"Swipe Sparks Baggage Claim Chaos in New T5 Tribute Band Fiasco...

I'm sure you've all see the headlines already, but really, I can explain everything...

I was only at Heathrow in the first place due to a last minute change of plan. I'd been due to board the QE2 as per, off to New York for the first leg of the Serious MoonPig.com Tour (...."brought to you by Britain's favourite design-your-own electronic birthday card franchise...") when I get a call from my agent, Golda. They've cancelled our departure - something about desalinating the plughole.... - and the next one's not until next Thursday which would mean cancelling half the eastern seaboard. So I end up here, at Heathrow, in the dreaded new Terminal 5.

Of course, what Golda's omitted to mention is the fact that tomorrow marks the start of the 15th Annual Novelty Act and Tribute Band Convention in Seattle, so half of Europe's finest professional pop star impersonators have descended on the airport, to compound the already ridiculous level of chaos and confusion. I really need to ditch Golda and get a proper agent - the man's evidently a nincompoop, not to mention a very bad female impersonator. I mean, who wears a ruddy kaftan nowadays?

As we wait for a ticket to queue for the queue for our check-in, I get chatting with Pedro, Paulo y Maria (Andalucia's premier Peter, Paul & Mary soundalikes) when who should roll up, delicately tiptoing over the bodies of the fallen, but Lenny, the drummer from the Faux Fighters. You'd really think they'd try to get some of the dead ones out of the way, wouldn't you? Can we look after his stick bag while he goes off to stock up on duty free Blue Stratos? *Big* *mistake*. Before you can say 'Dread Zeppelin at the controls', the singer from By Jovi has got us minding his leather microphone glove and sunglasses flight case. Next thing you know, Glass of Shampagne (the top Netherlands Sailor facsimiles) have got us looking after their accordian and bogus Moet & Chandon Jeraboam prop. At least, I'm assuming that it isn't actually Sailor themselves who, having figured that there's more interest in a replica of a bunch of hopeless, two-hit wonder Eurodicks than for the real thing, have set up a band in tribute to themselves. Interesting ploy - must look into it...

While I'm pondering this, the one who plays James Honeyman-Scott in the Pretend Pretenders has dumped his extensive collection of Fender Telecasters (27 - Oh yes, I counted them...) on us while he goes of in search of a long life battery for his chorus pedal. Soon, the guitarist from Nott the Hoople's weighed in with half a dozen Les Pauls and I'm half expecting Hank Marvin the Paranoid Android to show up, treat us to a handful of his Shadows-style instrumental reworkings of Radiohead songs before lumbering us with his armoury of red and white stratocasters...

So, you can probably guess the resulting mayhem when they arrived at the festival - Sailor wannabes trying to start 'Girls Girls Girls' with a customised Gibson guitar and the Pretend Chrissie Hynde vamping along to 'Brass in Pocket' on a rather smelly leather glove and a pair of reactolites. But be fair, none of this would have happened if people would just take *two* *minutes* to label their baggage properly!


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Elton John's Fancy Dress Party...

Say what you like about Elton John; he may or may not be a podgy short-arsed baldy poove with a face like a Yorkshire pudding and the voice of a badly pummelled seal cub with whooping cough, but you have to hand it to him - he certainly knows how to throw one hell of a party! Only tonight's Charity fancy dress affair in aid of the Families of Underprivileged Stoat Botherers is turning into a bit of a disaster. I start to regret my choice of costume almost immediately upon entering the majestic baronial splendour of Elton and David's summer house. I'm hot and sweaty, sliding all over the place, it's far too tight and part of it has got lodged up under Kiki Dee's ra-ra skirt. And I daren't go near the fridge because of the magnets. A cyberman might not be nearly so scary, but it's a darned sight easier drinking a martini in a silver glove than with this Dalek plunger attachment, I can tell you. No wonder they're so pissed off all the time - you can hardly move inside at all. *I* feel like exterminating everything in the Unniverse, and I've only had it on for twenty minutes. And Kiki's none too pleased about the egg whisk up her drawers, either. (Although, unless I'm much mistaken, she's been giving the plunger attachment the glad eye on the sly....) I start to wonder if I wouldn't have been better with the whole bloody thing on the other way around when Elton minces over to meet and greet.

"...and you are?", he asks, and it quickly becomes apparent that he is, as I have *long* suspected, being worked like a ventriloquist's dummy by Bernie Taupin. "I A-M R-O-B-E-R-T S-W-I-P-E ... Y-O-U W-I-L-L O-B-E-Y!!" I reply - God, this Dalek costume is fun. It's just a shame the battery went in the vocoder when I was trying it on so I can't do the funny Dalek voice. "And you've come as....blerglecreugle..fleurgle...?" says Bernie, trying to make out that his lips aren't moving and only succeeding in becoming even more indecipherable than one of his own lyrics when he tries to drink a glass of water and keep pretending to be Elton at the same time - not to mention propelling a plume of carbonated water in the direction of George Michael's costume. Fortunately, the former Wham frontman has come as Marie Antoinette so most of it ends up being caught in the natural basin formed by his ample decolletage. He's actually quite well put together in that department is George, funnily enough. He'd make a lovely lady, in fact - if you could see beyond the moustache, the stubble and the chest hair...

My God, I never thought I'd ever feel a whisker of sympathy for David Furnish, but it must be hell for him, the three of them together in that four-poster bed of an evening, Elton in his Donald Duck jim jams and Bernie and his gluddy gottle of gear all gluddy night long. No wonder he's turned out the way he has. American. "Must dash", says Bernie, tearing an even bigger gash down the back of Elton's jacket and trying to look casual whilst, with no small amount of effort, he tries to flap Elton's rather solid little legs as if they're as light as a dummy's; nearly collapsing breathless after attempting a nonchalant verse or two of 'Nikita'. I'm on the verge of scarpering when I get waylaid by Sheena Easton. By cracky, she's a well put togther young lass - even in a kilt and sporran. I think, "Eh up - I'm in here!" as she strokes my eyestalk and wheels me off towrds the kitchen. But unfortunately the only thing she's interested in making is an omelette...


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Denise van Outen...

She sashays in, rippling and translucent in black neglige, her nipples sombre ammonites behind their charcoal veil. Throwing back sheafs of platinum, silvikrin smooth and shiny, she shimmies gently in a loose limbed dance before me. Freezing her love jive in a put on pout, she drops suddenly to her knees at my feet and begins slowly to work her way up, dotting her passage with limpet kisses as she goes, until finally arriving at my hard centre, hovering there momentarily; slightly tremulous and first-time vulnerable. She runs a sharp trowel of fingernail along the length of taut blue vein before returning it somewhere deep within her gauzy folds, her body undulating softly to the rhythm of these unseen, inner explorations. Eyes closed, head lolling doll-like, she bites down on her glistening lower lip, front teeth pearly spades plunging into a toffee apple crust. Sensing the moment drawing close, I dive down, my mouth a mollusc at the downy porcelain of her inner thigh. A blindman grappling, I grab at the diaphanous robe, now loosened, a windless sail cast adrift behind where she is sat. With eager hands, I scrunch the floaty mesh to form an opaque cummerbund. As she reclines and opens to receive my hips, I gently tie it at her nape, pulling slowly until the gag hollows her cheeks to dimples and contorts her lips into an elongated 'O'. Of course, it's not enough to shut her up completely, but I find it does at least take the edge of that voice. Thus bridled, I mount and shaft her to the muffled strains of 'All That Jazz'.




L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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A Little Bit of Politics...

Now that I'm an internationally recognised* Glam Icon, I have to be a bit careful about what I say. Gone are the days when I could, for instance, fire off an expletive-ridden tirade against a fellow-blogger with more hits but demonstrably less talent than me, or freely direct my ire at Heads of State/Religious figure heads/celebrity charity ballroom dancing competition contestants or Sian Williams with no fear of the impact of my words on prospective consumers of my wares But now I have to think before I speak. The impact an ill-advised outburst aimed at a national treasure or harmless TV weather person could have on my career,is impossible to guage. For instance, sales went through the roof after I lambasted BBC weatherman Daniel Corbett for a poorly selected tie/shirt combo (not to mention an irksome over precision in the diction department) but fell when I had a go at Tanny Grey Thompson.

In short, if I feel the urge to call the Archbishop of Canterbury a poncified God-bothering, mincing, shoddily-mitred old Poove, I have to be very, very careful now to make sure that I do so in a reasoned and balanced way, and not leave myself open to allegations of religious intolerance and/or homophobia. In the case of the Archbish., this is usually achieved quite simply by adding the phrase, 'on the other hand, if his holiness were the head of a different faith, he could have my hands chopped off for dressing like this, so I suppose he's not all that bad...and, yes, at a slightly jauntier angle, I suppose the mitre could be quite fetching..."

But, with politicians, it's not always quite so simple, which is why I've been reluctant until now to pass any commment on the forthcoming Mayoral election in London. Yet, with less than two weeks until polling....no, hang on, that's a gravy stain on the ballot card...cripes, with barely two *days* left until polling day....at least, I *hope* it's a gravy stain...I felt it imperative to air my tuppon'orth ahead of the contest.

Call me an old fuddy duddy, but I prefered the gentler pace of politics in the pre-media age. Time was when politicians like Ramsay MacDonald, Stanley Baldwin and Neville Chamberlain could settle their differences in an amicable and civilised way, perhaps even sharing a glass of bandy and a cigar as they mulled over the important issues of the day. No need for harsh words or petty posturing. If things got heated, a quick round or two of gin rummy or a best of three bout of greased arm wrestling would decide the issue and the loser would take it on the chin and that would be the end of the matter and, likely as not, we'd be at war with Schleswig-Holstein.

Of course nowadays, anyone unfortunate enough to have stumbled across a political debate could be forgiven for believeing that they were watching a particularly grisly episode of the Jeremy Kyle Show. If Ken isn't calling Boris a spatula brained oaf with the breath of a cankered border collie on a diet of St. Agur and pickled herring, then Boris is calling Ken a Jew-hating commie windbag with a face like a bag of spanners and the sex drive of a badly pummelled amoeba that's just run a double marathon....and that's before they've had a chance to say a word about the one who openly admits to being a pansy!

So, how do I think it will go? Well, right now, it's too close to call, but my money's on

* a chap from Interpol accosted me just the other day and said, are you Robert Swipe? If so, I must caution you that anything you say that you later rely on in court will be taken as evidence...


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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A Valedictory Post For The Blogger Fraternity...

When I'm not working (which is not often!), building up my reputation as a Europe's premier(e) glam icon/ukulele based Burlegue artiste etc., I like nothing better than to try and put a little something back into the community, doing charitable works and fundraisers and such like. You know, for the kids. For obvious reasons, I don't like to publicise the enormous amount of voluntary work and the huge investment of my extremely precious time I give up in order to help those less fortunate than myself - which is why I'm posting this blog about it all here. Let's face it, if I wanted recognition, I'd bring more attention to myself standing with a sandwich board in an empty field in Outer Mongolia than I'd get in a year stuck up here. Oh, the stats have gone up alright - *16* hits now. Up from 13 last week. That's per *week* mind. Bastards.



So, yes, I try to put something back into the society that's made me what I am by lending my support to a designated charity every year, and this year the organisation benefitting from my unsung (but, literally, quite Herculean) efforts will be Help a London Raspberry. The charity may not be known to some of you, but you'll most likely be familiar with them once you know that they used to be called the Spastics Society. Unfortunately, that name had to be changed - well, would you like people calling you a spastic while trying to trip you up and kick at your callipers while you're trying to mind your own business in the playground, innocently getting a peek at Tamsin Nederhoff's knickers under the pretext of measuring up her dainty foot for the glass slipper you're pretending that you're having made up for her in a workshop. By dwarves. Well, would you, you little Mong?? Exactly. And neither did I, so I'm very pleased they've changed the name. My God, you could tell that Tamsin anything - she fell for the Spastic thing too. Unbelievable...



Yes, the Spastics Society was deemed, quite correctly, to be offensive and so they've gone for a more subtle name that hopefully will reflect the softer, kinder, gentler image of Spasticity that they would like to present; well, it brings in more money, doesn't it? Soft focus adverts, bit of Coldplay, not quite so much dribbling - you don't want to frighten people off by showing a roomfull of spackos grunting and gurning and pulling themselves off instead of playing with the monopoly set that Keith Chegwin brought with him when he opened the new padded recreation room. (They'd booked Maggie Philbin, but due to an adminitrative error, she was up in Warrington opening a new Severe Burns Unit and so Keith stepped in at the 11th hour. What a trouper.)



The new name is a reference to the Cockney rhyming slang; Raspberry Ripple - cripple. Catchy, isn't it? Damien Hirst's designed the logo which features - isn't he a card???!!! - a resplendent red strawberry! (It's *i-r-o-n-i-c*, apparently....) And we're hoping to raise a stackload of money this year to help pay for it - not to mention the huge army of consultants, managers and administrators we've had to bring in to make sure that everything runs smoothly. And then there are all those hordes of annoying little jerks and jerkesses in their flourescent bibs who descend on every high street across the land and accost passersby in the hope of half Nelsoning a lifetime tithe from them. They don't stand outside in all weathers being spat at by people who've had enough of being badgered by such quasi-legitimate beggars for *fun* you know. Graduates, in the main, they've got to be looking at at least 18K just to get out of bed, let alone all the abuse and the long hours. So, you can see how much your help is needed.









L.U.V. on y'all,



Bob



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Robert Swipe: A South Bank Show Retrospective...

I'm posting a transcript of my interview with Melvyn 'Lord' Bragg on the South Bank Show for those of you who missed it and/or don't have a video or hard disc recorder/BBC iPlayer - or maybe you're just plain ignorant and uncultured and would rather spend Sunday evening watching tripe based on an extenuated casting session for some diabolical Andrew Lloyd Webber west end musical; in which case, piss off back to your sink estate and your life of binge drinking and dog baiting....

Melvyn Bragg: Good evedig. I'b Belvyd Bragg. Od todight's Soud Bag Show we'll be exabidig the work of add talkig to wud of Britaid's bost iddovadive add codtroversial ardisds; Roberd Swipe. Swipe bade his dabe with a groud breakig add icodoclasdig blog bud has subsequedly bradched owd indo busic, filb, cobedy add hard core pordography. He's beed variously described as 'the bost idfluendtial busiciad of his gederatiod', 'a datiodal dreasure' add 'a bodstrous prevert with the legs of Jibby Saville add a voice like a badly budiladed wildebeesd. I caughd ub with hib id his Isligdon towd house and this filb is a record of our lively add subtibes colourful discussiod.

Good evedig Roberd.

Robert Swipe: Good evening Mervyn. Please, call me Bob.

MB: Tell be Bob, how did id all sdard?

RS: Before I answer that Mervyn, can I just say what a huge fan I am of you and your work...

MB: Oh - thag you very buch...

MB: I'll never forget the role you played in 'It Ain't Half Hot, Mum'. God, I used to love that - '...meet the gang cause the boys are here.....B.O.B.O.Y.S. boys to entertain *yooooooouuuuuu*!! Why, if I hadn't known it was you acting, I'd have sworn you really were a lisping homosexual in badly applied make up doing a rather lame impersonation of Iggy Pop. And 'Summer Holiday' - you were in that too. Is it true what they say about Sir Cliff?? Does he really have a Waitrose bag for life where his colon should be? And did they ever manage to get Don Estelle out of Windsor Davies? Such a shame; tiny man, but what a huge talent. Still, if he will go nosing around where he shouldn't...

MB: Cad I just brig you bag to your early career Bob; it bust have beed very hard for you, seddig up a global bulti-bedia ebpire as you did, cobpletely frob scratch add all od your owd. Were there dibes whed you thoughd. 'sod dhis for a gabe of rouders?'

RS: Look Marv; I've had many times, I can tell you. Times when innocence I'd trade for company. And children saw me crying - I thought I'd had my share of that. But these miss you nights are the longest.

MB: Roberd Swipe, thag you very buch.

RS: My pleasure Vern. Right - coming down the Emirates? They've got a special offer on; pie and a pint for £36.50...in a plastic beaker too! You can do your Jimmy Durante after!! "Siddin' ad by piado the udder day....."

MB: Tob dotch!!



L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Bob's Back History...

A lot of people have been asking if I can tell them a little bit more about myself, so I thought I'd take this opportunity to fill in some biographical detail about my early life and my first forays into the world of show business. So meteoric has my recent ascent been that it's easy to imagine that I've become Britain's foremost glam icon and Burlesque ukulele artiste almost overnight, as if by magic! But my recent success has only been possible because of the years I spent working myself up from the bottom, often going as far as the shoulder blades and - in one incident I'd really much rather forget - the pituitary gland. Yeuu!

My beginnings were nothing if not humble. Born David Robert Jones in Bromley on January 8th, 1947....erm, no - now I'm getting *really* confused... But, seriously folks; I fell from the sky just to the side of Kings Cross station, London, in the early 1970s, an extra-terestrial space pilot from the planet Znapty Gnou III, third star on the left, Andromeda Zone (twinned with Argon-le-Fnootyglimp and Newcastle-Under-Lyme) I had been placed aboard the craft as a very small child, several light years previously in a galaxy far far...you know, all that bollocks, and had spent the long, interplanetary journey in suspended animation, an info-brain splurt continually dripfeeding me the vital knowledge of Earthling history and customs (not to mention the latest from the Nationwide Championship) that would be so vital as I embarked upon my mission to bring back precious water to save my one dying planet. It was also exceedingly good preparation for the M25.

1974: I couldn't really have picked a worse time to land if I'd tried. You humanoids had contrived to make a rotten hash of the economy; the OPEC crisis was in full swing, the three day week was crippling industry and there was nothing decent on the box. Apart from The Persuaders, obviously. Imagine how hard it was in that climate for a confused, sexually ambiguous and vulnerable alienoid, with nothing to barter with but a few scraps of space junk, an enormous pair of stack heeled boots and the patents and plans for the Playstation2 and a blueprint for an entire new nanotechnology undreamed of as yet by even the wildest scientific lunatics... No, with times as hard as they were, there was only one thing for it. So that's how I ended up in Light Entertainment.

It's a cliche repeated far too often, but nonetheless true; there's a dark and sinister underbelly to the world of showbiz very much at odds with the glitter and glamour of its public face. Naive and insecure of my own ability, not to mention far from talented in the first place, I was unfortunate enough to be taken under the wing of an up and coming Armenian impressario of few scruples and even fewer vowel sounds. Ziggy Woodblume was a racially intolerant, self-loathing homosexual paedophile with sociopathic tendencies and a Millwall season ticket. But he was not without his faults either - not least a near-legendary meanness (he liked nothing more than borrowing a meal on a stolen credit card...and then complaining that the food was awful until he was given a *refund*) and an obsession with the late Roy Orbison's intenstinal tract that bordered on the psychotic.

But for all that, he was one fuck of a bullshitter and knew a mug he could screw a few bob out of a mile off. It's a mark of the man and entirely to his credit that, armed with little more than a slowed down tape of Shirley Temple singing 'Nowhere to Run' and several hundred thousand dollars, he was to pull off one of the most incredible coups in the history of popular music when, in 1979, under Ziggy's expert guidance, I became the first white artist to sign for Tamla Motown. You see, by this stage, I was so desperate to find fame and fortune that I was even prepared to paint my face white. But that, you'll be pleased to know, is where any resemblance to Mr. Michael Jackson ends! Apart from the chimp, obviously. And the kiddy fiddling.


Next week: Bob goes head to head with Robert Plant at Knebworth over the last opal fruit in the pack and gets short shrift from the local constabulary when his audacious plan to incinerate Jonathan King and Zandra Rhodes backfires....


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Hen Night...

"I've got you a gig", barks my agent, casually upending an espadrille to catch some stray caviar in her outstretched palm. "Sarah Michelle Geller's hen night", she continues, pausing rather awkwardly mid-sentence to light the filter end of a pink Sobranie cigarette. There's no accounting for taste. "She's finally tying the knot with Sacha Baron Cohen. It's at Paul Michael Glazer's old Ocean view place, just along from Lisa Marie Presley's pile. You're the compere, so dress down. And *no* smut!" And with that, she's off, a shower of blini crumbs cascading down her cleavage.

I pull up outside the rather grand old baronial-style mansion around 8pm. Once inside the cavernous hall, I start setting up, improvising an old shoe rack into a makeshift ukulele stand. Christ only knows where I'm going to hang the stirrups. Before too long, the first guests start arriving. Sarah Jessica Parker wafts in wearing an Yves Saint Laurent two piece and Jean Paul Gaultier bovver boot combo. She's soon joined by Julia Loiuse Dreyfuss and the two are soon deep in conversation about a new Fanny Blankers Koen biopic, with a screenplay by Ruth Prawer Jhabvala. Then the support act arrives; Mary Tyler Moore. I had no idea she was still going. I had no idea she was *bald*. She's bought the fan club - Shirley Ann Field and Leslie Ann Down - both wrecked as arseholes and paying frequent visits to the powder room to top up. I don't know - they come all the way from England to watch their old friend performing on stage only to gab away on their mobiles incessantly.

Courtney Cox-Arquette makes a grand entrance on a skateboard in a see-through all-over body suit embroidered in the crucial areas with a crazy Lee Harvey Oswald motif. Still hasn't the barest inkling of any concept of personal body space. I'm pleasantly surprised to see a couple of familiar faces from the old country. Rachel Heyhow-Flint and Lucinda Prior-Palmer are earnestly arm-wrestling for some whelks in a tub autographed by Anthony Worral-Thompson. Robyn Wright-Penn arrives, a review copy of the new Barbara Taylor Bradford novel under her arm. She's swiftly followed by Jamie Lee Curtis. who immediately starts boring anyone who will listen with her new Arthur Quiller-Couch fixation and making unseemly observations about Daniel Day-Lewis's accents. And all the time Helena Bonham-Carter just sits there in the corner, scowling malevolently, occasionally picking at bogeys and rubbing them up and down her crotch area like a gormless, gothic retard.

I'm just about to introduce Mary Tyler Moore's shining pate when a hush falls upon the room. Every head turns to the door where, replendent in Manolo Blahniks and a Louis Vitton thong stands none other than.....Naomi Campbell.

*Talk* about spoiling a mood!


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Crossdressing: a Brief Cultural History...

A question I’m often asked is, “Bob; are you really a cross dresser?” Well, there’s an obvious answer to that: “Cross? I’m bloody livid!” Unfortunately, I can never think of it at the time though - must be all that cocaine - so I usually respond with something like; “What’s it to you, you short-arsed, homophobic Nazi bonehead?!”, or “does Liv Ullman have to put up with shite like this? Or Barry Took??” and other equally puerile and ultimately evasive responses.

Of course, in these enlightened times, there’s no shame in attached to a hairy, big boned man, built like a brick shithouse wanting to feel the delicate sheen of satin camisole on nipple. Is there? In fact, the history of gender transformation is long and noble. As far back as 1822, French artist Marcel Duchamp was parading the streets of Paris in the guise of his female alter-ego, Rrose Selavy. Borrowing the hands of a likeminded Fraulein and the legs from an antique chaisse longue, he was regularly to be seen at flea markets and in pharmacies, haggling over the price of a three-pack stocking and garter set. (This was year’s before Boots’ three for two range, obviously - although a few years after the Franco-Prussian war…) Sadly, his friend and collaborator Man Ray was less progressive in his views on cross-dressing, pronouncing the act of dressing as a lady as being "poovey to the point of perversity", so history was denied the opportunity to gaze longingly upon the well turned ankles of Woman Ray (or Man Rayleen?)


Rose Selavy: Eros C'est la vie? Rose se lavee??

Indeed, Duchamp’s behaviour was astonishingly brave for the time - particularly as he wasn’t officially born until 1887. But he’s just one of many illustrious historical figures to have clad themselves in the garb of a lady. Winston Churchill, Paul Newman, D.H. Lawrence, Isaac Bashevis Singer, Glenn Campbell, Archimedes, Basil Brush, Derek and the Dominoes, Arthur Scargill, John McEnroe, Ferenc Puskas, Brenda Blethyn; they’ve all at some point known blokes who get a kick out of dressing up as a saucy tart in camiknickers and suspenders. Crucially, many momentous historical moments and the making of important political decisions have involved men dressing up as women. Britain was *run* by a man dressed up as a woman between 1979-1990. Not very *well*, but you can't say the lad didn't look stunning in a powder blue twin set, pearls and court shoes.

So, let’s have less of the antagonism for those of us who want to sashay around with our beer bellies spilling out from underneath a tightly pulled blood red corset. If Ricky Gervais or Ian Botham want to go out on the town in a spangly boob tube, 10 denier hold ups and wrap-around satin mini skirt, surely it's their lookout? Such an outstanding contribution to cricket and comedy must count for something, surely? And I'm sure Ricky Gervais has also done something that justifies him slopping around the house in a pair of kitten heeled mules and a feather boa if the fancy takes him that way too...



L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Glam: the Golden Years...

Obviously, it's not a new thing, what I'm doing here, with the Glam Icon business; in fact, as the more astute fans of the popular music form among you will already know, there were what could reasonably be described as 'Glam Rock Stars' as far back as, I dunno... the late 1990s? Remember Robbie Williams and all that silly Maori-style face paint? (Or am I thinking of the bloody great tattoo he had done across that great fat arse of his? Or was it his face? It's hard to tell with him. Whatever - I can still remember him, more's the pity...) I know I deserve the bulk of the credit for having invented Glam Rock but no man is an island. (Well, apart from that bloke in the Kaiser Chiefs - my good God he's *huge*! First time I clapped eyes on him, I thought 'what the beggaring bollockoids is Brian Blessed doing fronting a rock band! If we could just get him to lie down in the South Atlantic for a few decades it'd put paid to all that Falklands/Malvinas hoo-ha once and for all...

But I digress. No, I can't claim full credit. All I'm doing, really, is standing on the shoulders of giants and revitalising older forms; bringing them into the 21st century with an ironic, post-modem twist. And wearing lingerie, obviously. And not much else. But I thought it might still be interesting for younger readers (...and Istvanski...) to give a brief insight into some of the artists from that previous era when even the David Summit was Camp; that long gone epoch when rock was glamorous and it was perfectly acceptable to raid your Mum's make-up cabinet (...perfectly acceptable - only the chances of finding the hard drugs you were looking for were fairly slender as she kept those in her handbag, which accompanied her at all times...)

Who can forget the marvellous Roy Wood from Wizzard, for example? 40 feet tall and made entirely from skunk tails, Roy's famous pompadour hairstyle was one of the best-loved in the history of popular song (although he reeked to high heaven, the stinky Brummy lout! And the skunk tails didn't help much either...) His elaborate face paint would take several months to apply and, at the height of his fame, the renowned artist Jackson Pollock is rumoured to have had Roy's facial skin stretched on to a canvas in an audacious attempt to turn the former Move star into a walking abstract impressionist masterpiece. Sadly, the Arts Council grant ran out before they could finish the left cheek, leaving Roy a bitter and twisted, broken wreck of a man with one side of his face the size of Corfu...

And then there was Elton John. Who could forget him? Christened John Elton, if one man personifies the transformative power of glam, it's him. Reversing his name and his genitals, like a caterpillar, John emerged from the chrysalis as a luminous lepidoptera. Gone was the podgy poof from Pinner with doorstopper bi-focals (you see - even the spectacles were blurring the gender lines in those days...) and greasy, thinning hair to be replaced by a podgy poof from Pinner with doorstopper bi-focals covered in that cheap glitter you used to be able to get from WH Smith, greasy thinning hair and a ridiculous Donald Duck outfit. Indeed, *so* seditious was Elton's act considered that a special Act of Parliament was passed forcing him to marry another poofter and become a Watford FC season ticket holder for the rest of his life.


Of course, all this is a long way away from today's staid and doughty popular music hackery (sorry Frank Ferdinand, but it has to be said....) Nowadays, it's all Interactive Cyber-bit-torrent this and Quantum Digital-jiggery-wotsit that. There seems to be no room in the pop music industry for the subtle social comment implicit in a bunch of stubbly, brilliantined Stevedores dressing up like fey, tinsel-covered mincers. But the astonishing careers of Roy Wood and John Elton remain to remind us of a simpler time when women were men and Anthea Redfern was another thing entirely. Trouble is, just you try telling that to the kids today...they won't believe you...


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Bob's Birthday Bash!...

Yes, it's come around again. 21 Tomorrow!!

So I thought as it's a rather special anniversary I'd mark the occasion by having a big birthday bash!! (Well - key to the door and all that. I didn't think they did things like that at HMP Holloway, but apparently it's all part of some new initiative they're trying out. What with that and the Government issue Amyl Nitrate, there's never been a better time to be a sex offender, it would seem!!)

Obviously, I'd L.U.V. you all to come, but as I've been given a stonking great advance by HOLA! magazine for exclusive photos of my guests' laps covered in crumbs and with Martini/vom down their fronts, I'm having to make it clebs only, I'm afraid. But maybe we can do a meet and greet with the hoi polloi if/when I reach 22...?

So, it promises to be a pretty faberooni affair. Denis Nordern's compering. Kevin Rowland's agreed to do a turn as Gracie Fields - he gets "Sallee" absolutely down pat - if it wasn't for the hot pants dungaree outfit and comedy moustache/fez combo, you'd *swear* it was the real thing. Ainsley Harriott will be slugging it out with Evander Holyfield over 15 rounds of tag-tiddlywinks and I I may even be persuaded to deliver a ditty or two myself before I am escorted back here to be detained at Her Majesty's Pleasure. (She's not so bad Liz, once you get to know her. Always got plenty of snouts, I'll give her that...)

So, do check out the pics when they come out. Anthony Worrall-Thompson's bringing his Brownie and if ever there was a man who was as adept at making a pineapple fritter as taking a badly focussed fanny shot of a GMTV weather girl being smeared with brylcreem by a senior member of the Shadow cabinet, it's our Ant!! Just hope the poisonous little dwarf remembers to put the bloody film in this time!



xxx

Bob



L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Archbishop of Canterbury calls for General Synod Shoe Rethink...

The Archbishop of Canterbury (whose real name escapes me right now....but I'm sure it'll come back to me...hang on a mo....no, it's gone...) has called on the General Synod to modernise its attitudes to dress and has put particular emphasis on the Church's rather archaic and, as he himself described it, 'frumpy' taste in footwear.

'The Church's approach to this somewhat saddens me", said (....erm, no, it's still not happening...Ron someone??) the Archbishop to an assembly of Retired Heating Engineers in Aberystwith. "We have all these simply super frocks - like this bijou little purple number I'm wearing - that's hand sticthed that emboidery work under the beard an' all ... must have taken some poor wretch in Mombai *days* to do all that - and yet we stomp around like Men (or women) at C & A in hideously parochial flat soles that are about as glorious in the sight of God as a wet weekend in Frimley. What's wrong with a bit of heel, eh lads? If nothing else, it would bring us a little closer to Him, wouldn't it? For Heaven's sake, it's not as if you *have* to wear the make up - that will remain a matter of conscience, as it always has been."

"I've never been one to hide my light under a bushel - but good God, damnit....the very idea that anyone would not wish to see calves as shapely as these shown off in their best light by a tortuously upright pair of porno heels I find, quite simply, *unfathonmable*. It's high time that under my Ministry, if only on the matter of footwear, we dragged this institution into the Twentieth Century..."

This latest broadside from Archbishop....(oh, nearly had it there....sounds like that Mr. Bean bloke....Rolan?? That's it - Rolan Bolan .... isn't it?) ... comes in the wake of his recent suggestions that members of the Church of England, regardless of gender, adopt an Islamic style of veiled headress. "It would set the rest of my ensemble off *so* nicely - Calvin Klein do some beauties with the logo embossed all over them..."

L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Meeting Bowie...

He's a bit like Concorde, actually. A lot smaller than you'd imagine. Not quite so pointy though, obviously. We meet quite by chance in HMV on Oxford Street. I'm there to claim a refund on a Rainbow CD I bought. Bloody rip-off - didn't even have the flipping theme tune on it, just a lot of dreary old heavy metal pomp pop. Probably Zippy hogging the limelight with all those interminable guitar solos... I'm just turning round to go and have a gander for that Krautrock/Lounge Lizard fusion compilation everyone's raving about when I realise I can't move. My gaudy faux-fur scarf is tightening around my neck and I'm starting to fear imminent strangulation when a slightly camp mockney barrer boy accent pipes up and says, "you wanna watch where you're dangling your satin and tat, mush - yer scarve's just got caught under me outrageous stack heel. Could do yerself a mischief the way you're carrying on - like the titfer, by the way? Bippety-Boppety, if I'm very much not mistaken...?"

And sure enough, there's the telltale trail of my glam rock accoutrement trapped beneath the aging Dame's extensive platform sole. "Terribly sorry, your majesty..." I mumble - there's a *very* strict pecking order in the Glam Rock hierarchy; him, Ferry, Eno, Sparks, Wizzard, Slade, Mud, Sweet, Sailor, Kenny, Slik, Lieutenant Pigeon, Alvin Stardust, Marc Bolan then, way, way down the list, your humble scribe. It's simply not *done* to talk out of turn. "You can get up now", he says, "or there'll be a scene. I hate scenes. Ever since I got snapped by the papers doing my Max Wall impersonation at Victoria Station, I've been *ever* so careful not to cause a scene. Bought the brown shirt and comedy hobnail boots especially too. 'Ere, did you know that the human brain was essentially schizoid right up to the pre-Cambrian era..?"

I mumble something pretentious about Wassily Kandinsky, then Bowie says "Seen this?" And brandishes a CD boxed set at me; "Doctor Hook; Re-mastered". "Cracking gimmick!", he chortles. "Must dash", he goes on, "Yentob's coming over with the Ludo board. Can't be late - he's on a *right* hiding...". And with that, he's away, scampering off into the chilly London evening to administer a boardgame drubbing to a podgy, bearded Television journalist, his days of cool canasta long behind him...


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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the Annual Lena Zavaroni Memorial Charity Bake-off...

Natasha Bedingfield pulls me aside at the Annual Lena Zavaroni Memorial Charity Bake-off in aid of Irritable Bowel in the Over-50s at the local village hall. Poor thing's worried senseless about the pitch controlling vocoder her producers have had permanently installed inside her larynx. Easier in the long run, I tell her, (not to mention *considerably* cheaper) than the customary 212 flat and emotionless takes attempting to perfect her falsetto warbling of the word "Constantinople". I didn't believe it either, until she played me the tapes back to back. You'd honestly *swear* you were hearing her singing the phrase 'le ponit ants snoc', and not being duped by some highly impressive piece of studio jiggery pokery.

Yes, Yes, she rejoinders, a little snappily I would suggest for someone who *still* owes me £233.60 in unpaid Grand Prix lap time averages wagers (... cynical, I know - but I just didn't have the heart to tell her that Emerson Fittipaldi hadn't sat behind the wheel of a Formula 1 car for the best part of 4 decades. Who am I to break the poor girl's heart) 'Yes, yes, yes, but does it spoil the line of my polo neck?' she implores - with the first hints of that manic, "if you don't tell me I'll get Daniel out of the shitter and we'll do a bloody duet of 'Bright Eyes' from Watership Down" stare flickering across her otherwise heavily sedated countenance. Again, I don't have the heart to tell her that she looks, in profile at least, like a chinless, palsied mongoose with a lifesize cardboard cut-out of Charles Aznavour jutting from her goitre. Besides, the art department will be able to airbrush that out *no* *problem*. (Although what they're going to do about that conk of her's, I've really no idea....)

Barry Fry saunters over with a poorly disguised Thai boy Moira Anderson lookalikey. Joint the size of Mauritius on the go. More rings than a GMTV multiple-choice phone in quiz. Completely bladdered. 'Bally awful business about those Free Tibet protestors, what?' he slur/roars, waving a bundle of twenties around like a twenties flapper's fan and setting a Niagra Falls of drool cascading down into his Cuba Libre with every shuddering gaffaw of highly artificial mirth. (How Barry puts up with him, I just don't know). Nice tartan though. Which reminds me, I must pop down to Argos and get that flask they've had on special offer....



L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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Rothergavenny's Finest...

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a little disappointed to discover, on rescuing my copy of Saturday's Grauniad Guide supplement from the waste disposal unit - well, it's a tough choice, but when it comes to stuffing a pair of snow drenched shoes, I find you just get a bit more 'bang-for-your-buck' from the 'Work' and 'Family' sections - that this august organ (sorry - Istvanski's about the only bugger still reading this drivel, so I have to put in the odd double entendre, just to keep Croydon's finest happy...or even *he'll* stop reading.....) had mysteriously failed to be included in Johnny Dee's 'Blog roll: Wales'....

(Pauses for the enormity of the misjudgement to sink in.....)

But, I suppose, the timing could have been better, this particular branch of the imperial Swipe vine having been allowed - I admit - to wither to within an inch of its life whilst I have been away 'pursuing a career in the music business'/'mincing around, unshaven, in a pair of fishnets using a variety of sneaky photoshop tricks and or camera placements to disguise my whopping great ale gut' [delete according to preference, only bearing in mind that I now have a *lawyer*....]. But fear not! Next time JD lists the best of Harlech, we'll be there, punching our weight with such such luminaries as 'A Welsh View', 'He's A Bit Gay' (No, it's not me under a pseudonym....honest...at least, I don't *think* it's me...), 'Valleys Man', 'Hairy Tales' (surely, the thought of calling it 'Hairy Secombe' flickered briefly in the Celtic mind??? No, on second thoughts, probably not...), 'Babylon Wales' (Hang on - you're *really* confusing me now....) and, of course, a worryingly familiar name.......*Annie* *Rhiannon*.

I'm not bitter or anything - and, obviously, I have *far* bigger bloaters to fry now - but, really, at our peak.....surely we were ....

No, leave it Bob...they're not worth it....

Well done everyone!!!!



xxx
Bob

p.s. I always had her down as a *Paddy* anyway...


L.U.V. on y'all,

Bob

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