No Joe for this mo

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?

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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?

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

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?

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

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 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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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.