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

Friday, March 30, 2007

The Lord Giveth

I don't know where the falsehood of handymen being Adonises with a low-slung toolkit came from, but it's really annoying that it's not real. Reality and the Diet Coke Break rarely go together in my opinion - and whereas you'd get some glorious tousled-haired hunk to 'fix your plumbing' on TV, you're more likely to get some nondescript functionary with a face like his hammer-honed thumb when you call in a handyman. And yes, Desperate Housewives, thank you for perpetuating the myth.
I didn't even bother doing my hair when we were due to get the landlord's functionary pop over and fix the blocked sink in the bathroom, impermeable due to too much hair from my beard-trimming and too much clumped KY and 'Just For Men' from the housemate. But when I opened the door, there was an absolute vision; there stood my new future husband. Oh Freddie was just glorious - a voice like gravel and flint-blue eyes, he told me all about my u-bend and how he'd have to 'get down on his knees and give it a good shunt to fix it.' Why dear viewer, I was smitten. Terrible, terrible things ran through my head as he crouched down there to bang on my pipe; I saw dirty rough sex happening right there on the bathroom rug and - even worse - me getting used to that hideous tea he'd asked to be made. The dusty box of PG Tips one we only get out when someone really common comes over.

Freddie left with a cheeky grin, a 'wotcha, mate' and a spontaneous swooning from me as I slid down the closed door following his exit. Oh, dear viewer, I'm not ashamed to admit that the whole experience changed me. I took to hanging around caf├ęs - and not the nice ones with doilies and a decent selection of GI finger foods. No, the ones with the wipe clean tablecloths and the pictures of the Queen in a splash-proof clipframe. I couldn't look at a chipped mug without catching my breath. And once I had to be escorted out of Homebase after I turned into the hand tool isle and yelling 'He shall be mine!' over and over again. I did get off with a caution there, but only as I sweet-talked the manager and saying that using Girls Aloud's 'Love Machine' was inspired in their advertising. You know, as Nicola has a face like chipboard anyway.

I became a little destructive around the house - banging doors far too hard, dropping too many things down the sink - in the hope a blockage or repair job will be needed and my power-tooled prince would ride up again in his white van. It was only a matter of time; and when a cupboard door needed rehanging, I was straight on to the phone to the landlord, straightening my hair and dabbing a bit of aftershave where he'd get to smell it the best - behind my ears, and then the back of my knees just to be sure.

But lo. When the van turned up, Freddie it was not. Framed in my doorway was some eighty-year-old tea-swilling Baltic navvy who went on to leave our front parlour reeking of cigarillos and body odour. However were going to get the smell out of our antimacassars is a mystery to me.

"Oh," I said.

"I here... I here to fix your carpentry," he said and let himself into the kitchen, his english as broken as his teeth.

"Where's Freddie?" I asked, checking the window to see whether my beau was in the fragrant wake of the handyman. Maybe lifting something heavy. In a white vest. And a low-slung toolbelt.

"He got another job today."

I bet he has. Some harpy down the road dishing out her finger fancies as much as her favours, I'd say. Some people have no shame. I whipped the creme horns off the coffee table before his beady Baltic eyes caught sight of them and pointed the gentleman to my battered woodwork.

I felt numb. My Freddie had shunned me. My heart was as cold as the Krug chilling in the fridge.

"I... I missing a screw," came a muttering from the workman.

I fluffed my housecoat about me, clutching the lapels together with my other hand. "You're telling me," I said.

Monday, March 26, 2007

The Milky Bar Kid Is Strong And Tough

Now, there's much twittering on these shores about Daniel Radcliffe all of a sudden.

I'd never did think much of him I have to say. You mention Daniel Radcliffe and I think of that hideous poster for the first Harry Potter film where his bowl-cut is enough to scare any passing paedophile back to his DVDs of S Club Juniors. No matter that he's 17 now; my mind still strays back to that nasty haircut looming out at me at a tube station in the middle of the night. The horror, the horror. I blame the whole thing on my three years of insomnia, and insistence that hair straighteners be kept away in a two-hundred foot exclusion zone.

Flash forward to the present day: I was on the tube one evening when I peered over someone's shoulder to check the newspaper they were carrying. And there he was, muscled to the nines, showing that bit of hair between the navel and the pubic region which is oft called 'a treasure trail' in some romanticised gay porn novels; a 'crab ladder' in the one wot I wrote. 'Daniel Radcliffe Gets Naked!' it proclaimed.

I tell you, I almost dropped my Travelling Vodka when I saw them.


I've never thought of him as being a sexual being before; for goodness sake, he was born in 1989. I can remember that year; I had taken to wearing waistcoats and 'being eccentric' in a push to be individual, little knowing that this was exactly what every proto-arty-gay was doing. He was still in nappies when I was learning exactly what my lecturer meant when he said I needed 'extra credit'. So we thought we'd go and see him, large as life. It'd be rude not to, after all.

It turns out 'large as life' was almost correct; he's a tiny dot of a man. Five foot five, apparently. Peaking at the dizzying heights of Tom Cruise. When he walked on stage topless, he was almost as large as the picture I'd seen on the tube.

"It's Harry..!" hissed a teenage girl a few rows back, clearly excited. I'm not sure whether there was a 'minimum age' for the play; in fact I'm not really sure of the audience. It mostly seemed to be teenage girls clutching Griffendor ringbinders, a scattering of Gentlemen Who Like The Arts - some of whom were nodding seriously and wearing their jumpers draped over their shoulders in order to try getting away with turning up just to see some teenage cock. And a couple of bored usherettes scratching their armpits with the souvenir programmes - I decided not to get one in the end. There was an overwhelming whiff of Linx about them even from a distance.

By the interval, the other conclusions I had come to were Daniel Radcliffe really isn't a stage actor of note; his delivery is very unnatural and fast; he knows what line's coming next and he's going to steamroller it on as soon as the other actor has finished their line with no pause or reaction. I also discovered that Jenny Agguter looks marvellous in a nicely-ironed grey trouser suit, and was trying her best despite a stinker of a cold. And finally Will Kemp could possibly be my new favourite thing - even dressed in horsey brown suede. Especially dressed in horsey brown suede. Now I'm not one for fetishes - I like my sex straight forward and my foreplay to be as simple as someone picking up the tab then ordering me a taxi - but there was something slightly... naughty about him in his get-up. I may have to examine this further by sitting on a suede sofa and looking through The White Company's spring/summer catalogue - my other idea of foreplay.

By the end of the second act, the dreaded trouserless scene had occurred and I fancy a sexual revelation of a different matter was occurring three rows back. The young girl who'd hissed 'It's Harry..!' at the start of the show was now presented by the sight of Radcliffe getting undressed. His female co-star was also getting 'sky-clad'; how terrible do you think it is for her to be completely overshadowed by Radcliffe's todger each time she drops her knickers? I gave her a supportive glance as her brassiere was thrown off stage, then averted my gaze back to Radcliffe in case I got an eyeful of her minky. Because if you do that you have to get married and like Coldplay, and stuff like that - it's true, I tell you.

But then his knickers came off. It may have been cold in there, is all I shall say. But then... "Oh..." came the cry from the girls a few rows back. It wasn't a cry of exclamation. It wasn't one of surprise or longing. It felt like a slow realisation about something... I fancied that the snap I then heard was her pelvis moving into place and any second now a hymen would be pinged over my right ear.

Oh yes. I thank heaven that we were a few rows back. Rows A-D were relabelled 'the shallow end' by the standing ovation.

Wednesday, March 14, 2007

Charity Begins At Homo

If someone had told me six months ago that premiere mary-worshipped girl-groups The Sugababes and Girls Aloud were to combine to create a supergroup I would have exploded. Literally exploded. Well, happens as that someone did tell me, and I didn't believe them, else you'd have been picking glittering bits of homosexual out of your Cheerios come chilly October morning.

We Gentlemen Who Can't Catch are a sucker for a team-up. For when Barbara Streisand and Donna Summer teamed up, there was a camp sonic boom that we're still discovering the after effects of. It's like it had a Gay Half-Life. In Minnesota alone birth-rates of Gentlemen Who Moisturise are up 110%, and is it a coincidence that most of them have hooked noses and need relaxer on their hair in order to do a thing with it? Even over the pond in the UK, why do new members to our ranks - as soon as they burst out of the closet - start to crave bagels with jambalaya on it?

So the latest generation of Gentlemen Who Watch Star Trek Voyager Purely For Captain Janeway were most interested in what would happen when these two Goliaths of pop got together, if only because the fall-out could include a craving for cheap Top Shop clothing and bitch-slapping lippy toilet attendants. But lets speak of the song! What we have is the Girls and the 'Babes, fused together in synthed heaven, covering 'Walk This Way'. Is it a good thing? Do several hundred iPods hum to the tune down Old Compton Street tonight?

Well, maybe. You see, it's delectably average; we're doing what the British do best - mediocrity! The arrangement is passable, the vocals there. The most notable thing is the newest member in the ever-changing line-up of the Sugababes (the one that looks a bit like a Thai ladyboy from some angles) puts her cards firmly on the table in the middle eight and pronounces dance 'darnce'. I think I approve... Although I feel somewhat churlish criticising it - it's a charity single after all. You should all go out and buy it. Though do it from iTunes so you don't have to look at the hideous cover in your CD collection. A word to the the designer: never use Courier in anything because it looks like you forgot to link your fonts.

So I bought it anyway. It's for charity, innit? And now I feel good. Like I've been living on mung beans and faretrade tea for a week. So pure that it was almost like I can walk on water or adopt an African child. No it's true. I'm a veritable UN Ambassador for Gay Goodwill. Though I do have a question about that - who told Angelina if you buy one of each colour, you get your fourth one free..?

Now. If only we can get together En Vogue and nSync to do a charity single for Britney, everything will be right in the world.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Zombies and Drills

Oh, darling viewer, I've been in the wars of late.

I dunno what I've done to my leg, but the muscle halfway up my right calf is uncomprehendingly sore. I haven't banged it or done anything untoward - but it is in the place where I cross my legs. So I can only assume I must have gone to sleep with my legs cross and lay on it for hours. How very gay.

Although the more I think about it, it is utter madness as I've always assumed that I've slept with my legs at, well, ten-to-two. Or quarter to three in some cases. In fact, I think one of my ex's wired me up to the clapper once just so he could watch my legs scissor open and closed when he applauded at 3am because he was bored.

Add to this the literal fall-out of my dental appointment yesterday, where I was seen to by my handsome dentist's fishwife of an associate, who mauled around my mouth like one of those gentlemen who believe their tongues should be punching your tonsils as a mean of sexual gratification. Oh she was rough; made even more arduous as I had to stare up at her cheap, gummy make-up for 30 minutes and not be able to say anything. She'd numbed my mouth, see. Well, in some haphazard way so most of the anaesthetic had shot down the back of my throat, leaving me gagging while she tortured me. Oh yes, I'd quite forgotten what it was like as the last time I needed a filling was as a teenager. There I was with an unpleasant taste in my mouth and what felt like a strange, limp piece of meat where my tongue was.

Come to think about it, it was like the drunken end of every Saturday night at college! Zing!

But what the culmination of this was my good self staggering out of the dentists, limping along with half my face paralysed. It was like I'd been set upon by that walking cadaver Kirsten Dunst and had the life sucked out of me. Seriously. The woman looks more like a dead-eyed flesh-eating zombie as days go by. It's like she was reanimated by some school kids for the first Spiderman and someone forgot to put a stake through her heart at the end of filming.

So my right side is completely useless. Now I know what a stroke victim feels like. Who's been mugged for £265 quid. Wee!

Friday, March 02, 2007

Of course, what can be a hundred times worse than the one night stand is the disastrous happening that is 'The First Date'.

And let me say, I've suffered at the hands of men. Sometimes by the mouth too; any human being who uses teeth during giving head should be carted off to Guantanamo Bay in my view. Yes, it's extreme. Yes, it's a stand against human rights. But it'll stop that little involuntary wince you have whenever your member goes anywhere strange as you wonder 'Is he going to be a biter?'

Here's a list of some of my hideous first dates. You win no points whatsoever for figuring out why they never got to second dates.

Date #1:
He had breath so bad that I hoped that when he went to get me my next tequila, it wasn't salt on the rim but rohypnol.

Date #2:
Had nasty pants. There's no redeeming that. At all. No.

Date #3:
It turning out that the 'gift he made himself for you' was a handful of semen he tries to give to you under the table between the entree and the main.

Date #4:
'What ambitions do I have? Oh, to be on Big Brother! Or failing that – a full-size Barbie impersonator.'

Date # 5:
Finding out the reason he was late was he was having my gaydar page address tattooed on his arm as a symbol of love.

Date #6:
Was the impoverished student who I took out for dinner, announced he was under-age after the champagne arrived, and then wanted to kiss me because he 'wanted to feel all Anna-Nicole Smith'.

Date #7:
Me: 'You like your real ale, don't you? What's that, your eighth, ninth..?'

Him: 'Yeah. I like it. Makes me fart.'

Me: 'Er. Oh. Um.'

Him (leaning close): 'Do you fart a lot? I tell ya, there's nothing better than someone farting while you're rimming them…'

Me: '-excuse me, I simply must…'

Him: '...and maybe you get a bit of follow-though, you know what I'm saying..?'

Date #8:
Discussing about the multitude of piercings he's just had removed from his cock, so much so that 'there are so many holes it'd be like playing the recorder, if you know what I mean…'

And they wonder why it's so hard to find a man.