of Graffiti I Ever Saw...

...made me laugh myself silly in a toilet in Charing Cross.

Of course, being a slightly autistic Virgo I have to have a list of my favourites. I've got lists in my head for everything from 'Best Colour for Jam' to 'Top Three Things to Dance To At A Wedding' (#3: 'Oops Upside Your Head', #2: 'Blame It On The Boogie', #1: 'Groove Is In The Heart'). I won't bore you with the full list of things I've seen in toilets - goodness, if we weren't just talking about words, we'd be here all night! So in second place comes the delicious scrawl I saw on the bottom of one of those three-quarter length doors as I idly kicked my legs at the side of my porcelain throne. It simply read:



The other one is a little more long-winded. Bear with me. I was sitting on a toilet in the Gent - on my own for once - when I noticed some scrawling above the door.

'We are not of this race. We are not of this Earth. We are wanderers in the fourth dimension of Space and Time.'

Ah, look. One of the more famous lines from the first episode of Doctor Who, from way back in 1963. How lovely to find it daubed on a bog wall over 35 years later.

To which, some time later, someone had added underneath in blue biro: 'Who wrote this nonsense?!'

Different pen underneath, in a slightly matter-of-fact tone: 'Anthony Coburn, © BBC 1963.'

Aww. How nice. Educated graffiti artists.

There was a line underneath that. I was hoping for a rebuttal; that 'Nonsense Man' had come back with avengeancee and was going to slap down whoever was quoting classic cult television in a gentleman's WC.

But no. What you got was someone in such a lovely and excited manner saying this:

'I have a balloo-oo-oon!'

Snot everywhere. Aww!

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

No Good Advice

My mother's a wise old bird.

Well, for 'wise' read 'mostly drunk' and for 'old bird' read 'old bird that can still get her legs over her head at fifty whenever there's an Elvis impersonator in the building'. I'm not saying it's a bad thing; I'm saying that when it comes to her and myself, the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

She's been marvelous about my recent break-up, enchewing the touchy-feely approach that some of my friends have tried for handing me a bottle of wine and saying 'get pissed and cry it all out, love'. In fact the only 'touchy-feely approach' she's gone down is to get me a facial when I visited, reasoning I may as well look fabulous with a brand new face when I was out carousing gentlemen callers. I didn't have the heart to tell her that the places I normally get men lately are too dark to see anyone's face, but I loved her thinking anyway.

And while I was there, she gave me some relationship advice that was uncommonly sage - certainly for her. So I thought I'd pass it on to you lot.

1. You'd Better Laugh.
The moment your chosen paramour stops making you giggle with joy is the moment you have to get out of there. She told me a brilliant story about my uncle and aunty - now sadly divorced. Each week they would go shopping, and each week he would put the eggs at the top of the bag, so when he opened the boot of the car when they arrived home, they fell out and smashed. My aunty found this hilarious.

My mother asked her about it four months later, expecting more tales of egg-related fun, and the rant about him she received in return made her hair curl (or that was some nasty home perm kit - I forget, it was the eighties...) My aunty hated him for it. Loathed him. And it is this, when writ large in your relationship, is when you should be getting out.

2. Always Aim Higher.
There's no point settling on someone who's the same (or heaven forefend, worse) than the person you've just split up with. If you're with someone on the rebound, watch out. It can work out, but make sure they are the upgrade because those same old reasons will stick out their ugly heads. Come on, you know it.

3. And Never Trust A Man In Sandals.
Speaks for itself, really.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

Frock and Roll

So, Cher announces that she's going to be auctioning off her dresses to the great unwashed, and I get thirty messages rammed into my in-box from 'concerned friends' emailing me to "hie my tight, firm ass over to eBay at once!"

God, I love being an easy-to-label cliche.

And having a tight, firm ass.

The thing is, I've known for a while. For the last two weeks the daft old android's been coming over our house with armfuls of glittering rags in the hope we'd take them down the Sally Army for her, the lazy cow; we said she'd get enough for a brand new X-Box 360 if she actually auctioned them off. At which point her eyes lit up (literally) and Sotherby's were promptly called.

The thing is, you're not getting much, well, value for money when it comes to her dresses. Remember that outfit from her 'If I Could Turn Back Time' video? Two bits of black masking tape with a few sequins on it? Or the opener outfit from her Farewell tour - two bits of string and some diamonds? Or the one from her Vegas show - two pieces of dental floss and a handful of glitter? At least they're going to be easy to get home - you can probably fit most of them in that little pocket you have for your locker key on the inside of your bathing trunks.

Although. Be thankful we talked her out of auctioning off what was in the other box she brought over. When I pulled out what looked like a novelty pink pencil sharpener and questioned what it was, it turned out she was thinking of selling off all those bits she's had chopped off her immaculate body and replaced with the same material Barbie's are made of.

"Oh come on," she buzzed. "That nose is so 1986. It looks like Sonny's.After the accident," she added, despite my glares.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Everybody Loves Raymond

Hmm. I'll be the judge of that.