Possible Au Revoir

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.

Great minds think alike

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)

If I had that redundancy cheque in my hand, I'd send the email now!

Do you have a Walking Licence?

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.

Men I have loved (6)

#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.

'A' Lister

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.

If your best friends can't tell you...

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.

Men I have loved (5)

#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.

Friday: Time to moan

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.)

Relive the horror

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.

Two out of three ain't bad

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.

This Life is Brilliant

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.

New Year Backtracking

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.