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Posts Tagged ‘Travesty of All Things Gay’

Travesty of All Things Gay led an attack on Hamburg this week: a tightly cinched hurricane of Kenzo awfulness, nail polished fingernails and belts with buckles the size of his head, he arrived displaying all the sensitivity of a gorilla on a sunbed, and tore through the native politeness of the German agency and all [...]

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Travesty of All Things Gay returns to the agency on Monday. I am fully expecting a full solar eclipse and the bodies of the dead to rise from the ground and walk again, at the very least. For three blissful weeks, he has been on holiday (or “vacation” as he cringe-makingly calls it), a Gayfest [...]

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Vaguely disappointing return to work on Friday. Not because it was hard on the back of a thirteen hour flight which, for all its Business Class glamour, saw me in the seat next to the kitchen (which is always both noisy and smelly), but because the much anticipated fight with Travesty Of All Things Gay [...]

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The inevitable stand-off and explosion of shouty crackers between me and Travesty of All Things Gay has finally come – or rather, Round One of it (conducted via e-mail) has come – and is to be continued on Friday. I managed to get in the sentences: “I have enough to do without having to deal [...]

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Will it go down as comparable to the night that Domingo first crept onto the stage at La Scala? Or the opening night of Fiona’s Shaw’s “Hedda Gabler”? Or The Beatles at The Tavern (a venue which claims to hold no more than 200, but which appears on that night to have swelled, Tardis-like to [...]

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Saturday, 15th September 2007 As well as Fearless Leader, the other Client Services person from the agency in Thailand was Exaggerated Travesty Of All Things Gay. His fashion “sense” is legendary: too tight, too embroidered, too fucking awful for words. He has worn (to work) outfits that have ranged from a hommage to Uma Thurman’s [...]

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Saturday, 29th March 2008 Well, obviously I have changed my mind entirely about the whole pitch thing: it is now the air that I breath, the wine that I drink, the sun that warms me. It’s The National Gallery, it’s Garbo’s salary, it’s Cellophane. As ever with me, this startling volte-face is due entirely to [...]

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