LADY SIR ELTON JOHN'S FASHION PAGE.

NEW SUPERMODEL THRILLS FASHION LOVERS.

(shaved her legs and then he was a she)

Andrej Pejic as femme fatale in Jean Paul Gaultier's autumn/winter 2011 menswear show, and as the bride in Jean Paul Gaultier's spring/summer 2011 haute couture show. Photo: REX/Getty

My wife, David and I, writes Sir Reg, are simply too divinely thrilled by Jean-Paul's gorgeous new model; he has simply raised the whole frock thing to a new level. Andrej Pejic is simply too much. And the best thing about him is that even though he's a catwalk thriller to die for, he's a nineteen-year old boy. We always thought that women, although we adore them, obviously, just get in the way, what with their tits and their smelly old fannies.  Now that fashion is finally revealed as the preserve of bitter and twisted gay men we must all celebrate and my husband David and I will be throwing a HUGE party to celebrate. Fags only, darling. I suppose Andre is too old for us to adopt.

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Mrs Sir Reg embraces the women-hating Jean-Paul.

On other pages.

The Coalitions's frock czar and pretend minister, Straight Simon Hughes, tells us where he buys his dresses.

TOWARDS A GAY POLICE STATE.

FREEDOM FIGHTERS; AYE, RIGHT, TOSSERS.

'When we booked this hotel we just wanted to do something that thousands of other couples do every weekend - take a relaxing weekend break away,  do some poppers  and shove our fists up each others arses," said Mr and Mrs Martyn Hall and Steven Preddy, " that these two old hypocrites were more concerned about their laundry bill than my civil rights is just typical of the attacks on gay people which are all too common.  I mean, a bit of shit, maybe with some blood in it,  it doesn't bother us, why should it bother them?"

Mrs Hall had booked a room in a Cornish guest house for he and his civil partner and were astounded when, upon arrival, the Christian owners declined to honour the booking, saying that they wouldn't even allow unmarried heterosexual couples to sleep together and do some fisting and buggery.  It was just their faith,  they felt that only married people should sleep together and that, quite clearly, two screeching arse bandits, like these two, whatever they say, are not married. The visit by Preddy and Hall was orchestrated by Stonewall who had given notice to the guest house owners that their tiny business was an affront to everything that was decent and proper in the fisting community.  Stonewall then sent these two slags along, itching for a court case.  Now that the police service is seen as the biggest closet in the country, our two complainants were confident of a police intervention in this entirely trivial matter.  The cops were called to the hotel and spent some time - honest, not invent - finding Mr and Mrs Cocksucker alternative hotel accommodation, obviously no smugglers to catch in Cornwall, these days, PC Trelawney, sitting around on his pert arse, instead, gelling his hair, just waiting to fight hate crime.

In Bristol County Court, Mr Justice Slag ruled that the hotel owners Mr and Mrs Bull, elderly and in poor health, must pay the screeching bitches nearly four grand in compensation.  Their religious beliefs are shit, compared with the rights of these two revolting hypocrites, he said, even though they offered the claimants two single rooms  and were not at all rude or unpleasant towards them, just a bit eccentric, they are clearly in breach of the  relevant ShitOnTheSheets (permission to)  legislation..

Mrs Bull has argued that even her brother and his female partner were not allowed to share a room in her house due to her strict religious beliefs. And they don't even do any of that Shit-love shit, as far as we know. Or sticking their fists up each other's arses.. Nipple clamps and cock rings, they don't so any of that shit, either. 'Our double-bed policy was based on our sincere beliefs about marriage, not hostility to anybody,' she said. The notice on the Bull's website read: 'We have few rules but please note that out of a deep regard for marriage we prefer to let double accommodation to heterosexual married couples only.' Ben Summerskill, a career gay activist from Stonewall, and a complete waste of space,  enthused over the ruling, hissing spitefully:  'You can't turn away people from a hotel because they're black or Jewish and in 2011 you shouldn't be able to demean them by turning them away because they're gay either. 'Religious freedom shouldn't be used as a cloak for prejudice.  Smearing shitty anal lubricant on the sheets can no longer be seen as an impediment to a stay in a small, privately-run guest house.' Right, Ben, you know best. Cunt.  Earlier gay activists, truly bold,  entrapped and brutalised by the very same Old Bill, battered and courageous, will be spinning in their graves at this fucking nonsense.

A HETEROPHOBE SPEAKS OUT

MR STEVEN FAG, TEE-VEE'S MR SPERM.

WELL, MY DEARS, I ABSOLUTELY CAN AND DO TALK ABOUT ANY OLD TOSH BUT MY FAVOURITE TOPIC IS SPERM; SMUT, SHIT, SPERM, THAT'S THE STUFF FOR ME. YUMMY, YUMMY, YUMMY, I'VE GOT SP[ERM IN MY TUMMY, AS OSCAR WILDE WOULD HAVE SAID, WERE HE AS LABORIOUSLY CLEVER AS ME. I MEAN I.

Pathetic tellypoof, Steven Fag, above, rejoices in a relationship with a young actor, less than half his age.  Steven Webb, 25 is probably with Fag not for his money but out of very genuine affection, and deep love, and the complete absence of self respect which only "actors" can manage,  the young tart. Having spent his life cottaging and squiring younger men, Steven Fry's acid  pronouncements on heterosexuality are fascinating.

The wretched, old degenerate, Fry, is rarely off the screens, his every laboured, not very  bon mot deemed by the Fag BBC to be worth recording and broadcasting;  his every barren, cliched inspiration worthy of a series; nobody has ever broadcast from America, let's have Fry do it, but, Hey, why don't we have him drive a London taxicab, to make it truly original, a left-hand drive taxi, obviously, he's not that adventurous.

  Clunking, leaden and as witty as a miscarriage,  Fry's ouevre is rooted more in Coronation Street than anything else, plummy and self-regarding, his delivery, stripped of it's rehearsed  verbosity, is just dismal tut-tutting soap opera.  But for all his forced, louche joviality, Fry  represents the dark underbelly of life, bruiting his hatred of normal people at every opportunity. No Quentin Crisp, he, dazzling, original and bold;  no, prolix knobjokes, year after year. Fry and his producers have relentlessly  mined the same, tedious, low-grade seam for decades, a faux coyness,  a facetious scholarship,  peppered  with  the occasional inflammatory jibe of the aging but always phony enfant terrible, he really is shit. Now, though, he exposes himself as more Kenneth Williams than Oscar Wilde, vicious and fucked up, nasty and spiteful.

Attention-seeking in a rag called Attitude, reprinted in the Observer this week - and let's face it, they don't have much else to print, Andrew Gobsley and Nick Cohn, Jesus fucking wept -  Fry claims that women don't enjoy sex but merely barter it in exchange for emotional security, only gay men truly enjoy sex, furtively knob-sucking in the bushes; risky, promiscuous anonymous sex is modern faggery's gift to the world,  and poor, pitiful, normal people can't enjoy it, thus:

Broadcaster and writer Stephen Fry has tried to establish himself as an unlikely authority on female sexuality, claiming that straight women only go to bed with men "because sex is the price they are willing to pay for a relationship".

In uncharacteristically extreme comments, the openly gay Twitter champion said he believed most straight men felt that "they disgust women" as they "find it difficult to believe that women are as interested in sex as they are".

"For good reason," he declares in a candid interview in the November issue of Attitude magazine. "If women liked sex as much as men, there would be straight cruising areas in the way there are gay cruising areas. Women would go and hang around in churchyards thinking: 'God, I've got to get my fucking rocks off', or they'd go to Hampstead Heath and meet strangers to shag behind a bush. It doesn't happen. Why? Because the only women you can have sex with like that wish to be paid for it."

Fry, 53, continues: "I feel sorry for straight men. The only reason women will have sex with them is that sex is the price they are willing to pay for a relationship with a man, which is what they want," he said. "Of course, a lot of women will deny this and say, 'Oh no, but I love sex, I love it!' But do they go around having it the way that gay men do?"

Of course, the nasty old poof is about as relevant  to debates about contemporary sexuality as is David Thank God I'm Gay Starkey,  less adroit than Fry at  disguising his  misanthropy but part of the same revolting spectrum of heterophobia. LipService, currently on BBC Three, says far more about  Queerlove than any of Fry's ghastly over-written double entendres, his mixture of paranoia and willy-waving.  You would think that his custard creme of spermjokes, knobjokes, arsejokes and  awful sub-Wildean posturing, all written for him by bright young things, would by now have begun to rot the naional tooth,  yet Fry is immensely popular on Twitter, whatever that is - and one can only guess  that it is one of those meaningless excuses for dialogue, for cyber avenue friendships - and surely his  fawning Twitterees can't all be sperm-guzzling,  young wannabe actors, cruising for a gobby SugarDaddy's bitter ejaculate, can they?

Maybe, Steven Fag is as aware as are we in Ishmaelia, of his fading charms, his increasingly lacklustre persona; his best work, truly comic genius, Professor Trefussis, for Radio Four, is twenty five years' passed now and he seeks the limelight of provocation. And maybe, for the best, the noblest  of reasons, we have indulged Fry and his chums a blowjob too far, too much smut cannot but be bad for the children.  He is perfectly entitled to his bizarre opinions  and  there is absolutely no reason for his voice to be stilled, it's just that, at our peril, we are too timid in response to him. Fuck off back to the cottage, gayboy, might better suit our purposes, and leave sex and reproduction to those best suited to it, best equipped for it.

"In the interview, he also speaks with frankness about his experiences in the "extraordinary underworld" of cottaging in his youth, cautioning, however, that while he was "slightly obsessed" with the clandestine practice as a teenager it was more for the graffiti and sense of solidarity."

QUEEN OF SMUT, STEVEN FAG.