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

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

That Shane MacGowan Is A Catch, Isn't He?

Oh if only I had a tenner for every time I heard 'It's political correctness gone mad!' yesterday, I'd have enough cash to finance Britney's Starbucks for three hours. I'm sure you heard: Radio 1 decided to cut 'a slut on junk' and 'faggot' from the Christmas anthem 'Fairytale of New York'.

Naturally Peter Tatchell, the bird-like Gentlemen Who Likes Showtunes who apparently is the spokesman for the gay community, had a comment to make. He always does, mostly because Soho doesn't crawl out of bed til 2pm and he seems to be up and about come sparrow's fart. He claims that the use of the word is derogatory. Now sometimes I agree with his politics, sometimes I don't. This time I don't - in my time I have been a scumbag, a slut on junk and a faggot. I don't mind. I'm at ease with my inner faggot. And my outer one. And the ones that go in and out (we're back to being the slut on junk again, sorry).

It's fine, really. We don't mind. And personally I'm glad they're reinstating it as its brilliant to get drunk and put it on the jukebox and shout that verse at whoever you're with. Lets face it, no decent party is replete without most of the people listed in that song.

And lets face it, at this rate, we'll have to call it the 'Tale of New York' too.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

The Law

I was only recently reminded that I'd shared a train carriage with Jude Law back in the day.

You know, if you'd asked me a few years ago, I'd have said I'd have wanted him to shag me so hard, whoever pulled him out of my ass would be crowned the real King of England. But I couldn't tell you why. I mean look at him. He looked shifty. Not unattractive, but not especially good either. When I saw him on the train I didn't return to my seat dripping like a fucked fridge if that'd what you're thinking. I do believe it was about the time of 'Wilde', of which I recall he looked alright - though frollocking around ontop of a bi polar walrus would make anyone of us look good. Though over the years I've idly watched him deteriorate. Thus:

Talented Mr Ripley: nice enough, but outshone by pudgy house-husband Matt Damon in the ass stakes.


Sleuth: balding, pop-eyed series of twigs bundled together in a bad suit who, once you realise you'd snort if he won second prize in a beauty contest in Monopoly, you also come to the conclusion that he's a shocking actor too.

I hope this handy diagram has been of help to you, dear viewer.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

The Graceless Fall

Oh no! Liza Minnelli collapsed on stage!

Apparently she'd just come on in Sweden and was going through her usual monologue ("Hallo, Shweedens. Ya see, I remember... I remember when this used to be called Pangea... but me and ma mamma, we're gonna sing ya some songs, yeah...") when she dropped like a stone into the arms of a stage hand.

I read somewhere she's held together with sellotape. And sellotape melts under extreme heat. Theatre light produce extreme heat. You see where I'm heading with this? DO YOU?! DO YOU, YES?!

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

There And Back Again

I see, he said fixing his half-rims to the end of his nose, that scientists have been experimenting with homosexuality. And for once I don't mean someone tried out 'Get her!' when their colleague was nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize.

Over on the Fox News site, they've announced that scientists have made flies gay then straight again. Clearly they're happy about this on that right-wing site, as it implies that they've found a 'cure' for all the Gentlemen Who Moisturise in future generations. Yeah yeah, but who'll measure your curtains, hm? Think on.

Hold up, the article says they're fruit flies. Oh well! That explains it all. I always imagine fruit flies to be those chi-chi little Spanish of the fly world - you know, the ones with the crop tops and unconvincing Tom Selleck mustaches who click their fingers together a lot and all want a guest role on 'Ugly Betty'. I mean, we're all familiar of the fair-weather dabbler are we not? I myself have had a dalliance or two with married men - there's something so wonderfully innocent about the slightly awkward way they phone their wife to say they're not coming home while you're plumping your pillows and opening the champagne with your teeth. Oh yes, my boudoir's been quite a little honey trap in its time, let me tell you. I've managed to find enough discarded wedding rings on my sideboard to smelt down into a solid gold Hazel Dean. And not a scale model either.

Whereas butterflies - no-one would have been the slightest bit surprised if they'd been on the Fabulous Bus all along, flapping drag acts that they are. They're the Tom Cruise/Jodie Foster of the insect world. In fact as I've been writing this, old Foster's finally bit the muff-bullet and announced that its ladies she likes down in her hairy snackitaria. Hurray for you dear. You're only 15 years late for your own party, darling.

Now this experimentation on flies, it makes me a little uncomfortable naturally. I have a litmus test for things like this: replace the word 'gay' with 'black' or 'jew' and see whether it makes you wince. Thusly, forgive me the use of this word, but you'll see what I'm getting at when the headline becomes 'Scientists Make Flies Niggers, Then White Again'. Make you squirm? Yeah, me too. And yet people are going to carry on with this 'gay testing'.

And call me old fashioned, I really don't think that's on.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Deck the Bowels

Once again I find myself full of the festive spirit. If festive spirit is Creme de Cassis, natch.

Well, I mean I always feel festive festive, but at least there's a reason to be with my tree up in the next room. Always have a star on the top - there's no need to for a fairy when there's two screaming queens dancing about in front of it, cooing like Brit Ekland in front of a burning wicker man.

We do tend to go a bit overboard with the ol' tinsel, we do. I used to know a gentleman who go the whole hog with his holiday decorations, and there wasn't an inch that wasn't lined with fairy lights and glitter come the start of December. He used to go as far as tinseling his sex toys! Well, you know there's always one show-off who has them on display in their bedroom to show the length and breadth they can get up their O-Ring? Honestly, these things were huge! Standing there like bedecked traffic bollards on his inherited sideboard.

He soon learnt his lesson though: he was running late one morning and grabbed the first butt-plug he saw. He only realised it was coated with glitter when he ran for the bus and caused himself serious internal injury. Well it's like gravel, that stuff! Though the most amusing thing about the whole incident was when he was patched up he was still suffering the... after-effects for a week afterwards. Not putting too fine a point on it, whenever he farted his gusset filled up with so much shit and glitter they looked like a Mariah Carey album cover.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Things Wot I Learned In The Last Week

Never go for sushi with a bisexual man. You end up with the most horrific tales about women.

Evel Knievel died. We hope that his coffin is shot through a burning hoop over six double-decker buses before being laid to rest under 16-fire extinguisher salute.

The people at Gaydar read this blog, thanks to the last post I wrote. Hello to dear old Alex and the team, who seem lovely, don't write in capital letters, and now own my soul after I realised they could dig out any old pic of me from my 1996 profile, including the ones I considered 'arty' at the time. Shudders

After sitting behind celebrity couple Brian May and Anita Dobson at a play on Sunday, I can reveal that Anita is utterly lovely, and Brian May is very tall. So bad luck if you want to see anything through his iconic spiral perm. I just closed one eye to mess with my depth perception, thusly seeing the stage to have an avante-garde black Christmas tree in the middle and everything was fine.

Nicole Kidman and Daniel Craig hit the red carpet to promote 'The Golden Compass'. I advise you to check out any and all pictures of them; they still look like they're playing their zombie alien roles in The Invasion. Old Craig's never been the most zestful anyway, always looking to me like someone's animated the off-cuts from a leather tanning yard with black magic. Seriously, there's craggy and then there's Craig-y. If you ever had the misfortune of ejaculating over his face, it would just run around in a perfect scale model of Egyptian irrigation channels.

The coffee house opposite has started a 'Name the Teddy Bear' competition. With a trip to Sudan as the prize. Lovely.

Monday, December 03, 2007

Orange Sundays

At 11.28 GMT on Sunday 2nd of December, - the premiere site for Gentlemen Who Don't Care For Dating, went down.

Shored up on my islands of Facebook and Thingbox, I felt the tsunami shortly afterwards when all of a sudden the numbers of 'online chatting' shot up by 300 in a matter of minutes. I stirred my cocktail as, around me, feral gentlemen ran by yelling 'WOT U IN2 M8?' and 'PIXPLSTHNX' into the air like banshees with all the speed of Britney Spears running away from a court-ordered drugs-test. Their numbers swelled. They were up in arms (a change from legs) and people were scowering their mobile phone directories for those old shags that were to be saved for such emergencies, known in the trade as 'lay bys'.

On all accounts, it was unfortunate timing. Sundays are the busiest of days for the stock-market-like chatrooms; gentlemen had been out on Friday, got dolled up for Saturday night dancing and neither night nary a sniff of cock. Sunday afternoon was when pride was swallowed in order to swallow anything else. Theories were banded around as to why and how by the more literate members - maybe the Church had finally got to it. Maybe Martha Stewart had finally infiltrated the server hall and spilled what she called her 'Pious Punch' into the main hub. As people were refreshing their browser every few minutes in the vain hope that the trouble was at their end, the situation became more dire. There was talk of a mass gathering in Green Park in order to swap fuzzy cock shots in person. The UN was contacted - the back-up plan of 500 Polish rent boys being airlifted into the capital was pushed forward. Existing Gentlemen of Easy Favours in the city were instructed to start servicing for free and the government would supplement their incomes as part of a desperate attempt to regain order from all the bisexual men in the suburbs who's wives had all gone out for the afternoon, leaving them with five hours to kill and a nasty candlewick bedspread to stain.

All of a sudden Old Compton Street was rammed to the rafters and Soho had to enforce a one-in-one-out ticketing system. Three queens were almost crushed under the sheer weight of expectation. You couldn't move for gentlemen bending over and spreading their cheeks and inviting you to take a look.

And the most horrific of outcomes: people had to actually start talking to each other.