You heard about this, right? League’s disowned and/or prodigal son is back in town to play Union against the Wallabies and then to fight some other random Kiwi in a boxing match in Queensland before the Anthony Mundine headline bout. He even popped up on the Footy Show last night having a chat to Danny Weidler:

Full disclosure, I haven’t watched this because I can’t be arsed am very busy and important, but I notice he has quite a fetching ‘tan’. Sup Brooke Hogan! Also, I like your little hat, Sonny Bill. It’s very Zac Efron.

But the truth is, Sonny Bill Feelings’ return made me a bit … nostalgic. Musty water coloured miiiiiimoriiiiesssss … of the way we were. We had some good times, we Errol girls and Sonny Bill. So before Kiki and I head off to Campbelltown (C-TOWN, YEAH!) to watch the Tigers and Broncos tonight, let’s take a little walk down memory lane, shall we?

Where in the world is Sonny Bill Feelings? … this may be my favourite. I’ll never think of SBW without thinking of his Dora the Explorer beckpeck.

A Samoan in Paris … Sonny and his shoe phone! Oh, how we laughed!

Fugitivity and Fuckability – possibly Kiki’s greatest photoshop. If not, it’s up there.

Sadtimes in France … It even has a Lozzy period joke. Too good.

Willie 4 Sonny Bill – My FIRST EVER film spectacle (just scroll down).  IF this isn’t written up in some future film school text as ‘the first work of a budding auteur’ then I shall eat my hat. You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, then youtube will probably (incorrectly) take it down for copyright infringement.

Sigh. Anyone got a hankie?

BLOGGING SUPERSTARRRRRRS!

*high kick*

Exciting times, kids!  Kiki and I have a new home over at the Austereo / Fox website, blogging about celebrities and style and other Very Important Things.

We’ve already posted some of our comments on the Oscars, including how much we adore Zac Efron, why Hugh Jackman is super-human, the worst hair in the history of humanity, and why Brad Pitt is a bitch.

Read it.  You’ll love it.  Promise.

What we didn’t get to in our blog though was what happened after the awards ceremony, and I has mah suspicionz about that.  By all accounts, hot bitch Robert Downey Jr got up to this:

OF COURSE HE DID.  What else would Ro Ju do now that he’s off the drugs except sit around with his smoking wife lounging in the nook on his shoulder,  doing manly things like smoking manly cigars, probably smelling like Burberry London or Demeter Leather and unselfconsciously mussing his hair while he considers putting on a smoking jacket or … what was my point?  Oh yes, he’s smoking a cigar celebrating not winning an Oscar, but instead winning at life.  Heh, cigar.  It’s funny cause it implies sexytimes.

I also feel completely and unflinchingly certain that Meryl Streep blazed up her own cigar and got blind on grey goose cocktails with Goldie Hawn and Hugh Jackman while Goldie discussed her spirit guides.  If you’re wondering where that happened, it was in my mind.

Meanwhile I probably don’t even need to tell you but I am now in mad emotional gaylove with Dustin Lance Black.   He’s lovely. Not to mention he has bone structure I would cut a bitch for.

But do you know what the best bit is?  And no, it’s not that an adorable gay boy from Texas won an Oscar for a brilliant screenplay about a gay political activist and simultaneously gave the forks to every Proposition 8-voting homophobic FASCIST.  It’s that DLB was able to live his dream.

His dream of meeting Zac Efron.

Look at Efron trying to look all hetero.  Think manly thoughts! Think manly thoughts!  Cedar!  Monster trucks!  Vaginas!

And look at DLB freaking out.  Even Oscar-winners get awkward around Zef.  Don’t be intimidated by his beauty, Lance!  It’s all Maybelline!  For reals.

In other, far less interesting news, I assume that  Angelina went home with at least one extra from Slumdog Millionaire under her arm, while little Miley Cyrus went home and brushed her hair 100 times in the mirror, thinking about how next year she’s gonna be recognised at the Oscars for Hannah Montana.  SNORT.

And now, because I don’t want to drive Lozzy to a stroke, I’ll calm down on the Oscars talk.  Till next year, babies.

Right on, ladies.

Oscars time!  Oscars time!  I know lots of you probably hate the Oscars, and think they’re loathsome and boring and last for a good five hours too long, but I care not.  I love them.  I love seeing glorified tv starlets in poor dress choices.  I love seeing all of Rachel Zoe’s clients wear amazing hotstuff outfits and gigantic obnoxious cocktail rings that People magazine totally doesn’t get.  I love that the Oscars will invite Disney’s Zac Efron to present an award and perform on stage, but still refuse to invite Paris Hilton.  She must fucking hate that.

(Needless to say, it makes perfect sense to us that Zef would be invited to the Oscars, because the High School Musical series is some of the greatest cinema in human history.  But most of the world over the age of 15 don’t really seem to get that.  It saddens us. We can only hope that the release of Seventeen Again will open their eyes.)

But most of all, I love it this year because Hugh Jackman is hosting.  Not just because he is – quite clearly – a hot bitch, but have you ever heard a bad word about Senor Jackman?  Of course you haven’t.  He gives me faith that perfect men Do Exist. All I need now is some sort of cosmic indication that perfect men Do Exist and Also Fancy Girls Who Write About Footy And Often Don’t Wear Pants.  ONE DAY!  I BELIEVE!

Know who else rocked a turtleneck? Errol Flynn on the Sirocco. True story.

Even Hugh’s (heterosexual) writers for the Oscars are in mad gay love with him.

The only proof that we really were writing for the Oscars is that Jackman would visit our room for a couple of hours each day. To my surprise, the best kind of boss is a sexy boss. Jackman greeted each of us with a giant hug, which would have been a perfect test of how gay I am, except I was totally focused on making sure I wasn’t crushed to death by his giant lats. So … pretty gay.

Jackman would laugh uproariously at everything we suggested, which is one of the huge advantages of writing for a noncomedian. He acted out all our stuff, belted out our songs while standing on furniture and even watched most of Be Kind Rewind with us for no good reason. He was so omniscient in his niceness that not only did he look sad when we played him the Christian Bale freak-out tape, but he also, after agreeing to record a parody of it, called Bale to make sure it was cool if we put it online.

He even let me try on the real, $18,000 plastic Wolverine claws, which made me want to do a bit about the moon and body hair; the reaction made me realize I probably should have seen an X-Men movie before writing for Jackman.

To summarise … he’s pretty much Jesus.  Jesus with really really amazing lats. And fuck it, let’s just be honest: I’m in mad gay love with him too.

Jesus was a carpenter, so he probably wore chesty bonds.

Sometimes I wonder whether the Errol girls are, in fact, just really spangly gay men trapped in women’s bodies. It would certainly explain why we so often end up kissing shirtless gay boys outside the Stonewall [That's just you two. The gays don't seem to adore me that much. One day I'll win them over. One day - lozzy]. It would also explain why, when I saw Hugh singing the finale of the Boy from Oz while glitter rained down on me from the theatre roof, my first thought was ‘I think this is what heaven looks like’.

Although hopefully in heaven they have found some way to avoid getting glitter rain caught in your cleavage because that was a bitch to get out.

If you’re wondering, by some crazy coincidence, ‘the best kind of boss is a sexy boss‘ is also the motto of Errol HQ.  Before he went home for the holidays, Intern Danny Wicks even cross-stitched it for us on a mint green background surrounded by flowers and gave it to us as a Christmas pressie.  He’s so sweet sometimes.

As for things that aren’t Hugh Jackman, Kiki and I have already talked about the other stuff in store at the Oscars over at http://fox.com.au. Go! Read! Comment!

And then watch Hugh getting ready for the Oscars:

SUP ARMS.

Postscript:  Kiki is under the impression that I made this whole post purely as an excuse to google pictures of Hugh Jackman.  This is patently untrue.  Not least because I google pics of Hugh Jackman anyway.  In fact, I made this post as an excuse to tell you all that when Hugh Jackman was renting a house in Paddington with the fam, he totally pimped out his kids as an excuse to knock on his lesbian neighbours’ door and ask to use their pool.  Like he was all … oh hay, sorry to annoy you, but can my kids possibly use the pool?  Then once the kids had gone back to the States he rocked up anyway all sheepish and … so the kids were kind of a ruse.  Can I use your pool anyway? HE JUST REALLY LIKES SWIMMING POOLS. Plus, that’s what kids are for, right?

Now, I would like to write a post for you all about the grand final.  Unfortunately, I was so atrociously hungover and rubbish that I don’t remember very much. Also, I can’t be bothered.  

There is also a much more pressing issue to deal with: if 2008 was a golden year for the beard in rugby league, then every golden age eventually has to end, right?  So I think we need a little post to act as a fond farewell to the beards that made 2008 so entertaining.  Let’s light a few tealights, shot some Scotch, and mourn for the facial hair that is no more.  (If you need to change into something black, I can totally wait too.  I’m already wearing a black netting veil and channelling Blair Waldorf).

Forgive me father for I have been to the Brighton Bar … again.

First to leave us were the boys in black. After their loss to the Sea Eagles our favourite bearded boys, the New Zealand Warriors, decided to sacrifice their hilarious and delightful facial hair to charity.  Sigh. Is there anything worse than when people do something for charity?  I say no. Because apparently ‘things for charity’ translates as ‘things that make Sassy sadtimes’.  Like when mum decided I was too old for dolls and gave my Strawberry Shortcake dollhouse to the childrens’ hospital.  AS THOUGH CHILDREN IN A HOSPITAL HAVE TIME TO PLAY WITH DOLLS.  GOD. THEY’RE SICK, REMEMBER?  What was my point?

IT’S JUST ALL SO SAD. I’m gonna miss you crazy bushrangers. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to go and start making my Movember advent calendar. Only four weeks to go till my most favouritest month of the year!

Goddamn if they aren’t going to be a long four weeks too. I am tres pissed off. I awoke from my drunken slumber to find out that Errol Patron Saint David Williams had stolen my lady Venus in the aftermath of Mad Monday and shaved the beard. The only explanation I can possibly come up with for why he defied our explicit wishes and went the razor is that he overheard us discussing our Top Five Favourite Movie Gettin’ Square and our Top Three Favourite Ginger David Wenham and came to the conclusion that it was a brilliant idea to make himself over in the image of John Francis Spiteri.  Davey, nooooooo!

Is that … a mullet? I do believe it is. What are you gonna do, mate, put up some shelving?

I’m sorry your Hhonour I didn’t mean to say ‘shit’, it’s just that this fucking guy’s gettin to me.

And as well as leaving you with the evidence that Dave hasn’t practised shaving in at least six months: (make sure you shave AFTER you shower, kids, when the hair is soft)

Who’sh gonna pay for my bush fare?

I’ve also tracked you down some exclusive Errol footage of Dave rocking out on Mad Monday. Goodbye, beardbye, and enjoy babies.

Kids, it’s time to put a bit of a spin on our Men We Love posts. A TWIST! I NEVER SAW IT COMING! BRUCE WILLIS IS A GHOST! We realised there’s a very particular type of male celebrity that needs to be Seriously discussed – a man that regularly confuses our ladytarts by being super lovable/sexable when in a controlled environment (ie. with lots of people telling him what to wear/what to say/how to fake normality) but looking deadset Crazytimes whenever they’re allowed to fend for themselves in the wild.

These men are EVERYWHERE. We thought of at least 6 examples off the top of our heads, which is the equivalent of one regular person without a penchant for vodka thinking of like, 20 examples. In fact there were so many of them that in deciding which one to post about first, we had to get Lachie to wheel in our trusty whiteboard and draw up a flowchart. And by ‘flowchart’ I mean ‘game of Hangman’ (No John John, the answer is NOT ‘stiffy’). We are pretty much anthropologists.

I know what some of you are thinking right now. “This has NOTHING to do with NRL. I CAME HERE FOR THE FOOTY/ASS (DEPENDING ON SEXUAL ORIENTATION)”. Anyone who’s thoroughly confused and Just Wants Footy, there’s a link on the sidebar to the left (to the left, everything you own in a…ah fuck it) that will take you right to sweet, sweet football with nothing in between.

Our first case study is Emile Hirsch. Let’s start with the good. Here he is as Jay Adams in Lords of Dogtown ie. here he is being a hot bitch:

Blonde! Cute! Skater! Our vag’s are dancing in unison.

Scruffy Into The Wild Emile WITH VINTAGE HOT BITCH SEAN PENN. In a cowboy hat! Our vag’s are now shimmying with all their might. And just for fun, here he is doing his best David Williams:

No you can’t stroke my face and call me Davey.

As you can see from the first half of our study, Mr Hirsch displays an extensive array of hot. Bitch is versatile. You’d think that would translate into Real Life right? Wrong. In his spare time, Emile likes to break our hearts by dressing/wearing his hair like this:

I don’t actually know what to say, so I’ll steal straight from GFY‘s genius wit:

Emile Hirsh IS Colonel Sanders in A Tale of Two Breasts, Wings and Thighs: The KFC Story premiering Tuesday on Bravo. Costumes by Valentino. Hair by Kevin Federline.

Why does he look so jovial? It’s like he enjoys torturing us. Fuck you, Emile (not in that outfit though).

BUT THAT WAS ONE TIME, I hear you say. WRONG. Emile gets it wrong on more than one occasion.

DOUBLE DENIM. A CANADIAN TUXEDO. Lord knows I’m blind to most fashion rules, but double denim is a heinous, heinous crime. Not only that, but his jacket is BUTTONED. Oh honey, no.

Our vag’s are now crying in a dark corner. These things always end in tears.

all pics via emile-h.com

So aside from my drunken excursions to unnerve NRL players last week I’ve pretty much been busy smoking my crackpipe and watching the Olympics, which means I almost missed out on the fact that people are protesting against Tropic Thunder.  

Not against seeing my filmcrush Robert Downey Jr playing a character who wears blackface, but against the fact that it uses the word ‘retard’.

Protesters, led by Special Olympics chairman and CEO Timothy Shriver, marched outside the world premiere of the Hollywood satire Tropic Thunder on Monday night.

Chanting and waving placards that read “Ban the movie, ban the word” and “Call me by my name, not my label,” several dozen people tried to get the message across that the word “retard” and making fun of the mentally challenged is not comedy material.

In Thunder, Ben Stiller’s character is an actor who previously attempted to go for Oscar gold by playing a character called “Simple Jack.”

I AM DEAD. Truly, I am dead.  Speechless and dead.  Dead and speechless.

It’s probs pretty obvious by now that I am crap at being politically correct – almost as crap as I am at keeping my mouth shut – but I like to think I have some kind of heart and some kind of conscience.  I know enough to know that there are Some Words you just don’t say, because no matter how much you might mean no harm, the wounds of the word run really deep and it’s simply cruel and lazy and selfish to tap into those old hurts.  We are clever enough to find other words to express ourselves and to do otherwise is just careless.

But surely we all know by now the context in which the movie uses the word retard, don’t we?  

Downey: Everybody knows you never do a full retard.

Stiller: What do you mean?

Downey:  Check it out. Dustin Hoffman, Rainman, look retarded, act retarded, not retarded. Count toothpicks to your cards. Autistic. Sure. Not retarded.

You know Tom Hanks, Forrest Gump. Slow, yes. Retarded, maybe. Braces on his legs. But he charmed the pants off Nixon and he won a ping-pong competition? That ain’t retarded.

You went full retard, man. Never go full retard.

 

I know you’ve all watched the Oscars and noticed the exact same thing that they’re making fun of.   Retard wins oscars.  At the very least it wins nominations.  But not Full Retard.  

For Sean Penn in I Am Sam, for Leonardo di Caprio in What’s Eating Gilbert Grape, for Tom Hanks in Forrest Gump, for Dustin Hoffman in Rainman.  Retards are gold, people, if you want to be a credible actor.  

And this is surely what Ben Stiller wants you to think about – why is it so much more impressive to convincingly play someone with a mental disability or a condition like autism than it is to play someone who is equally distant from the actor in any other way?  Someone with a different culture?  A completely different life?  Someone extremely clever?

I think it’s a symptom, to be honest, of a society where political correctness is powerful enough an influence that We Don’t Say Those Words – words like spastic, or retard, or Special – but underneath, the people who were once labelled with any of those words are still just as marginalised.  Taking away the vocabulary of marginalisation hasn’t magically changed people’s attitudes.  All it’s done is blanket them.  Because we’re all politically correct, didn’t you know?

But whether we say the R-word or not, Westerners, and particularly Americans, still live in a culture where anyone differently abled, mentally or physically, is still characterised as the Other. The way Hollywood loves to gleefully reward a “normal person” for playing retard is just an institutionalised way of reinforcing the idea that they are making a sacrifice by doing it, that they are somehow slumming, giving up the privilege of being normal or looking normal, certainly looking desirable by deigning to portray someone ‘less than normal’ on film.  A nomination for an award is a recognition of the massive effort the actor has made in playing their part.

How utterly demeaning.  How surreptitiously discriminatory.  And worst of all is the sense throughout the whole process that Hollywood is patting itself on the back for its open-mindedness and compassion in recognising the disadvantaged or the disenfranchised.  

I see exactly the same system at work in the way that Hollywood fixates on straight actors playing gay. Charlize Theron as Aileen Wuornos, Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal in Brokeback Mountain, James Franco and Sean Penn in Milk.  It’s obvious in the way that they are lauded at awards ceremonies and the way that every interview sees the actors discussing their reservations in playing gay.

Because in our heteronormative culture, what could be more of a sacrifice than having to act as a homosexual?  (Except, perhaps acting as a retard).  How utterly awful!  What a sacrifice they make!  How they must fight back the bile when they have to kiss someone of the same sex.  Apparently it is all too easy to kiss a stranger, or someone you don’t find attractive, but only provided they are of the opposite sex.

It’s no different to the most obvious of all Hollywood prejudices: beauty.  If it’s not someone winning an oscar for playing a retard, or a paraplegic, or a fag, it’s someone being deemed SO BRAVE and SO TALENTED for putting on a fake nose and playing an ugly person.  

But as much as Hollywood loves showering praise on the Normals who play these Challenging roles, the one thing no one wants to talk about, let alone see on the big screen, is the real thing.  They don’t want to see ‘real retards’ just like they don’t want to see ‘real ugly’ or ‘real gays’.  What they really want is a watered-down Hollywood prettied-up version of the real thing.  So what we get is hot people playing ugly (not too ugly though!  A fake nose or a few extra kilos will do), straight people playing gay (with all the gay sex censored out, of course) and ‘normal’ people playing mildly retarded (with all the actual retards whitewashed out).

So tell me, what is it that we should be spending our precious time protesting against exactly? Which is more dangerous?  A movie that – shock, horror – uses the word retard, or the system that it’s satirising?  A system where every word is closely monitored and sanitised in the interest of political correctness, but every action more deeply ingrains the very prejudice those words used to embody.

And more importantly, tell me what better word is there to use to try and illustrate the kind of insidious prejudice we’re talking about?  

It’s just one more way that the veil of pc language has paralysed us, left us unable to discuss actual issues. Not even in a comedy film.

[promo stills via DreamWorks]

If Naomi Wolf taught us anything about beauty, she taught us that it’s something to be wary of. She charged us with wondering whether beauty can be a self-imposed cage; whether it’s so fragile that it has to be constantly quarantined and maintained, because mixing it in with too much thought or action or personality or humour or drive would just shatter the poor little thing altogether.

It’s all too easy to think about beauty in a vacuum of stillness or passivity, that the only kind of beauty is the kind that comes inside magazines or in just one perfect photo, never speaks, never acts.

But if the gorgeous little ray of sunshine that is Goldie Hawn taught us anything, it’s that all that can be completely meaningless. It doesn’t have to be something that impoverishes you or is a trade off, because beauty doesn’t have to be that one-dimensional. Yes, she’s beautiful in a photograph, but a hundred times more beautiful when she laughs at herself, or flashes her cheeky grin, even in the gawky and slightly unsure way she used to hold herself, like a leggy foal.

Beautiful because she’s clever and because you can see in her eyes that – like our darling girl Dolly Parton – she looks at the world and, despite all the sorrow she’s been through, sees it as beautiful too.

Don’t forget, this is also the woman who helped bring us the genius of Cactus Flower, Sugarland Express, Death Becomes Her, There’s a Girl in My Soup, Private Benjamin and Overboard. If you don’t think Overboard is fabulous, then I can tell you you have no taste.

Surely that picture right there is reason enough for a full on love affair with the woman. Plus she and Kurt are too cute for words. De factos for the win!

Yes, that is Goldie and Liza. And yes I am TOTALLY dying from the fabulous too.

I’ma have a cocktail for you tonight, Goldie honey. Kiss kiss.

I’m not sure if you were all aware of this, but I am not just the Errol specialist correspondent on Eurovision, de Brito, how tight football uniforms are, and cornrows. I am also proud to say I am tres expert in all matters of celebrities and their racks (Einstein factor, here I come).

And even though she’s a total trainwreck, I have also always been 100% team Linds. And why not? Even Dolly likes her, and Dolly is pretty much Jesus.

I stuck by her through Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen, her ridiculous plastic hair extensions, even through her Mischa Barton phase, and that was possibly the most trying time of all. I hate that T-Rex.

But it seems like, lately, one of my favourite misunderstood ample-boobed starlets is coming good. Little LiLo is in love with Samantha Ronson and it’s made us stronger than ever.

I love lesbian Lilo. I think she is by far my favourite Lilo. Lesbian-stereotype, plaid-wearing, leggings-hawking, employable, not-so-faketanned Lilo.

Just look at our girl actually turning up to work (and playing softball! international symbol of solidarity and contentment for lesbians everywhere!)

You know I actually think she looks sober these days too. I mean not completely sober, but like at least she has pupils again now, and not the crazy black burning coal Demerol kind. So maybe she’s just popping high-functioning pills, like Ritalin and Xanax. Just a few uppers and downers, sweetie. The normal kind. Everyone has those in their purse, right? It’s not just me?

There’s a slight chance that this turn-around is because heinous Mama Dinetta Lohan is busy pimping out the prematurely aged Ali on Living Lohan, but I don’t want to talk about that in case mentioning her name summons the mythical rasping harpie herself.

When I read LiLo and SamRo might get hitched I won’t even lie – I squealed. The squeal of a thirteen-year-old who just found out Johnathon Taylor Thomas was coming to town. Also that last sentence had absolutely nothing to do with personal experience.

The 22-year-old star has already bought a white Chanel mini-dress for the ceremony, while Ronson – the sister of super-producer Mark Ronson – is toying with the idea of wearing a black suit and top hat.

Well firstly, of course SamRo wants a top hat. That’s pretty much the first rule in the big Book o Lesbian Weddings: that the Ellen has to wear a top hat. And who can argue with that? Top hats are fucking fierce. I bought an amaaazing one for Kiki for her birthday. (… does that make her the Ellen and me the Portia?)

The only thing even possibly wrong with it is that sometimes, when SamRo dresses nicely and wears grey or black, she looks disturbingly like Mark Ronson and I almost maybe sorta get a tiny ladyboner. DON’T JUDGE ME.

Moving on. *cough*

Even more obviously, OF COURSE SHE HAS A CHANEL DRESS. I can’t wait. Can’t you just imagine Uncle Karl Lagerfeld swanning about the reception in all black and a leather ascot, swinging a cane made of real snakes and announcing lesbians are the soaring swans of fashion! Except for fat ones. They are toads in aspic.

Lindsay, my darling, you are more fabulous than ever.

Going down: Scarlett Johansson

Bet you thought I’d moved past my dislike of ScarJo. Sadly, no. It’s back. After manufacturing a news story by telling a political news website that she was email penpals with Barack Obama, she’s manufactured another one by acting suprised about it.

Scarlett Johansson can laugh about it now, but the actress says she was embarrassed by the media coverage of her so-called “email relationship” with Barack Obama.

“It seemed to me to be like a product of extreme sexism, and I kept thinking to myself, ‘God, if this was just, like, Kal Penn or George Clooney or any of the other (Obama) surrogates or supporters … there wouldn’t be (any) question about it. Nobody would even talk about it,”‘ she said.

Oh honey, no. No you didn’t. You didn’t just say that the reason people talked about this was because you’re a woman. Kill me now. They wouldn’t have published the same articles about George Clooney because George Clooney wouldn’t hop on the phone with the internets and say something tragic and attention-seeking and untrue.

Bitch is GEORGE CLOONEY. Bitch doesn’t need to court attention to promote a Woody Allen film that is certain to do as poorly as the last two Woody Allen efforts.

Obviously at some point some poor confused English teacher taught ScarJo that “sexism” is a euphemism for “the results of famewhoring”. Sigh. That gosh-darned American education system.

And while we’re at it, she thought she’d whip up another non-story too, about how people JUST WON’T STOP CALLING HER NEW MOVIE SEXY. Those bastards!

“It’s just silly because … the way people are talking about it you’d think it was … a Bertolucci movie or something,” Johansson said, laughing. “People are saying, ‘It’s Woody Allen’s steamiest movie.’ I’m thinking, ‘Woody Allen’s steamiest WHAT?”‘

Okay, let me explain. They said MOVIE, darlin. You know when you prance about and it’s like people are taking photos of you, but there’s no shutter-sound? That’s called making MOVIES.

Anyone with eyes can see Scarlett has an amazing rack. People always talk about it and how hot it is. Woody Allen has told the press she’s a sex beast. Surely at some point, after 23 years of being Scarlett Johansson, she would have realised she has em and people like them. Am I right?

When people comment on my boobs* I’m not surprised. Because I know I have them. I’ve seen them at least several times. I know all about them, you know? It’s not news to me. So why is it that every mention of Scar Jo’s body or her sexiness surprises her?

If she is enough of a battler that she can’t remember what’s sitting in her bra, then I have no time for her. Conveniently, if she’s that much of a battler she’ll probably knock herself off soon enough in a tragic plant-watering accident.

* which they do because they’re boys, not because I look like ScarJo. Obvs.

After the overwhelming success* of my footy observations last week, I’ve decided Errol needs more posts about love. And with all the pissing on people and scandal this week, we need it more than ever, right? So every week, if I remember, you’ll get another heartwarming exploration of what it is for a man to love another man. Yes, that loveliest and most fragile of all emotions, manlove.

This week is dedicated to Benji Marshall and Scott Prince. The finding of love, the testing of love, and the tyranny of distance.

* by ‘overwhelming success’ I mean ‘I found it funny’. Also Intern Brownie loved it. He said he had something in his eye, but you know he was totally having a cry. That big softie.

OH HAY!

I’ve decided it’s time for a second instalment of Sassy’s Queer Studies. We all know I think that High School Musical is a gay allegory of unsurpassed genius, but even if you don’t agree with me about that, you will still die a thousand gay deaths watching High School Musical 2. DIE, I tell you. Die die die. Trust.

To be honest y’all, it’s not even an allegory this time. It’s just all kinds of rainbow coloured camp magnificence. Kenny Ortega has outdone himself. I really do love that bitch.

It actually occurs to me now writing this that this movie is gay enough for even Disney to notice, and, in fact, I think maybe they did. They cut this scene from the final movie. Could it be that seeing a girl and her brother dance in sequinned tiki costumes in front of the Arizona desert was just drag enough for the execs to put their foot down? Perhaps. But anyway.

So to set the scene for you, the action happens at the Lava Springs country club. And has there ever been a movie set that looks more like an homage to Priscilla, Queen of the Desert? I say no.

Our little basketballer and now fully-fledged (uncloseted) Musicale superstar Troy is working in the kitchen with his possessive BFF Chad, and those two fiesty lovers are still bickering like queens in a dressing room.

Gabriella the Mexican faux-love interest is working as a lifeguard which is fucking hilarious, because everyone knows Mexicans can’t swim. Trust Kenny to put the ladies in jobs that:

a) make them look ugly;
b) are likely to kill them off via drowning and write them out of the script;
or
c) in Gabriella’s case, both. Girl does not have the legs to pull off a one piece swimsuit as daywear.

And my little darling Sharpay is – I didn’t think this was possible – more fabulous than ever, especially backed by her three dancing Sharpette lackeys, and the honorary fourth Sharpette: her fierce gay brother Ryan. We know Ryan’s still queer cause he still wears whimsical hats.

Related note: no girl in this entire movie is attractive except for Sharpay, which totally makes sense when you realise that she’s pretty much a teen drag queen. It makes even more sense if you – like me – have watched all of the behind the scenes rehearsal special features on the HSM2 DVD and put two and two together to get OMG SHARPAY IS JUST KENNY ORTEGA IN GIRL FORM. Her dog in the movie is even Kenny’s dog. Of course it is.

Too cute.

By the time this movie was made, Zac Efron was also of legal age, so while he spends most of the movie in his signature blue to match his sparkly blue eyes, there are also strategically placed shirtless Zef shots at every opportunity. Apparently Kenny Ortega is also a massive perve. We totally have that in common.

And, of course, there be singing. Not quite as good as the singing in the first, because Zef was by this point both overage and sufficiently famous to demand to sing instead of being dubbed, but singing nonetheless.

Singing in kitchens:

Singing on golf courses:

Singing on stage with fireworks and wind-machines:

And my personal favourite, Troy crooning on a piano like Marilyn Monroe.

But perhaps the biggest triumph of the whole movie* is contained in just one brilliant scene.

In it, fierce brother Ryan faces objections from burly Chad, who declares that he Does Not Dance, and therefore will not be taking part in the Lava Springs talent show. Naturally, the two decide this fight will best be settled by a song and dance set to the rhythms of a baseball game. And isn’t that how everyone settles conflicts? I know I do.

( … ooh, look who ends up on top of the bat. Go Ry-Ry)

Now I love this, because I love musicals. Whatevs, don’t judge me. I JUST DO, OK? But I love it even more because it is the fuck-off gayest thing I’ve ever seen on a television. For one thing, the whole premise involves men playing sport together while all the hideous and badly-dressed womenfolk are corralled behind a hurricane fence.

I think it’s actually even gayer than when those two boys walked into Brian’s house on Queer as Folk wearing t shirts that read ‘PITCHER’ and ‘CATCHER’. If you are clever, you will realise what this means, and also realise that it is VERY RELEVANT HERE.

The boys PITCH and CATCH and wave their bats around. They point at each other as they duet about I don’t dance! and I know you can!. Ryan prances around the bases and throws in a jete. Chad throws his hands in the air and shakes his booty and from now on he will be known as Miss Jackson … if you’re nasty. The sexual tension is completely off the scale and it’s kinda hot to be honest. They have even more sparks between them than Troy and Chad. Amazing.

Just as I start to feel a bit odd in the crotchal region Kenny throws in some comic relief as the boys join in a group swing dance, and at last the fight culminates in a face-off between Miss Jackson sprinting for home base and Ryan running for a tag. The result? Victory to Miss Jackson, as he reaches home and lands with his head squarely in Ryan’s crotch. I think, to be completely honest, that that’s really a win for both of them.

Oh no, don’t leave yet. There is one final moment of homo. The moment where Miss Jackson … if you’re nasty stops the defeated Ryan from leaving and concedes:

I’m not saying I’ll do the talent show. But if I did … what would you have me do?

AND WE HAVE A LOVE MATCH! Cut to the boys having swapped hats, sitting at a fold out table, joking around and snacking on the hotdogs of camaraderie. Hotdogs. I kid you not. You can’t make this shit up. If you don’t find this scene amazing perhaps you should consider giving up on life. Just sayin.

And if anyone has any High School Musical 3 premiere tickets floating around … you know where to send them babies.

* The second biggest is that it includes the line of dialogue: Plug in the volcano! We’re going on! Magical.