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

Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Mind Weld

Due to their fervent body odor, I really wish that Star Trek fans weren't so often 'up in arms' as their wet-dog stench is frankly enough to stun a rampaging bull at 40 paces. But up in arms they are.

'Why this time?' you may very well ask. What's distracted them from counting red cars and doing groaning? This fervent frotting is due to the trailer for the new Star Trek film is up on the web, and rather than be grateful that their movie franchise is back on the big screen, they're already picking holes in it so large as to fly a Type-9 shuttlecraft through (oh yes, I've done my research). Apparently, according to lore, the ship was made in space, and the trailer quite clearly shows people in normal welding masks. Not Space Welding Masks, which would be sprayed silver and have flashing blue lights on.

Now I do have to agree somewhat - you build a boat in the water - but still, I wouldn't like to give them the satisfaction of saying that. I mean, even after all this time, isn't it funny to watch their predictably negative reaction to anything new? Oh yes, I love it when the ship hits the fans.

As I say, I've been doing my research, spooling through hours and hours of mediocre, beige tv. Its never actually said that the ship was built in space, only in San Francisco. Yes, the gay capital of the world is now churning out dull gray starships by the 23rd Century. What happened? The gays must have moved out! There's no way they'd let anything so drab being built practically on their hardwood decking.

Unless... welding. Plus practical ships... Plus San Francisco... equals lesbians! Yes, they're the ones that have been ladying the shipyard! Now all we have to do is ask them whether they built it on Earth or in space and the whole mystery is solved.

The thing is, as it's the 23rd Century, the movement to drop the word 'lesbian' may have gone ahead. Oh yes, at this very moment, in drinking hostels named things like 'The Furry Cup' across the world, there is a talk of a lady rebranding: lesbian gals are now favouring the word 'gayelle'. 'Lesbian' is apparently 'antiquated; it is not representative of modern times, and or, of persons with modern views'. The article then goes on to say 'Lesbian does not sound cheerful and fun'.

Yes, odd that.

I have a bit of a raised eyebrow when it comes to gays and, ahem, gayelles being in the Star Trek universe as there's never been a 'proper' Gentlemen Who Can't Catch or a Lady Who Welds Spaceships in the whole time it has been on tv. There's been the odd token, but they've always been previously married in different bodies or something typically ludicrous, or evil from a parallel universe (yes, where was Nasty Kira's evil beard? Oh wait. I just figured it out). So I say make the people building the ship true San Francisco residents. Have some kicky curtains in the ready room thanks to our more flamboyant friends. And have some Space Lesbians doing the welding. In which they would be dressed in boilersuits sprayed silver and have flashing blue lights on. And live on planet Stoke Newington.


Wednesday, January 23, 2008

Young Cowboys Never Die

Well. If I had to put a bet on a star dying at the start of the year, I'd have put my ill-earned money on Paris Hilton. Not because I believe she's in any particular danger (bar probably chewing on the cable for her hairdryer like the empty-eyed goat she is) but because whenever I bet on the horses, they are guaranteed to drop at the first hurdle. You can hear the loading of the shotgun as I pore the racing pages, listen to them revving up the glue factory as soon as I buy my chit.

Oh yes, there are celebrities that it was far safer to put your cash on. Poor old Britney. That grubby Winehouse woman. But this way we get rid of Hilton in a more humane manner, because the alternative way I'd have liked to have seen her go was being seen to by 15 well-endowed men wearing condoms the size, shape and texture of a pineapple.

So it was something of a surprise to find that Heath Ledger had passed away last night. I liked me a little bit of Heath. I has a soft spot for him as he, in my eyes, was the first gentleman up Jake Gyllenhaal's dirt track - hopefully the first of many until snaggletoothed Reese Witherspoon got her backward dentures into his fine arse. Heath's character in 'Brokeback Mountain' was entirely symbolic of my relationship-before-last, all unsaid emotions and mumbling - and the worst aging make-up this side of 'Lucky Bitches'. The film itself is one of the few things to get an emotional rise out of me, and I fully intended to watch it this week to help with the emotional 'back-log' I'm suffering from my last break-up. I still haven't had a good cry about it, you know. Nothing like a sweeping visa epic to get the ol' waterworks going, bonus if there's bum-sex.

Its going to be odd to think while you're watching it, "Blimey. He's dead now." Perhaps that will make it even more emotional.

Monday, January 21, 2008


Clearly I've been doing a lot of introspection of late. And something that came to me was my first memory.

Now I never breast-fed as a child; there's always been a stoic 'No thank you' whenever those things have been pushed in my face. I also remember that I was rather fond of tipping my walk-along truck on its side and opening the lid and pretending it to be a washing machine. Clearly doing domestic chores is now beneath me, but as a child, I found the arts of household drudgery fascinating. All going to prove that I was a... special child. 'Theatrical' some would say. 'A downright nancy' my father would add, but then he was never that accepting and, if I think about it now, probably had some chromosomes missing. But my first memory nigh on puts the nail in the whole nature/nurture debate.

At the time I'm thinking about, my parents were living in a tiny council flat at the back end of Brownhills; not the most promising of areas, but there was a chip shop and a nick-nack store within pushchair distance so they seemed happy. I remember I had my own room, and when they put me to bed at the obscenely early time of five o'clock I would defiantly get out of bed and play for hours because I was off my tits on Vyral, a yeast-based extract my mother used to dip my pacifier into. It used to send me loopy, running around the lounge and gamboling into furniture. Years later when she was screeching this 'hilarious' story to two of her friends, three packets of salt-and-vinegar and a few empty glasses acting as their cauldron, I asked her why, if it sent me crawling the walls, did she give it to me day in, day out. She replied that in those days I had to remember there were only three television channels.

Anyway, this first memory. I knew it was Thursday morning as my mother always went out for a drink on a Wednesday night. Oh she did like a Babycham, a dance, and maybe a gentleman caller back if my father was away on business, as he was oft want to in those days. I recall being introduced to a succession of 'uncles' over a period of time to come, including a rather marvelous soldier called Alex, all dark hair and compact muscle, and dumb as Britney's kids. I'll say it now - well done mum. I do believe I admired her for that, and lets say when it comes to similarities between her and I, the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree.

I digress once more. Back to that seminal Thursday morning where I was walking through the detritus of the night out: a couple of empty bottles, a handbag with a kebab still in it, and a pair of patent deep blue stilettos, kicked aside after a night on the tiles. I don't know what drew me to them, those shoes. Perhaps a glint of morning light through our hideous flame-design curtains caught them there on the floor. But I picked them up and with the edge of my dressing gown, gave them a bit of a polish.

And that is my first memory. Me, polishing my mother's stillies. What a gloriously wholesome image there. Something to be proud of, something to treasure.

Shame that the next memory I have is of a weird sexual awakening on a Welsh beach. But that's a whole other story.

* * * *

Thanks for all your messages of support, by the way. It does mean a lot.

Tuesday, January 15, 2008

A Note From My Mother

There's always one blog entry you hate writing.

I've been putting this off for a while. You must forgive this indulgence, but despite all the grandstanding that I tend to do, I do write this for myself. It is an aide-memoire. And thusly, I'd like to remind myself that two weeks ago I broke up with my boyfriend.

I'm not doing too well with it, to be honest. And I'm quite aware that most of you swing by here for a giggle and a nasty euphemism for lady-parts, clearly you don't want to hear about this sort of stuff. So may I recommend some of the other links on the left side of the page while I pull myself together.

Normal service will be resumed soon. Ish.

Monday, January 07, 2008

The Glitter for Brains Review of the Year Part II

Still with us? Audience member not taken your seat? Well, lets crash on with the following category!

Worst Film of the Year
It was almost '300', but a late entry from another tiresome juggernaut pipped it to the post. Stand up 'I Am Legend', if its possible to do under the weight of your own self-importance.

I have no truck with Will Smith - he tries to hard to be the one man who stands out from the crowd in every film he's in. For example, 'I, Robot' has him doing the following:

i) Having his coffee with five sugars
ii) Eating pie from a dish while walking down the street
iii) Wearing his cap with one ear sticking out
iv) being the one man on Earth who doesn't trust robots
v) collects Earth antiques (so mostly the studio could do some product placement)
vi) actually saying to a cat "Hey it wouldn't work, you're a cat and I'm black" with no provocation whatsoever.

He lives to stand out. Thusly, in 'I Am Legend' he's the only human left alive. Job done, we can all go home. He can live out his exclusionary fantasy alone.

Weeeelll, apparently not. We now have a two hour marathon of him taking center stage, with the only revelation being the sex of the dog who's begrudgingly allowed some screen time. There's not enough action for it to be mainstream, and too little horror so it will get a wider box office. And I don't want to become all puritan, but the book is called 'I Am Legend' for a reason which they've completely excised in this version. Pfft. Why do they allow Akiva Goldsmith to adapt anything?! The man's responsible for 'The Da Vinci Code', 'Batman & Robin' and 'Lost in Space'. If this were a Middle Eastern country, he'd probably have his hands chopped off by now. Or at the very least, his printer cartridge snapped.

Thank heaven I didn't pay to get in to see this nonsense - the joys of knowing the 17-year-old confectionery stand functionary who's "not gay but wants to try some stuff."

Ah yes, once you pop, you just can't stop.

Thursday, January 03, 2008

The Glitter for Brains Review of the Year Part I

Hello darling viewers, welcome to 2008, and you join us in the middle of our review of the year gone! Why not grab that half-empty glass of champagne that Lindsey Lohan's stubbed a doobie out in and we'll get on to the first category!

Most Overrated Piece of Technology
...goes to the iPhone, hands down.

I had the hideous misfortune to be sitting outside an O2 shop this very weekend in a shopping mall, for reasons I'm not willing to go into here, and sat through the iPhone display about three times. Within which, the imaginary user has just come back from a holiday, and responds to a email entitled 'Back From Paradise?' by sending some pictures of their kids on the beach. He (I'm assuming the user is a 'he' here) then trawls through some voicemails from his two friends Susan and Mark, checks a map for a local sushi restaurant, conference calls the two of them, and once the date has been booked in his onboard organizer, then digs up some Macy Gray to play.

'So what?' you may query. But ask yourself this, do you want to be that cunt who does this? Hangs about with his starch-white duo of chums in Yo Sushi, the McDonalds of uncooked tuna? Whom you can guarantee started the conference call with "Hi. Hi Susan. I'm just on my iPhone, let me patch you through to Mark..." What a bollock. A bollock who thinks he's down with it because he's got a couple of Macy tracks on his playlist, when you know he's just aching to stick a bit of ELO on there but is too busy showing all the functions to everyone down the All Bar One and doesn't want to be caught with 'Mr Blue Sky' as his most played just yet. And which dick just sends on pics of his frugy children to whatever twat in Finance writes mails 'Back From Paradise?' anyway? The ones that hang out in Centreparcs, that's who.

So I'm all for the iPhone in principle. But before you sign up for the £900 initial cost of tied-in contracts and network swaps, ask yourself do you really want to be that person? Do you?

No? Good.