Who Is Idol?

So.... a "surprise" win by David Cook last night then. As Shirley Bassey would say "it's all just a little bit of history repeating"...

Whose Idol?

Is anyone paying attention to 'American Idol' over here in England apart from me? When I say "attention" I mean I'll leave it on if I accidentally happen to have the tv on and can't find anything else to watch.

Is that David Archuleta not Gareth Gates after extensive surgery? Bland, soulless voice? Check. Apparently rabid fan-base from day one, making it seem impossible for anyone else to win? Check. Talent comprising mainly of being able to look cute on camera? Check. Slightly androgynous, soft speaking voice? Crying in all the right places? Oh, so modest and self-effacing? Check, Check, Check. Career not likely to last past the first album? Oh, I should think so.

I loved it when Gareth was beaten by Will Young, back in the day when tv's were still black and white and when we all listened to the BBC World Service to find out what was going on with the war. You know, when Wagon Wheels were named as such because they were the size of wheels off covered wagons. Before they got all tiny and bite-size, so you can get them in your mouth whole, as I can a jam doughnut. But not at the same time, although I can't say that I've tried. One to add to the list of things to do before I die, along with swimming with sharks, and marrying Sean Connery in the late 1960's. And then divorcing him and marrying Burt Reynolds in the 70's. And then divorcing him and marrying Tom Selleck in the 80's. Currently I'm still hoping to marry Bill Goldberg, but I'm not sure who I should have married in the 90's that I should now be divorcing him for. I had a bit of a hard spot for Bruce Willis, so perhaps we'll go for that.

So, Gareth Gates. What a great talent he turned out to be. I couldn't stand him from day one, with his insipid blandness perfectly calculated to make grannies moist. Those big brown I'm-so-innocent eyes. I still think there was some manipulating going on to allow Will Young to win, as Gareth seemingly already had a career in the bag anyway. Of course, the talent shone though in the end and whilst Gareth faded into a grey, dull-looking obsurity, Will went from ok first album to bloody excellent second, and still rather good third. Gareth's second album doesn't even appear in bargain bins it's so scarce.

So, will David Archaeopteryx "do a Gareth"? Will he come a surprise second, amid allegations of a conspiracy? Will he be miraculously taken under Simon Cowell's wing, only for the spell to suddenly be broken and for people to realise that's he's the sonic equivalent of a fridge - white goods at best?

Oh, to be taken under Simon Cowell's wing. Is it only me that thinks Simon Cowell's kinda hot? I totally would. He's the only reason I'm still watching 'American Idol'. I'm totally going to marry him, as soon as I've married and divorced Bill Goldberg.

'Britain's Got Talent' on the other hand is a marvel of light entertainment. But would someone please stop them wheeling out children to sing "Nessun Dorma"? Or "Ave Maria" for that matter. You'd think there were only two songs that angelic children could sing. What's the betting that the next time that chubby little blond kid is on he'll fucking sing "I'm Walking In The Air"?

Still, I'll sit through it no matter what, just for a look at Simon Cowell's hairy wrists. Is that so wrong?

Social Life? Me?

The Boyf's bad back is, like, totally ruining my social life.

In the last couple of weeks we've barely ventured out of our home, and any clubbing has been done in short burst. Thusly we attended the opening of Beyond, for 2 hours, a couple of weeks back. Verdict; promising but nothing like the "proper" Beyond.

Over the Bank Holiday weekend we actually managed almost a whole Monday at the RVT, but that's only because the weather was good, allowing us to sit outside. We barely went inside and left quite early.

Last weekend we'd made big plans to go to Megawoof!, and The Boyf rested himself specially. However we actually only lasted about 3 hours before he was complaining, and I'd spent my whole time trying to stop people bumping into him (not an easy job in a packed Woof!) and basically fretting about his apparent... unenjoyment? Disenjoyment? Whatever.

Sunday was another unseasonably lovely day so I pressured The Boyf into going to the RVT again to sit outside, and in the end we never even ventured into the building, leaving very early to have food and go home, The Boyf complaining that he wasn't "into it".

Of course, this is all playing havoc with my sex life. I've not even snogged anyone since April, and you have to go back to early March for anything more than that. This is not good news.

So if you do happen to see me out over the next few weeks make sure you take photos and generally make a fuss of the fact that you've missed me. I'm OMO by the way, just in case you'd forgotten...

Gayliens

According to this story on the BBC website, the Vatican newspaper has published an article by Father Funes - the Pope's chief astronomer (who knew he even had any astromomers, let alone a chief one) - which states that intelligent life (created by God, natch) could exist elsewhere in the Universe.

The article was entitled "Aliens Are My Brother"; presumably so long as they turn out to be resolutely heterosexual.

Nice to know the Vatican can extend its arm of friendship out to other galaxies but won't do the same for us gays down here on Earth. Jeez!

A Big Gay Wedding

So, you have to pretend this is still last week, cause I wrote this and then completely forgot to publish it. Dumb ass.

Well, what a riot our first gay wedding was.

We arrived unfashionably punctual on the dot of 6pm for the champagne reception, with the ceremony due to start at 7. Rather obviously, the place steadily filled up with people The Boyf had had sex with at some time or other. It was held in a Canal Museum (oh, the hilarity of covering up the "C"), and hence was dotted with boating paraphenalia, including a whole barge (which we tried to turn into a dark room). The champagne flowed, my Giggle-Sister (as The Boyf called him) arrived, and by the time the reception started (late) I was already three sheets to the wind and unable to control myself.

The priest was a bit of a shock. It turned out to be the larger half of a couple we've seen at various gay pride events. The pair are always dressed in full Scottish ceremonial garb, and the smaller is usually being led round on a leash by the former. Someone made the mistake of saying "Oh my God, it's priest on a leash!", eliciting another outbreak of uncontrollable giggling among the throng as word spread.

The ceremony was lovely I have to say, although it was packed with innuendo. I mean "I bless this ring" (snigger)? Also, a well-known rent boy read out a poem, which surely could only happen at a gay wedding. By the end we'd all stopped giggling and everyone seemed genuinely moved by what we were witnessing. Even The Boyf managed to stop making eyes at a rather lovely Italian who noone seemed to know and pay the proper attention.

After the ceremony everyone was led upstairs to the reception, where more champagne and wine was forced upon us. The reception was very amusing, purely from a anthropomorphic point of view. The grooms' families were sitting down, in very regular wedding attire (women in big hats and floral dresses, men in either dark suits or chinos and untucked shirts), the friends (apparently all bears) were more eclectically dressed. Some (such as myself) went for very nice suits (I made the mistake of very pale beige, which is now ruined cause I spent the evening spilling red wine all over myself), whilst others opted for more casual attire (half the bears appeared to have been sicked over by an Abercrombie & Fitch shop before arriving). The bears were resolutely standing between bar and buffet, and more than one squeal of "I'm not doing carbs, darling" was heard during the night as huge plates of meat were devoured.

The gorgeous Italian was ahead of me in the queue for the buffet, and I was drunk enough to be incredibly bold, so whispered "Get me some cake" in his ear, whilst gesticulating towards the wedding cake, which was yet to be cut. He smiled and whispered back that he'd love to give me anything I wanted but that I might have to wait. Cue more uncontrollable giggling.

Later in the evening the Italian pulled me to one side, "You wanted the chocolate cake?".

OMO: "Do you have some?"

Italian: "No, but I've just eaten some".

He then pulled me to him and stuck his tongue down my throat. We snogged for a bit.

Italian: "Can you taste it?"

OMO: "Nope. I'm going to need another go".

And that's how the evening progressed. Needless to say The Boyf got wind of it and we were soon taking turns.

We left at about 10pm with most of the rest of the bears, and headed home to change ready for the second leg of the evening - XXL.

XXL was a blast. Nearly everyone from the wedding was there, and were obviously already drunk by the time they'd arrived, meaning that there wasn't the usual quiet hour or two until everyone relaxed and got into the evening.

We quickly bumped into the Italian and his English boyfriend (boooo!), who promptly stuffed his hand down the back of my jeans to cop a feel. And that was pretty much the blueprint for the rest of the evening.

Most of the rest of the night is a little foggy in my memory, and I woke up sometime the next afternoon with a hideous hang-over, which is very unusual for me. And then we had to get ready for the final part of the celebrations, at the RVT.

Urgh! I was shaking all over come Monday I can tell you. Worth it though.