Miracle on Gaylord Street

Let me tell you something about Christmas you might not be aware of: over 90% of paedophiles, when surveyed by Heat magazine, claimed that Christmas was their favourite time of year. Despite these mind-bogglingly lusty figures, it is still a time of year that, notwithstanding my horrific run of luck where the festive season is concerned, stirs a glimmer of inter-generational warmth in my pig-valve-ridden heart. I don’t have any children myself (well, actually, I do, but they have legally disowned me and my only contact with them is some tatty, tear-stained photos I have pasted in my scrapbook of pain), so this Christmas I decided to make a rare positive contribution to the community and volunteer to hand out presents and serve Christmas dinner at a local orphanage. It hardly needs to be stated that it became yet another postcard of disgrace from my long holiday in the morally-dubious republic of Gaylordia.

Things started well enough. It was a bitterly cold night, snow lashing against my inexplicably exposed genitals (I developed frostbite in the days afterwards and my member was only saved after some terrifically intricate surgery performed by a man I met in an adult cinema), and by the time I got to the orphanage the thronged masses of doe-eyed children were begging to see what Santa had brought them. It soon became clear as I pushed the gifts into their grasping hands that what he had mainly brought them was some old cassette tapes or DVDs that came free with the Daily Express (quite what a 10-year-old boy living in a state-run orphanage wants with the first three episodes of The Forsythe Saga is beyond me). But I wasn’t perturbed: my soul was filled with the warm glow that is the true spirit of Christmas.

The problems began when, in the midst of serving some leathery slices of turkey, I made the quite innocent mistake of knocking an entire vat of boiling gravy onto the floor and then, in a panic to clear it up, kicking a three-bar electric heater into the rapidly-spreading pool of meat sauce. The result, which anyone with a modicum of basic physics will know, was a dining hall suddenly and lethally alive with the raw kinetic power of live electricity. The few children already in the hall managed to get away but my fellow volunteer, a magnificently fat woman called Yvonne who talked incessantly about Jesus, was reduced to a kind of awful Christmas tallow candle, smouldering with the stench of a cattle pyre during a particularly virulent outbreak of foot and mouth. I was so disgusted that I barely had time to hide from the police when they arrived and spent an uncomfortable night in a cupboard evading their ever-more ingenious attempts to capture me. I eventually escaped through a window and went straight to the only bar left open where I ordered a full turkey dinner and bucket of hazelnut Baileys. The police, I assume, realised that Yvonne’s time was probably up anyway and gave up their search.

It’s important to put a bit back at Christmas, although if that involves electrocuting a devoutly Methodist divorcee from Kettering who’s only contribution to the world is to volunteer at an orphanage where the children all carry knives then you do have to question whether it’s best just to stay at home and weep at another re-run of Noel’s Christmas Presents as you curse the lack of erectile function in your John Thomas.

Merry Christmas everyone.

Gaylord Relief

The world is a cruel place. The vodka-swilling fools of the USSR, driven mad by the intense heat (not to mention the discrediting of their Leninist worldview), are driven to putting their babies in freezers and drowning themselves in the river, oil pumps from a broken pipe into the Gulf of Mexico like some great underwater cock jizzing jet-black semen all over the face of Mother Nature, while in Pakistan the floods are so bad that God seems to just be taking the piss. I’m normally a man who buries his head in the sand about news events (for five long days a few weeks ago I became increasingly frustrated, and then just concerned, when my attempts to get Raoul Moat involved in a charity auction went unanswered) but the dire state of various countries I don’t really care about came crashing into my life when I accidentally caught the start of the lunchtime news after a thoroughly enjoyable episode of Cash in The Attic. Once the tears of laughter had subsided, I was horrified. A normal man, confronted with the scale of the suffering, usually shrugs and says “what can I do – I am only one man impotently staring at the acts of a vengeful God.” But if one thing should have become clear to you by now, I am not a normal man.

I have experienced fame and power enough to rival any deity, so with this megalomaniacal thought seizing my brain (and two litres of Grand Marnier rocketing through my veins) I packed two family-sized suitcases with fresh cream cakes and set off for Pakistan to deliver aid to the suffering.

Arriving in Islamabad was something of a culture shock, but I soon stopped punching the locals and picked up my suitcases full of provisions, hailing a rickshaw and telling the driver to pedal me post-haste to “the floods.” He didn’t seem to understand but after I agreed to give him a dollar for every minute he stayed by my side, he pedalled off into the thronging traffic.
Days went by. When we eventually hit the flood plain I gave the driver (whose name I will never be able to pronounce – it seemed to contain an inordinate amount of Q’s) a festering apple turnover and told him to wait for me while I single-handedly rescued his people. I dived into the water, but all I could do to stay afloat was cling to my suitcases – their contents no longer fit for human consumption – and soon the waters swept me away. I didn’t see anybody for days, living only on dirty water and a few cream meringues that by now resembled the face of death himself.
It was just as I was about to give up all hope when I heard the helicopter. I was weak with relief and delight. They threw a rope down and soon I was high in the air above the hellish waters, and as they hoisted me into the helicopter I was met by a broad, reassuring American smile. Seeing me, he lowered his aviators and I was thrilled to see before me the gorgeous face of my BEST FRIEND Wes Craven. It turned out this was his helicopter and he had been delivering food and DVDs of ‘A Nightmare on Elm Street’ to the survivors. He looked at me like he recognised me but then seemed to dismiss the notion as I slipped into a coma. When I awoke, Wes had left me in a hospital in Lahore where I contracted a particularly vicious case of dysentery and spent a sleepless couple of days loudly voiding my bowels.

My message is clear: the world is a cruel and unforgiving place filled with suffering and despair – but the love of good friends like Wes Craven make it somehow worth carrying on.

The Gaylord Redemption

I am a free man (barring the obvious restraining orders in place throughout England) but this has not always been the case. In December 1989 I had the profound misfortune of not only being arrested for going on a spree of opportunistic public molestation, but actually being tried and sentenced to a year in prison for the ‘crime’. Between New Year’s Day 1990 and New Year’s Day 1991 I found myself the reluctant inmate of California’s most brutal maximum security prison, simply known throughout the penal system as ‘The Citadel of Sodomy’. Surrendering my rights as a citizen, and with tears of fearful anticipation in my eyes, I donned a paper suit and began my year behind bars.

If I can give you one fact that indicates the hell I went through during those long, dark days, it is this: within three hours of entering that place my paper suit had been cruelly ripped from my body, and I was forced to spend the rest of my incarceration in a state of vulnerable nudity because the prison wardens quickly realised that it wasn’t worth giving someone like me clothes.
Life inside was tough. My cellmate was a charming but volatile neo-Nazi called Flint, who would end each night by kissing me hard on the mouth and whispering tender thoughts into my ear. The toilet arrangements were, frankly, despicable; there was a five minute window between the hours of 5am 5.05am when Flint wasn’t on or somehow using the toilet, and I had to frantically expel a day’s waste in full sight of the braying guards and pray that the smell wouldn’t wake the other inmates and spark a full-scale riot. Going to the showers (the wardens laughingly called it a ‘conjugal visit’) was even more humiliating: for one hour we would stand under high-pressure torrents of boiling water whilst I was raped, on average, 45 times. In an effort to stem this anal blitzkrieg, I ‘married’ the biggest, hardest man I could find; for one merciful week, I went untouched by any other inmate but him. Little did I know, however, that he was due for release, and no sooner had our wedded bliss began than he re-entered society and I was left alone and more desirable than ever.

Towards the end of my stay, I got a job blessing the holy water in the prison chapel, which offered some welcome moments of solace from the daily horrors of prison life. Even that glimmer of peace was ruined, however: during one particularly sexy service I began eking one out beneath my cassock, moaning loudly as I did so, until my screaming climax sent the congregation mental and a white supremacist gang ritually crucified a wonderful, charming black man called Baron Samedi.

Justice was eventually served, however, when 364 days into my sentence it was proved conclusively that I was completely innocent of all charges and I was immediately released from prison with a full Presidential pardon. I look back on the whole thing now as a rather jolly excursion, although my continuing trouble in passing solids and a pathological fear of soap point to the psychological demons that are still roused every time I watch my box set of ‘America’s Most Bastard Prisons’.

Gaylord Makes the World Go Round

It might be hard to believe, but there was a time when women would go to extreme lengths to try and win my heart (I mean metaphorically - although I was once involved in a charity raffle where my actual heart was second prize). Invasive cosmetic surgery, terrifying campaigns of demented letter-writing, and life-size tattoos of my face became a regular occurrence amongst the women of 1970s Los Angeles. Indeed, before I fell head over heels in love with my glorious Diana (THE QUEEN OF MY LOINS) I was known as something of a womaniser: in my prime my indiscriminate member managed to restore the sight of the blind, miraculously impregnate septuagenarians, and put one woman into a permanent, blissful coma.

But the years have taken their toll, and these days the closest I get to female company is vigorously stroking a dog in heat who I've doused in cheap perfume or standing in the supermarket and fondling the most vaginal soft fruit I can find. It was after a particularly tearful session of self-pleasure on Monday that I decided enough was enough: I was going to go meet a woman the only way a modern man can - speed dating.

The Eldon Tavern had made an effort to attract "the right sort of women" (I hoped that was code for widowed) to the evening, and when I arrived I was surprised to see that, amongst the balding men in badly-fitting suits, there were actually women milling about the bar. They ranged in age from 30 to 80, some more portly than others (one woman had to be lowered in by a crane through a hole in the roof), and some more desperate (an elderly lady had asked me to marry her and had written me into her will before I'd taken my coat off), but each of them, I was pleased and relieved to note, was almost certainly a woman.

But suddenly I was struck by the full tragedy of my situation. How could I sit there and tell these trout-faced women that my sole purpose in being here was to seduce them into bed only to leave their bedsits (and quite possibly the country) the next day, never to return? Was it pitiful that the full extent of my worldly ambitions was to thumb my reluctant member into a middle-aged, Bella-reading divorcee called Jackie who manages the checkouts at TK Maxx, drinks two bottles of cheap Chardonnay a night, and believes profoundly in the power of crystals? I realised with horror that it was.

What followed was a disaster. The first woman who sat opposite me - and I'm being kind here - must have been a good 22 stone. Through her pie hole she slurred something, presumably asking my name, while all I could do was stare at her in silence until the 3 minutes was up and I fled to the next table. It was hardly an improvement: a one-armed female plumber from Knowle West called Tracy, she seemed to be there expressly for the purpose of finding a man who was allowed a mobile phone contract. The third woman who sat opposite me, however, - an enormous-chested woman called Marlene who worked in an off-licence - seemed like my best chance of happiness. The three minutes passed quickly, talking about my glittering history as a superstar of stage and screen and about the time she hilariously gave someone the wrong change.

We really hit it off, especially when she implied I could get a discount on Vermouth. I immediately ticked her name on my card and waited until the end of the evening when we could finally be together again.

After an hour of yet-more dead-eyed staring, I was ready to claim my prize. I ran over to her in lusty expectancy, but was stopped dead in my tracks when I saw she was holding hands with a young man, almost certainly a student, who had clearly whisked her off her feet. I was so incensed that I immediately punched the man in the stomach until he vomited, at which point Marlene emptied a can of mace spray into my eyes and set off a rape alarm. Everyone left the pub and I had to stumble home (via the hospital, of course) on my own.

I have learnt this simple lesson, which I pass on to you as a gift of wisdom: love does not exist.

No More Gaylord Where You're Going Now

It is common knowledge that during the course of my wonderful life I have unfortunately been involved in the death of several men. What may surprise my many detractors, however, is that on one occasion my involvement was a purely merciful one.

His name was Quentin, and he was my best friend during my years at Nonceford School for Boys. We bonded over a shared propensity for Bulgarian erotic novels and our mutual tendency to shit the bed on a nightly basis, and we did everything together: hide from Mr Gadd, the P.E. teacher, as he stalked the dormitories in the dead of night driven paedo-mad by whisky and football; spy on the changing rooms of the female cleaning staff to catch illicit glimpses of their putrefying breasts; we even once reported the school bully to the headmaster for masturbating a donkey (it turned out the school bully was mentally unwell and died alone and unloved in an asylum about ten years later. Justice).

But one day that beautiful friendship turned ugly. We were running across the school playing fields in an effort to escape a particularly priapic Mr Gadd, when we came to a fence topped with vicious barbed wire. I jumped first, clearing it by just a few inches, and landed safely on the other side. Quentin, however, was a little more portly than me (his mother used to send him a weekly food parcel that consisted entirely of double cream) and his attempt to hurdle the fence did not go so well. As he was half way across, a noise which I can only liken to that of the devil himself doing up his fly filled the summer air; with a shriek of such extraordinary pitch that dogs in neighbouring villages inexplicably savaged the nearest baby they could find, Quentin slumped to the ground clutching his bloodied crotch. There, dangling from the barbed wire, were the remnants of his once-flourishing testicles. Catching his scrotum on a savage barb as he attempted to leap the fence, he had ripped his unfortunate ball-sack completely open and rendered his pre-pubescent undercarriage utterly useless. Looking into my eyes, he told me very tenderly and very calmly what I had to do: kill him before Mr Gadd caught up with us (when Quentin would probably have been buggered to death anyway).

Grabbing the biggest stone I could find, I set about caving my beloved friend’s skull in. It took quite a while, and sometimes he’d make a sort of begging sound like he wanted me to stop; I knew, deep down, he didn’t really want me to, and just in the nick of time Quentin slipped away to the blissful peace of death.

I fled Nonceford and never went back.

My point is this: euthanasia is clearly to be encouraged, and if some old man wants to smother people with aids live on the BBC (which is, I am quite sure, what all the controversy is about) then let him. The sooner the British government adopts a pro-death stance, the better.

Who Wants to be a Gaylord?

I have been told there is a recession going on. Obviously, a man who has spent a lifetime in showbusiness like me is not affected by the collapse of the odd bank – but I know that most of you have already wasted the last of your saved up dole money on Gregg's pasties and scratch cards. Well don't come crying to me about it – we're all losing money. Even I accidentally donated to charity the other day (don’t worry: to make amends I punched an old man selling poppies hard in the kidneys). Loathsomely poor as you obviously are, it’s important for celebrities like me to put a bit back: I’ve sent a few signed boxed sets of Last House on the Left to the people of Haiti, for instance. I mean, even if they just put them straight on ebay they’d make enough money to pay for a few rounds of golf at a decent course. So, for the sake of my unemployed readers, I thought I’d tell you all about the lavish extravagances of my Hollywood days.

Back then, I had such vast reserves of wealth that I never needed to use most of my muscles. Waking in a king-size bed stuffed with the soft down sheared from new-born babies’ heads, I would simply bellow out commands until one of my team of servants brought me what I sought – usually a gold bucket filled with perfume, or a freshly-slaughtered polar bear. I frequently had meetings with top film executives back then, so I would remain in bed while it was winched onto the back of an open-top truck and driven through the streets of Beverly Hills to my destination. The bed, with me still in it, would then be carried up to the 80th floor of the Universal Pictures offices so I could conduct my meeting.

Later, having been lifted from bed and dressed in a brand new, almost obscenely transparent, sheet of silk, I would be wheeled around in a commode chair to the best restaurants in LA; this way, I never had to unnecessarily exert myself by getting up and walking to the toilet. I simply urinated and defecated to my heart’s content, knowing full well that someone else would clear it all up later. Looking back, I admit I may have been a little unreasonably demanding in some of these restaurants: there was that time I insisted the chef serve me his own terminally-ill wife's lunch wrapped in a copy of tomorrow’s newspaper. But when you are so rich that you have severe muscle wastage in your lower body, you do tend to lose a sense of perspective.

So while you are queuing for your dole money this week, just think of the times I used to clean up after my pet dog using wads of money and laughingly flush jewels down the toilet, and remember that someone somewhere is obscenely rich. It will really lift your spirits.