hey hey you blog reading fuckers

I am back!!! After a little week time off for my random blatherings I am back and feeling quite feisty. I was away for a few days in Sheffield having a mixture of reunions and family time. Primarily I was there for my dad's 6oth birthday which was a rather sedate affair but lovely to catch up with the folks and my bro!!

I also managed to squeeze in 2 facebook reunions - one with my mate sam, fellow squat dweller who I have not seen for 10 years, she now has a 10 year old son - coincidence?? no, the boy is not mine, we never did the jiggy jiggy, unles that is a dance move, in which case we probably did. She was all smiles and sushine. The next was my old school friend Kirtstie who has shrunk but still has the same zest for life and a laugh that sounds like a wet wank.

No trip to Sheffield would be complete without seeing my bitches and they came up trumps, treating me to a grand friday night out at the Sheffield Uni gay night, I don't remember much of it apart from running around in a tutu and writing really offensive comments on people's arms in day glo pen. Thanks to Dan, Danny and Adam and big love to Matt who has had major face operations going on, bless him, normal service shall be resumed shortly - can't keep a willy out of that mouth for long!!

Back in the real world and by that I mean the celebrity world - more on Madonna's brother and THAT book - I have yet to read it but The Guardian came up with an interesting piece -

"I had hoped this book might go some way to answering that eternal question no one has ever asked, "What is it really like to be Madonna's brother?" But as I've got no sense of self and even less insight, that's totally beyond me. So I've settled for bitching about that mediocre diva whom I adore really.
The Lanesborough Hotel, 1993: The Girlie Show, for which I choreographed the Hokey Cokey, opens tonight and we need to meditate. We. The royal we. Madonna and me. She, the world's biggest superstar. And me, her much more talented brother. I wake her. "Flush the toilet for me," Madonna snaps as I spoon-feed her some macrobiotic seaweed. "Shall I lick it clean as well?" I ask, sensing her need and relishing my importance to her.

We leave for Wembley in two cars. Our egos can't fit into one. She takes a stretch limo, while I follow in a Reliant Robin. She comes off stage to the screams of 25 million adoring fans and I wring the sweat out of her thong. "Where would I be without you?" she yells, as she leaves by helicopter. "See you in Paris. Get yourself an off-peak Eurostar ticket."

We are just two of eight Ciccone kids, who grew up in Michigan. But who wants to hear about those other six losers? You want to know all about Madge and little old me. Well, just Madge really, but it's my book, so tough. Madonna begs me to join her in New York. "I really need you," she pleads. "You can stay in a homeless shelter." She has no idea I have given up a well-paid job on the checkout at Wal-Mart to be one of her backing dancers, but she's my sister and I know how difficult she finds it to exist without me, so I bite my tongue.

I am not oblivious to my sister's many shortcomings at this time. I know she uses people and then drops them, I know she is self-centred, but I forgive her for all this. I don't have a lot of choice. The moment I confront her, the gravy train stops.

"You're fired," Madonna says to me one morning in 1994. "But you can't do that," I squeal. "I'm devoted to you." "Well, I guess I'm just a capricious control freak who enjoys abusing her staff," she says. "OK," I reply. "I'll take a 95% pay cut and work for $10 a week."

Over the next few years, our fame becomes awesome. Everywhere we go, people shout, "Madonna" and "Who the fuck are you?" We are inseparable, though I choose not to tell her that I think all of her movies are utter crap and that her music is derivative dross, because I know she finds it hard to take criticism and it would be needlessly destructive of me to do so. And, besides, it would also require me to be honest.

The deaths of Princess Diana and Gianni Versace bring us close together in 1997. When we hear the news, we both have the same two thoughts. How come these nobodies are getting all the attention and how come we're not important enough to be assassinated? By now I have an international reputation as an interior designer - after Madonna asks me to buy a sofa from DFS for one of her 97 houses - and I count many celebrities as my close friends.

"We adore you, Christopher," say Sting, Trudie, Demi, Warren and Donatella. "We think you're absolutely brilliant and we'd definitely be your best friends even if you weren't Madonna's brother."

My relationship with Madonna takes a turn for the worse when she marries the fat phoney, because Guy can't deal with the fact that he really fancies me. Tough titties, Guy! I've got my boyfriend Danny.

She fires me 19 times more and each time I apologise and promise to go to Kabbalah, but when she refuses to reimburse me for the Athena print I bought for her London home, I've finally had enough. So now, I sit alone in my bedsit, bitter, yet content, praying for the moment Madonna's career hits the skids and her kids end up in therapy. Just like me"

Also in celeb world Kerry Katona is still fat and farting, Michelle Heaton (Ex Liberty X) is a whore and Matt Willis (Ex Busted) has had a shock wedding, in the fact he has married a woman!! His best man was David Gest, so last weeks OK! magazine looked like a really shit gay pride.

Now news that made me cry into my cheesecake - the legend that is Estelle Getty (aka Sophia Petrillo of The Golden Girls) passed away on tuesday at the age of 84. I love love love the Golden Girls and she was just amazing in it and she wasn't even the eldest!! She had been battling with illness for a long time - R.I.P Honey.




Right, I am off, That cabana boy from Pensacola won't sponge wash himself will he?

xx