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

Friday, November 30, 2007

Glitter for Brains At The Movies: Battlefield Earth

Oh this has been a long time coming - mostly because I wanted to get my head around Scientology a bit more. But really, as far as I can tell, putting 'Scientologist' on your application forms is equal to 'Jedi' so I say fair game. Without further ado, we proudly present...

Battlefield Earth: The Glitterfied Script

The film opens in a cave, where Humanity has been subjugated by aliens for 1000 years.

I shall tell you of the old Gods, the ones that are dead. The ones that clearly Christian, yes. OooooOOOOooooo! The ones that will come down and smite you!

No time, old man. I must escape to... a putting green!

He does. And meets VARIOUS GRUBBY MEN before being CAPTURED by the ALIENS.

JOHN TRAVOLTA swans in. He has jazz hands. With six fingers. Because he is an alien.

Well, hellllooooo! And who's this fine young man?

He's one of the slaves that tried to escape.

Well, fancy.

Ohhh. You're really going with that performance, then.

The rat-brain shows intelligence and can operate machinery, which comes as a surprise to me, despite the planet we took over having lots of machines in the first place. I shall use him in my rather weak scheme to have leverage over everyone.

Is that the one where you betray me then I betray you and you do it back and it all goes a bit muddy when we get near the end?

Why YES! (waves wand around like a panto fairy) And I shall be QUEEN!

You know - the raised-up hair, the staggering walk, the squeaky, unintelligible voice... makes you wonder who came first, him or Amy Winehouse?

Take that young slip of a lad and strip him naked and let me instruct him in our ways.

JOHN TRAVOLTA notices people looking at him strangely.

I mean, lets educate him in ways of our machines so I can betray you all!

BARRY PEPPER is then forced into a machine and brain-washed with all the knowledge of the aliens.

Hey, is that the thing they used on Katie Holmes?

And now, with this machine, I shall teach you all about our race and how wonderful it is. About how, if you donate enough money you can achieve nirva- I mean, I shall teach you how to work our machinery. Just don't open any files that list all our weaknesses, how to use our weaponry and how to destroy our home planet with one easy bomb!

Now that would be silly, wouldn't it?



THE AUDIENCE (watching him go):
Well we're glad someone's having fun. He's playing the whole thing as if he was in 'Chorus Line II: The Wrath of Chakka-Kahn'.

Right everyone, I know all the aliens secrets. All we have to do is train ourselves in millennium-old military equipment that was left over from the year 2000 which has inexplicably still got power, fuel, and not a spot of rust on it and we can defeat them!

But how will we train on such equipment?

THE AUDIENCE (suspiciously):
Yes I'm glad that tramp asked that.

Don't worry! I've found a flight simulator over here under some coats and it'll teach us how to fly Apache helicopters in no time.

Oh! It's just like riding a horse!

Excuse me, what?

Yes! We'll be able to fly these oddly immaculate aircraft in a matter of hours! Now, I must go to Fort Knox to get some gold to allay John Travolta's suspicions.


Here! Have some gold we mined in order for your mad plan to succeed.

It's smelted into bars.

Yes. We, uh, used weasels.


Yes. Weasels.


Well, there you go! How marvelous!

He really deserves everything that's coming to him, the stupid dick.

Right - now!

And thusly a ponderous slow-motion montage of VARIOUS GRUBBY MEN attack the space aliens. Only its too dark and too slow to see who's shooting at who. And then the helicopters arrive.

Blow up the alien's dome!


Because we need something symbolic to show the end of the film!

The end? Then hop to it!

The dome is blown up, thanks to one of the Various Grubby Men. The aliens home planet is blown up thanks to one of the Various Grubby Men. BARRY PEPPER does nothing but get off with one of the Various Grubby Women.

You know, I thought that Scientology was all about aliens coming down to help us and shit. Basically they're asking us to believe in something that will come down and smite us! We have enough of that with Christianity!

Somehow JOHN TRAVOLTA has survived. They lock him in Fort Knox as some sort of DRAMATIC IRONY.

You can't do this to me! How dare you! None of you will work in this town again!

And none of them ever did. THE END.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

A Brief Interlude Before Battlefield Earth

I have a long-standing allegiance to Dame Kylie; she's my gal. I've stuck by her through unadvised haircut and various non-ironic bolero jackets for years. But now her latest album is out, I do question such loyalty. Dear viewers, I'm having a crisis of faith. Help me.

We Gentlemen Who Always Idly Flick To See Whether They Have Any Carpenters In The Karaoke Listings have a sort of gay spider-sense about these things, you know. We can sense desperation. Sometimes its good desperation and we'll all sit around it and watch it crash and burn in a spectacular way (cf Spice Girls new material) but sometimes there's a bad twinge in the gay Force and we start looking suspiciously at our Amazon wishlist and think 'Hold up...' And it's not just because there's so many dress-up Barbies on there and we don't have any 6-year old nieces in our family.

You see, I want Kylie's latest to be a success. I want her to win. The last thing we want is for her to become Britney, still thinking she's successful while loping around her mansion in a nigh-on feral state, looking through the bins for things to eat and hissing at her children when they get too close to the battered pizza boxes. You know there's a certain type of woman you know who just looks... grubby? Like they have dirt ingrained into them? That is what Britney looks like to me now. Oh she used to be so fresh-faced, but there's probably a reason she no longer wears knickers when she's out - she's regressed so far that she can't figure them out. Next she'll be grunting and bashing the phone in with a mammoth thigh-bone whenever it rings, and building a totem to the hologram that came free with her cereal as she thinks its a gift from the fertility gods.

And I see from that oh-so-reliable interweb that she's now dating a waiter she found in a restaurant - and before you get all cynical and go "Oh he's just after her for her money" this could have gone two ways: she's now forgotten how to use her credit card and thinks this is the best way to remove the debt, or she thinks that this guy is a good provider and hit him over her head to get her back to her cave. Ugg bring food. Ugg good mating stock.

Either way, with how physically mucky she is, if he even gets her slightly moist in her shaggy clam area, the surrounding grime is going to form some sort of hermetic paste and grout her to whatever she's sitting on at the time. Heaven help them if it's the waiter.

Anyway, Dame Kylie. I had a quick listen to a couple of tracks, and they didn't grab me. While I liked '2 Hearts' I did think it was a bit of a departure for her stock-pop oeuvre - and now I realise it was released because it was the only track that stood out from the rest of the clinical beeping and booping. Am I missing a trick? Was I wrong to tut, roll my eyes and go straight back to Girls Aloud's new album? If you so wish, there's a comments box below - tell me how right, or how wrong, I am. Thank you, darling viewers.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Hairplugs and Horlicks

My middle age is certain now: I found I'd purchased some Horlicks the other night. There's no going back now. My twilight years are stretching before me like the piss-stinking bry-nylon action slacks I'm sure to start favoring soon. I'll start watching 'Countdown' with a pen and paper to hand and shouting at the TV whenever the news comes on.

Heaven knows I yell at the goggle-box anyway; I had the drastic misfortune of watching the Nicolas Cage version of 'The Wicker Man' the other night, tucked up in bed before 9.30 with a warm mug beside me and a catheter at the ready. What an unmitigated pile of dross it turned out to be. Though why, I'm not surprised - has Nicolas Cage ever made a good film? No, think back... 'National Treasure'... 'The Weather Man'... 'Captain Correlli's Mandolin' - which incidentally, our local cinema didn't have any apostrophes, meaning for ages I actually thought he was called Captain Correllis Mandolin which sounded terribly romantic to me, but then I was somewhat backwards when it came to men at the time and I used to think I was lucky when the cashier made eye contact when he gave me change. For heaven's sake, Cage has been living off the success of one film for the past twenty years. I mean, it's just not done. Well, I know Liza Minnelli has made a career out of it, but then she has the audacity to drink vodka like Anna Nicole Smith and go on living, so clearly we Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners are going to put her on some pedestal or other. Just one that isn't too high, has a handrail and a Stannah Stairlift to get up to it.

Cage, whereas. Every one of his movies tanks and I dislike anyone who can't take a hint.

Now, I haven't seen the original of 'The Wicker Man' - if I want to see podgy body doubles banging against a wall, I'd watch any Travolta sex scene where he has to be with a woman - so I had nothing to base it on other than I hear its a bit of a classic and everyone knows what the end is because its on the video cover. This version, whereas, isn't. Gone is the creepy setting that 'Balamory' is clearly based upon, and in comes the joyless feminist island where everyone's living in those homes in the background of 'The White Company' catalogue; you know, the ones that the River Island stores clearly wanted to be in the mid-nineties. Like you were really going to buy more nasty jeans if you were surrounded by antique typewriters and fishing nets.

Anyway in this film every one of the lady residents happen to be lacking in any foundations (be it make-up or garment), are a little bit humourless, and call each other 'sister'. My, it's a good job they have no TVs or radios on the island as all those clips from 'The L Word' and the Indigo Girls would be a bugger to clear.

And sleepwalking his way though this comes Nicolas Cage, bless 'im. Running his hand through his hair plugs when he wants to express any angst, slightly lifting his top lip over his unnaturally-white teeth when he wants to express anger. After an hour of slowly walking about the island we finally get to a satisfactory part where he's taken to the Wicker Man and roasted alive. Oh I tell you, there were marshmallows out in this house at that point in celebration. Hell, I'd have eaten them too if it wouldn't have given me a sugar rush and I'd have been up all night, as giddy as a schoolgirl with her pencil case full of correction fluid. It's the price to pay when you get to my age, dear viewer.

Speaking of glutton for punishment, I have a copy of 'Battlefield Earth' here, you know.

I may just warm the Horlicks and give it a go.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

An Egyptian Doorbell Goes Toot And Come In

I really don't know what all the fuss about the opening of Tutankhamun's tomb to the public so you can see his face. For Cher's sake, you want to look at a 3000 year old mummified face, Keith Richards will be touring in your area at some point. Hahahaa, oh me. Ahem. Anyway.

Most celebrities are mad, we take that as written. But every now and again they do excel themselves, like Dame Lindsey Lohan. We're giving her an honorific Gentlemen Who Read Cookery Tips damehood for her services to men across the globe; it seems she can't go fifteen minutes without sucking someone's cock. I'd like to think some medical wag told her she was protein deficient and if she didn't swallow two gallon of Finest White Sauce every two days, she'd just drop down dead. I tell you, the contents of her stomach must look like the contents of a spittoon in a gay sauna sloshing around in there. Her intestines must look like macaroni cheese.

Anyway, according to this she met a human magnet on Facebook of all places and plans to fly him over to LA to teach her how its done. Are you as confused as I am? This is Lindsey Lohan, nothing is without a base reason. There was probably a time when she couldn't find a corkscrew and thought "Wow! If I could just get one to fly to me when I wanted it!" and this is where we are now. The problem is that if she continues to lay men end to end in the way she did, some of them are bound to have metal cock-rings on and before you know it - swoop! - she's got three tonne of clinker up her engorged lady grotto. Whenever she goes through airport customs, they're going to think she's the Bionic Woman or something. 'Robo-Clopper', that's what we'll call her.

Another story that caught my fey attentions is that a man in India married a bitch to beat a curse for being cruel to a previous dog.

And before you ask, this story is not about Paul McCartney.

Da-boom-tish! I'll be here all week, don't forget to tip your waitress!

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Friday, November 09, 2007

Old Spice

Rather in the manner of Moses' Tablets, there are several prophecies written on the back of a sacred loo door in the very first gay club that all we Gentlemen Who Are Good Listeners abide by. The third one goes thus: 'In your music collection, there will be an abundance of artists with the word 'Girls' in the title. You will love them. One will wax, one will wain, but you may only love one at a time." It's right under there under the note about Cher being the one true god and a note, in biro, about selling some old porn and a cave number, with instructions to arrive when the wife's off hunting.

And thusly this happens, whether we like it or not. In my lifetime, the Reynolds Girls begat the Spice Girls who begat Girl Thing who begat Girls Aloud. Although I'm using 'begat' in a non-literal term - I don't like the idea that the Reynolds Girls were licking up with the Spice Girls any more than you do, even though the former were the traditional shape for Ladies Wot Lez and still no-one's pointed me at a convincing boyfriend for Mel C, bless.

And so you can see our dilemma when, while we're giddy as schoolgirls with a pencil case full of leaky correction fluid waiting for the new Girls Aloud album to come out, all of a sudden the Spice Girls are back from opening whatever supermarket they've individually been doing. How should we feel? How should we react? Tell you what, lets have a look at the video shall we?

As you can see, it opens with the girls wandering into a dark wood room that kinda looks like an evil Habitat (and incidentally appears to be a very fake set) all smiling at each other with glowing respect (also fake) with an accidental close-up of Victoria's engorged breasts (you see a pattern?). They all then each grab a piece of furniture to cavort around and the song begins.

I have no problem with ballads in general, but this really is the crux of the problem with this song - much more than Miss Halliwell's Olympian abs and when Mel B lies down, her rather nasty bra gives her those ugly double boobs like someone's squeezed an icing bag too hard. But what I do have is a rosy glow about the Spice Girls being fun - recall their incompetent debut single 'Wannabe'. Four baggy-clothed teenagers and their red-haired grandmother running around and having a good time. That could have been any of us! And that's why I liked them. In this they roll around rather seriously, honking like seals while Victoria paws her straw-like thatch until Mel C comes in before the middle eight and reminds you that one of them can indeed sing, abet like she needs to blow her nose.

Don't tell me it wouldn't be dignified if they'd done something a little more upbeat. Nothing sets the gays on the dance floor more than women too old to be pretending to be teenagers hoofing it around a lit-up disco floor in a video. It's one of our essential food groups in fact; if we don't get enough our bones go weak and we end up with Adam-Ricketts. So think on.

Now we gays are a forgiving bunch, mostly because we've done so much GHB that we can't remember last week, so I'm willing to give them one more chance. You may have deserted us when we needed you the most, leaving us to the perils of Steps, but we can forgive. But, girls, if you don't start being fun, we're sticking with Girls Aloud. So think on.

Oh and no-one actually says 'looking glass' in real life anymore. Geri, you're giving away your real age again.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Hand Me My Leather

An awful night's sleep is how I came to be reading The Sandman comics at 4am in the morning. Yes, the irony is not lost on me.

I was spurred on by happening upon the new versions of the volumes in leather hardback currently doing the rounds. They are a thing of beauty and wonder. I covet them.

Alas, I tend to read comics before I go to bed so I won't be getting them; I imagine falling asleep under something that huge and leathery would give me nightmares about having sex with Dolph Lundgren...

Monday, November 05, 2007

Bit Nippy

One of the good things about we Gentlemen Who Moisturise is our ease at identifying our sexual fetishes. Rubber, leather - I know one wendy who gets off on being covered in Bird's own custard. Which I clearly have no problem with, but if your foreplay is boiling three kettles, you have to feel like you're missing a trick.

I did ask him if he felt naughty when turning down the pudding isle in Tescos, and he admitted he did a little. This, alas, really is beyond me. I mean, that's where they keep those make-your-own delightful Barbie cupcakes which are just dreamy that I really like making and oh my god I think I've found what gets me off. Perhaps my councilor is right: I really am a reincarnated racy grandma.

Ahem. Anyway. I also know a gentleman who practically spins on a sixpence if he sees Italian men in three-quarter length trousers. It has to be Italians, which is a pity as Shepherd's Bush is rife with Australians in shorts and flip-flops whatever the weather. I mean even now, with the weather turning to be as cold as my stepmother's love for me, there they are plodding along with their legs out, skidding through all the sodden streets of London in the most impractical footwear since my lesbotic friend went to her civil ceremony in motorbike boots. She'd apparently got confused after I'd said "wear something with a heel for a change" - where I was talking about a charming stiletto or kitten heel, she'd gone for something that could fell six bouncers with a well-timed roundhouse.

Anyway, I was walking along said London street not three weeks back, wrapped up to my lovely eyes against the bitter cold, when coming the other way was a rather thick-set Australian. How did I know he was antipodean? Despite temperatures eking towards those you'd get when fixed in Teri Hatcher's unfeeling gaze, he was clad merely in a pair of shorts, t-shirt and flip-flops with a pair of sunglasses hanging around his neck. I was agog.

Although as I got closer I saw he had indeed made a concession to the bitter gale blowing. You know what it was?

A woolly hat.

For goodness' sake.