22 December 2006

Gaying it forward

Crikey, what a hang over.

It may be the last day in the office and I may be leaving at midday, but my head is so full of cotton wool and sawdust I might not make it through.

Last night was a blast - Doormouse, Snow and I gayed it forward and showed the moxuals in Soho how to really do it.

We headed to The Yard, Barcode and Escape and drunk lots of cider. There were some bad points: Striding down Old Compton Street to meet the others, I slipped on a banana skin and nearly went arse over tit - in front of some very sexy men; the bitchy DJ in Escape was far from impressed when I performed my party trick (I stood in front of his booth and begged him to put on some garage - he refused); and there were no decent men for any of us to kiss.

I tend to wander around with blinkers on when I go out and so rarely notice the attractiveness of others, but we played a little game in Barcode. The three of us had two minutes to look round the bar to see if we fancied anyone. Before the time was up we all announced there was no one there we'd fuck!

Aside from all that, there were some other points worth noting. I'm not sure what annoyed me most: That we didn't go dancing; that Snow yet again got more attention from the gays than I did; or that my copy of Boyz had the hooker ads and porn pull-out removed.



As an aside, a piece of advice: Should a hang over make you want to kill yourself and you decide to take 6 painkillers before you leave the house, be prepared to arrive at the office with absolutely no idea how you got there.


21 December 2006

What begins with P?

OK, a great little Blogger I know called La Fille Mariee has set me a challenge. She has tagged me to list 10 things I love that begin with the letter P. She was tagged by another Blogger and she was given the letter B.

While I love a game, I’m not sure I necessarily love 10 anythings, let alone 10 things beginning with P.

Here goes (in no particular order):

Pudding. Chocolate pudding. Summer pudding. Yorkshire pudding. I don’t really care what kind of pudding it is, but I know I’ll love it. I’ve had a sweet tooth for as long as I’ve been alive and take me to any restaurant and the first thing I look at is the dessert menu. I judge restaurants (and friends) by their puddings: If it ain’t great, I ain’t stopping.

Pulp Fiction. This is a bit of a cheat actually. I did enjoy this film, but the reason why I have mentioned it is because one of my favourite songs of all time is on the soundtrack. Son of a Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield is a timeless song and always makes me smile. I’m not a particularly deep person when it comes to song lyrics, but when the first bar of this song kicks in, my knees go weak.

Politeness. Where would I be without politeness? I wouldn’t exist. My mum instilled into me and my sister a philosophy of always being polite; always smiling; always doing whatever it takes to make someone else happy. There have been times (too many to mention) when my politeness has meant I’ve missed out on something or I’ve been taken for a ride, but my own mantra has become: Never be rude to the rude person. The ruder someone gets to me, the more polite I become. People should say please and thank you more.

Penis. The penis. I have one. I touch it every day. I like other men’s penises. I don’t touch them enough.

Puttanesca. This is more a reference to a show that many people love (and many others will groan about): Sex and the City. It seems that every single gal and lavender boy is a ‘true fan’ of this show and knows it inside out. Me and my pals are the same and we can quote like no one’s business. In series four, Charlotte offers to make a ‘fabulous puttanesca’ for Miranda’s baby shower. It took us years to find out what this actually is and when she discovered it, top gal pal (and quoting legend) Dame Saskia of Pinkdom made one for me and Snow. Turns out it’s this amazing spaghetti dish with anchovies and tomato and garlic. It should go on anyone’s Best Ten list. P or otherwise.

Perseverance. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. This is something I stand by. I never give up. I teach myself things and if I get it wrong, I try again. Everyone should have a little bit more perseverance. If we all tried just a little bit harder, we’d all have much more fun.

Pure Garage. Garage. Speed Garage. UK Garage. Two-Step. Four to the Floor. Dub-Step. Breakbeat Garage. US Garage. Soulful Garage. Dance music is a crazy beast and every three weeks someone wants to re-label an existing genre. Garage used to be underground. Then it went overground. Luck and Neat were on Top of the Pops, for heaven’s sake. If anything credible goes overground, it’s essentially the end. Garage died in 2002, but it’s still bubbling on the underground scene, where it belongs. While Pure Garage was a commercial attempt to make money, the compilation CDs in this range have had all of my favourite tracks on them. There was Pure Garage 1,2,3,4 and 5, Platinum, Breaks, Bass and Beats, Classics – the list goes on. Get yourself a Pure Garage compilation and be educated.

Pimlico. When I first moved to London, I wanted to live in Pimlico. It just sounds nice. Pimlico. I have since been there and I know I’ll never live there, but I love the word.

Pretence. I read somewhere that we’re only ever happy when daydreaming about future happiness. That’s true enough – my new job sounds like the answer to all my prayers: I’ll be doing the job I want to do in Soho, I’ll have more money and I’ll finally be working on a magazine and not in financial publishing anymore. But when I actually start, I’ll have lots of things to moan about and the novelty will have worn off (I’m giving it three weeks) and then it’ll just be any old job. What really makes me happy is pretending to be someone else, rather than thinking about things I’m actually going to do. I pretend to be all sorts of people, changing it on an almost daily basis. I pretend to be a Hollywood film star; I pretend to be a stand up comedian, lauded by critics and the public alike; I pretend to be someone charitable who enjoys doing things for those less fortunate; I pretend to be a millionaire and spend all the money in my head. The plus point about pretending is that you’ll never actually achieve that dream and so there’s no danger of it becoming boring. Today I am pretending to be a Blogger who has written a hilariously funny post on all the things he loves beginning with the letter P. There’s no danger of it happening, so I can be happy forever.

Philip Olivier. I saved the best till last. Just look at this picture to see what I mean. No words would do him justice. He is, in fact, the best thing in the world that begins with the letter P.

That was hard work and I think I now deserve a couple of pints down the pub with some great people, stopping off for a pie and chips on the way home.

I shouldn’t have to suffer alone, so I am now passing on the tagging baton to the following lucky bleeders:

Tequila Mockingbird – the letter T
Redboy – the letter L
Hannah Banana – the letter S
Soul Seared Dreamer – the letter J
Eileen Dover – the letter M

Enjoy!

Nice jumper!

Oh, and because I was planning on getting the later train again this morning to see either of my new imaginary boyfriends, I was rushing around so much I ended up putting on the wrong jumper. And then it was too late to change it and I had to leave with it still on.

So now I'm sitting at my desk in a three-year old black roll-neck and I look a little bit French.

Who the fuck's going to be interested in that?

Needless to say neither of the fuckers were on the train, so now I'm French and single.

Men are all bastards!

Holidays and hookers

The office is dead this morning.

It seems that everyone except me was clever enough to save some holiday so they could leave at the start of the week.

I did not do such a thing. I am here all day today and all of tomorrow, too.

Thing is, once tomorrow is over, I will be away from a computer until the New Year, so this little blog will have a bit of a breather.

I'll pray that some deliciously exciting things happen over the festive period so I have plenty of juicy info to talk about when I get back.

There's a very slim glimmer that something interesting could happen this evening as I am out for fun and frolics with Snow and Doormouse.

We're popping into Soho for drinks and natters and, as with every time I set foot into a bar or club full of the mens who like mens, in the very back of my mind, I'm expecting to meet someone gorgeous.

I doubt Danny Dyer or Philip Olivier will be there, but I'm hoping there'll be someone rugged there for me.

I do know that you only ever meet blokes when you least expect it and expecting to meet someone automatically means no one good will be out, but it would be very handy to start up a new romance at this time of year.

He would have just enough time to pop to the shops to lavish me with gifts and at the start of next month I'm arranging a surprise 30th party for my sister and if I have to turn up for another family function without a plus one, I might kill myself.

It'd be great to take someone hunky along, if only to stick two fingers up to my ugly step-sisters (and their even uglier husbands).

I guess if I don't meet The One this evening, I could always hire a man to accompany me to the party.

There are plenty of escorts in the back of Boyz magazine.

20 December 2006

Today I would like to be...

1) A Dandy swanning around nineteenth century London wearing a frock coat and monocle and carrying a cane.

2) The 'secret' boyfriend of any Premiership football player (except Ashley Cole), forced to live in the shadows and smuggled out of the players' lounge after big matches under a blanket.

3) A talented psychologist headhunted by MI5 to work on covert operations making my life a real-life version of Spooks (as long as I get to snog Rupert Penry-Jones).

What three things would you like to be today?

19 December 2006

Not the only Grinch in town

At Last!

Proof that I am not the only person who is not 'over the pissing moon' that Crimble is just round the corner.

Emz sent me this email:

I have hardly heard any xmas music so far so luckily i'm not bored of that (although i do hate that fucking Pogues song....and wham!). I have only received cards from boring companies i deal with, and everyone's so boring here they dont talk about xmas. We go on xmas team "lunches" for the day and get rat-arsed but still no mention of xmas. That being the case i am more excited than most about xmas day. HOWEVER.... like you...the 'F' word is just not nice. Why we feel we HAVE to be all nice and family orientated for this one day, when normally i couldn't give a crap about the rest of my family, is beyond me. Why everyone puts up the pretence god only knows - but seeing as he doesn't even exist thats a dead-end! When I was younger it was clear, you had to be nice to family to get presents. I have now cottoned (that even a word?!!?) on to the fact that regardless of how 'nice' i am i still get presents. So this year i have vowed to say it as i see it. If my cousin shows her normal enthusiasm for the day by opening the door in her Adidas poppers and Nike t-shirt, instead of smiling nicely and telling her she looks good i'm going to be honest "what the fuck are you wearing that for? go upstairs and put some real clothes on, this is fucking xmas, make an effort would you". Then to my aunt whos attempts at cooking "the big meal" generally take around 5 hours and leave the rest of us hanging around simply waiting for a scrap of food to be ready. This year "why dont you hire caterers? No, the food isn't nice! It sux like every fucking year. You cant cook and it amazes me that you have got through 50 years of your life without knowing this?! Didn't the fact that your kids started cooking their own meals before they could even WALK not give you a clue?".....and on and on. To be honest, I dont even care if i dont get the Arsenal Calendar and the £10 HMV voucher.... i think i'll live. I'll feel better for telling the truth....and if it goes THAT badly i could even be home for eastenders.

I couldn't have put it better myself.

Emz, I welcome you aboard The Grinch Express.

Who else wants to jump on board?


Men I have loved (4)

















#4 in an occasional series* - Danny Dyer

He might not have the ripped torso of Philip Olivier, but he's got bad boy charm by the bucket load.

I watched him wank himself off in Human Traffic, he beat the shit out of everyone in The Football Factory and he spent most of The Business running around Marbella in nothing more than some very snug Sergio Tacchini shorts.

Not only is he the ultimate bad boy, he also has something that scouser Phil Olivier is missing: the voice. He comes from Canning Tahn and can frequently be heard screaming: "You trying to mug me off, you cunt?"

Danny Dyer really is the business.


* I was aiming for once a week, but I only put the last one on here 4 days ago. This highlights just how long I spend thinking about all these handsome men. I'm already thinking about the next one...


WANTED: Cruising Classes

I had a plan this morning. I'd stayed at Snow's one-woman pad in Crew Shond on Sunday night, which meant I had to get the bus into town yesterday morning, therefore missing the opportunity to stare at my Boyfriend on the Train.

So the plan this morning was to get up early, do my hair brilliantly, wear the last suggestion of my Hermes aftershave and flirt my socks off.

Plans never work.

I got up late, didn't have enough time to make my lunch, legged it to the station, got cramp, realised my season ticket had run out and had to queue up at the machine to get a new one.

An unexpected twist was that there was a bona fide sex pot standing in the queue in front of me. I looked at my watch and decided it was more important to look at him than move to the shorter queue at the other machine to make sure I got on the train destined for my boyfriend. (I'm such an imaginary slut.)

This new creature in front of me was de-lish. He was ever so slightly taller than me, and as I am 6 foot 2, this is no easy task. He had mousey blonde hair, but nice mousey, not bland mousey. He had a jawline that could have won Most Chiselled Award and he clearly hadn't bothered shaving this morning (but it looked good - he wasn't one of those Men With Blue Faces who have to shave on the hour every hour). And he was wearing Chanel Allure. I know because I got as close as I could to breathe it in without getting arrested. It wasn't Allure Sport, sadly, but it was Chanel, so I'll let it pass.

All in all, he was a hunk in a suit. With a lovely grey winter coat cinched in the right places and very scrummy indeed.

I stared at him the whole time we were lined up and did what I usually do in this instance: imagine his name, his job, where he's going to take me on our first date, how much his mum loves me and how long it's going to take for him to ask me to move into his lavish pad.

Dream over - he got his ticket and dashed up the stairs to get the train. I got my ticket in record time and flew up to make sure I got on board too. I couldn't find the new man in my life, so I sat down and prepared to have a nap.

Then I realised that in all the excitement of getting a new boyfriend, I'd sat in the wrong carriage to catch a glimpse of my long-term crush. When we stopped at the next station, I jumped off the train, pelted up the platform and boarded on the carriage I normally sit on.

As punishment for forgetting about my long-standing lover, he didn't get on the train this morning. I can only assume that when he didn't see me yesterday, he spent the day in tears and ended up swallowing a lethal cocktail of drink and drugs last night. (The real reason is probably because all the trains were delayed and so he got on an earlier one that would have arrived when I should have, but let's not dwell on that.)

The point of all this is, I now have two gorgeous men who I have seen with my own eyes and therefore know they really do exist and they both get on my train. And one of them must live quite close by.

So, why can't I strike up a conversation with either of them? The one at my station was splendid indeed and I toyed with the idea of saying: "May I just say that jacket is amazing."

Is that a spiffy opener, or the worst sentence a man has ever uttered?

I need to enroll on a seminar on How to Cruise the Local Gays because I just don't have the know-how.

I blame Christmas.

18 December 2006

Should not be allowed

Novelty ties with pictures of snowmen are one thing.

And socks picturing Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer have been annoying people for years.

But what's that I hear from a co-worker on the next bank of desks? They have a Christmas-themed ring tone on their mobile phone?

Fun. And what festive pop gem have they opted for?

Oh goody, it's Shakin' Stevens with 'Merry Christmas Everyone'.

And this is a 32-year old man. With a wife and kids.

Now I've got to go and find something sharp in the kitchen to cut my ears off just so I don't have to listen to it one more time.

Cretin.

Misery and kisses

Once again, the weekend has passed me by and as if like magic, I am back at the office. I shouldn't really moan because this week will be the last full week I do in this building as I have the Christmas holiday and then I start my new BETTER job not long after the New Year. And that is just great.

I didn't really do much celebrating, though. Aside from the fact that money is rather tight at this time of year (and I actually got round to doing all my shopping for presents on Saturday), I have received some, shall I say negativity from people regarding my new job.

The people who count have been really supportive, i.e. mum and sister and best friends, but one of my close friends (who shall remain nameless) made less effort to appear pleased than you would expect and The Grisly didn't even say congratulations, merely telling me that as my pay was going up, so too would my rent as he doesn't work anymore (too lazy/apparently unwell) and 'the money has to come from somewhere'.

I won't dwell on either of these sour pussies here as moaning is not going to change them, but I do wonder when you should stop making allowances for people and their misery. Is cutting people like that out of your life a tad too far? Hmm, I wonder...

... Onto more positive news (for some): Snow (who is 'supremely supportive' re my job and is the only person so far who got me a card) had her work Christmas party on Saturday and it's fair to say, she's living the dream. Unlike me, she didn't embarrass herself by getting too drunk at the meal or shouting in people's faces or dancing her socks off.

No, she decided that her course of Christmas action was to snog the man she's fancied for the last 6 months. In the men's toilets. He has a girlfriend and Snow is not your usual scarlet woman, but he is apparently very scrummy and all the girls (and guys) in the office are in love with him and she was the lucky swine to bag him.

He told her that he had fancied her since her first met her and as a thank you, she jumped him in the toilets. I mean, obviously I was 'happy' for her, but in the back of my mind I knew that I should've done something similar with Mr Sexy Delicious. There will be no further work functions for me at this company and so I have lost my chance forever.

He probably would've given me a dry slap right across the chops, but better to regret something you've done than to regret not doing it.

Let's just hope there's a William at my new office and I can make up for lost time.

15 December 2006

Men I have loved (3)





















#3 in an occasional series* - Philip Olivier

Scarlet was not impressed with the idea of me missing her birthday drinks in favour of a
Scally hoe-down, so I had no choice but to blow Phil off. And not in the good way.

As my boyfriend, Philip Olivier, will have missed me, I have popped him in at number 3 in my list.

Look at the picture. I need say nothing more.


* Not so much 'occasional' as 'once a week'.

The Grinch is back

Please ignore any positive feeling in the last post. I am miserable again.

The bunch of cunts on the bank of desks next to me have actually put a Christmas CD on.

And it's not one with Slade and all the other bastards who've ever released a festive pop song: it's a CD of carols.

Actual Christmas carols.

I need to find a rusty blade to drag across my throat...

Go West (End)

OK, time to get over the Christmas blues and spread some good news, I think.

I've got a new job. Hoo-fucking-ray! The ghost of Christmas Redundant will not need to visit me and I won't have to eat Tesco value beans from the can.

It all happened rather fast and it hasn't really sunk in yet. Since the
redundo situation was announced, I have been applying for many, many editorial positions and as the competition is so fierce, none of them responded.

I got a call last Thursday from one of the jobs I was really interested in and she sprung a 20 minute telephone interview on me. Then she asked me to come in on the Friday for a face-to-face one with her and the publisher. That lasted an hour and a half (unusual for me as I normally perform so badly at interviews that I'm out within 30 minutes) and involved a serious grilling and a couple of sub-editing tests.

That went well and they asked me back for a second interview on Wednesday of this week with the same people and also the editor. Another hour and a half later and I was positive I wanted the job.

They called yesterday and offered it to me. And I accepted.

For the first time in months, I have some good news and haven't stopped smiling. The people seem really nice, the work will be hard but rewarding and the best bit of all is that I can finally ditch the SE1 postcode of the South Bank as their offices are based in W1. So I will become a fully-fledged Soho Mo.

As if that wasn't good enough, even though I am going before the Redundancy Fairy was due to visit and drag me kicking and screaming from the building, I still get the full pay-off they were offering.

So what with the new job starting in a month, I will be able to use the pay-out to clear my overdraft and pay my car loan off*, leaving me free to move out of the sticks and back to London Town, baby!

I will definitely stop moaning for the rest of Christmas now.



* This is obviously never going to happen. The money will be spent on a new iPod, a whole new wardrobe to start my new job in Soho, a laptop, some Converse trainers, a few new pairs of jeans, some CDs from eBay, plenty of Clinique skin care products and whatever else I can spunk the cash on in as short a time as possible.

14 December 2006

Once, twice, three times a stalker

The Train Hunk was on the late train again this morning.

I did my trick of watching him in the reflection in the window as opposed to just staring at him.

Sadly he caught me. Not once, but thrice.

There wasn't a glimmer of anything that would suggest either annoyance or intrigue, so I don't yet know whether we will get married.

I tried to follow him out of the station and bump into him at the traffic lights, but he was too fast.

I'll have to be quicker tomorrow.


I can't stop moaning

I don't know whether it's the festive music that's now being pumped from the otherwise redundant speakers in my local Tesco, or the hourly questioning about what I'm going to do at Christmas and who I'm going to see and blah, blah, blah, but now that I've started moaning, I can't stop and I seem to get annoyed by every little thing.

The journey to work this morning was rife with annoyances and I am going to list them now in the hope that I don't fester over them for the rest of the day.

People who don't sit by the window on the train: When I am the first person to sit in a certain section of a train, I sit next to the window so all further people who plonk down near me can fill in around me. It's bad train etiquette to sit on the outside seat first as that means the next person in has to squeeze past you. This is especially relevant if the offender is a six foot tall man, or a very large person.

Teenagers who listen to music on their phones on the speaker rather than headphones: I don't want to hear a tinny version of 'Smack That' by Akon, and I'm sure in their hearts they don't want to either.

Couples who kiss on the train: It's 8:05am and I can't even picture a slice of wholemeal toast without wanting to puke, so the last thing I want to see is Mr and Mrs Boring of Alexandra Palace get on, sit opposite me and start sucking each other's faces off. There's a time and a place for that depravity and this is neither.

People who read and walk: You're walking from Liverpool Street to Bank. It's the pedestrian equivalent of the M25. Reading this morning's Metro is dangerous. You need to have your wits about you otherwise when you get in my way, I will 'accidentally' catch the back of your ankle with my winkle picker and you won't be happy.

People who text and walk: See above. Check your phone when you get to work, or move aside and let people get past, you selfish prick.

Jagged Toothed Office Snides: He didn't do anything to annoy me this morning per se, but I walked past his desk and that was enough.

There. I feel much better now. Time for that slice of toast.

13 December 2006

I'd dump my friends for it

It's December and for some of my friends, that means Birthday Time as well as Christmas. Snow celebrates her birthday on Christmas Day itself, and my sister, Emmy Lou, has her day on the 29th. Both of them are unlucky enough to only ever get one present from people who say it's "Christmas and birthday combined".

Another of my best lady friends, Scarlet, is celebrating (or commiserating) her turning 27 tomorrow. She has an evening of dancing planned for Saturday night with everyone in town invited, but for tomorrow evening, it's a select number of close friends who are invited for some cocktails and nibbles in her favourite bar and it's all going to be very 'exciting'.

I like to make an effort on people's birthdays and really believe that whatever the birthday girl (or boy) wants to do is what counts and I'll always be there no matter what, whether it's a dance-off or a karaoke marathon or just a nice meal somewhere.

However, this year, I might have to go against everything I stand for and not actually turn up. You see, Rude Boyz, Vauxhall's biggest and best Scally night at Fire, is holding its Mr Rude Boyz 2007 'Grand Scally Final' tomorrow night. It'll be wall-to-wall scally and there'll be more Adidas trackie bottoms than a scally-fancier would know what to do with.

As if that wasn't enough to make a geezer-loving Mary ditch his best friend on her birthday, thus ending their 16-year friendship, the final will be presented by none other than my boyfriend (in my head, at least), Phil Olivier. And he's giving away signed copies of his 2007 calendar to the first 200 through the doors.

I need to have a long, hard think about what Scarlet's actually done for me, because I wouldn't want to miss it.

Who needs old school friends anyway?

12 December 2006

What happened at the Christmas party

I am so hung over, I might be dead. I don't know for definite. I do know that writing anything decent is going to be hard work, so while I try and avoid eye contact from all the people in the office who saw me dancing suggestively to The Pussycat Dolls last night, I will see what I can remember from the office party.

Glasses of champagne before sitting down for meal: 8

Canapés before sitting down for meal: 20? (Mainly honey-glazed sausages - scrum)

Drinks consumed with meal: 1 glass champagne, 3 glasses red wine, 2 glasses white wine

Person I sat next to at dinner: Commercial Director with yellow teeth, dirty finger nails and coffee-and-tobacco breath

Person Little Lou got to sit next to: William (looking dapper in Diesel jeans and fitted black shirt)

Level of annoyance that Lou got to sit next to William: 368

Gift from Secret Santa: 'Hilarious' comedy mug with picture of 'hunk in trunks' where hot liquid makes said trunks fall down revealing knob

Standard of dinner: Far cry from
canapés at beginning

First person on the dancefloor: Me

Time it took anyone to join me: 20 minutes

Music played: Varied from semi-decent to early Madonna

Favourite conversation of the night:

Me: When are you going to play some garage?
Girl (DJ's Assistant): It's not up to me - he says (pointing to old man DJ) no one here will like it.
Me: Who the fuck is he anyway? He's so old he wouldn't know a good song if it bit him on the arse.
Girl (DJ's Assistant): He's my dad.

How many people I said goodbye to when I realised how drunk I was and needed to make a quick exit: 0

Time spent wandering around Westminster trying to work out how to get back to Kings Cross: 25 minutes

Time it took to realise I was going to miss the last train home from Kings Cross: 11 minutes

Amount of friends I called asking them if I could crash at their flats: 3

Amount of friends who answered their phones: 0

Time spent panicking that I was going to have to sleep under a bridge before Doormouse called me back and said I could stay at his: 6 minutes

Time I woke up this morning on his sofa in just my pants: 9:50am

Size of my hang over: Gargantuan

Relief that I have a half day and can go home at 12:30pm and won't have to talk to anyone else: Immeasurable

11 December 2006

Quick whinge

People say some really annoying things.

Two of the things that really bug me have already been uttered in my earshot this morning, and I ain't happy!

* Annoyance #1: 'Random'. This word is perfectly relevant when talking about 'random number generators', or mathematical patterns or other such boring topics. But I find it most annoying when people use this word as an adjective to describe other people. A girl on the train this morning was telling the listener on her phone of her weekend 'kissing some random bloke'. I know what she's saying, but please, don't speak like that in public. It's very irritating.

* Annoyance #2: 'Blatantly': This word shares the top spot of my hate list of words and today's offender was a co-worker. Now if she had been talking about her failure to conceal an act, such as 'blatantly shoplifting', I would've accepted that with no problem. But what she was actually talking about was how she was 'blatantly going to get hammered at the party'. I don't know for definite, but I'd imagine she's the sort of girl who uses excessive exclamation marks and finishes most emails with 'LOL'.

The cretin!!!!!!!! LOL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Where did my weekend go?

Seriously, is it really Monday again? Yes, it is. And it ain't just any ol' Monday. 'Tis the day of the work Christmas party, so understandably, I am OVER THE MOON.

Friday of last week was spent not really knowing what I was doing. Someone decided it'd be a good idea to crack open a few bottles of wine to celebrate the fact that we were 'getting closer to Christmas'. I may not like this time if year, but I do like an impromptu drinking session at my desk at 2pm, so I threw myself into the festive spirit. The last three hours of my afternoon were spent with 'red wine teeth' and telling all and sundry that I wasn't in the mood for work.

After work, I headed out to the Retro Bar (enjoying en route an altercation with an extremely infuriating and antagonistic ticket guard at Charing Cross station as apparently, pre-pay Oyster cards do not work at that station. Then tell Ken Bloody Livingstone to stop forcing commuters into Oystering up if you can't actually use them in Zone 1! Oh, and PS Ken, with regards to all the posters on your tube platforms: telling passengers not to verbally or physically abuse your staff ain't really going to solve anything if your staff seriously lack customer service skills, compassion or common sense. Train them how to deal with people's problems, as opposed to screaming and shouting at us and then when we get understandably riled, telling us to 'complain to the manager if we're not happy'.) with Sammy Jo to meet Doormouse as we had an ex-co-worker's gig to attend. We sank 4 drinks there and then popped back onto the underground to mooch on over to West Kensington, if you don't mind.

The gig was great and the co-worker really did have an amazing voice. When it was over, I headed back to Doormouse's pad as we had 4 bottles of wine burning holes in our bags. At Westminster station waiting for the Jubilee Line train, a feasibly handsome young man came and stood on the platform next to us and proceeded to cruise the pants off of Doormouse. We were deep in conversation and he quite literally stared, smiled and winked at DM. We all got on the packed train and they spent the next three stops cruising each other while I carried on talking shit. At London Bridge, The Honey got off the train, then turned around on the platform, waiting for DM.

Luckily for me, Doormouse is not the kind of chum to ditch you for a guy, but he was well in there. We stayed on the train and analysed and over-analysed this man's actions all the way home and all the way through the 4 bottles of wine until the clock said 5:30am.

The rest of the weekend was something of a hung over blur and now all of a sudden I'm back on Monday morning and wearing my best new party shirt ready for the 'fun' of the party this evening. My aim is to pace myself with the free drink, but I'd put money on me being the first one drunk, the first one on the dance floor and the first one to miss the last train home from Kings Cross.

But the one nagging thought that refuses to budge is: While I am supremely happy that Doormouse was within an inch of some man action (he's been barren for almost as long as I have), I am thoroughly annoyed that I was not the one being cruised.

Where's my hot, mysterious stranger looking for some tube action?

07 December 2006

Please call me The Grinch

It started slightly later than it usually does. I got my first Christmas card yesterday. Surprisingly, it wasn't from a super keen co-worker or distant relative, but it came from the hand of Dame Saskia of Pinkdom, who really ought to know better.

I have acquired a reputation for being quite Scrooge-like around the Noel period and many people who know me well enough fully expect me to be screaming 'Bah Humbug!' at the top of my voice.

What riled me about this particular card is that Dame Saskia, while meaning well, put this in her card: "Don't be The Grinch like you usually are: look at the positives and have fun."

Perhaps I've got her wrong and she doesn't get me at all, but I thought she knew where my Grinch factor came from.
I don’t feel down about myself or my life or anything like that (even though it is all toil and trouble and no double bubble), I just hate Christmas. It’s pointless. It’s frustrating. It's commercial. It's meaningless. And it forces people into doing things they think they should do rather than because they want to.

This evening, for example, I have to go on a specific shopping trip after work just to get a present for a co-worker I've never spoken to for the Secret Santa as our work party is next Monday. And as the inevitable cards have now started going round, I'm faced with that whole ‘do I get people cards and go against everything I believe in, or do I refuse to join in and get called names by everyone else who hates Christmas as much as I do but doesn’t have the courage to admit it’ question.

I might take neither option, crawl into a cardboard box under my desk and refuse to get out until mid-January. (Taking with me a box of 12
mince pie doughnuts!)


Green with Envy

Snow's one-woman pad in Crouch End is starting to look like something she could call home. She moved in on Sunday and has spent most of the week so far decorating and cleaning.

She called in sick on Tuesday so she could get a head start on the painting. I also had the day off (actually because I got so blind drunk on Monday night with Law Girl that I could barely remember by own name, and as I am being made redundant - don't know if I mentioned that - I thought I might as well have a day off), so in the afternoon, I popped round and gave her a hand with the masking tape and paint brush.

While we waited for the paint (Mellow Sage - very Carrie Bradshaw's apartment*) to dry, we jumped in her motor and sped around North London looking for affordable furniture to adorn her studio.

We did the rounds of Homebase, B&Q and Ikea (getting stuck in monumental traffic on the A10 and North Circular throughout - which wasn't really a problem as Shine FM was playing some wicked tunes, and not a Girls Aloud song in sight!), and got some great bits. As of this morning, the paint is dry and she says she's just about ready to let people see it.

I am seriously proud of her for branching out on her own. She was in a long-term relationship for 4 years and before that we shared flats for 4 years, so she's never actually lived on her own.

She got some fantastic picture frames, mirrors, curtains and shelves, and while I am pleased for her, in the back of my mind I am super green with envy. As we walked around the shops, I was spotting things that I've planned to get just as soon as I can make the break into my own studio heaven.

I know I need to get another job sorted before I can think about home furnishings, but I already have in mind the antique wooden chair I will use as a bedside table, and I know just which Bakelite telephone is going to rest on my back issues of Vogue, GQ and Vanity Fair.


* I know the paint is 'very Carrie Bradshaw's apartment' because Snow spent four and a half hours mooching around the 'virtual tour' of the girls' apartments on the Sex and the City official website for inspiration!

06 December 2006

My new favourite thing is...










... the new mince pie doughnut from Krispy Kreme. On their website, they say this:

"... [this] is a yeast raised doughnut shell, filled with delicious mincemeat, topped with white icing and a sugar holly leaf - sure to add to your festive cheer."

It is fair to say, I no longer hate Christmas.

Crime doesn't gay

Google's a wonderful thing. Searching for stuff, you can end up anywhere, reading about things you never thought existed.

Just now I was looking for something completely harmless (I promise) and I stumbled across a story about 'tranny gangsters' and 'rent boy assassins'.

If there really was such a thing as The Gay Mafia, I bet they'd be part of it.

Pop Tart

If someone were to ask me about my musical tastes, I'd definitely say that I don't like the run of the mill, typical gay stuff. I would mention all the UKG I love, the filthy, dirty electro house that gets me moving and the laid-back French filtered house like Blue Six and Miguel Migs that makes me smile.

But of
the disc that Emz did me, I am totally loving the gayest of all the albums on there.

I spent most of last night having a disco in my room to the Girls Aloud and
Dannii Minogue greatest hits albums.

God, how gay can I get?


04 December 2006

Skint, single and proud

A rather down and miserable Dame Saskia of Pinkdom sent me an email regarding a mutual friend this morning.

The mutual friend, Little Miss Spoilt, was telling Dame Saskia all the gory details of her wedding plans for next summer. There was talk of rings costing £3,000 each, the dress being somewhere in the region of £5,000 and the mother of the bride is reported to be spending £2,000 on her outfit.

Dame Saskia was down because her wedding and honeymoon combined came in at less than five grand. And then there was the fact that Little Miss Spoilt is earning stacks more money than us for doing less than half the work and her
fiancé is clearing more than double mine and Dame Saskia's wages combined.

The point that she seemed not to notice though, was that The
Fiancé is not letting Little Miss Spoilt attend the work Christmas party she organised simply because partners are not invited and he doesn't think it's right.

What I got from that story was simply that he is in control of her life and won't let her out of his sight.

Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not an idiot. I know that money does buy you happiness (a new pair of Levi's and an iPod Nano would do wonders for my temperament), but I really would rather be on my own and in the financial cul-de-sac I am currently in than have all that money and let some man dictate what I do, regardless of how much interest he earns on his stocks and shares.

Give me singledom in poverty any day.

Men I have loved (2)




















#2 in an occasional series - Dean Cain


I knew when I was very young that I was 'not like other boys', but it wasn't until The New Adventures of Superman hit my TV screen on a Saturday evening just before Noel's House Party in 1993 that I realised exactly what this meant.

Here was the God amongst men Dean Cain and suddenly everything fell into place. I was 13, confused and full of hormones and he was every inch the superhero. With his rippling torso (which was never revealed as often as it should've been), dreamy eyes and big strong arms, I would've done anything to trade places with Teri Hatcher.

Dean Cain was the first man I ever imagined doing the dirty dirty with and my fantasies of him got me through my teens and beyond.

If they started doing repeats of this show, I'd probably never leave the house again.

He really was a super man.

01 December 2006

Shame in an elevator

One of my biggest problems is my constant embarrassment in social situations.

Today at lunch I had a simple plan: To jump in the lift, go down to the canteen in the basement and then get a salad.
I should know by now that nothing is ever that simple.

The lifts in this building are always busy and my biggest fear is that there'll be someone in there who wants to talk to me in front of all the others.

This was today's situation and I was responding to the incessant questions as well as I could instead of screaming that I didn't want to talk. When the lift arrived at ground floor, habit took over and I got out rather than remained where I was to go one floor extra.

As soon as I realised I'd stepped out in error, I could easily have jumped back in and made some lame joke about 'not being with it' and being 'so glad it's the weekend' etc.
Mortified, I pretended I'd meant to get out and carried on out of the building. It doesn't matter, I thought, I'll just go to the cash machine and then go back and get into the lift again.

When I got outside and joined the queue, I realised I didn't have my wallet on me and I had to vacate the queue and go straight back in to the office anyway.

But I was too embarrassed to just leave the queue, so I did what I do best and got my phone out and pretended to start talking to someone.

Shameful. Just shameful.

Clothes maketh the man

The best evenings are always the impromptu ones. I'd planned to pop to the shops after work to get an eye-catching new outfit for the dreaded party season, and as I was marching up Oxford Street, knocking dreary Christmas shoppers left, right and centre with my brolly, I was tapped on the shoulder by none other than Dame Saskia of Pinkdom.

This bolt of glittery pinkness was a joy in the otherwise monochrome throng of retail Hell and while we had a natter outside HMV (she was telling me how The Devoted Husband has been signed off work for a week with terrible 'flu), who did we spy? Well, if it wasn't Sophia wandering into Urban Outfitter. Another injection of fabulousness into the quagmire!

The three of us decided it would be nice to go for something to eat after nipping into Topshop/Topman. I was expecting to get a whole outfit and I did pick some bits to buy - skinny-fitting moleskin trousers, blue slim-fit checked shirt and skinny black and white tie, all to wear with my grey winkle pickers - but Saskia vetoed the entire look, telling me that I had become a 'generic gay'.

After a tense moment where I thought about grabbing her by her honey-blonde hair, dragging her through the shop and throwing her head-first down the escalators for daring to suggest that I was dressing like everyone else, I agreed that every homo in town was in fact wearing skinny this and skinny that and vowed not to darken the door of the drainpipe jeans again.

We then mosied on over to Cafe Emm and had a delightfully pleasant meal and gossip and I managed to get in at a respectable 10:30pm.

Now though, I need to focus all my attention on evolving my look. Heaven forbid I should carry on looking generic.


30 November 2006

Girl after my own heart

Here is an email I received from Sophia this morning:

"
I had to let you know about the Adonis on my train this morning; I knew you’d appreciate this. He has been on it sporadically, mainly when I get the later train, which I shall get from now on, fuck work; I can be 10 mins late! Last week he was wearing a checked trilby, which I felt I couldn’t forgive him for, but dear God this morning, seriously he is amazing. Tall, fair hair, chiselled features, athletic looking, lovely suit, actually looks like a model. I can’t look at him for too long because I know whilst I’m staring he will end up looking at me and think 'stalker' and I’m also worried his beauty will fry my eyeballs."

This was brilliant and confirmed that I am not alone in my admiration of strangers on trains. I am having a similar experience at the moment as I've discovered if I get the train that makes me half an hour late for work, my very own Adonis jumps on at Finsbury Park. Mine has dark hair and the best tan on public transport. He also wears suits and carries a briefcase and is very scrummy indeed.

Of course, I try not to look at mine too long either, although checking his reflection out in the window has become my new favourite pastime.

Why aren't there more men like that on the trains?

Black and blue

A colleague (who shall remain nameless for fear of reprisals) said this to me this morning:

"I'm considering getting the Simon Webbe album, but I don't know what to get my mum for Christmas. Maybe I could get the album for her and pop it on my iPod before I wrap it up. What do you think?"

What do I think? I’ll tell you what I think. I'm considering launching myself across the desk to throat-punch her for even thinking about getting that pile of tat, let alone palming it off on her poor mother.


This proves that Christmas is the Devil's work.

29 November 2006

I am the Music Man

All my musical prayers have been answered.

My friend Emz works in the music industry and she asked me the other day if there were any albums or singles I wanted. She is very ingenious and somehow manages to get anything up to 40 CDs on one DVD - for very special friends, obviously.

I sent her a lengthy email with a list of every single album I wanted - especially Jamiroquai, The Ordinary Boys and Sugababes - expecting her to laugh in my face* and when I got to work yesterday, there was a package waiting for me on my desk.

As soon as I got in last night, I popped it into my DVD player and before my very eyes was a grand total of 36 albums - all the ones I had requested. There simply wasn't enough time in the evening to skip through them all.

You could say that Christmas has come early for me and now I won’t have to spend all my wages on CDs. I can set them aside for jeans, trainers and skin care products instead.


* She didn't laugh in my face about the amount of albums I mentioned, but she did raise an eyebrow at the coolness of some of them - Girls Aloud, Samantha Mumba and Bananarama in particular.

When is a date not a date?

Question: When is a date not a date?

Answer: When it's merely a lunchdate with an ex-colleague you used to fancy. But this doesn't mean that you won't get nervous, turn up late, sweaty and flustered and mortify yourself at least 6 times in the hour. So, yes, pretty much like a date.

Take yesterday for example. I agreed to meet up with Jonas, a guy who used to work in my office. When I started at this company, there were two rival gangs of homos - the one I was in was quite bitchy and was up the far end of the office and the one down the front was much bitchier and, I felt, slightly superior to us. When I got promoted and moved to the 'better' end of the office, Jonas was the only one in that bitchy group who bothered to talk to me.

I didn't fancy him per se - he really wasn't my type, all muscles, skin head and perma-tan - but we had a similar sense of humour and spent most of the time taking the piss out of each other. When he handed in his notice, I suddenly felt rather drawn to him. This could be something to do with the fact that he was leaving and maybe I felt it was safe to fancy him as he would soon be gone - but we don't have time to open that can of worms today.

Cut to yesterday and I'd arranged to meet him on Blackfriar's Bridge. I wore my new white Converse trainers, took my aftershave to work to have a 'freshen up' before I left, and I felt super nervous. Felt like a date to me.

The main cause of concern was the greeting. We'd kissed each other goodbye after work drinks many times, but all other contact had happened in the office, and as my old feelings of 'Do I fancy him? Should I fancy him?' were back bubbling under the surface, I was worried that I might accidentally jump him. I saw him, I crossed the road and we said hello. There was a split second pause, then he moved in to my left cheek, but I moved in for his right cheek, I corrected myself, but so did he and we ended up rubbing noses, then he arched his neck and managed to save things by planting a harmless kiss on my right cheek.

The next 50 minutes were spent with me trying to redeem myself and bring myself back from the pit of mortification. I rambled on about every subject under the sun - drifting from plans for Christmas, my new-found love for the US TV show 'The L Word' and whether or not David Hasselhoff will be in next year's Celebrity Big Brother - until he brought himself down to my level by spitting chicken sandwich with lime and pepper dressing all down his jumper.

After that I felt like we were on an even keel and it made the goodbye cheek-kiss effortlessly embarrassment-free.

We've arranged to meet nearer my office next time, so I assume he doesn't hate me. I just hope he didn't spend all afternoon emailing those bitchy moxes to tell them how embarrassing I was.

28 November 2006

Men I have loved (1)

















#1 in an occasional series - Jared Leto


The programme My So Called Life was, as far as me and my friends were concerned, us. Kay was Angela (Clare Danes), Hannah was Rayanne (A J Langer) and I was a non-Hispanic Ricky (Wilson Cruz), coming to terms with my seshuality.

We were all as 'deep' and 'confused' as the stars of the show and the only thing we didn't have in our lives was a hunk of the same scale as Jordan Catalano (Jared Leto).

However, looking at him on screen was enough for me and those formative teenage years were spent thinking I was in love with him. His moody eyes, floppy hair and determination to self-destruct was what made my heart skip a beat.

Jared Leto, I salute you!

Soon be decent again

Book I'm reading this week to appear intellectual on the tube: William Golding's Lord of the Flies
Book I'd actually enjoy reading: Marian Keyes' Sushi for
Beginners

After the coronary-on-a-plate that was my weekend, I was in dire need of a day off, so I used the last day of my holiday yesterday. We hadn't had much to drink, but all the cakes and pastries had sent me into a sugar coma and I felt hung over.

Snow also had the day off, so we spent it mooching around the shops looking for stuff to put into her new flat. At the weekend she's moving into a studio in Crouch End and she wants to fill it with some 'key pieces' to hide the fact that it's a shoe box with its own shower room.

In all honesty, I am supremely jealous that she will be moving back out of her parents' spare room and into her own place, and with her in Crouch End (or Crew Shond as she likes to say it) and Saskia ruling the roost in Highgate Village, I am green with envy that I am not yet living in leafy North London.

When my redundancy situation is over and I have a new high-flying career that reflects my overall levels of fabulousness, I will be in a position to say goodbye to The Bear once and for all and get my own 'bijous' studio.

Until then I will have to make do with using Snow's place as a London base.

We have pencilled in the following weekend for an actual 'weekend' where we go out and do it right like we used to.

I need to stand in the cold bartering with illegal cab drivers, feeling the ringing in my ears at the end of a night of dancing to know that I am alive!

26 November 2006

The Big Weekender?

If it was the end of November in 1999, this post would be very different. Snow and I were 19 and we'd just moved to our first flat in London. We'd left the provinces, bundled all our stuff into bags and moved down into the darkest depths of South West London. We met a 17 year-old Saskia - who was not so much Dame of Pinkdom, but more skin-headed, pipe-smoking teenager - and embarked on a 4-year journey of raving.

A typical weekend would start at 10pm on the Saturday night, getting ready to go out. We'd arrive at Bagley's in Kings Cross at around 11:30pm and we'd have a couple of drinks. We'd spend the rest of the night pumping our bodies full of more chemicals we could get our grubby little hands on, drink only water from the taps in the toilets poured into Evian bottles (we were quite happy to pay £5 for pills from strangers, but refused to pay for more than one £1.50 bottle of water), and we'd rave until 7am when the lights would come up and the bouncers would forcibly remove us.

With skin looking like rubber, sweat stains on our Cyberdog clobber and eyes the size of dinner plates, we'd jump straight on the tube and head off to another rave, usually Sunnyside Up. This would be a daytime affair and the ravers there - including us - would look slightly worse for wear than they'd done the previous night. A day of raving would follow, with more substances and more water and a fair amount of sweaty dancing.

At the end of that rave, we'd head off to our final dance-athon of the day/night and mosey on over to Fever which would be full of the really hardcore ravers, who were technically on their last legs.

After pushing through the pain barrier there, we'd go to someone's (anyone's) house to finish things off. It'd be about 10pm Sunday night and we'd carry on with more chemicals.

This leg of the weekend would end on Monday lunchtime and me and Snow would find ourselves wandering home through the streets of Tooting, rubbing shoulders with all the workers on their lunch breaks, while we were still in our clothes from Saturday. We'd have a couple of days to get back on track and then we'd be ready to go through the whole pill/dancing/sweating merry-go-round again the next weekend.

But you see, it's not the end of November in 1999, we're not 19 years old and we're not spending our student loans on drugs. It's the end of November in 2006, we're 27 years old and we're now spending our wages on food.

And that's all we did this weekend. I had high hopes of us lauding it up around town, drinking and dancing and making new friends. Instead we spent Friday and Saturday eating our own body weight in cookies, cakes and Christmas-themed drinks. Home-made puttenesca, Waitrose cookies, Marks and Spencer cookies and mince pies featured heavily. We ventured out to a French bistro in Highgate village and had 6, count them, 6 courses. Deep-fried Camembert, bread baskets, chocolate fondants and liqueur coffees.

Waking up this morning we knew we wouldn't be going dancing, but instead cracked on with the biscuits, the paninis and the fizzy pop.

I am ready to burst now and all I am fit for is an evening in front of a DVD.

This'll be fine, but it's made me realise that we need to get back out there. We're 27 not 47 and there's a dance floor out there with our names on it.

I only hope we'll all manage to fit into our party wear!

24 November 2006

Saskia loves the aged

PING!

Just received an email from Saskia. She says she's not very happy about the way she's been
portrayed. Her exact words were: "I don't want a million queerbies reading about me and thinking of me as an ageist bitch."

I did tell her that it's more likely to be 5 or 10 homos reading, not a million, but even so, I need to do some damage limitation.

So for anyone who thinks she is ageist, I can confirm that Saskia is 'warm', 'fabulous' and 'in no way prejudiced against people over 25'.

As an aside, she's also not happy* that she is referred to simply as Saskia and doesn't have a title to represent her true glamorista status.

Henceforth she shall now be known as Dame Saskia of Pinkdom.

* She absolutely is NOT high maintenance. Whatever folk might say.

Sticky situation

I've got a feeling this might be too much information, but I've got a bit of a problem. A sweat problem. I just can't stop. I'm constantly sweating at all times, regardless of what the temperature is. In the summer, it's understandable and people turn a blind eye at beads of sweat on the forehead, but when it's cold and miserable like today, it looks a bit odd.

This morning for example, I left Doormouse's and struggled onto the Jubilee line with all my gubbins for the weekend. I had an over-the-shoulder bag, a BIG Topman bag, brolly and all the other bits that make rush hour on the underground so comfortable for me and those around, and while I was lodged in the doorway, chin pressed into my chest, trying not to breathe in the stench of the unwashed, the sweat was quite literally pouring down my forehead and into my eyes. My thickening spray was slowly dripping in with it, but because I had loads of stuff in my hands and there was limited room, I had no option but to stand and leave it blinding me. It was stinging so much, it must've looked like I was crying. And I'm not even going to mention what a state my hair was left in.

But that's not the worst of it. The parts of my body that really drip (and not in a good way) are the palms of my hands. Any time, day or night, they are in various states of wetness from clammy to damp to sopping. Shaking hands on the first day of a new job usually results in a boss looking decidedly unimpressed and should I feel that a hand shake is imminent in a formal setting, I can usually be found desperately wiping my hand down my jeans before contact is attempted.

I'm not alone: Sophia is the epitome of style and grace, but she too suffers at the hands of the Sweat Curse. Not all of my friends are understanding though - Snow calls me The Sweat Boy, Mr Clammy and Dirty Wet Hands.

It's all rather unsavoury and I'm sorry if it's left you feeling a bit sticky. I really am a very clean boy and I do wash regularly, I promise!

It's just when people behind me on the escalator see the soaking wet hand print I've left on the rail, I feel like a grubby little pikey.

23 November 2006

Someone call 999!

My journey this morning was thoroughly annoying: Moorgate station was full of imbeciles; my two bags weighed me down so hard I thought I might need a pit stop; and the South Bank was covered in puddles, making it impossible not to get wet feet.

But that all changed when I rounded the corner to go under Blackfriars Bridge. A group of at least 30 hunky, sweaty London Fire Brigade firemen came jogging past, panting and glowing.

Just what I needed to perk me up!

The budget starts next week

If I was sad and desperate enough, I would've worked out that it is a mere 13 hours and 44 minutes until my wages are paid into my bank account. But of course, who has the time to find that out?

Thing is, all
that talk of budgeting is going to have to take a back seat as I have a rather hectic weekend planned, starting today. I left home this morning laden with two huge overnight bags and I won't see my own bed again until Monday.

This evening I am round at Doormouse's for an evening of wine, Will and Grace, and if he has his way, a crash course in taking calls on the chat line.

Then after work tomorrow, Snow and I are meeting up with Saskia and we're staying at her plush new Highgate flat for the whole weekend. Saskia's Devoted Hubby was due to be away for the weekend and so we were going to have a three-day marathon of angel cakes, fizzy pop and chick flick/Sex and the City DVDs. The Devoted Hubby is now not going away - which me and Snow are happy about coz he's lovable (Saskia will hate that I said that) - but I have a sneaking suspicion she might banish him to their bedroom for the whole three days surfing the net and staying out of our way.

On Sunday evening, I am celebrating the fact that I have Monday off by going drinking and dancing with Snow in East London. We don't know yet where we're going, possibly Herbal, but we're going to do it in style.

I just hope I can find a place to leave all my stuff, coz no one wants to go dancing with two bags full of clothes, toiletries and a hairdryer!

22 November 2006

Who says Beta is Better?

The weeks of prompting me every time I logged in have finally done my head in, so I caved - I switched to Beta Blogger.

If you don't know what that means, then join the club. They tell you that if you switch your blog over, nothing will change, only when I did, everything was different.

Aside from the fact I have chosen the most boring colour scheme imaginable, I lost all my links and other gadgets that had allowed me to convince myself I actually knew how to use a computer.

I have literally spent all morning fiddling around with stuff, trying to get it to look the way it did before I made the change.

This just proves my mum right: if it ain't broke, don't fix it!

Bad spending

Had me a little delivery waiting on the mat when I got home last night: a statement from Barclays Bank. Now, my rule of thumb is never, ever to look at my bank balance. Why would I want to put myself through the pain? But pay day is still three days away and I wanted to know whether I had any funds available.

I put off opening it for as long as I could. I washed some clothes; I made a couple of overdue phone calls; I even ventured into the lounge to talk to Ole Misery Guts. By about 9pm I couldn't put the inevitable off any longer and so I retired to my boudoir to open up the terror package.

I knew before I looked at it that I'd spent quite a lot this month - suits, Clinique skin care items and trips to the cinema don't pay for themselves - but I hadn't realised how much I'd spent. The total monthly outgoings were roughly £300 more than the incomings. That in itself might be construed as a problem, but this month was the first month in three years where I didn't have to pay off my car loan, which used to be about £350 a month. So having spent that instead of saving it, I'd actually blown at least £650 that I could've used to save for my own place.

It's fine, I told myself. I'll budget like crazy this week. There'll be homemade sandwiches every day in place of the daily visit to Pret. I can cope with that. And when my salary pops into my bank on Friday (and Mr Barclay breathes a sigh of relief), I can spend wisely and get all the Christmas presents I need to get while I have the money.

Thing is, the discovery of yet another month's overspend is rather depressing and I won't stop thinking about it until Friday. And I know what's going to make it all go away: some new Dunlops. And another bottle of Hermes aftershave. And Jamiroquai's greatest hits. And something luxurious from the Hotel Chocolat...

...Oh wait, this is where the problem lies, isn't it?

21 November 2006

Meet me for lunch?

I get the impression that I'm going to wait months for Lady Eliza to get round to writing my profile. She's currently lauding it up in the honeymoon period of a new relationship with her hunky Italian Stallion, and therefore has no time to remember her single and fabulous friends. (Admittedly, she has more important things on her mind, such as trying to get him a job so he's not shipped off back to Milan.) So, I have taken matters - and my eternal singledom - into my own hands.

On the recommendation of a friend, I stumbled across
this site
. Rather than getting a friend to write your profile for you, you do it yourself, but this company match you with other singletons who work in the same area as you. Then when you meet up for a lunch date, you have the freedom of the one-hour time limit. Thus, if your date is a complete bore, you have the perfect excuse to leave: "Thank you for the wonderful egg and cress sandwich, Timothy, but I really must dash - I have back-to-back conference calls this afternoon and absolutely mustn't be late."

I am currently waiting for my profile to be approved and then I am ready to start searching. However, I think what I might do is have a look and see who's about and then wait for some hunky chap to get in touch with me. Seems less sad that way*.

Of course, herein lies the problem and the cause of my single status: waiting for someone else to make the first move all the time!


* I think all these new slants on online dating - friends writing your profile/meeting for lunch dates - are simply using marketing techniques to disguise the truth that you are in fact joining a dating agency. Still, if there's the chance of a meeting with The One, then why not forego the shame? I lived through speed dating, so I can technically achieve anything!



20 November 2006

New clothes, no jobs and a miserable old man

How many jobs have I applied for this week: 9
How many responses have I received: 0


How do I judge whether a new item of clothing is stylish? Do I ask the opinions of my friends? Do I wait for compliments from colleagues? Or is it the amount of admiring glances from strangers? No, it's none of these things.

For me, the cast iron guarantee of the decency of a new garment is the level of negativity it provokes from a family member. You see, we come from a small town and small town folk have small minds and don't understand 'the ways' of people who work, live or socialise in London. If you wear anything that hasn't been bought in Next or North Weald market, they start to panic.

Sadly, I'm not living in London at the moment (money/career/debt: the usual story), so I'm currently lodging* with my dad - also known as Grisly, The Bear and Ole Misery Guts - in the 'burbs. Living with him has many drawbacks: hearing him piss when he leaves the bathroom door open at night is one; as is the constant questioning about what I bought from the supermarket/what I'm having for dinner/where I'm going/how many days holiday I've got left etc. But the best part about kipping in his spare room is that he has ample opportunity to poke fun at my clobber.

On Saturday, I came down the stairs on my way out to shop till I dropped in Covent Garden. I wore my new vintage Admiral's jacket and I felt great. It's fitted, shows great tailoring and has bright silver buttons. As I walked into the lounge to interrupt his viewing of Channel 4 racing to say goodbye, he said, "What's that, a copper's jacket? You joined the police force, or something?"

It can get tiring constantly justifying my purchases, but I knew that if he didn't like it, I'd made the right choice. I didn't really need the approval, but when I later met up with Snow, she declared her love for it and when we popped into Starbucks for a gingerbread latte, the cute guy behind the counter also gushed about it.

The day my family stops laughing at my style is the day I call Trinny and Susannah.


* Lodging= I say 'lodging', but I have been there for over 3 years and now the redundancy situation has reared its ugly head, my escape looks even more unlikely. When exacly does 'lodging' become 'living with'?



17 November 2006

Dirty talk

An email popped into my inbox from Doormouse a moment ago.

Despite only signing up as a verified
sex industry worker on Tuesday, he (or rather 'Joe, 24, slimmer's build') has already been inundated with calls from sickos across the land.

One caller last night wanted Doormouse to pretend to be a 'sweaty Ashley Cole after the match',
another said he wanted to 'piss spunk up his arse', but the best of all asked if he could use Doormouse's 'man cunt as a cum bucket'.

They haven't all been that funny. 'Jeff from Kent' asked him if he was wearing frilly knickers and when DM said he wasn't, the guy hung up. It seems that the world of chat line operators holds no prisoners.

The money seems to be rolling in and I am supremely jealous that I don't have a landline. I'm popping round his place one night next week, so I hope he lets me listen in to a call, or better still, do one myself.

How deliciously unsavoury.

I'm ready for my bus pass now

Adding to this blog has made it even clearer for me how quickly time flies. It only seems like five minutes ago I was saying 'thank Christ the weekend is here'. This week is somewhat better than last as I am now only seven days away from pay day, and believe you me, I really need it. As an added bonus, we always have free drinks after work the last Friday before we get paid, so the Magners will be on them tonight.

Last night was fun also as I spent three hours with the Style Brigade, Saskia and Sophia. We nipped to Starbucks after work and managed to make coffee (I had caramel hot chocolate) and a slice of Christmas cake last three hours. I wore my new stripy vintage jumper and carried my new umbrella. Sophia was the Green Goddess, wearing a pastel green Victoriana blouse, adorned with pearls and matching pea coat. Saskia was the Pink Princess and sat in a candy pink jersey dress with thick black tights and killer heels.

Most of the evening was spent putting the world to rights, but there was a point where I thought I was going to have to slap them both down. You see, they are lucky enough to be mere slips of girls at 24 and are both dreading the day they turn 25. If only they knew!

"It's so depressing," said Sophia. "I can't believe I'm going to be 25 in January."

At 27, their naivete made me chuckle.

"Just wait," I replied. "Turning 25 will be the worst thing that's ever happened to you. And then next year you'll be 26 and it will surprise you being even more horrific. And as for the next birthday? 27 is enough to push you over the edge. It's at this point you realise you're nearly 30."

Saskia choked on her chocolate chip cookie.

"Nearly 30? Practically dead."

Out of the mouths of bitches. 24 year old bitches.

16 November 2006

Fuck the rain

The rain is most definitely not my friend. I left my umbrella on the train last week - too busy slipping in and out of an iPod coma - and so this morning when I saw the state of the weather from my window, I very nearly shot myself in the face. I dashed to the station as quick as I could, but not before all the Toni & Guy thickening spray had run off my hair and dripped into my eyes.

Could've handled that, but my season ticket expired yesterday, so I had to buy a new one from the semi-attractive, slightly scally-esque bloke at the kiosk. Probably best to avoid all eye contact, I thought. It's not like I could actually see him anyway.

Sat on the train in a puddle of rain and my own misery while all the Smugs in Suits shook off their brollies and sat down bone dry. Always adaptable, I whipped my scarf off to use as a makeshift towel and dried my hair as best I could to claw back an ounce of dignity. At Alexandra Palace a particularly handsome chap in a smashing suit got on with his dark skin and dreamy eyes, but even that jawline couldn't drag me out of my soaking-wet-jacket-stuck-to-my-arms-and-my-hair-is-ruined kind of mood.

Made a dash for the nearest shop on exit from Moorgate and handed over nearly a tenner for another brolly to see me through the walk to the office. The man in the shop was actually very lovely and told me to 'have a good day, fella', so he warranted a smile.

All in all a miserable start to the day, and all this with a hang over from going out with the girls from work last night. It was an ex-co-workers get together and the only person not present was Doormouse. He has a spot the size of Vesuvius and doesn't feel he's fit to be seen during 'peak cruising hours'.

With my lank hair, soggy jeans and squelching trainers, I'm beginning to wish I'd called in sick too.

15 November 2006

Talking telephone numbers

Question: If you work full-time in a job you detest, you want to buy lots of new clothes and you're fabulously underpaid, what's the best way to make a bit of extra income*?

Answer: Forget the usual part-time jobs of waiting tables, tending bars or selling all your old vinyl on eBay. Take a leaf out of Doormouse's book and launch a new career as a gay chat line operator.

Yes, he now spends his evenings working on a chat line, answering his home phone to 'male callers who require both short and long conversations**'.

According to the manual they give out to new employees, your recorded introduction could be something like this: "Hi, I'm Gary, a 24 year old transvestite. I have a very playful side and a really broad imagination. How about you?"

However, their most important piece of advice comes later:

'In sex chats only, use sound effects if appropriate - but make sure they sound realistic. Don't overdo it - a few 'mmmmms' can be all that's required.'

If only I had a landline, I'd be joining up this evening.

* £10.80 an hour between 8pm and 8am weekends and Bank Holidays
** Depending how quickly (or slowly) you can get them off

Hello, my name is Fabulous

The post-work stroll to the train station is like a war zone. Vendors handing out the new afternoon free sheets practically fight for your attention. The London Paper people have their purple and the London Liters have their magenta, and even if you brandish one or the other in your hand, the next 36 rival stockists you pass still try and poke their paper down your jumper.

After yesterday, there'll be no doubt in my mind which one I accept on Blackfriars Bridge. There I was, on the train pulling out of Moorgate, when I happened across page 31 of yesterday's London Lite and found an extract of this very blog. I didn't immediately recognise it, but as I read it and laughed out loud, I thought 'wow, this guy is living my life' and then it dawned on me that it was my own.

So thanks London Lite.

There's a very real chance I might start calling myself a columnist.

14 November 2006

Scally-tastic

I think if you hate Mondays as much as I do, you should always go out after work and then you can forget just what a miserable day it is. So last night I did just that.

Being a big fan of MySpace, I saw details of an event in Covent Garden and I thought it was high time I started living spontaneously. I sent Snow a text asking her to meet me there and completely off the cuff, we did it.

The artist in question is a garage singer-producer called Jay Harvey and he makes tunes in the vocal bouncy style we loved so much a few years ago. You could be forgiven for thinking garage is dead if you listen to mainstream radio, but Jay is the darling of the pirate stations and he is something of a God.

We did have to sit through three other unsigned acts before Jay came on stage - one girl in a red dress warbling like a madwoman, a boy band from Blackpool (say no more) and a girl/guy combo who would've looked more at home with her taking him off into a booth at Spearmint Rhino for a 'private dance' - but when he did, he sent shivers up and down my spine.

Aside from the fact that his tunes were breathtaking and his voice was amazing, he is every inch the scally. Not adverse to a drop of sportswear, he has 'the accent' - probably from Canning Town - and oozes rugged, manly charm. And as he was the headline star, there were plenty of other scallies floating around: Skin heads; chiselled jaw lines; and more packets of B&H than you could shake a stick at.

I know that neither me nor Snow fit in with the scally/garage crowd because, like, we wash, but the music makes us feel alive and the men make us feel hot, hot, HOT!

Of course, this preoccupation with ultra-heterosexual garage loving builders and plasterers could go some way to explain my continued single status.