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

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Danders Raised

Now, I was going to talk about an awful play I was dragged to go see, but something on the BBC news site caught my eye this morning instead. Here it claims that therapists are offering 'treatment' for being a filthy bum stabber or, for the ladies, an urge to eat sushi off the barber's floor.

Now, look. You don't want me to get up on my high horse, do you? For one, my joints aren't up to it in this weather, and once up there, you have a 50/50 chance of seeing up my skirt. But really, this sort of thing gets me riled. My dander is up. If there is a push for a 'cure' to reclassify homosexuality as a mental condition, then we could be losing serious ground in our push for equality. Besides, the 'effects of the child's environment' debate is rubbish: I can remember at a too-early age tipping up my push-and-ride cart on its side so I could use it as a washing machine, and not some gauche car - and you can't tell me that isn't genetic. Strange, yes. But still, it's the nail in the nature/nurture coffin for me.

And because I don't think this is fair. Whatever percentage that is apparently crying out to be strapped down to a wife, two kids, a mortgage and the unnatural urge for Sky Sports, we should be allowed to treat an equal percentage of apparently heterosexual men and women in return. Just to balance the numbers, you understand (and I'm picking Ryan Reynolds first on the casting- ah, therapy couch, just to make sure it works you understand). And you can forget all this fancy, expensive therapy too - most cases I have been involved in, I seem to recall heterosexuality can be 'cured' by two bottles of wine and missing the last train home.

Yet what troubles me the most is not that therapists are claiming that they are treating it, but that people are going to them in the first place.

What I'm trying to say is that I want everyone to be happy. I understand people being uncomfortable in their bodies, that sex changes are a good thing if it brings out the Real You. That everyone has a right to fit into whatever niche they carve into this glorious world. But when that niche comes from peer pressure, that's when it troubles me. I would love to learn what percentage of people admitting to this therapy are influenced by the church, because I have a horrid feeling it will be nigh on all of them. I wish I could remove the apparent stigma by waving my magic wand (and you know I want one) because being gay is one of the most wonderful things ever. And not just for the exterior things; sure the disposable income is great, the ease in decorating, and the free pass to practically run the media is a joy. But the interior things too, which enables you to love someone you have a heck of a lot more in common with than the opposite sex from the off. It is a brilliant, brilliant thing.

So I'm throwing down a gauntlet. Anyone who is even considering going into this therapy: drop me a line. While I can't condone your choice, at least get the other side of the argument for a balanced point of view. Then make your decision.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Milking Cancer

Call me cynical, but don't you think Jade Goody's people are kicking themselves that Natasha Richardson careered into a tree this week?

I so wasn't going to talk about Miss Goody, I really wasn't. I was consoling myself that she was Doing Some Good with the stats that more young women are going for cancer tests, but with this new death in the limelight, I'm so over all this Mourn Porn that has become ever so slightly invasive. For instance, OK Magazine are running an all-encompasing memorial issue for Goody (Issue 666, if you please) and she's not even dead yet, and the daily coverage in the papers means that I know her medical record better than I know my own. It was like this when Diana died (and don't think for a second I'm comparing the two on that level) - now, I never knew Diana as a person, never met her; she barely made an impression on me other than knowing she appeared on innumable nasty bits of 'collectable' china looking like she was in the middle of an airbrushed stroke, so when I woke up one morning to find out that the last thing going through Diana's mind was the dashboard that August night and she was dead, the resulting outpouring of coverage threw me completely. And now the same with Goody, which is even more confusing; she was was somewhat over-exposed before, which ties in with my karmic beliefs that maybe, just maybe, after her various media-grabbing antics the whole population just thought "Will you just fuck off and the universe gladly obliged. Isn't that the oddest thing? I'm just pondering that Katy Perry better watch out, that's all.

So what is it with the human fascination with death that we must scrabble for every detail about their demise? I do it to an extent and only wish to know how they died, often skim-reading BBC News to find out how whatever d-list celeb met their maker, and whether it was on the back of a door with their belt, nob in hand. Thankfully, I've had little exposure to death over the years and so my viewpoints are thusly made up from these slight insights offered by the media. Oh and 'Ghostbusters II' where Vigo the Carpathian says that to him 'Death is but a door, Time is but a window, I'll be back'. Now, the gay little voice inside, my 'internal internal decorator' if you will, just thought that he should combine the two and have a nice set of French doors and use the remaining space for a lovely Oriental screen to hide that mark where the previous tennants had a go at rag-rolling after seeing it on some daytime makeover show.

Anyway, back to the point. I'm hoping that with this new celebrity death will just mean that the news stands will look a little over-saturated and people will just get a little tired of vicariously living the pain of other people. And it'll stop Goody's publicists peddling the painful shots of her hairless, cancer-riddled body in her frumpy wedding dress. Because, frankly, she looks like a shuttlecock.

Thursday, March 12, 2009


I love a good conference, I do. Not for the corporate element which I can guarentee you from this point (I'm typing this on the way down on the train - how gloriously modern!) will be draining and tedious, but for the wondrous thrill of seeing people out of the office Letting Their Hair Down. All those lovely office women I work with breaking out the high heels and the spangly tops, and all the men crop-sprayed in various eye-watering aftershaves. God bless clueless men. The ones that think that Lynx deodorant is an aftershave.

I love them all for the possibilities of What Could Happen. A room full of people who have had the most intense two months preparing for this event, thrown together and drunk... well! I'm picturing all those countles sales guys leaving their wedding rings on the hotel dresser, cutting a line through the dance floor with their thumbs aloft as this is how they dance. And the women getting a bit giggly on the vinegary table wine and playing Kiss, Marry, Kill with the oblivious members of Finance across the room. I love this kind of stuff. It makes any time in the office bearable. It's brilliant.

I think I must have been a bawdy temp in a former life or something. I'm forever picturing myself at these things like Julie Walter's character tipsily leaning up an unwilling businessman, going "You don't need to phone your wiiife..." before jiggling up and down and saying "Look at that! Fourty-two and no bra! Not bad, eh?" I would love to get off with a sales man, even though not a single one of them are attractive, simply for the sheer 1960s office worker thrill of the thing! Being gossiped about on the train home in the morning by the girls in the next carriage as you clutch your coat around you and try and scrape together what remains of your dignity and make-up. It's just a glorious thing in my head. It simply shouldn't happen because it would not be a tenth of the fun I've outlined above. And for that reason alone, I am pleased that most of the men in my office are married and not particually my cup of tea.

Though... if there is a gentleman who makes a startling suggestion along the lines of 'where's your ring', all bets are off I'm afraid. I can't help ride to a double entendre. And, because as Beyonce says, if you like it, put a ring on it.

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Constant Chatter

Oh, Twitter.

You know, ages ago one of you darling readers actually emailed me to ask me to go on there, which was very sweet I thought. 'Why would I want to bore the intertubes with tiny missives about putting the kettle on?' I did wonder. Well, I've never been that quick at the uptake when it comes to technology, frankly: this laptop runs Windows 95 and the... lets just call it a 'personal massager' that resides behind the sideboard is a delightful steam-powered creation of Mr Stevensons that can chip your teeth if you accidentally fill the coal bucket a bit too far. Anyway, I was happily ignorant of the whole thing until my equally backward friends decided to join. Yes, I'm that easily led. I'd have probably gone along to a Nazi rally back in the day because someone told me it was a good idea, I'd like the uniforms and had failed to read the pamphlet.

I digress. I've gone and joined up to Twitter, because I feel my celeb stalking has been a bit lax of late, and I'm hoping to find Ryan Reynolds on there. And lets face it, the 140 character box probably takes him all day to fill, bless. Aww, I like 'em dumb enough not to ask any questions, like 'what's in this drink' and 'why can't I walk'. But if you are on Twitter already and have been riding the technological zeitgeist for the last two years, do feel free to add me at LeeBinding.

I'll happily keep you updated as to when the kettle is going on.

Wednesday, March 04, 2009


I have tried desperately to like 'Dollhouse', but its like it just doesn't want to be liked. I haven't seen anything so self-destructive and unlikeable since one of my last flings used to get drunk and try a little Ike/Tina on me (or Chris/Reanna if you want to be thrillingly modern). Put it this way, he didn't make the second audition, and 'Dollhouse' is almost, almost consigned to that bin.

I didn't draw the line at the concept; no I think we're due for a spiritual successor to 'Alias' - and equally 'Joe 90' was ripe for an update too. What I did Take Against was the masogenistic overtones of a girl who is programmed to go out each time and get laid by (so far) nutters. And then get into trouble. If this were an update of 'Joe 90', it would be like The Professor rohypnolling Joe, raping him then and throwing him to a band of local paedophiles for pudding. And if I understand the concept correctly, Echo is meant to go free with her original memories intact at the end of her time in the Dollhouse, so isn't she going to come round and wonder why her minky is now like a clown car? If this actually goes to a full series (ha!) that's going to be around... 100 episodes? Where she's often had multiple partners, or at least it up her multiple times often by the time we're privy to the adventure starting. Now, clearly I'm no prude, but if that's the case and each time she goes back to the Dollhouse with her vadge frankly looking like its been brushing its teeth, then in 100 episodes time she's going to be able to shoplift using it and walk out of John Lewis with a deep fat fryer on her person no bother.

Anyway. I didn't even mind at the hilarious idea of casting Eliza Dushku in a role that requires subtle changes to each personality. No. What I did draw the line at was the singing episode, where Echo becomes the back-up dancer to a Beyonce/Mariah icon, and where we get full-on music numbers of such banality that the pain of my toes curling almost caused me to black out. Unfortunately it did not. And I was left to stare at the screen and wonder why the audience of said diva seemed to be mostly heterosexual couples, because if this were anything like real life, it'd be eight year old girls and Gentlement Who Can't Catch wooping and hollaring from the balcony.

You have one more week to impress me, 'Dollhouse'. And if not, I'm switching my allegence fully to 'Chuck'.

Tuesday, March 03, 2009


I wonder if Luke Skywalker would have been such a whiny cunt if Uncle Owen had beat him a bit harder..?