It's a Wonderful Gaylord

It’s no secret that I hate Christmas. Ever since my father had to shoot my beloved dog Ozymandias on Christmas day in 1963 (it had been driven demented by the flashing lights on the tree), this time of year has more often than not been the harbinger of yet another colossal breakdown. This year I was determined to keep a grip on reality and not allow the tides of madness to pull me onto the rocks, but it seems the festive period has conspired against me yet again.

Last week I got a Christmas card from Wes Craven (MY BEST FRIEND IN THE WORLD). The card itself had a tasteful (presumably doctored) picture of Wes as the Christ child on the front, but inside was an invitation to a ‘Last House on the Left’ reunion party at Wes’s house in Hollywood that was due to take place the following night. Sensing an end to my crippling financial problems, and my rightful return to massive celebrity, I pawned the last of my Nazi uniform collection and bought a ticket to Los Angeles.

Twelve hours later I was in Beverly Hills without so much as a change of clothes or, it turned out, Wes’s address. Thankfully, I had a plan: if I could raise enough money to book myself onto a tour of the star’s homes, I could just get off the bus when we got to Wes’ house. Raising the funds, however, wasn’t as easy as I expected, and by 5pm, still penniless, a grip of sickening realisation seized the tiny fraction of my mind still clinging to the farcical delusion of self-respect. I was going to have to become a male prostitute again.

Summoning as much dignity as possible, I strolled into a seedy looking diner, past the counter and into the malodorous toilets, where I started getting myself ready for customers by soaking my undercarriage in mouthwash. My first visitor was wearing a cowboy hat and I assumed my luck was in, but when I presented him with my minty member he just looked repulsed and punched me hard three times in the face. More desperate and determined than ever, I shrieked that he could continue to punch me if he paid a dollar a blow. His face lit up, and soon enough he was back with several very burly friends.

Over the course of an hour that will linger long in my nightmares, they literally beat the shit out of me. I was $200 up on the deal, however, and wearing a shattered but satisfied smile I staggered to the Star Tour bus stop, paid my money, and got on the bus – despite the protests from other passengers about my face, which by now resembled a dropped trifle. I tried hard not to give in to my massive internal haemorrhaging as we drove past various celebrity mansions: Tiger Woods’s (bender), Jack Nicholson’s (bender), and even Elton John’s (I have my suspicions). Eventually, my patience paid off and we were outside Wes’ glorious home. I lurched out of my seat and staggered to the front of the bus, where I insisted to be let off.

Climbing over the nine-foot security fence was surprisingly straightforward even with my badly fractured rib cage, and at the front door I rang the buzzer again and again until it finally opened – and there stood my BEST FRIEND Wes Craven. He looked confused and remained silent as I explained – as best I could – what had happened, but he still looked bewildered as he stared into my horribly disfigured face and listened to my blood-gurgling drawl. He turned and, apologising, closed the door. I wept animalistically until the other guests started to arrive and security guards removed me from the driveway.

A week later, back in Bristol, another letter arrived from Wes saying he was sorry I couldn’t make it to the party and it was a shame because he was going to offer me a part in his new film – a part he’d given to David Jason instead. If my tear ducts still worked I would be crying like a widow.

Merry Christmas.

Oh What a Lovely Gaylord

War is hell. Whether you’re a gonorrhea-ridden private wiping his arse with a stick or a massive celebrity flying out to entertain our boys, it’s not supposed to be easy. I didn’t have to remind myself of the inherent grimness of it all as I, along with a platoon of well-known entertainers, boarded a bullet-riddled military aircraft bound for Basra last week. With me were some of the top stars from British television – Hale (Pace had got a vicious case of the clap and couldn’t make it), Su Pollard, Jamie Theakston, Konnie Huq, the bloke who played Rene in ‘Allo ‘Allo, and (inexplicably) a Jade Goody look-a-like - and we'd all been booked for a one-night-only extravaganza to boost morale amongst the armed forces. It was this happy thought that kept me from befouling my trousers for a third time as our craft came shakily into land at Basra airport. I was slightly bemused by my own inclusion in the troop (I haven’t been on television for thirty years, and then only on a local news feature in Hollywood about men with third nipples), but I think the Dimbleby brothers are running scared of me over those photos I have of them being gobbled off by Davina McCall and had arranged it all in the malevolent hope that I’d be targeted by Al Qaeda insurgents. Dimbleby paranoia aside, I had my own trepidations about the whole affair (I did once inadvertently visit a Muslim fundamentalist website for six hours), but as we were ushered into the lead-lined blue room by a lisping senior officer, I began to secretly hope that maybe the whole enterprise would prove to be a rousing and raucous evening of fun for our brave men and women fighting abroad. The reality was more terrifying than anyone could have predicted, and I flew out of Basra a few hours later not sure if we’d initiated some kind of Jihadist Armageddon.

In my defense, it wasn’t actually me that put together the ‘Scenes from the Koran’ routine. Theakston and Pollard had been working on the script for months beforehand, and Rene from ‘Allo ‘Allo had worked with Konnie Huq to come up with what I have to admit was some sparkling choreography. I reluctantly agreed to play Allah, but we only had a couple of hours to rehearse, and I could hear the seats filling up behind the curtain; our lust-incensed cannon-fodder of an army started braying to be entertained with all the pent-up rage that comes with the administration of mechanised mass-death. We were all far from ready (except the Jade Goody look-a-like, who’s only task was to come on and masturbate with a wine bottle – even I knew they’d got her mixed up with some other tart from Big Brother, but I didn’t have the heart to tell them), but the curtain parted and we were greeted by 10,000 cheering soldiers.

What happened next is the subject of a full scale military investigation, and I can’t tell you for fear of legal reprisals. Let me put it in the most explicit way I can: imagine if Salman Rushdie had just gone into a Mosque and had a great big piss all over the place, laughing while he did so, shouting “I’m having a huge piss on your bloody mosque”. I think you’d still be a thousand miles away from the reaction we got, but you’d have some idea. As the tinderbox of religious and racial tension that is present-day Iraq finally exploded into all-out civil war, I couldn’t help but think Su Pollard and Jamie Theakston might be responsible for the end of western Judeo-Christian civilisation as we know it. We all scrambled onto the plane, took off, and fled into the hot night air. My trousers, by this time, were an absolute disgrace.

Now happily back in my flat, I have promised myself that my days of live entertainment are over. Rene from ‘Allo ‘Allo keeps leaving messages on my answerphone, but I won’t return his calls; sometimes these things are best left to men with chemical weapons and heavy artillery.

Mile High Gaylord

Travelling home from a recent holiday in Cambodia (I HAD BEEN VISITING FRIENDS), I was in high spirits. I adore air travel: the whiff of international sluttiness that surrounds air stewardesses, the precious time to reflect on the aching emptiness of my life, and the elated rush I experience as the plane leaves the ground, as if the sweet release of death has finally, mercifully arrived. On this occasion, my happiness was heightened by the fact that I’d managed to smuggle an entire suitcase of the grottiest, most degrading magazines that South East Asia has to offer on to the plane – and without so much as an anal probe at customs.

Sitting down before take-off, the excitement was trembling within me. My eyes were twitching, my mouth was dry, and I couldn’t fasten my seatbelt because of my shaking hands. It was as though – and I don’t say this without a modicum of self-disgust – a masturbatory mania had engulfed me. I could think of nothing but my beloved smut. Something in those magazines, some kind of malevolently erotic voodoo spell, had turned me into an insatiable wank zombie. I realised that I was going to have to sate my tortured pangs of onanism before we took off.

Leaping from my seat, I hurried down the aisle to the tiny, crapulent toilet, fiddling maniacally with my fly as I went, barely able to disguise my intentions. Mothers, shrieking in ambivalent terror (I think some of them hoped I was coming for them), hugged their children to their bosom as I passed, while more than one elderly Asian man took out his Koran and started colouring in the pictures. An air hostess politely tried to explain to me that the toilets were not available during take-off, but by now my logic was wholly possessed by a porno-demon of unimaginable malignity, and I violently barged her aside.

The rest is a haze. A tiny cubicle that carried some residue of the boredom and fear of every turd it had ever witnessed; the bolt sliding shut on the door; my own reflection in the mirror, a stranger to myself; a copy of Laotian Housemaids falling open on the floor; an announcement from the pilot and frantic knocking on the door. And then silence.

My escapade had, apparently, delayed our take off, and every passenger glared at me as I walked back to my seat. Out of respect for my fellow passengers I tried to look as much as possible like I’d just taken a long, necessary, and alarmingly vocal dump. No one was fooled. I slept a shame-filled sleep for the entire flight.

On arrival in the UK, I lost everything. A man from customs wearing rubber gloves opened my bags and looked at me, slack-jawed, with something between disgust and admiration, when he saw my haul. Needless to say all of my beautiful treasures were seized.

Let this be a lesson to anyone who wants to indulge in the innocent pleasure of trafficking thousands of illegal pornographic images between the unregulated and exploitative sex industry of the East and the depraved, morally-bankrupt West: wait until you’re home before having a wank.

Last Train to Gaylord

Like many people, I have always experienced a romantic frisson when it comes to rail travel - so much so, in fact, that it sometimes spirals into full-blown sexual episodes. I was recently forced to revisit that particularly filthy crease in my subconscious when I took the train to visit my plastic surgeon in Harley Street; usually I take a taxi from Bristol, get them to wait outside for up to eight hours while I have the operation, then drive me back, but I realised this was costing me an entire month's income. So, this month, reluctantly, I made my way to the train station with a ticket and a stomach full of butterflies (just like when I used to look through the keyhole at my estranged wife Diana taking another glorious shit.)

Settling into my seat by the window, the old thrill of the rails came flooding back to me as the train pulled gently out into the countryside - a reverie ruined rather abruptly when a blind teenage girl sat down in the seat opposite me and appeared to be staring blankly at my face. I was about to flee to another carriage to avoid any accusations of inappropriate frottage, when she began to speak: "Excuse me madam, but I need to use the toilet and wondered if you'd be kind enough to help me find it?" For some reason, she had made the assumption that I was a helpful old woman.

I realise now that the best course of action would have been to admit straight away that I was a man and insist she seek more suitable assistance. However, what I actually did was to panic and, feeling morally obliged, put on my best woman's voice and happily accepted the young woman's plea for help. I hurriedly escorted her down the carriage and tried desperately to get away, but the toilet was one of those modern ones with a rotating curved door - she claimed not to understand the technology, and by now I was so far involved in my rare act of altruism that I agreed to remain in the cubicle whilst she performed her act. The door slowly closed with both of us inside.

Embarrassed by the loud splashing noises her bodily evacuations were making, the blind girl began to make small talk. "What are you going to London for?" she asked; thinking on my feet, I tried to imagine what an ageing woman could possibly want in the city. "Um, you know, dresses and...tampons. That sort of thing" I said, in a very convincing woman's voice.

It was at this point, however, that I became sickeningly aware that the train was pulling into a station. As it slowed to a halt, I could hear people getting on board on the other side of the door, and it was at this moment that fate decided to play its cruellest hand of all: either a careless elbow or a malicious finger had pushed the 'open door' button, and with a horrifying sense of inevitability the door began to rotate on its cruel axis, centimetre by centimetre, revealing to the boarding passengers what must have seemed like the most depraved scene that they had ever witnessed. Frantic to save everyone's blushes, I began to hammer my fist against the 'close door' button - but the perverted mechanics was obeying its own laws and insisted on opening the door all the way before beginning its agonizingly slow path back to where it came from. The look of repulsion on people's faces provoked me to attempt to explain myself, and to protect my blind companion from any further embarrassment I maintained my female persona. "THIS ISN'T WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE!" I shrieked in the most high-pitched, feminine voice I could muster. After what seemed like an eternity, the door finally closed and sealed our shame back inside the cubicle. As the train pulled away from the station, I escorted the blind woman back to her seat whilst I struggled to hold back the tears.

I never made it to London. Filled with morbid self-loathing, I got off at Swindon, bought three litres of scrumpy, a copy of Nuts and a Bible, and spent a repentant night in a local park ruing my luck. Yet again, what should have been a perfectly pleasant day was reduced to a parade of shame.

The Gaylord Republic

As a political animal, I’m a somewhat contradictory beast: I believe in the democratic expression of the will of the people, but I also believe (much, much more strongly) in the brutal and merciless oppression of dissenting voices. I mean getting all Anne Frank is one thing, but if you think I’d rather be holed up in an attic with only my lecherous family and a pen for company, rather than sat around in a well-tailored uniform eating sausage off a whore’s shins, then you’re an imbecile. But politics isn’t all about establishing thousand-year empires and cutting off the hands and feet of striking nurses; sometimes it’s about a superman (ie. me) rising through the dregs of society (ie. you) to claim their rightful place as leader of the people. With this megalomaniacal obsession firmly in mind, I recently decided to run as a candidate in the local elections.

Standing as an independent – a tense assignation in a pub in Oldham nearly resulted in me running for the BNP, but in the end I just impregnated Nick Griffin’s hideous wife and walked away – I stood on a simple ticket that consisted of a few clear policies: ban people under 35 from the streets between the hours of 6am and 11pm, forcibly repatriate all Australians, legalise female nudity, and shut down the spastics school (too much noise). I campaigned long and hard in my local area, going from door to door and meeting as many of my potential constituents as possible – an eye-opening experience, as most of the local population seemed to consist of bald sunburnt men in football shirts and vast Asian families. I shook the hands of old people (revolting), charmed local businessmen (at night, mainly, in the front seat of their Audis round the back of the train station – and always wearing a lacy glove) and even kissed some babies (on the mouth, which initiated a load of silly police inquiries). Alas, it was not enough; on the day itself I polled just 11 votes, and the returning officer confided in me afterwards that 9 of those were probably some of the local benders mistaking me for the pro-Aids candidate Screaming Lord Gay. My dabble with democracy had come to an ignominious end.

As with all my other amazing adventures, however, I have come away from this having learnt some valuable lessons: democracy doesn’t work, bringing a photocopier-salesman called Derek to a vote-securing climax is very difficult if you are both crying, and there needs to be some urgent action regarding the overcrowding of the Patel family at No. 16. If I can’t be voted in I will retire to my flat to sit silently, inhumanly patient, awaiting the day when I take my rightful place as Emperor of the World.

One Gaylord Deed

As another utterly empty bank holiday recedes into the black, black past, I am reminded that, while I eek out the final pennies of my fortune and ebb away my days in aching luxury, the rest of you people actually value this sort of thing: an extra day off from your pitiful jobs.

While it seems rather pathetic to celebrities like me - Jeremy Kyle, Ian Huntley, Jade Goody, etc. - that you plan your lives around getting a single day off from some meaningless, soul-crushing employment, I nevertheless thought I would use the bank holiday to compensate for your lack of imagination and do something genuinely worthwhile, something philanthropic to help the community. So as my 'good deed' for the year I hired a projector and shone the light of my life's work onto the council flats down the road - every film I have ever been in, back to back and totally free, for a truly special day the local papers were calling 'GaylordFest'. I drank litre upon litre upon litre of rankly-warm vermouth, signed autographs and posed for photographs (I I insisted that my cock could not be visible in any of them), and played out every second of my fabulous career for interested neighbours and community figureheads – some of whom, like the bent Mayor, probably knew they were in the midst of a movie legend (hence their fawning insistence that they surround me with police officers).

The day was only marred by a full-scale riot between the local Cypriot community (sparked, I fear, by the scene in Last House on the Left where I smack a Greek woman hard in the mouth), but after a few knifings it soon settled down and the heady, celebratory, carnivalesque atmosphere of GaylordFest was restored. I even had a little drag on a joint that a hippy offered me - which, ironically, induced such blind rage within me that I had to be restrained from badly harming myself and others. So now you are back at work, reminisce on the extra day of domestic violence, armchair racism and trips to the seaside with your mewling families that the bank holiday allowed, and ask yourself whether you did something that had such a positive impact on the community.

I suspect the answer is no.

The Library of Gaylord

It may surprise you to learn that even at the height of my fame – a golden time when I was so rich that, rather than flush the toilet, I simply bought new ones – that I was also something of a bookworm. All that time spent on film sets could either be filled by having my member gobbled on by some achingly-eager intern (it happened so often that at one point my fleshsock developed a form of trench foot) or getting stuck into some great work of literature. Admittedly, I mainly limited myself to the confessional letters sent in to hard core porno mags or the sleeve notes for my favourite album (‘The Best of Wagner: The Anti-Semite Years’) but sometimes I settled down for an afternoon of Proust, Joyce and Kafka – I say settled down, but I rarely read more than a couple of sentences before stopping for a really vigorous wank.

Anyway, the point is that I know more about literature than you, and in keeping with my philanthropic nature I thought I would provide a summary of some of the great works of the Western canon in order that you don’t have to miss your place in the dole queue and read them yourselves (if we’re honest, there was no chance of that in the first place – you are, without exception, cretinous shits.)

So here are a list of some of my favourite classics, as well as some 'popular' novels you are more likely to have read, summarised for you in just six words.

War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy:
A thousand pages of complete bullshit

Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh:
Scotland revealed as shithole it is

The Scarlet Letter by Nathaniel Hawthorne:
Slag and child hide in woods

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown:
Charmless bellends breathlessly dig up Christ

1984 by George Orwell:
Commie moans about perfectly reasonable government

Ulysses by James Joyce:
Incomprehensible Irishman describes wank on beach

The Dice Man by Luke Rhinehart:
Double six equals "lets go raping"

American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis:
Lovely gent rightly gets very angry

The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald:
Drug dealer (probably bent) gets shot

On the Road by Jack Kerouac:
Jobless hippies save up for fridge

Breakfast at Tiffany's by Truman Capote:
Gay gay gay gay gay gay

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen:
Harlot, sans dildo, forced to marry

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert:
French reek of onions and cheese

Harry Potter (all of them) by J.K. Rowling:
Pre-pubescent turd clearly not bullied enough

Next time you are drinking lager in one of your pubs, or waiting to be called at another court hearing about your incessant harassment of that girl from the checkout at Sainsbury's, you will be able to talk with authority about a literary world that, until now, has been closed to you. You deserve me.

Yours with paper cuts all over my fingers and ballsack,

Gaylord St. James

Green Thai Gaylord

The problem with American women – or English, or even Polish for that matter – is that they want to be men. Now I’m all for women’s rights (except maybe voting) but I do think the pendulum has swung slightly too much the other way from the gender-hierarchy heydays of the 1950s. It was for this reason that, sometime around 1986, divorced and suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome brought on by an incident in a fishmongers’, that I decided to seek solace and love in glorious Thailand: the kingdom of crying brides. There is just something about Thai women that I find instantly arousing: what with their lovely hair, child-like frame, and often fully working genitals, they are real women and must be treated as such. So, £12,000 lighter, I jetted off to Bangkok and an appointment with the ‘Thai up your wife’ introduction agency.

I wasted no time on arriving in the city (I was so excited that I emptied a load of flight-frustration all over a crumpled picture I found in a men’s urinal - it turned out to be a discarded print-out of Lesley Grantham). The agency’s offices were a little seedy, but I soon put the stench of rotting faeces to the back of my mind as I was introduced to their first stunner: her real name was Boo Kaki, but I insisted on calling her Diana, and she didn’t seem to mind (or understand). I’m not ashamed to say I was swept off my feet, and that same night, just two hours into our first dinner date, I proposed marriage and begged her to come back to England with me to live in my rent-secured council house. “We are as one now,” I kept tearfully insisting to her as she nodded gormlessly back at me, “not two people anymore, but one. We are the same person. We will live together forever and die on the same day.” Unsurprisingly, she leapt at the chance, and after two whirlwind days of magical romance— basically consisting of me attempting, ever more impatiently, to get her tiny breasts out—we were married in a traditional Thai temple (I say temple; it was a container off the back of lorry abandoned near an abattoir). Me and Thai Diana were unbelievably happy, and flew back to Britain like a pair of teenage lovers.

Six months later I was suicidal, £50,000 in debt, and living alone in a single-bedroomed flat. Thai Diana had done what all my friends (WES CRAVEN) had warned me she would do: bled me for every penny I had, then gone off with a 22-year-old recruitment consultant called Francis. Another Diana had shattered my heart into tiny shards, and once again my post-traumatic stress syndrome could only be controlled by massive levels of prescription medication. I offer this delightful anecdote to you, my readers, as a warning: the Orient is a mysterious place of ancient rituals and customs, mystical deceptions, exotic lies, and people who look like beautiful women but in fact have cocks. If you plan to go, remain in the taxi at all times and stab anyone that comes near you.

Yours with eastern promise,

Gaylord St. James

My Body is a Gaylord

It’s New Year, and I have only one resolution: to restore my physique to its 1970s glory. While most of you wobbling grease-buckets and sofa-bound single mothers are content to slip quietly into lardful loathsomeness, turning your bodies into giant KFC-digesting stomachs while you sport bastard tracksuits that would induce wretching in any sane person, mine is a cathedral of flesh that once secured me some of the most lucrative film roles in Hollywood. It’s true, decades of rabid paranoia and countless bottles of Galliano left me a rotting and pock-marked carcass, but I am so utterly convinced that there is nothing irreparably wrong with me that I recently went to the doctor for a once over.

After sitting in the waiting room surrounded by the mentally ill, crippled and strikingly ugly, the doctor finally beckoned me into his room. Once inside his lair, the skinny medical deviant instructed me to remove my shirt and trousers, and in doing so I revealed the full horror of the situation. Following an almost imperceptible shudder at the sight of my nakedness (which I now realise was induced by his faggoty excitement), the young man licked his narrow lips and started caressing my long-neglected chest – as if I were a budding woman.

Panic rushed over me and I felt my bowels loosen as, after proclaiming a clean bill of health, he moved his clammy hands down my torso and discovered my most sacred of places. As he silently tightened his grip, and an ice-cold sweat formed on my brow, I was certain of only one thing: I was being molested. There was an inkling that the situation may violently escalate if I refused to play along, and by now I was ruing my decision to seek medical help. Promptly, and not tenderly at all, the man asked if he could examine my prostate, then instructed me to remove my sinful underwear and bend over. It was now that I remembered Wes Craven’s canny advice for such situations, and decided to deter my would-be attacker the only way that made sense: by soiling myself.

I’m not proud, but I shat like I have never shat before, passionately and with violent purpose, utterly voiding my entire colon. Torrents of loose, pale stool splashed onto the floor until my attacker, dismayed and defeated, quietly begged me to leave.

And it was on the way home, caked in effluent and with time to reflect, that I realised my body must be perfect. I still look good enough to catch the eye of an attractive, if desperately perverted, young doctor, so you can all fuck off and shove your Atkins Diet up your japs-eye. I’m going to drink more sloe gin than ever, start eating a whole goose for breakfast, and force myself on as many women as I can find.

Yours with pharmaceutical urgency,

Gaylord St. James