I don't get the snow. It's cold, for one thing, and what is the one thing we are taught as proper Australian children? Cold is bad. If cold isn't bad, why does the rest of the county malign Melbourne for being damp and dreary? Cold is bad. My mother was frequently bemoaning the drafts creeping up her skirts and pantsuits. She paid almost evangelical attention to the arrangement of the draft extruder. Not that we called it a draft extruder. We were simple folk, and could not afford complicated turns of phrase that included triple-syllabled words like 'extruder'. Instead, we called it The Door Sausage. Classy, hey.
When I say simple folk, I should point out that we were what unkind people would call white trash. I like to think that toff and trash come in all the colours of the rainbow. Like Angelina Jolie's children. I distinctly remember a time when the gas was cut off, and my mother resorted to using a wood-burning stove in the kitchen that I had previously imagined to be decorative.
My mother's obsession with the perceived nastiness of The Cold is, most likely, why I am predisposed to hate the snow. Why would you want to go somewhere that it is so chilly that the water nestling in the clouds freezes, becomes too heavy for the clouds to hold up anymore, and falls to the earth? It's pretty, I'll give you that, but it is, well, cold. And wet. If you fall over, generally wet coldness gets into your clothes. No matter how well insulated you are, cold frozen things get inside your clothes, melt, and become wet coldness. Inside your clothes. The thought is so horrific, the only thing that comes close is the policeman in the that seventies horror film, “When A Stranger Calls,” saying ‘The calls are coming from inside the house!’
There is, of course, no such thing as the personal door sausage, protecting you from the cold at all times, so I would rather not subject myself to the risk of it getting at me. As well as that, there are the alleged leisure activities associated with the snow. As far as I can tell, these involve hurtling down the side of a mountain. Some people, it seems, are not impressed with gravity, and the speed with which she drags things from a great height down into her crushing bosom, so they help her out. By standing on sticks. For some reason, which I would know if I hadn’t decided that year 11 physics class was the one best spent shoplifting LEGO, standing on flat sticks helps you plunge toward oblivion so much faster than simply falling.
I have attempted both skiing and snowboarding, and neither of them hold any great interest for me. Perhaps I’m not an adrenaline junkie, like all the other people who go to all the extreme and sweaty effort of clambering up to the top of a mountain, only to hurl themselves off it again. Either that, or I get all the adrenaline I need standing in front of three hen’s nights, four buck’s parties and a pack of drunk bogans at a comedy club, talking about how I think Bindi Irwin looks like a botched animatronic. Also, I am not entirely comfortable with the idea that, when zipping downhill on a slippery stick, I am frequently forced into using my face as a braking mechanism.
Having decided the snow is not for me, you can imagine how delighted I was to be invited to the top of a mountain this year, not once, but twice. Plus, before you can say “RSVP,” I was informed that, while nothing at my place of business is compulsory, I would be ‘letting the team down’ if I didn’t attend. Being the joyous team player that I am, I rolled my eyes and resigned myself to my fate. The first weekend wasn’t so bad. I discovered that there was Gluehwein* in abundance, and I discovered the delights of the Ice Bar. At Mt Buller last year, I was invited to the opening of the Ice Bar, where I slammed down a shot of something blue, before retreating to the indoors and Poon*. This year, however, having decided I would never again attempt to stand on slippery sticks, I took myself off to the Ice Bar and had a beer. It is amazing. You rug up in lots of protective clothing, plonk yourself on a bar stool, and drink beer. That never gets warm. It is a miracle of thermodynamics, which, again, I would understand better if I hadn’t decided to eschew my physics class in order to sneak around Barkly Square shopping centre, filling my pockets with Danish toys.
With the thought of all these gastronomic and alcoholic delights in mind, I was very much looking forward to the following weekend atop Mt Hotham. Oh dear. What a mistake. Hotham, it seems, is all about the skiing and the boarding and other hurties pursuits. The sitting and drinking and having a fun old time was not in evidence. It all started well. Work had organised a stretch Hummer to take us to Essendon airport, where we boarded a private plane and flew to Hotham. Much more civilised than driving for a trillion hours. Then we got to something that claimed to be a hotel. It was a hostel, at best. Hideous dorm rooms with three or four beds per room. The view was of snow. Not delightful snow capped mountains, and glorious clean mountain air. No, just snow. Close up. Piled against barred windows. I felt like I was in some kind of science-fiction comic-book prison, high atop a mountain, buried under twenty feet of ice, to prevent the dangerous super-powered criminals from escaping.
The only thing that wasn’t escaping, however, was the smell. Urine, to be precise. Well, my floor smelled of urine. One floor smelled like fish. Another, like toilet lollies – you know those little yellow blocks you see in men’s urinals? Yeah. That smell… There was one floor that smelled of steak, but only from 6pm-9pm, then it went back to being the piss floor.
The rest of the weekend was like a comedy of errors. Just when I thought the tide of horror was about to turn to good, something else would go unspeakably wrong. The midnight fire alarm, evacuating me into the snow in my pyjamas. The bain-maire buffet where vegetables were not an option, because they weren’t offered. The ten minute lunch queue which ended with the discovery that the only alternative to chips that was available, was chips. Chips that left very little change from a ten dollar note, mind you. The karaoke night that was supposed to run itself, but didn’t, and I was the only person in the room who’d run a karaoke night. This turn of events did, however, offer me the opportunity to sing alternative lyrics to New York, New York.
I wanna wake up in a hotel that doesn’t stink.
There is, I’m sure, a moral to this story, but I have no idea what it is. There are, however, recipes. Now the cold weather has abandoned us, there is probably no need for these winter warmers, but feel free to make them anyway.
1 bottle red wine (cheap but not nasty) 1 cup sugar 1 cup freshly squeezed orange juice 1 tbsp orange rind 1 cinnamon stick handful of cloves Brandy
Put everything in a pot and gently heat. Don’t boil. Simmer for about an hour. Strain out the lumpy bits and let it sit somewhere for a couple of days. Reheat and serve in mugs, over a dash of brandy.
This is the best food ever. Like stodgy nachos. With the added bonus revolting innuendo as you describe how you are eating the poon.
Frozen oven chips (those beer battered ones are good) Bacon (chopped into bits) Cheese Gravy
Cook the chips until they’re ready. Cover with bacon and cheese. Grill until cheese melts. Pour gravy on top. Push your face into it and devour.
It’s hard for me to be objective about Harry, because I absolutely love the books. To be honest, the first two movies were a bit dull, in fact I’ve never made it through The Chamber of Secrets without nodding off. Even when I watched it as an inhouse movie in a hotel room once at midday. Something about that giant snake always puts me to sleep. The last two, however, Prisoner of Azkaban and Goblet of Fire, were corkers. Fun rides that beautifully captured the spirit of the books. Order of the Phoenix was the longest of the Harry Potter books, and it shows in this movie. They have tried to cram so much in, none of the scenes or characters get much room to breathe. If you are going to the movie just to see the book on the screen, you’ll be quite satisfied, but if you are expecting something of the calibre of what has gone before, you’ll be a bit disappointed.
So many of the great actors and characters from the series are given very short shrift – especially the delightful Rupert Grint as Ron Weasley, who has been such a centrepiece of the series. I was also disappointed that not much was done with the sublime Ralph Feinnes as the evil Voldemort. Perhaps his busy schedule in the Qantas toilet entertaining Hostitutes prevented him from being available for filming. Even the much publicised addition to the cast of Helena Bonham-Carter, barely gets more than six or seven minutes on screen. Other casualties of the rushed screenplay include Gary Oldman’s Sirius Black, Emma Thompson’s Professor Trelawney, Alan Rickman’s sinister Snape, and the superb Michael Gambon as Dumbledore.
What really caused me concern was director David Yates not having any room to maneuver. The skilled director of high quality BBC dramas State of Play and The Girl in the Café, had his hand forced by the needs of a 20 minute closing scene filmed in the IMAX 3D process, and the “tick all the boxes” script. What starts as a bleak and frightening film early on, ends up confusing and rushed. The ending, while spectacular in 3D on that gigantic IMAX screen, is so dark and murky, it's hard to tell what is happening much of the time.
The only shining light is Academy Award Nominee Imelda Staunton as the hateful Dolores Umbridge. All sweetness and light in her pink twin-sets, her girly giggle hides a heart of hatred and intolerance, and when the time comes for her inevitable come-uppance, you will cheer heartily. What might not make you cheer, however, is the level of scares. The opening scenes with the terrifying Dementors will scare adults, and little kids will almost definitely be horrified. It's rated M for a reason.
Then there is the kiss. It has been talked about frequently since it appeared in the book, and the chance to put it on the screen was always going to be an important moment. Amidst all the other frenetic moments in this edition of Potter, it just becomes another thing that happens. For all intents and purposes, this is a two hour trailer for a book. Afterward, I felt like I’d been reading a Cliff’s Notes primer for a book I needed to read before my exams.
Quite clearly I am back from my trip overseas, and have been severely neglecting my blog.
For anyone that watches 9am with David and Kim, you'd know I'm in the middle of some sort of fitness challenge with 9am's resident personal trainer Craig Harper. One of his instructions was not to eat crap food. Specifically, he said no booze and no processed food. I nodded and smiled and pretended I would do what he said. Then I went to Manchester in the UK and that all went out the window.
Speaking of out the window, this was the lovely view from my room at the Manchester Gardens Hotel, right on Manchester Piccadilly. Grass growing on rubble in the rain has long been the kind of view I dreamt of for an overseas trip. I couldn't find any other kind of garden that fitted in with the hotel's description of itself, so I am assuming these piles of weed-covered rubbish are the Manchester Gardens in question.
Manchester has a famous gay strip, on Canal Street, immortalised in the series Queer as Folk. (People often vandalise the Canal Street sign, removing the C from Canal and sometimes the S from street - hilarious, I know). I popped down to one or two pubs and met various locals, who all sounded like camp members of the Coronation Street cast. Five pints of Kronenberg later, I wandered home, via the Spar (a 7-11 that sells liquor).
It was in the Spar that I made a severe gastronomic error. The Scotch Egg.
Made properly, the scotch egg is a truly wonderous thing. Tasty sausage mince wrapped around a hard-boiled egg, then crumbed. (Oh, and deep fried...) My friend Jennifer once made them for a Melbourne Cup picnic and they were divine. (She put anchovies in the mince, it was delicious, and I hate anchovies - she got the recipe from The Two Fat Ladies, it's down at the bottom). Scotch Eggs are eaten cold, and very portable in their crumby exoskeleton, so perfect picnic food
The scotch egg you find at the shops is an altogether different item. Generally they're branded by the outlet that sells them. Tescos the supermarket has their own kind of scotch egg, which is palatable. The Spar where I bought mine, has their own kind of scotch egg as well, as you can see.
This is the most peculiar part of my decision to eat the Spar brand Scotch Egg. You won't find me going anywhere near the Grilla Dog at the Quix, but the Scotch Egg entranced me in a way no other 4am food has before. I have to confess, I do eat the Hot Pizza Roll. You know those "Aussie Hero" things at the sev-ev that you cook in the bag. Kind of a bread roll with alleged ham and pizza topping. The only thing you can ever identify in there is the capsicum, because they have red and green, and after you've nuked the roll, the capsicum is still relatively crunchy. Considering the rest of the roll is near enough to liquid, the consistency of the tiny capsicum chunks is surprising.
Here is a confession I never thought I would make. I once subsisted on Hot *insert ingredient here* Rolls for a month. An entire month. Hot Chicken Roll, Hot Pizza Roll, Hot Beef Roll (not an inuendo, mind, though it should be), and the microwave burgers. It was 1994 and I was living in St Kilda on the dole. My flatmate at the time, Narelle, was working for what was then Shell Select, at their head office in Spring Street. She came home with a box of frozen Hot Thingy Rolls and Microburgers. I put them in the freezer, and proceeded to live on them. Solely. We didn't have a microwave, so I would preheat the oven, wrap the roll or burger in foil, and chow down after 15-20 minutes of defrosting and reheating. After about a week of these chiken-a-like and beefish rolls and peculiar burgers (one of them was a veal burger with tangy sauce, as if you can get veal at a convenience store) I started to exhibit some ill effects. Most notable of them was the colour and consistency of my shit. It was yellow. Not peanut butter brown that you call yellow if you see it in the toilet bowl, no I mean actually yellow. Like the label on that Scotch Egg there. Runny yellow shit. Like my arse was a pimple and pus was shooting out of it.
This is why I was not surprised when the grey meat and too-yellow yolk of the Spar Scotch Egg came screaming out of me the next morning, like that creature from Alien. It was helped along by the five pints of Kronenburg, a dodgy Gregg's Cheese and Onion Pie (more on that later) and a Cadbury Creme Egg bar. Oh yeah, in the UK you can get Creme Egg all year 'round, and it's in a bar! Like a Caramello bar, but Creme Eggy. They know how to eat over there, let me tell you...
Until next time, here is the recipe for proper scotch eggs. Try not to think of my exploding arse full of yellow shit when you eat them, or you won't enjoy it.
Two Fat Ladies' Scotch Eggs
25 min 10 min prep
10 large eggs 200 grams cooked ham 6 anchovy fillets 100 grams fresh breadcrumbs 1/2 teaspoon mixed spice 2 tbsp vegetable oil 2 tbsp butter or bacon fat
1. beat 2 of the eggs in a shallow bowl. 2. put other 8 eggs into saucepan of cold water and bring to the boil simmering for 5 minutes. 3. plunge into cold water and peel, this method will produce a slightly softer egg yolk but still hard boiled. 4. Finely chop ham and anchovies in processor. 5. combine this with the breadcrumbs, mixed spice some freshly ground black pepper and most of the beaten egg. 6. brush each boiled egg with the remaining beaten egg. 7. mould the ham mix aroung the eggs with your hands. 8. fry in oil and butter on a medium heat until brown all over.
An Open Letter From the President of Bent TV, The Fabulous Adam Richard.
With Eddie having boned himself from the top job at Channel 9, I have decided it is time for me to step up. I have accepted a generous invitation from Bent TV to become their President, and am hoping that within the next few months, I too will receive a thorough and welldeserved boning.
My first duty as President of Bent TV is to commission a game show for myself to host. Sticking to very strict Channel 31 budgets, the show will be called 1 vs 4 and contestants will battle it out for a Twix.
I have taken on this role mainly because I would like people to refer to me, in the future, as Mister President Fabulous. I also want to encourage people to join Bent TV as well as volunteer their services, but to be brutally honest, I’m in it for the title.
Long before I became “that annoying poof that’s always on the tv” I did a lot of work for community television, both for Bent TV and RMITV. Volunteering for community television is the most valuable grounding you can have to work in the industry. It is a chance to make all those mistakes that would ordinarily get you fired (hopefully so you can learn from them). It is one of my greatest thrills to turn up to a professional television production at a commercial television station, and see people both on and off camera making a living at something they once did voluntarily with passion and gusto.
Hopefully, as Mister President Fabulous I can help Bent TV develop the exceptional talent required to work in the demanding field of television. Producers, directors, camera operators, vision switchers, floor managers, editors, presenters, makeup, lighting – Bent TV is an inclusive environment staffed entirely by volunteers, all of them working toward making the best television we can manage. (It’s Channel 31 – we’re not promising miracles – but we’re also not promising celebrity dog training…)
I am also hoping to attract sponsors to Bent TV – which is going to be a big ask, because the only thing I ever seem to attract is lint.
I look forward to talking to you more from my President’s chair. Although, I’m hoping to have a throne installed before I get boned.
Yours Sincerely, Mister President Fabulous Adam Richard.
Hey, thanks everyone who has attended Adam Richard X so far, I've really been enjoying the show, and I hope it hasn't been too grotesque or cruel for anyone who's popped along. (I'm sure you wouldn't be too shy to say so - you can always get me through the email on this very page).
If you're looking at coming to the show in the next week or so (it closes on the 29th april) grab a discount voucher by clicking here. You'll have to print it off (print as many as you like) and bring it with you to the Comedy Festival Box Office at the Melbourne Town Hall on Collins Street (which is where the show is on, coincidentally...)
This discount is only for tickets purchased on the night, so you might be taking your chances on the weekends, when the show has been selling out. You can alway book ahead on a Tuesday night, when we have the Tightarse Tuesday Tickets. If you want to come Wednesday, Thursday or Sunday, you should be able to secure a seat with the discount voucher. (Don't forget Sunday is at 6pm - I nearly did!)
Just finished my first weekend in Adelaide, back on the standup stage. I've done precious little in the way of live comedy performance since I started working heavily in radio and television, and I miss it! Especially working a heaving festival like the Adelaide Fringe. I see all my friends and colleagues hawking their shows, inviting press and agents, courting the media, trying to get a job that will get them off the streets and away from the smoky, cramped clubs. Here, on the other side of that glittering fence, I crave those carefree days of waking up at the crack of noon, sauntering down the street and bumping into other comics, and discussing how healthy our houses are (not that they are ever healthy - we always bump up the figures and make it sound like we're on the verge of selling out, when we're still miles off making budget).
My fondness for the stage and the hectic lifestyle of a standup comedian, reminds me of the way we think of high school. When you're at school, you hate it. You want to get out, too desperate to become an adult and get on with your life. Everyone you meet tells you that you will look back at those high school days like they were the best of your lives, and you think they're insane. The crippling hormonal depression, the fear of never fitting in, the sexual confusion, the endless hours of seemingly pointless homework, how could any of that be the best days of your life? They are, however. You didn't have to care, mistakes weren't costly, you didn't pay rent, you didn't have a mortgage, you didn't have to be responsible, for anything. In comparison to the constant pressure of adult life, yes, those tortuous days of school were the best of your life.
That's how I feel about standup. For years, I lived hand to mouth, throwing everything at my standup shows, hoping that someday I would get some kind of cushy job in tv or radio, and it would all have been worth it. That cushy job isn't so cushy. I sleep about four hours a night, if I'm lucky. I work between 8 and 16 hours a day (one day last week, i did 20!) Nothing I do ever seems good enough, because I never seem to have the time. I long for the luxury of getting out of bed when I feel like it, wandering down to some pub or some cupboard in a town hall somewhere, and saying whatever I want for an hour, without the fear of a Program Director or Producer or Client having an issue with the malarkey that comes out of my mouth.
This isn't to say I don't enjoy my life now. I love my jobs. All of them. The level of fun is as extreme as the level of pressure. Every day I go to a job that is like spending three hours in the pub with good mates talking shit - how can that be a bad thing? It's just a lot of work. All the work you do to achieve success? You have to work that hard, every day, to maintain it. And even harder if you want more. Like that Twilight Zone episode with the genie, you have to be careful what you wish for, because you might get it.
If you want to see me revisiting those glorious days of reckless irresponsibility, come see one of my standup shows. You might hate it, but I'm having a ball! Fabulous Adam Richard has 4 more shows to go in Adelaide at the Belgian Beer Cafe, and Adam Richard X premieres at the Melbourne Town Hall during the Melbourne International Comedy Festival on the 5th April.
Hey there, I'm coming to the 'laide next weekend. Please come along and see me at the Belgian Beer Cafe (details over at the right).
My tv show Celebrity Dog School (which is surprisingly light on for celebrities) has been moved from Sunday night to early Saturday evening. Like my delightful colleague Jo Stanley, I have been replaced by Futurama! There will be much dog school talk during "Fabulous Adam Richard" during this year's Adelaide Fringe and Melbourne International Comedy Festival.
I will be lurking around the streets of Adelaide with some 2 for 1 offers on Friday the 9th a Saturday 10th March, so rock on up, say hi, and get a cheap ticket (while available).
I'm sure we're all aware of the NASA Nappy Napper, the kidnapping astronaut who wore a nappy to prevent stopping for toilet breaks. (Toilet breaks are the number one reason people calm down from rage, statistics that I have just made up show).
This of course is not a new phenomena. Back in the sixties, there was that astronaut who had a middle eastern woman chained up in his house as a slave, and he insisted that she call him "Master." He made a complete fool of the psychiatrist assigned to assess him. His name was Major Anthony Nelson, and his colleague Major Roger Healy was also found to be complicit in the affair.
I have been tagged. By some kind of meme thing. I think it is nerdy phenomena I should know about but don't. My friend donna was tagged by this seemingly irresistable form of viral infection, and didn't tag me, which I was a little bit jealous about. Not nerdy enough, I assume. Another of my friends has tagged me. From the other side of the world, and now I wish she hadn't. See how that whole be careful what you wish for thing works. Fahey Younger, who knows I cannot resist any kind of goading whatsoever, has tagged me, and now I sit before you with some kind of cyberherpes. I need digital valtrex. Or just a polite fingering.
Apparently, I am required to reveal 5 things about myself that nobody knows. Or six things. Donna says five, Fahey says six. It is probably five, because Donna is lazy and Fahey is a show-off. I will do six, however, because that is the way it has been done to me.
1/ My favourite word is fingering. I once said it to Toni Pearen. In the street. She squealed. Apparently fingering has not been used in common parlance since year 8. When I say fingering, you know I'm talking about playing the piano, don't you, not the Marty Sheargold kind of fingering which happens in a swimming pool. Don't ask me, it's his routine. (Ring him up and ask him, I dare you)
2/ I have an obsessive love for Doctor Who. It has gotten out of control. I watch the new ones, the old ones, listen to the audio plays, read the books (fiction and non-fiction) read the comic books, get the toys. I think Doctor Who was my father substitute as a child because I wasn't all that happy with the one I had.
3/ I am afraid of fire. Even little fires, like in a tealight candle. I'm scared they will come and get me. I also have an irrational fear of spontaneous human combustion. I had a weird dream last night that I was in a dodgy japanese horror film, where kids would draw symbols on their faces and say "I hope you catch on fire" to their parents, and they would. There were lots of flaming people diving in the water. I went to an undersea base where nobody knew the symbols, but there was a kid there who did, and he set me on fire, so I had to jump in the sea. (I was japanese and had black hair and looked not unlike Lei in Tekken or Jet Li).
4/ I once had a threesome by accident. I thought I was getting a lift home. Come and see my comedy festival show, I'll explain in more detail.
5/ I once studied writing, both at RMIT (Professional Writing and Editing) and at the London Cartoon Centre, where I was studying comic book writing - I wanted to write Spider-Man and Judge Dredd comics. I created a team of characters called Steele's Angels which consisted of 3 women. Banana - a Venezuelan gymnast and former Miss World who got done for drug cheating (she was genetically enhanced and produced far more adrenalin than was legal) Spliff - an eastend Londoner (from Jamaican parents) who could alter gases, even the air we breathe... and finally; Glitz, a super-strong flying drag queen who lost all of her powers if her wig or makeup came off. (Like Marilyn Manson, her real name is Bryan)
6/ I have never had sex with a woman. Not even once. I am a thoroughbred homo. I was like that kid on Ugly Betty. Camp little kid.
There you go. Now who can I tag? I don't know any bloggers. Higgo, maybe. Ummm... Malcolm. Kerrin, you're it. The Hammer! (I based comic book villains on Justin Hamilton, and myself. They are GaySkull and The Hammer - you don't want to know what their powers were, suffice it to say, at some point someone gets pounded into paste). Rin. and... Sexy John!
Okay, tagged back. Phew. This is more exhausting than scarecrow tiggy. I don't like all that bending down and running through legs unless I get a bone at the end. (I swear my dog wrote that...)
If you miss the show, or you don't live in Melbourne, you can get all the celebrity goss from my own human mouth, right here on the intenet. Just point your browser to fox.com.au/entertainment. It's all there.
There is a new man in my life, you will be happy to know. His name is Snoops.
He's a 4yr old Staffy X that I adopted from the RSPCA (oh yeah, I'm fully the Angelina Jolie of the dog world - By the end of the year I want to have one in every colour, and then steal the hot husband off some whinger with a big nose).
He was burdened with the rather prosaic name of 'Snoopy,' but seeing as he's 4 already, I didn't want him to completely freak out, so I'm calling him Snoops, cos it sounds enough like the name he's been called for ages. I also call him Snoop Dawg and sometimes sing Snoop Doggy Dog to him, because he's a gangsta. I saw him pop a cap in the ass of a poodle at the park.
You may have seen the promos on Network Ten for Celebrity Dog School, based on the BBC program of the same name - well, now you know what kind of a dog Adam Richard has - a reject one he picked up an the animal equivalent of the op shop. He is so adorable, I want to squeeze him until his head comes off. (I am worried I might do that one day).
I'm hoping that this is just the first of many Celebrity School ideas. I think we should have Celebrity Driving School where Adriana Xenides and Mel Gibson have to try and get their licenses back; Celebrity Speech Therapy where Shannon Noll and Dipper learn how to speak english; and Celebrity Anger Management where Matthew Newton (allegedly) and Kramer from Seinfeld have electrodes attached to their genitals.
I promised you some juicy goss from the net, and here it is! My cyberspace fabulette has befriended the likes of Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, Lindsay Lohan and Hilary Duff. Becoming a 'myspace' friend of the stars is not as easy as it seems - they all have their accounts set to private, and they can spot an impostor miles away (which means my cyberspace fabulette's identity must be kept strictly in confidence).
The dirt they have dug up this week is juicy indeed! First up: Lindsay Lohan posted the following comment on Paris Hilton's myspace page (appalling grammar is Lindsay's stock in trade).
Paris never leaves a stone unturned, and responded by posting a bulletin for all of myspace to read.
She's a polite girl. Such a delghtful vocabulary.
Next up are the comments posted on Hilary Duff's myspace page from Nicole Richie. Nicole is currently dating Joel Madden, who was formerly engaged to Hilary Duff. (Joel's brother Benji just proposed to Sophie Monk - the Madden boys are the tattooed and pierced members of Good Charlotte).
Good on you Nicole! Bragging about your new man to his ex-girlfriend. I bet she's not crying at all...
There it is kids, my cyberspace fabulette has hit paydirt. More as it comes to hand!
I would also like to say a huge thankyou to all the people who wished me well on my recent birthday. (Mamma has crested the hill and is swiftly sliding toward 40).
A great big year coming this year. So much planned and so much happening, I don't know if I will be able to keep up with myself!
Starting this Monday, 15th January, I will be returning to the Matt and Jo Show on 101.9 Fox FM to bring you all the juiciest celebrity gossip. Those who listen to the show know that I have Fabulettes all over the world who update me regularly with what is going on in the world of showbiz and celebrity. I have just enrolled a new member into the Fabulette Corps, my very first Cyberspace Fabulette. Obviously, my sources all remain strictly anonymous, but my new contact has provided me with some of the most outrageous and scandalous gossip I have ever had the misfortune to hear. You are going to love it. I don't want to say that my new Fabulette has hacked into the personal emails of the rich and famous, because I don't want to get them into trouble. Be listening to 101.9 Fox FM from 6-9am Monday morning if you are in Melbourne, and if not, then point your browser to fox.com.au and start streaming!
My Comedy Festival Show this year promises to be the most extreme and extravagant yet. Last year, I made it into the Herald-Sun's "What's Hot and What's Not" column - right down the bottom in the what's not. Tickets for my new show 'Adam Richard X' are on sale now, and there is very limited seating available this year. I am doing more shows than last year, but in a smaller venue, so get in quick if you want to secure your seat! Tickets are on sale from Ticketmaster.
If you live in Adelaide, I will be making my way there in March for the Adelaide Fringe, details should be available any tick of the clock, and tickets will be available from Venue*Tix very soon.