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,