The Cindys

For those people who helped me get through 2004. Please note the absence of relatives (as they don't count) or politicians.

MissRoach: My favourite person on the Guardian's talkboards - a well-read (and, as Lily Tomlin once said, well-viewed) woman who's also very approachable. Sadly no longer a regular... come back Kate (her real name), I miss you.

Gerry Kroll: The man behind Soundtrackers, and source of many of my album buys this year. Not a business, but a person.

Wolf Masterson and Glen Kirusu: The most consistent source of shots of T-girls. Thanks, Yahoo!, and thanks guys.

Jen, TRL, KMB, Senor Alba, and all the others I've written or talked with. I'm proud to call you all friends.

Patricia Araujo, Vicki Richter and Ivana Diamonds, among others: These women are all examples of T-girls. One very good reason to move to Brazil (more open to such ladies than here). Thanks for the fantasies.

Maureen Dowd: Brilliant leader writer for The New York Times. And virulently anti-Bush, which probably makes her one of Jen's favourites.

Film Score Monthly: Self-explanatory.

eBay: The original and best.

Karen Vinton: Wherever you are now, thanks for being the closest thing to a girlfriend I've ever had. Even if you are, technically, a lesbian.

And thank you for all the music to Jerry Goldsmith, Elmer Bernstein, Michel Colombier, Fred Karlin, Billy May, David Raksin and all the other practitioners of the art who passed on this year. Jerry in particular finally brought home to me the truth of the saying that as long as we have the music, they'll never really leave us.

And finally, thank you to Laetitia Casta, Jessica Alba, Lindsay Lohan, Petra Nemcova, Hilary Duff, Jennifer Garner, Gwen Stefani, Britney Spears, and above all others Cindy Crawford. I couldn't have done it without you.

Cuts both ways, sis.

Not for the first time, my sister has said that this is the last year we'll be together.

This isn't something I mind, mind - I don't want to spend the rest of my life with her either... but I wish I could get some things off my chest. Like how while a lot of the problems are my fault (and I'll never deny I'm no prize to live with), she has to take some of the blame.

Like her habit of complaining about every little thing. The major things I can understand; it's when she whines about someone taking a parking space, or acts like losing an earring is a major world crisis... get some sense of perspective, dammit! Bills, jobs, not having her own space - these are things worth ragging on me about.

Or her talking constantly when I'm trying to watch something on TV. How would she like it if I was conducting a conversation that was drowning out Two Guys And A Girl (which would be no bad thing)?

Look... I love my sister and I wish her no ill at all, but sometimes I wish I could take her advice and get a bit more backbone. Then maybe I could tell her how she irritates me sometimes.

But that's not fair. She supports me, so the least I can do is not verbally attack her. I did a lot of verbal blowing up as a lad, so that's why I don't talk so much as a man. That way, I intentionally only hurt myself.

Until I get to work, where I occasionally blow up there. I need to stop that as well... but then, who do I take it out on? Oh yeah, that's what the Internet is for.

It's okay, Shaz. I do love you; I just don't want to spend the rest of my life with you any more than you want to with me. It's just hard to break, that's all.

The 2004 babe list (well, one of them)

Earlier, myself and MuffinMan settled on our top 50; here's the full 100 - mine like this and his like this. Some appear every year (like Cindy Crawford and Liv Tyler on my side, and Charlize Theron and Elizabeth Hurley on his) and some are newcomers - I'm kicking myself for not including Amanda "Hailey from The O.C." Righetti...

Jessica Alba
Alessandra Ambrosio
Anastacia
Sophie Anderton
Rosanna Arquette
Drew Barrymore
Mischa Barton
Kim Basinger
Jennifer Beals
Monica Bellucci
Halle Berry
Jessica Biel
Edith Bowman
Christie Brinkley
Brooke Burke
Erica Campbell
Neve Campbell
Mariah Carey
Vanessa Carlton
Charisma Carpenter
Laetitia Casta
Holly Marie Combs
Jennifer Connelly
Nikki Cox
Cindy Crawford
Marcia Cross
Elisha Cuthbert
Cameron Diaz
Kirsten Dunst
Eliza Dushku
Stacy Ferguson
Tina Fey
Jennie Finch
Isabeli Fontana
Jennifer Garner
Gina Gershon
Heather Graham
Lauren Graham
Vida Guerra
Teri Hatcher
Salma Hayek
Jennifer Love Hewitt
Ana Hickman
Nicky Hilton
Paris Hilton
Kelly Hu
Elizabeth Hurley
Kathy Ireland
Jamelia
Scarlett Johansson
Angelina Jolie
Catherine Zeta Jones
Stacy Keibler
Alicia Keys
Nicole Kidman
Heidi Klum
Keira Knightley
Beyonce Knowles
Virginie Ledoyen
Lucy Liu
Heather Locklear
Lindsay Lohan
Eva Longoria
Elle Macpherson
Josie Maran
Vanessa Marcil
Nell McAndrew
Maria Menounos
Christina Milian
Marisa Miller
Julianne Moore
Brittany Murphy
Petra Nemcova
Gwyneth Paltrow
Liz Phair
Lucy Pinder
Natalie Portman
Laura Prepon
Louise Redknapp
Rebecca Romijn
Kelly Rowland
Nicollette Sheridan
Ashlee Simpson
Jessica Simpson
Britney Spears
Gwen Stefani
Raven-Symone
Charlize Theron
Uma Thurman
Leeann Tweeden
Aisha Tyler
Liv Tyler
Gabrielle Union
Sofia Vergara
Dita Von Teese
Estella Warren
Naomi Watts
Serena Williams
Venus Williams
Kate Winslet

Season's greetings, people.

Another rant and another rave.

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It's All Downhill From Here. In A Good Way.

Today's Winter Solstice, the shortest day of the year for a lot of people. From this point, the days start to get longer, and this terrible winter's days are numbered.

Being diabetic (which unfortunately is hereditary in my family - my grandmother also suffered from it), I'm even more prone to the typical ailments of the season than you lucky people; thus explaining why despite getting my flu jab early I still wound up getting a complaint. Coughing, sniffling, the works. And I go to work very early so I can straighten up the place a bit, catch up on work, and go online. And guess what it is in the morning? Yep, colder than Donald Rumsfeld's heart (now be honest, can you really accept an endorsement of his being a delightful human being from Emperor Bush?). Still, it's not like there isn't a lot of it about...

As the year winds up, some good things on the horizon. The full list of me and MuffinMan's ladies of choice is just about finished, Jennifer's new story is promising, and one good thing about being sidelined at home is that I get more time to look at CNN's Monita Rajpal. Someone should do a story with her... oh wait...

Christmas time, mistletoe and wine...

Bookmakers are worrying about having to pay out hefty amounts if it's a white Christmas - meaning if it snows in a certain spot in London (the weather bureau, or something like that) then it counts as a white Christmas... never mind that in other parts of the UK it always snows at Christmas. That's the trouble with the movers and shakers in this country - a lot of them think that if it's not in London it doesn't count.

Meanwhile, having achieved its goal of being the Christmas #1, will the third version of "Do They Know It's Christmas?" please go away now. (And as a matter of fact, it does snow in Africa - Kilimanjaro, anyone? Cunts.) If I want something seasonal bring on How the Grinch Stole Christmas and the Rankin/Bass specials, thanks very much.

More ranting and raving...

Rant: The Guardian. Specifically its talkboards. Even more specifically, the International folder. Moron central; basically, if you go in there and find yourself losing the will to live at the rantings of the folks within (Brits bashing Americans, Americans bashing Brits, etc., etc), it ain't for you. I've stopped buying the paper daily now - the only real reason to buy it is "Doonesbury," and I have the strip on Yahoo! now anyway. Gary Trudeau, you rock.

Rave: Tell you the truth, there isn't one. So I'll just give an additional rant to Bravo for pulling Alias on Tuesday for a fucking football match. (I don't care if it was for charity; I want my Jennifer Garner, dammit!)

Keeping the flame

PETA's attacks on Cindy Crawford convinced me of one thing - that I'm still very firmly in her corner. Maybe more people would haev sympathy for them if they weren't such intolerant, publicity-seeking assholes. (They have more in common with Naomi Campbell than they like to think.)

If I'm going to express any Cindy-related anger, it would be towards Jonathan Perea - he maintains Cindyplanet, one of the few Cindy websites worth mentioning, but the login procedure always seems to be messed up. >:( Shame... but it does prove that Simply the Best lives up to its name.

Okay, time for a little sneak preview.

I have no idea when any stuff I do will ever be finished, so until that time comes here's some work in progress posted for all to see and bitch at me about (especially Jennifer). This is the opening of The Passion of the Bellucci...

* * * * * * * * * *
"Stop the car!" Julio shouted suddenly.
"What for? I didn't hit any cats this time," Liselotte grumbled, keeping the car speeding along the country road on the way back from their day out.
"I think I saw a body back there! A human one!"
Her fiance had a lot of good qualities, but he could go overboard with the milk of human kindness; Liselotte knew that if she didn't turn back he'd be badgering her all the way back to Rome. And it was a LONG way back... she swerved the car around and started back up the road while Julio peered at both sides. He hoped he was wrong; he could have been... maybe it was somebody just sleeping off some wine on this hot afternoon. "There!" he yelled.
"Will you stop shouting?! There's only us here!" growled Liselotte, bringing the car to a stop by the grass. Several yards beyond that was a forest, but Liselotte's attention was drawn to a figure in a nightgown, lying face-down on the grass just outside the forest; Julio had been right, and he was running towards her. "Haven't all those years in front of the TV taught you anything?" she called after him. "It could be a trap! Come back here and call the police or..." Nothing; always thinking about other people, that was her Julio. Liselotte got out of the car as Julio knelt by the woman and took her wrist; to his relief he found she had a steady pulse, and from what he could see there wasn't any injury.
"She's alive, thank heaven," Julio said. "I'm going to see if I can revive her... careful now..." Liselotte, dialling the emergency services, arrived just as he gently rolled the unconscious woman onto her back prior to the mouth-to-mouth, and both stopped dead where they were.
"Hello? Can I help you?" said the pleasant woman on the other end of the line.
"Er... yeah..." replied a stunned Liselotte, as she and Julio stared at an out-cold Monica Bellucci.

* * * * * * * * * *

The doctors at the Rome hospital where Monica had been taken had alerted Vincent and assured him that they wouldn't let the press know. They didn't - but Liselotte did.
Sighing as he faced the reporters and cameras outside and muttering to himself "Not again," Dr. Lenzi asked them to tone it down and he'd issue a statement - "Monica Bellucci is being held overnight for observation; she's fine..."
"Is it true she was found naked?" one reporter asked hopefully.
"No. No further questions for now..."
Vincent, however, had several questions for his wife; he was relieved to see she was fine. Woozy, having only just come to, but fine. He sat there, holding Monica's hand as she started to take in her surroundings, and pondered how he was going to ask her all the questions on his mind... she was here now, safe, and that was all that mattered for now. He wouldn't press it...
"Vincent?" Monica asked, fixing her jet-black eyes on her husband. "How did I get here?"
"You were found outside Rome," he said gently. "You've been gone for a week..."
"A week?" Monica repeated. "That's impossible... I only left yesterday."
"You said you had to go and meet somebody; you never told me who it was or what it was about, and you told me you'd be back in the evening. That was a week ago."
"And that was all I told you?" Monica asked, as the nurse came in to get the invalid over to the bathroom for her bath; Monica believed she could do it by herself, but hospital rules were hospital rules, and she WAS still pretty weak. Vincent was her husband, but he still had to get out of the way as his wife was escorted out. She didn't have to tell him not to leave, however; he would never have left her alone. The furthest he'd go was back outside the room, to wait for the all-clear. Both for her to go home, and from any lurking people with cameras.
In the small space the hospital called a bathroom, Monica undid her gown and let it hit the tiles as the veteran nurse helped her into the tub. The nurse hadn't tried to get inquisitive about what she was doing out there, and Monica had been grateful for that - what she needed now was a professional doing her job. "You don't have to rub the soap on me," Monica told the nurse. "I won't break."
"Nonsense," the nurse said briskly as she started to lather Monica's back. "Just doing my job. By the way, I don't usually say this kind of thing..."
Monica had gotten used to people of both sexes complimenting her beauty and/or saying they had never met a celebrity before, so she prepared for the inevitable gushing.
"...but I've never seen such a plain tattoo."
This was a new one on her, but it beat talking about movies. "Where did you see it?" Monica asked.
"Right here," the nurse said, tapping the small of her patient's back. "Just above your bottom."
The surprised Monica wished she could crane her neck around to see what she was talking about. "Please don't defame your beautiful, perfect body with hideous tattoos - it's bad enough when Angelina Jolie does it!" one of her fans had urged her, and she had assured him she had no intention of doing so. And now this nurse was telling her she had one...? "What does it look like?" she asked.
"Here, have a look for yourself," the nurse said, helping Monica up over to the mirror. Dripping all over the floor, the tall woman turned her head and studied her naked form from behind, her eyes stopping on a small line of text, just above her bottom like the nurse had said. She was relieved that it wasn't a dragon or something - but it just made things stranger. Monica wasn't shy about her body, and she was certainly proud of her buttocks, but not so proud that she'd have "BELLUCCICULO" tattooed above them in small, neat typescript.
But evidently someone else was.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Dear Monica,
You have shown us your fabulous fully naked form so many times; it's only fair that I return the favour.
Signed,"
Monica wasn't sure whether to laugh or scream. Back home from hospital, assuring the producers of her newest movie that she would be there on schedule, and reluctantly getting ready to explain to members of the press just what had happened (if anything), she had decided to relax by reading some post. But the first one had been from an English admirer who had included some shots of himself in the buff. Including a close up of his fully erect penis. And who the hell had taken those shots anyway? His girlfriend? And why was she so understanding? Maybe it was because he had such a nice penis... Monica studied it carefully.
It was a crystal-clear, full colour 8 x 10 glossy; his hand was wrapped around the base as if he had been snapped while masturbating. It looked like it was a good 10 inches - Monica's mind reeled at the realisation that she was probably looking at a lifesize image of the guy's cock. Part of her mind couldn't help comparing Vincent's with it, and couldn't help realising he came a poor second. But at least she had the real thing and not a picture. A very... interesting picture. Her eyes taking in the veined, swollen length of cock, Monica traced a finger along the picture before raising it to her face, and kissing it.
And then, as her other hand moved down between her legs, she began to lick it. The image of the cock filled her field of vision; she imagined the full item in front of her face, the owner waving it around before her eyes, daring her to taste it, to smell it, to want to swallow it all. Monica could practically see the cut cockhead dipping invitingly above her lips, pink and swollen. Up and down her tongue moved along the photo, her mind giving the owner dialogue as she took her own little rod between her fingers; her rosy clit was itself swelling as she started to roll it.
In and out she thrust her fingers, her body starting to roll like the ocean waves; Monica pressed the picture of the prick to her heated flesh and started to move it down herself, passing the picture over her breasts and picturing the penis rubbing along the flesh - the very thought of it made her nipples harden. She moved the picture down until it was brushing along her bushy privates; Vincent hadn't been alone in calling it a jungle he'd die to be lost in.
Monica's pussy was starting to dampen as she shoved her fingers around inside; she thrust them against the walls of her cunt, spreading it open as she pressed the picture against it, rubbing against the soaking snatch. In her mind's eye she saw the inches ramming against the opening; she kisses it and masturbates with it, imagining it inside her, before putting it aside (imply that it's not the only time she's done something like this).
Not that it was the only one of its kind she'd ever gotten; a lot of her fanmail came from men and boys wanting to get to know her in the biblical sense. Like the one written on several sheets going into great detail about feasting off her nude body before having her for dessert, and so on. Monica shook her head; some people had so much time on their hands, she thought to herself as she put the letter to one side. Anyway, she needed to get a little sleep; she had a few days before she had to be on location, but she still needed all the rest she could get. And these sheets were so soft... nothing like hospital beds...
Then she remembered that last letter. The epic that guy had sent her. That letter with something in it she had overlooked at first. Reluctantly tossing aside thoughts of sleep, Monica picked up the stapled sheets from the floor and read through them again. Yep, there it was... right there at the bottom. Just as it had been on some of the other letters. And on some of the pictures she had received.
Bellucciculo.

* * * * * * * * * *

“It’s going,” Vincent said.
“What is?” Monica asked tentatively as they lay there in bed.
“That tattoo,” he replied.
“You’re not just saying that to make me feel better, are you?”
”No. If I was going to make you feel better, I wouldn’t say anything,” he laughed. “It really is starting to fade… whoever put it on you must have not wanted to mark you up forever. Maybe he’s the leader of those nutcas… of those fans.”
”You were right the first time.”
“They would be nutcases if they DIDN’T want to sleep with you, Monica,” Vincent pointed out, unable to see his wife roll her eyes and crack a half-smile. She went for the full smile when she felt his hand resting on her butt… he was in the mood. And luckily for him, so was she…
Half an hour later, Vincent was fast asleep alongside Monica. It usually bothered her that he could fall asleep so quickly afterwards, though at least not during. And he didn’t snore. But to all intents and purposes, until he woke up she was alone with only her thoughts to keep her company. And they all went back to those letters. And those pictures… the most recent ones had arrived this morning. A whole package of them, all by the same person.
On a sunny morning in the hills, a nude Monica was tied between two pillars. Her head was thrown back in what was supposed to be ecstasy as her arms and legs were spread apart; crouching between her legs, a man had his tongue reaching up towards her sex. Standing on either side of her were two more men, their hands fondling her and their erect penises sticking out from their trousers; one of them was really close to her left breast, his teeth bared as he prepared to take a love-bite. Part of another man could be made out behind her, and it looked as if he was doing or preparing to do something anally-inclined. It wasn’t the strangest of the pictures of that series – not when it also included a picture of a giant version of herself watching a seventeen-year-old boy sinking into her vagina with a contented smile on his face – but “The Passion Of The Bellucci” stood out for two reasons.
One, it had been signed. An indecipherable signature, but it had been signed. And two, the picture had a real clue to what was going on.
Right at the bottom, by the signature, was the address www.bellucciculo.it.

* * * * * * * * * *

She couldn’t check it out at home; Vincent had been known to check websites she had visited ever since the time she had downloaded a virus by mistake, and if he found out about this one there was no telling what he might do – she wanted to find out about it herself. He wanted to help for sure, but this was her mystery… only one person had the right to find out why someone had a URL named after “those beautiful booty-bubbles.” So said one fan.
Thank goodness for cybercafes, especially ones that didn’t have adult content firewalls. Hunched before a terminal with her coffee steaming by her side, Monica tapped in http://www.bellucciculo.it/ and pressed “Return,” expecting to see a “Web Site Not Found” sign after the usual ten years connecting. Hoping, even. Then she’d be able to write it all off as some weirdo’s fantasy… the screen went black for two seconds, snapping her out of her hopes.
Then it filled with a screen-capture that she instantly recognized; it was a shot of her lying down stark naked with her back to the camera from “Brotherhood of the Wolf.” Above her supine form, the word “BELLUCCICULO” wrote itself across the screen in large gold script, while the phrase “The Shrine Of Monica's Behind" similarly appeared underneath. American and Italian flags appeared to show this was a bilingual site, along with webcounters, copyright info, and the only other thing that caught Monica’s attention – “Click on the buttocks to enter.” It figured that the weirdo who built this site would have visitors come in by having them virtually sodomize Monica Bellucci.
Monica clicked, and was greeted by a new page – a picture of her on a French TV show in an extraordinarily tight dress from behind filled the screen, as words appeared. Words clearly written by someone who really, really needed to get out more…
“Britney Spears… Jennifer Lopez…Kylie Minogue… Nicole Kidman… Carol Vorderman… Felicity Kendal… ” (“Who?” Monica said to herself.) “…all must bow to their queen. We join here to celebrate the true Queen of the Backsides, the number one vision of loveliness on the planet, the ultimate test of a man’s straightness, the awesome gift to mankind that is Monica Bellucci. With her bravery in screen roles…”
Monica couldn’t resist a little preen on reading that.
“…and her willingness to share her blessings with the world, the sultry raven-haired Monica has captivated audiences and critics. But while many have rightly sung the praises of her bosom, a lot have enjoyed the hirsute pleasures of her privates” (Monica shook her head on reading that) “and some have even exulted over her legs, few have noticed her true best feature – her full, round, flawless rump. Until now. Join us now as we celebrate the joy, the passion, the excitement, the devotion whenever Monica Bellucci walks and we are lucky enough to follow…” By now Monica’s mind was on stalker alert, especially as the background was constantly changing to other images of her, and always from behind. Sometimes in dresses, sometimes in underwear, sometimes in nothing. No stalkerazzi shots, thankfully, but…
Underneath the introduction came some links – Poetry, Prose, Pictures, Guestbook, Who We Are, and Links. Monica wavered the cursor over each one in turn, before clicking on Pictures – she felt the others could wait a bit; she’d need more time and a less public place to give the words the attention they probably deserved. Sipping her coffee, Monica waited to see the usual collection of screencaps and magazine pictures – and came THIS close to spitting out the caffeined beverage all over what she saw on the monitor.
She was greeted by a whole load of thumbnails, the first of several pages. Some of them were screencaps, and some of them were magazine pictures. But some of them were ones she did not remember posing for… she knew she would remember being stark naked and spreadeagled against a wall as if she was being frisked. And she would certainly remember feeling the hands of two young guys – almost boys – gripping her buns and opening them, with their tongues tantalizingly close to her asshole. Too close. And she looked as if she was actually… enjoying it? This was what the Americans called “too much information” – Monica hurriedly closed the window as if she had been caught by her parents, and put her head in her hands in disbelief. That picture had to have been faked. It HAD to be; she knew that they could do some really convincing ones these days.
Except that Monica knew a fake when she saw one. And that was no fake.

* * * * * * * * *

One “cleaning-out” programme installation later, Monica Bellucci sat herself down in front of her own PC, and returned to the site. Skipping the introductory statement, and glad that Vincent wasn't here looking over her shoulder, she behaved like many visitors to websites and went straight for the words and pictures. Unlike the other visitors, her reaction was a mixture of flattery and creepiness; she loved getting attention, but this kind? Skimming through some admittedly well-chosen pictures ("At least I'm not naked in all of them," she thought), she decided to make her first stop the
POEMS

"A Journey Down Monica In Haiku"
Dark and heavenly,
I want to dive into your
Wavy head ocean.

Your eyes are serene
Calm windows to the soul.
I look and wonder.

Perfect Roman nose
In one moment so haughty
The next so open.

Welcoming bosom
That you display to all men.
You prove I'm not gay.

Travel further down
And there is at least one Bush
Which I can support.

Perfect and juicy
Your wiggle will always send
Men straight to Heaven.

Your legs and your feet
We worship them forever
Who needs Page 3 girls?

- Tony Macarthur, Essex
What surprised Monica the most was that he, and many of the others whose poems made the above seem like e.e. cummings, had no shame about using his real name. "Single men..." she thought/hoped, and moved onto the stories...

Harsher Story Thoughts

melswo stinks. His stories stink (I'll assume melswo is a he). His choice of subjects stinks. Even when he writes about people who aren't repellent, the results stink.

Andrew Troy Keller is dreadful. I do hope I can manage to tell him so one day.

And because I'm writing this at work with a touch of flu, this isn't all it could be...

Ten Years Ago Today...

Today is a milestone in my life. It's been ten years since I started working at Ashurst Direct Marketing - since then I've seen a lot of people come and go... but mostly go.

I keep telling myself I'll move on one day, but nothing. I guess I feel comfortable here. Or maybe I'm just afraid of change.

One thing for sure - if I'm still here 10 years from now, I don't know what I'll do...

I hate, I like, I hate, I like...

I hate Abbey National. No wonder they stopped using "Because life's complicated enough" in their ads - they make it more complicated themselves.

I like Varese Sarabande. And if the music for Elektra is as good as what Christophe Beck did for Buffy the Vampire Slayer I'll love them even more.

I hate the Christmas TV schedules. Especially on terrestrial TV. (Not least on C4 - 100 Greatest TV Treats my foot.)

I like Marisa Miller. For obvious reasons.

I hate Johnny Vaughan. Well, actually I hate people who constantly employ the man - you'd think people would have noticed by now that he actively repels audiences.

I like buying steak and kidney pie and chips with salt and vinegar, and lots of chocolate bars each week. Or at least I did until I was diagnosed with diabetes. (Happily not the more serious brand, but...) Now I've reduced significantly.

I hate the 232 bus route. Alas, it's the only one that takes me to work. :(

I like weekends.

Thoughts on Britney, my parents, and two naked Campbells

My parents finally divorced earlier this year, and my dad is now married again.

Britney Spears got married twice this year.

I was, and am, more curious about and interested in little Britney's marital affairs than those of my own father - somehow it just doesn't bother me that much. Maybe because I don't talk to him that much... I inherited my lack of fondness for long messages in emails from him, it seems like. (Actually, I'm not much for talking in real life, including over the phone - I think the longest conversation I ever had was about 10 minutes. Lisa Mackie, where are you now?)

Shallow, or the way life is? You tell me.

The two naked Campbells? Erica and Neve. The former is a softporn model who I would have in my Top 50 in a New York minute if non-mainstream models were allowed (since the diminutive and softly curvy Erica - who gets bonus points for writing back to me when I asked her a very silly question [and no, she didn' t tell me to fuck off :) ] - spends a lot of her time in poses not intended for pre-watershed audiences), the latter has finally bared her bod on screen in James Toback's newest movie. Cheers to voodoojoe for posting screencaps; jeers to Sharon's boyfriend for coming in while I was clicking on the caps and ruining it... >:(

Zoo and one of the guys from Blue

Zoo is one of various men's magazines in the UK. The guy from Blue in question is Lee Ryan (the one who put paid to Blue's chances in America by publicly ticking them off for getting upset over 9/11 when animals' lives were in danger - he apologised, but the damage was done... not that their lame-ass poor-man's-Backstreet-Boys act would have helped them over there, anyway).

The link? Well, I looked through the second issue I bought for Hater, and got the same horrible feeling I got from reading melswo's story about Mr. Ryan thinking about girls and masturbating in a bubble bath - i.e. something you really do not want in your head. This was the story that made me realise how much I would love to track down this writer and savagely beat him to death with his own keyboard (of course he could actually be a she, but for the purposes of convenience I'll blame my own gender), a feeling that hasn't changed over time.

And going through Zoo... well, magazines like that are only bearable, I find, if the featured woman in it is someone I personally find appealing, like Sophie Anderton in last week's edition. Since that doesn't apply to Nancy Sorrell (or most of the other barely-dressed females in it), and since its mixture of low humour, sixth-form debating levels, cars cars cars and sports sports sports doesn't appeal to me that much... until Hater can subscribe to it (and given the cost of an annual subscription I can understand his unwillingness to do so) I'll keep getting it. But I have to admit, I hate myself for getting the thing. It reminds me of why I hardly ever buy the likes of Playboy.