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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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.

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?

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

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?

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!

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?

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.

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.