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

Friday, December 18, 2009


For some reason, whenever we have snow, everyone starts dressing like a lesbian.

I'm taking this unusually festive weather as a personal affront to my hatred of Christmas. While everyone is giddily skipping around and talking about watching 'The Box Of Delights' for the umpteenth spin (Children's BBC drama that I missed the first time around, rendering it meaningless to go back and try and capture some 'child-like' wonder of a slack-jawed youth running around the snow in pajamas) I'm content with treating the holidays like the inevitable disappointment they will be. This year I am seeing Christmas very much like that kind of cold that hangs around in your system: you know it's coming and no matter what you do to ward it off, it'll arrive, you won't be able to leave the house for any length of time, and you'll feel miserable. Proper under-the-weather miserable.

My friends clearly like the challenge of trying to cheer me about this, and question why on earth that I, the apparent heir to all that is gay, Takes Against a period where everything is bedecked in glitter and sparkle. Well, the crux of that is that I believe that everything should look like this anyway! I mean, how fabulous does the High Street look near you? Twinkling away like John Barrowman's nether-mouth just out of Make-Up? It's glorious. And while I know I should be revelling in it now, I'm just horribly aware that its going to get ripped down just afterwards and everything is going to go back to looking as plain as Jennifer Anniston without her haircut.

Instead I shall be bolting the doors to all visitors on Christmas Eve. I'd even go as far as setting up some hot oil for over the portcullis, but one feels that if there is any hot oil in the house, it should be used on split ends. After all, we must put glamour before anything else, mustn't we?

Monday, December 14, 2009


I told a friend I was going to Barcelona to watch football, he laughed in my face, then asked me what was really on. Some EuroPride or something. I told him that I was going over to see some football over and over again, but he still didn't listen.


I know nothing about football. It took me years to figure out there was more than one team other than 'The One Beckham Plays For' and 'The One Beckham Used To Play For'. In school, the only thing I learned about it was it was best to be in Defense, meaning you could run out a little way when the ball came up your end, shrug as they went past and leave the goalie to deal with it. If you were on a particually sucessful team, the ball would never come your way and you could spend the whole time making daisy chains and twirling around pretending to be Kate Bush.


It was my mother who wanted to go and see the football, and decided I was the best person to take. I still have no idea why, although she probably thought it would be a good way to MAN ME THE FUCK UP. It did not work: on the tour of the stadium, I kept thinking 'these corridors are very much like the ones from the 2005 Doctor Who adventure 'Dalek' as that too was filmed in a sadium'. She said it'd be nice for when I saw the match the following day, now I've seen everything and where everything was, it'd now be more exciting for me. I asked her how many tours of Doctor Who exhibitions we had done. She said there had been Too Many. I said that she'd done all those and *still* didn't know where the dimensional stabilisers were, how the hell was I meant to now understand footskitball?

We reached a natural impasse at that point and went for drinks instead.


I like holidaying with my mother. There's something so 'provincial gay' about it, like we're off to see the donkeys at Blackpool, instead of wandering down the sea front looking for the bars with the cheapest sangria and the hottest men. She's terribly good fun. And there's nothing that draws in the gays like a man taking his mother out. You can see them thinking 'oh if he looks after his mother like that, he's a keeper...'


I also like the Metro here in Barcelona: there's a man's voice announce that there's a station coming up, then a lady's voice then coming in to tell you what station it is. She sounds like a right back-seat driver.


Actually the men out here are hot. Really hot. Swarthy. And surly. Like they'd spit on their hand and consider that foreplay. Clearly I'm in love with every one I pass. I've bitten my knuckles so often my teeth have predefined gaps to fit into. I'm not sure what my mother would do if I pulled a hot Spanish boy. She's probably cheer me on, if she didn't like my current boy so much. She keeps trying on hats and mentioning 'nuptuals'. At first I thought she was being dirty and I'd slap her.


The women seem to be looking at me here. I have no idea why; women are a mystery to me at the best of times, and now we have a whole different culture on top of those feminine whiles. It took me ages to figure out why they're making eyes at me: I'm so damn pale that they think I'm a relative of Edward Cullen. For fuck's sake.


I think the strangest thing about the whole experience was eating ice creams in December. The nicest thing was getting some time with my mother away from the usual nonsense. And the most infuriating was not being able to talk to anyone. As a language, English is so widespread that foreign languages are not taught in the same aggressive nature as other European countries. All the Spanish I know is 'a small beer, please', 'thank you', 'goodbye', 'the bill, if you please', and 'hello, girlfriend' - the latter the only thing I picked up in Sitges, despite the insistance of someone's hand at the foam party. I wish I knew more phrases. I wish I knew 'excuse me, would you mind moving?' as it would please my passive aggressive nature perfectly. I wish I could talk to strangers as I'm sure they could be marvelous. And I'd love to tell those bastards with the accordions to get the shuddering fuck out of my listening range, you're not going to get any money and I'm trying to talk to my friend here. And thank you so much for putting 'Spanish Flea' in my head for the rest of the day, you unwashed peasants.

You know, just the basics.

Friday, December 04, 2009

New Moon

My favourite game at the moment is going on YouTube and finding every vblog of podgy girls threatening to cut themselves if 'New Moon' is no good. Though I doubt very much my idea and their idea of a good film are even in the same hemisphere. I like sly comedy, good set-pieces and camp heroines, they seem to like not being able to hear the stilted dialogue over the sounds of hymens being twanged in the direction of the screen.

I was told I should go to look at the men. Well yes, one of them is alright, but look at the picture above. I've seen far too many adverts like that for off-Leicester Square flamenco troops to make me comfortable. And my tastes are much more grown-up than those hairless tykes. I like a bit of hair on a man, thank you - something I think comes from when I was first touching men back in my youth, I used to have nylon bedsheets (best not to think about it, just admire how far I've come) and the repetitive movement used to cause such static build up that you could cause electricity to arc all the way over to my Barbie wendy house. And a bit of fur on nylon gives you purchase: one deft shunt on a hairless boy would cause them to skid under the pillows, and sometimes up to the shoulders in the cheap plasterboard behind the bed. It was no wonder I lost the deposit on that house. That and the scale model of Judith Chalmers we'd made out of old leather handbags and installed in the lounge with No More Nails.

Back to New Moon (cup). You go to a Michael Bay film, you expect the audience to be made of men in their 30s with brains in their teens. You go see a 'Sex And The City' movie, you can bet the crowd is screeching harpies in fascinators, tipsy on Cosmo's and waiting for that one cock shot. I feel the Twilight saga to be the worst, and you'll be get your soda stuck to the ground from the combination of panty-pudding and haagen dazs from the tubby girl next to me. She'll be wearing the oversized ‘I’m Just A Bella Waiting For Her Edward’ tshirt, frotting herself silly at the same time as cutting herself. And that doesn't make for an attractive viewing experience.

That, and the story this time is one girl's choice between bestiality and necrophilia. Fancy.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

The Joans - Mad At The Dirt

"Wire hangers... bring out my anger"

Possibly one of the greatest rhymes in gay living history.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009


Today I had light Philadelphia cream cheese on a couple of Rivita crackers.

All that was missing on the side was my alice band and my menial PA position in a faceless media company.

Thursday, October 29, 2009


I see that The Nation's Bawdy Treasure, Barbara Winsor, is leaving 'EastEnders' next year.

A thought: isn't that when they're meant to be going HD?

Just a thought.

Monday, October 26, 2009

Coming Late To The (Nazi) Party

I hate getting stopped by protesters, mostly because they tend to be well-meaning but smell of wet dog.

There were swathes of them outside the BBC last week (where I'm currently holed up colouring in some new Doctor Who stuff) for the appearance of Nick Griffin, current leader of the British National Party, appearing on 'Question Time'. Now I wanted him on there to hopefully to make an utter fool of himself - but they wouldn't listen, called me a racist and stuffed a handful of flyers in my hand. Now I think free speech is very important - we're just terrible at dealing with it in this country. Thusly when Griffin was on the show, it was rather like the horrible uncle that arrives at a Christmas lunch who every now and again lurches forward and says "I suppose you bought this gravy from the local paki shop, didn't you?" and everyone looks down at their sprouts and hopes to change the subject to more genteel matters. My only regret is that they didn't give him enough time (or metaphorical rope) to hang himself; perhaps they should have eschewed 'Question Time' and put him on 'Come Dine With Me' and maybe a slight tint to the meringue would have set him off and made him explode in ill-contained hatred.

Meanwhile on 'Question Time' he danced his considerable bulk around most of the issues thrown at him (I loved the idea he was friends with a non-violent faction of the Klu Klux Klan - what did they do, sit around on weekends comparing thread counts in their sheets?) and was only given just about enough time to semi-disgrace himself with the only faux pas by announcing he finds gay men kissing in public 'creepy'. Goodness, this from a man with eyes so independent from each other that one looks like its going down the shops while the other is coming back with the change. He looks like a constantly-surprised plucked owl. And with that hideous weak chin - oh darling readers, does it not look like he was breast-fed until he was five years old? And he says that gay men kissing is creepy? My dear thing, the idea of you getting your bow-shaped dribbling lips around anything remotely human fills us with a revulsion.

Back to the argument of free speech. The whole incident with vile journalist Jan Moir is proving that my faith in human nature is actually justified for once, when she attacked the death of Stephen Gately as being 'unnatural' - clearly alluding to the fact it was with another two men present and possibly involved drugs. She then spent a whole week weaseling around the hack language when people turned around and said "Hang on..." and M&S started dropping pictures of pants from around her column. I was surprised when another column turned up a week later trying to show off her teflon coating about the whole incident, again not really saying anything certain about anything up until the last few paragraphs, where she tries to prove herself right about the whole outcry, thusly shooting herself in her own coven hoof. Here she is saying 'anyway, so what if I was gay-bashing, I got lots of letters after I wrote that column saying I was right'. Now this just plain stupid: a handful of messages from your family in Kent undersigned 'the silent majority' does not equate with the twenty-two thousand emails that went to the Press Complaints Commission. Twenty-two thousand. There were so many that the website crashed. I very much doubt that the delusional 'undersigned' numbered that many, darling. If so, I'm going to add numeric illiteracy alongside your inability to write anything without meandering around a point. See, I'm all for free speech, I just want it to be well written.

Friday, October 23, 2009

The Tunnel of Rape

Good lord. Modern artist Richard Whitehurst is apparently building The Tunnel Of Rape as an 'art piece', where he would sit in it and try and overpower anyone who wandered inside and rape them. Well, what fun! And there was me rolling my eyes at Tracy Emin's unmade bed. At least this one is more interactive.

Now see, my question was that if you were wandering into something called 'The Tunnel of Rape' and clearly expected to get a little fun, then clearly the sex is at least slightly consensual, yes? So not rape, then? I mean you're going to look a bit silly crawling through this clearly-marked Tunnel of Rape to get to the other end to complain that you got punched in the throat then punched in the box, aren't you. Unless there's a sign at the door saying 'FREE ACME BIRD SEED - THIS WAY' I think you're going to get everything you deserve. Although I am also imagining some poor child playing Catch and their little red ball just rolling into the Tunnel... Cue the music from 'The Exorcist' as the kid walks towards it. Or the theme from 'Benny Hill' - take your pick!

Clearly its meant as an attraction, which instantly pings into my head that there's probably going to be a gift shop at the end. With t-shirts that say 'I had my tunnel raped in the Tunnel of Rape!' and maybe those pictures in the cardboard frames that you get taken on the ride. I hate those pictures. My hair’s always a mess and I always look so disinterested. Well, same as, I suppose…

Although on further digging, Whitehurst's piece is a fake - he's often announcing 'shocking' pieces to the world in order to upset the apple cart. Which is just as well as rape is clearly a horrible, horrible thing... unless you were there to witness that late night episode of everygreen soap 'Hollyoaks' with a bit of backdoor boy-rape happening as part of an ongoing storyline where some awful chavvy thug had Gary Lucy over the bonnet of his car in the middle of the night. I felt funny for days, I tell you. Clearly it was meant to be shocking and vile - but really, these boys were beautiful. Troublingly so. It wasn't so much 'rape' as 'Free Surprise Sex!' in my widened, lustful eyes.

As a result, I did spend most of the article scanning through it, thinking 'yes, yes. All well and good. But is Whitehurst pretty?' Shame it turned out to be fake: I think my logging straight on to was holiday wish fulfillment after too many years visiting Butlin’s boring Holiday Camp in Bognor. Vivre le difference, I say.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Food Poisoning

Being a screaming Gentleman Who Owns One Too Many Gingham Shirts, there is one sliver of thought that runs through any instance of food poisoning. Throughout the endless vomiting, poised on the edge of the toilet like those oscillating dippy-bird toys. Through the explosive instances at the other end of the body that renders leaving the house an impossibility, as well as turning it into a No-Poking Compartment. And that thought is this: Oh my good lord, this is better than any diet going and I'm going to look faaaaabulous.

Wednesday, October 07, 2009

Vag Bomb

I mean clearly I'm a stranger to feminine hygiene having never been near a splayed bacon sandwich since my dear mother shot me into this world. Male hygiene - well you're lucky if they run it under the tap before you find it insistently bobbing around before your mouth, but I understand that women get it all a little worse - compounded by someone sending me this delightful ad:

Well, isn't that just lovely! Cher bless you, 1950s housewife. You're not going to get any, my love, because your frustrated, Bryl-Creemed husband has locked himself away to smoke pipes and build ships in bottles just to take his mind off the idea of plunging nuts-deep into your drip-tray - that just happens to reek like the bins of a sea-view hotel on a summer's afternoon.

Although I have to ask - 'soda'? They used soda? Really? I can't really imagine sitting there during 'Wheel of Fortune' while your nethermouth is fizzing away like a Sodastream. Well I can, I just choose not to. I'm strong like that. Yeah.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

The Lost Symbol X

And so we reach the finale of the book where the story has stopped three chapters previously, Langdon has managed to find his spiral staircase and the man who had his hand removed only hours before stop halfway down and discuss all sorts of theological issues for what feels like hours. He then buggers off and leaves the rest of his lecturing to his sister, the Speak & Spell with Lipstick, to pick up where he left off so Dan Brown can throw in all the rest of his research in and underline all his favourite bits from previous chapters. What remains is five or six chapters on how we are all Gods and isn't that lovely and why not have a slap on the back for being so clever. I haven't had such a forced upbeat ending since I went to group therapy that happened to be run by a former Butlin's Redcoat.

I still have no bloody idea what the lost symbol is. I shall pretend it's the silly little thing on the key below the Escape on your keyboard.

I think what I will primarily take away from this book is that it needed an editor, a sub-editor and much more Pam the air stewardess. I shall also take away the unmitigated joy at every character being so damn surprised about everything, and Brown expecting his audience to follow suit. I mean, one character opens a drawer and gasps at one point - and this constitutes the end of a chapter. Elsewhere, a minor character has been on the phone to the vile Character Traits on Legs in her helicopter, and expresses utter shock when the vile Character Traits on Legs phones her back from a rooftop. She genuinely thinks 'Director Sato is on a rooftop?!' like this means she's turned into Spider-Man and climbed up there herself. Every revelation is unveiled with characters having to pick their jaws off up the floor, and whether this is the discovery that an ancient pyramid has some symbols on the bottom, or that someone realizes an extractor fan is on in the kitchen. Thank heaven there wasn't a sex scene is all I shall say.

Bless you all for sticking with me though this. I'm now going to read something good. Or at least shorter. And with less pictures for once.

Monday, October 05, 2009

The Lost Symbol IX

Ooh, the home stretch now. Almost at the end I'm sure you'll be pleased to hear.

So where are we? Well, Mal'akh's plan is finally revealed and it seems to be getting himself killed while at the same time sending video footage of the Masons doing their initiation ceremony around the world. Apparently this will 'bring down governments' because it shows people titting about in robes and if you show this on the 6 o'clock news the whole country would be in uproar. According to Dan Brown. I mean really, if I saw video footage of any members of our government flouncing about while drinking from skulls I wouldn't be the slightest bit surprised and would just turn over to watch 'Strictly Come Dancing: It Takes Two'. Also I think Mal'akh needs to have a word with his internet service provider as it takes two chapters to upload a video file to a server when we all know it takes about 30 seconds to do it on YouTube (or XTube cough) in this day and age. Perhaps the news networks wouldn't broadcast it unless he uploaded it in HD with 5.1 sound? They're clearly very picky.

The vile Character Traits on Legs is in her helicopter and complaining that they can't set off an EMP pulse to fry the laptop sending the video because the Mason's temple is stone and thus completely shielded from electromagnetic radiation. Oh really? Magic stone is this? And then the following paragraph has her helicopter hovering over a fricking glass skylight!

However there is a plot twist around here that was actually quite good so I won't spoil it for you assembled masses. And it actually ties up some of the irritating loose ends from midway through the book. When I first started this read my expectations were middling but slowly started to sink as I remembered what an appalling author Brown is. I can't remember why this slipped my mind, I can only assume that my boyfriend sent me for electroshock therapy at some point. I'm still not saying this is a competent read. To me its very much like the child at the wedding that everyone's wary of: if it didn't sick up or crap itself during the reception, it was a good day.

I may have finished it by tomorrow. I do hope so, but I still have no idea what the Lost Symbol is yet. I better not be disappointed...

Thinks of child at wedding...

Friday, October 02, 2009

The Lost Symbol VIII

Right so this thing is really beginning to annoy me now as its shot past 'good-bad' and is heading right towards 'throw across the Tube carriage in disgust'. And I would have done just that if it wasn't a hardback and there was a nice man in tracksuit bottoms and while it would have been a nice way to introduce myself I'd rather he didn't know I was reading this utter rubbish. If you care about spoilers, you may want to stop now.

Basically, when we last saw Mary-Sue Langdon and the Speak & Spell with Lipstick, they were racing towards Mal'akh's apartment as Lipstick's handless brother had been held. But it turns out it was a cunning ruse and Mal'akh was still there after all, and he captures Lipstick and Mary-Sue Langdon, putting Langdon in a fiberglass tank that slowly fills with water.

And then Langdon drowns.

This I have no problem with as frankly he was boring me - it is what happens next that gets my goat. He starts hallucinating and wondering if there's an afterlife (just as Lipstick happens to be conveniently flashback to an experiment she did with an immortal soul in order for Brown to crowbar in his theories about the afterlife) when Langdon apparently dies. And you know what? He has a flashback to a lecture that his friend gave. I mean, really. If your life passes before your eyes when you're shuffled off this mortal coil, you'd hope that your last thoughts weren't of a lecture you had a few years back. I'd want happiness, romance, and a replay of when those two Australian dancers happened to be staying in digs just around the corner from my house for a whole month and we barely saw daylight.

But a lecture?

Even worse than that, having pages and pages of detail about what it was like to drown, it turns out that Mal'akh had filled the tank with the same breathable goo as they used on Elisabeth Mastrantonio in 'The Abyss' and everyone's fine by the start of the next chapter.

I mean, really. Gah!

Thank Cher I'm almost at the end.

Thursday, October 01, 2009

The Lost Symbol VII

So Robert Mary-Sue Langdon and the Speak & Spell with Lipstick have a stone pyramid, a capstone and the box it came in and are puzzling it all out how it could reveal the location of this mysterious spiral staircase that seems to have come out of nowhere. They're prodding it and poking it and trying to discover what secrets it hides and at no point has anyone considered putting the capstone on the pyramid? No they have not. Instead they decide to boil it in water after some tortuous route that reveals that Isaac Newton is the One True God of science yadda-yadda-yadda. Seriously these two are like the apes at the beginning of '2001' when it comes to problems. Still, boiling it actually reveals an address, so perhaps there's method in their poorly-written madness. I just hope the Speak & Spell with Lipstick never finds a lost dog and tries to find where that lives by cranking up the pasta saucepan...

What else is happening? Well, as Mal'akh isn't currently integral to the plot he's having purification ceremony after purification ceremony in excruciating detail - the level of detail that Dan Brown normally reserves for the rooms they're in. I do seriously wonder if Brown was an estate agent before he turned his crayons to writing as every building that we are lead into isn't described in any emotional or terms of spectacle, but rather floor space, how many windows and whether it has a south view in the morning. He only just stops short of telling us that the seller has no chain and pets are allowed within reason.

Then the vile Character Traits on Legs turns out to be on their side and proves this by taking Langdon and Speak & Spell into custody (I know) but I have long given up trying to understand her motives so I doubt I'd be surprised if she started doing a burlesque dance any minute because Brown needs to start riffing on how Isaac Newton once did drag on his own bridge in Cambridge and this has something do to with the Masons. Oh and the man with the severed hand from the first chapter has been found, so hopefully, the book is drawing to a close. Although there's about 200 pages left so Cher only knows what's going to fill those. I hope it's not an appendix of Brown's favourite restaurants in Washington or something as he'll just be forgetting about the food and telling us how many Corinthian columns he counted on the way to the toilet.

Wednesday, September 30, 2009


I caught the first episode. S'all right. But:

* If the flashforward happened at the same time all over the globe, surely half the world would have been asleep when it happened?

* Why did all the aircraft drop out the sky? Don't they have autopilot for these things?

* Why, in the background of Alex Kingston's bit, was Big Ben aflame? I mean seriously, what the hell they storing up there? All the newspapers with Princess Diana on the cover? Is there a bell tower? And the rope to the bell tower is actually made of candle wick?

* Why are so many buildings aflame? I mean come on. It was two minutes! Are all the buildings just sitting around going 'No-one's looking, no-one's looking... NOW NOW NOW!!!'

Buuuut I didn't tune in for some realism. I tuned in to see fit men have their tops off. Taps watch. I'm still waiting, and I didn't see any in the flash forward either. Something's remiss...

The Lost Symbol VI

This thing just won't quit.

So Langdon (what a boring name) and Katherine have now escaped and are looking for sanctuary in Washington DC thanks to another stock Dan Brown character: the kindly old man who knows more than he should. He'll probably turn out to be evil just like Teabing (what a ridiculous name) in the last one so I'm not holding my breath. They've solved more puzzles, hurrah, and... are they meant to have any sexual chemistry together? I can't tell. All she's there to do is ask questions at the right time, rather like a Speak & Spell with lipstick. Actually does she wear lipstick? I can't remember a single thing about her physically as all I seem to recall was Brown telling us how high she is and be done with it.

On the opposite side of this is Mal'akh, who is having a flashback to how he got all his tattoos which is nice as there's reams of description of his physique in wondrous graphic detail including his chiseled abs and 'massive sex organ... this heavy shaft of flesh' to which I gasped and didn't really care what his evil plan is as long as he did a shoot for Attitude magazine. I mean really, if this tome wasn't the size of a tombstone, I'd be convinced it was a Mills & Boone.

In other news, I am so indoctrinated by this book that I've started to think in italics.

Monday, September 28, 2009

The Lost Symbol V

The great read continues.

Well, we've finally moved from one room in the Capitol Building and all the way over the road to another room in the Library where Langdon and Bellamy have got a coded pyramid and... I think that they're trying to decipher it, although Bellamy keeps saying that if he does it'll be the end of everything, which is a touch dramatic as the 'end of everything' sounds very much like a description of a spiral staircase to me. Perhaps Bellamy has a fear of late 70's architectural flourishes. I wish people would turn around and go "Would you mind explaining what you mean by 'the end of everything'?" rather than take it on the chin because if it was just a staircase, then we could all tut and go home. Despite Bellamy's warnings, it doesn't stop him hanging out over Langdon's shoulder as he works it all out with a pencil.

Meanwhile over at the Lab of Cold Hatred, Katherine is attacked by Mal'akh in the dark - and it's actually a well-written chapter which confused the hell out of me as it was like you were watching 'Midsommer Murders' and inbetween one of the ad breaks the regular director nips off for a coffee and Ridley Scott helps out. Katherine flees and Mal'akh has an idle flashback to his Ideal Holiday where he gets tanned and buff and has a lot of sex. If doesn't seem to have much bearing on anything, but it was nice to have a bit of joy for one of the characters instead of having them frowning over some ancient relic. Oh and Mal'akh's 'plan' is an unfortunate victim of Dan Brown seemingly handing in his first draft as it seems that he hears about the mysterious pyramid that Langdon is currently frowning over from someone who died in the previous part of the scene. Oops.

So Langdon carries on puzzling, and Bellamy lets him puzzle as long as the plot needs him to. I'd like to help out and be a bit more interactive, but as most of the information is hidden from us until the characters need it the whole effect is kind of watch two strangers across the room playing 'Professor Layton and the Curious Village' on the Nintendo DS.

I shall carry on.

Friday, September 25, 2009

The Lost Symbol IV

Still ploughing through this tome.

So right now, we're still in the Capitol Building, and we're wandering through the basements to Sub-Sub-Basement 13 ('SSBXIII' - geddit?) and along the way Robert Mary-Sue Langdon is telling us all his pet theories about everything from The Masons to the American '13' conspiracy theorists, who would apparently 'have a field day' if they discovered that underneath the Capitol Building there are 13 tiny rooms. Well I'm so pleased that they are clearly so excitable that they'll probably burst into song at hearing about George Washington's storage space. If only we were all that easy to please. I can't imagine them going around IKEA without riot police being called.

Meanwhile upstairs, Warren Bellamy is hammering to be let into the building. Mr Bellamy is the heavily-foreshadowed 'Architect' of the Capitol Building meaning that he's in charge of the running of the whole structure. I for one find it odd that he's in charge of the whole building and doesn't have a key to get in but that's just me. I assume that Dan Brown is going to reveal all in a few chapters and not just drop this loose thought like a hot potato. That's been carved with ancient runes.

Finally they reach the door, and the vile Character Traits on Legs shoots open the door to reveal a secret sanctuary containing an old desk, a couple of candles, a skull, an antique hourglass, a crystal flask, a scythe, and some paper. This apparently means he's a Mason though I'm not sure why as I used to see all this sort of paraphernalia on the top of the clothes racks in River Island back in the early Nineties. I loved it looking like that in the day. I was forever popping in there for some new stay-pressed action-slacks and an antique typewriter.

Back in the room, the vile Character Traits on Legs finds that there is a secret panel at the back of the room and reveals an uncapped pyramid covered in symbols. Rather fortuitously she then gets a text message with an X-Ray of Langdon's bag, and in the package he'd got was the top of the pyramid. The vile Character Traits on Legs then shouts at him a lot for hiding what are apparently state secrets. Yeesh, I'd hate to be at her family during present unwrapping for Christmas.

I shall continue over the weekend. However I am missing Pam the air stewardess. At least she was fun.

Thursday, September 24, 2009

The Lost Symbol III

Sorry there was no update yesterday but seriously nothing is happening in this book. Here's what I can gather:

Robert Langdon is still in the Capitol building, and is joined by what I can only describe as a series of grotesque character traits on legs called Ms Sato, who comprises of a skin condition that makes her look like a mottled statue, a cancer scar across her throat, and the personal skills of K-Fed at an All You Can Eat buffet. Oh and as Dan Brown loves telling us the height of his characters, I now know that she is four feet ten. And that Langdon is over six foot. So when she first comes in and taps him on the shoulder she must have brought her own box to stand on.

Meanwhile Katherine Solomon has been sitting in her Lab of Cold Hatred and reminiscing about how she got her research project going. As far as I can tell, someone gave her a copy of 'The Secret' and told her to prove it with Science!, bless.

Oh and I forgot to mention Mal'akh, who appears to be the villain of the piece and thinks things like 'destiny's gravity brings you to me' which is sweet and proof that you can get work outside a Magic 8 Ball factory. He too has something going on with his skin - and is tattooed all over his 'powerful, six-foot-three frame' which makes me think that Dan Brown has something against people with skin conditions and affectations (cf The Albino from the previous book) as they're always vile. Hm. Well, destiny's gravity is driving him around Washington DC in a limo wearing a series of wigs and more make-up than Christina Aguilera on awards night. A well-muscled man, who's not on carbs for two days and not afraid of a little concealer, driving around town waiting for a man to call..? You can bet he set the TiVo for 'Glee' before he went out.

Meanwhile Langdon has found something tattooed on the palm of the severed hand that, if he turns upside down, I bet will say 'SSB XIII'. Oh and he's also got a hitherto unmentioned box in his bag that has come out of nowhere because the plot demands it. Bad Dan Brown! Bad! To your basket! If you need something that is integral to the plot you have to at least mention it a few pages before otherwise you look like some half-arsed hack making it up on the spot. Oh wait. Never mind.

More soon!

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

The Lost Symbol II

So. I'm slowly reading Dan Brown's magnum opus, and am about 40 pages in. Here is the story so far as I see it:

Robert Mary-Sue Langdon has taken a private jet to Washington DC (during which he happened to be 'halfway through reviewing Masonic Symbology' which made me wonder "what, all of it? How very industrious!") when he has a flashback to his old mentor, Peter Soloman. This then triggers a flashback to another lecture he gave, while he runs in the rain to the latest lecture he's about to give. As far as I can tell, that lecture is about the perils of running in the rain in loafers, as that is what is mostly filling Langdon's brain at the time.

Meanwhile, Peter's sister is reminiscing a lot in flashback about her top secret lab that her brother built her in a dark, freezing aircraft hanger. I assume that he really must have hated her.

Just as Langdon is about to start a lecture, a screaming child calls his attention from another flashback. He seems remarkably astute as I do anything to ignore a screaming child in a public place. But this child has spotted a severed hand pointing at the ceiling, and Langdon notes that this hand is that of his missing friend Peter. How thrilling!

I shall keep you posted.

Monday, September 21, 2009

The Lost Symbol I

I'm worrying about my literary ability: I started reading Gore Vidal's 'Julian' at the beginning of last week and by Wednesday I'd given up and was reading Lawrence Miles. By Saturday, I'd slipped further down the scale and started Dan Brown's 'The Lost Symbol'. I don't think there's any hope, frankly. By mid this week I'll be doing colouring books on the Tube to work.

It's a pity as I was looking forward to 'Julian' - so many people had recommended it to me as slotting in with my oft-ranted ideals of Organized Religion and Where Bumming Fits Into This, but 30 pages of lists of people and places I didn't care for made me give it up. And a much more learned friend of mine said '30 pages is more than enough to know if you're going to enjoy a book'. So out came Dan Brown, handed over to me from Gertie on the express proviso that I carry it title facing out and as proud as a Latino mother of her drag queen son. I got several nods from nice ladies and one or two eye-rolls from people going to Primrose Hill.

Here's what has happened so far: there's a spelling mistake on the third line - 'bloodred' - and the word 'secret' has been mentioned more times than a teenage girl's diary. Our hero, Robert Langdon, has been on a flight on a private jet that has had the make and model number of the plane and the engines listed. Then an intercom goes off to tell him that the plane is about to land, but the make and volume of said intercom was not listed, and so I clearly felt completely removed from the action as a result. Langdon was met from the plane by a British stewardess called Pam, who was a groupie for Langdon's previous books. She commented on his wardrobe which, if you skip to the author photo at the back, is almost exactly what Dan Brown is wearing. I think Langdon's middle names are 'Mary-Sue'. You may have to look that up. Then a limo picks him up and takes him away into the night.

Apparently a 'lone figure' is waiting for him. I hope its Pam again. She seems lonely.

More as it happens.

Pest Control

In the mood for a bit of silly Who action, I made Nelson sit through 'Army of Ghosts' and 'Doomsday' last night. Rather delightfully, he gasped when the Void Ship cracked open and some Daleks dropped out.

"What did you think was in there?" I asked afterwards.

"Oh, not really sure. I was kinda betting on John Barrowman."

I does love him.

Friday, September 11, 2009

That Saga

I just realised I haven't really spoken about Twilight, have I? Well, in short:

I. Don't. Get. Twilight.

Or more correctly, I don't get abstinence. I think that's what my main objection is. That and the mimsy doomed romance between two vapid people that go to every extreme length to show Sex! Is! Bad! That if you do, the man will turn rabid and destroy you (Stephanie Mayer changing her name to Mary-Sue there) and if you do do it with the correct 'protection', you may still end up with a cancerous growth inside you that'll probably break your spine as it grows.

Well, fancy. I doubt that I'll ever write anything as heart-warming or as popular, but I'd just like to put across that Sex! Is! Good! and the whole concept of absence is probably doomed from the start. I am a huge fan of 'try before you buy', so much so that I'm a valued shopper with many gentlemen callers. And it has taken me many years to find a partner I'm happy with. Lord, when I think of some of the past ones - one comes to mind that I didn't know was ginger until he dropped his trollies, his pencil-thin member topped with an almost-blue tip. There was a whole 'is that it?' after the event. I couldn't imagine waiting til I was married to get that as a present. Its a given fact that people sometimes aren't compatible in bed, no matter what their personalities are like. And this is for me what Twilight promoted.

I have three favourite moments in the whole film:

1) Edward reveals that he doesn't have a bed. Thus proving that allowing a girl into his room, she is completely safe from any teenage pawings at her abstinence ring. "I don't sleep," he mutters. Sure you don't, I'm fine with that. But not even a chair to lie back on and peruse some men@play? Sure, you're 300 years old so when you shot your load it'd be like a little puff of Malvern Sea Salt detonating, but it'd stop you wandering about looking like you've trapped your vamp nads in a car door, darling.

2) Edward appearing in Bella's room while she sleeps. Because last time I awoke with some pallid youth leaning over me in the morning, I then had to fork out £50 for the night and later found out he'd nicked my DVD player.

3) The moment in Bella's bedroom where Edward and Bella are close and she leans in for a kiss. For a moment, he looks like he's going to - hethen twirls her away in a dance.

See, now. This is the whole crux of the matter for me, as this is what your Twi-hard fan is going to expect whenever she invites a boy up to her room for the first time. She's going to lean in, and so is he. She's going to expect him to twirl her away, he's going to stick his tongue down her throat. "No no! Do it like Edward!" she'll exclaim, and he'll laugh in her face and try getting to second base through her Bella jacket.

A note for any Twi-hard girl reading this: if a man twirls you away instead of kissing you, chances are he's going to be Very Good With Colours and will be platting your hair as you watch the first season of 'Glee'. But he's still going to break your heart eventually, so that will probably please you in some dark internal place. You have my permission to cut yourself just a little.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

Man Sitting

The war of the sexes just took a petty turn: in the fine city of Boston they have started a campaign against 'man sitting'. You know, when a fine youth usually in tracksuit bottoms take up a little extra space in order to display their produce by the means of a little wider leg-room. Personally I think its a lovely sight on the way to work, and one of the few perks that get me through the morning. The others being my hipflask and my cheerful, giving demeanor when handsome strangers ask if I 'have the time?' Especially if there's a hilarious misunderstanding and their hotel room is actually quite close.

What distresses me more about this man-sitting campaign is firstly that they have badges that are so badly designed they look like Microsoft clip-art. And secondly that they may be trying to bring the campaign over here to England. Look at what you could be staring at across the isle:

I look forward to seeing them try, where some sexually-frustrated spinster spies a man with his legs apart over the way, coughing dramatically and tapping their lapel like a magpie with A.D.D. No-one would take the blindest bit of notice. And if we're going to give up comfort, we should expect a similar loss on the opposite side of the gender war. I shall make you a deal: we'll sit 'properly' if you stop reading Mormon abstinence clap-trap 'Twilight' on the tube.

Deal? Deal.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Daylight Robbery

Oh well, that explains it.

You see, I was walking down Bond Street when two suited gentleman pulled up in a BMW and offered to give me a double-hoop for a low price. I said I hadn't done that sort of thing in years, but there was probably enough room on the back seat if I got my legs through the sunroof.

They drove off. Shame.

Tuesday, August 11, 2009


As I'm often three years behind with the current cultural zeigeist (apparently the cake is a lie) as so I've only just I've only just got involved in Spotify, the music streaming site. What impresses me is the volume of songs on there all for free (FREE!) and the only catch is that you get the odd advert irregularly inserted into your selection of Cher remixes. All well and good.

Well, you'd think. I did spend a bit of time on the Yahoo music service some time ago, which was delightfully clever and after a couple of musical cul-de-sacs, we settled in to a bot-suggested playlist comprising of the whole Bette Midler back catalogue with some sidelines into the Scissor Sisters. Spotify doesn't appear to have that ability at all; with my musical tastes making my computer sound like its owned by a six-year-old girl and covered with stickers of Zac Efron, it keeps going 'Hey! Why not download some Tom Petty?!'

I'll pass, thanks.

In fact, I'd happily fill in a questionare somewhere if it'd help. Some of the adverts that spring up inbetween Christina, Barbra and Girls Aloud are for giving blood - chances are that if I'm listening to that combination, my darling darling things, is that I'm as gay as a goose and you don't want my pink-tinged blood anyway.

I'm just saying, is all.

Monday, August 10, 2009

Love Soup

So, the hilarious Michael Jackson stories continue to come out. And this weekend, we had the tale of an former child star Mark Lester claiming that he may be the father of one of Jackson's children.

All well and good. But apparently he's not sure - which implies that he was perfectly happy handing over his love-syrup to Jackson without knowing what was going to happen to it!

Are stars really that stupid? Really? I mean, are people willing to hand out their spaff to anyone who asks for whatever reason they say? I do hope so. I'm just off down the Post Office to send Adam Baldwin a charmingly polite note and a pyrex beaker.

Yes. Not a test tube. A beaker.

Thursday, July 30, 2009


Popped to see low budget wonder film 'Moon' yesterday. Oh it's alright, and Sam Rockwell is pleasant enough to look at from some angles, but curiously not all. You can see all the reviews saying that it was a 'brave' role. To me, this means that if this were Meryl Streep she wouldn't wear any make-up and sport that special shapeless grey cardigan given to all actresses involved in dramas where a lot of cleaning products are on show in their kitchen. Here bravery translates as Rockwell having to stand around in pants and vest, looking a little tired and pot-bellied. Like the weight restrictions made him leave any kind of Nivea behind on Earth. The film depends on him delivering a powerhouse performance and yes, he's great in it - but not brilliant. You can tell something is up when he's sometimes outshone by an emoticon.

Speaking of which, the other main cast member is Kevin Spacey as Rockwell's robot help, a suspended box with a HAL-like eye and an inexplicable coffee mug holder (perhaps someone misunderstood the name 'mooncup'?). Spacey is doing his best HAL impression - his emotionless delivery is on par with any Megan Fox performance; and the slight echo to the voice is very unnerving. Like he was reading it in the steamroom of Gentleman's Health Spa 'Pleasuredrome' - which happens to be a few doors down from The Old Vic. I'm just saying, is all. I shall watch it again on DVD with the sound up, listening to see whether I can hear the furtive shuffling of towels in the corner, the distant laughing of Polish boy functionaries throwing around their mops and buckets, and the light crunch of the unfathomable grit that fills the place.

Overall, good film. Not great - it feels like there's just one element missing to make it a classic. And the plot twist (helpfully given away in the trailer) will leave Gentlemen Who Tape The Oscars smiling a wry smile at what they'd do when they discover what's in the crashed Lunar vehicle. I think it'd be a great way to while away three years, but then I've always been a little narsssistic. Grin.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Heigl High Water

I love a good disaster movie... And for once I'm not talking about anything with Katherine Heigl in. Yeesh, I tell you, I was snacking on my popcorn, waiting for Ryan Reynolds/Sandra Bullock magnum opus 'The Proposal' to start when I was forced to sit through the trailer for 'The Ugly Truth' - her latest hour-and-a-half of her tossing her thinning hair at some man, while she gives them the side eye with her gimlet eyes. Oh, and then some stunt-woman dressed as her fell out of a tree. My my, comedy gold. You have to pity any stunt woman who has to dress as Heigl - not only do you have to wear a weave that looks like its been combed by a lawn edger, but also be next to her on set while she invariably tells all and sundry how hard and horrible Hollywood is to work in. Let me tell you, honey: I've worked in the other side of Hollywood in a couple of... specialist films. And yes, we were worked hard for 17 hour days and could barely sit down on the bus home, but we were grateful for it! We may have been paid in bottlecaps and Luncheon Vouchers, but we were happy! So snap out of it, love. You're only this close from the IMDB ignominy of 'straight-to-DVD' by the big beary presence of Gerard Butler as your co-star.

Oh he'd get it. He could come over and buff my floor. Yes, my pelvic one.

Ahem. I'll just straighten my tie - where was I? Oh yes. Disaster movies. I love it when they run one of them on the main channels here - you get to skip back and forth in the plot by using their own catch-up '+1' channel. So yesterday Channel 4 was showing the brilliant 'Poseidon Adventure' and you could skip between scenes:

One channel: Shelley Winters is climbing up the Christmas tree.
Skip on: She's dying of a heart attack for no reason to get an Academy nomination!
Skip back: Roddy McDowall is drowned in the galley!
Back again: Gene Hackman sends them all to safety after his "Take my life!" speech.

Brilliant. All films should come with this option. Certainly every Kathrine Heigl one: oh look, she's kooky, tossing her whispy locks and fancies a man. SKIP TO! Oh look, she's made a complete cock of herself, but that only makes the man love her more! They get married, the end!

Finally one I'd watch!

Friday, July 24, 2009


It's probably typical Virgoan hypochondria, but I reckon I've had this swine flu for a fortnight now. But at a really low level, so there's no point bothering anyone with it - much less demanding the apparently rare drugs. And besides, 'Tammy Flu' is going to be my new drag name.

Well, see. I've been getting all they symptoms one after the other; serial rather than parallel. This last few days has been the joint pain, leaving me hobbling around like Dannii Minogue picking herself up off the pool table after that (alleged) incident with the rugby team. I was walking around the British Museum and my knee gave out, leaving me grabbing around for support. And that's how I came to be kneeding the tit of some Greek God in the Elgin Marbles, while rubbing my inner thigh and wincing. I tell you, it's shocking what they try and detain you for. Don't museum ushers hold your elbow really tight while they're escorting you?

Don't worry, as soon as I get the cough and the sore throat, I'm going to be straight onto that NHS hotline that's been set up and, according to the Daily Express (a rag so xenophobic they probably resent having to use black ink), entirely staffed by illiterate Polish men. Well, fancy! Sounds like heaven to me. Though the only words I know in Polish I've picked up from my Gentleman's Recreational Videos, so I'm going to have to modify "I've come to fix your boiler" to "Will you fix my throat?"

I'm sure I can piece it together somehow. Grin.

Thursday, July 09, 2009

Glitter for Brains At The Movies! Transformers 2!  

This has been one of the hardest G4B At The Movies I've ever had to write because in order to take the piss out of something, you must pretty much understand why the event happens. This film makes absolutely no sense: things happen because the cack-handed people behind the camera just jump from one idea to the next because they think it'll be cool. It's racist, sexist, loud and annoying. And without any further ado, we present...

We go so you don't have to!

Warning: contains deliberate spoilers!

OPTIMUS PRIME: For two years, we have been working secretly with the military to save this planet.

THE AUDIENCE: Well, at the end of the last one, you destroyed the whole of downtown LA, so I think the cat's out the bag about your 'secret'.

They BLOW UP half of TOKYO. Clearly IN CONFIDENCE.

THE AUDIENCE: You know, with all these explosions and portents, we've long thought that Michael Bay and Roland Emmerich make these films as love letters to each other.

MEANWHILE, over at SHIA LABEOUF'S house, he finds a shard of the CUBE MACGUFFIN from the FIRST FILM. It makes a lot of NAMED BRANDS turn into ROBOTS, so they can now do ADVERTS about your DYSON being cool enough to KILL YOU and think this will inexplicably make you BUY ONE.

The MOST ANNOYING one created is a little RC TRUCK who speaks like JOE PESCI. It ESCAPES. Unfortunately.

SHIA LABEOUF: Megan Fox, yellow transforming car - I'm off to college. To show what a dickless spaz I am, I'm leaving you both here.

MEGAN FOX slowly gets UNDRESSED for the camera. This is to distract the MALE AUDIENCE from there being no COHERENT PLOT so far. Director MICHAEL BAY is clearly hoping that TRANSFORMING HOUSEHOLD APPLIANCES are good enough to distract the FEMALE AUDIENCE.

MICHEAL BAY: ZOMG TOTALLY PWNED!!!! You did not say that!!1!!!11!!! I am so not that sexist!!!ONE!!!!ELEVEN!!


Meanwhile, the DECEPTICONS have retrieved the other remains of the CUBE MACGUFFIN from the FIRST FILM.

ONE OF THE DECEPTICONS: We're going to slam it into Megatron's chest to bring him to life!

THE AUDIENCE: But wasn't that what killed him in the first place..?

They SHRUG and DO IT anyway. It WORKS because this film has decided LOGIC and CONTINUITY are best left to better films like LINDSAY LOHAN'S 'I KNOW WHO KILLED ME'.

MEANWHILE, SHIA LABEOUF is at COLLEGE. He has been taken there by HIS PARENTS. His MOTHER is given a POT CAKE, because this is clearly what happens to everyone as soon as they set foot on COLLEGE CAMPUS. His MOTHER then RUGBY-TACKLES TEENAGE BOYS, tells everyone her SON is no longer a VIRGIN and other EMBARRASSING THINGS.

THE AUDIENCE: Well, this is clearly cutting-edge humour. Although, distressingly, this will turn out to be the funniest part of the film.

SHIA LABEOUF goes to CLASS. The PROFESSOR taking the class is a NERD. Despite this, there are many shots of HOT WOMEN IN SHORT SKIRTS leaning forward and crossing and uncrossing their legs like his mere presence and whiny voice has turned them up to GASH MARK FIVE. This is to show THE AUDIENCE that apparently HOT WOMEN find NERDS sexy.

SHIA LABEOUF spazzes out over some SYMBOLS or something. Its not really adequately explained, and before we can object one of the HOT WOMEN IN SHORT SKIRTS launches herself at SHIA LABEOUF. She turns out to be a SEXBOT, who had to be designed and had to enroll in a college that THE DECEPTICONS may or may not have known SHIA LABEOUF was about to go to be at. There are, in theory, one of these SEXBOTS in all the colleges in AMERICA in case SHIA LABEOUF had gone there.


MICHAEL BAY: PEW! YEAH BANG! That'll learn you, you... books!

THE AUDIENCE: But aren't you all about glorifying nerds?

MICHAEL BAY: Only cool nerds! You know, who like Halo! Pew!Pew!Pew!


MICHAEL BAY: You know, at the IMAX, this fight is going to be more or less full scale! ZOMG!

Apparently OPTIMUS PRIME is killed. We only KNOW THIS because SHIA LABEOUF starts crying, rather than from the CAMERA MOVEMENTS which are like they have STRAPPED the LENS to the back of a LABRADOR with A.D.D.

SHIA and MEGAN escape to find some OLD DECEPTICON. They BRING IT TO LIFE with a shard of the CUBE MACGUFFIN. MEGAN FOX doesn't have any lines in this scene, so she remains blank and stares roughly in the direction of WHOEVER is speaking.

THE AUDIENCE: Waaaait. If it brings this one back to life, why can't it bring back Optimus Prime?

The little RC TRUCK humps MEGAN FOX'S LEG so as not to answer. Then the OLD DECEPTICON comes to life and takes them all to EGYPT. They drive around a bit until SHIA announces:

SHIA LABEOUF: Oh my god, it's the police!

THE AUDIENCE: What? Why? Did we miss something?

MICHAEL BAY: LMAO!!!!!Nonono!! It's just more EXCITING!!!!111!!!

THE AUDIENCE: Stuff you think is exciting happens for no reason? God, that could be the movie tag-line.


DEEP ROY, the CHECKPOINT OPERATOR: Oh my god, you're American! We foreigners all love Americans, with your flags and Big Macs and everything! Go through, go through!


THE AUDIENCE: I think we skipped off 'realism' a while back with the talking trucks, but this is ridiculous.


GENERAL GENERAL #5: It says 'Bring the rain'.

MICHAEL BAY: ZOMG I so have a lapful of sperm.

THE AUDIENCE: This film would be 15 minutes shorter if you edit all the lingering shots of tanks and guns.


And so we reach the CLIMAX of the FILM. Where SHIA LABEOUF and MEGAN FOX have to get across some DESERT to cross to OPTIMUS PRIME and WAKE HIM UP with some FAIRY DUST, while some DECEPTICONS mash at the PYRAMIDS to release AN ANCIENT WEAPON to DESTROY THE SUN.

SHIA LABEOUF and MEGAN FOX have to run a MILE in SLOW MOTION so the camera can linger on her TITS.

THE AUDIENCE: Why? Why are they running? Why don't they just jump in the yellow car one and drive all the way to Optimus Prime?


THE AUDIENCE: Oh for fuck's sake.

The TRANFORMERS smash each other AGAIN. Sometimes in SLOW MOTION, sometimes NOT.

MICHAEL BAY: ZOMG LMAO!PEW!PEW!PEW! There are 48 new Transformers in this film! That's so COOL!

THE AUDIENCE: Er. OK. I can see the truck one, and the yellow car one. Oh there's the hideous Racist Twins who speak in jive, have gold teeth and can't read, and the little car that speaks like Joe Pesci for no reason... 48? Are you sure?

SHIA LABEOUF and MEGAN FOX hide because there's AN AIRSTRIKE coming. Behind a fucking BUSH. We're not kidding.

SHIA LABEOUF puts the magic fairy dust on OPTIMUS PRIME and he WAKES UP. He puts on NEW ACCESSORIES so that a NEW TOY can be released.

OPTIMUS PRIME: Lets roll out..!


The AUDIENCE rolls their eyes instead.

Some TRANSFORMERS DIE, some DON'T. The EVIL seems VANQUISHED, but no-one who leaves the CINEMA can remember HOW.

OPTIMUS PRIME: And so, the status quo has been restored, and everything is pretty much as it was at the start of the film. Except, we will have sold more toys. Promotional items: lets roll out..!


The End.

Tuesday, July 07, 2009


The Boy and I are getting a kitten, just like proper settled gays. Next it'll be stretch pants and toupees, and trying to get local youths to fix some aspect of the house in shorts.

She's one of the mad scramble that are on this web-cam:

Problem is, she can't be taken away from her mother til she's 12 weeks old, so it's like she's been ordered from Amazon and in postal limbo. 'Your kitteh has been dispatched and you will be notified when she is available for delivery'.

Oh hurry up. Some of the best toys are the ones without batteries.

Tranny 2

I've been trying to write a Glitter For Brains At The Movies for Transformers 2 for two weeks now, but it was such an unmitigated pile of crap that every time I try and apply my brain to sift through the plot to make some reason behind it, my brain shuts down.

It's not a pleasant sensation. Though at least I get to see through the eyes of Myleen Klass for a while.

Thursday, July 02, 2009

Bolly Wood.

Well done, India! You've finally made man-love legal! Aww step up, step up and take your place in the 20th Century - we'll wave at you from just inside the 21st with a knowing wink and an urge to spoil you the end of 'Friends' for you (hint: they're no longer on a break..!) I think you're terrific!

Actually, I do think you're terrific. Because I understand that sex is taboo in India, so to have a ban lifted is actually huge. And it's all from a 'colonial edict' meaning that it's all us damn British who went over there and put a stop to any kind of bum-fun in the first place, as well as making all the ladies pose for the cover of PG Tipps boxes. Viva independence! Viva getting a length up you round the back of the Taj Mahal!

Wednesday, July 01, 2009

Temperature's Risin'...

I pop to a psychic now and again - she's nothing too dramatic, just a pitch-black poncho and a lot of bangles - and she told me that I'd be in danger of having an affair through work and work alone. Which is great for me, as I usually work from home, and thankfully the only other man that I see during the day is the postman. Who is, ironically, nothing to write home about. Hurrah, I'm safe!

Well, all of a sudden I'm back at the BBC for a two week stint and the temperature's though the roof - which always gets me close to dragging my ass across the floor like a dog in heat. If I were a woman (heaven forfend) I can tell I'd be turned right up to Gash Mark Five, and my lettuce would look like its had a snail disco on it for a weekend. And normally average men are now wearing t-shirts that flatter their arms and shorts that flatter their asses, and all of a sudden I'm finding myself stuck in lifts with them. And unlike the lift, I reckon I could take a 22 or 23 load with no alarm.

I'll keep you posted.

Friday, June 26, 2009

A Poser

Q. What's white, plastic, inanimate and dangerous to children?

A. A shopping bag, of course.

Monday, June 08, 2009

Terminator Salvation


So I went to see 'Terminator: Salvation' with little or no expectations other than it was going to be dark, dingy and terrible (I think I was braced for something like the IKEA marketplace at 11am on a Saturday). Popcorn in hand, the titles roll, and I'm hunkered in for what I think is the long haul. Two hours of people shouting at each other and horrible, desperate acts of humanity when, out of left-field, I was presented with my now-favourite moment of cinema ever: as the lists of elevated soap-stars and rappers zipped by, it finished with the line '...AND HELENA BONHAM CARTER'.

I just leant forward in my chair and exclaimed 'What the shuddering FUCK?!

Seriously. I'd not read any pre-publicity, so this was a twist out there among the likes of it was a sled, she was a bloke all along, he was his father, and they actually let her go shopping in 'Pretty Woman'. Helena Bonham Carter?! In this? It was like finding Madonna starring in your local school play. Where she was playing the lead, not some scary child catcher or chupacabra! I was rapt, and this was only two minutes in!

Meanwhile, the rest of the audience shifted uncomfortably. I think I figured out why all those people who were expecting a brash buddy movie came out tutting and wanting to blow something up, because what we have here is subversively the gayest movie since 'Top Gun'. It may be the love of a man and his machine, but hell yeah, this is the 21st century, and it'll probably be legal in Maine before you finish reading this, bless.

Set in the dystopian future, which means all the colours are bleached and All Saints clothing outlets look like they're doing a roaring trade in post-apocalyptic grey and where you seem to have been bombed with the 'friendly' sort of nuclear fall-out enabling you to wander through cities that were leveled 12 years before without your hair falling out. In the middle of this is one of our star-crossed lovers, John Connor (played by Christian Bale) who, once again, has a scheme that's going to stop the machines - until the next film, natch. Honestly, all his plans should come with 'ACME' lettering on the side.

Bale's performance as Connor is a simplistic cipher, content to convey the pain and trauma of the character journey by shouting a lot, and angrily staring with those mad, mad eyes at whomever he's with. Bale seems terribly slack-jawed too; I don't think he closes his mouth throughout the whole film, at least giving the audience the chance at some humanity to the endless explosions by idly pondering, 'I wonder if he suffers from sinus trouble, poor love...' Personally I was simply mesmerism by this wonky tooth he has on his bottom row of teeth that was permanently on display, an otherwise abboration in his perfectly white-teethed gang. If we're being pedantic (which we are) I have to say that end-of-the-world resistance dental plans must be brilliant because every set of gnashers on display come from a Sensodile ad. Well, bar Bale's. He could use it to open sardine cans. Really.

Delightfully, even the movie seems bored with Bale's one-note performance, so confines him in a room with a pregnant ginger wife just to make him think about his mistakes. For the first half, we concentrate instead on a road movie with Wright trying to find Connor, meeting other cast significant to the mythology along the way. Including a woman pilot who he shows no physical interest in at all, despite her wrapping her legs around him as often as she can. He possibly objects to her because it looks like she's put on her eye make-up using two bits of masking tape and a spray can; this, plus no mention of a girl left behind and costantly banging on about how he's got a 'second chance' makes me think that he's two minutes away from finding a boom-box to play Diana Ross' 'I'm Coming Out' across the ruined city. His only other screen kiss is with Dame Helena Bonham Carter who even I would because she's fricking HELENA BONHAM CARTER!

Meanwhile, you can spend the rest of the time enjoying the plot-holes caused by storytellers trying to bolt on continuity to a constantly-shifting mythos. Even those little holes, like why there's a chair in Skynet's completely automated control room. And if there was a plan to bring John Connor to Skynet to kill him in a factory where they make thousands and thousands of Terminators, why on Cher's Earth do they simply send one after him? Were the rest out for training?

Anyway, back to the central romance. The two future lovers meet and Connor ties Wright up in a darkened room (bit forward for a first date, but we'll let it slide). They hate each other, clearly. So much that they spend their entire first scene mere millimeters from each other's face. And hate turns to trust, that turns into dependence, that turns into... well. I'm not usually shy of being the one to call a spade a spade, but when your final shots of the film are a misty-edged moment as Connor and Wright are lying next to each other, staring into each other's eyes and Wright literally gives Connor his heart. I'm just saying, that's all. This film is gayer than 'Pricilla, Queen of the Night on Brokeback Mountain'. Even Arnie's much lauded digital appearance has him arrive naked, back-lit and waist-deep in smoke. It's not so much a cameo as a PA for go-go boys at Heaven nightclub.

Perhaps the reviews would have been kinder if they'd put their money where their mouth was and called it 'Terminator: I Now Pronounce You John and Marcus'. Where they get married. with Helena Bonham Carter as the vicar.

Well, I'd pay to see it.

Friday, June 05, 2009

It's All Kicked Off!

I don't often get to talk about my work - it chugs away nicely in the background, much like Lindsay Lohan on her bottles of 'water' when the press are watching. But this week was the culmination in a year-and-a-half's work (designing this bad boy) and getting ready for send-off. Ah, you'd think that the final week would be a delicate shade of easy, spent sipping cheap wine as you transfer all the files to a hard drive that a courier will pick up. Hopefully an attractive one. Who announces that he's going to need a sit down as his tree-trunk-like thighs have cramp, would you mind giving him a quick massage, and that he's always wondered what being with a man would be like. And I'd say 'wonderful'.

This is not the way, alas. The final week of these projects is file checking and compiling, which basically meant sitting at a computer and manually opening, checking and converting over a thousand files. And Adobe are no help: My and Photoshop's version of 'Automated Macro' differ considerably. It wants me to click and affirm these files like a needy child. I want it to bring me Pimms. All in all, I basically sat there as if it was the computer in 'Lost', entering 'yes' every 108 seconds.

Or Gaydar, come to think.

Anyway, all of this was very annoying because there was so much going on that I wanted to talk about!


Whatever your political leanings, there's something delicious about the last days of an empire. And let me tell you, what's going on over here at the moment is just like the last five minutes of 'Blake's 7'! Everyone's resigning! Now I used to like Labour (our current government, overseas viewers) but after ten years of the same guy, he was ousted and his friend took control. I know we vote for the party over here, not the person, but there's just something slightly insidious about the way he stepped in and took power without the populous having a say. As a nation, Britain tends to dislike show-offs (we're always behind the Big Brother contestant who appears to be humbled by the whole thing, and vote out the show-offs) so there's a whole lot of indignant "Excuse me, and you are..?" from everyone. And besides, he looks like Baron Greenback from 'Dangermouse' when he's trying to think. Does not want.


Poor love! Gone a bit screwy with all the attention - something that I can identify with. I mean, there was a time in a... lets call it a Gentleman's Recreational Health Club, when I was practically batting members away from me like a kitten on catnip. I think that its wonderful that she's had a bit of time out to be able to breathe; I had to do the same after an hour-forty of being what we call in the business 'air-tight'. Thank heaven I know circular breathing after five lessons on the bassoon - I have a feeling that if by some miracle I'd evolved a blow-hole there and then it would have been stuffed full in seconds. Oh, happy happy days.


For scant seconds on the BBC News site, they were reporting that he was found in his hotel room hanged with 'a rope around his neck and genitals'. This went down fairly fast, but we al got the idea. Well sort of. I hope it wasn't a sex game. He was 72 for goodness sake. It'd be trying to squeeze mozzarella through an icing bag.
And that poor maid that found him, lets think about her. She probably thought that someone was drying jerky in the wardrobe until she got close.

And there we are. I'm off for a day off. Have a nice weekend, y'all.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Amsterdam #2

Of course there were other things to do. The 'seedier' things. You know, dope and sex - oh, I got a giddy thrill just typing it! How can you not like a city that, even in a five-star hotel, gives you wipe-clean PVC bolster pillows? Fabulous.

From what I was saying in the previous post about there being nothing to do is a little ungracious - there's loads to do if you want to get stoned and chuck your muck up a stranger. But as that pretty much summed up my last year of uni, and as my knees are pretty much made of breadsticks these days, we thought we'd tone it down a little. So Nelson and I got stoned and went to look at the prozzies.

Goodness, the night shift were a gorgeous bunch of ladies. I mean seriously - they're like the ones that you see on the the top shelf magazines of the newsagent, but on the nice magazines. Not the ones with a cover taken on a Kodak disposable of some Kettering housewife looking like she'd had an accident with the icing bowl. No, these ladies of the night were pneumatic lovelies who were actually good looking, wearing nothing but three bits of masking tape and a come-hither grin. As Nelson and I wandered past, they'd tap on their windows with nails so long and sharp they could have probably cut through the glass with a quick swipe. Amazing.

The day-shift, though? Bugger me, rough as a badger's arse. You'd have thought they'd have kept them in the dark of night, not the other way around. Or fed them after midnight.

And no, you're not being told how I knew the pillows were wipe-clean.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Amsterdam #1

Ah, Amsterdam. A city as free and easy as Paris Hilton's mimsy without its constraining underwear, and just as easy to be taken in. It's a strange old place - it's like London if they built Soho and Covent Garden and then forgot about the rest. As a result, you get a genuninely laid-back city. I mean I've been around around the world (primary to put it around a bit, but you know that) and each place has its own character. Like my beloved London, a city that is pretty much that red-faced commuter on the tube who seems pleasant enough until you step on their foot or take their seat.

Barcelona is the arsey Spaniard who doesn't care if you like them or not, just get out of their face.

Vancouver is just so gosh-darned happy that you turned up that it practically turfs out its own family to give you a room for the night.

Whereas Amsterdam will wander into the lounge mid-morning still sleepy, tell you to make yourself at home and help yourself to anything, light up, then go back to bed. You think about it: other than the canals, is there anything to see there? Any Big Ben or Eiffel Tower? No, because the Dutch were too stoned to put any damn thing up!

There's so little to do there, tourist-wise, that people actually have to queue for the museums to pass the time.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Glitter for Brains At The Movies! Star Trek!  

We go so you don't have to!

So. I can see from my Twitter feed that I'm probably one of the few who doesn't like this shiny new reboot, Chris Pine in his space-briefs and everything. I did try, honestly. So I'll get my feelings as to why in the only way we know how. You know, by taking the piss. So, without further ado, Glitter for Brains proudly presents...

Warning! Contains deliberate spoilers!

JJ ABRAMS: Hi there. I'm JJ, the director. And this here is my Big Wheel of Directing, which I'm going to spin before every pivotal scene. As you can see, the three categories clearly marked on it in the proper font are 'Nostalgia', 'Over-the-Top Drama' and 'Whimsy'! Let's start by spinning the wheel, and...


JJ ABRAMS: Over-the-Top Drama! Fun!


STAR TREK FANS: Eh? What's this? Excitement? Where's the two hours of soul searching and notes on trade agreements?

JJ ABRAMS: Oh yes. This is the first time we've had a cast under the age of 40 in a Star Trek film. We can do so much more now! Like running shots. And close-ups on Uhura without you thinking we'd employed Lance Henricksen in the role.


CHRIS PINE is being beaten to a BLOODY PULP in a BAR FIGHT. It is by STARFLEET CADETS.

BRUCE GREENWOOD: Stop! Stop! Cadets to your quarters. Chris Pine, I want you to join Starfleet. It's what your dad would have wanted. Starfleet is all about honor. It's about nobility. It's about being worthwhile.

CHRIS PINE: Six Starfleet cadets just mashed my face in for no reason, completely subjugating me!

BRUCE GREENWOOD: Oh alright, its about being an American.

CHRIS PINE: Can I drive a kick-ass spaceship like it was a sportcar and make out with chicks?

BRUCE GREENWOOD: Hell, that's what this part of the franchise was always a metaphor for!

CHRIS PINE: You're on! I'm just going to cheat on my entrance exam.

BRUCE GREENWOOD: Now you're apparently thinking like a Starfleet officer!


ERIC BANA: Aha! I'm pissed off!

SUBORDINATE: Any reason?

ERIC BANA: Not really. I think it's pretty much because Spock from the future was going to save my planet. But he was five minutes late because he'd left the space-iron on or something, and it went ka-blooey so we've travelled back in time to do the same to his. To Vulcan! To blow it up!



CHRIS PINE: What if someone sees us?

KARL URBAN: I'll inject you with this!

CHRIS PINE: Wait! What is it?


JJ ABRAMS: I've just spun the Big Wheel of Directing and it has landed on... Whimsy!


KARL URBAN: Oh well, I'll keep injecting you until it gets a laugh too.

CHRIS PINE: Lets go and see Uhura. She appears to be working in the Enterprise's micro-brewery. We have to assemble the original crew on the bridge as fast as possible!


JOHN CHO: Ready to go to warp speed, Bruce!

JJ ABRAMS: I just like to point out I haven't spun the wheel again, John. We're still on Whimsy.

JOHN CHO: Whoops silly me what a clutz I've left the parking brake on fiddle-de-dee.

ANTON YELCHIN ('Russian' accent): Wick-tor-Wick-tor-Tango-Foxtrot!

JJ ABRAMS: Oh Anton, I'm assigning a special WhimsyCam to follow your every move from now on! The audience will lap it up!



BRUCE GREENWOOD: Pine! Cho! Guy in a red shirt! Go and stop that drilling equipment!

They PARACHUTE down to it. Although the Guy In The Red Shirt DIES.

JJ ABRAMS: Isn't this clever? We killed the guy in the red shirt! Woo!

THE AUDIENCE: Yesyesyes, we get it. Shut up and spin your wheel.


JJ ABRAMS: The wheel's landed on... I think that's Over-the-Top Drama...

PINE and CHO FIGHT TWO ROMULANS who come out of the DRILL!

JJ ABRAMS: No wait! Nostalgia!

JOHN CHO (Getting out OTT CGI SWORD): Did I tell you I'm a master of fencing?

JJ ABRAMS: No! Over-the-Top Drama!


CHRIS PINE: Enterprise! We need to be beamed up! NOW!

JJ ABRAMS: Anton! Is WhimsyCam full of film and ready for action?

ANTON YELCHIN: Yeuss, Ca'pn Jey-Jey!

JJ ABRAMS: Off you go!

ANTON YELCHIN simultaneously MAULS the ENGLISH LANGUAGE, completes THREE COMEDY PRAT FALLS in quick succession and BEAMS THEM UP.

JJ ABRAMS: Brilliant! That's all from you, Anton. But if you want to stand in the background of the bridge and try and put up some wallpaper with a pasteboard, three buckets of paste, a plank and two other slapstick extras, I'm not against it.

ZACHARY QUINTO: Chris Pine, I'm expelling you from this ship to the next coincidental plot point. Take him to an escape pod.

CHRIS PINE is EJECTED to a ICE PLANET'S SURFACE. Where he ESCAPES from the MONSTER FROM CLOVERFIELD and finds himself in A CAVE. Which further REVEALS...

JJ ABRAMS: One second!


JJ ABRAMS: Nostalgia!

... LEONARD NIMOY sitting around the camp fire.

CHRIS PINE (shuffles awkwardly): Oi! Get back to your own franchise!

LEONARD NIMOY: But I'm here to placate those mad fans still protesting in the lobby about Uhura getting a first name.

CHRIS PINE: How you going to do that? I've been getting sent toupees and corsets in the post for the last year with scrawled notes saying 'DO IT PROPERLY OR ELSE'.

LEONARD NIMOY: I'm going to explain this is all an alternate reality, so we can fuck around with continuity all we want and they can happily get back to counting red cars. Now lets go get Simon Pegg so we can beam you back to the plot.



JJ ABRAMS: Whimsy!


SIMON PEGG: Och aye, I like this ship! Cough! Splutter! Hack!

ZACHARY QUINTO: You know, Chris Pine, I'm completely emotionless unless you make me talk about my mum. It'd be an ideal way to make me give control to you, and not make the audience question your self-serving motives at all.

CHRIS PINE: You know, I think I will. Your mum is rubbish. And dead. And Winona Ryder in some seriously bad aging make-up.

ZACHARY QUINTO: You bitch! I'll scratch your eyes out! Let me at him..!

CHRIS PINE: Oh Zachary, I relieve you of command. Until the next scene where we need to go and blow up Eric Bana's ship.

ERIC BANA (on screen): Enterprise! SPOCK! I blame you for my planet being blown up. But rather than kill you, you must live to watch my revenge! From a cave! A little way-away! Make sure you don't miss it, eh? Eh?! Ah, sod it, I'll blow up the Earth as well. For no other reason than Spock probably had a timeshare home there or something.

CHRIS PINE: Well, we're going to blow you up using the best that Starfleet can offer!



ERIC BANA: Patriotism?

CHRIS PINE: No. Technobabble! Zachary Quinto, load up the Omega-13 doomsday device that will create black holes and end the film!


CHRIS PINE: Eric! Before you go, I'd just like offer the hand of friendship now we've subjugated you and nearly wiped you out.

ERIC BANA: What kind of monsters are you?

CHRIS PINE: We, sir, are Starfleet!

ERIC BANA looks over in HORROR and DIES.

CHRIS PINE: Oh well. Medals for everyone when we get home!

LEONARD NIMOY (voice over): Space. A wholly-owned subsidiary of the Paramount Corporation. These are the voyages of the USS Cash Cow. It's ongoing mission: to rebuild a franchise. To boldly bank-roll where we've all been before. Only with nicer sets and better special effects.


(with thanks to Richard Atkinson and Gary Gillatt who shared my sentiments).

Friday, May 01, 2009

Carol Ann Duffy

If you're going to make such a point of the new Poet Laureate being a woman, perhaps employing one that looks like Ian McShane is a bit of a non-starter.


Well. Isn't it embarrassing that your long-forgotten gaydar account sends you an email just at the moment your boyfriend is leaning over to poke a finger at your in-box which, by the way, is not as filthy as it sounds? All of a sudden I was like Hugh Grant with Parkinson's - stuttering and fumbling all over the shop. I was mortified! I haven't been so embarrassed since I was having sex with this guy in the dark when he tried to slip something in my mouth, and when I told him I didn't smoke, he got dressed and said "That was my cock."

Poor lad. It was like a button mushroom with ideas of grandeur.

Anyway. Said email was an offer for unlimited access to all the cock-shots on there for free. How marvelous! It's like a 'two-for-one at Boots' on desperate men! So what does it mean when the recession could have finally creeped in on the site we lovingly call 'Sit-On-My-Face-Book? Should we worry when the sex industry is hit? I tell you for one, I'm glad that I'm not on it at the moment due to the sky-rocketing costs involved. Not for the website - but have you seen the price of Rohypnol these days? I'd never get laid!

Friday, April 24, 2009

Surprise Guest Star

So the strangest day so far. There was a guy who turned up at the gym who happened to be the spitting image of Derek Reese, of whom I do fancy. Actually perhaps fancy is a bit lenient a word; I kinda phase out whenever he's on screen. I mean seriously, there's whole swathes of 'Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles' that are a mystery to me as Reese is on, only snapping back into focus whenever The Shirley-1000 comes on to talk about picking up Savannah from gym class.

If you haven't seen any 'Sarah Connor, go dig some out on YouTube - you can guarantee any scene with Reese will start with him running into the room, breathing heavily like "Action!" has just been called while he was in the middle of chopping wood while topless outside his trailer (bites knuckle). And anything with ShirleyBot in it, particularly ones with her daughter in it. You'll be several units of Gay heavier with her scenes; units clearly measured on the Sontag Scale.

Back to Reese. Here's a pic of him so you can see what I mean.

Yes? I would. Til his legs dropped off.

So anyway, there he was, skinny white shorts, grunting and grinning around the weights. What's a boy to do? Except attempt the splits with a coquettish smile on one's face, then scissor-kicking your leg-warmers to the 'Fame!' soundtrack you always work out to.

And yet the coffee I just bought in an almost post-coital whirl tastes of cat pee. The Lord giveth...

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

I Wonder Why... matter how hard I train at the gym, I still run like C-3PO being chased by Jawas.

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

The Technological Zeitgeist

Guys With iPhones NSFW

I think you know my thoughts on Apple by now. I can't abide their smug 'ta-daaaa!' whenever they start up, and the design that makes them look like giant Quality Street. But now there's a site that fetishises them as much as the male form, so clearly I'll have a look. But I don't know what's got into me (well, I do know - a handsome 23-year-old intent on celebrating our anniversary with a bang) but I look at these and my first thought was 'Ooh, isn't the camera shit on the iPhone?' They all look like they have liver failure. And have been taken through a sock at forty paces.

Although this is clearly the next Mrs Binding. I mean, look. He's not even capable of focusing on anything. And who takes their iPhone swimming? Bless. If only the site came with their phone numbers too... If anything, I'd drop them a line to say "Why on earth do you have headphones in while taking cock shots? And what where you listening to?"

Me? I always put on Donna Summer's 'Enough is Enough'. Just so you know.

Know Your Audience

Oh honey. You really must pay attention. Yes you, darling Miss California, when you were asked about gay marriage at a beauty pageant! Come on, even you should have to realise who is watching! There'd be no heterosexual man paying any attention past the swimsuit round, leaving you with a room full of queens who are only there to see the hair, the make-up and whether you're going to fall on your ass in those heels! Maybe you were dazzled by the bright lights, or maybe you were trying to recall passages from Scarlett Johansson's seminal works 'How I Model Good' (you know, the life changing chapter on 'How I Smile And Think And Stuff And Stuff'). But I'm surprised the stage wasn't rushed and your weave pulled, although we were probably too busy in the back row raising the Devil or lowering property prices or something.

I mean, honestly, you would have gotten more respect if you'd been asked about Stephen Hawkin's current illness and have said "Oh, I'm sure he'll be back on his feet in no time."

Friday, April 17, 2009


Katie Price. I think I like her, but I'm not sure why. And then this comes along about her leaving LA and not missing the sun.

Note the startling use of plurals in the last line. 'Sunbeds'. She has sunbeds.

Is this in case someone pulls the door to on one of the tanning rooms? Because I imagine that dear Katie seems the kind of girl who would not only forget how to use doorknobs, but upon seeing it, drop to her knees and fellate it in the hope it would do something for her in return.

Oh wait. I've now figured out why I like her.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

New Thing On The Block

We always call Prowler in Soho 'The Gay Supermarket' as you can pretty much get all you need from there: lube, porn, porn disguised as art, poppers, impossibly-tight underwear and expensive t-shirts that say 'I Have No Gag Reflex'. It's all so convenient! A handy one-stop-shop for everything you'll need for a night out then a night in, if you get my meaning.

Well! There's a new outlet opened around the corner, and I thought we'd got it good under one roof before. But this - THIS! - is a gym and sauna! Oh my word, someone's finally found the gap in the market for those lumpen men who have a bit of a workout, feel a bit frisky on the steroids and boff whatever's around before heading back in for their cool-down! Or in my case, do a step class and get confused as to where you are when you have a towel around your waist on the way to the showers. Well, we've all done it..! There's something slightly primal about the whiff of sweat and chlorine whilst feeling the rough texture of white towelette around your hips that's just enough to get the sap rising, I find.

Honestly, we have it good, don't we? Gym and sauna? All we need is a farmer's market built on, and a place to buy those baggy cargo shorts and there'd be no need to shop anywhere else. Hell, put a Mazda Miata dealership on the side and I think I'll move in.

Thursday, April 09, 2009

Legal Brief

Just finished 'Boston Legal' Season 4. Ah, what a fine show! A show that makes you think - and not just about whether Adam Baldwin goes commando as I do throughout 'Firefly's apparently well-crafted storytelling. The one thing I have to say against 'Boston Legal' is its obsession for focusing in on hands when people are talking in a way that is almost fetishistic. Fine; forgivable even. But what I do take against is that star James Spader has just dumpy, smooth lady-hands - hands that would not have looked out of place on Mr Stay-Puft, the marshmallow man. So when he delivers his wonderful, eloquent closing arguments, I keep thinking that someone's going to cross the streams and the whole place is going to get covered like an Ibiza foam party. Or like Lindsay Lohan's knickers now she's back on the cock after now finishing her clamming up with her Lezzay Fair.

Where was I? I'm sorry, I made myself sick up a little in my mouth there. Trials, yes! I seemed to recall this one incident that I believe went to court where a man went in for an interview, got invited out for drinks afterwards by the male interviewee, and the next thing he knows is he's waking up in hotel bed with said interviewer after having done the Beast-With-One-Back (as we gays tend to) with his potential employer. Now, I can't remember any more about it than that - whether he was guilty or not, or more importantly whether either of them were hot - so if you do recall the incident feel free to post a link in the comments box. The reason why I was mulling it over was how would I defend the employer, because frankly he made several mistakes if he was guilty. One, you don't hire a hotel room, you go back to theirs. You don't wake up with them in the morning. And most importantly, you DO NOT do this sort of thing in an interview. No, you wait til they're employed, and then go at it at the Christmas party like a dog at broth.

Like I say, something smelt fishy about the whole thing (back off Lindsay, this isn't for you). I reckon in my ill-considered opinion that it could have been an attempt to get up the corporate ladder by putting out for a potential boss. What? Why you looking at me like that? Oh yes, I've done some things I'd rather forget to get my foot on the corporate ladder - in fact climbing just high enough so that you could see right up my towelette robe. And I do say this clutching my pearls in a moment of vulnerability as I recall the terrible sheets in that Slough Travelodge. Oh the things we do for a head start in the giddy world of business...

In short, I doubt you'd have had to drug me if it comes to an interview to get the job. I'd be the one up the bar afterwards going "This is my drink here. This one! The sparkling cava. Yes, it has bubbles so I can't tell if anything is dissolving in it! And did I tell you I have no sense of smell? At all? And that I'll repeatedly turn my back to check my phone! Yes, this drink! That's it - the very one with the funnel hanging out the top!"

Because who hasn't been into work the following day on more roofies than it needs to take down a racehorse? I mean honestly, I was so spaced that the only way they could get me to work was disguising the project I was on as a Facebook application.