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

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.