Whether or not he actually was dating Jennifer Anniston is neither here nor there.
Paul Sculfor is a God amongst men.
This is no pansy-boy model. He is an ex-bricklayer and boxer from Essex.
He left school at 16 and earnt £150 a day on a building site in Romford before becoming an amateur boxer and then a model.
Male model. Yum. Bricklayer from Essex. Yummer.
Danny Dyer is still my one true love and Philip Olivier will never leave my heart, but move over boys. I am now officially obsessed with Scott Maslen.
I used to love him as Phil Hunter in The Bill, but now he has turned up as Jack Branning in EastEnders and I am hooked.
Just look at him.
There are no words.
Let's hear it for the boy.
He only went and got the job.
Yep, they called yesterday and offered me the position, despite all the hassle and lies surrounding my reference. I don't start till the New Year, so therefore only have six weeks of misery left (until I start there and end up hating it within the first month, which is kind of becoming a habit).
One of two things is true.
A) They were so impressed with my ability, attitude and experience that they overlooked the mess and knew their magazine couldn't survive without me.
B) They are imbeciles.
I know I should favour the first explanation, but I can't help but be drawn to the second.
What can I say? When I turn up at an interview having knocked back half a bottle of vodka, I become irresistible.
Three cheers for me!
How does a moxual celebrate the fact that six days after being paid, he is down to his last £120? Why, by taking his limp-wristed friend out and hitting the town, of course.
Both me and Doormouse are in veritable financial cul-de-sacs, so we thought 'to Hell with it' and squandered more cash on booze.
We hit the old faithful Retro Bar on the Strand and it turned out that the grubby little gayers have a 'Be a DJ for 5 Songs' evening. Basically, once you've poured enough cheap hooch down your neck to rid yourself of all traces of dignity, you can hook up your iPod to their DJ booth and play any 5 songs of your choice. But you have to stand in the booth to make sure everyone knows who thinks they have good taste in music.
It only took me two ciders to be brave/naive (delete as appropriate) enough to partake and so jumped up, plugged in and set out to wow the crowd. It turns out that Prince, Eurythmics, Janet Jackson, Timbaland and Sneaky Sound System do not go down well in a pub full of tattooed stinkers. Even before the first of my tracks had hit the chorus, most of the drinkers (including Doormouse) had vacated for a smoke outside.
Once the torture was over, we decamped and headed to the other dive within walking distance – Halfway to Heaven. The plan had been to swan in looking fabulous and be the best things there; to be big fish in a little pond. As we stood there fearing for our lives, we realised that we weren't in fact the best things there as we were kind of in love with the rogue's gallery. Yes, they'll slit your throat as soon as they're finished with you, but boy, what a way to go.
The heaving testosterone was too much to bear, so we left after a couple of ciders and petrified glances with gangsters and ended the night at the Ku Bar playing our new favourite game (Doormouse officially created it, but I pass it off as my own), Guilty Pleasures.
The premise is simple: name the men you fancy that you know you shouldn't.
While Doormouse listed Dr Hilary Jones (off the telly), Gordon Ramsay and Jack Dee, I shamed myself by naming Dev from Coronation Street, Rod Stewart and O.J. Simpson.
The only rule with the game is that you cannot judge. A guilty pleasure is free from ridicule.
One phrase I tend to use frequently is: nothing's ever simple.
One I shall start using more often is: I am a bell-end.
Due to the nine hours of daily misery I call a job, I have been on the prowl for more meaningful employment since about three minutes into my current role.
I thought I had found the answer to my prayers – a similar job on a glossy magazine at one of the top three publishing houses. I applied thinking I didn't have a hope in hell and they asked me in for an interview. It was tough and I thought I had no chance of a call-back. They did call me back and I did my best to wow the editor in my second interview. They said they'd get back to me.
They did get back to me, asking for details of my referees. Rather than asking them why they needed them at this early stage, I duly sent over two, including my current editor.
BAM! They call her the next day, while I am sitting right next to her, asking for a reference. She was like, 'Erm, I didn't know he was even looking for another job.'
It turns out, unbeknown to me, their policy is not to make a formal offer until they have two references in their glamorous paws.
Long story short, I have been frantically getting other people to write references, all the while sitting next to my current editor who now knows I am looking for another job. To say that the atmosphere is awkward wouldn't do the situation justice.
Oh, and based on the conversations I had with the new people regarding my faux pas, I think it is safe to assume I won't actually be getting the new job. Something to do with inconsistencies between my reference and what is stated on my CV.
Once again, the only person I have screwed is myself.
I need a drink.
I am a bad blogger.
In fact, I am little more than a blog-abandoning cunt.
But the longer you're away from the land of the blog, the less you have any desire to post something.
What I did want to say is that the Year of the Cock has well and truly picked up the pace.
Would anyone judge me for popping three separate cocks in my mouth in the space of seven days?
Number one was a Turkish kebab shop owner I met on the 24 bus heading home from Popsrtarz. It was all very sordid and while he had a girlfriend, his final line after screwing me on his sofa was: 'It's about to cum; do you want to eat it?' I may have mentioned this before, but I am super polite and so shoved it in my mouth quicker than you could say 'I should never have got off the bus'.
Less than a week later, I was back at The Scala and ready to make my next conquest. And conquer I did. In the loo. With an RnB-loving rude boy who was very forceful and VERY big.
I wiped my mouth, left the toilets and met up with a cute Indie guy in the smoking area. We exchanged saliva and decided to head off back to his Primrose Hill pad. The ensuing boy-on-boy action was all very sensual and lead to more things ending up in my mouth.
I feel bad for not blogging more often, but I have little time what with all the sex.
(I mean, none of it was good enough for me to revisit the scene of the crime and see any of them again, but I am just taking solace in the fact that the drought appears to be over. And I will of course be at Popstarz again at the weekend to see who else I can go home with.)
It seems like years ago now (I’m still maintaining that I'm too busy to blog at work and my bullsh*t flatmate, who, I should point out, won a BAFTA recently, still hasn’t fixed our broadband at home), but the Bank Holigay weekend was a real blast.
Doormouse schlepped his tired but fabulous arse over to Hampstead and we had wine and nibbles at the flat before popping to the local (and by local, I do mean drab) homo bar. We had many, many ciders followed by many, many sambucas and then headed into Soho.
We decided against any clubs where we might have to dress like soldiers, or worse still wear nothing, scoffed ourselves silly at a restaurant in China Town (we were actually refused entry by all but one restaurant for being too drunk, but the silly fools in the Friendly Inn let us dine) and then mooched on into our new favourite venue, Trash Palace.
It transpired that it was a launch party for some guy that used to work with Doormouse at Time Out and is now calling himself a novelist. In all honesty, I really liked his first novel, and I am sure his second one is good too, but we found ourselves in a club full of people who adore him and so all we could do was call everyone cunts.
I knocked a stool over onto a passing dyke’s foot, but rather than offer my apologies, I merely looked at her, looked at Doormouse and said, ‘lesbian much?’ Then there was a group of lesbians upstairs who were really pretty and had nice and hair and nails and so I told them, ‘you’re really pretty. You could get any man you wanted.’ I think they liked me.
What happens after that is something of a blur, but according to Doormouse, I was standing by the bar one minute and leaving with the hottest guy in the club the next. Doormouse chased me out asking where I was going and I shouted back, ‘I’m going to Chelsea.’ I don’t remember this as when I got back to the guy’s house, I thought we were still in Soho, but Chelsea is where we headed, with my legs hanging out the cab window and me trying to undo this guy’s jeans.
He was a South American DJ and very tanned. He was stylish, sexy and very good at the sex. We must have got back to his at about 1am and we didn’t stop until I left at 1pm. We did it on the sofa, in his bed, on the floor and on the soia again. Poppers were involved and there were many positions.
It was amazing.
He seemed to know exactly what he wanted and how to sort me out too. We had no sleep, but did have a brief period where we sat on the sofa chatting, but then he whacked on some Triga and we were at it again.
I knew at the time that he was a bit older than me, but it meant that he was experienced and so it was fine. After all the man on man action, he said the funniest thing.
‘You haven’t got a clue what my name is, have
you?’
And it was true. I had no idea who he was, what he was called or how I got there or would get home.
We got dressed (at this point Doormouse called me and heard me say, ‘I have my top, I’m just looking for my jeans’) and then he gave me directions to Sloane Square tube (it was a very ‘money’ address, it turns out).
The real sting in the tail came when I got to work the next day. I logged onto his MySpace page to do some research to find out just who I had been rogered by and his profile stated quite clearly, with no shame, that he was 42.
42!
If he’s quoting that online, I shudder to think how old he really is.
Still, it was the first good shag I’ve had in a really long time, so I won’t say anything to anyone.
DISCLAIMER: This post was written on my lunch break while I was pretending I wasn’t super hung over.
2007 was supposed to be the Year of the Cock and finally, it has happened.
It took nearly six months to get some action, but at least that hole has now been filled, so to speak.
There are two stories to tell – one involves a one-night stand with a South American and the other involves six men all in one go.
Further details to come.
DISCLAIMER: This post was written very quickly on my lunch break.
The Bank Holigay is almost upon us, and as me and Doormouse are venturing out on the town, we decided to grab a copy of The Oracle (Boyz magazine) last night to find out what’s going on in the World of Lavender.
Scouring the clubs page has brought about a realisation: We are not kinky enough to call ourselves gayers.
From last night through to Monday, it appears that the only events worth mentioning are ones that pander to a fetish, or at the very least, require a dress code and changing room facilities.
There are various scally nights being held, including Fit Ladz, Rude Boyz, Scally Ladz and others, but while I love a scally, I don’t want to actually have to wear tracksuit bottoms and a Hacketts t-shirt on a night out.
For a more refined evening, there is City Boys, a night which caters for men in suits and ties, and even has a shoe-shining service for those ‘saucy spillages’.
If you like fatigues, there is a night called Squaddies where you can dress like a soldier and cruise other like-minded men.
Steeping it up a gear are the nights for the more advanced tastes, such as Boots – where the only outfit you should wear is a pair of boots – and then there are the S&M and master and slave nights.
If you really want to let your hair down, you can go to Buff, which is simply a night of naked fun and they even have an off-shoot (no pun intended) called Spunk, which is a jerk-off party.
But where are all the regular nights for homos who want to drink, dance (with their shirts on) and make fools of themelves?
It looks like we are destined for a night in Profile. They have a text service where if you see a hotty you like in the bar, you send a text and your message appears on the screens. Doormouse tested it out, but had to report that sadly they don’t allow the word ‘cunt’, instead replacing it with ‘cabbage’.
So it looks like we’re going to get well and truly cabbaged at the weekend.
And not in a ridiculous outfit.
DISCLAIMER: This post was written in my lunch break, while the rest of the office went to the pub.
My good lady friend Saskia once asked me: ‘What’s the protocol for meeting a film star? Are you supposed to say that you’ve seen all of their films, or should you play it cool and pretend you’re not obsessed with them?’
A month ago, I would have said that being indifferent and aloof would have been my approach, but after I met my fantasy boyfriend, Danny Dyer, it’s safe to say I made a bit of a tit of myself.
Doormouse has a friend who ‘works in PR’ and he was arranging all the celeb parties for the Gumball Rally, which is some charity event where lots of famous people and boys with too much money drive flash cars all around Europe.
Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan, Danny’s co-star in The Business and other geezer-type films, were taking part and the friend of Doormouse knew we would have killed him if we’d missed our opportunity to strike. So, we got tickets to the pre-party champagne reception on the Friday night.
We met after work and sinked a bottle of wine before even considering turning up. We were supposed to be on the list, so Doormouse assured me we’d get in.
After arriving and being the only people not to get papped by the waiting photographers, we were actually allowed in. The free champagne was flowing and still no one asked us to leave, so we got as drunk as we could, while hob-nobbing with the semi-famous people.
Richard Blackwood was DJing, so we spent the first part of the evening telling him he had lousy musical tastes and that he should really play the stuff we wanted, seeing as we were the best dancers there.
Upon returning to our smokers’ corner after one of these little chats, I found that Doormouse was no longer waiting for me and was in fact playing a game of tennis in a Nintendo Wii with Danny Dyer. Yep, he’d only gone and introduced himself. It turned out that rather than be invited to play a game, Doormouse had spotted a child playing against Mr Dyer, pushed him off and resumed the controls himself.
Not to be outdone, I rushed over, applauded and screamed like a girl and introduced myself. I had a go on the Wii and somehow actually managed to beat Danny Dyer. Once the game was over, we thought it best to start telling him just how much we loved.
Doormouse: I love you Danny Dyer.
Me: Don’t listen to that cunt, Danny Dyer, I love you more.
Danny Dyer: Did you two see that article I did in Attitude magazine?
Doortmouse: See it, Danny Dyer? I masturbate to it every day.
This non-stop harassment of Danny Dyer lasted for a while and it ended when he sloped off, not before hugging us both and saying: ‘I love you two, you pair of cunts.’
It couldn’t have got any better.
Until Tamer Hassan announced that the charity auction was about to start. He took the mic off Richard Blackwood and began his speech, all the while being heckled by me and Doormouse.
Tamer Hassan: OK, I have a pair of fucking irons behind me and they say that they love Danny fucking Dyer.
Me: Ooh, Tamer, I love you more.
Tamer Hassan: Hold on everyone.
(Tamer Hassan hands me the mic)
Me (to the room full of celebs, gangsters and their molls): I am ALL about the Tamer Hassan.
(Applause)
When the auction ended, Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan snuck off without exchanging numbers with us, but two of the boys from disgraced pop group Big Brovaz were still there, so we had a quick chat with them.
Me (to one of the boys): I see your miserable mate has still got his shades in indoors. What’s that about?
Doormouse (to same boy): You were robbed at Eurovision. I loved that song. What was it again?
They made a hasty retreat and the evening ended for us when Doormouse passed out in the toilets, smacked his head against the sink and was found by a bouncer. He was taken to a ‘quiet’ room out the back and when he came to, while I was apologising profusely, he started screaming: ‘Where’s Danny Dyer?’
Yes, they removed us from the party. And by ‘removed’, I do of course mean we were thrown out the back door and into the bins in the street. I’m just glad Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan had left by that point.
We had a drunken argument in the street about which direction Marble Arch was in (I was right), Doormouse went one way and I popped into Trash Palace to have a bop on my own, and had a dance with some sad bastard in a crop top.
The next day was full of reminiscing telephone conversations and we felt that the press passes we had for the actual party that night would not provide us with nearly as much fun.
For the real bash, we took Snow with us and the three of us breezed in past the hoy polloy as they waited in the street and we were ushered into the press enclosure. Our guide for the evening showed us to the VIP area where we spied Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan. We thought they would do their very best to ignore us, but…
Tamer Hassan: Oi, oi, it’s the fucking irons.
Doormouse and me in unison: Cooee!
Danny Dyer bowled over, hugged us both and called us both babe. He put his hand out to shake mine, but I threw my arms round his neck and said: ‘It’s so good to see you again, Danny Dyer.’
Then Tamer called over and said to Doormouse: ‘Do you still wanna do that line of gear of my cock?’
Turns out that the night before, Doormouse had bumped into Tamer Hassan at the bar and told him that he would like to do that specific action. It was all so delicious and Snow was quite gutted she had missed the Friday night party.
I had always thought that if I were ever to meet Danny Dyer, my fantasies would be crushed because he would turn out to be a right miserable bastard and would have no time for us.
It turns out that on top of having more sex appeal than any man I have ever met – seriously, it oozes from his every pore; he reeks of sex – he is also the nicest. All my fantasies have now magnified and the main feeling I was left with was disappointment that I wouldn’t be spending every weekend in his company.
So, in answer to Saskia’s question, the best way to handle meeting a film star you dream about is to launch yourself at them and tell them how much you love them. They’ll probably love it.
DISCLAIMER: This post was written in my lunch break.
OK, this no-blogging lark is really getting tiresome.
The Mac at home won't allow internet access and as both my flatmates have their own laptops (mainly for Gaydar and Manjam usage), they're in no great rush to fix it.
Up until this very moment I had been too scared to blog while at work, but I have decided to throw caution to the wind and just go for it.
Of course, someone in an ill-fitting pinstripe suit is probably monitoring me as I type and will check this blog out when I'm done and throw me out onto the street. Should that be the case, I would like to point out for the record that the time is 1:50pm and I am on my lunch break.
I have much to mention, including BAFTAs, saunas, meeting and stalking celebrities and various Bank Holiday horror stories, so I aim to get some of them up as soon as possible.
I miss the blogging life.
I miss not having to work at work even more, though.
It's been a few weeks, but here I am again blogging. The difference is, I am not sitting in a library or internet cafe. No, this time I am sitting at the computer at home. Yes, I finally moved. Hoorah for me!
I am now a Hampstead resident and I am lauding it up on the Mac that comes as part of the package. After my horrifying experience looking at the flea-ridden bedsit on the Old Kent Road, I had resigned myself to the fact that I was going to end up living somewhere heinous, and then I saw an ad for a flatshare in Hampstead that was within budget and two minutes from the tube station.
I viewed it, loved the flat and got a really good feeling from the two guys already living there. They had a couple of other people coming to look round, but after a couple of days of nervous waiting, they clearly saw the light and asked me to move in. I felt like all my birthdays and Christmases had come at once and, a week after unpacking, I am just waiting for the moment they say they made a huge mistake and could I please pack my stuff and return to small town life.
Anyhoo, until that happens, I shall make the most of it and enjoy the high life. Everyone who has come round to see it has admitted that they are immensely jealous and I shall bask in the envy that they throw my way. There is of course the fact that I am not technically Hampstead material, what with the swearing and sweating when drunk, but until those facts are discovered, I shall remain under the radar.
Had anyone in the vicinity seen my behaviour on Thursday, I can't imagine they would want to share postcode space with me. After-work drinks with Snow to celebrate the upcoming Easter weekend turned into a 12-hour raving session that ended with her finding me asleep on the floor of her communal toilet at 9am on Friday morning with my pants round my ankles and my hand covering my cock (even when trashed, I am always respectful of other people's potential embarrassment).
The night itself was one long riot, until we ended up joining a group of people we didn't know as we exited cafe 1001 at midnight, followed them to an illegal warehouse party, ditched that and went to 54 and then after that, who knows? We did lots of naughty things we probably shouldn't have done and the last four hours of the night have been completely wiped from my mind. It was at this point I lost my mobile phone. I have no idea if I dropped it, misplaced it or had it stolen, all I do know is, without it, I feel like I have lost a limb. (As far as Orange and the Metropolitan Police are concerned, it was stolen from my back pocket at midday on Good Friday – I just hope there wasn't a long line of international calls made between the moment it was stolen and the time I called and got it switched off.)
This is how I have wound up sitting in front of the computer on a Saturday night. I have no way of getting in touch with anyone as I know no numbers off by heart and I am still trying to recover from the excess of Thursday night's antics. The person I really feel sorry for in all this is Snow as she had to go to work today. And with no text contact from me to tell her that she was not the only one feeling rubbish, I can only imagine how awful it must have been for her.
And finally, as if that wasn't enough, my kindred spirit at work has handed her notice in. She'd had enough of working in an office with people who didn't know how to drink the way she does and so she resigned. When she told them she was leaving, they made her a counter offer, which was better than her new employers, so she told them she was going to stay put. Then the new people counter offered the counter offer and told her that as well as more money, she could choose her own title. It's a shame to see her go after only just discovering her, but there's a glimmer of hope that when I hand in my notice, they might do the same for me.
So now I have a gorgeous flat and a job that I wanted for ages (and can't really wait to leave). All I need to do now is find a man. And that really has been the problem all along.
I'm sure he's out there. There are plenty of hunks wandering around Hampstead. I just have to work out how to talk to one of them. Still, the Heath is literally a two minute walk from my flat. If I just have another beer, I might be tempted to go for a midnight walk...
Another week and another trip to the local library to update my blog. I realised that going to the internet cafe and spending money to do it left a rather bitter taste in my mouth, especially as the first six months of my bloglife were on work time and so it was all free. This is why I had so much time to read other people's blogs, to leave 'hilarious' comments on their posts and to reply to comments on mine. When you have to actually pay for your internet usage, you can become a selfish blogger. Well, my library offers free internet and so it has become my new Saturday hang-out. Fun!
I've already had a fair amount of fun this week and I'm surprised I've got enough time for anymore. With my manager away, I was running the show at work and it was super stressful - so much so that I took up daytime smoking again* - and on Thursday, I asked Doormouse if he fancied a 'quick one' after work.
We should've known that a quick one is never a quick one with us and this week was no different. We began our onslaught on Gay London at The Yard with a couple of cheeky ciders. Then Doormouse reminded me that Bar Code, the dreadful cruising bar round the corner, had free internet access until 8pm. I think it's intended for all the Marys to check their Gaydar profiles, but as we are the only homos in the land not on Gaydar (maybe this explains the man drought), we thought it would be an ideal opportunity to have Sambuccas and leave offensive comments on Gil Duldalau's** MySpace page.
By the time the free web access ran out, we were well and truly on our way to pissed-ville and as we had already left our pride at the door by appearing in such a tawdry venue, we thought there would be no harm in a quick trip to The Admiral Duncan. Yes, the place is full of leering old men, and yes, we popped in. We didn't receive a very warm welcome, which may have had something to do with the fact that we were slagging off everyone in there, so we drank up and crossed the road to Comptons. On a normal day, I would rather set my feet on fire than go there, but I was so drunk, I didn't care. Cut to me, sitting by the window and waving at all the boys as they walked past. They even played So Macho by Sinitta and I sang along.
After that, we headed to the new, revamped Ku Bar and had trouble sitting on their seats without falling off. We didn't seem to be welcome there either, so we did what two self-respecting gentlemen of the lavender persuasion should do in that situation. We went down the road to the scummiest cruising bar in town, CXR 79. It's where all the pikey gays hang out. Dirty old men and crusty scallies who need a good wash. Not the decent scallies who wear clean trackies, but the ones who have just collected their giros and can splash out on a can of Red Stripe and 10 Bensons.
Did I fall up the step on the way in, dropping loads of money on the floor? Yes. Did I ask the barman for a kiss? Yes. Did I ask the cloakroom boy for a kiss? Yes. Did I continue popping down to the cloakroom to pester the said boy? Yes. Did he eventually get so tired of seeing me that he started to ignore me? Yes. Did I fall up the stairs and land on the bouncer's feet? Yes. Did Doormouse give an American a blow job in the loo? Yes.
WAIT! What? He actually went down on someone in the toilet at CXR 79 and I don't think he did it out of politeness.
Well, that's me at a defecit, then. It was supposed to be our year of the cock and he has managed to get some, while I have managed to continue embarrassing myself.
As a last resort, I did then throw myself at a scally called Rob, who at the time seemed to be eveything I was looking for, but in the cold light of day was really nothing more than a yob in a tracksuit.
I did take his number and I have sent him a text since. He did reply and it was pleasant enough, but it was a confused combination of lower case and capital letters and, to be honest, I'm just not sure I can have a relationship with someone who says, "nice 2 SEE u, keep IN TOUCH mate."
Getting back to Doormouse's at half three meant I had a dreadful day at work yesterday, but I knew I could count on my new best work friend to make it all OK. I emailed her about my super hang over, and this was her reply:
"Oh, I know how you feel. I'm desperately trying to hide the stench of vodka, but I'm sure they can all smell it. I knew I was drunk last night, but you can imagine my horror when I woke at six thirty this morning face-down on the sofa, still wearing my coat and boots."
Cat, I salute you!
* I was officially a non-smoker, but after a drink, would be happy to ponce as many smokes as people were willing to offer
** Gil Duldalau was Janet Jackson's dancer/choreographer from Velvet Rope to All for You, like as if you need telling
It's great when you finally find someone on your wavelength in a job where you thought you were the only one who knew anything about how crap people can be.
As I mentioned previously, I have found a soul mate in my office. I began talking to Cat at the work drinks I went to and this week we have been engaging in email banter.
This is one of the emails she sent me yesterday:
Haha. OK here is the deal. Whoever breaks out of this hell hole first and bags a job at Nat Mags or Conde Nast has to put a word in for the other one!!
In the pub last week Joe was really slagging off consumer magazines and I had to bite my tongue to stop me from screaming out, "I want to work for one! I want the freebies and the long lunches and the fun office atmosphere and the longer deadlines and the celeb parties."
Cat, you are officially my new best friend, call me every five minutes.
I went to look at my first flat this week.
It was billed as being a 'flatshare on the Old Kent Road in a completely gay household, with five guys looking for a sixth'. Don't get me wrong; I'm not looking to live with gays because I am gay-exclusive, I just felt that if I were to move into a gay household, one of the guys in the house is likely to have a gorgeous friend that I can date and Doormouse is probably going to fall for one of the others in the house and then we can both be seeing significant others. It just adds up.
None of my friends or family were overly enamoured with the idea of me moving south of the river, but as I pointed out, I lived in Tooting (if you please) when I was at university and I just about made it out alive.
However, their fears were justified when I arrived at the 'flat'. First, it wasn't actually on the Old Kent Road (which, despite being south and therefore pikey, it is on the Monopoly board and therefore must have some cache), it was on a street 'just off' the road. Second problem was that it wasn't a flatshare at all, but was in fact a house with lots of bedsits inside with shared kitchen and bathroom facilities.
Call me a snob, but I just ain't interested in living in a house where the bathroom is cultivating its own strain of bacteria and the kitchen smells like corpse. No self-respecting homo should be happy in that building and I can only assume that the people who already lived there were the kind of chaps that frequent the Halfway to Heaven pub in Charing Cross. Grim? Doesn't even come close.
Needless to say I am back to the drawing board as far as flathunting goes and I will definitely be sticking to the leafier, greener side of the river.
If my budget allows it, of course.
Jobs are shit, right? Right. So, this post will be about anything but.
Last week ended up being one of those weeks where you just can't stop yourself from drinking. Recovering from the previous weekend of debauchery (dancing and sweating and telling everyone I loved them in Cafe 1001 on Brick Lane), I started the week of wine on Monday for a swift one after work.
Tuesday arrived and I popped to an intimate little gig at the Soho Revue Bar, to support that gorgeous chap I went to see perform once before via MySpace. It was just as good this time round, and both me and Snow got very Tuesday-drunk.
Wednesday was where it started to get slightly more raucous as I had an evening out and in with Doormouse. We met in Soho and had a few halves in some dubious men-only venues (Rupert Street, Duke of Wellington and Bar Code, if you please), and then we headed back to his, armed with Vodka and a menu for an 11pm Indian. Takeaway, not man.
Thursday was for drinks in my hometown after work and Friday saw me have some drinks with the work crew (OK, that was a work mention, but it was not a whinge) and then Snow and I met up again and had some fun in West One.
By Saturday, I was thoroughly hung over and spaced out, so took some friends and family for drinks in Highgate, possibly to convince myself I was already living there in a quaint studio flat.
The piece de resistance came on Sunday when Doormouse threw a house party to celebrate his birthday. If you want to get technical, he turned 29, but as I pointed out, why tell the truth about something so heinous? We agreed that he could easily pull off 26, so that is how old he said he was.
Being at the end of a week-long drinking frenzy, I was slightly sceptical about the whole affair, and also because parties in houses are generally frightening - you don't know who is going to be there, you end up spending longer than is acceptable in the kitchen, and then you throw up in the bath, or something.
As it turned out, it was the highlight of the social calendar for many of London's homos and a gaggle of hags. It was such a blast and one of the most memorable moments saw Doormouse and I offer up our own rendition of Janet Jackson's 'If' routine. Not only do we know the moves and the words, we also reenacted all the dialogue from the 'making of' video, which we have off by heart.
I seem to remember a fair amount of salsa dancing, courtesy of a lovely girl called Emma who said I was a natural and other than that, it was the usual mix of too much drink and too much swearing.
I paid the price for the fun, though. I left Surrey Quays at 9:30pm and didn't arrive home in the suburbs until 12:55am, following a tube ride, a bus ride, a BR train ride and then a coach ride through some country lanes at speeds of at least 80mph.
Did I feel like shit on Monday? Yes.
Would I do it all again this weekend? Yes.
Only low point was that there was no one there for me to kiss.
Which I didn't need to mention as you probably guessed that.
Hooray! At last, time for some good news.
The new job is no longer a nightmare.
As it was Friday yesterday, some people on my team thought it might be a nice idea for us to go to lunch. I didn't really have any money, but as we were only going to Pizza Express, I thought there was no harm in it. At the end of my rather delicious dough balls and Tortellini, they announced that the meal was in fact on the company, and so therefore I didn't actually have to pay. This was the point I decided to order the Chocolate Glory dessert!
After work, we all nipped over the road to the local pub and it was here that I found my kindred spirit. It turns out there is actually someone else in my office with a shred of decency and the best bit is, she too loves a drink.
We had a right good gossip, she told me some sercets about people in the office and she said that the reason she doesn't get on with most people in the company is that she works to live, whereas they live to work.
So now I am happy I made the move.
To celebrate, I popped to Paul's bakery on Old Compton Street and got a quiche Lorraine, a mini croissant, a tarte au chocolat and a frangipane.
Oh, and then I went to Urban Outfitters and got myself a vintage brown leather man bag. Sadly, it wasn't the Mulberry Poynter bag at £575, but was a mere snip at £50.
Am still frantically flat hunting, but there is sod all out there in my price range and areas of choice. I think I may be being too choosy. Doormouse suggested I should broaden my scope and look at places like Greenwich and Bermondsey. I'm not sure I could live south of the river again, but then at least the Powder Monkey could become our local. May even meet some sexy scallies in there!
So, it's the weekend, it's the end of week six and I am in my new favourite place: the internet cafe.
My post today is about my new boss, Karen. She is the publisher and MD of the magazine I work for and no one messes with her. She saunters around the office making everyone's lives Hell, because, well, because she can.
I don't know whether she has always been like this, or whether she saw Merryl Streep in the recent film and decided she wanted to be just like that. The major difference though is that instead of being a Glamazon decked out in this season's latest look, she looks just like any other mid-40s woman working in an office. And it makes me laugh that she thinks she's better than anyone else.
She always seems to know when to do her 'walkabout' and catch people doing things they shouldn't be doing. Since I've started, I've been early most mornings, stayed late in the evenings, I rarely have a lunch break and I have even taken some things home to do over the weekends so that I am on target for the following week. And yet last Thursday, I needed to leave the office dead on half five so I could meet Doormouse, and she wanders past just as I was signing off my Mac and the time was barely 5:29.
"That's what I like to see; a man who's so confident in lhis job that he can leave before the end of the day."
Busted.
I also got caught in a stand-up row between her and the designer this week. She wanted a feature to be two pages, he'd done it as three and rather than speaking to him like a human being, she starts saying that she has 20 years' publishing experience and she owns the company and therefore pays his wages and doesn't he agree that she knows more than he does. Er, no, because you talk out of your arse.
Oh, and she uses words like 'profligate'.
Stupid bitch.
How long is long enough to realise that your fabulous new job is in fact a job and therefore unlikely to actually be fabulous?
I'm plumping for six weeks.
This is because I am in week six and it officially sucks. Sure, I am doing what I want to do and the people are genuinely nice, but nice just isn't enough anymore. The office is distinctly male and it ain't the flavour of man I prefer. This morning by 10am, I had already been stuck in the middle of two sporty converstions; one about football (bad enough) and the other about snooker players from the 80s (if you can believe that).
Add to that the fact that my manager is constantly telling me to do utterly ridiculous things. In my first week, every time my phone rang, I answered it. All the calls I took were for other people and all I had to do was put them through to the correct bod. At the end of the week, my manager said that my phone only rings if everyone else's was busy, so there was no need for me to keep answering it. So this morning when it rang, I ignored it.
"Who's phone was that?" she asked.
"Mine. It was a number I didn't know so I didn't answer it."
"Well, when your phone rings, you ought to answer it in case it's someone important."
"OK," I replied, when I wanted to say, "Yes, I do know how to use a poxy phone; I did work in call centres for 4 hellish years of my life, you ridiculous bitch."
Instead I went into the loo and plotted her downfall.
These things are all enough to make a boy wish he was at home in bed instead of sharing air space with a bunch of bastards, but the thing that really gets on my nerves is the fact that everyone keeps going on about the woman I replaced. Apparently, turnover at this company is quite low and I was the first new person to join them in about two years. That's fine, I feel a little bit special. So stop telling me how great Vanessa, my predecessor, was and let me get on with making my own mark on you all.
"Oh, Vanessa was so efficient."
"Oh, you would've loved Vanessa - she was so funny.
"I do miss Vanessa and her ways."
Fuck off. I get it. She was brilliant and you made a mistake taking me on.
Now let me sit here quietly for six months so that I have the relevant experience on my CV to start applying for the jobs I really want.
And tell Vanessa from me she is a whore.
It was all very exciting coming back to Blogland earlier in the week. I spoke about my fabulous new job, my continued hang over life (did I mention that I'd taken 8 pain killers by lunch, just to 'take the edge off'?) and my still-single status.
But in all the excitement, there were a few things I forgot to mention. Like, the guy who sits opposite me in my new office is one of the gayest straight men I have ever met in my life. One of the very first things he said when I sat down on my first day was that he was a HUGE fan of Kylie Minogue. I mean, can you get any queerer? And then he starts talking about his 'girlfriend' and what they get up to at weekends.
I then find out that people in the office have actually met this 'Emma' character and no one thinks he even whiffs of pink. The only thing that makes me doubt his closet status is that he is the biggest sci-fi geek in the land. Practically every day he gets another delivery of something Trekkie-related and his desk is surrounded by bizarre comics and Daleks. Surely no self-respecting secret homo would be into that pile of shit?
I also forgot to mention that I was in the process of selling my car. Well, at 10am this morning, a lovely girl from my 'hood came round, took it for a test drive and plopped a few thousand pounds in my hand to take it home.
So, officially, I am now in a position to start looking at places in London.
Yippee! No more commuting. No more sitting on the train for hours in the morning. No more elaborate plans to avoid talking to The Bear. Fabulous.
Time to look forward. Where will I be living? Will I get a superb one-man pad in Crouch End close to Snow? Will I move into a cool flat-share scenario in Primrose Hill with some hunky, witty gayers? Or will I have to settle for a scab-infested bedsit in Balham?
The chances are, it will be none of these things. I have all this money on me and I am sitting in an internet cafe in Soho. Hmm, the shops are just around the corner. I could get a few pairs of Levis, some aftershave, tops from Topman and all sorts of Triga DVDs.
NO, I must be practical and use it for a deposit. That's what this has all been about.
Oh, sod it. I'm signing off and spending the lot!
I'm back. I'm blogging. And it's about effing time.
I won't harp on about the fact that even at week five, I am still really enjoying my new job. I won't go on for ages about the fact that I am slap bang in the heart of Soho with all the homos. I won't even mention that I am finally working in 'the media' and that when I have six months' experience behind me, I will be in a position to apply for jobs on the magazines that matter - you know, like heat, Closer and Reveal; really ground-breaking journalism.
What I will say is that I am so hung over right now, even my hair hurts. I doused myself in Doormouse's Lacoste aftershave this morning to disguise the stench of vodka that was seeping out of every pore on my body.
You see, Doormouse and I are like the only single people in the entire city of London, and so we had an Anti-Valentine'sDay party at his place last night. I say 'party', but I simply mean a session where we necked a whole two-litre bottle of Smirnoff and didn't end up going to bed until 3:45am.
During the debauchery, we remembered how, at the start of the year, we had claimed that 2007 was going to be the year of The Cock. We were supposed to be putting the 'sex' back into homosexual. Well, it's halfway through the second month of the year and neither one of us has seen even a sniff of action.
We went to Fiction a couple of weeks ago for an evening of substance-fuelled Friday night joy, and while Doormouse flirted with his dealer, I found myself telling everyone that I really loved them and I really loved the music and I was having such a good buzz. Yes, I danced on tables with boys, but sadly, did not go home with any of them.
To remedy the sorry state of affairs, we have pencilled in some fun evenings, one at The Ghetto for Doormouse's birthday (he'll be 29, but we're telling everyone he's turning 27 - it just sounds better), and the other at Popstarz to try and bag us some Indie boys.
So, basically, in all the weeks I have been away from the world of The Blog (and they have been hard - I can't send any personal emails or go on any fun sites at my new job. How much time did I waste at my old one? I'm starting to understand why they got rid of me), nothing has changed. I had hoped that Mr Right, or at least someone who knew Mr Right, would be waiting for me in my new company. Turns out they're mainly straight, married people with little or no fun in them.
And as if all that wasn't bad enough, Doormouse decided he was too unwell to go to work this morning, so I had to brave the underground on my own. This in itself is harrowing enough after a night on the lash, but I was lucky enough to be standing near a young girl who puked her guts up, covering her shoes and her mum's jacket.
This was exactly what I wanted.
In case you're wondering, I am blogging on my lunch break at an internet cafe just round the corner from my office.
The day has arrived and I am out of this pox-ridden office for good.
I have it on good information that a collection and card have gone round and in this company that means only one thing: There will be an insincere speech at the end of the day from the publisher and I will be expected to give one in return to the whole company.
When I was told all those weeks ago they were making me redundant, my initial reaction was, "Thank Christ I won't have to suffer the indignity of the leaving speech." But I think so much time has passed since then, that they have forgotten the exact reason why I am going.
I know that a collection has gone round as a co-worker 'casually' asked me yesterday what alcohol I liked, you know, just hypothetically. This surely means they have bought me something.
So, I am going for drinks at lunch to make sure I am suitably lubricated for my audience this afternoon. This could be the point I read out the email.
Failing that, I might just confess my love for Mr Sexy Delicious and ask him to run away with me.
What I do know is that I am going to be away from a computer from today onwards and then it'll be on to pastures new and a new office.
I don't know how keen the new people are going to be on letting me blog all day when I should be working. Perhaps I should have established that with them in the first interview.
Until I am back in the land of computing and t'internet, I blog no more.
So, tomorrow is my last day.
Doormouse knows what it's like to be made to leave from this company, so he has sent me something he thinks I should send round tomorrow.
Whenever people leave this company, they send the obligatory 'great to know you, see you down the pub' email.
Here is what he thinks I really ought to say:
Ladies, Gentlemen and undecided,
For some time now, I have been searching my conscience and wracking my brain, wondering whether I should send this statement to you all. After meeting with various ‘advisors’, and a hands down unanimous decision, here I sit typing the statement I have deliberated painstakingly over.
As you will all no doubt be aware, tomorrow will be my very last day here at The Company, having become the latest in a long line of redundancy victims. Though my job isn’t actually redundant, and someone is waiting in the wings to fill my position, they are calling it ‘redundancy’ but that is no more than a crock of shit. You know it, I know it, they know it.
Although technically I should be in a position to introduce you guys to my new Japanese best friend I Sue-U who works for the firm Gouie Getem and Howe, I have been made to sign a ‘compromise’ agreement, waiving all of my employment rights showing what a bunch of utter charlatans you really are.
But this email isn’t about all that. This is my chance to say a few special words to a few people.
On the whole, I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you all what a bunch of cunts I think you all are, and how happy I feel knowing that I won’t have to share the same rancid air with you. No more will I have to make awkward small talk in lifts with people who I really couldn’t give a rat’s arse about what you got up to at the weekend.
I’d like to say that I have enjoyed working here, and have built some fantastic relationships with a lot of you, but have never been one to propagate falsehoods. You’re all cunts, and have screwed me big time, and for that I sincerely hope you rot in hell.
Now for those personal messages:
Chip fat John: Thank you for imposing bulimia upon me. Every time I inhaled your aroma of chip fat, smelly feet and general soap dodging-ness I was unable to contain myself, and as a result at least ten times a day, I was powerless to stop myself from regurgitating. May your deep fryer live long, and your greasy hair grow longer.
Office Snide: Thank you for the ugliness that I have had to endure on a daily basis. Never have I known a more jagged tooth cunt who is about as straight as an intestine. You are sleazy, shameless, and apparently a marketer, and I am sure everyone would like to join in a congratulatory bum fuck for you. I’m sure we all look forward to seeing the Publisher’s baby come out with your squinty eyes, your teeth like a shark, and when it’s old enough to walk, the same crab like walk.
Miserable Receptionist: When I first started here, you pretended I did not exist, to the point where you would sit at my desk and eat your lunch, rendering me desk-less for the first 6 months of my employ. You still ignore me and act like I am invisible, but now, you are the man who checks the gangways for ‘hazardous’ objects such as paper clips and elastic bands, and I want to extend a heart felt thanks to you, for putting all of our safety here at the top of your list of priorities. Some would say that any menial task you are given is just a further way to blatantly validate your ridiculously redundant position, therefore keeping your pointless manager Mandy the Honey Monster in a job, but talk is cheap right?
This is generally the point where the person leaving gives you their email address and phone number for you to keep in contact, so here we go.
Phone:
Email:
See you all on the twelfth of never gonna happen.
AND YOU CAN WALK UP AND DOWN PAST MY DESK AS MUCH AS YOU WANT COS I DON’T WORK HERE ANYMORE.
Denim Boy
(You see, I really am a name not a number)
The top of this blog says that London is the greatest city in the world.
But there are many, many occasions when I don't actually feel this way and those times are any days when I have to walk through Central London during rush hour. So, basically every poxy morning and evening.
When I was 17 I wanted to learn to drive, so I took up driving lessons. I had to read the Highway Code to familiarise myself with the rules of the road and then I took a test, after which I was allowed to be set free on the road.
Well, where is the code to familiarise people with the rules of the pavement? Why do pedestrians think that they have the freedom to walk at any speed and in any direction with no thought for others using the walkways?
Central London is exceptionally busy, full of people rushing back and forth all trying to get somewhere in the shortest possible time. So why do so many do this journey with absolutely no awareness of those around them?
If it's not people reading a newspaper when they're walking along (have you ever heard anything like it?), it's people walking out of shops and offices onto a busy pavement and then stopping in the middle. If it's not people walking really slowly, it's people in twos or threes walking together down a two-man deep path so that no one can get passed in either direction.
The only thing more irritating than a pedestrian is a pedestrian with an umbrella, especially one intended for a golf course rather than Threadneedle Street. Having been absent-minded enough to lose three umbrellas on trains in the last month, I was already in a foul mood when I saw the rain this morning and the last thing I wanted was to have to duck and dive to avoid getting my eyes poked out by all the nutters with wandering brollies. And at six foot two, that's no simple feat.
I think laws should be brought in to bring some kind of order to the pavements of London. I remember hearing a rumour once that Oxford Street was going to have lanes introduced for slower walkers allowing faster ones to go about their business without the need for tripping people up.
This would be a lifesaver and should be brought in across the city. Millennium Bridge, for example, should be split into two lanes: one for people with somewhere to go and the other for the cuntish tourists who clog it up on a regular basis.
If there was some order introduced, I'd be able to get to work without wanting to throw myself in the Thames with rocks in my pockets.
The situation has got so bad that I've picked up a dangerous habit. Each time someone gets in my way or walks in front of me or fails to give me the right of way when they ought to, I mutter "cunt" under my breath.
This is fine while no one hears, but one day some burly bloke is going to get wind of it and, as opinionated as I am, I'm not overly keen on confrontation, so I should try and curb it.
In the end I had to nip to Pret to get a hot chocolate and a ham and cheese croissant. Just to take the edge off.
#6 in an occasional series - Channing Tatum
The guys I include in my 'Men I Have Loved' list are ones that have been with me for many years (and fantasies).
But every now and then a hottie comes into the radar who manages to get close to the top in an instant.
Mr Channing Tatum is one of these hunks and he goes into the list today.
I saw him in Step Up and the only thing that paralleled his jaw line and rock hard abs was his street dance style.
If you look like that and can dance like that, then I want some of that.
Channing Tatum: Silly name; great big hunk.
I had to wear a disguise on my way to work this morning.
I didn't want to get recognised on the train.
I donned oversize shades, a baseball cap and a scarf to cover my mouth.
You see, fame has finally reached me. It took longer than I'd hoped, but at last I can now call myself a celebrity.
Of sorts.
My favourite rave, Sunshine Daze, has released a CD and DVD pack* of the last ever event they held at The Scala in King's Cross in July of last year and me and Snow are on it.
Looking very sweaty.
Every time we went to these events, we'd jump up on stage when our favourite DJ, Norris Da Boss Windross, came on and we'd dance to his entire set. Without getting off the stage. It was a trip down Memory Lane for us because back in the day, he used to do our favourite set at Bagley's each and every Saturday.
The last time we went, there were cameramen floating around and they caught us dancing to Norris.
The point where we were filmed was quite late in the night - around 2:30am - and so we were looking particularly choice. Very out of it, hair stuck to our faces and throwing ourselves around in gay abandon.
I couldn't stop laughing when we appeared on my screen and I got to see what other people get to see when we go dancing.
And it did give me a little insight into why we never get approached by hunks when we're out.
While everyone else reacted to the cameras being thrust into their faces by jumping around and screaming and waving (and many of the girls did their very best 'sexy' dance), each time they pointed the cameras at us, we looked very serious and turned our backs.
I told Snow about this and she defended us by saying that we really get into the music and that's why we look so serious.
I agree with that, but no one wants to chat up someone who looks so unapproachable.
Some of our other friends are also on the DVD and when they got in front of the camera, they were smiling and blowing kisses and as a result, looked much more fun.
So next time we go dancing - which will be a night at Fiction (if it's open) next Friday - I will aim to have more fun, to smile at every opportunity and not to take the dancing too seriously.
I'll need to look as approachable as possible for all the potential autograph hunters.
* In order to get this pack, I had to walk into Uptown Records in Soho, go down the metal staircase to the Garage section and ask at the counter if they had it. Let's just say, when little old gay me strolled in and sauntered through the thick cloud of 'ganja' smoke, there was a fair amount of confused faces, kissing of teeth and not-very-well-disguised sniggers. I'm not really Uptown Records' target audience.
It's my last Monday in this office. I am very happy about this.
But that doesn't stop me from not wanting to be here today. I had much fun at the weekend and that always makes Mondays hard to cope with.
I popped for a couple of swift ciders with Doormouse to the Retro Bar on Friday and we put the world to rights. In an ideally fabulous world, we would have stayed out all night and ended up at Fiction, but the purse strings needed to be tightened after Christmas, so we had an early one.
Spent Saturday shopping for an outfit with my mum - she needs to wow everyone at my sister's surprise 30th birthday party this weekend - so I spent most of the day vetoing things and dressing her in what I wanted her to wear. Who cares what she wants as long as she looks good at the end of it?
Then it was onto Dame Saskia of Pinkdom's Highgate palace for an evening of fun with her and The Husband. The fun turned into debauchery and we drank our body weights in red wine and fell very heavily off the healthy-eating wagon.
When we woke up on Sunday, we jumped in my car and headed down the hill to Snow's Crew Shond pad for an extra day of hilarity. Seeing as Saskia and I had already gone down the chocolate path (that sounds ruder than it actually is), we stayed in the gutter and dragged Snow with us, ordering Domino's pizza and scoffing a box of choccies.
By the end of the session, we turned to New Year's resolutions and established that none of us had really made any. Saskia agreed that she would use 2007 to focus on her career and Snow decided that she was going to be more open to new experiences and say 'yes' more often.
When it came to my turn, I initially said that I was aiming to put the 'sex' back into homosexual. Saskia agreed, telling me I needed to get laid and Snow jumped in, adding that it was imperative I got some cock this year.
From this we discussed my life in general and my new job and possible new home.
I asked for advice on whether I should look to get a place of my own or look into doing a flat share and apart from the fact that both Saskia and Snow guffawed when I suggested I could live with strangers ("but you hate everyone," they said), they also raised issues with my ability to spend my money wisely and live without new purchases.
"You buy more clothes and skin care products than us two put together," Snow said.
"I think if you get a place on your own," added Saskia, "you won't have any money left over to buy fragrances or jumpers. And I don't think you could cope with that."
Well, naturally I jumped on the defensive at first.
"But I only buy all that stuff because I'm unhappy where I live," I protested. "I'd stop if I had bills to pay."
While that is true (when I did have my own flats, money always went on the important stuff before I bought treats - which were extremely rare), it made me think all the way home about my spending habits and I have to agree that they are quite right.
I don't know what I'm going to do when I move out and all the money I've been spending on new outfits, glossy mags and general presents to myself has to go on rent, bills and council tax.
I now have to weigh up what's more important: Can I continue living in my current situation so I can afford to treat myself, or do I need to get out and stop spunking my money?
I know I need to get out and be independent, but does living in London mean I will have to wear last winter's clothes while I'm doing it?
The prospect of living with The Bear indefinitely is beginning to look ever so slightly more attractive now.
#5 in an occasional series - Jeremy Sheffield
From Natalie Imbruglia's 'Torn' video, to Hollywood via Holby City, Jeremy Sheffield has got it all.
He's a tanned, strapping lad with rugged manly charm and looks that make me go weak at the knees.
Despite a co-worker claiming to have been propositioned by him in a club of ill repute, Mr Sheffield remains one of my top hotties to swoon over.
He is at his best when he takes his top off, revealing his glorious tattoo across his shoulders and I should expect he has a great bedside manner.
What makes him an unusual entry in my list of men that I have loved, is that he is a big old bender.
Yum.
They say that there's no prude like a reformed whore.
And that whore was me this morning.
A scabby, blotchy-faced bloke sat in front of me on the train this morning.
He made me feel sick. I knew what he'd been doing. He reeked of it.
Smoke.
He must've just finished a cigarette and as soon as he sat down, the stale stench hung in the air like a cloud of shit.
On 21 April it will be one year to the day since I gave up smoking. I won't call myself a non-smoker until that day; instead I'll label myself a 'recovering smoker'.
I don't want to jinx it, but I still have no desire to start up again and when I smell someone like him, it makes me deeply ashamed that I ever smoked.
It means that every morning when I got on the train, other people could smell it on me. The same thing goes for people unfortunate enough to share a lift with me in my building.
Well, now I don't smell and those that do make me sick to the pit of my stomach. I wanted to ask him to sit somewhere else, but that might have been too much so early in the morning.
I'd hoped when I got to work that I wouldn't have to endure any more unpleasant odours, but I have discovered that one of the people who sits behind me has personal hygiene issues of his own: he clearly doesn't brush his teeth as his breath stinks like pig shit.
Couple that with Chip Fat John who sits on the other side of the office, and I have a day full of stench to look forward to.
He's known as Chip Fat John because he smells like chip fat. And his name is John. He also smells of dirty towels. You know when you wash a towel and for some reason it gets left lying around indoors and ends up smelling like stale sweat, feet and cabbage? That's what he smells like all day, every day.
And he seems to think that as we are the only two gayers who work in my office anymore, I will enjoy talking to him all day about the fact that Rupert Everett saw him and his boyfriend snogging, that Jeremy Sheffield propositioned him in a 'leather club' and which male Gladiator I used to fancy.
I enjoy none of these conversations.
(But I fancied Trojan.)
(And Rupert Everett and Jeremy Sheffield, if you want to get technical.)
Sometimes it takes someone else's reaction for you to realise the severity and/or hilariousness of a situation.
Last night I had let's-get-together-coz-I-haven't-seen-you-in-ages drinks with an old gal pal. We were dishing out the sordid details of what we had been up to over the last couple of years and practically immediately we got onto which misfits we had bumped uglies with.
The story about the last bloke I shagged made her titter (his name was either Mark or Steve, it was outside at 4 in the morning and he drove a white Cadillac. And he came from Watford), but it was the loser before that which really made her smile.
Let me set the scene with relevant background information: I moved to London when I was 19 and I was very naive and rather shoddy. I had the standard short spiky hair with blonde highlights, very bad jeans (usually borrowed from my female flatmate) and an overall look of dreadfulness.
I made some new London friends, one of them being South African (referred to as The SA), straight and (I thought at the time) very good looking. He had a gay brother back in SA, he said. He was even better looking than him, he said.
When The SA got married, his brother arrived, was the best man and was indeed very handsome. To me and my equally impressionable flatmate, Snow, he was quite unlike any man we had seen: chiselled; confident; sexy; mysterious.
He didn't look twice at me. Why would he? I wouldn't have done. The wedding ended, he went back home and that was that.
Five years later and he was back over here seeing his brother again. We all planned to go out and go dancing. The girls were dancing their g-strings off at Stringfellows, so me and the brothers were going to meet up first, head to Pacha and then the girls would come and meet us when they'd finished.
Arrived at the club slightly nervous about seeing The Brother as I remembered how much I had fancied him before, but at the same time I was fairly confident as I knew that I had come on leaps and bounds since then. I was now wearing men's jeans for a start. And my hair was now acceptable, my skin was no longer pallid and lifeless and I no longer had the whiff of the student.
When I clapped eyes on him, I was very smug indeed. Where the last five years had been somewhat kind to me, they had most definitely taken their toll on him. He had gone from being muscular to looking gaunt, he was wearing a black crocheted shirt which revealed his not-so rippling torso and he had turned into one of those men who smelt like tobacco, coffee and Armani aftershave.
And yet he had the audacity to do one of those things that drives me insane - he pretended not to remember me, so I had to be re-introduced to him. He could barely drag himself from his mobile phone to shake my hand and he made no effort at all to be polite to me, his brother's friend.
So we head into Pacha, me ignoring him and him thinking he was something special, he tried to get me to pay for him to get in (which I did not do) and also expected me to pay for him to put his coat in the cloakroom (again, I did not agree).
When I saw his old man's dancing ability on the dance floor, I was too embarrassed to stay with them, so I went for a wander upstairs and planned to wait there on my own until the girls arrived.
Had a few too many. Why not? It was the weekend. In fact, had a lot too many and needed to sit down. The Brother appears out of nowhere and sits next to me, telling me he had done too many pills and was 'totally out of it, man'. Can he rest his head in my lap, he asks. Er, OK, I think, but this is highly inappropriate behaviour considering a) we are in public and b) you are a big ole cunt.
With his head now snuggled deep into my groin, I can't fight the drunkenness any more and tell him I feel sick and need to go to the toilet. He springs into action, takes me by the hand and leads me off to the loos.
He bundles me into a cubicle, sits me down and rubs my back. Luckily, I don't actually chunder, but I didn't feel too great.
"You need to piss it out," he says.
What? Is that the old famous 'if you're drunk have a wee' remedy?
I complied anyway and got my wanger out, but there was no pissing to be done from me.
And then he unzips and gets his own todger out and just stands there smiling.
Well, I may have said it before, but my mum always taught me to be polite. There I was standing in a cubicle with a man with his knob out, so I did what anyone else would do in that situation and I got on my knees. It'd be rude not to.
In my drunken state, I was still able to do some good business. I have it on good authority that I give 'good head', from real people and, if it could speak, I'm sure the chocolate penis I was given for Christmas would say the same thing (does it make me a pervert that as I devoured it, I pretended it wasn't made of chocolate and that it was joined to Mr Olivier? And no, it wasn't cream-filled).
The fellating continued for a few minutes until he pulled himself free from my mouth and said:
"I think we should come back later and finish this off."
I would have expected something more along the lines of, "Oh, baby, I'm gonna cum," but instead I got that.
You can offer to blow someone and be rejected, but can you be rejected mid-blow?
I should've said something like 'you should consider yourself lucky to have had that thing in my mouth in the first place and you needn't think you're gonna get another shot', but rather said 'OK' and stood up.
We zipped up and headed back to the bar and rejoined The SA.
I was seething, time went by and the girls arrived, to hear all my gory details. They laughed.
Shortly after this, he sidled over and asked me if I wanted to accompany him to a fetish club in Vauxhall because he was supposed to be meeting 'some guy' there and he didn't know how to get there.
No thanks.
"Well, how about we go to the loos then, and finish off what we started?"
Finally, I said the right thing. I looked him in his once-dreamy eyes and said: "Thanks, but no thanks."
He was not happy and decided the time was right to go. He said goodbye to and kissed everyone in the group except me, who got the cold shoulder.
"Why did you suck his dick?" asked Snow. "You don't even fancy him anymore."
"I'm not really sure," I said. "I was there, it was there. I just thought 'in for a penny, in for a pound'."
The only thing that made this story more typically me was about six months later, I heard talk of him attending a family function with people I know and he was still maintaining that he was straight.
I've just added him to the list of losers.
I only hope 2007 is the year I stop being polite and only put penises in my mouth if I actually want to.
Maybe that could be my New Year's resolution.
Went to see a lovely lawyer lady today.
Had to go through my Compromise Agreement with a solicitor ready for my redundancy next week. As I got myself a new (better) job I am going before the company wanted me to leave, but I still get the pay-off and therefore needed a legal eye to look through it.
She was very friendly indeed and made all the baffling jargon make sense. And she was also very enthusiastic about my new job and our conversation made me realise how excited I am about the (unexpected) change in career.
On the walk back to the office, I started thinking about the fact that once I am in the new job, I'll be in a position to start looking for somewhere else to live. Lodging with The Bear is now more dire than it's ever been before and I need to get out. Immediately, if not sooner.
So I am planning on signing up with the agents who got Snow her Crew Shond boudoir in the hope of getting a fabulous pad (shoebox) I can call my own.
Great. Things are looking up.
2007 is the year of a new job and a new home.
But, and there always has to be a but, my joint New Year's resolution with Doormouse was that 2007 is going to be the year we find gorgeous boyfriends who treat us well and buy us gifts.
If I have already secured one of the elusive three (job, home, man) and am pretty certain it's only be a matter of weeks before I get the second, am I expecting too much for wanting all of them?
The entire 12 months that were 2006 had a distinct lack of any of the three and I wonder if maybe I should just be satisfied with what I have got and not hanker after any more.
On the man front though, I have started a new hobby which is to smile at one stranger a day.
I did it this morning at a suited City hunk and he half-smiled back. It wasn't a full hey-sexy-man smile, but I think I threw him off by doing it in the first place. Londoners don't expect smiling strangers and they tend to be very suspicious.
I will keep on smiling and see what happens.
But I'm not going to expect too much.
Ooh, actually, maybe my future husband will be waiting for me in my new job.
And perhaps I could have an affair with a chap living in the building I am going to move into.
Yes, I will definitely not expect too much.
Tonight my phone will be switched off from 9pm.This Life is returning for a one-off special ten years after the second series ended.
It was watching this show as a sexually-confused teenager that made me realise I was going to end up moving to London one day.
Warren, one of the original 5 characters, was openly gay and a beacon of light in an otherwise shitty teen existence.
I've waited for a whole decade to see what happened to Miles and Anna, Milly and Egg and my fingers are crossed that Joe (Steve John Shepherd) will be making an appearance.
This is he:
And I loved him.
Right, I take it all back.
I don't hate Christmas anymore.
Christmas is fucking brilliant.
Why the change of heart?
Well, there were still some definite rum points throughout the festivities including more time spent with family and step-family than is absolutely necessary, and of course living in a medieval town that has NO INTERNET CAFES AT ALL, I had no way to blog through it all*.
But all of that was forgotten when I saw some of my presents. There was the usual stream of DVDs and chocolates that never go unappreciated, but there were two rather spectacular presents that made it all seem OK.
First was my present to myself. As a Single Gay, I felt the boyfriend deficit meant that while I would not be getting a gift from a special someone, I wouldn't have to spend money on one either, so I bought myself a little something. And what I bought was a gift set of the new Prada men's fragrance.
It came in some splendid royal blue Prada wrapping paper and it even had Prada tape. I bought it on Christmas Eve and opened it as soon as I got in. It was so beautiful that I applauded when I opened it.
Seeing as it was so amazing, I decided the best solution would be to wrap it back up again in its glorious packaging so I could reopen it on Christmas morning. And I applauded the second time too.
The other phenomenal gift was from my mum and sister and constitutes a birthday present rather than a Christmas one, but they were so excited, they couldn't wait till September (the 5th - put it in your diary) to give it to me. And it was...
... two tickets to see Justin Timberlake in concert at the Millennium Dome in July. How happy was I? So happy that a single tear fell down my cheek.
Snow is going to take the second ticket and she was just as excited as I was when I called her and told her. We've started planning our outfits already as we both expect JT will see us dancing in the crowd, fall in love with us and ask us to go backstage with him. Separately, obviously, as that would just be sick.
So with my new fragrance and seven months to look forward to being in the same room as the Trousersnake, all the crap about Christmas was soon forgotten.
There was also some shoddiness surrounding New Year's Eve - at the last minute, Snow and I agreed to go to The Opera House in Tottenham for a garage-fest, but when I got there they refused to let me in for wearing trainers. My protestations that they let me in with trainers last Boxing Day** fell on deaf ears and so we went for cocktails and were home by 11:30pm - but I'm still on a high (and I'm wearing my Prada, so I smell great), so it wasn't a massive deal.
And as it is now January, I was able to crack open the Phil Olivier calendar.
Happy New Year to me!
* Both my mum and sister have internet access, but I thought it might appear slightly rude to enjoy the dinners they cooked on Christmas Day and Boxing Day respectively, and then disappear upstairs onto their PCs to moan about it all.
** Snow and I originally went to The Scala on Boxing Day 2005, but the night was rubbish. We left and strolled through King's Cross to get a cab to take us to a better night at The Opera House. On the way, I slipped on some ice and fell to the ground, fracturing my elbow. We had two choices: we could go to the hospital and get it put into plaster, or we could go to the club anyway. We jumped in a cab and went to the club. By the time we got there, my left hand was purple and three times its normal size, so with my right hand I stuffed it into my pocket and spent the night dancing with only one arm. I went to the hospital the next day and they put it in plaster for me. Even a broken bone won't stop me dancing.
