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.