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

Tuesday, April 29, 2008

Make The Bad Noise Stop

Is it me, or does it feel like Mz Halliwell has turned up to the party ten years too late?

Monday, April 28, 2008


Thank you all for all the well-wishes for me and the new fella, very kind of you. And the innumerable emails questioning how a raddled old queen like myself can saddle myself a gorgeous man - those too were very... kind. Most of you wanted to know how it was done: well, all you have to do close your eyes and wish real hard, then click your heels together, Dorothy!

Or in my case, click them apart.

Anyway, he's off in Cornwall for a week so I'm having to amuse myself, and the thing that jumps out the most is the new film, 'Ironman'. Now I'm a bit of a comicbook geek at times, but even I think they're scraping the barrel with this one when it comes to famous superheroes. Spider-Man, Hulk and X-Men I do know, but this one seems a bit... well. Lets just say its fitting that they get Robert Downey Jr to play him as no-one would touch him either, but in doing this we're opening the floodgates for all sorts of abuse of the system. How long til we get Winona Ryder as The Phantom Lady, or Vanilla Ice as The Green Lantern? Not soon enough is my answer!

Anyway, I enjoyed the trailer for 'Ironman' despite it being a three-Neoprin event in itself, possibly to counter-act the effect that joy-vacuum star Gwyneth Paltrow has on film. I don't mind her performances, moving wallpaper that they are. What I Take Against it is her and her husband, that sallow-skinned singer from Coldplay, being plastered across the front of newspapers for the week to come as they step out for premieres. Both of them are cheerleaders for the lung-deflatingly bland to such an extent that a duo shot on the front of a paper will send a whole tube carriage into a narcoleptic trance. They were bad enough on their own; put the two of them together and it's like the end of ''Edge of Darkness', only more beige and macrobiotics. It comes to something when the most interesting thing that the accompanying article can say about her is how nice her hair is; that's like writing 'Have a great day..!' in someone's office birthday card because you are as familiar with them as thirsty singer Miss Winehouse is with soap. Although I say kudos, Gwen, as you clearly know this sort of summer blockbuster performance is not about empathy and Method, but luster and bounce.

At this rate, it won't be long before The X-Men's Dazzler gets her own film. Dazzler, for those who don't care, is a roller-booted mutant who can turn any sound into a giddying light show. Oh yes, that's her special power. We'll get a 2 hour CGI epic with great hair, killer dance moves and mirror balls.

Now THAT'S Hollywood!

Wednesday, April 23, 2008

The Last Eight Weeks

Four Days Ago

I necked the cocktail and held onto his arm, almost as if to steady myself.
"I'm thinking of asking you to go out with me," I said.

Six Weeks Ago

I'd was out for coffee with my Favourite Ex Richard. Well, he was drinking the coffee, I was having a hot milk as my allergy to caffeine was currently causing my skin to be as pretty and silky soft as that of thirsty singer Miss Amy Winehouse. Richard went to the bathroom, I fiddled with my mobile and looked around the room and accidentally caught that of a student behind a mountain of books. For the briefest second a look passed between us, before we both self-consciously glanced in the opposite directions.
Richard came back. "Isn't that..?" I began, gesturing unsubtly around the pillar I was now hiding behind to the man sitting there, thinking I was far too 'Alias' than I was.
You see, the look the two of us had shared was one of recognition.

Eight Weeks Ago

I think he'd messaged me first, but I don't have any proof of that. I doubt I'd have done it because I thought he had a fake profile. Thingbox was rife with them for a while - anyone who had a pretty picture attached to it was not to be trusted in my book. And he wasn't just pretty. He was mind-blowingly attractive; dark Irish eyes and a jaw so square you could use it to dig for Britney's dignity.
I replied out of courtesy. His reply was very funny.
Definitely fake, I thought.

Four Weeks Ago

I admit that I had been trying to show off. You know, taxis, cocktails in fancy bars, wearing underwear for once. And I mean the nice stuff, rather than the baggy gray ones that look like the back of Cameron Diaz's legs. But I didn't have a clue whether all this was working, as he seemed to be taking it all in his stride and refusing to be impressed by it all.
In truth, I didn't know whether I should be impressing him as we'd met up as mates, ostensibly going for a coffee. But that had been three hours ago and several glasses of fou-fou'd up alcohol drinks and all my inhibitions were now going for a burton. I mean, come on. He may have been a mate, but he was hot. Like really hot. So I was showing off because even if we were going to just be friends, I could hang around with him in clubs and pick off the debris of his tossed aside rejections like a fey seagull. Win-win, I thought.
After dinner, and plying him with a bottle or two of saké, we staggered up to the top of a car park so I could show him a brilliant view of London. And while we were up there, he kissed me.
"Ah, um, oh," I flustered afterwards, like Hugh Grant in 'Notting Hill' when the DVDs stuck. "Er, ah, oh, er," I added a minute later.
He just grinned that brilliant grin.
"So what should we do now?" I asked, regaining a little more composure.
He carried on grinning.

Two Weeks Ago

"He's what?!" asked my Evil Best Friend Declan over the line.
"He's 22," I said, shifting the telephone receiver in the tea-towel; whenever he called, the handset tended to bleed. And all plant-life in the house died over night.
"Look, I know, I know," I sighed, "He was born in 1985. I can remember 1985. It was all 'Attack of the Cybermen' and nasty waistcoats."
"Some of us insisted that nasty waistcoats also were 1986, '87, '88, '89, '90 and after the summer of day-glow spandex, 1992 too."
There was a drawing of a cigarette somewhere down the line. "Does he make you happy?"
"Oh god yes."
"And you get on?"
"If I wasn't told he was 22, I wouldn't believe it. He's an old soul."
"I'm sorry, I think this line is a little crackly. I hope you said old soul. Well, if he makes you happy, carry on. You have my blessing."
"Thank you," I said wryly.
"You're welcome. But remember, if you two move in together, you'd better make sure the house is in a good schooling system. And there is a playground nearby for him."
"Cock off."
"...and a petting zoo..!"

Four Days Ago

I necked the cocktail and held onto his arm, almost as if to steady myself.
"I'm thinking of asking you to go out with me," I said.
He looked across the table; I still couldn't tell what he was thinking.
"You know what I'd say if you did ask," he said.
"Actually, not a clue" I spluttered.
"Of course I would."
I broke into a grin. Perhaps I could be impressive after all.

Friday, April 18, 2008

Old Lady Love

So yes. Four days with almost no-one to talk to but two overly-attentive cats has given me a troubling insight into my future. You know, I actually went out for a book of stamps to at least talk to a human being yesterday. All I need now is the sagging cardigan to match my backside and we're done here.

Still, in a predictable old lady way, I can at least say the cats are adorable. I haven't had cats in years, not since moving in with a lesbot who are always guaranteed to have a couple en suite. Those two also practiced the highly-evolved cat behaviour of 'Tag Team Love', where one is always all over you, the other one stays at an aloof distance with a look of 'see what you have to work towards here' in their eyes. And this is why I love cats - their love is not unconditional. It's not even conditional. Its a barely-hidden tolerance that ramps up towards a physical affection as soon as you do something for them.

Hm. Apparently your ideal pet also describes your ideal partner. Even more spooky, viewers, was as I wrote that line, The Avalanche's 'Frontier Psychiastrist' just popped up on my playlist, where the line "That boy needs therapy!" is repeated over and over. I think The One True God Cher is trying to tell me something...

And while I 'puzzle' that one out, I shall divulge one drawback to me having cats: the hair. Not just theirs, mine. It's not really much of a secret that I'm a strategically-shaved monkey and when I have a bath, it tends to look like someone's washed a resistant Alsatian in there. So not only am I shedding (summer coat's coming through), so at the minute are the cats; meaning that wherever I go there's cat hair in my beard, and beard hair in their fur. Hair everywhere! If, heaven forfend, someone has to do a DNA profile on my body, they're going to think I'm some sort of felix erectus with Wiskas cat biscuits on my breath. Although I can explain the last bit quite satisfactorily: last night I came back drunk and this not being my own house, thought that it was cereal. They're not bad with milk, I'll have you know...

Anyway. You know what I mentioned in the last entry about being in someone's abode and walking through their foibles? I thought one of the cats had brought in a dead animal, but it turned out just to be a ladies wig already under the bed. A common mistake in a gay household, I'd wager.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008

Reading The Naked Civil Servant Whilst Naked

So yes. Holiday.

I am currently housesitting down in Brighton for a delicious friend of mine, with my only daily tasks being to make sure the two cats get fed, and not to spoil the order of his 'Tenko' DVDs. The Lord God Cher only knows why he trusted me to do this, although I may have spectacularly failed to mention that the last place I housesitted for, I left the kitchen completely covered with choking black ash after I set the cooker on fire after over-grilling my Linda McCartney's. I blamed the fact that the whole room looked like Pompeii on several children having a bonfire a few days earlier and I had the windows open, but unless they'd actually lit it in the breakfast nook, there was no other way the devistation would have been as bad as a Michael Bay film. Only one of the couple is now speaking to me, and that was after a ten year gap. And clearly the lesson I've taken away from this is vegetarianism = bad fire.

So what essentially I have for a week is a holiday cottage that is blissfully stocked with Items Of Interest that you wouldn't get in a hotel room. There's swathes of DVDs I want to watch and classic tomes on the shelves just waiting to be read. And each one has divine little personal touches; I opened 'The Naked Civil Servant' to find a postcard bookmark from an old friend professing gratitude for a long-ago task. This very computer on which I type in the office is a wondrously rickety old machine with the 'L' missing on the keyboard - to get the letter, I've been using the flat of a knife to press down into the inner workings of the machine. My fear of electrocution is not as great as my fear of having to write something in Welsh, which uses the letter far too much as I discovered yesterday when I sliced open my index finger when sending a missive to my friend in Cardiff. I'm now consciously steering clear of the letter as much as possible.

Anyway, I'm having a marvelous time so far, taking my camera out and wandering the beach and the streets, taking shots of holidaymaking Britons wearing 'Kiss Me Quick' hats and looks of utter bewilderment that the sun's actually out. There is one downside - none of my mates are around until the weekend so I am turning into a bit of an old lady with no-one to talk to but her cats. Perhaps I should venture out down the bars and try make new friends, although Brighton is full of 'crusties' - it's like Camden-on-Sea. My self-imposed isolation will have to take into account that if I ultimately need to talk to someone, chances are it'll be one of them. I'm sure they're lovely people as you don't mind the smell of the dredlocks, and can stomach seeing grown men juggle.

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Come With Me If You Want Kicky Bangs

I'm on holiday at the moment (more about that in the next entry) and its giving me more than ample time to catch up with all those TV shows I'm purportedly missing. First up, 'Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles'. Now I must admit I approached this with all the trepidation of Paris Hilton walking towards a poor person, and foresaw nine episodes of manly nonsense with guns. And no original Sarah Connor. For me, Linda Hamilton played such a perfect mad-obsessed-mother-with-just-a-touch-of-foundation-no-lip-gloss that I wasn't that willing to accept this new interloper. Of course, while I'd like Miss Hamilton to play the part, these days she looks like... well, you know when you get an old road map and crumple it up? Then open it out and its just wrinkled and criss-crossed with red and blue lines? That.

And an aside, is she still letting James Cameron shove his willy up her fur-lined meat-sock? I'd wiki it, but I'm far too lazy to do actual research for this blog as I'm sure you all know by now. All I have in my head is their Christmas card each year recreates the soft-focus glory of the 'Beauty and the Beast' publicity shot.

Anyway. The new Sarah Connor, Lena, is different and yet sassy. All feathered bangs and welling up during 'family moments'. My favourite thing about her is she wears skin-tight black leather all day, and when she goes out on a date, she chooses a frumpy gran blouse that looks like a Rorschach test. Because she totally would.

Summer Glau, late of 'Firefly', plays the good terminator, Cameron. Dear old Summer - manly, yes - but we like her. They even write in a sub plot so she can show off some of her ballet, and her monstrously square jaw. She'll be playing the typical Pinocchio character (TM), learning all joys of humanity, which seemingly include make-up, youth language and, uh, ballet. Oddly, these lessons she's learning, she seemed utterly fine with when she first turned up in the pilot - there must be a routine in her brain chip that says

10 IF audience KNOWS you're a ROBOT, then;

The evil terminator is the same, in both his incarnations he's - played by two different actors. One was hot, the the other is a pinched nosed sallow-faced mincer. I won't spoil why they change if you haven't seen it, but what is incredulous is that we're meant to believe that the man he's imitating had plastic surgery to look like a weasel-using-Sun-In. For me, that's more disbelievable than time-travelling robots from the future.

I do have to say a huge thank you to the person in charge of casting, other than the slight blip with old Pinched Faced Killer Robot, as every single man employed to be on this show in a prominent role gets me dripping like a fucked fridge. Andy, the T888... and oh my lord, Reese - my Comedy Housemate had to bonk me on the head with the wand he's taken to carrying just to stop me gnawing the edge of the desk every time he comes on screen. And there's a shower scene with him that they keep using in the 'Previously on...' trails at the beginning of the show... I think I black out during it because I only come round when John Connor pops back up to find I've got marks in my leg from where my nails have dug in.

At the moment, I'm nine episodes in and loving it. It keeps trying to do all the apocalyptic moods of 'The All-New Battlestar Galactica Show', but actually seems more like the first season of 'Alias'. Oh, if only there were more wigs and costume changes - it'd be the best show on telly.

Thursday, April 03, 2008


Ah the Doctor Who Series Four launch party. Two glorious episodes and someone's credit card behind the bar. And I don't know who suggested we did shots near the end of the evening, but I have a burning suspicion it was me. On top of a good few glasses of wine as well. Well, I say 'on top' but that only turned out to be for a short while - I was gloriously sick as soon as I got home. Real gut-wrenching, red-wine-spraying sick.

As my mother says, if the bar is free, you'll pay for it in the morning.

Oh I tell you, I'm not good today. I haven't this fucked since I was in the boy scouts. And while I'm acutely aware this follows hot on the heels of another 'oh my, wasn't I drunk' entries, I can honestly say the thought of drinking again revolts me clearly as much as sanity does Miss Mariah Carey.

I was meant to be out tonight, a dressy work event. Well the clothing is willing, but the spirit is weak. I can't do it again. No thank you. No more.

Tuesday, April 01, 2008


You know in a lazy sit-com where one monied character somehow has their assets frozen, usually to give them a life lesson in how the 'ordinary' folk live? That hackneyed old plot-point? Oh yes Karen Walker, I'm looking at you. Or more specifically, looking at you having to stay in your own Harlem slum apartment, clutching your mink coat around you and singing 'My Favourite Things' under your breath. And while I'm very aware that I do this every time I pass a Primark or, on more than one occasion, find myself on the end of a foldout bed in Lewisham after some thick-fingered workman has offered to take me back to his for a 'bit of the old Roman' while he lumbers off to wash his member in the kitchen sink.

I'm sorry, I digress. The point I was trying to get around to was this: yesterday I got hit by the most ginormous tax bill. And I mean enormous; I was expecting Janet Jackson circa 'The Velvet Rope', but actually got Janet Jackson in between 'Damita Jo' and '20 YO'. Good god yes, that big. Now I've been wonderfully blessed when it comes to cash - from not having any as a child to working all the hours that the Lord Cher sends in a high paid job, I've been what we euphemistically call 'comfortable' for the past couple of years. While I haven't exactly been holidaying in the Seychelles on the weekend, I have been dining in fine restaurants and giving outrageous tips to beautiful waiters. Like that impossibly handsome one in Balans the other week, with eyes the colour of chipped blue tiles found in Moroccan fountains, and a stature that would make Michaelangelo bite his knuckle and hijack the Renaissance again. Oh yes, this waiter had this wonderful habit of nigh-on accidentally resting his packet on the table edge as he took your order, rather in the manner of a weary postman pausing to rest his letters upon a wall. Well, when provoked like that, I had to order the Sunday roast. "Are you sure?' asked the waiter. "There's a lot of meat there. You sure you can handle it?" he said with no sense of detectable irony. I squeaked a response, and both myself and my dining companion found we were clutching each other's thighs in mute delight. And that's why he got a £100 tip and my phone number.

My problem is I don't think I know how to act frugal any more. I suppose this means I'll have to eschew going straight for the cocktail menu and actually have to have *hack* *gag* 'the house white'. Oh lord, I just sicked up a little in my mouth. Is this what the ordinary folk feel daily? I'm surprised you get out of your bed, even if its to turn on Channel 5 and order a breakfast pizza. I suddenly have the urge to get head lice and have a half a disassembled Ford Fiesta on the front lawn.

I could go back to my old ways of streetwalking, but lets face it. I'm a little past my prime now. Punters don't want to get down to your area and find that your pubes are slowly resembling grey sea-matting. Perhaps there's a line in rent boy ('boy' - ha!) that specializes in sitting in all night watching Cary Grant movies with the punter, then going to sleep together with a facepack on and a quick peck on the cheek and asking whether the alarm's been set. I tell you, I'd be quids in with that one. Do shout if that's your thing and willing to pay around £10,000 for the privilege.

I used to know an actress who used to say 'Champagne and taxis, darling. Just make sure you have enough for champagne and taxis. Everything else is negotiable'. I think I'll be taking this route for the next month or so. My clothes may become threadbare, I may look like I'm growing my hair out, but I'll still arrive - and get drunk - in style.