Monday, 22 February 2010

This Boring

I use to love waking up with Fern Britton on a weekday morning, didn’t you? Her big bust and larger than life personality, well before she looked like a deflated beach ball after her gastric band, would light up the screen, and quite often I found myself laughing along with her and Phil. How times have changed.

Unfortunately Fern left, supposedly after finding out that Phil was earning twice as much as her, which is a piss take as Fern is worth her pre gastric band weight in gold. In stepped Holly and it has to be said things just haven’t been the same since. There seems to be as much spark and electricity between Phil and Holly as a black out. So ITV decided to place a skinny young thing on morning TV, which is fair enough, it is their choice, but I’ve dipped bigger things with more personality in my tea. I can’t help but think the more rounded Alison Hammond would have been much better all round. Who can resist her gorgeousness, she oozes with natural charm, fun and delight.

I’m beginning to think that This Morning quite likes recruiting talentless tits to host our morning viewing. I can almost hear the outcry from what I’m about to say, but Britain’s most loveable divorcĂ©e and all round sap, Mr Peter Andre, is now their showbiz correspondence. I’m not denying he’s a nice guy, but really, being famous for spending a stint in the jungle and marrying the UK’s most wanted, in a death not popular way, glamour model is hardly grounds for being famous is it? I know God loves a tryer, but please Peter, sell your microphone for fucks sake.

Well actually come to think of it, it seems you could be made famous for farting in this country, well I’m positive that’s how This Morning’s, ahem, fashion expert, Jason Gardener became famous. Now was it just me who watched him presenting a fashion piece on Bras a few weeks ago and thought if ever there was a man who’s not been near a bra in his life it’s him? Not only that but how can a man who has as much fashion sense as Margaret Thatcher host a fashion segment?

Oh how I love Friday mornings when the delightful Eamonn Holmes and Ruth Langsford grace us with their presence. His Irish charm is like a river dance to my soul. I do love waking up to the lovely Eamonn on Sunrise Sky News in the morning. Now I did nearly fall out with him when he popped over to Egypt last week and left me with a news reader I’m unacquainted with, but all is forgiven now he’s back, he’s been warned not to holiday again.

All that’s left for me to say is; ITV please bring back our Fern, our national treasure, or at least replace her with someone who can fill her shoes and her dresses, give us Alison Hammond.

Saturday, 20 February 2010

Embarrassing Viewing

I love Channel 4 for being ground breaking, after all it brought us Queer As Folk, Brass Eye and Sex & The City to the UK. It is never afraid to push the boundaries, which is exactly what we need in this society which has seen political correctness go fucking bonkers.

I even love Embarrassing Bodies, although admittedly for perhaps not the right reasons. I’m sure it’s brilliant and educational to some, but surely I can not be the only one to watch it just for the fact I want to laugh at the people who are too embarrassed to go to their local G.P about ulcers on their dicks or their seeping fufu (I just can’t say the word), but don’t seem to bat an eyelid about showing the nation. Is it just me who thinks there’s something a little deranged about this?

Last nights episode was a particular favourite of mine. Filmed in Brighton it had all the queens running to that mobile clinic to be checked for herpes they all thought they’d caught from a poppers in fuelled orgy the night before. Probably a check to put their minds at ease, however, I reckon it was the thought of having a pat down from the gorgeous Dr Christian that had them cuing straight from the nightclub at 4am, that and a chance of 15 seconds of fame. I have to admit I had consider getting something stuck up a certain oraphis just to get Dr Christian to brush past me, but then I remembered most house holds don’t have wide screen.

It is one of those programmes that I would not be surprised to see last years Big Brother contestants going on and showing their shingles for a desperate last ditch attempt to raise their profiles, rumour has it Geri Halliwell is on next weeks show with a particular bad case of self inflicted piles. Well let’s face it, that sad bitch would attend an opening for a packet of crisps.

Now I have to admit that there is some very embarrassing footage of me knocking around the internet, I was once in Cold Feet and The Grimleys, well, I was a leading background artiste. There’s also me doing a lovely rendition of Cher’s Turn Back Time uploaded onto a friends face book, and know my loyal readers in my own desperate bid for 15 seconds of fame I am sharing with you a particular favourite video of mine; an amazing rendition of Barbie Girl accompanied by my fellow trolley dolly, Ms Ali McIver. I have even received news that is up for a MTV award for most comical video filmed at 4am in a service station. It’s quite an exclusive category so I’m expecting to win.

Now just before I let you all go, I know Primark has a sale on and you’ll all be chomping at the bit to get there, don’t forget to click the follow link at the side of this page to become a fan of this blog. You can also now join the FaceBook group by searching for Handbags’n’Botox, and finally don’t forget to tell your friends to take a look. Now I really must go, Jeeves has fallen awkwardly on the Dyson again….Dr Christian………

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

The Pitts

53 minutes into last nights Brit Awards it officially died a death when host Peter Kay resorted to his old ‘Garlic Bread’ joke circa 2005, and shock horror, still got no laughs. It would be safe to say he went down like John Leslie at a hen party. Was it just me who gasped when he entered last night? I almost mistaken him for a small house, I know he does like a cake or two but shit me, I think it’s safe to say his local Gregg’s isn’t suffering from the recession. I wish I was there just to shout out ‘she’s packed in to that isn’t she.’

Still reeking of desperation like a Bishop on a child abuse charge was Geri Halliwell. Managing to throw herself in front of the camera 3 times, trying desperately to take over a back stage interview with Fearne Cotton (who had obviously employed Crusty the Clown to ensemble her outfit), in the hope of bagging herself a presenting job on the ITV2’s extended milking of the affair.

Clutching desperately onto my Bacardi and Coke I was sure that Lady Gaga would inject some life into the sorry affair, which by this point was running as professionally as a show in the local British Legion. Unfortunately the only thing GaGa seem to inject was Diazepam straight into her veins. One can forgive her though as she must have been knackered carrying around that vintage Argos Lamp Shade around on her head all night.

Single-handedly Alisha Keys made it worth while to tune into with her amazing performance of ‘Empire State of Mind,’ unfortunately even that was ruined by someone called Jay-Z persistently rapping over it and telling the crowd to ‘Put Your Hands Up,’ who had quite rightly got themselves that pissed most of them were laying in a comatose state desperately reaching for another line of Ketamine to no don’t end any further suffering, and boy did it come.

It so nearly all went right for Cheryl Cole, who is to pop music what Osama Bin Laden is to world peace, until she opened her mouth. One had such high expectations for her after spring-boarding her way onto stage, instead I was left almost crying into my newly opened and pored glass of Veuve Cliquot. Unfortunately whatever track was being played into her ear was not the same as what the rest of us were hearing, making it look like her jaw was swing lower than a queens after snorting four grams of Columbian Marching Powder down Canal Street on a Friday night.

ITV, I’d like to say good effort, but it was obvious than none what so ever went into last nights shower of shite, and I have to say just like Cheryl Cole’s marriage was doomed from the start. Next year ITV I’ll host it in a Little Chef on the M1. It will be cheaper and no doubt a thousand times better.

Monday, 15 February 2010

Give It Some Heart

Now I know you lot expect me to be vile and tell you stories about how I once gave a blow job to a taxi driver to pay for my fare home, or that I was once so pissed that I woke up in a recycling bin in Toronto. Today, however, I’m going to shock you all. Today, yes it’s true, I’m going to be, ahem, kind.

I know that may have shocked a lot of you but I feel I must say thanks to some people who have plied me with alcohol, let me cry all over them, be sick in their cat’s bowl and still cuddled me.

Now as you know I’m not one for drama, I just seem to attract it, but in the last 12 months I have had more than my fair share. In a nutshell I lost my job twice, split with my fella, moved to London and back, forced to sell my car, saw my father undergo a course of chemo (it’s the fact he survived upset me the most, I had already planned on getting the Mazda, Merc and Rolex) and saw myself comfort eat through four stone of pork pies and Blossom Hill wine. But on the bright side there have been some brilliant people propping me up along the way and encouraging me to drink some more.

Kevin and Lee are one of those sickening in love couples that you just want to vomit all over. Their love for each other is like my love for Victoria Wood; one step away from a restraining order. Without question they have welcomed me with open arms into their cheap IKEA decorated apartment, sent me texts a plenty, invites to nights out and offered their genuine care. Thank You Boys!

Mirren Leask a lady I have known since forever and still stands by me no matter how many times I call her a ginger bitch. I took my first and last pill with this lady, it sent me psychotic, I’m sure she just gave me a Percil washing tablet. An amazing singer, help me show my gratitude by listening to her amazing voice at

My newest friend, yet somehow seeming like the friend I always had is Nicky. Maybe it’s because she drove all the way across Manchester just to bring me a bottle of wine when I was down or that she took me to Glasgow for the weekend to cheer me up that she means so much to me. Perhaps is that we got dumped on the same day and have spent the last seven months drinking ourselves to oblivion together.

My biggest thanks would go to my best friend beyond words, Ben MalMOAN (in joke). Despite being the only person alive to find evil in Mother Theresa he has loved me unconditionally, even when I went against his advice and climbed through my ex’s window, how we laugh now. This man has fed me, watered me (with three bottles of wine for a tenner), put me to bed, listened to my endless phone calls at 3 in the morning, driven me all over Manchester whenever I’ve needed to be some where and even took me away to a caravan for a weekend of alcohol and campness in the Yorkshire dales. Ben I love you, thank you.

Now don’t get me wrong I’m back on my two feet, fighting stronger than ever. Back with a personal trainer and feeling fabulous. But it’s thanks to the people above that I’m not on the streets drinking methylated spirits, again!

Saturday, 13 February 2010

Shag Who You Want But Leave the Sausage Rolls For Me

Enjoying a leisurely drink with my trolley dolley friends round a pool in the arse end of the world the conversation soon turned to cheating partners.

I myself have been cheated on, shocking I know, who wouldn't want to be with me? Gorgeous, down to earth and low maintenance. But what can I say; it happens to the best of us. I was cheated on for months before I found out the good for nothing, ugly twatted dried up spunk stain (not bitter at all), had already begun planning setting up house with his bit on the side.

Obviously in this circumstance my ex hadn't just shagged someone else and that was it, he'd formed an emotional bond, having his cake and eating it, actually after bumping into him last month I'd say he's ate the whole bakery (again not bitter).

What I'm getting at is this; is it possible to forgive infidelity as long as it is just a shag? Does it become impossible to forgive if they go back for seconds, or worse if they go back for drinks and snacks?

Brushing aside the likes of swingers, I'm very open minded, I just think they're greedy sluts, is it fine to have sex outside the relationship as long as no emotional bonds are made?

Sitting around the pool some strong opinions are vented; personally I just think the dirty dicks should keep it in their pants, however, I was strongly disagreed with by my senior who simply stated, 'let him shag who he wants as long as he doesn't go back for canopies.' As wonderful as she is, the night before she did come out with the comment 'I'm going to ride him like Sea Biscuit darling,' so you could argue she's more liberal than me.

So what is correct, am I just a norrow minded prude? Perhaps I should just take myself to the nearest gay sauna and try and broaden my horrizons. On second thoughts you don't know what you might catch; I hear varuccas are rife.

Friday, 12 February 2010

'A Large Merlot & A Glass Of Ice For The Botox...'

I’ve always had a bit of complex when it comes to the way that I look, but that’s probably because in my youth at the awkward age of 16, I was a 19 stone beast before I blossomed from an ugly duckling into a urban chic gay man. At the tender age of 18 I got a job in a Botox and beauty salon whereupon I started having Botox myself. Now this was no ordinary salon, this was a salon in Manchester’s ‘Gay Village’ filled with wonderful and eccentric people and that was just the staff. It is from this wonderful clinic from Bloom Street that produced so many stories and introduced me to the intoxicated Gay Village.

I’d love to be able to tell you all that went on and the horrendous sights we saw in that salon, however I have signed a patient confidentiality form. There is just one little incident I can tell you about though, and that involves a back, sack and crack. For those of you who don’t know what that is it’s hair removal by waxing. I’m sure you’d be able to see pictures if you Google it, it’s probably next to anal bleaching, but that’s another story altogether.

Very nice men came into the salon one day, let’s call him Eugene, because that’s his name, and asked for said treatment. Now this man wasn’t a looker by any means, in fact he bore a striking resemblance to the Elephant Man only a little bit hairier. Sharen, our lovely aesthetic practitioner was Mr Eugene’s therapist for the treatment. As Sharen cranked up the heat on the wax pot Eugene stripped down and climbed aboard the bed. Sharen, ever the professional was gazing into Mr Eugene’s black hole when suddenly there was a movement. Not a bowl movement, but a sudden rush of excitement shall we say, shortly followed by a request to ‘make the wax hotter and the waxing harder.’ Now before you get the wrong idea, we might have been on the first floor down a corridor and offered massages but we weren’t that sort of salon, not unless I was in on my own. Sharen was blinded by surprise quite literally; she couldn’t wash the salt out of her eyes for weeks.

Ever the professional our Sharen stayed calm and left the room for Eugene to control himself. Shortly afterwards she went back in and finished the job, ahem! Well Eugene paid and left, and didn’t even tip, the nerve!

Now it’s no surprise that with working in the salon the staff quite liked to dabble into these treatments ourselves and to discuss them later over a glass of wine. I’ve had Botox and several skin peels whilst Nikki is a walking advertisement for aesthetic treatments. This particular evening we’d gone to a lovely plush bar when Sharen ordered ‘a large Merlot and a glass of ice for the Botox.’ (Nikki had told Sharen several times that she didn’t appreciate being called that) The confused waiter wandered off and quickly returned with the order to which Sharen dived into her Mary Poppins handbag and I kid you not, pulled out a small ice bag filled with Botox. Now this is quite normal for us, but you could imagine the look on the poor French waiters face.

Continuing our conversations about what we’d like to have nipped and tucked, Nikki piped up as she was rubbing her liposuction marks on her bingo wings, ‘I’d never have anything done, I’m completely happy with myself.’

Tuesday, 9 February 2010

Just A Thought

Status: Single/Desperate
Belief: Sugababes/Alcazar
Occupatioin: Compulsive over thinker

Ok so I'm twenty four and no further on in this little gay life than I was when I was just entering my little gay life at the sweet age of sixteen, although I had been out of that huge pink sparkly closet to a selective few since I was 14. Yet, still at twenty four I have so many important questions that are left to be unanswered; just what is the perfect length for body hair? Can verrucas be classed as a sexually transmitted infection? Will Brookside ever come back to channel four?

I found the answer to one of my questions above…. the body hair one. Well if like me you weren't taught the answer to this in a sex education class, though I think it should be made compulsory as lets face it no one likes a bush that resembles the hair style of Marge Simpson. Anyway, you might be interested to know that my friend told me a number one on your pubes and a number two on your body hair is the correct etiquette in this situation. But then your next dilemma where do I find the time? Not only to go out and buy some clippers but to trim yourself in the dark folds of skin you never knew you had?

The answer is simple Being gay means that you'll probably have a strange fetish it won’t be long before you log on and find someone who is into shaving or another hair removing activity. Simply get chatting and explain your situation (you could even log on at work during your dinner hour whilst Mary from Human Resources has gone to get you a Starbucks Coffee) and arrange for him to pop round that evening for a quick cut and blow followed by an evening of Victoria Wood repeats on UKTV GOLD. Result; your body hair is now in check, you've even had a nice evening of company (I mean Victoria Wood, not the freak with the fetish) and you've given a stranger enough action to really turn him on without having to dry clean your new Habitat sheets. You're now left free to go out and find someone you really fancy and not have to worry about a pubic outcropping.

Well you've done the above and the next night you fall in love with Pedro who's an Italian exchange student, you met whilst standing in line for the toilet as you think urinals are too common. Two months have passed and Pedro decided to stay with you in England claiming it's just a coincidence that his visa ran out a week after he told you he loved you, only one night Pedro comes home with a verruca which you probably think nothing about, but should you?

Now you might think that I'm being a compulsive over thinker but let me set the scene for you; verrucas are caught from places such as swimming pools, changing rooms and saunas, and you have to come into contact with a person's foot which means Pedro hasn't got any socks on, the chances are he's got nothing else on too. Now you know Pedro doesn't have a gym membership and despite his athletic physique, can't swim. Therefore, the only logical explanation left was he took a little trip down to the local sauna whilst you were at your mothers’, who, incidentally still thinks the term gay just means ‘you're a very happy boy’. We all know what men do at saunas, which only backs up my question, are verrucas an STI?

Which leaves me with one question, will Brookside ever come back to channel four? Well Crossroads came back, so I'm guessing anything is possible.

Wednesday, 3 February 2010

Living On Line....

Or more specifically, I’m living on Twitter. In the last month that I have been a fully fledged member of this site I have become more and more addicted. It’s the first thing I do in the morning and last thing I do at night as well as checking it every ten minutes throughout the day as well.

I’ve seen umpteen amounts of shows with celebrities saying why would you want to know what people are doing all day everyday? A month ago I would have completely agreed with them. However, I now find it completely fascinating when @DameCrusty Gusset tells me she’s been violated by a women wearing a see through nightie with a g-string stuck up her backside in Tesco, or when @naturalgaymen decides to post more pictures of his slightly limp and bent cock. You see there’s something for every one.

Maybe it’s part of the blurring of reality and showbiz worlds that I like. Just the other day I told @EamonnHommes he looked particularly rough whilst presenting Sun Rise on Sky1 and to my surprise messaged me back and said he liked my blog. Equally I have to admit I had a little thrill when the one and only Boy George (am I name dropping?) tweeted that my blogs are legendary. I was however, less thrilled to see @chrismoore19 had just shat himself whilst waiting for the 19 bus, but you’ve got to take the rough with the poo I suppose.

An application that I’ve not been to fond of is Grindr. For all you gay men with iphones out there it’s like Gaydar but shows you the people nearest to you, kind of like a satnav for fucks. The concept is a fantastic idea and after a few glasses of wine if you’re feeling a bit horny just can send cock pics back and forth to your hearts content to LickMe, who is living 5km away, is 28 years old and has a tattoo of the words ‘break glass here’ tattooed just about his anus, classy!

Although this a lovely time and no doubt harmless fun, the problem of these people living so close is that I don’t want to be getting on the bus and waiting for my change for a Day Saver from a driver who’s seen my throbbing membrane the night before, not that it’s happened to me of course, it was ermmm… a friend of mine!

So my advice is this, get yourself on Twitter immediately and follow me, maybe more importantly if you look to the left of this blog, click follow and become a fan, and if you’re ever feeling a little horny at night time send me your pics. I love nothing more than gathering around with my friends on a Friday night and rating a plethora of cocks out of ten.