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

Friday, December 19, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 5

Cat clearly knows she's being collected by her real owner - she won't stop yowling, and there's a look in her eyes. A look that says 'I know something's up. I know that man who doesn't own an iron and smells of Ralgex is coming'. You see, I think she's been treating this past week like a spa retreat, whereas I've been spending it stopping any bad habits she may have. I've even politely dissuaded her from coming in and sniffing my gym kit every time I come back from a workout; clearly a bad habit she's picked up from her owner. It's been an education. For both of us, really - I used to be nonplussed on the whole cat thing, thinking anything that selfish with non-specific talents usually is a contestant on a reality show. But dear old Cat has been a tonic. If I were a more suspicious man, I'd wonder whether they'd sent the perfect PR feline over just to convert us. Like sending over Jamie Bamber in a bath towel to get us to join Scientology. Hell, I'd sign up to become a Gay Republican if he said he'd come in for a coffee.

Anyway. I want a cat now, though I fear that she's not going to be the same. And besides, I don't want to be one of those bloggers who spends an entire week talking about their cat.


Danger! Danger, Mrs Robinson!

Thanks to all of you who emailed in the story about Nicola from Girls Aloud - The Plastic Pal Who's Fun To Be With (Maybe When They Fix The Smile) - reportedly being turned away from a table because Louise Rednapp said she wouldn't share.

The Daily Mail writes:

'"Nicola was in a bit of a state, and got to the club quite late," an onlooker told the newspaper. "She assumed she would be whisked straight onto her own VIP table, but when she was told all of the tables were booked she looked confused."

Of course she looked confused! On the way over with the cab, she'd emailed the matre d' herself using her internal modem! She'd also checked her lottery numbers (and calculated the probability that a) she'd win, and b) be free of Cheryl Cole's restraining programming before she can accidentally off her and cry "I have killed the one who created me!" in a semi-convincing manner) and also composed a few bars of the Aloud's next hit on her built-in moog synth. The Mail went on to write:

"When it was clear that Louise would not share her table, Nicola had to stay at the bar with her friends."

I don't know why this Louise Rednapp didn't share her table. I mean, who is she again? I think she was in Eternal back when I was slyly drinking Cherry Coke in my bedroom, making up dance routines to Donna Summer's 'This Time I Know Its For Real' with my ALF soft toy. Oh, and apparently she's in the new Nintendo Wii advert with her husband - some footballer who's kinda hot (thanks Google). So the highlight of her year is she turned away our beloved Nicola from her table, did an advert, and was Jamie Rednapp's cock-wash. For shame, Lou! Where's your Christmas spirit?

Perhaps she didn't want Nicola leeching all the bandwidth near her. Or maybe there was a chance that miserable old Lou thought Nicola was going to malfunction and, arms flailing, start smashing the tables with the flat of her palm going "Does! Not! Compute!" in that computerised monotone in wot she sings so well. Either way, I'm going to form an awareness group - equality for all so-pale-she's-semi-transparent ginger PopBots. The line must be drawn here!

In magnetic tape, naturally. It's the only thing she understands.

Thursday, December 18, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 4

Oh we've had fun today. The cleaner came and buffed all our wood floors.

I mean, they were a bit slippy before, but now there's absolutely no purchase for Cat. She's been sliding around, banging into furniture like a rohypnoled Jane Torville. I dropped my copy of 'Manhole Monthly' (I buy it for the sudoku) and the poor thing was so scared that she tried to dart under the coffee table and just ended up spinning on the spot for a full minute before even she got bored, stopped and started licking herself. I haven't laughed so hard since Di forgot her seatbelt.

Poor thing. We're going to have to fit her with anti-lock brakes or something. Cat, not the corpse of Princess Di.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 3

I'd hate to see my google history over the last couple of days. I mean, beyond the usual stuff (will somebody please post some pictures of Ben Browder doing Ryan Reynolds? Don't tell me there's no consumer interest, people) there's this whole swathe of cat related enquiries that are going to sit very oddly next to my usual search criteria. If I ever put 'yiffing' in along with the other two sets, some alarm is going to ring at Microsoft and I'm going to be carted away to a white room somewhere and played tapes of Mariah Carey and told to be normal.

OK. Mariah. Normal. Bad choice.

One such search term was 'how much do cats crap'. Cat has been with us for almost three days now and I've idly been checking her litter tray just to make sure that the place isn't going to be stunk out by Wiskas scented coils, but there has nary been a cable laid in there. This then leads on to all sorts of questions, the most important being 'has she gone and nipped one out under my bed?' The answer was no, leading to more searching and even more concern.

In fairness, she was off her food the first day. I think she was scared of the new environment, or actually dazzled by a home where someone had planned the interior decorating. You see, her actual home seems to go for 'flea-market chic', misses completely, and ends up as 'Portabello market stall circa five pm'. I sympathise: I've been in some gay homes that have been so tear-inducingly gorgeous that I've not even wanted to go into the bedroom and ruffle up their Conrad sheets. Fortunately, like Cat, I got over this quickly - and the gentleman in question even quicker.

So two days without curling one out. Poor Cat. I was afraid to pick her up, in case she was full and moving her would rupture her lower intestine, spending time picturing her like a fur-lined icing bag that one squeeze too hard would result in a very explosive display.

You'll be pleased to know that this morning, when I padded through in my Goofy slippers, Cat had given birth to what can only be described as a healthy one-pound offspring. And fuck me, it stunk...

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 2

Today, Cat and I have been exploring. She seems to have taken me to be Alpha Male of the three people in the house, much to everyone's hilarity. Well, really! I've never been an Alpha Male before! I was almost classed as an A-Gay on one occasion, but I seemingly didn't slap the officer who was frisking me for my Balans Members Card hard enough (flat of the palm, thinking you're Ivana, apparently) so my application was torn up in front of me. I'd spent ages on gluing on all those pictures of Daniel Radcliffe too.

Prior to her coming to visit, Cat and I had that usual human/feline relationship of complete indifference because I didn't arrive with a can opener. And yet now, as she sees me as the most viable connection to her previous life, she won't leave me alone. She follows me around like a twink at a club who's seen me paying for champagne with a platinum card. Yesterday, she wouldn't move from my lap, and I apologise to any clients who are reading this because she kept nudging my hand for attention just as I was cutting out hair in photoshop. Honestly, poor David Tennant's quoffured mop came out like a madwoman's breakfast - all over the place. Right now, she's currently lying half across my shoulder, draped like a stole, wheezing softly in sleep. It would be endearing if it weren't so damn inconvenient.

Anyway, exploring. Cat likes dark holes (just like her owner I'm shocked to find) and makes a bee-line straight for any place that she can't be rescued from without two warm spoons, some grease and a dangled chicken leg. She explored the hall, stairs, window with good view of builders, and the bedroom, mewing for me to keep up. She then spent a good hour pouncing around the duvet like she'd never seen one before. Perhaps she hasn't - I've poked my head around owner Gertie's bedroom door on few occasions, and lets just say the bed linen was more for functionality than for comfort, if you know what I mean. I didn't touch them, but one had the idea of those laminated gingham tablecloths that you get in Little Chefs. Perhaps this is the true reason Cat is following me around - not just because I'm feeding her, or petting her, but because I've introduced her to the concept of thread count.

Bless. There's hope yet.

Monday, December 15, 2008

FlorenceWatch: Day 1

I'm looking after this cat for a week, while dear old Gertie is on holiday. Do check out his blog if you get a second and like cats - you can't move for updates of grainy cameraphone shots of the dismissive beast and on how it (shock!) opens cat flaps now. I'm taking it for a week while he's up in Scotland with his folks, pretending he doesn't smoke and, even funnier, isn't gay. I know, isn't that hilarious? It's like they don't have eyes in their head or something.

Anyway. Cat. "I've left a t-shirt of mine in the basket," sobbed Gertie as I ushered him out the door yesterday, repeating that everything will be fine. "It'll help calm her down." Strangely, the basket is the one place she hasn't been in the last 24 hours. I forgot how damn inquisitive cats are - and we've had to practically child-lock everything, and spent a good few hours following her around as she explored such areas as The Draining Board Full Of Glasses, The Christmas Tree, and My Laptop And Its Multitude Of Seemingly Tasty Cables. I think giving cats nine lives just makes them far too reckless. They should just have the one and stop looking like they're constantly about to take a whizz on the electrical sockets if you ask me.

It took all of three hours for Gertie to text to make sure she was fine, which showed more restraint than I thought it would. "He's asking how she is," I said to Ryan, who was currently helping her off a bookcase. "What should I write?"

"Say she's dead," he said.

It was very tempting.

Though clearly she's thinking the same thing. I've a few houseplants about the place, including a lovely orchid that I'm looking after for a former housemate. She'd nommed a full leaf before a) we'd realised and b) she was retching and mewling in horror before shooting off under the table like it was Our Fault. Cue a frantic ten minutes googling whether orchids are poisonous to animals and wondering if Gertie would ever forgive us before she trots back out from under the table and starts doping up on her catnip mouse like nothing had happened.

Bloody thing.

X Factor

I'm glad Eggnog Samwise Gamgee didn't win The X Factor. I mean, it's really sweet of them to put a Downs kid in the contest and all for sympathy, but really. It was bad enough when we all went 'Aww, look at the fat chick!' when Michelle McManus was up for a vote a few years back and voted out of National Pride to show that We Like People To Be Given A Fair Chance, and then completely ignore them when they have a single out.

This was my first X Factor final, after finally being converted by Ryan and his busty friend Ness a few weekends ago. I loved Diana Vickers and that you couldn't tell what she was singing, and that Cheryl Cole never actually says anything negative. Or positive. Or useful, come to think. She skirts around any possible judgment with an attempt to flick her immovable hair out of her eyes while saying things like "Ah, pet, you've come along way" and "You put a lot of energy into yer performance, love", which clearly I adore. I think she believes that if she says one negative thing, the whole viewing public will turn around to her and tell her to FUCK OFF, and she's probably right. And thus was born the Cheryl Cole Drinking Game - which I'd like to point out is NOT having a few Baccardi Breezers and laying into some toilet attendant, uh allegedly - but every time she says anything that can be replaced with a klaxxon, a bugle horn or the noise of birdsong with no repercussions to the final outcome, drink two fingers worth of your spirit of choice. You will be utterly wasted by the time JLS come out and step off their stools for the key-change.

Louis I just find creepy. He kept saying "I can't believe you're only sixteen!" when Eggnog came on. But the look in his eyes... well, lets say we were replacing 'sixteen' with 'legal' in Casa Glitter.

I liked the winner, though. Alexandra. The human body is made up of... what, 60%, 90% water? I'd do some research, but that'd mean I take this sort of thing seriously and frankly my Ginster's pasty is getting cold. Anyway, whatever it is, she was clearly on emergency levels come the second performance, as she'd sobbed so much it had washed all the considerable volume of make-up off to such an extent that irrelevant pop pixie Dannii Minogue had to cling to a stray Polo mint lest she drown in a wave of Rimmel. And when Beyonce came on in a surprise move, she was clearly all 'Bitch, don't weep on my weave' during their duet. I don't know what Beyonce had come as, but I think it was a sparkly t-shirt over a wet-suit. Maybe she was going to a foam party later on. Celebs, they get all the fun. Or maybe she'd seen Alexandra's previous performances and wanted to batter down the hatches as she tried to sing 'Hallelujah' while leaking more than a Victorian water main. You can imagine the mess when she actually won: I'm glad her microphone was clearly waterproof. Imagine if she'd electrocuted herself! Is The X Factor like Miss World? If you can't do your duties does it pass to dullard quartet JLS to turn on the Debenhams Christmas lights next year before slipping into obscurity?

Either way, Alexandra, I'm glad you're taking the crown. Even while you cried and cried and cried as the results were read out. And then kept mouthing "I love you" to her mentor, Cheryl. Which Cheryl kept mouthing back. Aww, what a lovely couple they'd make - Cheryl would say things like "Well pet, that was a performance" and Alexandra would definitely have to sleep in the wet patch. It's true love, I tells ya.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Things Wot I Have Learned This Week

1) Ever since Ryan moved in, I've gained twice the wardrobe, double the sex and two pounds in weight. I am quite adamant that this is His Fault, and how he denies it is a mystery. Everything he makes in the kitchen seems to have the first instruction 'crush up a packet of biscuits, and add a pound of butter'. His latest concoction, Malteaser Squares, are a good Irish recipe from the homeland, with the first ingredient after the obligatory crushed biscuits being 8 bags of Malteasers. Then there Dairy Milk, biscuits, butter and the topping is made of Toblerone. Honestly, the Irish have one famine and all of a sudden they're all about the calories.

2) There is absolutely no manly way to carry dry cleaning.

3) My mother has joined Facebook. I'm not sure she 'gets' it. Still, I showed her how to block my step-mother and she did a little dance, so maybe there's hope... I also wish my step-mother was wicked by the way. She's not. She's just... bland. Clearly perfect for my father as I've never seen anything get so much joy out of being told what to do every second of every day. Bar the child's toy BigTrak, that is.

4) I hate to use the word 'comfortable', but this is clearly where Ryan and I are heading (see point 1). The first time I noticed this was our choice of bedroom reading material stopped being so covertly chosen to give a good impression to each other; he now reads snobby Depression era fiction without an apology, I read Garfield and giggle into the valance.

5) Finally, today I'm currently working on a pitch for a french arthouse film poster. I only said I would do it because I thought 'arthouse' would be euphemistic for porn. It is not. I'm mildly disappointed, especially after making all those little red-and-yellow stars to put over lady's nipples, like wot they do. I may stick them on anyway to get people to go and see it. Or print them out and put them on myself for the afternoon. That'll scare the cleaner when she arrives...

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Friday, December 05, 2008

Grab A Tool And Start Banging

The best thing about living in an 'up-and-coming' area is not the increase in property prices, the sudden appearance of dolly little boutiques or coffee shops, but the sheer number of builders you have to walk past on a daily basis. I just trolled past a delectable duo of them hanging off some scaffolding and, bless, they were trying to do maths. It was like chimps trying to figure out the Dewey System, or my friend Nick trying to figure out what comes first - underwear or suit. And he's got Altzheimer's.

Incidentally, dear old Nick came out of the closet yesterday. Not that he's gay, no - he in such a bad way he just thought it was a car.

Anyway! Builders. I'm not sure what the fascination is, but by all that is Cher, it exists. Certainly in me and I'm really not sure why. I mean, if it was just the urge to shag anything that lifted-and-carried such weights, I'd be trying to seduce Oprah's triple-E bra. Perhaps it wasn't helped by one of my friends who happened to live around the corner from a certain steam-filled Gentleman's Recreational Club, and so had access to it at all hours. He told of a golden time, around seven thirty of a morning, when all the Polish builders who had left their girlfriends to go work on the buildings around Canary Wharf, would pop in and get serviced by all and sundry. Can you imagine all that undulating muscle? I unfortunately can, and I almost bit the top off my Poochie pen in doing so.

And you tell me that most builders aren't gay. I reckon if there were a fire in a wendy bar, twenty construction workers would pile out, twenty firemen would pile in - we'd just need the motorcycle cops and the Red Indians to complete the set.

I have to say that with all this testosterone in the air, I had the urge to build something. And not my usual three-tier sponge cake with a rather neat job of making dreamy Brad Pitt in icing for the top. So I finally ordered a self-assembly wardrobe for the other side of the bed - the one that Ryan was meant to be temporarily staying in. I think with this latest purchase, we've decided that the arrangement has actually become permanent, and so we celebrated like all good gays do: with flat-pack furniture. To there I was, building away at this thing for four hours to such an extent that my lily-livered, never-done-a-hard-days-work-in-my-life hands were covered in blisters. Four hours! And when I was finished, I was cut, bleeding, blistered and covered in sweat. I felt like a man!

Thankfully, he came home from work about ten minutes later.

Have a good weekend, y'all.