A can of worms

It's hard to know what's more depressing about the Heinz ad gay kiss fracas: the fact that people actually felt strongly enough to complain, or the fact that the ad was taken off the air by Heinz. We're talking about the least sexy man-on-man kiss in the history of television. Anyone who found this offensive is an obvious lunatic.

But, digging deeper, there's a curried bean in this somewhere that burns my ass.

200 complainants is quite a lot by ASA standards but, if the ASA choose to investigate, I'll bet they find nothing "inappropriate" or "offensive" in the ad's content. How could they? It's entertaining but ultimately banal. So, an appropriate response to the complaints about the ad would've been Heinz saying, "Get the fuck over it." The fact that they went all "gay" about it, apologising for causing offence, is bad enough because this smacks of homophobia in itself. But there's something inauthentic about the whole story that has the cynic in me smell a rat in this kitchen, and it makes the whole thing a measure more insidious yet.

This is the very first TV commercial produced for Heinz by their new ad agency, AMV BBDO, which took over the company's £10 million contract recently. I wonder if there's any coincidence here.

It seems to me that the creatives at AMV BBDO are pretty clever: create a minor furore over some mild gay content in a "family" ad; then, create massive brand awareness by removing the ad with much fanfare and apology, declaring it the response of a company "that listens" - suddenly, everyone will look at the ad on the internet, and all those thousands of people who never even heard of Deli Mayo before (which - say it out loud - sounds uncannily, almost poetically, like a certain newspaper) will now be familiar with your product, plus you'll generate a bit of a debate because plenty of people will kick up a fuss about that fact that there's not very much to make a fuss about. Hey presto. Most successful advertorial concept of the year.

Maybe I'm overthinking it but it makes sense to me that good ad companies get millions of pounds for shit like this.

Sad thing is, this withdrawal method is not gonna be too great for the self-esteem of gay kids, or the kids of gay parents, who are gonna be extremely sensitive to the idea that their existence is a justifiable source of shame - it's just such an idea that this entire hullabaloo inflates. And therein lies the fucking rub. And it's why Stonewall are up in arms, and Gaydar are encouraging a boycott of Heinz products, and there's a Facebook group campaigning to bring the ad back. Wow. That's a lot of publicity right there.

Whether this situation has been engineered by cynical creatives, or blown out of proportion by a company of such flimsy mettle that it bows to the pressure of an ultra-conservative minority, Heinz and their ad bods are obviously doing something so wrong it's weirdly right. They even made it onto my blog. Clever cunts.

Flexi-time

That was a nice message. I could reply to it right away. So, I'll reply ... mm ... later. First, I'll have a cup of tea and read that article that caught my eye on my RSS feed.

While I wait for the kettle to boil, perhaps I could put some washing in the machine. No, by the time I've sorted out my colours, the water won't be BOILING hot anymore and I'll have to boil it all over again. Forget that. I could ... I need a pee, I'll pee.

I've had a pee, the kettle's just boiled. Well done. Perhaps some chocolate to go with that tea. Hm. Nice. Now a cigarette. Better go into the garden for that; don't want to stink out the living room, flatmates won't be chuffed.

Now, what was I going to do? Oh, the article. Ah, the computer's indoors. Hm. Must fill the moments. Maybe I'll call someone. Who can I call? Who can I call? Who can I call? Who do I feel like calling?

Those weeds are ridiculous. We've got such a big garden, so much potential. We could have a Vogue Ball out here, that's one hell of a runway. Nextdoor have barbecues. We should have barbecues. But the council will have to fix that drain.

I can't believe that drain. I can't believe they only unblocked it three weeks ago. What keeps blocking it? It's un-believeable. I'll bet them upstairs are pouring fats down the plughole. I bet that's what it is. I've a good mind to go upstairs and say, "What are you pouring down the plug? It's blocking the drain and we've got scum all over our runway. We need you to stop pouring fats down the drain else it'll ruin our Vogue Ball."

But it might not be the flat directly above. It might be the one above that, or the one above that, or the one above that. I'm not going to knock on all the doors. I'll get a reputation for being the curmudgeonly little fart on the ground floor. They'll end up pouring fats down the drain just to spite me.

Why am I back at the kettle? I'll have another cup of tea since I'm here. This is way too much caffeine. Now, who was I going to call?

I wonder if any of those boys nextdoor are a bit gay or if they're just Italian.

I must renew my gym membership. I'm gonna turn into a blimp. Hm. But I'm not in bad shape. I might not be a cover boy, but... Oh, for heaven's sake, who wants to be a cover boy, anyway? I've got more important things to do with my time than spend all my time down the gym.

There might be a dead rat in the drain.

But I must renew that membership. And those library books are way late. Where are they, even, anyway? If a complete stranger walked into my bedroom they'd think I was somehow dysfunctional.

Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Let's read that article. Then, we'll work on some music.

I'll just check my messages first.

Pigeon Shit

Ding dong, darlings.

You may, if you've been rigorous in your consumption of online current affairs (i.e. following FaceFuck updates), already be aware - so apologies for repetition - that a pigeon shat on my head outside Starbucks on Friday 13th. Apparently, this was "lucky".

Not so lucky for the environment since I immediately developed a cosmic resentment and, when I got home, decided to boil the kettle repeatedly for the sheer helluvit and get my own back on the universe.

Which, since I'm on a meter, then bounced back on me just as I found some decent porn on Xtube in the middle of the night, and the leccy clicked off. Let it be a lesson.

By the time I made it back from the 24-hour shop to top up the key, I was no longer bothered about a wank so just sat on the edge of my bed, half-thinking about not-very-much, for a drawn-out period of very downtime. Asking myself questions like why do pigeons always have such last-minute reactions when I'm riding at speed on my bike? The number of times I've slammed on the brakes....

Pigeons are shit. Unless used in magic.


Pigeon Magic - The funniest home videos are here

I'll be the fucking judge of that...

I know that there are some mean-spirited old farts out there who say the art of Burlesque is now so middle-of-the-road it is basically an excuse for any old flabby reader's wife, the kind who'd never get a job at a lap-dancing joint in a million years, to jiggle their bits for a brief shimmer of applause. I'd never say such a thing but I know a few who do, though I'll name no names - my lips are soiled, darlings, my lips are soiled.

Anyway, times they are a changin'. So much so that I write on the eve of the eve of what I believe to be the first ever 'Boylesque Battle 2008'. Heat 1 takes place this Wednesday 20th Feb @ The Green Carnation on Greek Street in Soho. It starts at 8pm and is £5 on the door - all proceeds go to the kids.

Who are the kids? Not the succulent chunks of gamey sporting boyflesh that I'm entering are entering the competition, no. They are the kids of Mekhala House Orphanage, Prey Veng, Cambodia. The orphanage has been running for 2 years and looks after 35 children, providing them with education and empowerment. And corsets, hopefully, if we raise enough dosh, god-willing.

So, brace yourselves, darlings - and I mean brace yourselves - for the 'Boylesque Battle 2008'

If you fancy yourself a champ, to enter just email cabaretcarnival@googlemail.com

Wednesday 20th Feb - Heat 1
Wednesday 27th Feb - Heat 2
Wednesday 5th March - Heat 3

8pm at the Green Carnation, Greek St, Soho

The Final: Sunday 9th March @ 'Cabaret Carnival', Madame Jojos

Judges: Dickie Beau, Dusty Limits, Mr Meredith

Ding fucking dong.

Shocking

Well, what a shocking couple of weeks for celebrity news, darlings, what a shocking couple of weeks. It could only get more shocking if Jeremy Beadle were to come back from the grave on Saturday night telly to say it was all a joke after all, to show the nation that his wife is “Game For a Laugh”, that it was his biggest prank yet and what an absolute gas!

Oh, but the death of the delectable Heath Ledger. No laughs there.

And Amy into Rehab. No actual shocks there, I suppose. Thank god she went back to black beforehand, anyway - the blonde wasn’t working. And how comforting to know that her bosses at Universal are committed to helping her “continue her ongoing recovery from drug addiction … and prepare for her planned appearance at the Grammy Awards”. Nothing cynical about that at all. What a warming tonic for the soul.

Then, as I cycled home through Old Street at 3am this morning I was arrested by the headlines screaming from the red-tops outside the Shell garage. “BRITNEY‘S 60 CRAZY HOURS” in The Sun. “THE ABYSS” for the same story in the mirror. She’s been sectioned again, so the poor cow’s “shocking” saga continues on our coffee tables….

But surely most shocking of all, what has compelled me to put fingers to keypad and is bizarrely hardly documented, is the rise and rise of Kylie’s right eyebrow. The fashion editors have been up in arms about the terrible frock she was wearing at Cannes. Don’t they get it? It was meant to be a distraction from pop’s most pronounced raised eyebrow. I can’t bear it any longer. Someone do something! For a woman of 4’11” to have an eyebrow that is 6’4” is shocking and wrong. The damn thing is practically holding her up.



Madonna’s left eyebrow has also been frozen by botox with a more subtle accent, which she more cleverly and consistently disguises. And Madonna’s always been a filthy bitch so she gets away with it as part of the look. Her raised left eyebrow casually whispers, “Come hither, or don’t and that’s fine ‘cos I’ll just get back to my knitting”, whereas Kylie’s positively shrieks, “GET THE HELL OVER HERE NOW OR I’M GONNA JUMP!”





Someone. Do something!

And, finally: I’m pretty convinced Bruce Forsythe is getting younger.

"YOU'RE A C*NT!" / not my words: a man in the crowd

If you’ve ever boarded an N8 towards Hainault at 3am in full drag you might be familiar with the descent of a dreaded sense that there’s a man near you who seems suddenly possessed of the urge to defend himself against your fabulousness. There may even be more than one. And all you want to do is get home.

This can also happen, out of the blue, when you’re quietly chasing your daydreams from the window seat, pausing for thought and minding your own in regular unassuming socially acceptable civvies*; when all you are being is a man in the crowd.

And you might well be actively entertaining the risk of stirring up umbrage if you take to the stage of a pub in the east end, as a man, in a corset, with visible hair around your visible nipples, and declare right there that you‘re a miracle! Which you are. So, you might as well dance. But it could happen that a man in the crowd thinks otherwise, and although you half-expect it, it can take you by surprise to hear him yell out:

“You’re a cunt!”

Which might be true, too.

But, at the end of the day, when all is said and done, and your glad rags are a lump in the laundry bag, you switch off the lights, your head hits the pillow, and what are you then?

Perhaps you’re just another broken heart in a bloodstream.

Like every other cunt.

Who knew?

Which brings me to the fact that, if any of this strikes a chord, you may be interested to know I’ve uploaded a new song to myspace. It’s called “A Man in the Crowd”: www.myspace.com/dickiebeau

We’ve broken the weather, darlings, did you hear? We‘ve broken the weather: we might as well dance.

Ding dong.

xx db xx

PS btw re: paragraph one - if you can, take a taxi (fuck the environment when your face is at stake).

*say it with sibilance