Tough Love

Monday, August 15, 2005

Gimme a ‘C’, Gimme an ‘S’, Gimme an ‘I’


Crime Scene Investigation

Or should that be…

Completely Silly (Yet) Irresistible ?

Yes, thank you very much Skip’s Acorn Treasury. Now not only do we have a Lost habit to service but thanks to your efforts we now have a growing CSI addiction. This for someone who used to come out in hives whenever mentioned the words ‘Channel Five’.

That said, Saturday’s edition was particularly choice. About plastic surgery. In Las Vegas (we’re thinking Showgirls, we’re thinking Siegfried and Roy). Can you imagine it? The Blonde Beloved by the Gays got very sniffy about the plastic surgeon with a sideline in ‘Watersports for Beauty’ (and we don’t mean scuba diving either). High-larious for a woman who should have won the prize for ‘Most Prominent Use of Collagen Injections in US Network TV’ for the past squillion years.

Yet the fun didn’t end there either. No sooner had everyone’s favourite Studley Beefcake, Nick expressed bafflement at the time and effort women devote to their beauty treatments at The Blonde Beloved than this happened.

Blonde: Flex me a muscle.

Nick: (Gurn, grin) What?

Blonde: Flex me a muscle.

Nick: Okay. (Rolls up sleeve, flexes bicep)

The Gays: (Swoon, reach for smelling salts) No, don’t stop there Nick.

Blonde: (Cops a good old feel)

The Gays: Lucky bitch! We bet you’ve felt him from Lost up as well.

Blonde: So how much time and effort have you put into this. This is what? Five nights a week at the gym, low carb, low burn diet…

The Gays: We always had you down for a muscle chaser, honey. No better than you should be, that’s what you are . . .

Nick: (Grins) My arms are big.

You get the picture.

Arsehole of the world

We had to wait for a train at Stoke-on-Trent today.

We rather thought we’d put Stoke behind us since divesting ourselves of the ex. It’s a funny place. Well, not so much a place as five open sewers strung loosely together with dual carriageways. The only thing it ever had going for it was our ex’s family and that was, like his emotional state, basically a cross between a car crash and a room full of broken mirrors.

So we don’t have many fond memories of the place. The meal on the barge that was so bad we swear it was a bad joke or an abandoned pilot for a new series of Beadle’s About. The various trips to Stoke’s one gay nightclub (imaginatively called ‘The Club’) where the music policy fossilised in 1993 and a drag queen called Fame flicked beer at us. The dinner at the (now former) mayor of Stoke’s house where he threw up on the back doorstep while his scally shag (new-plucked from the Orange Catalogue) announced “I don’t care who’s in charge as long as I get my social…”

No, we do not miss Stoke.

And if a smidgeon of us ever did, two minutes on the station platform put paid to that. The locals were out in force. Hard-faced girls in tracksuits with scraped-back hair smoking over their newborns, unemployed boyfriends looking on ineffectually.

The whole place is an object lesson in why Thatcherism was a bad idea. Disenfranchise the working class and what do you get ten years later? The chav.

It all seems a big price to pay for shoring up Burberry’s share price.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Saucer of milk

Well well well. According to everyone's favourite brand of cut-price toilet paper, The Sun, Atomic Kitten are getting back together. Now what do we think of that?



*Tumbleweed rolls past*

Life can be cruel to put-out-to-pasture popstrels. Mind you, life can be infinitely crueller to people bringing up three kids single handed on a Council estate, so forgive us if we're less than sympathetic about the failure of Jenny Frost's high-larious collaboration with The Wu Tang Clan. (Incidentally, what were The Wu Tang Clan smoking when they agreed to that one?)

So, in a move shamelessly nicked from two of our favourite bloggers in the world...evah, Glitter For Brains and Skip's Acorn Treasury, let's sum it all up in a fabulous letter.

Dear The Atomic Kitten,

You know what a female kitten is when it grows up, don't you? A queen. Take this as a word of warning and go back into hiding now, please.

And yes, we do know that Autotune's share price dipped when you announced your 'break' but we have Rachel Stevens for that now, thank you.

Don't let the door bang your arses on the way out - we've just had it painted.

Lots of love,

The Gays XX

Monday, August 01, 2005

Concerning Primark

Yes, we all know what it is. The place where decent people buy socks and ‘emergency’ pants and umbrellas.

And yes, it’s very cheap. Cheap as Charlotte Church after five cheeky Vimtos and a sneaky Silk Cut, in fact. But remember, there are rules to shopping in Primark. Not obeying them could lead to inexcusable social faux pas, so read on and take note. This post could save you from mortal embarrassment!

1. One Should Never ‘Give’ Primark
Primark is not a suitable place to buy a present – even for a common and unloved relative. Fork out the extra fiver and go to T K Maxx.

2. One Should Never ‘Receive’ Primark
Getting a Primark-branded present from someone is an acceptable reason for striking them off your Christmas card list. In fact it’s right up there with them calling your Gran a whore or being sick over your sheepskin pouffe during a cocktail party.

3. One Should Never ‘Subject’ Primark to another
Or to put it bluntly: never shag between Primark sheets unless: -
i. You’re paying – in which case you can have them in a hammock with an Instant Whip since it’s your money
ii. They look a bit Primark anyway – see our earlier entry on the words ‘Gammon’ and ‘Bacon’ in relation to men.
iii. You don’t love them anymore

4. Primark Should Only Ever Be Consumed Alone
Yes, it’s necessary and occasionally it’s shameful. A bit like masturbation then.