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.

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.

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!

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!

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.

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!

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?

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!

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'?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Monday Morning Misery

The laughs, the gossip and the tequila of Friday night have been replaced with the tiredness, the drudgery and the small talk of Monday morning and I am not happy about any of it.

Meeting up with Doormouse and Snow was hilarious and we all had such fun. We gayed it forward and spent the night bar hopping round Soho. There was no trip to the Hell pub of the previous week, so we were all safe from stabbings and flashers and we got so drunk we didn't notice the rain was hammering down and we were all soaked through. Highlights of the evening for me would have to include the big-breasted barmaid in the Admiral Duncan from Bognor Regis - poor girl - telling me and Doormouse that we were the most interesting people to ever walk into the pub. "I believe you," I said. "Look around - the place is full of cunts."

Then of course there was the paparazzi man who couldn't stop taking pictures of Snow in the same pub. He said he was a professional tabloid photographer, but we weren't sure whether or not to believe that coming from a man holding a simple digital camera not much bigger than a mobile phone.

Cider got drunk, shots were downed and men were talked about. The night was brilliant and ended with me and Snow on the last train home from Kings Cross while Doormouse tried to score some naughty white stuff.

Saturday was a blur, as was yesterday. But now I am back at the office for another week of looking for a new job when I should be finishing up all of my work. The pity looks have already started from people who've heard of my fate. They try not to look you in the eye and usually bite their bottom lip and just say, "you alright?"

I had two this morning: one in the lift on the way up and one at the water cooler. My reply tends to be along the lines of: "Yeah, I'm fine, I just wanna get the fuck out of this place now." Which I think is the best way to deal with it.

Why is small talk with a co-worker so painful?

Thank Crunchie It's Friday

At last the weekend is here and I can get away from the sour mood in the office. Admittedly, the mood in question has been created by me and my "I've been made redundant, so I don't care much for that" attitude, but it's still there and it's still draining.

I am out of these doors as soon as the hand strikes 5:30 as I have a date with Doormouse and Snow. We are heading off for an evening of deliciously gay delights in Soho. I'm not really sure how any of us have got any money left at this late stage in the month, but they don't know each other that well and we keep saying we'll go out and something always comes up.

As is usually the case, I will be buying my drinks with help from my lovely overdraft. Technically at this point I should be staying at home with tap water and wholemeal pitta breads, but that just ain't going to wash, so drinking into debt is my chosen course of action.

With no dinner in our bellies and a rendezvous at 6pm, it is going to be a 'tired and emotional' evening for all concerned.

Selling your friends

I'm not going to mention the dreaded R word today, but the upcoming situation has made me take stock of all aspects of my life, not just my job - or lack of it.

Thinking back to a few weeks ago, I was all excited about the Speed Dating event and the unlikely hope that it might bring a bit of Man Candy into my otherwise super exciting* life. That resulted in NO DATES WHATSOEVER and with the only other hunk on the horizon being Mr Sexy Delicious - who is clearly uptight about his 'seshuality' - I am still single and still actively looking.

But the point is, I'm not actually looking at all.

To remedy this, I have spoken with my friend Lady Eliza - the girl who wears pearls and brooches - and she might have solved my problem. She knows of a dating website where instead of writing a profile about yourself telling everyone that you have a 'GSH' and that you're looking for 'possible 121' - not that I've ever used one myself, you understand - you put a profile on there about a single and fabulous friend to try and get them a date.

It sounds genius to me. Rather than having to try to sum myself up in 100 words and ending up coming across like a prize twat, she gets to do it for me. And thinking about it, it's always much easier to compliment your friends than it is to point out your own good qualities, so this could be something quite brilliant.

I practically bit her finger off when she mentioned it, so now I am just waiting for her to put on a glittering critique, telling all the lovely Mo's out there what a great catch I am.

And she'd better make it good. Lady Eliza, if you're reading this, remember all the help** I gave you when you were doing your finals?

Make it good, baby - I need to get me a man!



* super exiting life = mediocre existence
** help = rewriting all of her essays

Back on the Merry Go Round

This whole redundancy thing is a mother fucker. There's a possibility it could turn out to be a good thing. If I can get another (better) job during these next 8 weeks, then I can leave, take my cheque and buy all the things I want. (I should be paying off my overdraft that still hangs over my head from university and I'm sure my mum would appreciate getting back some of the thousands of pounds I owe her, but my iPod Shuffle is looking a bit sorry for itself and could do with updating to an actual iPod, there are many, many suits out there screaming for me to rescue them from the shops and I only own Series 5 of Will & Grace on DVD, so there are 7 other box sets with my name all over them.)

It's just I really hadn't expected to be on the job hunting trail again so soon. I was only promoted to my current position in June and I thought that would give me at least 18 months' grace before I had to start thinking about the horror that is The Job Interview.

I've been looking online for jobs and there are some out there, but updating the old CV, adapting the cover letter and getting myself into 'job search' mode is too taxing for words.

In an ideal world, the BBC would be doing auditions at the moment for the next series of Strictly Dance Fever; I would apply, get on the show, win, steal the hearts of the nation and then be offered a starring role in a new West End dance production. Then I'd probably take it to Broadway and make the transition from musicals to Hollywood.

I might have a quick look on the BBC website to see when they start the next series. Graham Norton, here I come.

Common sense approach

Question: What is the best way to handle redundancy?

Answer: Forget tightening the purse strings, drawing up a budget and making sure you've got enough money to pay rent for Christmas and the New Year. Instead, pop to the shops after work and buy yourself a gorgeous new blue military-style jacket with big silver buttons, three new jumpers - all of them blue and exquisite - a green and black stripy scarf, a new black umbrella and six pairs of socks. And a copy of Esquire magazine.

I might end up being homeless as well as jobless over the festive period, but I'll be the best dressed tramp in town.

Hard men and harder decisions

I decided that the best way to celebrate my pending redundancy was to go for a few swift ones after work with Doormouse on Friday. We met up at the Retro Bar and discussed my future. He knows only too well what it's like being made redundant from my company as he met the same fate in July. It's been a good thing for him as he now has a much better job, so it's given me some hope that this could be a positive thing. We were going to head home after that - we felt like the odd ones out, being the only two people in the pub not wearing black thick-rimmed glasses - but he mentioned that there was a pub close by that he'd always wanted to go to, but had been too frightened. Intrigued, I agreed.

We trotted off to the pub in question and as soon as we walked in, I understood why he'd been so scared. It was called Halfway to Heaven - I assume it's called this because if you're walking from Trafalgar Square, it's halfway to Heaven the night club - but I think a more appropriate name might have been Halfway to Hell. Crossing the threshold, I felt like I'd signed a deal with the Devil himself as the assembled congregation was a veritable who's who of the murky underbelly of gay London.

The bar was full of scallies of every age in varying degrees of sportswear and more old men in vests than I've ever seen. It might have had a WC2 postcode, but we could've been forgiven for thinking we were in Canning Town - or worse still, Harlow. We carefully ordered two drinks from the pox-ridden barman and headed off downstairs. Descending into the basement was like entering a Jake Arnott novel - gay gangsters in expensive suits and gold jewellery, their tattooed hands strategically placed on their boyfriends' arses wearing a 'stare at my man and I'll cut your tongue out with a rusty blade' look on their faces.

Too frightened to say anything in case we were given Chelsea smiles, we sat in near silence, trying not to laugh at the poster advertising Saturday night 'cabaret' with Titty La Camp. Nipping to the toilet turned out to be the worst part of the outing as it was cruisier than George Michael on a cruise ship cruising round Mykonos. While I was in there, a gent in his late 60s and wearing a yellow vest came in and simply got his knob out and started waving it around. "Sorry, that's what happens when you've got a piercing," he explained. No, that's what happens when you're a pervert. We left shortly after.

I'm in the office now and away from criminal homos and I have to discuss the redundancy with my publisher. She wants to know whether I'm going to accept the second-rate replacement job she's offered me, or whether I want to take the pay-off and run. Saying it like that, there's no real contest.

But despite the rather unsavoury taste that was left in my mouth, all I can think about is how much fun I had in the Hell pub on Friday.

I think I might take my redundancy cheque, head down there and wait for my very own Ronnie Kray. I could definitely hang with being a gay gangster's moll.

Jobless... but still fabulous?

Well, yesterday didn't exactly go quite as I'd planned. There I was sitting at my desk expecting an email from William telling me he was really digging my aftershave, but instead I got one from the Pregnant Boss asking me and Little Lou if we could have a 'sit down' at 2:30pm.

I thought the meeting would involve her asking us to take on lots more work due to all the people who've left recently. I was going to become something of a publishing martyr and agree to the hefty workload all for the love of the job.

However, she actually said that due to the 'management restructure', our jobs would cease to exist by the end of the year. Therefore as of Christmas we will officially be redundant.

I think we were both as shocked as each other, because with all the staff leaving, there's quite a lot of work that needs doing and no one here to do it. (I think the true motivation might simply be that our faces don't fit and they want rid.)

After our discussion, there was a bigger meeting for all editorial staff where the future of the company was discussed and then we closed the office at 4pm so we could all go to the pub to 'debrief'.

As a 'gesture of goodwill', they put a tab behind the bar, so I gladly sank my first beer with ease. But I noticed that there was an undercurrent of aggression bubbling away just under my surface, so I did a 'tabloid journalist' and made my excuses and left.

I could just see me having one too many and then telling a few people what I really think of them. Obviously, I would have told William we were going to get married, but I also saw me tapping the Pregnant Boss on the shoulder and telling her that since she became the head honcho, the company had rapidly 'gone down the shitter'. And then there's the Jagged Toothed Back-Stabbing Office Snide. I would probably have asked him what his wife and kids think of the 'friendships' he has with all the homos in the office.

My dignity in tact, I can focus all my energy on applying for new jobs. Any work that is brought to my desk today - and for the next 8 weeks - will be met with the following response: "Well, that doesn't really apply to me as I'm being made redundant."

Merry Christmas everyone!

Smelling Fresh and Ready for Action

Another day, another step closer to the restraining order.

Arrived at work this morning wearing new jumper and shirt and new pants and socks - no one can see the undies, but new ones always make you feel more confident (especially snug lycra ones). On top of the clothes, I also have on my new fragrance. I've been trying to find a 'signature' scent for years and nothing ever seemed worthy of that label. I felt like I was doing myself an injustice for not having a fragrance that always made people think of me and it had been causing me grief for ages. I stumbled across the new one from Hermes and fell in love with it instantly. So, now I douse myself in it every day and it is scrumptious and I can relax that I have a signature.

The autumn sun was shining and made the walk from Moorgate to the office a little bit less harrowing. The new playlist on my iPod was choc-full of songs I haven't heard for months and I was enjoying the walk.

When I got to work, I popped into the kitchen to fill up my bottle of water at the cooler and, as is the case most mornings due to the fact we only have one cooler, I had to join a queue. And which co-worker did I have to stand behind? Mr Sexy Delicious himself, of course. Today he is wearing a white shirt and brown fitted trousers with some yummy brown brogues.

This was fine until everyone else left the kitchen and it was just me standing next to him waiting for him to fill his bottle. As I was studying his trousers snugly fitting his arse, his manly hands grasping his bottle and his messy hair framing his chiselled face, he looked up and said, "sorry".

Yanked from my fantasy, I said, "oh, don't worry - we need more than one of these... water... err... things".

"Torturous wait, isn't it?" he replied and walked off.

What does this mean? Does he even know I exist? Did my new aftershave make him realise that he does love men and he wants to whisk me off for a dirty weekend? This surely must be confirmation that he feels the same way about me as I do about him.

Hmm, or was he just thinking, "who is that weirdo that keeps appearing behind me, wearing too much cheap aftershave?"

No, that can't be right. It cost £45 a bottle. It must be that he loves me too.

I will await his email confirming his undying love for me with breath that is bated.