OH HAY BITCHES!

It’s no secret that Errol is a gay-friendly zone. If there were a blog-equivalent of PFLAG, then we’d be in it. If we weren’t technologically retarded we would put a happy little rainbow flag on the site to show you.

So keep your Mardi-hate away from the comments section, please. It’s one night! If you care not for parades and rainbows and glitter and topless ladies on bikes, you can stay home and work on your cross-stitch. If you need a break, maybe google all the great things the gays have given you, like Elton John songs, Olympic gold medals, and the Pauline Hanson Mardi Gras float where her huge creepy head was chasnig ‘ethnic’ fish n chips down Oxford St. Remember that? Shit was incredible. Incredible, and eerily lifelike.

Sadly this year – because we’re heading to Homebush for the Charity Shield Bunnies vs Dragons game tomorrow – we can’t watch the parade or put on fake eyelashes and join in the insanity afterwards. Tragedy. Now we’ll never find out what ridiculous shenanigans we would’ve pulled off during the course of the night. Would Kiki have ended up with a torn tulle fairy skirt and chewing gum in her hair again? Would I wear something ridiculously inappropriate again like a skintight leather skirt and be unable to sit or stand without a burly gay lifting me? Would we meet a Karl Lagerfeld drag king again and start a fight by pulling his ponytail? (Sorry about that, btw). WOULD ANYONE PASH A GAY MAN? So many unanswered questions.

We probably would’ve headed for Charlotte Dawson’s Arena party, so maybe she can fill us in later. Get onto it pls Daws.

So instead, we have to celebrate Mardi Gras Eve. I plan to spend it at home doing what everyone should be doing pre-Mardi Gras: fake tanning. You know it’s true.

That way I’ll also look golden brown when I try and defuse fights between Dragons fan Kiki and our friend Yassy (new and devoted Bunnies fan).

What I like to think Wendell will be wearing on the night.

Personally, I’m kind of undecided. On one hand, I have a weird love for St George. Partly, that’s because I find their halves combination of Tiny Dancer and Hornbag completely adorable, and would kinda love to ask them over for afternoon tea to explain in depth that I totally believe in their skills even though they occasionally have flat games where they seem to shut down run out of attacking options.

Also partly because I think Uncle Wayne might be some kind of superhuman. He is the only person so far in my life to render me speechless. Even after two champagnes I couldn’t talk to him. I was muted by Benny. And I am never mute. I’m also overly invested in Jason ‘Flossy’ Nightingale and his success: a) because he looks like a labrador when he plays, and b) because following in Wendell Sailor’s footsteps is tough.

On the other hand, I have a massive platonic crush on Peter Holmes a Court. He’s seriously up there with Lee Furlong now on my list of non-sexual crushes. He’s just so clever! And so nice! And so pretty! On the Goldy – because I am a tool who does embarassing things – I announced to a group of rugby league bigwigs that “Peter Holmes a Court is a DREAMBOAT”. God I’m a winner. Which of course means if I cheer against the Bunnies it will have to be in secret in case the Dreamboat finds out.

And as a warm up to footy tipping for this year (have you joined our comp yet? GO DO IT NOW) I’ll even tip the game for ya – Dragons will win it but not by much. Matt Cooper will remain ridiculously hot, Beau Champion will play almost as well as he did at All-Stars, and Tiny Dancer will dance again (hopefully in a Mardi Gras-themed headgear).

Happy Mardi Gras babies!

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?

This may just be both the most brilliant and heartbreaking thing I’ve ever read.

Kylie Minogue was shocked and surprised when she discovered a fan backstage crying into one of her wigs.

The mystery man found his way into her dressing room while the singer was performing at London’s O2 Arena on Saturday.

He is believed to have gained entry after convincing security guards he was her stylist, reports the Daily Star.

But kind-hearted Kylie, 40, refused to let minders call the police.

She’s said to have posed for a picture with the fan before he left peacefully.

Most brilliant because that first sentence is freaking HILAR and made my working day significantly brighter. He was CRYING into one of her WIGS. Most heartbreaking because, well…he was CRYING into one of her WIGS. Aww bb. Come ‘ere, put your Hand on Your Heart and Confide In Me.

Celeb obsessions are kind of my specialty and I wholeheartedly support having one, or many (just as long as it’s not someone boring like Alba). In fact I’m baffled by those who go through life without them. What do people do for fun if they’re not trawling through caps of footy player’s bums or flittering about at zefron.com? If you know, email us. Intern Brownie has had a bit of excitement lately and he could do with some nice quiet email monitoring at Errol HQ.

As much as I support being a crazy fan, obviously there’s a fine line between what’s healthy and what’s not (because what is this blog about if not accurate psychological advice? We are pretty much professionals. Professionals at BEING AWESOME. And judging from that I am also a comedy genius, y/y?).

I think the key to not crossing the line is to remain distant from your chosen celeb. No trying to get up close and personal, no fanmail saying how their lyrics/movies/writing ~saved you~, no sending gifts. I am SERIOUS about that last one guys. Amy Sedaris is too:

But sometimes fans will send me weird shit, and I just get a bad vibe from the box immediately. Very seldom do I keep anything a fan sends me. I mean like, people who read an article saying that I like taxidermy, so they’d send me something. That kind of weird shit. But they don’t know me at all. And so then I’ll respond. I’ll write them back, and if they write me back, I never write them back because it’s like, I did it once, whatever. Or, if they send me pictures and I don’t know them.

Be as creepy as you want, lord knows I’m not opposed to that, but keep it to yourself yo. Or you know, only share it with close friends who get it or strangers on the Internet.*

Also, I love that the story says he ‘left peacefully’, like he’s a wild bear. I’ve heard if you curl up in a ball and remain motionless when confronted by a Kylie fan, they’ll leave peacefully.

*None of this applies to people I like. Kiki’s friend Kate has a Barnsey tattoo and showed it to him in person. This I totally approve of.

Two for the price of one! DOUBLE THE LOVE. Come and get it, sunshines.

Ugly Betty has given us lots of wonderful things – adorable geeky Henry, Whilhelmina Slater’s glorious evil, guest appearances from LiLo/Christian Siriano/Vicky Beckham, Betty’s fierce nephew Justin and one of the greatest moments in television history where he performs a one-man Hairspray show on the subway.

etc etc. My favourite Ugly Betty gift though, is Amanda and Marc. These two have chemistry like woah. And you know why? Because they’re BFF fo rlz. How cute is that? I love TV, but I love it even more when fiction crosses over into ~real life~, mostly because it makes it easier to pretend my favourite TV characters actually exist. Although there does need to be a line drawn, because if I found out Kyle Chandler actually invites Taylor Kitsch over for dinner and has a cute coach/father figure thing going on IRL, I’m pretty sure I might actually burst with glee. I’m just thinking of my health.

In fact Michael and Becki are apparently even more BFF than I originally thought, because in conducting my Very Important Research for this post I discovered there are an obscene amount of pics of the two together at various events. Possibly more than there are of Sassy and Kiki together.

I also discovered that Becki is married. She’s mazzed up AND she has a fierce gay best friend. What a champ. I think I might love her a bit.

Also, The Guardian tells us that they enjoy performing as Neil Diamond and Babs in their spare time. OF COURSE THEY DO.

M: For a Hollywood benefit we did perform You Don’t Bring Me Flowers
B: As Neil Diamond and Barbra Streisand, with a fake witch nose.
M: Chest hair. Full outfits. You could hear a pin drop.
B: It was frightening because we were so committed.
M: It was almost like a Lifetime movie it was so serious.

And on that note, I think I’ll leave you with Marc and Amanda’s Dreamgirls rendition. God bless YouTube. And Ugly Betty.

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.

I’m ashamed of myself for only just getting on the Kathy Griffin lovetrain. Funny, and funny women especially, is one of the few things I like to consider myself a bit of an expert on, so not being a fan of someone so fucking awesome till just now is really making me feel like a big fat failure. I feel like a gay guy who only recently discovered Amyl.

Her whole schtick is so refreshing and funny and awesome. Idolised by the gays, not fond of children, likes a pussy joke or twenty, not afraid to get The Girls out (and openly acknowledges it rather than playing the “oh bother, my boobies are just toooooo big for this shirt. OOPS how did that button come undone?”, loves Liza (consequently so does Zeffie, but that’s a story for another day) and says fuck and motherfucker and vagina a lot. She is basically all of us here at Oh Errol but semi-famous (ok so I’m not idolised by the gays but fingers crossed it’ll happen one day).

She also plans her own pap shots and dates people solely for photo ops (which I think all of us would totally do too).

Her wit is just so quick and makes me laugh out loud, and I’m actually not a big lol-er normally. I almost peed my pants laughing at Season 3 Episode 3 where her assistant’s assistant is deleting Kathy’s one nighters from her phone, and she has one guy who she calls the “Clit Flicker” deleted because…well coz he’s a clit flicker, and how when she saw him again her clit was all “HOLD UP I REMEMBER THIS GUY” and made that noise trucks make when they reverse. Gold. (btw I can’t wait to see the google searches we get from this paragraph)

I love how real she is and that when unexpected things happen in her life, like being completely betrayed by her husband and their marriage ending or her dad passing away, she talks about it. I find that so admirable, especially in someone who makes their living being the Funny Girl.

Season 3 of My Life on the D-List is on Foxtel now, and Season 4 has just started in the US. I could not be more excited and you should be too.

All my Torchwood love is thanks to Kiki. Much like Jessica’s footy obsession, I initially resisted, thinking it would just be like Buffy which I straight up hate with the fire of a thousand suns. But Kiki was persistent and she made me watch a YouTube fanvid (lol! fanvids) of Captain Jack getting it on with a dude – bitch got me right in the vagina.

Torchwood is by no means a ‘good show’ in terms of dialogue (well it has awesome dialogue but it’s no No Country For Old Men. Which actually I haven’t seen or read and have no knowledge of how good it’s dialogue is, I just know Zeffie said he wished he could do a film like that, and that’s good enough for me) or character consistency or any of those fancy things, but it honestly has everything you could ever need to be entertained. Mans kissing, girls kissing, aliens kissing, SO MUCH KISSING. All of them are shagging each other on and off, except Jack and Ianto (two dudes! Yes!) who shag regularly and play naked hide and seek (fo rlz. They actually talk about this in one of the episodes. Unfortunately we don’t see it. BOOO).

It brings the lolz, and the violence, and the sads. It even made our cold-as-ice friend Yassy shed a tear (which she stresses was a LONE TEAR). Some of the stories really make you think too – I couldn’t sleep the night me and Kiki watched the episode where they talk about it being ‘just darkness’ after you die. Neither could she, apparently. Why we didn’t crawl into bed together and spoon all night to soothe our fears of death I’ll never know. It’s also totally self-referential, like in this one ep where Captain Jack has this guy all up in his face and he’s like “So, this is quite homoerotic”. YES. YES IT IS JACK.

The hetero stuff is pretty hot too. Take this for example, when Owen pins Gwen up against a tree and says:

Word on the street is that coming out of the closet is kind of tricky. And if we lived in more homo-friendly times, maybe you could pop into Angus & Robertson and buy your flamboyant youngest son an illustrated edition of ‘Little Troy Likes to Sleep with Boys’ to explain some things. In the meantime, we have High School Musical.

I could write a (probably extensive) blog about why High School Musical is one of the greatest films ever made and why I love it like my own child, but in the interests of brevity, suffice to say Zac Efron is magical.

His bad acting and joyful dancing make me feel sunshiney in my heart. On the day he was born, two silver winged unicorns cut a sliver from a shimmering rainbow and gave it substance in the form of a little boy. A little boy who grew up to love Liza Minelli and mascara.

And before you get all het about him being underage in the movie, it’s no pervy love. (Just quietly, if it was, him being underage also wouldn’t discourage me. Because I’m inappropriate like that). More that I want to adopt him, and shield him from the corrupting influences of the bad bad world.

I don’t even like to think of him being a real boy, to be honest. I feel like if you ever saw him pantsless, there would be only a skin coloured pair of plastic undies, like on a ken doll.

But far more than just being a Disney musical cheesefest that you either love or hate, respectively, depending on whether or not you are a totally awesome human being, HSM is an allegorical, inclusive, pro-diversity, homo-nurturing, singing, dancing masterpiece. Oh, it has LEVELS.

And it’s all thanks to this man.

Oh snap Kenny Ortega! Who doesn’t love a dancer with a gut?

Fun fact about Kenny: not just the director and choreographer of HSM. Boy also choreographed Xanadu. Xanadu! Amazing.

I suspect he’s also the one who made sure Zeffie’s Troy wardrobe is almost entirely in shades of blue so we can see his pretty blue eyes. Awwwww.

So you know the female spies who were sent into occupied France in WWII and posed as refugees to evade capture? (Because who would willingly go pose as a refugee, of all things? It would totes suck.) Kenny Ortega’s like that. Like a gay spy sent into the film industry posing as a Disney director. Because who would try and be socially progressive in Disney, of all places, right?

That’s the genius. HSM is a ‘love story’, allegedly. *cough cough* But for all the passion between Zeffie’s character Troy, and Gabriella, played by the loathsome and corpse-coloured Vanessa Hudgens, they might as well have named her character ‘ghost of homos future’. In fact, I will call her that, from now on. Because I wish she would die and stop tormenting me with her pallor and her baby voice.

The real love story is between Troy and musical theatre, specifically the delightfully named upcoming East High winter production ‘Twinkletown’. Teenage basketball superstar Troy discovers – one crazy new year’s eve – that he … GASP … likes to sing. He is ashamed, as all men apparently should be, to discover that singing makes him happy in his little golden soul.

He pretends it didn’t happen. He represses. He hides it from his friends. He tells himself it was just one time! I was drunk! Everyone has a blow job from a guy once in their life … right?

But baby can’t fight it for long. Like a bloodhound on the trail of homo criminals, he sneaks into the auditorium behind a janitor’s trolley. And soon golden boy Troy is in the running for a lead part in Twinkletown.

And there’s no question what being in a musical represents. (Sorry, Musicale. Because theatre folk are fancy like that).

Musicales are run by the single, bejewelled, unhinged drama teacher Miss Darbus. Also known as a faghag spinster.

Troy and Ghostie’s competition for the lead parts are the spangly, manipulative, narcissistic, bedazzled Sharpay and her fierce gay brother Ryan. (We know he’s gay cause he wears hats. Hats, people! Always with the hats!)

But that wily Kenny lets us think this is a bad bad thing. Musical practice makes Troy miss basketball practice with his 100% heterosexual, manly team mates. Sharpay is a heinous scheming bitch in a sequinned shrug.

Miss Darbus mercilessly forces the basketball boys to paint in detention. Ryan is a halfwit who loves Ashton Kutcher and jazz squares. Troy’s bff Chad points out that musicals produce hateful tools like Michael Crawford, which is surprisingly insightful. And true.

And the gay starts to spread, like ebola. Or jam. Other kids start confessing things: like playing the cello. Or loving to dance. Or – crime of all crimes – liking to bake.

Chad: Zeke … is BAKING.

If this was a live show, this would be the part where a gopher walks across the front of the stage with a cardboard sign readng ‘HOMOS RUIN LIVES’.

Instead we have something much much better:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/FBVUlgG8Lm8&hl]

The gays are ruining everything! I bet they also killed the dinosaurs! And Jesus!

The nerds and the basketball team form an alliance to create a straight army, rip Ghostie and Troy apart and stop all the musical madness before something gets burned down or God sends another flood.

Confused little angel Troy turns to his daddy (incidentally, Troy’s mum seems to have disappeared. There are seriously no breeders in this movie at all) and asks:

Troy: Dad, did you ever wanna try something new, but were afraid of what your friends might think?

It’s actually tres poignant. Daddy Bolton is having none of it though, and tells little Troy to get back to basketball like a real man and stop sucking dick. IT’S REALLY SAD.

But success, for the basketball team in their republican red uniforms, and the nerds in their KKK white labcoats, is bittersweet. Troy can no longer sink baskets (no, that’s not a euphemism) and chemical equations hold no joy for forlorn Ghostie. Suddenly, the world is bland and colourless, and the valuable lesson is finally learned.

The straight army mobilises once more to weasel our star-crossed lovers back into the Twinkletown call-back audition and let Troy’s soul sing itself to freedom.

The Wildcats even share the love with the drama club:

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/y-vK4HQj5GA&hl]

EXCLAMATION POINT!

And as the movie swells to its low-budget spangly climax, Troy and Ghostie take to the stage to sing the anthem for closeted gay teens all over the world falling in love for the first time – Breaking Free:

We’re soaring, flying
There’s not a star in heaven
That we can’t reach
If we’re trying,
So we’re breaking free

You know the world can see us
In a way that’s different than who we are
Creating space between us
’Til we’re separate hearts

But your faith, it gives me strength
Strength to believe…

Can you feel it building
Like a wave the ocean just can’t control
Connected by a feeling
In our very souls
Rising ’til it lifts us up
So everyone can see…

We’re breaking free
We’re soaring, flying
There’s not a star in heaven
That we can’t reach
If we’re trying, yeah we’re breaking free
Running, climbing
To get to that place
To be all that we can be
Now’s the time so we’re breaking free
More than hope
More than faith
This is truth
This is fate
And together, we see it coming
More than you
More than me
Not a want, but a need
Both of us breaking free

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/tvkh29RKFRY&hl]

It makes angels dance and the Wildcats win the Big Basketball Game.

And at last – oh, at last! – the entire multicoloured United Colours of Benetton cast join in the gym for singing, dancing, and a big group hug. Best of all, Ryan gets to dive into a big pile of basketballers. It’s no Ashton Kutcher, but I’m so happy for you, Ryan!

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/k7zzbB17Fvo&hl]

Aaah, sweet resolution. The good ship SS Diversity sets sail into the sunset with the entire HSM cast on board. I only regret that there isn’t time in one post to talk about the brilliant Batman and Robin, possessive-girlfriend relationship between Troy and his bitchy queen Chad. All in good time, my babies. For now, let’s just watch them skip.

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/v/SV9slef7KdM&hl]

That’s right. Eurovision night. I know Australia gets it a night late … but god isn’t it worth it? I pity the nations of the world that don’t get Eurovision on during prime time. To be honest there is far too much awesome in two hours of Eurovision to be included in one post, but I shall try.

This:

is last year’s winner. She appears to be some kind of Serbian Ellen de Generes and opens the show with some song and dance involving women dressed as brides. I like to think it’s a statement on gay marriage, and therefore say more power to her.

And we’re off! Thankfully this year SBS have edited out all the bits that involve the Serbian commentators, because their voices burn my brain, and kept all the bits of the legendary Sir Terry Wogan commentating and being brilliant.

For possibly the first time ever there is a LEGITIMATELY GOOD entry in Eurovision. It’s so fucking weird. This fierce pom dances and sings to a 70s funk-soul extravaganza in a glitter suit on a multi-coloured disco stage. It makes my feet happy, and obviously there is no way in hell that he will ever win.

FIERCE, no?

These three women all performed (I think) for three different countries. My eyes tell me they’re all the same person though, so I dunno. The one thing I know for sure is that they all had tasselled minidresses and at least four fabulous male back-up dancers and this makes me hopeful that maybe 2008 will be the Campest Eurovision Ever. Hurrah!

The Israeli Usher performs wearing a foiled silver vest with five fierce back up singers. (re: Camp, clearly I’m not wrong yet!)

Still not wrong! Sup Azerbaijan! This year is so drag, I love it.

Next comes a fat Turkish woman (there’s one every year) but I so can’t be bothered finding a pic.

Latvia comes on stage … and I cry tears of joy. Five old boilers in pirate suits sing to a song called ‘Wolves of the Sea’ with lyrics like ‘yo ho ho!’ and ‘ohhhh Jolly Roger!’ Amazing.

To be completely honest there are kind of a lot of old boilers in Eurovision, which is weird, because usually the pop music is all about the young people, right? Maybe it’s only the people who don’t have legitimate careers who try out to be national entries in Eurovision (surely that can’t be true!) Maybe it just takes a lot of years, a lot of living, and a lot of tanning to perfect the kind of skills that get you to the top in this arena. Who can say?

Speaking of boilers – oh hay Dina Lohan!

Oh Finland you hot bitches. If I didn’t have Sir Terry Wogan’s soothing tones washing over me right now I may implode from lust. While the rest of the Scandinavian countries all sit somewhere on a scale between ‘ridiculously cool’ and ‘clappy-clappy ABBA’, Finland exist in a weird parallel universe where everything is death metal, shirtlessness is acceptable, and leather flares are cool. They have a giant papier mache spiked club on stage with them as a prop, and I think that explains it all, really. If they’ve ever shown Spinal Tapp in Finland, I’m fairly certain they thought it was a documentary.

Wait, scratch that bit about me being an authority on Scandos. I have no idea how to explain this:

This is Sweden. Surely it’s a trannie. Isn’t it? A really hot trannie? Where does that fit in with ABBA? Jesus I’m so confused. Let’s move onto the indisputably awesome Denmark. Needless to say they sit on the cool end of the Scando-spectrum.

BEST OUTFIT EVER!

Totally adorable. Plus, little Simon Two-first-names from Denmark sings a little ditty called ‘All Night Long’. It’s not a patch on the Lionel Richie song of the same name, but nonetheless I end up singing along. Adorable in so many ways.

And before I get to my personal favourite, I’m not even going to get into the judging. It’s a total rort. All the Balkans vote for each other, because even though they spend the other 364 days of the year trying to shoot at each other and steal each other’s land, they still like each other more than they like the rest of Europe. All the Scandos vote for each other because they know they’re the shit.

Everyone votes for Ukraine because they don’t want to provoke them into stealing the gas from the gas-pipe again. Everyone votes for some shit act with a hot young girl shaking like Shakira (this year, it’s Greece).

No one votes for the UK because the UK has at some point conquered or invaded every other nation in Europe. That kind of thing tends to stick in the memory, I guess. Terry Wogan also tells me this year everyone will vote for Russia due to politics or something, and he is always right.

The only bit of the judging worth watching is all the crazy Albanian and Moldovan TV hosts smarming Welcome from Belgraddde! We love this year’s Eurovision so wonderful yesssss thankyou me. This year I especially love the Portugese correspondent who seems to be heavily sedated.

But if I was in charge, the winner with daylight behind would be France.

Oh, France! Will your fabulosity never end? A skinny Har Mar Superstar in sunnies riding a golfcart, backed up by five singers in fake beards, singing the happiest song to ever be sung on a stage on Earth. Spain tried to be quirky earlier in the night, but pretty much no other nation in Europe can pull off quirky but France. It really doesn’t get any better than this. Just watch, and enjoy:

Edit: Oh yeah, and Russia wins. WHATEVS. It’s no France.

* Direct quote from the Belgrade host. Oh yeah, I love non-native english speakers.