Friday, 20 November 2009

Where Are They Now? Bride of Chucky...

Anyone else spot the resemblance:




<< Left: << Bride of Chucky, last seen in 1998 film of same name having it off with another doll (yes, really) and generally killing humans. Allegedly scary. Hmmm.




>> Right >> Daniella Westbrook, aka Sam Mitchell from EastEnders, aka former coke head / former nose owner who was that off her face she even went out with Brian Harvey from 90s pop group East17 (see also: Seed of Chucky). Couldn't act if her new nose depended on it. Last seen in EastEnders last night 'fleeing' Walford yet again (like, yawno), leaving the strangely attractive Ricky (even though you wouldn't) and Bianca to have it off. Finally. Phew.

Wednesday, 2 September 2009

So how have you been?

Dear Bloglet,

I can call you that can’t I? See, I’m trying to be affectionate after neglecting you over the months that laboured under the misapprehension of Summer. Pah. Anyway, lo siento and all that jazz for my relative quietness… It’s not as though I haven’t had the time – what with being a resting actor (sounds better than unemployed, no?) for the last month, you’d have thought that rattling out a few words would be easy peasy lemon squeezy. Apparently not.

Firstly, and as you’re well aware, my propensity towards obesity, (mobid or plain old regular) has been stalking me again. Yup, I got fat. Okay then, fatter. You know those resolutions that I wrote about over Chrimble? Well, in terms of quitting smoking, I’ve been rather triumphant. I’ve not smoked since December and nor do I want to. I woke up one day with the lung capacity of a dwarf fly with pleurisy and thought, ‘Okay, am done with that…’ Like, hurrah. Anyway, as my lung power increased a thousand-fold, so did my waistline. Oh and no, etc.

I got on my scales t’other week and almost suffered a coronary as I took in the information blinking back at me from the screen. Apparently, I was 120 stones. 120 stones! Can you believe it? As the shooting pains in my left arm eagerly spread to my chest and my face turned a rather delicious (but slightly alarming) shade of purple, I realised that I’d accidentally flicked the switch from stones to kilos. I hastily switched it back, only to find the real-money equivalent equally horrifying. I mean, I knew that the cheeky bottles of wine and Tesco Finest chocolate brownie dessert thingies were inconducive to good health, but come on…

Later that same day, I was in the shower, trying to avoid my reflection in the mirror – which was quite hard, given my ballast – anyway, there I was, scrubbing away, when I went to cleanse my bot-bot, only for my love handle to get in the way. I couldn’t believe it. I was so depressed, I almost popped my head in the oven, but it’s electric. Fan assisted, though, whatever that means. So there we are, am currently fat, round and bounce on the ground. Fuck and bugger, etc.

What else is new? Well, I’ve had the misfortune to sign on a few times as and it’s about as much fun as headbutting glass that a tramp with VD has pissed on. I mean, I’ve never been out of work. Ever since I was a nipper, I’d babysit for a few quid before going on to work at the now defunct Kwiksave for £2.80 an hour. Fancy! At first, it was quite nice not having to get up in the mornings, especially as it meant that I didn’t have to complete a hideous commute only to spend the whole day doing possibly the world’s most boring job in an office with an atmosphere that could rival a morgue for it’s thrills. However, the novelty of a leisurely start has long worn off. As I’m keeping busy, even if I do find myself scraping through the bottom of the barrel. For instance, if I take my diary and look up, say, August 21st, my ‘to do’ list is a bit... well, desperate. The first 'action' instructs me to ‘unplug the video.’ You see, we never use the video, yet it remains plugged in, happily drinking an unlimited source of electricity which will no doubt cause the destruction of the Northern Hemisphere, if not the whole world. Every day I look at its flashing clock and think, ‘such a waste, must turn that off,’ yet never get round to doing it. But how absurd to remind self to disconnect it, when it would be quicker just to lean over and effing well do it. I wouldn’t mind, but it tragically remains plugged in as we speak. I failed on August 21st, didn't I?

I could go on and on and on about the mundanities of my existence even further, but bearing the above sorry tale, I don’t think that’s a good idea. I do however, hope that I’ve elicited sufficient sympathy that you will forgive my neglect. I am more sorry than a sorry thing in sorrysville and I promise that I won’t do it again. Cross my heart and hope to die. Probably of an obesity related illness, but hey ho.

Love you longtime,

Johnny Red Pants xxx

Wednesday, 10 June 2009

Amusing Spam Message of the Day...

Lovingly titled, 'Bang her hard! Make her scream and suck your hard golden cock!'

Apparently all I have to do is buy some tablets from Nigeria (after sending my bank details) and I'll, erm, soon be banging away with my oddly coloured rhythm stick. Do you get free ear plugs I wonder?

Other thoughts:
1. Jaundiced pee-wee?
2. Is this entirely consensual?
3. Goodbye, last remaining thread of heterosexuality...

Thursday, 21 May 2009

Tuesday, 31 March 2009

Come Dine With Me!


Has anyone seen Come Dine With Me? If not – and in a nutshell – the format runs thus: you have four people who can only be described as… well… boring fuckwits, I suppose. These are the people who Big Brother turned down on the grounds that… well… they’re boring fuckwits. The idea is that they all take turns to host a dinner party and afterwards, the three guests rate the night out of ten, using extremely inexpensive looking cards. (Think: slightly sozzled guest in a taxi being driven haphazardly by a pissed Romanian with pathological hatred for boring fuckwits. Pissed guest rebounds off either door whilst trying to give a quick sound-bite to summarise their night: ‘The food was overcooked! Soggy veg and rock hard chicken that was as dry as a Nun’s unmentionables! The wine was chewy! There was no toilet roll and the dog tried it on with my leg as I fingered my sweaty cheese and stale biscuits. I’ll give the night a… (at this point said guest raises cheapo card aloft)… RESPECTABLE SIX’) At the end of the week, the guest that scores highest wins the life changing prize of £1000. Altogether now: oooooooooooooh. It’s hardly Who Wants To Be A Millionaire (a show that I still claim should be re-titled Who Wants To Win £32,000)…

Without wanting to sound like my moderately insane father, it’s just a chance for a collection of… well… boring, stale old fuckwits to tell the world that:

a) They can devise a recipe that sounds nothing short of immoral (last night a woman who was desperate to get her big, fat tits out thought that it was acceptable to serve people prune and salmon roulade. Now, I don’t profess to know what a roulade is, as am common, but I get the impression that it probably tastes of feet.

b) They aren’t anywhere near as funny or clever as they think they are – the jokes on last night’s show were fist-eatingly unfunny and made me want to headbutt myself.

c) They have terrible taste in wallpaper, clothes, hair and pet names. You can’t call a dog Wayne. Nothing should be called Wayne, come to think of it, but least of all, a dog.

I love to hate this programme – it’s a glorious car crash of a television show - although Mr Blokey isn’t as keen. ‘I’m bored, please can we turn it over,’ he can oft be heard crying in manner of a record that is broken. ‘But I like it!’ I exclaim defensively. ‘You can’t even cook,’ he spits in manner of an evil genius or the bespectacled one out of Scoobie Doo who has just fathomed out who the baddie is. ‘I CAN!’ I counter-claim, mock-crestfallen. I know he’s right, but pride ensures that I fight on to the bitter end ‘I’d win this easily,’ I say, trying to convince myself. ‘I would! Don’t look at me like that!’ I shoot, defensively. ‘Go on then, he retorted. What would be on your menu?’ So, ladies and gents, I present you with the following gastronomic, undoubtedly prize winning schmorgasboard that you can expect to feast on at Chez Red Pants.

Starter:
Gaelic Mushrooms. Sounds exotic, no? It’s more simple than it sounds, so there’s no need to be so awestruck, It’s erm, mushrooms (raw), eaten to the sounds of The Corrs. Or Lulu. Take your pick. Failing this, I could do my old favourite, Marmite Surprise, but I don’t think that would secure me the grand at the end. Marmite’s a risk, you see. Love it or hate it, etc. Or I could serve up a Milky Way with salad garnish. The chocolate bar won’t fill you up and the garnish will add to the 5-a-day razzamatazz that the health conscious swear by.

Main:
Zombie Turkey. I’m not quite sure what this is. I’m just trying to be creative with titles. It’s erm... green turkey splattered with blood (or ketchup if you haven’t got any blood to hand and don’t fancy slashing your wrists) and finished off with sunken eyeballs, prized from the nearest domestic pet. Sounds gorge, dunnit? Best served at midnight, Halloween or to people you don’t like, which would probably be all of them at the table. Might season the dish with some LSD – that way I’d probably get me ratings of about 24 out of 10 and comments about how they loved the moonbeam. Which I didn’t serve.

Pudding:
A stick of Twix drizzled with warmed up black cherry yoghurt and sprinkled with soil and diced onion so I can say it’s organic.

I would also award all of my rivals a generous 0 out of 10 on the grounds that I’d rather lick my own arse than eat the swill they served up. Not that it’s necessarily true, but why award people high marks when they’re competing against you? Doesn't make sense, does it?

That grand is in the bag, baby!

Tuesday, 3 March 2009

Quote of the Day...

'Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbour. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream.'
MARK TWAIN (1835-1910)

Monday, 2 March 2009

A Tribute to the Legendary Susan Mary Gare 1955-2009

Friday, 27th February, 2009. It’s a beautiful Spring day, although technically speaking, I think it’s officially still winter. That notwithstanding, it’s unseasonably mild. The optimism of Spring abounds: I’ve seen crocuses, daffodils, the sun is out and my coat is making me hot. After the bleakness of winter, where softly wind allegedly made moan – actually, it didn’t – the snow gifted us with a surprise day off and much impromptu wartime-esque cheer. Everywhere looked pretty. Even Watford. Strangers would stop and chat in the street like old friends and all the kids went sledging like back in the good old days, although the insistent march of modernity was ever-present. Whereas we, as nippers, would temporarily pilfer our Mam’s tin tray to slide down the hill at a life threatening speed, kids these days pilfer the lids of recycling boxes. And not just temporarily. Hmmmf, etc. Anyway, after the unrelenting, biting cold that has plagued the winter months, today is a climatic dream. The sun warms your face. Old people have discarded their cardies. Even the ducks seem excited. When I woke up this morning, I heard bird-song and it made me smile until I realised that today is the day of your funeral.

You’re dead and I can’t believe it. You’re fifty-three, you’ve beaten cancer and it’s a beautiful day. Three good reasons why you shouldn’t be dead. But you are… And I can’t believe it.

You'll be pleased that the occasion reunited The Big Cheese, Goddess and I. But what rubbish circumstances to realise that we are idiots x3 for leaving it until now to get together; that such joy (a natural result of seeing each after so long apart) was brought about by the complete and utter tragedy of your passing.

I'm not a fan of funerals. Yes, I know that they are supposed to be a celebration of life, blah, blah, blah, but I still can’t get over the fact that when I attend one the chances are that someone I love and care for has hopped off of life’s rollercoaster and nipped over to the next astral plane for a mosey about. In other words, I will never see them again. Their passing tears a hole in the fabric of our collective and individual existence. They’ve cheated life or life has cheated them – but either way they’re dead. And while I’m off on one, why does ‘dead’ have to be such a hideous word? Where is the celebration in all of that? You know, I am yet to take part in a conga round a coffin. Maybe I’m not getting the point. I dunno.

For what it’s worth, your funeral was lovely. The Big Cheese, Goddess and I went for a quick drink beforehand. We talked about you, naturally. Good things, only good things. What else is there? At first, we spoke as though you were still here, orchestrating it all. ‘She’s picked a good day for it,’ we’d quip lamely, as we laughed and felt guilty and naughty and ridiculous and happy and sad all at the same time.

I didn’t think I’d cry like I did. Not because I have a swinging brick in place of a heart, but because I have a problematic relationship with the stereotypical idea of grief. That said, I wore black – but only because it’s thinning, okay? I just find it hard to grieve when someone tells me it’s all okay, to let it all out, that life goes on, that there is no more pain, they're in a better place and all the other death cliché bollocks. All whilst patting my back. How can it be okay? It doesn't feel okay.

So, the funeral: we sat three rows from the front on the right hand side. As we first entered the room, we were presented with a booklet dedicated to you. On the cover was a beautiful picture of you. You look almost regal on it – one arm raised, casually supporting your resting head with a cheeky hint of a wry smile lighting up your face. As the casket flowed up the aisle on a sea of shoulders, we all stood. As it passed by me, I caught my breath and the gravity of the situation sucked me down. I wept for you, my darling friend. I held my breath and sucked on my cheeks to oppress a huge belly sob. Goddess and I held hands and I suddenly felt lifted. I laughed at the anecdotes that we shared throughout the ceremony. I attempted to sing hymns even though I didn’t know the melody and Goddess mimed. We took a sideways glance at each other and grinned. I continued to smile thinking of you and the times we spent together. I smiled thinking of your attitude to life and your innate goodness and unwavering generosity. I smiled thinking of the more-than-appropriate lines to the final hymn that we sang – how great thou art, how great thou art.

Sleep well, Susan-Mary.

All my love, hugs and a cheeky (but delicious) bum squeeze,

JRP xxx

Tuesday, 17 February 2009

Quote of the Day...

‘I couldn’t have my happiness made out of a wrong – an unfairness – to somebody else… What sort of a life could we build on such foundations?’

Edith Wharton

Monday, 9 February 2009

25 Random Things About Me...

1. When I put my iPOD on shuffle, the next ten artists are: Barbara Streisand, Madonna, Take That, Madonna, Madonna, George Michael, Dolly Parton, Hairspray Soundtrack, Boney M and erm, Madonna. Yes, I am a rubbish gay lord skidding alarmingly towards middle age. I’ll be plucking my eyebrows within a millimetre of my life and painting myself orange soon. Just you wait and see…

2. I eat a lot of salad but remain inexplicably two stones overweight. Such a riddle is potentially solved when my alcohol intake is taken into account. Bummer.

3. I believe that almost all of life’s ills can be blamed on Thatcher.

4. I have a very dark sense of humour. Some people call it sick. I hope they die. See, that was a dark joke. Er, tee hee?

5. I think my three least attractive qualties are: 1. The fact that my snoring can be measured on the richter scale, 2. As can my farting, which is constant, stinky and sometimes sinister – I once made my (now defunct) cat flee the room after once particularly troublesome bottom burp. And 3, my penchant for nose picking. I know it’s a socially criminal thing to do, but I like it.

6. Aged 31, I decided to leave the country on a whim. I stayed away for six months... Viva Espana!

7. I am finally in a loving relationship after a love life career that reads like a who’s who of Freaks, Fuckwits, Perverts and Losers – an Anthology. Mr Blokey is possibly the best thing that has ever happened to me and I love him that much, I could weep openly in the street. Fact. Had I not met him when I did, I would’ve most certainly converted to a militant lesbianism. I’ve already got the terrible haircut and Doctor Martins, so bring it on, bitches.

8. I am forever laughing inappropriately. I don’t mean it. I’m clearly hysterical. Slap me.

9. The first record I ever bought was There Must Be An Angel (Playing With My Heart) by the Eurythmics, I think I was eight at the time. My brother bought a Transformer at the same time, which I accidentally broke later that same day. He cried.

10. I am clumsy. Initially people find this endearing. Then when I break something that belongs to them, their enthusiasm for my cack-handedness wanes at an alarming rate. How fickle. The most expensive thing I have ever broken was a car belonging to work. I accidentally drove it straight into a lorry and wrote it off. And the lorry too. I was in Spain at the time and rather than apologise to the lorry driver, I got my words mixed up and told him I loved him. He – rather ungratefully – didn’t look too pleased.

11. I really fancy chocolate right now. I shall resist though.

12. My Dad still doesn’t know that I’m gay. I think he does know, deep down, but chooses to believe that I am a breeder instead. He must know. He’s not stupid. Not that I think I’m a raging homo (point one of this tirade notwithstanding…) but I’ve not mentioned having a girlfriend for at least ten years. And he’s fully aware of my unhealthy appreciation for Madonna and skin care routines.

13. Thirteen is one of my lucky numbers.

14. I honestly think that my family circumstances are worthy of a spot on the Jeremy Kyle show or a disabled parking badge at least. Or both. I do not like Jeremy Kyle though. He has one of those faces you’d get lots of pleasure from slapping, don’t you think?

15. Terry Wogan rules.

16. Pork Pie utterly disgusts me. If I was made Prime Minister, my first act of Parliament would be to ban it with immediate effect. My second act, if you’re interested, would be to bring back hanging for people who let their dogs shit in the street.

17. I was two months premature and ended up being born on the Virgo/Libra cusp, when really, I should be a Scorpio. Thus, I read all three astrological predictions and tend to favour the one that tells me I am going to get laid/win the lottery.

18. I keep going to see psychics in the hope that my Mam comes through. So far, she has been busy on her new astral plane. Fuck and bugger. Mother, psychics are expensive and keep telling me I have a bad back (which I don’t have). Hurry up!

19. I find it scary that so many of my friends have children. I still feel like one myself.

20. If I won the lottery, I can safely say that it would probably change me.

21. I think that Dettol is one of the nicest smells ever.

22. I tend to name inanimate objects. For instance, I have a plant called Jesus (am not religious, by the way) and a car called Nelly. My first car was called Madge, my second, Evita, my third Butch.

23. My first ever job after university was working in a theatre where everyone was gay and they thought I was straight so I got picked on. I also got mistaken for a rent boy on my way home way one night. Even though I’m not.

24. I am germ-phobic and have slight OCD. As a result, I don’t do door handles and feel uncomfortable around visible soap dodgers. I also count to eight lots in my head. I don’t know why, I just do.

25. I don’t take anything seriously. Ever.

FIN.