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

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...