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

Friday, February 29, 2008

Old Skool

I've spoke to you before of Drunken Parachute, yes? This is going into the room at the beginning of the night and spying a guy who's just on the wrong side of being attractive to you. The drink will flow, your eyes will start to get a little bit gimlet, and the very second that you're drunk enough to think 'you know, in a certain light and if he lost the beer belly...' that is the moment you bail out of there like a child abuser from Jersey.

I hadn't done old skool drinking in a long time. It was a BBC corporate event, themed like a rock night so each table came with a pile of silver space wigs, glowing microphones, nasty white wine and a centerpiece that everyone was threatening to nick. With the wigs and the wine, come midnight it was like looking out over a RAH Band video. And that was the moment the free vodka bar opened and they started playing '9 to 5' on the dancefloor.

I don't remember much else after that, clearly. I do recall being on the dance floor and some guy from the next office bumping into me. He said something about all the girls I was dancing with (office gays dancing with an entourage of girls from Finance? Who'd have thought!) and I nodded, and then he said something else which I didn't hear but gave him one of those non-committal 'yeah!'s you do when you don't really hear but want to sound positive. And then he looked at me like I'd offered to rape him with a spiked bowling ball and went and moved off the dancefloor at speed. I wonder what he'd said...

And it was about 3am that my Parachute almost failed to deploy; I recall a weird and sudden imperative to hang around with (ie try and pull) one of the execs. Well, he seemed very friendly. Like he'd never turn out a friend, a stranger, or a four course meal by the look of him. Fortunately I got steered away by another colleague to help him drink a round of champagne.

And that's when it goes a bit black, I have to say.

I awoke at 9am, face down on the floor of my hotel room, fully clothed, silver wig askew and a carpet burn on my face from where I'd landed. Which was a shame as it was a five-star room and I recall from my traditional new-room-bounce-on-the-bed-throw-the-Gideons-bible-out-the-window arrival that it was quite comfy. And so, with all the grace of two epileptics sharing a bowl of noodles, I arose, collected my things and headed to work. Yesterday was not a good day. I spent most of it shaking like a shitting dog.

And let that be a lesson for you. Have a good weekend.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

Dinner Dates and Bus Stops

All this talk of dating reminded me how hideous and how brilliant it is. Especially for Gentlemen Who Were Picked Last In Games for, you see, we have an extra card to play at the end of the night.

Take this one date I went on. We'd chatted amiably for a few hours, not really going one way or another. He was a dog person, I was more cat. He liked high-brow books and low-brow tv, and me, well I liked low-brow everything. It was over dinner we just decided that yes, we were having a good time but the idea of us growing old together, picking out china, and inseminating a willing lesbot for kids was not going to happen. Which is when it pays to Know Showtunes because we just went "Well, we could just shag then..."

Bonus! No strings. Bit of fun to round it all off. I love being a screaming wendy - it's all so accessible. Everyone should be so blessed - if anything, it would make 'Moonlighting' a heck of a lot shorter. Sure you wouldn't get the playful will-they-won't-they eeked out for years, but at least it would have been off the air before Cybil had seemingly turned into a leather shoe.

Anyway, back to the date. He'd floated the idea of a bit of a fumble, I'd concurred. And then a spanner in the works from my dining companion: "But, you see, I don't think you're really as open to the idea of this no-strings sex as you think. I think you're far too sensitive for that..."

My only thought was 'Oh if my friends could see me now'. A cunning move, sir. I could not dismiss it as I'd look like a tuppenny whore bent on pleasuring herself on anything that came to hand, mouth or area (oddly accurate) and couldn't agree as 'sensitive' and 'gay sex' don't go together unless you're discussing with your life-long partner how gently you're going to take him on the new Egyptian cotton bedsheets while promising to love him forever. Even when he's bald.

A good move indeed. Checkmate, in fact. My king was down and under no circumstances was my queen going to go all the way tonight. And if you really want to labour the metaphor, I'd be going home to porn. Although that only really works if you read this aloud. Perhaps you're from Croydon and move your hand across the screen as you read. Hello there. Yes you. Nice scrunchie.

So what's a boy to do? I was more offended by being told that than being asked for a free-spirited knee-trembler, to be honest. I mean, me! Unable to handle the one-night stand! The very idea. It's like asking Liza Minnelli whether she wants tonic in her vodka.

It's all a matter of perspective. And I seem to recall my perspective was that I wasn't to worry, I'd already organised a date for the following night. Men, you see, are like busses. There'll be another one along in a minute, you always end up drunkenly on a shonky one on a friday night, and there's always a fight to go on top.

Friday, February 22, 2008

Speed Dating

So last night I threw all presence of honor and virginity out of the window and agreed to go on a speed dating event. Well, it was for charity. Which was clearly the watchword in a lot of the attendees cases, as charity was clearly how they were going to be hooking up with anyone.

So I drank to make it... interesting, pointedly quaffing champagne. Well, set your stall out early, I thought. If I'm going to be talking to Potential Gentleman Callers, I want them to think either 'cor, he's not a cheap date' (which I'm not - you have to at least pretend to hail a cab before shrugging, saying 'you can never get a hackney carriage around here!' then hauling my drunken arse either onto the nightbus or the closest bushes) or 'cor, he's loaded, perhaps I'll show a bit of ankle if he buys me a drink' (which you don't - you have to show me a lot more than that to get so much of a sniff of Babycham out of me, boys).

So in my head, they were all no doubt writing my name on their form in their boldest handwriting, as I cruelly turned them down; 'No match!' I'd bray before drunkenly swivelling off to a new hopeful. THAT WAS HOW IT HAPPENED IN MY HEAD. What probably happened was me pinballing into them, slurring the same old three questions and either eagerly starring into their eyes like a love-sick schoolgirl who'd been at the Tipp-Ex thinners, or waiting for the honk of the horn to signify the end of the sorry affair with all the poise and dignity of Pavlov's dog.

I do recall some people were taking it worryingly seriously, whereas I told the ones under 23 that wouldn't get the joke that I invented the post-it note. Some of them fell for it.

And the other thing that I recall is getting to talk to people that you would no way at all consider talking to in a club for no other reason than you perceive them to be 'not your type of person' and actually getting on with them. It was immensely liberating in that respect. For example, who'd have thought I'd have bought drinks for the lad who's hair I'd been internally taking the piss out of in the cashpoint queue beforehand.

I'm still awaiting the results, and I'm sure the number of matches are going to be a self-confidence-destroying low, but hell. Whatever. The joy is in this day-and-age, there's a myspace and a facebook group to back it all up, so I'm already furiously poking* gentlemen who I didn't get a chance to speak to.

* oh make your own joke up. I'm so hungover I want to die.

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Political Shake Up

This is fucking priceless. According to Israeli Shlomo Benizri, of the ultra-Orthodox Jewish Shas Party, legalizing marriage between Gentlemen Who Can't Catch have been causing earthquakes in the Holy Land.

Clearly his brain went 'San Francisco has gays. San Francisco has earthquakes. Therefore gays make earthquakes!' Er, no. Gays make their own hand cream and muffin baskets, not earthquakes. Really, we don't have half the powers you think we have; and if we did don't you think we'd get rid of some of those horrid little red States in the US? Everyone! Get on the pink bus, we're going to go rattle some china in the Bible Belt!


I mean, here we are in the UK where there are about the same number of Gentlemen Who Own Either One or Both Versions of 'Hairspray' as the city of Jerusalem, and I can't remember a single quake at one of those Pride events. I can however recall several knee-tremblers in the bushes, so I was keeping my end up, Mr Benizri. As it where.

Clearly I'm not convinced about this whole affair. Unless I can be shown empirical evidence that earthquakes have only started after the gays started taking each other's hand rather than bottom, I claim there is another reason for it.

Naw guys, its not the gays doing this. It's probably God still pissed you killed his son.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Everything Changes

I've just had the strangest bit of nostalgia for a 'Find Maddie' story on the front of a newspaper. Doesn't that feel like years ago, like hoola-hoops, deeley-boppers and whooping cough? Clearly as you get older, nostalgia plays as much part of your life as the stiff hips first thing on a cold day.

Your own hips, before you say anything, you mucky bunch.

As we all know, I'm getting on a bit - well clearly in comparison to the excitingly-haired youths that have taken my place on the barstools of London. I'm not too bothered to be honest; gone are the days when I could stay out all night. In fact, I only ever did that the once and was dead for a week after, mostly as dancing was curtailed in favour of running away from "some cripple and his arse-wiper" in the words of my companion for the night, the incomparable evil best friend Declan. Fortunately, the club was on three floors, so we'd always manage about half-hour's respite as the wheelchair was slowly bounded down the staircase to get to us. We'd be halfway through a Spice Girls medley before Declan would get a nudge in the back of the shins from a wheelchair and the whole sorry affair would start again.

Anyway, back to the point. Age. I'm almost 33, you know. And tonight may be going on a date for the first time in... ooh, over half a decade. I have gray hair, half a jar of Horlicks at home and haven't a clue what the current number one is. But you know what is reassuring? What clearly hasn't changed in the six years since I've done this? Last night, for the first time in... ooh about six years, I got a huge spot on the end of my nose.


Friday, February 15, 2008

Tube Date

So the only action I saw on Valentine's Day was some old gimmer trying to feel me up on the tube on the way home.

I'm not kidding you. I thought it was just because the train was packed and the guy was quite old and needed someone to lean up against. But as time went on, I noticed that his liver-spotted hand that had once started pressed lightly against my thigh was now eeking further around my leg, past my house keys and towards my meat and two veg.

Well, I didn't know where to turn - literally! As it was, I was jammed in some guy's armpit the other side and it was only thanks to me wearing my work bag in a similar manner to Jane Fonda in '9 to 5' (I like to walk out the building in her tippy manner, pretending that I'm flanked by Dolly Parton and Lily Tomlin) my liberty was momentarily protected. I mean, what do you do? I'd like to say that I bellowed "Get the fuck off me, you dried-up nut-grabbing pervert!" but this was on a tube in a rush hour and I was as likely to be ostracized by the crowd for speaking. We are Londoners, you see. Human interaction happens in the colonies, what.

Thankfully, the crowd lightened at the next stop, and I firmly pushed his hand away. There was no need for vengance - the fact he had to do this on a tube to get his jollies on Valentine's Day was cruel enough.

Well that and I happened to have coughed on my hand before I steered his away from my spam javelin. I have a feeling in the next day or two he's going to get very sick...

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Never Getting Lost Again

Am sick. A weird throat thing has mutated into a cough every 15 minutes like I have TB; I hanker for a lace hankie and a chaise lounge on which to recline, dictating my last memoirs to my one true love I lost in a mining disaster at the turn of the century. My throat is so sore I sound like Bonnie Tyler. Blood is not far to follow, I fear.

Think I pushed myself too hard. I thought the mind would be the first to go, but lo, it turned out to be the body.

I tried watching 'The Lion In Winter' in between dozing. This is genuinely first time I've seen Katherine Hepburn move and speak. I know I'm the last one to the party but OH MY LORD ITS CAPTAIN JANEWAY. Everyone's always said how similar they are, but they are not similar. They are the same. It's uncanny.

I also tried to watch the opener for the fourth season of 'Lost'. Why do I do it to myself? Its like going back to an abusive ex. You know its going to be terrible... but you love him, Tricia! You really love 'im!

As it turned out I was completely right, and I can quantify the first two episodes as two hours of my life I ain't getting back. The 'cliffhanger' for Ep 2 was one of the guys going "... well, that as may be. But I had a man on their boat!" said in such mustache-twirling villainy I was expecting a pull-back to see he'd tied two cast members to the railroad tracks and was about to exit, stage-left, swishing his cloak. I'm going to give up now. It's the show of Mildly Interesting Surprises. Rather like opening a Bettaware catalogue and going "Oh look, they do those now..." before going off to make tea. I wouldn't be surprised if 'Lost' was still being made during the writer's strike. No one would be able to tell the difference.

Tuesday, February 12, 2008


Last night, for the first time in six years, I slept on both sides of the bed.

I don't know what to feel about that.

Friday, February 08, 2008


I've discovered when I go to America, I become very British. All clipped tones and 'No, Darjeeling if you please." And when I'm hanging out in glorious exclusive cocktail bars - which is becoming far too regular - I tend to veer closer to a more gutter tone. You could argue its an attempt to stand out, but let me assure you that the feather headdress I was wearing in both cases saw to that. If Joan Crawford taught me anything, its how to make an entrance and how to beat your children with wire hangers.

So. Imagine that I'd freshly ordered a man from the internet (I'm sure it won't be too hard for you to do). Imagine when I open the door, it turns out that the Gentleman in question is a gruff northern lad who just happens to like a bit of bum fun. Oh yes, imagine how I accidentally played it.

"Alrigh' mate," he growled, kicking off his trainers without a by-your-leave, giving me an instant and unusual urge to put a doily down underneath them. He'd already crossed what I considered to be the hall, but now my head was calling 'my gracious entrance hall' and poking his head into my bedroom (cough 'boudoir') and saying "Through 'ere, is it?"

Well, I was lost by then. I mean normally I'm gay but not necessarily camp - there is a difference. Yet I noticed as he threw himself into my large office chair with a delicious masculine ease I was moving towards him with the poise of Nicole Kidman in 'The Others'. Basically, in my head, I'd turned into Dame Evadne Hinge.

He proffered me a blue carrier bag; "Wanna can, mate?" and cracked open a Stella and I asked him, without thinking, whether he'd like a glass for it. He gave me a funny look which I attempted to cover with a wry laugh which I know came out high and tinkly like a nervous debutante. "But I thought you were a dancer?" I blurted before he noticed the 'ironic' set of Girls Aloud dolls on top of my wardrobe. He nodded and smiled lob-sidedly. "Yeah, just discovered I was good at it. Keeps you fit. Want to see?"

And he peeled off his t-shirt.

I couldn't help it. It was like a race memory. My hand reached up and clutched the imaginary pearl necklace I was wearing and I gasped, feeling like a pilgrim discovering the One True Cross for the first time.

Some time later, you'll be horrified to learn the necklace was anything but fake. Grin.

Wednesday, February 06, 2008

To Us, Guilt Is What Surrounds a Mirror

This more or less sums up the phenomenon of Gay Guilt:

We'll gladly sleep with anybody's boyfriend, but if so much as half a muffin passes our lips, we spend the day fretting about when we will get to the gym.

Monday, February 04, 2008

Ryan Reynolds, Method Actor

I'm sure regular viewers of this dastardly pink site will know I have a soft spot for the aforementioned Mr Reynolds, one that incidentally gets harder at the time he insists losing his top in a film. I shan't complain; its always tastefully done and never to the level and frequency of Matthew McConaughey, a man seemingly so dumb or so high he can't figure out shirt buttons. I'm even going to forgive Mr Reynolds for shacking up with Scarlett Johansson who, frankly, looks like a clownfish and whose engorged, voluminous man-trap of a foof is probably now due to be retreaded after the last 5000 miles.

Well, after such close scrutiny of Mr Reynolds' oeuvre, we're pleased to exclusively reveal how he gets into the two types of roles that he has. If you're doing Action Film, you get dark-haired Ryan who grows a beard for the role (cf Blade 3, Smokin' Aces). If you're producing Comedy Film, the beard is shaved off and the highlights go in (cf Just Friends, Waiting and latest 'rom-com' Definitely Maybe). The man's a genius! He could put De Nero to shame!

Next Week: We bring you an extract from the ultimate method actor's 'how to' manual. That's 'Vacuuming In High Heels', the third chapter from Jessica Simpson's magnum opus 'How I Act Good' exclusively here at Glitter for Brains.

Friday, February 01, 2008

The Power of Love

I'm a firm believer in the power of an Eighties montage. The blissful moment three-quarters through a Judge Reinhold vehicle where, powered by some track by 'Hewie Lewis and the News', the ugly duckling gets her makeover, the team finally gel, and the someone finally gets to Flashdance. Even 'Pretty Woman', an eighties film at heart beget from 'Mannequin', gets a delicious shopping montage that even has straight men clutching their pearls and wondering who they can blow to get a night out on Rodeo Drive.

Why I bring it up is this: ever since my break-up, I've been living my life like these montages. I've thrown myself into work like Britney at the pharmacist's counter the day they announce 'deep fried tranquilizers'. At the moment, jump-cut, I wake at 6.15am, go to the gym, get to work, toil til 6pm, go home, work til 10.30pm. I then read til 11pm and go to bed. Repeat the following day, with a variable of the weekend, where I just don't go to the gym and maybe have a coffee.

As I've not really dealt with the relationship fall-out as a result. The only time it comes out is when I'm sleeping; the dreams are vivid, accusatory and unpleasant. And - oddly - there's always a lot of polyester on show, so clearly I can class them as nightmares.

"It's like a boil that needs lancing" said my fabulous friend, the flame-haired Anne-Marie. She's like the X-Men's Phoenix if she were Northern and drunk bitter, and thus was straight to the point while I looked downtrodden into my gyoza last night. Cutting out any romanticized imagery and going to the idea that ended relationships are some pus-filled item that needs bursting, that's our Anne-Marie. And she's probably right. I just don't know how to do it. Hitting the gym so hard, as well as all this extraneous stuff going on, I think I'm the most physically and mentally broken I've been in a very long time. The only remaining thing is to create some sort of Stockholm Syndrome with my counselor and I've got the full set.

No, no pity. Forgive me if I'm acting like some faded starlet - someone sent me a copy of 'Bette and Joan - The Divine Feud' to read, and it kinda rubs off on you. Probably not the best read at this point: when you see someone's life compressed down into 400 pages, you can't help but sympathize with the end where their fabulous life unravels. Even greatly-loved stars die alone. So what hope the rest of us?

I've also discovered that I've clearly discovered the flare for the dramatic too, after reading all that back. Ah, to hell, I'm going to put the 'Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?' make-up on now and be done with it. Someone put on Hewey Lewis's Greatest Hits while I do it, please.