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

Friday, December 19, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 5

Cat clearly knows she's being collected by her real owner - she won't stop yowling, and there's a look in her eyes. A look that says 'I know something's up. I know that man who doesn't own an iron and smells of Ralgex is coming'. You see, I think she's been treating this past week like a spa retreat, whereas I've been spending it stopping any bad habits she may have. I've even politely dissuaded her from coming in and sniffing my gym kit every time I come back from a workout; clearly a bad habit she's picked up from her owner. It's been an education. For both of us, really - I used to be nonplussed on the whole cat thing, thinking anything that selfish with non-specific talents usually is a contestant on a reality show. But dear old Cat has been a tonic. If I were a more suspicious man, I'd wonder whether they'd sent the perfect PR feline over just to convert us. Like sending over Jamie Bamber in a bath towel to get us to join Scientology. Hell, I'd sign up to become a Gay Republican if he said he'd come in for a coffee.

Anyway. I want a cat now, though I fear that she's not going to be the same. And besides, I don't want to be one of those bloggers who spends an entire week talking about their cat.


Danger! Danger, Mrs Robinson!

Thanks to all of you who emailed in the story about Nicola from Girls Aloud - The Plastic Pal Who's Fun To Be With (Maybe When They Fix The Smile) - reportedly being turned away from a table because Louise Rednapp said she wouldn't share.

The Daily Mail writes:

'"Nicola was in a bit of a state, and got to the club quite late," an onlooker told the newspaper. "She assumed she would be whisked straight onto her own VIP table, but when she was told all of the tables were booked she looked confused."

Of course she looked confused! On the way over with the cab, she'd emailed the matre d' herself using her internal modem! She'd also checked her lottery numbers (and calculated the probability that a) she'd win, and b) be free of Cheryl Cole's restraining programming before she can accidentally off her and cry "I have killed the one who created me!" in a semi-convincing manner) and also composed a few bars of the Aloud's next hit on her built-in moog synth. The Mail went on to write:

"When it was clear that Louise would not share her table, Nicola had to stay at the bar with her friends."

I don't know why this Louise Rednapp didn't share her table. I mean, who is she again? I think she was in Eternal back when I was slyly drinking Cherry Coke in my bedroom, making up dance routines to Donna Summer's 'This Time I Know Its For Real' with my ALF soft toy. Oh, and apparently she's in the new Nintendo Wii advert with her husband - some footballer who's kinda hot (thanks Google). So the highlight of her year is she turned away our beloved Nicola from her table, did an advert, and was Jamie Rednapp's cock-wash. For shame, Lou! Where's your Christmas spirit?

Perhaps she didn't want Nicola leeching all the bandwidth near her. Or maybe there was a chance that miserable old Lou thought Nicola was going to malfunction and, arms flailing, start smashing the tables with the flat of her palm going "Does! Not! Compute!" in that computerised monotone in wot she sings so well. Either way, I'm going to form an awareness group - equality for all so-pale-she's-semi-transparent ginger PopBots. The line must be drawn here!

In magnetic tape, naturally. It's the only thing she understands.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 4

Oh we've had fun today. The cleaner came and buffed all our wood floors.

I mean, they were a bit slippy before, but now there's absolutely no purchase for Cat. She's been sliding around, banging into furniture like a rohypnoled Jane Torville. I dropped my copy of 'Manhole Monthly' (I buy it for the sudoku) and the poor thing was so scared that she tried to dart under the coffee table and just ended up spinning on the spot for a full minute before even she got bored, stopped and started licking herself. I haven't laughed so hard since Di forgot her seatbelt.

Poor thing. We're going to have to fit her with anti-lock brakes or something. Cat, not the corpse of Princess Di.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 3

I'd hate to see my google history over the last couple of days. I mean, beyond the usual stuff (will somebody please post some pictures of Ben Browder doing Ryan Reynolds? Don't tell me there's no consumer interest, people) there's this whole swathe of cat related enquiries that are going to sit very oddly next to my usual search criteria. If I ever put 'yiffing' in along with the other two sets, some alarm is going to ring at Microsoft and I'm going to be carted away to a white room somewhere and played tapes of Mariah Carey and told to be normal.

OK. Mariah. Normal. Bad choice.

One such search term was 'how much do cats crap'. Cat has been with us for almost three days now and I've idly been checking her litter tray just to make sure that the place isn't going to be stunk out by Wiskas scented coils, but there has nary been a cable laid in there. This then leads on to all sorts of questions, the most important being 'has she gone and nipped one out under my bed?' The answer was no, leading to more searching and even more concern.

In fairness, she was off her food the first day. I think she was scared of the new environment, or actually dazzled by a home where someone had planned the interior decorating. You see, her actual home seems to go for 'flea-market chic', misses completely, and ends up as 'Portabello market stall circa five pm'. I sympathise: I've been in some gay homes that have been so tear-inducingly gorgeous that I've not even wanted to go into the bedroom and ruffle up their Conrad sheets. Fortunately, like Cat, I got over this quickly - and the gentleman in question even quicker.

So two days without curling one out. Poor Cat. I was afraid to pick her up, in case she was full and moving her would rupture her lower intestine, spending time picturing her like a fur-lined icing bag that one squeeze too hard would result in a very explosive display.

You'll be pleased to know that this morning, when I padded through in my Goofy slippers, Cat had given birth to what can only be described as a healthy one-pound offspring. And fuck me, it stunk...

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 2

Today, Cat and I have been exploring. She seems to have taken me to be Alpha Male of the three people in the house, much to everyone's hilarity. Well, really! I've never been an Alpha Male before! I was almost classed as an A-Gay on one occasion, but I seemingly didn't slap the officer who was frisking me for my Balans Members Card hard enough (flat of the palm, thinking you're Ivana, apparently) so my application was torn up in front of me. I'd spent ages on gluing on all those pictures of Daniel Radcliffe too.

Prior to her coming to visit, Cat and I had that usual human/feline relationship of complete indifference because I didn't arrive with a can opener. And yet now, as she sees me as the most viable connection to her previous life, she won't leave me alone. She follows me around like a twink at a club who's seen me paying for champagne with a platinum card. Yesterday, she wouldn't move from my lap, and I apologise to any clients who are reading this because she kept nudging my hand for attention just as I was cutting out hair in photoshop. Honestly, poor David Tennant's quoffured mop came out like a madwoman's breakfast - all over the place. Right now, she's currently lying half across my shoulder, draped like a stole, wheezing softly in sleep. It would be endearing if it weren't so damn inconvenient.

Anyway, exploring. Cat likes dark holes (just like her owner I'm shocked to find) and makes a bee-line straight for any place that she can't be rescued from without two warm spoons, some grease and a dangled chicken leg. She explored the hall, stairs, window with good view of builders, and the bedroom, mewing for me to keep up. She then spent a good hour pouncing around the duvet like she'd never seen one before. Perhaps she hasn't - I've poked my head around owner Gertie's bedroom door on few occasions, and lets just say the bed linen was more for functionality than for comfort, if you know what I mean. I didn't touch them, but one had the idea of those laminated gingham tablecloths that you get in Little Chefs. Perhaps this is the true reason Cat is following me around - not just because I'm feeding her, or petting her, but because I've introduced her to the concept of thread count.

Bless. There's hope yet.

Monday, December 15, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 1

I'm looking after this cat for a week, while dear old Gertie is on holiday. Do check out his blog if you get a second and like cats - you can't move for updates of grainy cameraphone shots of the dismissive beast and on how it (shock!) opens cat flaps now. I'm taking it for a week while he's up in Scotland with his folks, pretending he doesn't smoke and, even funnier, isn't gay. I know, isn't that hilarious? It's like they don't have eyes in their head or something.

Anyway. Cat. "I've left a t-shirt of mine in the basket," sobbed Gertie as I ushered him out the door yesterday, repeating that everything will be fine. "It'll help calm her down." Strangely, the basket is the one place she hasn't been in the last 24 hours. I forgot how damn inquisitive cats are - and we've had to practically child-lock everything, and spent a good few hours following her around as she explored such areas as The Draining Board Full Of Glasses, The Christmas Tree, and My Laptop And Its Multitude Of Seemingly Tasty Cables. I think giving cats nine lives just makes them far too reckless. They should just have the one and stop looking like they're constantly about to take a whizz on the electrical sockets if you ask me.

It took all of three hours for Gertie to text to make sure she was fine, which showed more restraint than I thought it would. "He's asking how she is," I said to Ryan, who was currently helping her off a bookcase. "What should I write?"

"Say she's dead," he said.

It was very tempting.

Though clearly she's thinking the same thing. I've a few houseplants about the place, including a lovely orchid that I'm looking after for a former housemate. She'd nommed a full leaf before a) we'd realised and b) she was retching and mewling in horror before shooting off under the table like it was Our Fault. Cue a frantic ten minutes googling whether orchids are poisonous to animals and wondering if Gertie would ever forgive us before she trots back out from under the table and starts doping up on her catnip mouse like nothing had happened.

Bloody thing.

X Factor

I'm glad Eggnog Samwise Gamgee didn't win The X Factor. I mean, it's really sweet of them to put a Downs kid in the contest and all for sympathy, but really. It was bad enough when we all went 'Aww, look at the fat chick!' when Michelle McManus was up for a vote a few years back and voted out of National Pride to show that We Like People To Be Given A Fair Chance, and then completely ignore them when they have a single out.

This was my first X Factor final, after finally being converted by Ryan and his busty friend Ness a few weekends ago. I loved Diana Vickers and that you couldn't tell what she was singing, and that Cheryl Cole never actually says anything negative. Or positive. Or useful, come to think. She skirts around any possible judgment with an attempt to flick her immovable hair out of her eyes while saying things like "Ah, pet, you've come along way" and "You put a lot of energy into yer performance, love", which clearly I adore. I think she believes that if she says one negative thing, the whole viewing public will turn around to her and tell her to FUCK OFF, and she's probably right. And thus was born the Cheryl Cole Drinking Game - which I'd like to point out is NOT having a few Baccardi Breezers and laying into some toilet attendant, uh allegedly - but every time she says anything that can be replaced with a klaxxon, a bugle horn or the noise of birdsong with no repercussions to the final outcome, drink two fingers worth of your spirit of choice. You will be utterly wasted by the time JLS come out and step off their stools for the key-change.

Louis I just find creepy. He kept saying "I can't believe you're only sixteen!" when Eggnog came on. But the look in his eyes... well, lets say we were replacing 'sixteen' with 'legal' in Casa Glitter.

I liked the winner, though. Alexandra. The human body is made up of... what, 60%, 90% water? I'd do some research, but that'd mean I take this sort of thing seriously and frankly my Ginster's pasty is getting cold. Anyway, whatever it is, she was clearly on emergency levels come the second performance, as she'd sobbed so much it had washed all the considerable volume of make-up off to such an extent that irrelevant pop pixie Dannii Minogue had to cling to a stray Polo mint lest she drown in a wave of Rimmel. And when Beyonce came on in a surprise move, she was clearly all 'Bitch, don't weep on my weave' during their duet. I don't know what Beyonce had come as, but I think it was a sparkly t-shirt over a wet-suit. Maybe she was going to a foam party later on. Celebs, they get all the fun. Or maybe she'd seen Alexandra's previous performances and wanted to batter down the hatches as she tried to sing 'Hallelujah' while leaking more than a Victorian water main. You can imagine the mess when she actually won: I'm glad her microphone was clearly waterproof. Imagine if she'd electrocuted herself! Is The X Factor like Miss World? If you can't do your duties does it pass to dullard quartet JLS to turn on the Debenhams Christmas lights next year before slipping into obscurity?

Either way, Alexandra, I'm glad you're taking the crown. Even while you cried and cried and cried as the results were read out. And then kept mouthing "I love you" to her mentor, Cheryl. Which Cheryl kept mouthing back. Aww, what a lovely couple they'd make - Cheryl would say things like "Well pet, that was a performance" and Alexandra would definitely have to sleep in the wet patch. It's true love, I tells ya.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Things Wot I Have Learned This Week

1) Ever since Ryan moved in, I've gained twice the wardrobe, double the sex and two pounds in weight. I am quite adamant that this is His Fault, and how he denies it is a mystery. Everything he makes in the kitchen seems to have the first instruction 'crush up a packet of biscuits, and add a pound of butter'. His latest concoction, Malteaser Squares, are a good Irish recipe from the homeland, with the first ingredient after the obligatory crushed biscuits being 8 bags of Malteasers. Then there Dairy Milk, biscuits, butter and the topping is made of Toblerone. Honestly, the Irish have one famine and all of a sudden they're all about the calories.

2) There is absolutely no manly way to carry dry cleaning.

3) My mother has joined Facebook. I'm not sure she 'gets' it. Still, I showed her how to block my step-mother and she did a little dance, so maybe there's hope... I also wish my step-mother was wicked by the way. She's not. She's just... bland. Clearly perfect for my father as I've never seen anything get so much joy out of being told what to do every second of every day. Bar the child's toy BigTrak, that is.

4) I hate to use the word 'comfortable', but this is clearly where Ryan and I are heading (see point 1). The first time I noticed this was our choice of bedroom reading material stopped being so covertly chosen to give a good impression to each other; he now reads snobby Depression era fiction without an apology, I read Garfield and giggle into the valance.

5) Finally, today I'm currently working on a pitch for a french arthouse film poster. I only said I would do it because I thought 'arthouse' would be euphemistic for porn. It is not. I'm mildly disappointed, especially after making all those little red-and-yellow stars to put over lady's nipples, like wot they do. I may stick them on anyway to get people to go and see it. Or print them out and put them on myself for the afternoon. That'll scare the cleaner when she arrives...

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, December 05, 2008

Grab A Tool And Start Banging

The best thing about living in an 'up-and-coming' area is not the increase in property prices, the sudden appearance of dolly little boutiques or coffee shops, but the sheer number of builders you have to walk past on a daily basis. I just trolled past a delectable duo of them hanging off some scaffolding and, bless, they were trying to do maths. It was like chimps trying to figure out the Dewey System, or my friend Nick trying to figure out what comes first - underwear or suit. And he's got Altzheimer's.

Incidentally, dear old Nick came out of the closet yesterday. Not that he's gay, no - he in such a bad way he just thought it was a car.

Anyway! Builders. I'm not sure what the fascination is, but by all that is Cher, it exists. Certainly in me and I'm really not sure why. I mean, if it was just the urge to shag anything that lifted-and-carried such weights, I'd be trying to seduce Oprah's triple-E bra. Perhaps it wasn't helped by one of my friends who happened to live around the corner from a certain steam-filled Gentleman's Recreational Club, and so had access to it at all hours. He told of a golden time, around seven thirty of a morning, when all the Polish builders who had left their girlfriends to go work on the buildings around Canary Wharf, would pop in and get serviced by all and sundry. Can you imagine all that undulating muscle? I unfortunately can, and I almost bit the top off my Poochie pen in doing so.

And you tell me that most builders aren't gay. I reckon if there were a fire in a wendy bar, twenty construction workers would pile out, twenty firemen would pile in - we'd just need the motorcycle cops and the Red Indians to complete the set.

I have to say that with all this testosterone in the air, I had the urge to build something. And not my usual three-tier sponge cake with a rather neat job of making dreamy Brad Pitt in icing for the top. So I finally ordered a self-assembly wardrobe for the other side of the bed - the one that Ryan was meant to be temporarily staying in. I think with this latest purchase, we've decided that the arrangement has actually become permanent, and so we celebrated like all good gays do: with flat-pack furniture. To there I was, building away at this thing for four hours to such an extent that my lily-livered, never-done-a-hard-days-work-in-my-life hands were covered in blisters. Four hours! And when I was finished, I was cut, bleeding, blistered and covered in sweat. I felt like a man!

Thankfully, he came home from work about ten minutes later.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, November 28, 2008

In A Bottle

I'm all for decadence, you know. I'll always go for the M&Ms with the peanuts for instance. No, you can't buy class like wot I have.

So in a rare day off this week, I decided to treat myself to a massage. Now, before I go on, I'd like to say this was at a reputable place, rather than a central London doorway with 'Model Upstairs' in letters made of insulation tape above the chipped lintel. As a sidebar, I'd love to pop up to one of those places and ask the cavalcade of prolapsed hussies whether they actually have any models at all in there. And I don't mean people who actually look like they're from this side of the primordial soup - or indeed, that haven't had a similar soup sloshed up them hourly - I mean an actual Airfix model of the USS Voyager in a dust-proof case. Ah, they'd try and chase me out, but I'd throw a photocopy of a Green Card into the corner and watch them rip each other to shreds to get it.

Meanwhile, back to my reputable place with tinkly music and lesbian tea literally on tap. The charmingly bored functionary asked me whether I'd like a man or a woman at this point. Ah, this is where the joy of being a Gentleman Who Is Excited About The Prospect of a '9 to 5' Musical can excel; I pity the man who goes in and wants to ask for a woman as it has all these strange connotations, or the woman who asks for a gentleman... It feels like you've managed to remove one level of sexuality from it if you're a man asking for a man to massage you - another bonus of being a Gentleman Who Knows How Many Times To Click Your Heels Together at the gym is you get to get a quick squint around the changing rooms. Imagine if you were a man allowed to change in the women's dressing room? Yes, it's like an all you can eat buffet! Carb free, of course.

Anyway, I digress. I chose a man and yes, I think I managed to dispel any sexual connotations from the whole affair, only to later realise that I was indeed in Soho, the mecca of all gay men (where twinks gleefully turn and prey to Jeremy Joseph on the hour, arse in the air, kneeling on their Same Difference prayer mats) and the tinny sound of Girls Aloud was drifting from my dangling headphones as I spoke. Ah well.

At which point, I was introduced to my masseuse, a giant Australian of a man called Matt, who almost knocked me over - such was the power of his handshake. Thank heaven there was a masseuse table to sit down on, my knees were as weak as my resolve.

So there I was in a private upstairs room with all my clothes off, covered in a towel, and slowly being lubed up by hands so large and firm that they could have felled a cow with a single slap... That's not a massage in my head - that's foreplay! I had a very similar situation when I had to go to hospital once for a bit of an inspection of the nether regions after they'd found a lump. An inspection that involved me up on blocks, manhood out to the world, while a TV-pretty doctor smeared my area with KY jelly and then had a jolly old poke around. I tell you, I spent the whole time invoking images of Nicola Girls Aloud splayed on my bed, having not mowed her minky for a good few months. Ee, I tell you, it did the trick to hide any... embarrasment. In my mind's eye it looked like someone had run over the last red squirrel.

There's a short circuit that happens in my head, I think. You are put into a situation that you are familiar with, such as the above, and your body is expecting an entirely different outcome. As I was here with this Matt, I began to find him desperately attractive. I mean, he wasn't - good looking to a point, yes, but not going to get me dripping like a fucked fridge any time soon - but here I was in a situation that had often lead to sex in the past. So my brain had already filled in the parts where we'd flirted over our Babycham, I'd got a bit giddy, and he'd offered to take me back to his Soho penthouse to show me his etchings, and moved in for the kill during a medley of Il Divo. It's like we'd jumped three steps, and I was ready to jump him. It was the most curious sensation.

I'm sure you'll be pleased to know, I managed to say goodbye to Matt with my dignity and my towel raised high, though did almost fall to my knees when he shook my hand in farewell. Well, I find the fantasy is often better than the reality. Besides, I could tell he was deathly straight. Not from his manner, not from his choice in shoes. But because his deodorant was that terrible Lynx. You know, the first choice of hetero boys everywhere because they think they don't need aftershave if they use it, and the advertising states they can pull women from across the bar. The only way that works is to get so close to the girls that they find the stench overpowering and go into a dead faint at the fumes. The rest of the times, I've seen women backing away from a group of straight Lynxed men with their handbags over their noses, gasping for air. Its a shame that you can't smoke in bars anymore - it used to be fun watching pyres of straight men going up in flames whenever someone accidentally let a lighter stray to his mate's armpit. Oh those were the days, my friend. Those were the days.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, November 21, 2008


Ah the turn of the season. Isn't this glorious - the leaves, the colours? The chance of bringing out your long coats and pretending you're in a TV show title sequence when a Tube train whizzes by, fooming your hair and coat out dramatically. Me, I make sure I'm listening to the 'Alias' title music as it happens, though I know in my heart I'm secretly more 'Laverne and Shirley'. I'm always loosing my glove on beer bottles, see.

And my balance on whiskey bottles.

And my dignity on vodka bottles.

Anyway, along with the cold often comes illness, and I'm a little under the weather at the moment, and browsing through an online dispensary for something to take the edge off this cold. How wonderfully 21st Century! You can order anything, completely self-medicate! If it was good enough for Britney Spears, its good enough for me - and look how well that turned out. But what's this? click click click Apparently there are Viagra suppositories now. Why? Why go to all that trouble with pills? These are quite clearly useless to any Gentleman Who Can't Catch - I mean, as soon as you stick something up my nethermouth, things are going to rise to the occasion.

And these days, it's such a two-way street! Sometimes you do worry about whether there's going to be any tread left on the tires come old age. I mean, in days of old I used to believe that sex should be like football - half-time, change ends - but with my current relationship... well, lets just say that Ryan swept me off my feet and instantly insisted that they were both pointed at the baby Jesus. And he's 23, for goodness sake, with a drive to match. Its a wonder that have to clench when I sit on a barstool lest I slip down it to the floor. Its starting to look like a bloodied windsock down there. Indeed. I recall the one instance that a doctor once had to give me a bit of medicine via that entrance (this is not a euphemism for once) and he was all "Brace yourself, you may feel a little - oh!" and then had to retrieve his wedding ring with the help of a colleague. And a miner's helmet.

Anyway, before my order is dispatched (and you loose your lunch) I shall top up on Beechams and head out. Maybe some chocolate too - that's meant to help, right? That's what the funny uncle in the local sweetshop of my youth used to say. God, he was camp. You'd go in and ask "Can I have a Twirl and a Boost?" he'll spin around gaily and say "Honey, you look fabulous today!"

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, November 14, 2008

Recommended For You

Now. I usually don't care what most people think of me - clearly with the notable exception of you, darling reader. As a child of the internet age, I've been stationed everywhere - Flickr, Twitter, Blogger, the lot. I've poked around Facebook, and stuffed myself up YouTube. I even had a MySpace page for an afternoon until I realised I was a 33 year old man and not a twelve year old girl into stickers, ponies and self-harm with an ugly penchant for tiled backgrounds and flashing glitter text. And in each of these arenas, you put a little of yourself forward for the internet at large, who will judge you whether you like it or not. Why here alone, I've unspooled with such candid honesty that you are all aware that I would pay good money to have Ryan Reynolds and Matthew Fox diddle me so long and so hard that when I sitting in the back of my limo while leaving our Soho loft love-nest, flicking through approvals for my Fall fashion line (its a very full and varied fantasy) that every time I uncrossed my legs it would be like peeling apart a toasted cheese sandwich.

And then, after all that lessez-faire attitude, I came across Amazon Recommends, the semi-intuitive section of their ordering site that says 'You bought this, you may want this', and spent the next hour screaming "YOU DON'T KNOW ME, YOU KNOW NOTHING ABOUT ME!!!" while constantly refeshing the plethora of choices on offer. Why I've taken it to heart, I don't know. Perhaps as A Gentleman With Too Many Storecards, I hope that with a bit of fine-tuning this service will present me the ultimate in shopping experiences; some kind of commercial nirvana that gives me a list of ten things I Simply Must Have each time I visit. As it is, I'm getting presented with choices such as Sylvia Plath because I once bought 'Oranges Aren't The Only Fruit' for a female friend who was so far in the closet she smelt of mothballs. I mean, me! Plath! It's like trying to give a dog a kazoo, or Jessica Simpson an acting role. We'd only deftly fuck it up, but try and look adorable as we did it.

As I've been writing this, I've been clicking the 'Not Interested' and 'I Own This' options on a couple of items (for a while, we got stuck in a whole Ben Elton vortex because I said I owned 'Popcorn' to shut it up. I didn't say it was any good) and now its all SCART cables and chick-lit. If only there was a sliding scale that you could just increase from 'Boring' to 'Fabulous', it would save a lot of trouble of clicking on swathes of Margaret Atwoods, the sheer volume of which you would be quite able to make a pretentious-if-slightly-boring little house out of.

Still, I don't know why I'm surprised as most things I order off the internet are never what you require. I mean clearly - as we're sharing - it was not as disappointing as the time I ordered a six-foot-eight-inches prison warder called Uric of... lets call it a Gentleman's Orange Website - 'EasyGay' if you wish - and he arrived at my chinzy boudoir for a bit of slap and tickle. And as soon as he got there, pitched forward onto the bed like a felled tree, face down, pointing as his rump with a bizarre urgency. I mean, that's not what you want, is it?! It wasn't in the brochure. I feel that you engage a person like that in the capacity similar to that of Dyna-Rod. When they're towering over you, telling you their height, you're all but unable to stop doing your Mae West of "Well, lets forget about the six foot, lets talk about the eight inches" while clutching your pearls, your wallet, or your ankles.


Now I'm imagining what the 'Gaydar Recommends' section of the site would be like. When you log on, you'd get presented with such wondrous options as 'You have had "BootedThickFingeredNavvy86", why not try "SurlyPolishWorkman_02" (Rate out of five stars)' I'd probably still spend as long trying to get it all working correctly, but it would be a heck of a lot more fun!

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, October 31, 2008

Out of Control

So I have a long standing belief that Nicola from Girls Aloud is a robot. An evil cyborg from the future who will insist that every band has a member with dead, shark-like eyes, and the grace of a giraffe on roller skates during any dance routine in a video. You know that bit in 'Blade Runner', where Rachel introduces Deckard to the fake owl? I imagine that is what happens whenever Nicola is wheeled out before record executives:

"Do you like our Nicola?"
"It's artificial?"
"Of course it is."
"Must be expensive."
"You'd be surprised."

Anyway the reason why I bring this up is that Girls Aloud have a new album out and it's all... well, a bit mechanical. I've long known that I'm about five degrees out with the population's tastes as a whole - for one, why oh why do you all find mimsy covergirl Zac Effron so attractive? He looks like a skinned chicken sponsored by Rimmel. I mean I've seen corpses with more discrete make-up jobs. But I digress - new Girls Aloud! I should be doing cartwheels around the bar but I'm sitting with my arms folded, willing to be impressed, rather like my mother when I bring yet another gentleman caller home for Christmas and say that "I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him and he's my one true love." Poor woman's has found those electronic photo frames an utter godsend - she no longer has to pop down to Jessops to develop a new snap of someone who probably won't make it past the twelth day of Christmas. I can just email her a photo of the Current Mrs Binding, and as an added bonus, can have some shots of Lee Majors circa 'The Fall Guy' on rotate too, bless her.

Anyway! Five degrees out. I usually listen to an album and think 'oh yes, that'd make a good single' and whatnot and am constantly proved wrong by the music industry. So perhaps this new commercial sound is a good thing? Building on their success of 'Call the Shots' (again a song I could take or leave but the general public thought it was great). But that's the rub - I've never liked Girls Aloud for their professionalism, hence why I'm so obsessed with Nicola. I don't want polished songs, I want them clattering down Chippy Alley at 3am and smelling of Babycham and regret. Take the cover for instance:

The album is called 'Out of Control' and look at them! They're going WILD in that clean, white room, aren't they? Ho, they're utterly shameless! Nicola has got her feet on a chair! Get your cyborg hooves off that nice dining room chair, NicolaBot! You're utterly out of control!

So. I'm 15 times through the album and not that struck, and still recovering from the realisation that the "Promise I made, promise I made, starting to fade, starting to fade" bit of their current single is actually the theme tune to 'Blankety Blank'. I keep going back to it in the vain hope I'm wrong, and that there is some stand-out track that will cheer me. Sigh. Instead they should have just let (INCOMING GEEKY GALACTICA REFERENCE) Nicola just cover 'All Along The Watchtower' and be done with it.

I do have to be a little careful about what I write about my favorite foursome and their mechanical friend after one blogger is up in court for writing about killing them on some porn site. Ahaha. As if I'd do that.

The Sugababes, whereas...

Have a good Halloween, all.

Monday, October 20, 2008

Not Intended For Purpose

I'm loving playing Lego Batman on my Wii.

Although the best bit of it is getting little Lego Batman to the top of the Lego cathedral and pretending we're playing little Lego 'Fathers 4 Justice'.

Friday, October 17, 2008

A Quick Catch-Up

My apologies for not being around for a while - but as you can see when you almost tripped over my crayons and round-ended scissors, that I've been up to my delectable eyebrows in work. Most vexing as the world kept throwing things at me I wanted to bring to your attention! How cruel is that!

Alright then: lets get it off our chests (as I once said to one of the leads in 'Lord of the Rings' after the incident) Madge and Guy. Were you surprised? I don't think anyone was surprised. I mean I've had some shocks in my life: the price of Creme de Mer, the fact that one of Coldplay is actually hot... this fact alone almost made me drop a dumbbell on my gorgeous stack-heeled flip-flop at the gym. I mean, here they are, Coldplay, cheerleaders for the lung-deflating bland, and they have someone like Guy Berryman in their midst. I mean, hello. The problem with this is that if you even deign to pleasure yourself to one of their videos (heaven forfend, but lets say your hard drive crashed under the sheer weight of Cazzo downloads, the Grattan catalogue is weeks late and someone cancelled the subsription to the men's volleyball channel in favour of Smash Hits Video... which in retrospect was probably you) we are talking serious Masturbation Roulette. I mean, one heavily-edited video and one second you're fwapping one out to Guy and the next you're confronted with that Martin fellow. Who just looks boring. How does he do that? He's going out with Gwyneth Paltrow, is worth millions, and is part of one of the biggest British bands in years. But still looks dull. Incredible! And also - also - his teeth. You can't be rubbing one out when confronted with those. Goodness. He looks like he could eat an apple through a letterbox from the other side of the door.

Anyway! I'm getting off the main point (good coffee this). Madge and Guy! Bless them. I don't know that much about them as people, despite Madge insisting that we know everything about her. I mean, there was a time in 1992 around the time of 'Erotica' and 'In Bed With Madonna' and 'Sex' that I think I knew her drip tray with more inimacy than my own area. And please bear in mind that I was a fledgling Gentleman Who Was Learning Skincare with a whole stack of Gratan Catalogues to stick together. You couldn't move for seeing her minky staring down at you in some Orwellian manner from the sky - like the Goodyear blimp with more miles on the clock. So it always makes me laugh whenever the publicist tacks on the end of the press release of a divorce 'and we hope that the press respects our privacy.' Ha!

So I shall correct myself - I don't know much about them as a couple, although I have to say, but I did sit through 'Swept Away' once, and if two people are responsible for bringing that into the world, then clearly they shouldn't be allowed within 500 foot of each other. What are their kids like? Anyone know? I've only seen pictures of Lordes (indeed, I do cry 'Good Lord-es!' whenever I see her: yeesh, you'd do something about the moustache and monobrow wouldn't you? I mean, she can't not see it, could she? Even if all the mirrors in her mansion were made of coal you'd still be able to see that she was closer to a member of Oasis than her strange grandma-mother).

So Madge and Guy, farewell. I have no idea what you're going to do, mister. But I bet your ex-wife is going to do something typically low-key and private about it. Like two new albums, a documentary, a new book and a world tour. Aparently she's already banging some sports person (someone mentioned what it was, but you know me - gay. Can't tell one end of the sports hall from the rest. Could have been football. Could have been hockey. Could have been ice-skating. They all blur into one for me). That poor man. I mean, Madge has been around the block... no, lets not hide this in euphemisms. Madge is a whore. And this guy now has to try and slip his meat into her leathery area. Which, after all this time, must be like opening the window and fucking the night.

And while we're on the subject of fucking, we have someone attacking the beautiful act of two (or usually more) men going at it like knives: The Rev Peter Mullen insists that gay men get a tattoo on their ass saying that 'Sodomy damages your health'.



Bwahahhaaaa! How brilliant! So basically, he wants gay men to identify themselves to members of the public..? I don't think he's throught this through. I mean, gay men want to stand out! And if we start identifying ourselves to each other, it's just going to be easier to shag! How funny.

And 'Sodomy damages your health'? Clearly he's doing it wrong. Indeed, if he wants to tattoo everyone who's had their muck spread, he's in for some trouble. I mean, I didn't think priests should have tattoos...

Have a good weekend, won't you.

Monday, October 06, 2008


Every now and again, something happens that makes me think that the rest of the human race has been using old thermometers as drinking straws, and that I'm the only sane one amongst you. You see, there's this new tv show called 'Fringe' on, and I think it's nonsense. Not good nonsense, like 'The Sarah Connor Chronicles'. But bad nonsense. Like 'Charmed'. And yet the reviews and ratings... people like it?

Now, I have a bit of a soft spot for the show's creator JJ Abrams as he was responsible for 'Alias', a show of infinite entertainment and - more importantly - infinite costume changes. Oh yes, I know what I like. Meanwhile "the show will jump the shark early and often," Abrams has been heard to say. I'm inclined to believe him, in fact the show starts in mid air over said shark, gaily waving pom-poms and grinning at the camera like a Girl wot has Gone Wild. Personally, I ran the gamut of emotions while watching it, all the way from boredom to anger and back again. To whit...

Things I Took Against:

* Intrusive floating styrofoam letters telling me where the stock footage was from.

* The woman playing Scully having a voice-over voice. You know, one that sounds like every time she speaks, she should be selling me something that would give me a new lease on life like dramatically-reshaped tampons.

* The conspiracy arc introduced in such an half-arsed lazy way. It just had the stench of being one of Those Type of Shows, so I was tapping my teeth, waiting for its arrival. I would have gotten on with it a lot better if there wasn't one, where Scully had been going "There must be a conspiracy! All shows like this have a conspiracy!" and the Haitian going "No, no. No idea what you're on about. This is just a freak accident, love" and whistling through his gappy teeth.

* The whole first ep is meant to take place over two days. So, she flies to Iraq and back, breaks a guy out of a mental asylum, sets up a lab, takes LSD, saves the human race and uncovers a conspiracy. Sheesh, imagine what she's like when she's not so tired.

* People who are in loving relationships in the first episode of a show must know they have signed their own death warrant by saying "I love you" in the first act. Or turn out to be evil. So pity Scully's boyfriend who gets to do one, then the other, then back again.

* Lazy, lazy characterization. "She's fiesty! He's bumbling! He's mad and wants a cow!"

* What does JJ Abrams have against planes?

Things I didn't Take Against:

* Joshua Jackson in this variation figure looks familiar to me. Not sure why, although I think he looks like someone who either goes to my gym, or I've had sex with. The two are clearly interchangeable in my addled mind.

Personally, I shan't be watching again. Unless there's more costume changes, naturally.

Friday, October 03, 2008

Utter Genius

I have to say that, as much as I hate kowtowing to Apple, that peddler of smug tupperware, I am loving their Genius function in the new iTunes at the minute.

Well, when I say 'new', you can't actually log on these days before them offering you an update, so I can't tell you which one it is - I assume its Version 8-point-Last-Tuesday. Basically, this edition gives you the option to create playlists based around a song. Oh yes, I'll just let you assimilate that... you can create a whole playlist around a song. Or more correctly, a whole playlist around Girls Aloud's 'Sexy? No No No...'! Claps like a lesbina at a Be-Good Tanya concert. Do I spy Baccara, followed by The RAH Band? Why yes, yes I do! How utterly marvelous! This is the best invention since anal sex!

What? Well some people like it. In my experience, anal sex is very much like spinach: if you were forced it as a kid, you'll hate it now.

Anyway, iTunes! Clearly, it wouldn't be me unless I'd tried to break it, would it. So I started throwing all manner of nonsense in its direction to see whether I can befuddle its tiny computer brain. But nooooo, even when I handed it some obscure Ukranian Eurovision hit from a bygone age, it delivered. Actually, it not only delivered, it gave me 25 other things from my iTunes I'd barely even heard of with a typically smug 'ta-da!'. Honestly, it turned my playlist into something found buzzing out of a radio in the backroom of an illegal Turkish taxi rank at 3am. You know, the music you hear as you look up through the smoky haze to see three other mustachioed men with cracked fingernails languidly undoing their belt buckles.

Well, you know me. Anything to get out of paying full fare.

So. This wonder-program has also been recommending me things to buy too, and I was halfway to the iTunes Store before I realised that a) I'd stumbled into their commercial trap and b) I'd only clicked through because I'd thought the guy in the thumbnail was fit. What? I'm a man, I have needs! And its not my fault that I didn't get the memo: I mean, when did the lead singer of Kings of Leon get to hot anyway? He's all beard and mumbling and flinty eyes. And those charming sticky-out ears I'm now referring to as 'love-handles', if you get my drift. He looks like the type who gets confused by too many colours, numbers and shapes, so he'd be perfect for a game of my patent Gay Strip Poker. Which is just like ordinary strip poker, only because its gay, the queens are wild and the straights don't count.

Have a good weekend, everybody.

Friday, September 26, 2008


So, darling reader, there I was out at for dinner somewhere fabulous when the bizarre subject of 'A-Gays' came up. My Dinner Companion (he wishes to remain nameless, bless. I think because we were in a such a nice place and he had such a nasty shirt) and I talked this over: I see them as those semi-mythical things you hear about in whispers and rumours, like pictures of Bigfoot, Nessy, Joan Collins without her wig on, and Whitney Huston's actual comeback. And the reason why we were discussing this over our starter of rosé wine? Well you see, I was called an A-Gay a week ago, and I was dumbstruck. Me? How so? I always thought that the A-Gay was an unobtainable title, and one thing about me is I'm very obtainable.

I initially thought it may just be one big misunderstanding. It turns out my life is riddled with those: in fact, the primary reason I'm a Gentleman Who Can't Catch is because of a chance moment when I was six years old with my mother's outgoing activist friend, Liz. She'd often be off climbing power pylons to hang poorly-spelled signs over the top and whatnot, and she'd just come back from burning her bra outside the Co-Op to protest about their "bourgeois stocking of Mr Kipling's Fancies" when she was accosted by the local policeman. "Stick it to the man!" she yelled at me while she was being dragged away by the bolero jacket and I thought 'what a splendid idea!' And let me tell you, I haven't stopped since.

My Dinner Companion folded his arms - for which I was eternally grateful as it was a really nasty shirt - as we discussed it. I always thought that the title was earned, where you get a nice house, a brilliant boyfriend, great career... Well, yes, I have those. Indeed, I even discovered I often have a large gay following. But I usually duck into an alleyway and loose him.

Well, if I'm being honest, sometimes I loose him! Hahaha! Oh, me.

Anyway! Back to the question in hand. My Dinner Companion is more what I'd often consider an A-Gay to be, but he poo-pooed the idea. He claimed an A-Gay is someone who's professionally gay. Although not in a renty manner - oh! - not that I have nothing against our Gentlemen of Negotiable Affections at all. I hold them in high esteem as they do wonderful community service, and one or two I've come across can - and have - cracked a Walnut Whip with their rectal muscles. Such talent! Indeed, My Dinner Companion referred to one gentleman caller who had such skill with his back parts that he said the two sets of muscles inside could squeeze and rotate both clockwise and anti-clockwise at the same time. It sounds ridiculous, but he demonstrated on the pepper grinder with both hands and I almost dropped my wine glass. Almost. As far as we could tell, his arse should have belonged to Cirque du Solei.

No, what he meant about 'professionally gay' is one of those very beautiful men who have enough cash not to work. Instead, they breakfast at Balans in Soho, lunch at Balans in Kensington, take in dinner somewhere fabulous (usually what my mother calls an 'ecstatic tablet' and a gin-and-tonic) before being seen at all the nice VIP areas all night. The A-Gay often has no talent of their own, other than to be gay. Indeed, if you were looking this up in the Big Book Of Cher would show you 'fig.1: David Furnish Back In The Day' and 'Fig.2: That Kenny Guy George Micheal Is Married To'. Dammit, now I'll never make it! It's nature and nurture!

Despondent, I actually had a look at the dessert menu at that point (the shame!) before My Dinner Companion carefully draped his ugly-fabric'd arm over mine and said it was "all right" and I was strong enough to deal with it without the carbs. Bless him. And as he brought me 'round with many an after-dinner liqueur, we consolidated our B-Gay grade; and if I'm honest, by the end of it, I found the idea of this A-team a little like too much effort. And you know by now, dear reader, I don't really do effort. And I only save my gay powers for good. And by 'good', I mean 'the bedroom'. And by 'the bedroom' I mean 'being hollowed out so hard that, if he were alive today, Michelangelo would want to paint the ceiling in there'.

So what's the moral for this story? Be happy with who you are? Possibly. Though I'm going to take from it 'never burn your bra, and never ever go out to dinner in a shirt that looks like a beige Rorschach test'.

Friday, September 19, 2008

The Visitors

So, this week, Ryan moved in with me.

Hold up, hold up. Don't go buying hats for the wedding just yet - it's only a trial thing while he sorts out a new place some point down the line. But I have to say I'm enjoying having the little scamp around, not just because he's great company, but because my wardrobe just doubled and he can do all the hard bits on Mario Galaxy for me while I'm opening the champagne. Oh and all of a sudden, my herb rack has doubled. Ah, you can tell that it's serious if a Gentleman Who Owns More Than One Cookbook allows the merging of their spices. Its as momentous as the moment where you let them see you without your hair done first thing. You want to know if a gay relationship is going well, check the herb rack: the Harissa Explains It All.

I have to say I worried about... you know... bedroom shenanigans. As a slight aside, did you know there's a term called 'Lesbian Bed Death'? It sounds like something out of 'Blake's 7' in my mind, but my former lesbina housemate explained it me (thankfully without diagrams - my only experience of a lady's 'area' is on my Rapunzel Barbie) while she sorted the house's wifi in under thirty minutes. Apparently, when two Ladies Wot Lick are in a relationship for some time, the sex just goes out the window. I mean, quicker than with those filthy and unnatural heterosexuals! It turns out a woman's base drive often is to nest, and when you have two women together... well. Short of sellotaping postcards of Angelina Jolie to each other's foreheads after putting on a new Be Good Tanyas album, there'll be no muff-frotting at all. In fact I knew one couple who got more enthused about making a new bed than actually doing anything in it; it was the closest they'd got to 'tongue and groove' in years.

Well, my concern is the other way, which is often the case. You know, too much of it. Well... He's 23 and I take so much zinc that I could recoat a garage door with my breath. In fact, last weekend, I was done so hard that it took me two days for my backside to realise it was an exit as well as an entrance. For two whole days, I daren't sit on a barstool in case I slide right down it and found myself sitting on the floor at the same time.

We're just going to have to put bromide in our tea and get out the bedroom. It's the only way we're going to be able to use all those bloody herbs.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

A Fabulous Letter

Dear CERN or madam,

It is with interest I note that you may or may not be trying to destroy the Earth.

Well, we know we all feel like that some times - heaven knows we've been counting the days since the last 'Dancing With The Stars' finale - but sometimes you have to just 'buckle down and defog the tea-pot' as our grandmother would often say. Especially when they'd been using empty thermometers as a straw again.

And it all sounds very exciting, yes. Well, we thought it was meant to be very exciting, but then they put that nice Stephen Hawking on and he didn't seem very animated at all.

Frankly, if you wanted Hardon Colliders, I recommend Sailors Sauna in Limehouse, just around the time that EastEnders finished on a Sunday afternoon. It's rife in there. And will give you ample opportunity to explore the odd black hole or two.

Lots of love,

The Gays

Wednesday, September 03, 2008

I Always Push Back

Sex is a funny business, isn't it? I mean if you think about it, statistically, 9 out of 10 people enjoy gang rape.

As it happens I've been thinking about the 'beast with two backs' (or I suppose its 'one back' if you're a Gentleman Who Knows At Least One Joan Rivers Line) because I've not been actually able to have any for a while. Ryan's busy off doing his dissertation, squirreled away in his Bethnal Green bedsit to write about Clever Things by the light of one candle and hopefully not die of tuberculosis as is the fashion with that bourgeois set he hangs around with.

Meanwhile, while my supply has been cut off, I'm finding that sex is being thrust into my face with a regularity akin to that of a willing air hostess on a long-haul flight. And from the most unexpected sources too: Dame Helen Mirren of all things! I mean, I know she got her floury baps out in 'Calendar Girls', but I prefer to not to believe she's got a sex drive, let alone a graying 'gutted Ewok' in her undercrackers. And then, all of a sudden, she's taking about getting date-raped.

The thing is, its Dame Helen Mirren when she was young, so I can't help but picture it occurring in some Whitechapel bar during a pea-souper, when someone spiked her snuff box with the east end's finest opium, leaving some gentleman lasciviously twirling his mustache as she falls graciously backwards onto a daybed. He'd then say "Top hole!" before removing his stovepipe hat and loosening his britches...

I think we'll fade from that little scene before I have to start using the term 'snuff box' as a euphemism.

Meanwhile, from a different direction, there was a lengthy discussion about what counted as sex with a group of friends on Saturday night. Clearly by this point I was chomping at the bit for what we British call 'a portion', so a two hour debate on, for want of a better phrase, the 'ins and outs' of sex was clearly just what I needed. However, I did hear this delightful tale about a soldier friend of one of the dining companions who had a bit of a predilection for transvestites. Or rather, being banged rather hard from behind by a man in a dress.

The interesting twist on this was that he refused to admit he was gay at all. Not one iota. He was 100% straight. He just happen to buck against a cock in a frock when it came to getting his rocks off. And you know how he justified this? With this immortal line:

"I'm not gay, because gays push back."


Sigh. All this chattering about it isn't helping. And as a birthday treat, Ryan's taking me to see 'Matthew Bourne's Dorian Gray' tonight. So a stage full of lithe dancers in stitch-all playing a homoerotic fantasy? In this state? We'll be lucky if the south of London isn't milkily destroyed in a 'Spooks Code 9' style.

I tell you, when I finally get Ryan alone, I fear it'll be delivered in a similar speed, quantity and consistency of cavity insulation, the poor lad...

Friday, August 29, 2008


It was my birthday last week. Ryan said he didn't want to do me a surprise party because he was afraid my heart wouldn't be able to cope with the shock. Cheeky bugger. I tell you, I can't wait until he's old enough to be slapped in public without the police arresting me.

Well. Now I'm thirty-three years old. Which I clearly take against because its just past buying brightly-coloured interesting knitwear from high street stores, but not quite ordering stay-pressed action slacks from a catalogue. But the One True God Cher is clearly looking after me: not only did I get a text message off Girls Aloud this week wishing me birthday felicitations, but at work we've taken delivery of a new runner. Now the text message was hilarious - clearly automated, so it obviously came from Nicola, or the one we're referring to as 'the twelth Cylon'. Well, she's probably got a bluetooth connector under her bonnet, along with the strength of ten men and the inability to focus on anything without a look of cyborg indifference, bless.

Now to the other matter: the runner. For those of you poor people out of 'the industry', a runner is an entry-level functionary who is at the beck-and-call of a media department employed to fetch, carry and generally be flunked around. Usually they grab university leavers who want to get into the media via the back way, but this one... I think they had been trawling council estates for someone rough enough to stop Philipa Forrester get back into the building, and accidentally posted him to our department. I mean, he's just... well! He's all big trainers and loping gait, and chunky jewelery and surly expression. Looks like he'd beat you up if you pushed him too far, that kind of thing. And while this all sounds hideous on paper, for some reason this is pure primal pleasure to a Gentleman Who Owns More Than One Version of 'Gypsy' and it has me slipping off my office chair every time he walks past as my undercrackers look like a bulldog's been eating porridge in them.

Oh bless him, he's lovely. Him and his cheap haircut and non-existant skincare regime (which means we fickle wendys will have completely lost interest in him in five years time).

He's even come in with glasses on today. Aww! He thinks he's people!

Friday, August 22, 2008

'Lee and Dexter Morgan are now friends'

As I'm sure you remembering me mentioning - or rather you can skip back about three posts because it's currently as busy as Christina Applegate's bra collection in here... (well, I've been very busy) - that I've taken to watching 'Brothers and Sisters'. And rather enjoy it.

You see, as far as I can tell, it's written by a love-sick 14-year-old girl with attention deficit disorder, typing scripts while bouncing on her bed and using the other hand to stuff Ritalin down her throat. The stories are whiz by in a blur of beautiful implausibility, with Sally Field just clinging on to the scenery long enough to steal it. Here's a typical story arc: "Oh no, dad's embezzled $14 million dollars!" / "Oh no, we're going to lose our beautiful house!" / "Oh well, lets go down to the spooky old field he seems to have bought just before he died..." / "Oh my, the field is worth $30 million dollars!" / "Oh yes, our beautiful house is safe!" I mean, that's not the plot of an Emmy award-winning drama, that's the plot of a 'Scooby-Doo' episode.

But it has its charms - and I'm mostly thinking of the episodes where Dave Annable is in his underwear. It also has Balthazar Getty in it - much like Sienna Miller as we speak. Honestly, the woman's had so much up her, they could use her minky as the next Bat-Cave. Anyway, I used to have a soft-spot for Balthy when he was in 'Alias', but in this he's gone the way of men of a certain age and gotten doughy to the extent that his thin little eyes are becoming just like Dianne Wiest's - and she has to navigate by sonar these days.

And because this is a 'forward thinking' show, we have the joy of a gay character. I'm loving TV at the minute, because we're going through the back end of the wendy equivalent of the blaxploitation age of the late Seventies, where more or less every show has a Gentleman Who Enjoys Disneyland A Little Too Much, but they tend to be well-written roles. However, I do wish that Kevin wouldn't keep doing the narrative equivalent of going 'Hel-lo, I'm gay!' every time he enters a scene. Now I'm all for gays being rammed down my throat (old habits...) but even I am not like that, and you know how gay I am. Someone once threw a ball at me and I screamed - that gay.

'Brothers and Sisters' appeals to me on many levels. I think mostly because I've the brain of a love-sick 14-year-old girl with attention deficit disorder so the limited plots - oh look! Ponies!

Ahem. Anyway. If you want diversity in a TV show, lets take a look at 'Dexter'. Which is frankly, my New Favourite Thing. I mean, is it wrong to identify with a sociopath? It's troubling enough that I put myself as a 14-year-old girl... perhaps its because I say things like "I'd kill for pigtails like hers..." and actually mean it.

I have, however, two problems with 'Dexter'.

Number One: Michael C Hall is all one colour.
Whether it's the fault of the otherwise excellent cinematographer, or whether someone is actually that shade, but from the tips of his russet hair to the ochre toes on his feet, it's just one orange smear on your screen. Here, see what I mean.

I mean, it's not a bad smear, its just disconcerting at times. Like someone taking a swatch colour from Cheryl Cole's skin and saying "We'll do the whole place out this colour!" Meanwhile...

Number Two: Jaimie Murray.
You have to wait for season two to roll around for this one, but Brit actress Jaimie turns up with her 'plummy' turned up to 11; an accent that causes even my London sensibilities to renounce black cabs and PG Tipps. Good lord, she grates. I would say she gets on my tits, but that's the other reason she was brought to my attention: she throws her uncovered funbags at the camera with all the enthusiasm of a dog at broth. Now, clearly I'm not adverse to a bit of female nudity - nice to check out the competition, as it where - but you can't move in the second series for her norgs poking around the corner of every scene. They're out on show so often, one can only assume she breathes through them.


I was also going to review 'Bonekickers' at my friend Gertie's behest, but it made my eyes ache. Really. I had no idea what I was watching; go check out his reviews here. Oh come on, it's Friday - it's not like you're doing any proper work, is it?

Two Birds, One Stone

I can guarantee you the various governments around the world had wished their timing was a bit better, meaning Gary Glitter had been on a Malta plane that day...

Friday, August 15, 2008


Here's a question for you: why do gay men get invited to more hen nights than they do weddings?

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

A Slight Return

And so I'm back at the BBC for a month or so, doing - amongst other things - work for 'Spooks: Code 9' (as far as I can tell, despite a nuclear terrorist attack, nasty turquoise eye shadow is still available for Georgia Moffett in such quantities she could re-coat a Navaho bracelet) and bumping into Martin Jarvis in the canteen (I resisted the urge to tell him how much I liked him as a giant moth in the 1960s 'Doctor Who' story 'The Web Planet').

The other fun is I'm kind of hot-desking for this first week. I have no problem with hot-desking as I am rather want to accumulate all sorts of crap, including Liberty X gold discs (as rare as smiling pictures of Nicola from Girls Aloud now) and an inflatable Dalek. The downside is you're often put on the desk next to people who are hot-desked for a reason. I'm currently positioned adjacent to a gentleman who knows one line from Oasis' song 'Hey, Lyla'. But that doesn't stop him singing it over and over and over again. If he doesn't deist, I'm going to counter it with a tuneless rendition of The RAH Band's 'Clouds Across The Moon'. THEN he'll be sorry.

And you're often left scrabbling for stationary, like a dog begging for table scraps. However I did manage to find a notebook left here by the previous occupant. It's mostly empty (score!) but as I thumbed through there was a solitary note in the middle, a rather arch 'Maybe if she didn't spend all day on Facebook' in pink ink.

I don't know who wrote this, but I love them.

Monday, August 11, 2008


Even I, a comitted Gentlemen Who Was Picked Last In Sport, hasn't failed to notice that the Olympics has started happening. Mostly because there was a huge fanfare when the British won a gold (we never normally win anything; not since they banned the 100 Meter Queuing event, with freestyle tutting) and they tried to make it interesting for me by letting off lots of fireworks and making the stadium all sparkly. And you know me - I go a bit giddy whenever glitter is around. I once lost three months when someone put some tinsel on my monitor one festive season.

My interest was further piqued this morning when I happened across the... Mens Jumping Off A Diving Board Together At The Same Time, or whatever they call it. Goodness, what fine specimens they ship in! I hadn't seen the like... well, since it was dubbed, and in a Hungarian hotel room. Except for one of our British entries. He's fourteen. You don't know where to look, you really don't. Your brain's going 'Mmmph! Thighs that could crack a Creme Egg! And look at those arms!' before going 'Oh yes, and he's FOURTEEN.' And it's not helpful that he's in his Speedo's for the paedos.

It was helpfully pointed out that he's a) now out of the competition (see? A true Brit! I shall wave my Union Jack feebly and roll my eyes) and b) he'll be 18 by the time our shambles of an event occurs down the road in Stratford. What a mess that's going to be, and I do pity the organisers who had to sit through China's budget-draining opening and think 'Fuck me, we have to follow that'. We're just going to get them on the day of the opening ceremony panicking, putting crisps out in bowls and wondering if booking the recently-reformed Steps was a good idea. Forget billion-pound state-of-the-art graphics, we're going to get PowerPoint!

Give up now, I tell you.

Monday, August 04, 2008

Getting To Know The Bar Staff

My mother came to visit, and I took her to see a psychic. Which she won't tell me anything about, so clearly I'm about to get a New Dad. I'm hoping that he's squinty and cuddly - like Richard Gere is now, or anyone they pair Sally Fields up with in 'Brothers & Sisters'. As an aside, I'm only about five episodes in to season one of 'Brothers & Sisters', but I'm loving how I want to applaud and say "Miss Sally Fields, everyone!" after every scene she walks off with. Which is most of them.

Anyway. For some reason whenever she visits, my mother and I always end up in Soho, and we were walking past the Shadow Lounge, which is another one of those velvet-tinged bars for the Gentlemen Who Won't Really Be Watching The Olympics Until The Gymnastics Comes On. I'd taken her in there one night a few years back when she'd finally split from my father for the final time, and it had gone down in lore as the 'night my mother got drunk and pole-danced', gawd bless her. No, really. You know when, in sit-coms, when they say "Is your mother alright with you being gay?" and they cut to a montage of the character's mother draped over drag queens, flirting with the bar men and dancing with a bottle of champagne in her hands on the dance floor? Well, basically that happened for real. Oh and she pole danced. And tried to turn the chief cocktail maker.

Who was beautiful. The woman clearly has impeccable taste.

I pointed it out as we wandered past. "Oooh, Danny worked there..!" she said, leaving me impressed that she'd actually learned his name. They're all called 'functionary' in my head. "Oh he was lovely, he was," she continued as we walked. "He was almost mine, I tell you. No, he was! He appreciated a woman who knew exactly how she wanted her ice in her mojito." In her case, not in the glass - so there was more room for percentage.

She pointed at the next window along. "Oh and he looks familiar too! Did he serve me? I definitely remember him from somewhere."

"I do hope not, mother. That's Prowler. That's an advert for a film. And he's a gay porn star."

At least she had the decency to look sheepish.

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

R.I.P. G.A.Y.

I suppose I should mark the passing of 'London's Premiere Gay Club' G.A.Y., which finally closed its doors this weekend, sliding back into the ground like the House of Usher with an offer on alcopops. I've never been a fan of that hideous chicken coop; you go where you fit in, I find. And I never fit in with clientèle who look like they can only attend because they've blown off their homework, standing around trying to look cool despite the TopMan sales rack having exploded over them, and clapping their hands excitedly when Steps come on because they're "so retro!"

Bunch of cunts.

As ever when there's an 'event' to be marked at G.A.Y. - such as the final night - the whispers spread far and wide that a 'super celebrity' will attend. Of course, in the brain of a Gentlemen Who Enjoys the Theatre, this only equates to Kylie or Madonna. Cher used to be in the equation, but she is still engaged in her 20 year farewell tour, orbiting the Earth in a gas dirigible so she doesn't have to pay taxes. Anyway, this time word got out that it was Kylie and Madonna, so there were queues around the block to get in hoping that the two bionic divas would do a duet of 'Especially For You'. Only with typical G.A.Y. disappointment, you got Sally Sparrow, ahem sorry Sam Sparro, and The Feeling. The only highlight was apparently the leather-skinned, owl-eyed, swivel-headed club owner Jeremy Joseph introducing his 12 year old partner. By which I don't mean a partner of 12 years.

I will be sad that G.A.Y. is closing for one reason and one reason only: it is a place for baptism. Forget your first dance to Madonna, your first kiss on a dancefloor - G.A.Y. was forever the place where you got your first blow job in a club conveniences. I remember thinking as I washed my hands and tipped the toilet attendant a decent amount so we wouldn't be disturbed, that if the sperm bank were paying for donations, the soon-to-be-removed toilet walls of the Astoria must be covered in liquid gold...

Thursday, July 24, 2008


Forget all the stalker problems and hideous applications about being a pirate vampire, the true horror of Facebook is when you see that your morbidly overweight uncle 'went from being in a relationship to in an open relationship' in your news feed.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

10 Things I Learned While Watching Wall-E

Twinkie Bars have a Best Before date of over seven hundred years

If you love someone, show them you can set fire to things

If you love someone, stare at them while they are unconscious and they will eventually love you

Kids will now want a pet cockroach

The film's main theme is not how a robot can give humans back their humanity, but how Apple peripherals are still compatible with each other - even after half a millennium.

Even in CGI films, they reuse sets to save money

If you can't be bothered to deal with the difficult issue of the main plot, shunt it into the a couple of slides during the end credits

Humanity's entire culture is now based on 'Hello, Dolly!'

...Meaning most of the new generation will grow up to be Gentlemen Who Can't Catch.

...Meaning we won't survive another hundred years

Monday, July 21, 2008

A Trip To The Theatres

And so, the cultural exchange between Ryan and myself continues. He took me to see 'The Revenger's Tragedy', a Jacobean play about decaying moral values and a lust for the Elizabethan era. And I look him to see the play of 'Mamma Mia!'

Now, if I were a better reviewer, I'd evaluate all the subtle nuances and similarities between the two. But I'm not, so all I can point out that they both had revolving stages. Oh and one actor who really annoyed me. Wobble forth Adjoa Andoh, who played the Duchess in 'The Revenger's Tragedy'. Now, Adjoa I know from TV's 'Doctor Who' where she played Martha's mum, and was lovely in that. For one, she did things with her eyebrows that would have cost the effects house thousands on a lesser actress. But here... well, as I say, I'm a bit new to this whole theatre lark, but surely she should have stopped moving at some point? As far as I could tell, her bottom half was being played by Tina Turner and her top half by Diana Ross, circa 'Chain Reaction'. It was all very handsy, like a Pan's People's traffic cop. In fact, the only time she did stop moving was during her sex scene. Make your own mind up there.

As I'm a fair novice at theatre, I didn't know that the sofa, with its column raised skywards with a statue of the Virgin Mary on it, was meant to be a phallic piece. Especially when the Duke's son lay across it and talked about having it away with the hero's virgin sister. I just thought it was a nice sofa, until it was pointed out by Ryan as being "as subtle as a breeze block". Oh, I thought, and promised to pay attention to the plot for the second half, and not trying to decide whether the Duke's bastard son was actually fit, or just plain irritating for playing the whole thing as The Hooded Claw. In fact, I still can't definitely decide whether it was the worst thing or the best thing that he had most of his scenes with Adjoa's Duchess - it was like trying to watch an episode of 'Penelope Pitstop' on boat on choppy water.

But it did live up to one ideal I had about theatre: all plays are full of either deaths or marriages. And this one had deaths in droves; so I could look forward to all the marriages in our next theatrical outing. 'Mamma Mia!' has that all important exclamation mark to show it is fun unfortunately didn't live up to everything that solitary piece of punctuation promised. I know, I know. I'm a bad gay - but perhaps I am the wrong market. This may come as a shock, but I'm not that keen on ABBA, and musicals often leave me a bit cold. Certainly musicals that don't advance the plot through song are doing a bad job, yes? Flutter forward 'Wicked' for that one - and your songs were rubbish. I didn't like 'Wicked' at all - all the interesting stuff was going on off-stage as far as I could see.

Anyway, 'Mamma Mia!' is certainly guilty of the non-song-plot-advancement. What I thought was the squeak of the revolving set could very well been the protests from the crowbar used to get the songs into every scene. You know, they based one entire production number around mishearing one lyric in 'Voulez Vous'? Changing "masters of the scene" to "masters of the sea" to justify ten men in speedos and flippers hoofing their way across stage? And you think this would have made me start dripping like a fucked fridge, wouldn't you. In fact, the whole thing seems to have been designed to make me think it was the best thing since Lindsey Lohan introduced a range of leggings with knee-pads in, the whore. Pretty dancers, some slack-moralled woman having three men one after another, leading to a misunderstanding (and a minky that must have looked like someone was making porridge in a blender) and some songs from a camp old band belted out on some Shirley Valentine tavern with a light-up dance floor. Actually, what it was like was being at New Years party where everyone's forced to have fun, and I certainly Took Against them having an entirely new stage for the encore. That implied it was happening anyway, whether we were enjoying it or no. Like those gentlemen callers who push you face down into the pillow even after you had that searing curry last night. Uh, one would imagine.

When I'm not sure about a film I've seen, I always look to see whether it has made me want to go out and buy the merchandise. Going to 'The Revenger's Tragedy' made me want to wear spectacles with clear glass in the lens, like whenever Cheryl Cole has to go to court and look clever. It made me want to buy the phallic sofa. 'Mamma Mia!' only made me want to download 'Voulez Vous' in mild annoyance to point and yell "masters of the scene, you idiots!" I most certainly did not want to buy the t-shirts as even if you use it at the gym, you'd look like a one-man hen party. And that's never a good look.

Monday, July 14, 2008

Sitges, Part III

Before the holiday, I was in quite an intense training program.

Not the gym, but booze.

You see, my traveling companions are somewhat seasoned drinkers, often 'on the green' first thing in the morning, much to my envy. I won't say they were pessimists, but their glasses were almost always empty - often with a musing "Oh, doesn't it sparkle when its empty?" from the Lady Vyse, holding his vacant glass aloft for all to witness; a cry for some functionary to come fill his vessel poste haste.

For all my talk on here, I've never been that good at downing the booze - well, not at a sustained level that is. So before I came away, I took great pains to have a couple of glasses of splishy-splashy every night before bed, varying the content so my stomach wouldn't quite know what was going in. This is, I find, a fair preparation for any adventure with Lady Vyse and a cocktail menu. He's like the drinker's Stanislavsky - 'There are no small drinks, only small measures'. Coupled with this were the holiday's organizers: the incomparable traveling companions Stuey and Robbie, both old hands at the bar. Though when they weren't drinking they tended to be half asleep watching 'Frontier in Space' in their suite. Yes suite. Their sofa was bigger than my bed, I tells you. 'Frontier' came with us because I just grabbed a load of DVDs from beside my bed when I was packing - my copy of the appalling 'Doctor Who' story 'The Sensorites' is also now an overseas traveler. I gave this a go while I was there while I recovered from my sunburn, and hooted all the way through. Part one has the crew of the ship talking about their previous adventures; someone mentions the harrowing antics in 'The Aztecs' and quick as you like, Babs just goes "Oh I´m over all that!" rather glibly. Part two, fey companion Susan has to think of three words. And promptly faints. That´s the sort of girl she is. I can´t wait for the next part - I hope we get to see the Sense Sphere. As the Sensorites themselves walk around like they´re carrying invisible clutchbags and keep looking at each other as if to say¨"Yes well, my Janine got into the bake sale this year" I´m imagining the planet to have an awful lot of antimacassars. The Sensorites are like a pride of elderly aunts, if you ask me.

Anyway, I digress. As you can imagine, the whole week turned out to be a drunken debacle, with many, many incidents of having to help each up the hill to our hotel. And Friday was to be our last big blow out, the drinking of champions! We were to drain the pumps dry, being so bladdered that we ran the risk of being turned away from the airport. I don't know why they worry about this - when I'm drunk, I just go a bit giggly (well, a lot) then fall asleep. They were probably afraid that the recycling of the air on the plane would pass my 90% proof breath onto the BA stewardesses and get them tipsy. Can you imagine? They may actually crack a smile that reached their dead, dead eyes.

But this drinking was not to be! My erstwhile companions cried off... oh, sure they blamed the seafood from the previous night, but I think it was just the inability to keep up with my Herculean drinking. I was the new queen of Sitges! I am drunk, hear me pour!

And so I staggered up the hill one last time, the last one (just about) standing. Ah, my first gay holiday. Completely not what I was expecting when I booked it, but brilliant fun while I was there. And so, I stood on the top of the bay, looking out over the town, the church and the sea.

I bowed slightly. Thank you and good night.

Wednesday, July 09, 2008

Sitges, Part II

Surprisingly, it takes more than a few drinks to get my top off - even more than it takes to get my trousers down, let me tell you. My youth was often punctuated with the deafening clang of dropping knickers, yet my chest has remained unexposed to the sun in a manner similar to a Austrian cellar daughter. So with years of going to the gym with variable results, I finally thought I'd take the plunge and willingly remove my t-shirt whilst on holiday. Well, it was A Big Moment for me.

Well, you see, I thought I'd have to get used to wandering around in scratch all as I was very excited by the prospect of the weekly foam party that was in the offing. I've wanted to go to a foam party ever since viewing 'TISWAS' as a child. So I dutifully cantered out to the beach in little more than a pair of shorts to get a bit of colour in my cheeks. Though which cheeks I shall leave to your poor imaginings.

And promptly got sunburnt.

Well, I'd slathered myself with all sorts of Factors, but clearly not nearly enough, and my legs looked radioactive within an hour. With the normal forest of hair down south of my thighs, I thought I´d be safe, but noooooo. I was having to slather myself with aftersun almost bi-hourly. It was getting a little bit 'Singing Detective' in our room, let me tell you. And so it was touch and go as to whether I'd actually make it to the foam party after all. Oh, not because there may be an allergic reaction off the foam, but because I was worried that people may think that red means "stop".

Anyway, thankfully I recovered enough to grace said party. Good lord, you should have seen it! It was wonderful. Attractive men stripped down to their pants, writhing around waist deep in foam. If Belinda Carlisle was right and Heaven was a place on Earth, she'd clearly been looking through the porthole window of Trailer one Wednesday night! There are only two things I can recall from this point onwards: the fact that the whole building is marble, has many staircases and foam is very slippy (cue all sorts of bruise inducing hilarity); and that over in that corner, people started having sex.

Well! I couldn't get my hat on! It was like a bacchanalian orgy sponsored by Fairy Liquid! It was filthy! And breath-taking to watch, let me tell you. I gave it a full hours viewing, then collected my clothes and quietly left. Well, as quietly as I could after having been drinking for 12 hours straight; I remember clattering around, not being able to get my boots on because my feet were covered in foam, so I walked all the way back to the hotel barefoot. Blackened, they were. Oh, I thought I'd never get my feet clean. This was the antithesis of my beard - I don't think it had ever been so scrubbed. It glistened as it caught Thursday's first light. It was glorious. Like Aslan's mane.

I think the whole thing was notable for many reasons. But the one that will stand out for me the most is I believe its the first time I've had to come home with my underwear in a plastic bag.

Well, the first time I'm telling you lot about, anyway.

Tuesday, July 08, 2008

Sitges, Part I


barrels in, covered in after-sun, sand and swinging a bucket and spade

I've been on holiday! All the way down to Sitges, that gay holiday destination du jour which, I have to say before you give me that look, was booked some time before my glamorous boyfriend Ryan was invented. Meaning there was a swift about-face for my expectations of what was going to happen on some sun-kissed away-day for the Gentlemen Who Aggressively Tan: in my experience, it's not a proper night out unless I'm being pressed a little too hard up against a Spanish-languaged fruit machine by some jerez-breathed navvy pawing at my backside with hands the size of shovels. Instead it was going to be me being the one to hold the handbags whilst my other three traveling companions go off and get into all sorts of trouble, leaving me and my usually-featherlight heels to swing uselessly on a barstool.

Equally, another two of our little... festive brigade were in a relationship together, leaving the fourth and final member, The Very Lady Vyse, to be our ambassador for the conquering of the Spanish. Before we got on the plane, there was a bet on his part that he wouldn't cop off with any of them to a princely sum of 20p. While I can neither confirm or deny whether this bet had been collected upon, we were then only attending bars which we classed as "one pound and over." Get us.

And yet, two days in and I hadn't strayed, you´ll be pleased to hear. The ones who have made an approach to my beardy visage have always been a bit too... keen, I think you´d call them. While sitting outside Parrots bar downing my foofy drink, I actually had someone eat an ice cream at me. It was most disconcerting...

Thursday, June 26, 2008

Give A Boy A Break

This is my new favourite obsession, sent to me by my lovely friend Tara. I love a bit of camp 50s nostalgia, though not as Ryan suggests it is because I lived it all the first time. Cheeky cow. No Rusks for him tonight.

Anyway, today I am enjoying my last day at BBC Worldwide before shuffling back off on the road of freelance (picture the end of an episode of 'The Incredible Hulk' only with more leg when hitchhiking) so there'll be no work done at my desk, let me tell you. Instead, I've picked out some of the best from the above sight and amended them. Because I can.

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Glitter for Brains At The Movies: Sex And The City

My current relationship is somewhat of a cultural exchange: Ryan teaches me about the Arden folio of Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night' and I take him to see the 'Sex and the City' movie. So how about a glitterized script?

Now, normally in these situations, 'The Audience' the voice of reason in an otherwise appalling film. This case, however, Ryan and I were surrounded by rows upon rows of women clearly stuck to their seats in couture-based ecstasy, whooping like ravening maenads whenever someone opens a shoe box. So we're having to play that part as we present:

Warning: contains spoilers

Open upon New York, and SARAH JESSICA PARKER walks the streets wearing a fucking ridiculous frock.

Meanwhile, in New York, when my movie career didn't take off, four women all got together to do a film that will be shown on hen nights across the globe for the next ten years.

Oh no, my life is so hard that I can't decide whether to live in this penthouse apartment, or this penthouse apartment. All while trying match my shoes with my fucking hideous frocks.

I'm so glad real life doesn't intrude on her existence one little bit.

Oh don't worry! I'll introduce you to a real life black person later! She will be subservient to me, though. And I will teach her to love couture as much as I love me!

Er, will she be treated as an equal? And introduced to your other harpy girlfriends?

Er, no. But I'll be seen out with her in a bar. And I'll buy her a drink..!

Hahahaaa! She likes shoes too! That's purrty!


Meanwhile, I have to wonder what's going on over in Hollywood, where Kim Catrall is having a separate storyline to fuel the rumours that we couldn't stand each other on set. I have to wonder...

Jason Lewis, I'm leaving you. For purely selfish reasons, although I have to say that in between the series and this film, someone seems to have replaced the skin on your face with that of a worn leather saddlebag. I am, however, keeping this ring you bought for me. And every time I look down on it, yes, look down on it, I shall think of you.

Blimey. What's the the word for men-hating?



Meanwhile, I have to wonder what's going on in my life. I'm just about get married, so I can tart around in a fucking hideous frock for a while while the audience coos.


Sarah Jessica Parker, I can't do this.

But why? I'm stamping my feet like a princess and everything!

We need something to bring this overly long film to slow stop later on.

OK! See you in about three hours!

Meanwhile, as Big was treating me like dirt, over the other side of Manhattan, Cynthia Nixon was also getting wiped over.

I've slept with someone else.

I'm frigid, get out.

Are we meant to make any correlation between Cynthia Nixon not sleeping with men, and Not Sleeping With Men, do you think.

We don't like her as much. She doesn't talk about shoes.

Because their lives are SO HARD, all four women go on the HONEYMOON together. SARAH JESSICA PARKER spends all the time moping around until KRISTIN DAVIS shits herself. THE AUDIENCE falls about laughing like this is the FUNNIEST THING they have ever BORNE WITNESS to.

It is funny because she is normally so composed and now she's ruined her couture! Hahahaa!

Cattrall and Parker are never in the same shot, are they?

Meanwhile, I have to wonder what was happening with Kristin Davis...

I'm pregnant!


Oh god, another sub-plot? This movie is far too long!

What time did we get in here?


After what feels like an actual period of nine months, KRISTIN DAVIS gives birth. By some contrived method, CHRIS NOTH is there, and he and SARAH JESSICA PARKER hook back up again. They GET MARRIED finally.

Wee! It's all about me again!

KIM CATTRALL'S 50th birthday party in a SWANKY NEW YORK BAR.

Fifty? FIFTY?!

Perhaps it's after tax.

Meanwhile, I have to wonder what have we learned, ladies? I've learned that men do unspeakable things, and the only way that we women can be happy is to forgive men their nasty deeds and let them walk all over us.

And I only gain personal happiness by acting like a man and walking all over someone else!

Meanwhile, here's to us! Proving that any heartache can be solved with a nice pair of shoes and a fashion montage involving a comedy tutu. Now lets drink a cosmo and an inflated share of the profits!

Must... buy... cosmopolitans... must... buy.... couture... must... buy... into... whole... ethos...


Monday, June 16, 2008

I Love London... Honest

I've been in this city for around ten years and have had some pretty strange things happen to me along the way.

But on Saturday night, someone tried to exorcise me on the tube to Collier's Wood.


Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Be Seeing You

I caught a bit of The Prisoner the other day. And in my typical way, eschewed the traditional arguments about countercultural themes and identity and instead admired what all the women wore on their heads. I find hats give the finale an otherwise absent clarity. If there'd been more hats at the end of '2001' I personally would have understood that a lot better.

Anyway, I'd be brilliant in the Village. No really. They have these big balloons that chase you around called Rovers that drag you back to your home if you try and leave; after fifteen years on the dancefloors of wendy clubs around the world, I know how to escape the reach of the corpulent fag hags wanting to drag you back to their unfortunate, terracotta-tinted gays. And while you can't rabbit-punch a Rover in the tits, you can sidestep it while humming Steps to yourself and pretend you're heading straight to the bar.

Though I'd have to work on my Village catchphrase. I don't think I'm "I am not a number, I'm a free man".

More, "Take a number, I'm a free man"...

Monday, June 09, 2008

Hell Is Other Ideas

When Ryan speaks of his days as a full-on Bible-hugging Protestant, he does it with a weird nostalgia usually reserved by people my age talking about free school milk, Fanella the witch, and the plague. It was only two years ago - which I suppose is quite a long time to him, what with that being one-eleventh of his life time so far. This is in comparison to mine; I would tell you exactly what the fraction was, but firstly I'm a lady, and secondly it's ugly to try and watch you try and work it all out on your fingers while I'm talking to you. And frankly, I like your hands where I can see them.

Anyway, we've been talking about Hell. Mostly because he had this mad idea of moving to Croydon, and I had to explain to him in terms he would understand. He told me that he's been taught that Hell is various circles all in tiers that you wouldn't to be in, and I asked him to explain it in terms I would understand, and he said "a Mariah Carey stadium tour" and I nodded sagely and sicked up a little in my mouth.

So I asked him about the Gentlemen Who Are Damned For Liking Scatter Cushions go because, after all, I have a vested interest. He said we may go to the Seventh Circle of Hell, which is one worse than the heretics yet one better than sorcerers. In fact, joining us in the burning desert of our Seventh Circle are the blasphemers, and people who are violent against art (see you there, Tracy Emin). And while our neighbours are destined to lie or sit in the sand, the sodomites are destined to wander around in a group.

I can see a problem with this already.

Basically, they're putting all the gays who indulge in a bit of bum fun together. On what surmounts as a beach.

Some one really didn't think this one through.