Imagine, if you will, that my mother was walking down the street when suddenly a group of yelling, pissed idiots with their faces painted called her a f**king wanker then spat on her.

You would be outraged for her would you not?

And yet that is exactly the type of behaviour displayed by numerous NZ'ers last weekend towards our neighbours and closest allies, all in the name tossing about a bit of pig-skin.

No I don’t mean a circumcision, I mean rugby.

My mother you see is Australian. That’s right she harks from Northern Queensland where strolling barefoot is an adventure sport, crocodiles are for riding and the phrase “Awww struth mate, me thong is up me arse” is not code for a wedgie, but something all together more exciting.

As such I have visited the world’s largest island numerous times, initially to see family and latterly to perform at various festivals. And guess what? They’re not a pack of flaming dick-head c**ts. OK so sure, there are some, I may even be related to some, but all I need to say is Michael Laws to prove we have our own special needs citizens.

Even more proof is the pack of dickhead c***s who spat on Australian fans and told them to “all f*** off back to Australia” who were reported in the NZ Herald. I mean really. I am so sick of all this bollocks. I had it growing up constantly with my Aunts and Uncles giving my Dad shit and him dishing it back three times as hard. Bloody Kiwis this, Bloody Aussies that. It was enough to make me run away to Auckland BUT I would never have done that because Auckland was a TERRIBLE place to live according to all other Cantabrians.

So instead I went to London to listen to the Scottish and Irish whinge about the English, and as tedious as that is too it made a bit more sense. So tell me, when did Australia slaughter a whole lot of NZ’ers and try to break their national spirit. When did Australia steal the Stone of Bolger and crown King Kevie on top of it to add vegemite to injury? When did the ambiguity of a cream meringue dessert’s origin cause mortal enmity? When did American’s mistaking Crowded House as Australian mean World War Three. (And let’s be honest 2 out of 3 band-members being Australian means they almost are, even if the NZ element wrote most of it.) And when was the bowling of one underarm ball an open indication of the imminent slaughter of all your first born?

Uhhh I’ll tell you when, never.

Instead we see a country who OK, may sometimes be condescending towards it’s smaller neighbour but they do have 5.36 times the population we do. After all Fiji is 4.79 times smaller than us and we have been known to judge Captain Bananarama. BUT more to the point they send help in earthquakes, they send mining equipment and expertise when asked, they send delicious pineapples and they sent my Mum.

So seriously leave the poor green and golds alone and stopping acting like dick-heads New Zealand. Let's rise above like a giant Pavlova, whilst playing Better Be Home Soon and tossing about a ball however we choose.

SO there.

PS However if someone does knee Richie McCaw in the head, well then maybe boo a little. Not that I care about sport anyways.

PPS The intra-parochial bullshit is dumb too, Auckland after all, is rather nice. More on that later I expect.

Nigella says what we have always thought she was thinking....

The funniest thing I have seen today. Check your music tracks people, check them well.

The Lovely NZ Suffragette, Kate Shepherd.

I was recently told when recording a voice over for a TV ad for a financial company, that it was lucky to have gotten this job. To be honest I always feel lucky when someone pays me to read words into a microphone. Voice Over work is brilliant. I stand in a small padded room whilst ad execs listen to my dulcet tines through their black clothes and tell me to smile more, be more friendly or, in the case of chocolate commercials, imagine you're lady parts are being pleasured quite emphatically.

Sorry where was I?

Oh yes, voice overs so I already knew I was lucky to be at this voice recording but when I was told why, I was less impressed.

You see when this enlightened marketing executive had told her Australian counterparts they were using a woman to sell their products those Fair Dinkum Dunderdoofers (scientific name) had exclaimed in an aghast fashion; "Oh but you can't use a female voice-over, people don't trust women."

Let's repeat that for fun; "People don't trust women."

Gee, the last time I looked 50% of "people" were women. Unless they were adopting that Canadian stance from pre-1928 that deemed women were not people and actually had to be changed by law. (Oh and while we're on the subject women in Quebec only got the vote in 1940, Switzerland in 1971 and Lichenstein in freaking 1984!)

SO in essence this man (and yes it was a man) was saying that we all distrust half of the world. Gee and just when I think we have come a long way along comes someone to make me go all Emily Pankhurst again. I guess that's why they didn't want us to vote all those years ago, in case we couldn't be trusted not to all vote for the McGillicutty Serious Party, or even worse ACT.

I wonder if this guy ever ran to his mummy when he scraped her knee? Or maybe he screamed when she approached, assuming her concerned expression was mocking laughter and the savlon she was waving was arsenic death paste. I wonder if he lets his girlfriend have her own eftpos card in case she causes another global recession. (Though that is highly unlikely, the last time I looked most of the "people" who fucked up the economy were men. It is also unlikely he has a girlfriend too I expect.)

Thankfully the Kiwi Marketing exec was more influenced by NZ's history of suffRAGE and went with me. Women here got the vote in 1893 in NZ and so I can do financial voicevers.

Though it's hardly all equality roses and no-sexist sunshine here. In the latest "Most trusted Poll" of NZers, there were only 4 women in the top 20. Still in the bottom ten there was only one woman too, depressingly suggesting that many people just don't bother to think about half the population at all.

Well hopefully when they turn on the tele and hear me, they'll appreciate a nice lady voice even if just for 30 seconds, and we can start to chip away at all those gender bullshit stereotypes.

So there.

SO on Friday night I hosted Carousel Burlesque in our fair Capital City and I thought some people might be curious to know what goes on backstage.

For those in the "don't know" Burlesque is an ancient art form where luscious ladies generally disrobe in a variety of permutations until their jugs are jubbling about unhindered. It usually involves some sort of saucy 50's style soundtrack with flirty looks and peeling of stockings. There is also often the flinging of breasts about afterwards, sometimes rather excitingly in opposite directions.

But the Burlesque genre is a many and varied beast-ess with hundreds of women taking off their clothes in their own special way and Friday night was no exception.

I was invited to host the show by Ms Venus Starr, Burly-Q Meistress and producer of the sell-out event. She was not performing this month however due to carelessly allowing her partner to impregnate her. (Though looking at her you would never think she gave birth 12 weeks ago, hell I look more pregnant than she does.) BUT there were other nudie rudies to titillate the crowds with their... well tits.

The backstage Burlesque world is one infected by sparkles, hairspray, false eyelashes, sequins, garters, suspenders, wax and um, tampons.... Now let me clear up something right now. I am not a Burlesque performer. I love all of those things I mentioned right up to wax BUT that is where I draw a line in the erm... gland. I waxed my legs once and it hurt so much I vowed to never do it again. Also the chicken skin spots that reared up were about as sexy as measles so the very thought of waxing my dewey portal to happiness is one I will not entertain. And as such there will be no stripping for me, well unless the act involves a forest of Daddy Long Leg Spiders.

I also walked in on one fair maiden (WARNING WARNING LADY LEAKS AHEAD) tucking in her tampon string so as not to get a wet-spot on her G-String gusset. (Isn't gusset a wonderful word.) That's right it wasn't her portal renovation period, she was just keeping things nice and dry. I did think to remind her that there was a toilet cubicle right next to her lunging form but hey, I can cross seeing that off my bucket list now.

But once lips were plumped, hair was curled, nipples were stickered, glitter was smeared, heels were slipped into and strings were tucked, we were off like knickers at Hugh Hefner's.

We had an act who pierced herself with needles attached to birthday candles (I believe she also does children's parties), we also had an aerialist on a hoola hoop, a balloon popping act , a fan dance and the crazy and hysterical Magenta Diamond who basically fondled a man into an erection onstage. And through it all I kept performing limericks, songs and poems and saying fuck a lot, coz I am clever like that.

The audience was rearing to go, a comedy gift of an audience who laughed at everything I said. There was even a Ginger Grizzly Adams in the audience leading the rock n Roll charge and the hysteria mounted to palpable levels. There must be something about tits that drives people crazy. I obliged by wearing mine very high and sticking them in men's faces.

Thankfully for their faces however mine remained in my corset. I just know that if I were to get mine out I would take an eye out in the front row with my attempts at twirling. It wouldn't so much be saucy swirling as mammary bashing with another one coming right after. One good thing though, it could be a very useful renewable energy source. Get me winding up onstage and I might just be able to power Levin with the wind energy generated.

HHmm I might just ring Jeremy Wells and talk to him about it.

GO and see the next Carousel Burlesque in September I dare you. There will only be one dry seat in the house.

Arty B&W Shot of Pashing

Hosting Carousel Burlesque in Wellington

Excitable Punter Gets Excited During "I'm So Excited".

A lucky man in the audience feels the full force of mother nature.

Svetlana Sings the Blues

Rohypnol Girl sung in a Duvet.

Wow so apparently a female columnist at The Guardian, of all papers, thinks that women should support Michelle Bachmann purely because she is a woman and we need more female representation.

Never mind the fact that she thinks women should all do what their husbands tell them to do, even studying tax law despite hating it because her husband told her to, as "she had to be faithful to what God was calling her to do through her husband".

Incidentally I wonder what else he tells her God has said to do; "Oh honey I know you don't feel like pleasing little Ronnie Reagan tonight but God told me to tell you to get busy or yet another Arab Country might go all Islamy".

I wonder what would happen if she was elected to the highest office in the USA and suddenly it was crunch time. Her finger poised over the button (giving her husband's little Georgie Back-Bush a break), trying to decide whether it's time to blow Canada up once and for all. When suddenly she skips off to boot up a Skype conversation with Mr Michelle to ask him what he thinks from his Jacuzzi that he told her to buy for him.

He would answer with "Well Stephen Harper seems pretty gay to me, and Pro-Canadian which is clearly Anti-American, let's cure him baby" then go back to rubbing baby oil into his caddy's pecs.

To suggest we should support a woman who thinks that public education is creating a child holocaust and that slavery meant a better nuclear family for black children is right up there with suggesting Gary Glitter as the next president of the PTA because their diversity is lacking a Glam Rocker.

So Angela Cummine (Cummine seriously.... as in hey Michelle the Lord won't like it if I'm not Cummine), you can take your pseudo-feminist stance and shove it where your tampon doesn't shine. Though no actually that's a very nice place, a warm inviting fun place saved especially for a nice partner who asks to go there. So instead you can throw it in a sewer where it belongs.

It is insulting to my feminist sensibilities to abdicate reason in the face of statistics. Yes I would like more female representation obviously, but I'm not going to vote in Myra Hindley as Minister for Children just because the ladies loos are underused.

I will instead tell my niece as often as possible that she is very clever and can do whatever she wants, despite what any man tells her to do.

(Excepting maybe her Daddy til she's about 18.)











No he isn't a closet case at all, as Steve Gray has pointed out!

Here is an old poem I just stumbled across that I rather like...

Don't Get Caught Out in the Rain

In the year 2000 I was going to be 26

Incredibly old

Probably married

……..no babies though

Gross

I was going to celebrate

In grand style

With a huge number of friends

On an island resort

My husband and I would dance to Copacabana

We’d be drinking Pina Colada’s

Our lives and arms intertwined

As we drank from coconut shells

Little umbrellas fending off

The non-existent rain

As it didn’t fall

From the non-existent clouds

I was successful

In the year 2003 I remember

The angry black clouds of the Millennium

I remember sparks peeping through

The thick firework proof blanket

I remember holding my friends vomiting head

In a Grafton Bridge gutter

I remember dancing on Mission Bay

Bowing to my Tongan Queen as he was typically fabulous darling

I remember quaffing Lindauer

With my non-existent husband

As non-existent little umbrellas

Were demolished in the storm

But…..I am successful

I don’t want my 1984 dreams

They would make my 2003 dreams non-existent

I‘d be married to Simon Le Bon

My 2003 reality would be non-existent

I would be non-existent

And who wants that

Instant Kiwis is the website to see all the details!

In Christchurch, from about the age of 16 onwards it was a very regular occurrence in my life to attend Scared Scriptless at the Court Theatre at 11pm on a friday night.

Therefore as we are kicking off late night improv at Q Theatre in Auckland in about two months, I am rather excited about it.

Instant Kiwis, it shall be called, see what we did there. Comedy with Power Balls! I usually hate ascribing a male anatomical characteristic to describe comedy BUT I also like a good pun. What's a liberated girl to do but swallow her principles and scream "balls". It also plays into our Jane Austen and Zombie show... so I wasn't talking testicles at all.

Really.

It is also quite exciting as you see this year I was to play Scared Scriptless in ChCh for the very first time. I was booked in to play last year but situations got on top of me...ooo er and I had to ... pull out. SO I was delighted to book my flight to Christchurch for April 9th, a flight that I booked on February 20th.

Awesome.

So then the ground moved for everyone and the Arts Centre which houses the Court Theatre is terminal it seems. SO no Scared Scriptless for me BUT instead Instant Kiwis for me and you. If you are in ChCh you can still see SS, just not in the Theatre where I got inspired to be an actor, but all over town. And if you're in Auckland we are in the brand spanking new Q Theatre.

It is exciting and a privilege to be an Improv company in residence at a brand new theatre, hopefully we won't leave too many skidmarks.

MCing A Year at the Pah, Poetry Performance

A great gig this Sunday at The Pah homestead in Hillsborough. A totally beautiful house with great artworks. You should go and see them.

All Blacks campaign: no sex for fans - Rugby World Cup - NZ Herald News

All Blacks campaign: no sex for fans - Rugby World Cup - NZ Herald News

OK so as someone who lives within walking distance of Eden Park I am already annoyed with the street parking situation so there's no way I am going to let Telecom ahem ... screw with my sheet parking situation too. I say the slogan should not be "Abstain for the Game" but rather "Fuck for the Cup" or perhaps more luridly "Stain for the Game". It may be ahem.. tongue in cheek but I will use my tongue for pashing rather than poking out my skin. I mean FFS I actually have a boyfriend, which was a rarity for sometime as previous posts will show, so rather than use him simply to build fires and compliment my cooking, every now and then, maybe once a week or so if we're energetic, I may well use him for sex too. When I say use, I won't emotionally stamp on him and kick him out afters, he pays half the rent, I will instead make some nice shepherd's pie, open a bottle of red and pash by the fire.

SO I have a shiny new computer and downloaded a shiny new add on for sharing on Blogger. So I may well post more than once a menstrual cycle from now on. Who am I kidding, it's been more like once in a gestational cycle, but I shall attempt to spit out blogs more often than a Mormon wife with no contraception squirts out kids.

Maybe one soon on how goddam maternal I am.

As shaving cream pies are being tossed into Gollum's face whilst he is being defended by Lucy Liu (thanks Twitter) I am contemplating my own battles ahead.

Mine are a lot more savoury than various newspaper hacks hacking into dead girl's answerphones however and guaranteed to generate many more belly laughs. (Though to be fair that shaving cram pie had me laughing quite substantially, all that was missing was Mr Humphries squealing "You're not free" to Rebekah Brooks.)

But I digress.

My upcoming battle is with that age old performer's anxiety of, "Jesus I hope some people come to my shows!" You see I am about to embark on yet another tour of New Zealand with two separate shows Hot Pink Bits, and Hot Pink Teeth 'n' Tits and the nervous anticipation of whether or not anyone will turn up is consuming my mind like Oprah on fried biscuits.

Comediennes are some of the most insecure people you will ever meet. We derive our sense of self-worth by people laughing at us. Most people would take that as an insult and hit the Kronic, but for us it is our highest aspiration in life.

It is therefore nerve-wracking everytime we put ourselves out there hoping to not be rejected. And of course the ultimate rejection is when no one comes. I could call it character building, if I was David Cameron's spin doctor, but it's something I can do without.

There's nothing like flyering the streets of Edinburgh for 4 hours to have absolutely no one turn up to your final 11pm show in a Portaloo. As far as character building goes that makes my character the size of that tall weird building in Malaysia, but it's something I've hopefully moved past.

BUT sadly not the anxiety. For all my shows coming up I already have more booked than none, so that's a start. BUT that age old question of "Will I go to jail from debt" is never far from your mind. I love performing, not being a P freak's bitch, so fingers, toes and labias crossed.

My partner, of the previous windy pops post, can be quite bewildered by it all. He probably often muses to himself that I am mental with therapy needs, and he may well be correct. But when it comes down to it I'd rather be a mental optimist than a sane person doing something I hate.

So if you're in Blenheim, Kaikoura, Waimate or Christchurch please do come along and watch my insecurities die like Navy Seals watched Bin Laden.... but with less guns, novelty beards and shouting "Allah Akbah!" if you don't mind.

Hot Pink Bits

Blenheim Civic Theatre, July 22nd, 7.30pm
Bookings: www.ticketdirect.co.nz, 03 520 8560

Kaikoura, Memorial Hall, July 23rd, 8pm
Bookings: www.eventfinder.co.nz or in person at Paper Plus, 41 West End.

Waimate Regent Theatre, Shearman Street, 27th July, 7.30 pm Bookings: Parkers, Queen Street, Waimate, ph 03 689 8772

Hot Pink Teeth 'n' Tits

CHRISTCHURCH
Paparoa School Hall, 8pm, July 29 - 30 and August 5 - 6, Paparoa School Hall, Bookings: www.eventfinder.co.nz, for more ticketing information email: pennyhotpink@gmail.com

Us Catching a gentle breeze .....







Man oh Man have I been one slack bloggy tart. I can't believe it's been two years practically since I pressed tips to keyboard to spew out some rambling dissertation on not much.

Well never fear my imaginary reader, I am back! For how long who bloody knows BUT whilst I can still remember my password I should probably say something.

SO I have decided for my resurrection that I'll defibrillate this blog with some good old fashioned bodily functions.

"Ewww" you say, "must you?", well I'm afraid so.

You see I used to be totally uptight and prudey about emissions and evacuations and all manner of leakages, but then something happened to change all that. I found true love.

Possibly not what you were expecting. It certainly isn't what I was expecting.

I used to deny point blank that any foul odour wafting in my general airspace had anything to do with the lasagna I had just eaten. The phrase "pull my finger" was one I held in high disdain and should any, ahem, pressing function be required, I would always deoderise the room in question with "Pacific Ocean Breeze" to the point of asphyxiation.

I would always maintain that I was a bizarre human anomaly who simply didn't do "that". The fact that if this were the case I would be writhing in agony in hospital was beside the point. Nice girls simply don't ....

It is somewhat odd then that I was perfectly happy to get onstage and discuss all manner of sexual probings, amputee fetishes and dwarf porn. To me fistings, rubberised catheters and vomit sex were all perfectly acceptable dinner table conversation, but poos and wees were most definitely not.

Now why have I started thinking about this I am sure you are wondering. Well today I attended two Film Festivals Films. One was at the Civic, a place that roughly 4 years ago was a scene of great mortification. You see I was using a disabled toilet when a man wrenched open the not quite locked door whilst I was in the midst of the delicate operation known as ... um ...wiping. (Ugh I even hate the word wiping.) Maybe it serves me right for wanting a bit more space in my cubicle and going disabled when I am clearly not, but suffice to say I learnt my lesson, now I always double check the locks.

But anyway that got me to thinking about my boyfriend.

I know, SO romantic.

You see when we first met it was all sunshine and roses, laughter and champagne, sweet nothings and.... holding in the wind. It's amazing what control certain muscles can have when everlasting happiness is at stake. I was also thrilled the bathroom in my then flat was at the other end of the house, two hours of holding back Mother Nature's non-stop life locomotive can result in quite the release I am sure you'll appreciate.

And he was just the same. We were both medicial miracles. For one whole year you could drink the air around us and Disney characters flew about our heads in a fragrant dance.

Or something.

Then it happened, true relaxing marvellous love reigned supreme and it wasn't just our souls that relaxed around each other. Our sphincters did too.

And funnily enough the world did not open up and drag me into its sulfurous depths of hell, I didn't die of a heart attack (though he nearly did) and no small children went blind. What happened instead was pure unadulterated joyous hilarity.

I had no idea how much comedy potential I was denying myself of up until now. The sheer joy of expelling what he calls "Trumps"(Yorkshire weirdness) when he least expects it, especially when I'm sitting on him, has me near pissing myself as well.

This is probably nothing new to long term relationship types out there, but to a girl who was a single prudey pants for most of her adult life, a little regression into the alimentary canal is a marvellous thing. I'm being liberated goddammit.

So I say go forth and eat cabbage people, cram in the Cannellini beans and polish off the prunes. Let the sweet smell of relationship success waft supreme and always hold the covers over their head as long as possible.



For my next post I shall be discussing the merits of a Capital gains Tax as it pertains to various share portfolios with a growth quotient of 20% or greater. Or more on farting... we will see.

Penny Ashton Musing on the Perfect NZ Man

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Uncle Oscar

9 March 2010

In the 1930’s when Margaret Herrick commented that a certain gold statuette looked like her uncle Oscar, she probably didn’t anticipate that 80 years later frock designers, coke dealers and limo companies would deliriously anticipate the night her uncle gets fingered by Hollywood’s elite.

But so it goes.

The 82nd Academy Awards have just finished and I thought it was choice. Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin were hilarious hosts and there was enough glitz, drama and trainwreckage to amuse me soundly.

Last year the Oscars were toned back in deference to the Credit Crunch. An Australian hosted for god’s sake. The kicks were lower, the jokes fewer and I think I saw the set on eBay.

But this year, like the CEO of your average merchant bank, they thought screw them all and went all out. There were feathers, a myriad of revolving sets and interpretative crumping in cardigans…..seriously.

Worst performance goes to the loud mouthed beatch who interrupted her co-collaborator for best documentary short and shrilled; “isn’t that just like a man to not let the woman speak….” Basically she Kanye’d his ass and was a dick.

Best speech to Sandra Bullock, she was moving, funny and mentioned tonguing Meryl Streep. I did feel I needed some insulin after seeing The Blind Side as it was so saccharine but she rocked, shiny dress and all. Jeff Bridges was a close second, I cried. But I’m a pussy.

And then the sisterhood triumphed with The Hurt Locker. People have been making a lot about Katherine Bigelow and James Cameron being pitted against each other but who cares that they were married for 3 years. She gives good film, I mean she directed Point Break. Yes a woman won for the first time but let’s focus on her arts, not her arse.

Now for her next film she’s cast Kate Winslet as an ugly autistic Vietnam vet with a sick dog. I reckon it’s a shoe in.

NEW COLUMN ON SKYTV.CO.NZPENNYONDEMAND

The Bear Necessitites


2 March 2010

I hate camping. If god had meant us to camp he would have given us detachable colostomy bags. Pooing out of doors is nothing I have ever done, and proudly so.

Sure if I had one of those palace tents with verandas, porticos and a room for my shoes then I’d gladly raise my three fingered Girl Guide salute, but I’ve only ever had pup tents and it has always always rained.

The worst time being a music festival in Scotland when it not only rained, it pelted down like a Scotsman urinating after a stag do in Glasgow.

The field turned into a mud bath and I was forced to wear rubbish bags on my shoes but they were still ruined. Worse still they were Jimmy Choos.

OK, so maybe they weren’t, but that’s not the point.

Which is why I would rather watch Man vs Wild than participate. For a start my name is "Penny" and that will never do. "Bear" is the star of that show, so I would need to change mine to "Panther", "Gazelle" or "Three Toed Sloth".

Also, we may have been born in the same year but Bear was a special agent with British Forces and I wasn’t even Tawny Owl in the Brownies. If someone yells at me to "drop and give me twenty" I yell at them to "f" off. Discipline is required in battling nature’s elements, and the only thing I’m a disciple to is ensuring my nail polish matches my earrings.

I wouldn’t mind being dropped on a desert island, mind you. Just as long as a toilet, a cabana boy named Julio and an endless supply of pina coladas was dropped too. If they can organise a sound guy and a cameraman for Bear surely they could do a latino lover and some Bacardi for me?

I’ll send them an email and see.

Man vs Wild with Bear Grylls premieres Wednesdays beginning March 3 at 8.30pm on Discovery Channel.

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The Best Things in Life are Free

Fact File
New Series
S - Sexual content may offend
Comedy
C - Content may offend

24 February 2010

As an actor, I have an agent. Actually I have four. One for voice work, one for TV, one for corporate work and the webmaster at nzdating.co.nz.*

ANYWAY, I like to imagine my agents as constantly concocting ways to propel me towards the superstardom for which I know I’m destined. I am sure my picture is in their wallet, I am the wallpaper on their shiny Mac’s and their cellphone ringtones are undoubtedly my voice singing “FAME! I’m gonna live …” and so forth.

What I don’t imagine them doing is recounting for their boss’ pleasure what sexual endeavours their weekend entailed and whether or not they managed to score some “no-strings nobbing”.

But my agents don’t work for CMA in London as seen in UKTV’s latest comedy Free Agents. The boss, aka Anthony Head, has a mouth that makes Gordon Ramsay look like Brooke Fraser. He licks glass office walls, pelvic-thrusts the air and goads his staff into confessing “I’m as sexually sophisticated as a 15-year-old born-again Christian.” This is a slight departure from Head’s role as Giles in Buffy the Vampire Slayer, though there are quite a few mentions of wood … just no stakes.

I’d like to quote more dialogue here, but if I did “Outraged of Huntly” would have me shut down faster than you can say “That’s a moustache on a lady”. Suffice to say the opening episode has 3 “c” words and 55 “f” words. Choice.

And if anyone can answer the question posed; “What do women want if they don’t want anal?” feel free to email the BBC.

*Only kidding about that last one. I have Internet-dated, but I didn’t like the experience. Sure you might get a pash and some free drinks, but I was never sure if I fancied the guy or if he was just the least retarded person** that emailed me.

** Apologies to anyone offended by the use of the word “person”.

Free Agents screens Friday 9.00pm on UKTV.