Wednesday 26 March 2003
Three or four time a week I have to go over to another building to deliver
vital government documents to a nice Greek man who has got into the habit
of singing to me when I arrive.
'His name was Roddy... He was a showman!' he began today, in the style of
a Greek Barry Manilow.
It disturbs me somewhat that I am not overly disturbed by this behaviour.
Is he after my body? I ask myself.
I bloody well hope so, I tell myself.
Talking of ethnic madness, we have been watching a TV programme called 'Dirty
Sanchez' in which rough Welsh lads take turns in blowtorching each other's
bare arses and stapling their bits to a piece of chipboard.
In the last show one of them had his penis pinioned to a piece of MDF with
a u-shaped nail. There is, apparently, no sexual element to this behaviour
which is maybe just as well, as Swansea may as a consequence be labelled as
some kind of Gay S&M Mecca (the religious place, not the bingo place) if,
of course, it's not already.
Thursday 27 March 2003
'Each lantern shall snugly sleeve onto the bracket spigot without any gap
evident between the bracket arm/ spigot reduction point and the mating end
of the lantern.'
This is the sort of documentation I am dealing with in my daily work. Is it
a sad indictment of my need for stimulation that I find it oddly erotic?
I apologise to my public for the lack of updates recently but these have been
delayed by a mixture of my secret war work and my plan for world domination,
part 1 of which was implemented today when I received a communication from
a nice lady at the BBC.
'I would very much like to talk to you about your Huw Edwards fetish', she
wrote.
'Ooher,' I thought, 'I am going to be sued by the BBC for defamation of a
Sex God News Icon'.
But no! As it transpires, the BBC want me, leader of the Socialist Republic
of Free Hairy Folk, to be on TV, telling the public exactly what they should
be doing and thinking. It is something I was born to do.
Friday 28 March 2003
I phoned the BBC woman but she was out. I have to ring back next week.
Boo! I shall sulk for a week!
Saturday 29 March 2003
The BBC woman rang back, I stopped sulking, and she's planning to come over
next week. I'm aghast and agog. I'm also agog and aghast at The Borough of
Kensington and Chelsea, who, I discovered this evening, have been paying me
Housing Benefit for the last four months. Eeeeh, I'm vexed. I suppose I'll
have to pay it all back now (stamps foot petulantly).
I wondered why I seemed to have far more money than I should have.
Sunday 30 March 2003
The Ugly One and I went out to Hammersmith today and did lots of shopping.
To be honest it wasn't interesting stuff like gadgets and DVDs (although we
did drool over a giant TV in Dixons. I had to wipe my spittle from the screen
before one of their white-shirted cultist assistants came over to ask us if
we needed help)
I bought some new pillows, pillow cases and a spare sheet, since I have developed
a craving for bedding of late. Those who know me will doubtless say that I'm
always gagging for a bit of bedding, but to them I say 'Pshaw! Find some better
jokes.'
We bought meatballs and later had them with pasta while we attempted to catch
up with Crossroads, which we have neglected of late. Sadly, ''Crossroads''
is not be continued, which is a damn shame, since it seems to strike the right
balance of madness and... er... madness.
Jane Asher has been making the Beast with two backs with Joe, the leather-clad
biker who spookily boasts bigger breasts than hers.
Madge from Neighbours has been making green glowing love potions in a cauldron,
while cuddly Dave and Tracy Botox-Booth, the alcoholic receptionist, had a
snog, not knowing that young Scott's new video camera had been left recording....
Vince, the gayest chef in the world, was visited by the ghost of Tim Brooke-Taylor
who was killed two weeks ago in a freak florist's accident after having caught
Vince in a clinch with a man so thin I nearly brought up my Arabiatta sauce
in bulemic sympathy.
Give me cuddly Dave any day.
Tuesday 1 April 2003
The nice woman from the BBC turned up today. Her name was Rachel. I'd learned
some lines in case I could think of nothing to say, but forgot them all in
a fit of camera-encounter-madness. However, she kindly interviewed me, and
I talked volubly about Huw Edwards' unlikely status as a gay icon, Aberystwyth's
campaign to change it's name to Llan Francisco, the evil that is Jeremy Spake...
and the war.
At one point she had to move the camera as the angle made it look as if our
fish were swimming in and out of my ears.
Then, drained of words, I made her hide in the kitchen while I filmed myself,
thinking that this would make me more relaxed.
It didn't.
However, we eventually finished and I signed a contract. I was supposed to
get a pound for my dubious services (which took me down Memory Lane somewhat)
but once she'd gone I realised that my pound had not been forthcoming! I demand
that it be deducted from my TV licence fee.
I went out shopping, and when I got back, discovered that while I'd been out
Securicor had been round with my book delivery and had taken it back to their
depot at Park Royal. This evening we watched 'Most Haunted Live' on the inappropriately
titled 'Living TV' which was investigating the allegedly haunted Great Midland
Hotel at St Pancras Station. Resident Psychic Derek Achorah, a kind of scouse
Doris Stokes, claimed to be in touch with all sorts of people who died on
the premises.
I am rather cynical about the fact that most of the details Derek revealed
were already posted on the 'Most Haunted' website.
Later, a woman was hypnotised and regressed.
'Who are you?' the regresser asked.
'Boadicea!' she replied in a distinct Northern accent.
'Where did you die?'
'England.'
My cynicism mounted.
A woman rang in... 'I'm psychic!' she said, 'and I've been picking up Roman
soldiers all day.'
In my experience you don't have to be the least bit psychic.
Wednesday 2 April 2003
Today started with the Ugly One running about shouting...'We're late. It's
eight o'clock.'
I leapt from my new comfy pillows and ran downstairs, switched on the coffee
maker and staggered into the living room, to be greeted with 'Flying Doctors'.
'This isn't usually on at this time,' I thought, and only then noticed that
it was 7.00 am.
I could have had another twenty minutes in bed.
Boo!
So, I got to work early and rang the Securicor people.
'No, we don't deliver Saturdays!' he said, which meant that this evening I
had to go to Park Royal, an area of London previously unknown to me.
It's bloody creepy. I had to go down into an underpass, follow a footpath
down through some gloomy trees, then come up some stairs on to the main road,
follow another footpath down through some even gloomier trees, across a bridge
which stetched over an abandoned railway line and down the side of a factory
(no doubt full of children chained to conveyor belts, engaged in the assembly
of armaments) to an industrial estate.
I hung about for a while, just in case I might have been followed by love-starved
footpads, but no such luck. A man with a briefcase gave me a desultory glance
as he passed, so I forged on and picked up my parcel.
I returned home only to discover messages from several people at the BBC telling
me that I was going to be on TV this evening at 8.27 on BBC 4.
My friend Val in Wales was going to get her brother to tape it but I subsequently
discovered that she got her poor mum to do it, who - terrified of missing
me - sat through an hour of BBC 4 news and missed The Braithwaites.
Give that woman a medal!
Thursday 3 April 2003
Following my TV debut one cruel person - you know who you are - got her Maori
lodger to ring me and pretend to be someone from Richard and Judy, inviting
me to appear as a guest.
As recompense for publicly exposing my disturbing eagerness to appear on such
a show she has promised to send the Maori round to teach me his sticky-out-tongue
war-dance. I'm looking forward to that.
The Ugly One (bless his little Gap vest) bought me a pressie today. It was
a complete bluegrass version of Pink Floyd's 'The Wall' by Luther Wright and
The Wrongs, who were previously unknown to me.
It's surprisingly brilliant, and I've been playing it a lot.
Unfortunately, being American, they have to make everything politically correct
(thereby missing the point entirely, but well, they're Americans and they
can't spell 'subtlety' let alone hazard a guess at what it means) and have
changed certain of the more controversial lyrics.
The original lyrics in one section went:-
'Are there any queers in the theatre tonight? Get them up against the Wall.
There's one in the spotlight. He don't look right to me. Get him up against
the wall.
And that one looks Jewish, and that one's a coon.
Who let all this rifff-raff into the room....?'
Luther's version goes:-
'Are there any deer in the theatre tonight? Get them up against the Wall.
There's one in the spotlight. He don't look right to me. Get him up against
the wall.
And that one looks squeamish, and he's a raccoon.
Who let all this wildlife into the room....?'
Mmmm.
Monday 9 June 2003
I've been working so hard for the last two months that I have been neglecting
my adoring public, some of whom assumed, quite reasonably, that I was dead
and sent flowers.
Thank you, but next time send black orchids. I hate bloody carnations.
Actually, no. Just send money.
The Maori tongue-waggler hasn't been round! And you can't tell me that it
was because he thought I was dead!
Anyway, I was prompted to return to my diarising by a triple celebrity portent
of doom. Last week, while travelling on the London Underground I came face
to face with Robin Cook, ex-cabinet Minister and ginger person, lurking about
on the platform at Victoria.
The next day, as I was coming out of the Hammersmith tube, on my way to Tescos
whom should I bump into - almost literally - but Fenella Fielding, practically
the only person now left alive from 'Carry On Screaming'.
'The Great God Argos is trying to tell me something', I thought to myself,
'Celebrity Portents are rare and powerful things. If a third one should appear,
things might start looking very bleak indeed.'
And so it was that coming out of Latimer Road Tube Station on Thursday, I
was overcome with augurous awe and terror for who should be coming into the
station but Kate O'Mara, star of ''The Horror of Frankenstein" and 'Crossroads'
(not... "The Horror of Frankenstein and Crossroads" before you all start writing
in with your silly jokes).
I gaped, and she smiled at me, no doubt thankful for even an open gob of recognition.
Tuesday 10 June 2003
It is very warm and I am somewhat damp.
In the interim between March and now Mr Soprano has been and gone, as has
Crossroads. I cannot believe that the British Public is so ignorant as not
to recognise it as a classic. Toward the end it grew very dark and surreal,
although I think we could have done without the flashbacks to the Early Seventies
and the young Max, Angel, Kate and Ethan Black.
We never discovered if Max has always said 'Leesure' instead of 'Leisure'
or how his eyes changed colour in later life, but we did get to see Ethan's
evil dad, Bishop Black, pushing his wife over the banisters to her doom on
the hall tiles.
It's all one can ask for really.
Monday 30 June 2003
For some time now the Ugly One has been on the turn. Not so long ago he bought
us tickets to see Shirley Bassey at Wembley.
Now that was a weird audience. It was a weird warm-up act too, a motley bunch
of pop-classical warblers whose melodious crooning forced us to the bar while
we were waiting for Shirley to appear.
We had a couple of pints, pointed drunkenly at Frank Skinner as he slunk by
(Frank Skinner seems to follow us to concerts. He was lurking about at the
Liza Minelli show too. I wish he'd at least say 'hello' and not just stalk
me like some desperate Birmingham fiend.)
There were a couple of gay bears sitting in front of us, and a brace of feisty
women. The rest of the audience seemed to consist of gay men of a wide spectrum
of ages from adolescence to three-weeks dead, and a bizarre number of married
couples.
We had another drink, and headed for our seats.
Just after 'Goldfinger', the feisty girls began to get in the mood and were
synchronising their Bassey hand-choreography.
'We love you Shirl!' shouted a voice from the very back.
'We love you too, Shirl!' shouted one of the feisty girls.
At this point I must have temporarily lost my presence of mind.
'We love you more than they do!' I shouted, at which Dame Shirley looked vaguely
in our direction and said 'I can see somebody's pissed!'
Anyway, back to The Ugly One. For some time now he has had a long felt want
to go to The Opera, in particular to see 'Die Zauberflote' (which is 'The
Magic Flute' in European).
So, off I trot to The Royal Opera House (which shall henceforth be known as
The Opera House' as I refuse to kowtow to Royal nonsense) with my new debit
card thinking that I can get us a couple of bench spaces at the back for the
price of a Chinese Takeaway delivery.
Alas no! 'Die Zauberflote' finishes next week and the only tickets left that
were seated together could have bought me four rent-boys, a crate of Guinness
and a sackful of brocolli.
'Who are you bringing?' asked the young (and sadly thin) gay man at the Box
Office.
'Is that any of your business?' I retorted.
'Well no, I suppose not, but... Is it your wife?'
I was getting more and more worried at the turn this conversation was taking.
'No!' I said loudly, 'I'm bringing my boyfriend!' at which a snooty elderly
matron in the next queue clutched her pearls and glared at me.
'Oooh,' said the young man, 'I do admire your boldness.'
'You're pretty bold yourself,' I said. 'Why do you need to know?'
'Because,' he said, ' If your boyfriend had been under twenty-six he could
have got a concession and a cheaper ticket.'
I toyed for a moment with the idea of trying to pass the Ugly One off as a
flighty young thing but abandoned it just as quickly.
'Alas no!' I said and handed over the plastic.
The UO was suitably chuffed with the tickets. We shall be off to the Opera
House next Wednesday.
Hoorah! Tuesday 1 July 2003 As a kind of thank you, the UO cooked a lamb curry
which he'd seen on the cooking channel. It got dix points from me. Douze points
went to the okra and mushroom bhajee which he'd made as a side dish.
Saturday 5 July 2003
My mate Tom popped down to London for a visit since the Ugly One had been
spirited away to the depths of East London on an undercover assignment.
I met Tom at Euston and despite the fact that at 6' 2" he's not hard to spot,
it was he who spotted me first.
We dropped off his stuff at home and (after the Ugly one had mouthed 'Oooh!
He's huge!' and run out the door) set off for a pilgrimage to the Bush of
Shepherds and a couple of drinks in Wetherspoons.
Wetherspoons is great in that it features a counter one where can sit at a
picture window gazing out on Shepherds Bush Green from which one can ogle
shoppers, builders and bus-drivers to one's heart's content.
Then we spent the evening devising a cunning plan which would see us esconced
as Vin Diesel's love-slaves.
Wednesday 9 July 2003
Today was stormy and grey, much like an angry Danny La Rue.
The Opera House was great! I couldn't read the subtitles on the stupid little
screens so the UO had to tell me what was going on. It still made no sense.
Lots of masonic rituals and a fat woman sewn into a glittery dress.
I could have gone to Frank Bough's house and had much the same thing for half
the price.
