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

Tuesday, July 31, 2007

Don't Panic Panic Mutya Don't Drive Erratic

Someone sent me the new Mutya album in the post.

I don't know whether to take it as hate-mail or not.

Monday, July 30, 2007

Sex and the City: You're Doing It Wrong

Hi, I'm Carrie Bradshaw. Sexy, single - though some would say I'm far too reliant on my hair. Some others would say I've got a face like an elongated leather handbag, but clearly they can't see a style icon before them. I mean, I often design all my outfits myself, though the bulb clearly went in my workroom in seasons three to six.

As I type here on my iBook with a Post-It note over the Apple on the back to hide the product placement, I have to wonder - is a Sex and the City movie a really good idea?

Like most things for a woman, it's best done alone. Sex and the City is a solitary pleasure, like a really good bath, or masturbation (aren't I edgy and modern saying that?) I mean, we only drag men around the shops because we are half-heartedly dragged around the bedroom by the modern man.

I have to ask, can we really replicate that solitary act in a cinema? For one, you won't be able to hear the dialogue over the innumerable cartons of Ben and Jerry's being popped open by every audience member. And I do worry that all that oestrogen in one room together - surely our cycles will align meaning no man was safe one month after the release date?

Of course, if the movie is inevitable, we will have to do it before Samantha has her second centenary birthday. No really - it's a wonder that if anyone tried to poke her now, she wouldn't just turn to dust. She's so dessicated that she's solely responsible for KY Jelly coming in a family size.

And do you really want my face looming at you in twenty-foot CinemaScope? Those of you who braved 'Failure to Launch' must know that my nose alone looks like one of the 2-in-1 sloping roads in San Francisco that you half expect Steve McQueen to come riding down it when I turn in profile. No, taking the tired, one-note TV show and transferring it to the big screen certainly doesn't leave one with a good vibration.

Meanwhile, over the other side of town, Samantha was having a spot of trouble with a different kind of vibrator of her own...

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

Great Mysteries of the World: Part XV

Of course it was a bad idea. All of Dame Angela Lansbury's ideas are bad ones.

"Where can we go on holiday?" was her latest question, which had immediately been prefixed by "I can't get a decent drink here, shall we go to Brian Blessed's club?" The problem being that Bodom's was purely a male-only club, a leather chaired Bastille against the changing times outside. To put it simply, no woman had set foot in there since the grand opening around the time Stephenson was perfecting his Rocket, and so there was a bit of a to-do getting Aggie in. Cher was simple - she just put herself into 'Sleep' mode and we carried her in saying she was a mannequin. Aggie, whereas, huffed up the stairs, punched the doorman on the arm and shouted "I ain't no lady!" when challenged and swooped past with a wake of pipe-smoke causing the winded concierge gasping for air. Clearly the staff didn't know what to do about this at present; the only women they could relate to were their mothers, so they'd taken to slinking away from her after making very generous martinis. Naturally she was fine with this.

"And feel free to skimp on the ice," she said to Ernest, the head barman as he hovered nearby wringing his towel.

I'd only ever been in Boden's once before, and that was in the middle of the night on the coat-tails of some elderly actor who'd taken a shine to me. I barely remembered anything about that night bar the overwhelming smell of wood polish and pipe-smoke, and some vicious cocktails that I never had to pay for. I woke the following morning with a mouth like Gandhi's flip-flop and a pounding head. I was grateful to find I was fully clothed; it was only when I hailed a hackney carriage did I discover that yes, I was clothed, but they were on backwards.

"Go on. We could get out of London for the summer. How do you fancy it?" said Aggie, rummaging around in her voluminous handbag for a tissue. It's always a tissue - heaven for fend she ever pay for a round. To my dying day, I'll never know where Aggie gets all her cash as those stage appearances of hers can only just about keep her in cat food. There's rumours of her taking in washing; there's rumours of her taking in sailors - either way, she's always got enough for a bottle of champagne as a nightcap each evening.

I coughed at her question, keeping my eyes low; going away with Aggie is always an experience - though not necessarily one you'd wish to repeat. Cher, installed in her high backed chair, chose to sidestep the issue by saying, "but you hate to travel. You don't even go south of the river without your passport."

"I've been south of the river," she said indignantly, pulling her shawl around her.

"On a stretcher shouldn't really count," Cher countered.

Aggie harrumphed: "The only way to travel is looking at the stars. Besides, we went to Spain last year. That was fun. The sun, the sand..."

"We had to bail you out for 3000 pesetas meaning we had to move to a cheaper hotel with no wi-fi," stated Cher, crossing her legs with a barely perceptible creak.

I rolled my eyes. "Yes and there was that hideous man who used to knock us up at 7.30 each morning to clean the rooms. The hour was as ungodly as his personal hygiene."

"That large man with the hirsute backside and the arms like hams?" opined Cher.

"The one who could stun a donkey with his halitosis." I confirmed.

I looked over to Aggie to see she was biting the rim of her gin glass. "Oh yes, I remember him," she said. "'Knocked up' was about right."

"Oh you didn't!" I exclaimed, my affected monocle dropping into my drink in an alarmed comedy manner.

"I tells you, by the end of the holiday, if the police needed to get any fingerprints they'd just have to dust somewhere private!"

"PRIVATE?!" shouted Brian Blessed from the other room, startling one snoozing occupant in his wing-back chair into loosing his toupee.

"You, shut up. You, stop judging me. And you, bring me another," she said, pointing at Brian, myself and a functionary in turn. Brian harrumphed over in his chair; he used the club mainly to sleep the afternoon away after one or two or seventeen ports, like most of the dozing denizen about us. Of course, even with people in the throws of slumber about her, Aggie still had her voice turned up to eleven but thankfully her drink was brought over with due expedience by Ernest, the functionary who seemed the least scared of her. I smiled an apologetic smile at him as he started to set down the drinks. Unfortunately an expressive arm of Aggie caught the tray just as it was being lowered and a little splashed over his trousers. He dabbed as discretely as he could.

"Why Ernest, are you touching yourself?" gasped Aggie. She added slyly, "I do hope it's inappropriate."

"Madam, I shall always touch myself in your presence. Though it's usually the sign of the cross."

Aggie cackled like a witch, slapped him on the back with a bangled hand and caused him to trip over the rug, empties flying. She didn't notice; she was already telling us about her wonderful time she had in St. Tropes after the War, dating it only by saying it was around the time she could get her leg over her head, meaning it could have been anything from the Gulf to the War of the Roses.

"'Ere," she said, getting out her pocket book. "I made a list of places I liked the sound of. How do you fancy... The Sea of Fecundity?"

"It's on the moon," said Cher in a flat tone.

"Oh. Right. Uh, how about the Islets of Langerhans?"

"They're in your pancreas."

"Oh. What about, um... Narnia?"

I rolled my eyes; Cher was giving me an imploring look. I said, "Basically we have to find somewhere where they'll let you in. Most of the Southern hemisphere's out of the question after... you know."

Aggie suddenly seemed very interested in a spot on her glass. "Still, moving on."

"Well, we could always go and visit my friends in Minneapolis, Minnesota," I said before thinking.

Cher leaned forward and there was the sound of a modem connecting to the internet. "I can book tickets now for us if you want..." she said.

Aggie clapped her hands, clanging bangles back and forth, clearly very happy with the idea.

"All you have to do is spell it for me, and I'll get us a plane reservation."

"Er," I said. "Er. On second thoughts, they live in 'Ohio'..."

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

New Lamps For Old

Sex changes. I've been wondering about them of late.

There is the woman at the end of the road, she with the enormous bosoms and equally large claims she had a successful pop career in the eighties - we always wonder whether she's undergone 'gender reassignment' but we never get into that situation comfortable enough to ask. Sure we've gotten drunk together - hell, she's already half-cut by the time the milkman comes 'round - but never that comfortable drunk you can get. Mostly as she'll have your wallet.

The reason I know her is she's very good at the old fortune-telling - something I've known to dabble in from time to time. My preferred method is the tea-leaf (utterly true) while she gets her divine inspiration from the length of Meryl Streep's hair in that week's National Enquirer. She's quite good. Though clearly she gets sidetracked whenever there's a pre-Oscar wig doing the rounds. Everybody tends to be going to meet a 'tall, dark stranger with split ends' that week.

I do worry for her; I'm accidentally surrounded myself with transsexual media of late, and all of it can hardly be described as 'uplifting rom-coms for the whole family'. 'Hedwig and The Angry Inch' on the DVD, 'Myra Breckenridge' to read - why both of them are almost pivotal with the fact that the titular heroes can barely stand themselves. It makes for easy drama to say "this person didn't like themselves before the op, they sure as well don't now - but they do have better nails". It comes to something when Ugly Betty is showing us the way forward; their character of Alexis seems as normal as the rest of them. Well, that's not saying much, but you get the idea.

They say to know a person, walk a mile in their shoes. Well, I'm pretty rubbish in stillies - my ungraceful gait means I cause sparks when I do a quick turn - but I can imagine the sheer longing if you feel like you're in the wrong body.

I mean, I get testy when my hair-clips don't match my belt.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Coming Over All Daily Mail

I see Kerry Katona's been broken into.

Well, her house that is. One may wager that she herself is not that hard to enter; indeed, there's talk that they have to put 'Do Not Enter' signs on the bottom of her nightie each morning to stop the milkman driving his milkfloat up there.

I am, of course, horrified by this turn of events. What kind of a world do we live in where former pop stars are harassed by... ordinary folk. Well, I say 'pop star' - Ms Katona was last in the charts while I was still learning the ins and outs of what went on around the back of the bike sheds. These days she's best known as the former frontperson of Iceland, the low-cost supermarket specialising in frozen food for the less discerning shopper. In short, she is the face that launched a thousand chips.

Clearly this paid very well - the robbers made off with the cream of Argos goods, including plasma TVs, laptops and games machines. Raise your eyebrows if you wish and cry 'insurance scam' (Ms Katona was recently replaced in those ads by the Nolan sisters. Know your demographic, we say) but we at Glitter for Brains are convinced it was merely some gentlemen coming back from the pub, fancying some oven chips and thinking 'Hey! I know who'll have some..!'


Wednesday, July 11, 2007

An Ode to Odor

...which is how I came to be having one of the more delightful members of the Harry Potter cast over a skip at two in the morning. And let me tell you, he did live up to the legend 'champion beater'! No, stop me! I'll end up embarrassing us all..!

Now, is this thing on? Hello testing-one-two-three. (TAP TAP TAP) Darling readers, hello. I'm having to dictate to you via the wonders of technology due to... lets just call it an unfortunate incident. No, I won't go on - but I shall lie back and mouth into this. Which is not what the accident was, but was how I got my first job. In the mean time, feel free to picture me dictating my memoirs in the manner of Mae West in 'Sextette', without Timothy Dalton banging on the bedroom door. Begging to be let out.

Now where was I? Oh yes. Did you know I have no sense of smell?

Well, I say no sense, but it seems more selective than anything. I don't know how it went - perhaps it was that giddy summer sniffing Tipp-ex thinners behind the science block that did it. Perhaps it was the insistence of my mother to cloud herself in cheap perfume to such an extent of people coming up to us on the bus and telling her that they could smell her Charlie from way over there. Either way, it's eroded to almost nothing, and so I'm left without one of my major senses - which is a blessing at times, a bind at others. Smell is the one major triggers of memory, which explains why my recall is as effective as a Argos till assistant with a hangover. Every now and again I'll get a whiff of some aftershave an ex was wearing, unlocking a cavalcade of recollections. And as it happens so infrequently that I tend to follow people around in their fragrant wake, inhaling memories - and in one case, a rather kicky little scarf as I'd got far too close.

The rest of the time, it's no major trouble as I don't really miss it day to day - and certainly not in the more fragrant parts of this fair city one may or may not find oneself in at two in the morning with a cast member of a well-known film franchise. It just happened that he'd brought some poppers (clearly well prepared - his claims of "Oh I've never done anything like this before!" clearly well practiced) and due to several glittering cocktails earlier that night, I didn't read the label on the bottle he'd given me.

Well, rather than sniff it I thought it was one of those dinky little drinks they give you on airplanes. So I slugged it, blacked out, and hit my head on a rusting Zanussi. The next thing I know I'm in an ambulance and his agent is waving some bit of paper under my nose and promising me money if I don't go to the press, or some such.

So a fun night all round. I get to touch a wizard's wand and get a bung for a couple of drinks the following night out!

Now, how do you turn this bloody thing off, I really need a pi-(CLICK)

Friday, July 06, 2007

Oh Give Me A Home...

Now the Boy's installed in his glamorous Shepherd's Bush pad away from his interfering ex, I've been able to stay over. And thusly steal his clothes. And hence why I'm sitting in this meeting in a 'I Ate Buffalo in Cody Wyo.' t-shirt. I don't know where he came across said garment, or whether he has indeed eaten bovine fare in one of the square states. I certainly haven't. If we want to be more along the lines of the truth, it should read 'I Sucked Off A Builder on Borough High Street' cause I'm class like that, and would do a marvellous job around the stitching on 'off'. As we all know, 'o's are very difficult to embroider.

But yes, I'm so the original Facebook: been poked by strangers from across the globe since 1978. It's how I put myself through university after all - known to one and all as the lovable harlot. "Buy a girl a drink, sailor?" was the cry that proceeded me in my university halls, and while I'm asked whether it worked often (it did) it secured by love of seamen from there on in. These days I blame my mother for sitting me down and saying 'Why Lee, if you ever have a sore throat, suck on a Fisherman's Friend'. She also followed it up with 'And don't drink from the green bottles in the kitchen, they're mommie's medicine. For when she wants to feel tired and emotional..." Oh the happy hours we used to have when she let me put her make-up on for her... Well, in reality she'd passed out in front of Nationwide and snoring like a wart-hog and left her Rimmel out, but I considered it to be classic mother-son relationship building. My favourite was when she'd opened the door to the Littlewoods Pools man after I'd worked my magic, and he thought he was being attacked by a zombie clown. Oh happy days.

Have a nice weekend, people.

Wednesday, July 04, 2007

Of Whistles and Flip-Flops

I was recently asked how far I'd go to please someone. I think, roughly, to the end of our road because anything further than that and I'll have to change out of me slippers.

Do you like them? They've got a bit of a fluffy lining which I always catch our Cypriot milkman eyeing up when he comes by to deliver two pints and a dollop of greek yogurt around the back. He's nice enough - hands large and blunt, smelled like the horses he used to pull his cart. Oh we used to flirt outrageously; I used to put a dab of perfume on before he'd come by - 'Touch of Sparkle' which was really exotic back then. You could get it for £2.58 per gallon from the market and it was by some really couture house called 'Poor Homme' or something. Came from somewhere really strange and exotic... somewhere like Norfolk.

Which is odd because my friends always thought I smelled of 'Poverty'. I've never heard of this one - must be a old range that hasn't been on the market for years. Like 'Brut' or something - oh, you couldn't move for bottles of the stuff back in the day. Everyone smelled of it. Even the dog. Especially when he was wet...

I was reminded of the smell this very weekend when I was on the last tube going north. I normally hate travelling
on the blessed things at that time of night - half the clientele are boozed up lunatics and the others are dead-eyed functionaries who look like they're on the way to Auschwitz - but we'd been at our darling friend The Lady Vyse's fifteenth 40th birthday party and it had gotten a bit late. We had a lovely time, even attempting to light as many candles as his years. He says he's never coy about his age; we say that the best ten years of his life were between 39 and 40.

But on the way back was this hideous whiff of Brut which really assaulted the nostrils. I never did get to the bottom of it before some hideous queens bounded on all hyped up from having too many Baccardi Breezers. It was Pride on Saturday; I did not attend. As I've said before I have no pride, and love the idea that the whole thing was a bit of a wash-out as the weather's been abhorrent over here the last week; it's like it's the season finale and we've had everything coming back for a guest role. Yesterday we had blazing sunshine, hail, thunder and lightning and rain - and yet we still get morons walking around in flip-flops and shorts. What happened? Did someone impound your shoes for the summer, you half-wits? My one joy in this weather is sitting in a coffee house and watching them try to walk through the newly-formed lakes in the gutters, trying to keep their footwear on and dignity intact. Bliss.

Anyway, the gays and lesbians on our tube, armed with whistles. Where do they get them all from? The whistles - not the lesbians - there's probably a shop down in Devon where you can get refit as a Lady Wot Licks or something. It'll say so on the rug. But every lesbian you see on Pride day has one - blowing away in the most annoying manner, incessantly, from when they get up in the morning to when they finally fall into their bed at night. What compels them to do it; to be the most hated traveller on the last train out? You'd think they wouldn't like the sound because, as they don't sleep with men, all their other senses are heightened. But noooooo. Blowing away for the whole journey they were.

Does anyone know the magic incantation to make it stop? I was sick of yelling 'Back to your bridge, you evil troll, you have no power here' by the end of it...