A Single Boy in London

No Joe for this mo

2008-07-17T06:11:00.000-07:00

Had an after-work meeting with my number one lady friend the other day and as I finished work earlier than her, I hotfooted it over to her Soho ad agency to meet her. I got there a little sooner than I should, so I mooched around in the super-white reception area trying not to look too much like I didn’t belong.

While I was feigning interest in all the reading literature, an especially dashing young chap with good hair and a nice smile came striding out of the office, past me and out of the building. He was one of those men who makes you forget your own name for a brief moment because all you can think about is how much he looks like walking sex.

Just as I picked myself up off the floor, my number one lady friend arrived and we headed off together for a night of debauched drinkery. While we were out I described the office hunk to her to see if she knew who he was, what his status was and when I would be able to go on a blind date with him.

‘Oh my God, do you mean the bloke in the blue shirt?’ she squealed. ‘That’s Joe. I’ve been meaning to tell you about him for months. I knew you’d fancy him. I only found out today through the grapevine that he is in fact a mo.’

‘Tell me everything,’ I said.

We discussed Joe for most of the evening and I bullied her into agreeing to send him an email the following morning along the lines of ‘my friend fancies you’. Playground tactics maybe, but they barely know each other and the chances of me being there just as he finished again were fairly slim. She wasn’t particularly keen on the Cilla Black idea, but I rightly pointed out that he was too delicious an opportunity to miss.

The next morning, luckily as it turns out, their email server was down, so she had to wait until she bumped into him for a face-to-face chat.

‘Joe,’ she asked tentatively. ‘Do you live in Hampstead?’ Now this might not sound like a genius chat-up line, but she has used this approach to many men and it always gives you an opening to a discussion.

‘No,’ he replied.

‘Oh, it’s just my friend who came to meet me last night was sure he knew you and thought maybe he had seen you in Hampstead as that’s where he lives.’

‘No, I haven’t been to Hampstead for a while,’ he said (still not jumping in with ‘but I remember him from last night and fell in love with him instantly’.)

‘But,’ he added, ‘my boyfriend does live in Belsize Park, which is close, so maybe he has seen me around there.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said.

And with that crushing defeat, her matchmaking career was over before it had even begun.

Is the glass actually half full?

2008-07-11T05:51:00.001-07:00

A delightful chap called Justin commented on my previous post and told me how he is somewhat jaded when it comes to dating. He said that while he knows there are some decent blokes out there, he has met very few of them and the rest of them are only interested in one thing.

If someone were to ask how I feel about life in general and dating in particular, I would happily say that I am a confirmed pessimist. However, his opinion has left me thinking that maybe I am more of an optimist than I initially thought.

Regarding my trials and tribulations in the world of dating, I am more than satisfied being single. I have never felt the need to validate my existence through having a relationship. When it comes to exes, I am pretty much baggage-free. And, while seeing your friends' relationships is not the same as living through them yourself, I am delighted that I haven't had to go through some of the things that I've helped others through.

In my experience, there is still something of a stigma attached to being single. I've lost count of the amount of people who smile patronisingly and say, 'Oh, it would be so nice if you could meet someone, too.' I take offense to this assumption that being in a relationship is better than not.

Being single, I don't have to answer to anyone. I can go out after work and stay out all night without having to call anyone and let them know where I'm going. I can dance in a club for hours and not be accused of flirting with every man in the room. And if I want to indulge in some harmless banter with someone inappropriate, i don't have to feel guilty.

There are things that I don't have through being single. I would like someone to make a grand romantic gesture once in a while. I'd like to get home after a long week at work and find that I am being whisked off for a fancy meal somewhere, or even a weekend away. Even less dramatic, i'd like to have a couple of snogs with someone who I quite like. And this is why I had dipped my toes in the risky world of internet dating. Not to find 'The (ever allusive) One', but to just have a bit of fun.

But, while my standards are too high to allow me to settle for second best just for the sake of saying I have a boyfriend (see my flatmate and the fact that he has pretty much moved in his wildly inappropriate boyfriend of two weeks simply because he can't bear to be single), I am hopeful that there will be someone out there one day who makes me smile.

The perfect relationship probably doesn't exist and the perfect man certainly doesn't. But I am happy to accept that there is a bloke out there who would be over the moon to sit and listen to me talk about the most mundane things. Just because he enjoys spending time with me.

He's just not that into me

2008-07-09T03:31:00.000-07:00

The world of online dating is a ruthless place. Having been on a date with Nigel that didn’t really go anywhere, I decided it was time to search again and see if there was anyone else on the site that might be worth contacting. Some of my friends are also on the site and the straight female ones seem to have had a fair amount of success, but it turns out that for gays, it is slim pickings.

I had a scout through and when I realised there weren’t any really decent men, I decided to get in touch with some not-so-decent blokes. I sent off various witty (I thought) emails and waited with bated breath. The good thing (or maybe the bad thing) about this particular site is that you can see when people have read the messages you send. Of course, when three days have passed and they still haven’t got back to you, all you want to do is send them another one saying, ‘I wasn’t even interested in you anyway and now you’re snubbing me?’

Anyway, one bit and sent a reply. All was going well; we exchanged emails, he seemed like he wasn’t harbouring any psychotic tendencies and his replies weren’t littered with spelling mistakes, but then he went and ruined it. When we got onto the topic of music, I mentioned that I had been to see Prince last year at the O2 (best night of my life) and he replied with: ‘My musical tastes are pretty limited. I like all the usual stuff – Abba, Steps, S Club 7 and Scooch.’ At what point did he think it was acceptable to say that to a Prince fan, of all people? Needless to say, I ceased communication forthwith.

Then next potential suitor was The Man Mountain. His profile listed his build as ‘athletic’ and he had the look of a mad man about him. He also stated that he wasn’t looking for an email marathon and was only on the site to meet up with people. That worked for me, so I fired off an email. Within minutes he got back to me and suggested we meet after work. Having sent his picture, email address and mobile number to all of my friends (should I go missing and end up chopped to bits and dumped in the Thames), I agreed.

The evening was fine. He was indeed very athletic and the conversation was flowing. However, the roid rage was a bit of a problem as he started on two separate groups of four people and I decided early on that I wasn’t really up for anything with a sociopath.

He asked me what I wanted out of the evening and what I was looking for. Before I had a chance to answer, he said: ‘I’d like to see you again, but I think maybe we should go on the pull together.’

Fair enough, I thought. I wasn’t actually interested, but as soon as he had said that, I suddenly really wanted to kiss him. I didn’t, but we did agree that he would email me the next day so that we could arrange an evening out.

Eight days have passed and still no email. Why is it all you need to hear is that someone’s not interested and then they’re all you can think about?

I had to delete his number from my phone for fear of drunken text messages. And in spite of it all, I’m still logging on and searching for Mr Right. I doubt he’s on there.

Love on the tube

2008-06-04T09:38:00.000-07:00

I am back to my old habits. Fantasising about men on the tube. It’s my new favourite hobby and one that I threw myself into this morning. A dashing hunk in a grey suit got on at Chalk Farm and really made my day. I didn’t actually speak to him, of course. A packed Northern line train at 8:30am on a Tuesday morning isn’t the best place to strike up a conversation with a potential suitor, is it?

So what do you do in this situation? Having fired at least thirty furtive glances in his direction throughout the journey, I then watched him get off the train at Old Street and spent the rest of the day dreaming of what could have been. Instead of working, I created a whole personality for him – his likes, his dislikes, the fact he watches Gossip Girl but won’t admit it – and dreamt up various scenarios where we could bump into each other and he would say, ‘I’m so glad to see you again; I missed my chance to chat to you on the train the other day.’

I’m not alone in this ‘missed opportunities on the tube’ dilemma. My friends are all the same. They are stylish, sexy and successful and yet they are all still single. Male, female, gay and straight, they –like me – live in hope that one day their ideal partner will chat them up while they leaf through their copy of the London Lite.

Don’t get me wrong. None of us are desperate. We enjoy our lives; we just hope that one day someone amazing will brighten up our mornings.

The easiest solution to my morning predicament would have been for me to make the first move and speak to the object of my affection. Stand me in a bar or at a party and I’d have no qualms about initiating a conversation with a handsome chap and if that leads to a mild flirtation, then great. But doing it on the Underground just seems so embarrassing.

And yet, if he had spoken to me, I wouldn’t have thought he was a crazed sociopath. I would have breathed a sigh of relief and handed him my number with a wink and a smile.

As the clock ticks ever closer to 6pm, I am keeping my fingers crossed that he is on the train this evening and that he makes a move.

If you are reading this, Mr Grey Suit and Cheeky Grin, talk to me. I won’t bite. Unless you ask me to.

I'm back. Again.

2008-05-29T09:31:00.000-07:00

Tut, tut, still not blogging anywhere near as much as I used to. What can I say? Like washing, once you get out of the habit, you find it hard to jump back on board.

Now, I know that I have said before that I would get back into blogging again and then nothing. But this time I really mean it.

There is plenty to report. Not least the fact that I went to the cinema last night to see Sex and the City: The Movie. No plot spoilers here, but bless the poor saps who work at the Odeon in Swiss Cottage – they fashioned a pseudo-themed evening whereby staff made an effort to dress up (I say 'made an effort', but what I mean is, three girls wore Matalan tea dresses) and extra bods were laid on to saunter around the foyer with silver trays boasting After Eight mints and condoms. Bit of a strange combination, but at least you get a nibble and you know you're safe.

There was also a badly organised 'best dressed' award for some sap in hot pants and white fishnets. She was clearly a) friends with the staff members and b) not of this land.

What else has been happening to keep me away from the land of the blog? The new job has been going really well. No more sitting next to strange people who just don't get me, so that's nice. And I'm back to having a view of the river.

Onto the man front. Most of my friends have been dallying in the rather scary world of internet dating, so I thought I would give it a bash. I joined that site where your friends leave a profile for you rather than writing one for yourself. Turns out that the gay online dating community is slim pickings. One or two emails were sent and then I went on a date with a lovely chap called Nigel. He was good on paper, but didn't really deliver in the flesh. We had a brief snog in the rain as the evening drew to a close, but there was no bed hopping. Instead, I popped to the Ghetto and took someone else home instead. Let's just say, he was a very warm and tender lover.

OK, this was a brief 'I'm still alive' post and I hope to be putting more up soon.

Crikey, I remember when I used to add two or more things a day. Those were the days.

I heart Paul

2007-12-10T06:03:00.000-08:00

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.

My new husband

2007-11-15T05:21:00.000-08:00

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.

Six weeks and counting

2007-11-15T05:15:00.000-08:00

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!

Where are all the good gays?

2007-11-09T08:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Done myself over. Again

2007-11-08T05:39:00.000-08:00

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.

Three in one week much?

2007-09-11T05:33:00.000-07:00

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.)

A 'short' trip to South America

2007-06-14T05:31:00.000-07:00

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.

The year starts here!

2007-06-04T05:43:00.000-07:00

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.

Bank Holigay Weekend

2007-05-25T05:41:00.000-07:00

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 weekend with Danny

2007-05-23T05:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Fired by the end of the day?

2007-05-22T05:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Two out of three ain't bad

2007-04-07T12:56:00.000-07:00

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...

We outgayed ourselves this time

2007-03-17T07:07:00.000-07:00

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

The kindred spirit is brilliant

2007-03-10T04:46:00.000-08:00

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.

It really is grim down south

2007-03-10T04:36:00.000-08:00

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.

House parties are dangerous

2007-03-07T09:53:00.000-08:00

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.

We're out of the woods

2007-03-03T05:45:00.000-08:00

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!

The Devil wears Primark

2007-02-24T05:24:00.000-08:00

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.

The Honeymoon is officially O.V.E.R.

2007-02-22T05:11:00.000-08:00

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.

All systems go

2007-02-18T05:06:00.000-08:00

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!

Valentine's Day, Schmalentine's Day

2007-02-15T05:11:00.000-08:00

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.

Possible Au Revoir

2007-01-11T02:21:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-10T08:37:00.000-08:00

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?

2007-01-10T01:40:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-01-09T03:49:00.000-08:00

#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

2007-01-09T02:06:00.000-08:00

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...

2007-01-08T02:09:00.000-08:00

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)

2007-01-05T05:46:00.000-08:00

#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

2007-01-05T02:26:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-04T01:49:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-03T02:36:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-02T07:09:00.000-08:00

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

2007-01-02T01:49:00.000-08:00

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.

Gaying it forward

2006-12-22T02:23:00.000-08:00

Crikey, what a hang over.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What begins with P?

2006-12-21T08:11:00.000-08:00

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

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

Here goes (in no particular order):

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

Nice jumper!

2006-12-21T02:51:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

Men are all bastards!

Holidays and hookers

2006-12-21T02:29:00.000-08:00

The office is dead this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today I would like to be...

2006-12-20T02:49:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

What three things would you like to be today?

Not the only Grinch in town

2006-12-19T08:20:00.000-08:00

At Last!

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

Emz sent me this email:

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

I couldn't have put it better myself.

Emz, I welcome you aboard The Grinch Express.

Who else wants to jump on board?

Men I have loved (4)

2006-12-19T06:53:00.000-08:00

#4 in an occasional series* - Danny Dyer

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

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

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

Danny Dyer really is the business.

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

WANTED: Cruising Classes

2006-12-19T01:55:00.000-08:00

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

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

Plans never work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blame Christmas.

Should not be allowed

2006-12-18T08:11:00.000-08:00

Novelty ties with pictures of snowmen are one thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cretin.

Misery and kisses

2006-12-18T01:57:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men I have loved (3)

2006-12-15T05:39:00.000-08:00

#3 in an occasional series* - Philip Olivier

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

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

Look at the picture. I need say nothing more.

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

The Grinch is back

2006-12-15T02:40:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Actual Christmas carols.

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

Go West (End)

2006-12-15T01:58:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Once, twice, three times a stalker

2006-12-14T02:04:00.000-08:00

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

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

Sadly he caught me. Not once, but thrice.

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

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

I'll have to be quicker tomorrow.

I can't stop moaning

2006-12-14T01:45:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'd dump my friends for it

2006-12-13T02:45:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who needs old school friends anyway?

What happened at the Christmas party

2006-12-12T03:24:00.000-08:00

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

Glasses of champagne before sitting down for meal: 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standard of dinner: Far cry from canapés at beginning

First person on the dancefloor: Me

Time it took anyone to join me: 20 minutes

Music played: Varied from semi-decent to early Madonna

Favourite conversation of the night:

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

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

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

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

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

Amount of friends who answered their phones: 0

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

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

Size of my hang over: Gargantuan

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

Quick whinge

2006-12-11T02:50:00.000-08:00

People say some really annoying things.

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

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

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

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

Where did my weekend go?

2006-12-11T02:13:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please call me The Grinch

2006-12-07T03:51:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Green with Envy

2006-12-07T02:05:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My new favourite thing is...

2006-12-06T03:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Crime doesn't gay

2006-12-06T02:35:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

Pop Tart

2006-12-06T02:19:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

God, how gay can I get?

Skint, single and proud

2006-12-04T05:56:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Give me singledom in poverty any day.

Men I have loved (2)

2006-12-04T04:14:00.000-08:00

#2 in an occasional series - Dean Cain

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

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

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

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

He really was a super man.

Shame in an elevator

2006-12-01T06:10:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shameful. Just shameful.

Clothes maketh the man

2006-12-01T02:27:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Girl after my own heart

2006-11-30T02:12:00.000-08:00

Here is an email I received from Sophia this morning:

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

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

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

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

Black and blue

2006-11-30T01:49:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

This proves that Christmas is the Devil's work.

I am the Music Man

2006-11-29T04:39:00.000-08:00

All my musical prayers have been answered.

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

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

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

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

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

When is a date not a date?

2006-11-29T01:56:00.000-08:00

Question: When is a date not a date?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men I have loved (1)

2006-11-28T02:35:00.000-08:00

#1 in an occasional series - Jared Leto

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

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

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

Jared Leto, I salute you!

Soon be decent again

2006-11-28T01:36:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Big Weekender?

2006-11-26T08:35:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Saskia loves the aged

2006-11-24T04:21:00.000-08:00

PING!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sticky situation

2006-11-24T02:39:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone call 999!

2006-11-23T02:30:00.000-08:00

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

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

Just what I needed to perk me up!

The budget starts next week

2006-11-23T02:14:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who says Beta is Better?

2006-11-22T05:18:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Bad spending

2006-11-22T01:50:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Meet me for lunch?

2006-11-21T02:02:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

New clothes, no jobs and a miserable old man

2006-11-20T03:16:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dirty talk

2006-11-17T08:05:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

How deliciously unsavoury.

I'm ready for my bus pass now

2006-11-17T02:53:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

At 27, their naivete made me chuckle.

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

Saskia choked on her chocolate chip cookie.

"Nearly 30? Practically dead."

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

Fuck the rain

2006-11-16T02:34:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

Talking telephone numbers

2006-11-15T07:47:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

However, their most important piece of advice comes later:

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

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

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

Hello, my name is Fabulous

2006-11-15T02:06:00.000-08:00

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

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

So thanks London Lite.

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

Scally-tastic

2006-11-14T03:22:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday Morning Misery

2006-11-13T01:25:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank Crunchie It's Friday

2006-11-10T07:11:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

Selling your friends

2006-11-09T03:51:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back on the Merry Go Round

2006-11-08T01:59:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

Common sense approach

2006-11-07T02:35:00.000-08:00

Question: What is the best way to handle redundancy?

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

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

Hard men and harder decisions

2006-11-06T01:41:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jobless... but still fabulous?

2006-11-02T01:44:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merry Christmas everyone!

Smelling Fresh and Ready for Action

2006-11-01T01:51:00.000-08:00

Another day, another step closer to the restraining order.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How was it for you?

2006-10-31T07:55:00.000-08:00

Aside from the calendar of the year, what else did I get up to at the weekend? Well, the trip to the theatre was as good as I could've expected. Ashlee Simpson was playing Roxie Hart, but more importantly, Brenda from X Factor was playing Mama Morton and she brought the house down. Everyone screamed when she sang and she got the most applause at the end. Read it and weep, Simpson.

The most exciting thing after that was my cinema trip on Saturday afternoon. I went to see Step Up with Snow and we both fell in love with the main star. It's a typically cheesey story about a break dancing boy from the wrong side of town who falls for a middle class girl at dance school. Will he help her inject some tough street moves into her classical showcase? Will she get her big break? Will he inject something else into her? Who cares - so long as he gets that defined torso out and parades around the screen once every five minutes in nothing more than a tight pair of shorts, I couldn't care less what happens in the story. Thank the Lord for Channing Tatum and all of his muscles - each and every one of them.

To top it all off, we went dancing on Sunday. I'm not sure what's happened to us, but since we moved from being 'early-to-mid-twenties' to 'mid-to-late-twenties', we seem to have lost all traces of rhythm. Back in the day when we were 19, Snow was a podium dancer in clubs up and down London and I was a passionate clubber, busting it and attending street dance classes. We hit 27 and POOF! Neither of us can dance anymore. I think it might have had something to do with my long, grey winkle pickers, but rather than cut a dashing shape across the dance floor, I ended up looking rather like my dad. But slimmer. And not as drunk.

Still, everyone else was pretty wasted, so I can't imagine anyone even knew we were there. Let's hope not.

I now plan on spending the rest of the afternoon thinking up different combinations of me, Philip Olivier and Channing Tatum in various states of undress. Yum.

August is going to be HOT!

2006-10-31T01:20:00.000-08:00

Bought myself a little treat at the weekend. Just in time for Christmas, Philip Olivier has brought out a calendar for 2007. I got it at the weekend and leafed through - August has a shot of him pulling himself out of a swimming pool, muscles rippling, droplets of water running down his sculpted body.

I think I may need to go out and get me some action before I find myself climbing on top of it.

West End Boy

2006-10-27T02:53:00.000-07:00

It's quite unusual for me to be so happy at work, but I have loads to be excited about. First, it's pay day and that means I can get some new Terre aftershave from Hermes. Also, I have a half day holiday today. And then I also have Monday off, so I have one more hour at work and then I'm not back until Tuesday.

I'm off this afternoon because my sister Emmy Lou wanted to come and meet me for a night out in London town. We were going to just go for lunch and cocktails, but she called me this morning and told me that she'd actually booked tickets for the matinee performance of Chicago. I think Ashlee Simpson is in it, so that'll be worth seeing.

And then once I've woken up and dusted myself off tomorrow, I am going raving with Snow. We haven't been out dancing all night for weeks and it's high time we got our dancing shoes back on.

I'd quite like to make the most of not having work on Monday by going out on Sunday night too. I always want to go to DTPM at Fabric or Detox at Ghetto, but having a full time job makes that hard.

This could end up being a very messy weekend indeed.

Midweek Debauchery

2006-10-26T02:48:00.000-07:00

Hmm, it's unusual to be this hung over on a Thursday, but I am currently suffering at my desk. Again!

On Tuesday evening I met up with Law Girl, an old school friend who's training to be a lawyer. We hadn't actually seen each other for about 5 years, so we had quite a lot of catching up to do. She had lots of stories to tell: going to Africa to help build a hospital; returning back to University to train to become a lawyer; landing a job getting paid an obscene amount of money. And what did I have to tell her? That I'd discovered the limited edition cappuccino doughnut at Krispy Kreme. Well, half the proceeds do go to charity.

The situation was remedied by us sinking two bottles of wine each, and then it all got a bit messy. Yes, she's a lawyer who wears smart suits and has a Mulberry bag, but she still ended up on her hands and knees outside the pub on Stamford Street, puking her guts up. I'm such a good friend for pulling her hair out of her face and rubbing her back.

With the mother of all hang overs, I went out with Doormouse after work last night as I couldn't face getting on the tube to go home. Another two bottles of wine later and we were back at his flat dancing to Baby D 'Let me be your fantasy'.

It's now 10:51am and I am yet to utter a word to anyone in the office. I'm not sure how I'm going to survive till 5pm. I keep receiving emails from co-workers asking me questions and so far I've ignored all of them. If I stay quiet all day, maybe they won't even know I'm here.

I am definitely NOT going out tonight. Although, a Bloody Mary does sound quite appealing right now...

Mixing up your cakes and your cocks

2006-10-24T07:17:00.000-07:00

I wanted to send a link to some friends about a fabulous cake maker based in London, called Peggy Porschen. She makes these amazing sweet little cup cakes and she's always featured in glossy mags.

The problem was, I couldn't remember her name. I thought she was called Penny Porsche, so I Googled that name instead. It turns out that the latter is actually a porn star in her 40s who 'acts' in films like 'Older and Anal' and 'I Wanna Cum Inside your Mom'.

Not quite what I was looking for.