New Year Backtracking

Right, I take it all back.

I don't hate Christmas anymore.

Christmas is fucking brilliant.

Why the change of heart?

Well, there were still some definite rum points throughout the festivities including more time spent with family and step-family than is absolutely necessary, and of course living in a medieval town that has NO INTERNET CAFES AT ALL, I had no way to blog through it all*.

But all of that was forgotten when I saw some of my presents. There was the usual stream of DVDs and chocolates that never go unappreciated, but there were two rather spectacular presents that made it all seem OK.

First was my present to myself. As a Single Gay, I felt the boyfriend deficit meant that while I would not be getting a gift from a special someone, I wouldn't have to spend money on one either, so I bought myself a little something. And what I bought was a gift set of the new Prada men's fragrance.

It came in some splendid royal blue Prada wrapping paper and it even had Prada tape. I bought it on Christmas Eve and opened it as soon as I got in. It was so beautiful that I applauded when I opened it.

Seeing as it was so amazing, I decided the best solution would be to wrap it back up again in its glorious packaging so I could reopen it on Christmas morning. And I applauded the second time too.

The other phenomenal gift was from my mum and sister and constitutes a birthday present rather than a Christmas one, but they were so excited, they couldn't wait till September (the 5th - put it in your diary) to give it to me. And it was...

... two tickets to see Justin Timberlake in concert at the Millennium Dome in July. How happy was I? So happy that a single tear fell down my cheek.

Snow is going to take the second ticket and she was just as excited as I was when I called her and told her. We've started planning our outfits already as we both expect JT will see us dancing in the crowd, fall in love with us and ask us to go backstage with him. Separately, obviously, as that would just be sick.

So with my new fragrance and seven months to look forward to being in the same room as the Trousersnake, all the crap about Christmas was soon forgotten.

There was also some shoddiness surrounding New Year's Eve - at the last minute, Snow and I agreed to go to The Opera House in Tottenham for a garage-fest, but when I got there they refused to let me in for wearing trainers. My protestations that they let me in with trainers last Boxing Day** fell on deaf ears and so we went for cocktails and were home by 11:30pm - but I'm still on a high (and I'm wearing my Prada, so I smell great), so it wasn't a massive deal.

And as it is now January, I was able to crack open the Phil Olivier calendar.

Happy New Year to me!


* Both my mum and sister have internet access, but I thought it might appear slightly rude to enjoy the dinners they cooked on Christmas Day and Boxing Day respectively, and then disappear upstairs onto their PCs to moan about it all.

** Snow and I originally went to The Scala on Boxing Day 2005, but the night was rubbish. We left and strolled through King's Cross to get a cab to take us to a better night at The Opera House. On the way, I slipped on some ice and fell to the ground, fracturing my elbow. We had two choices: we could go to the hospital and get it put into plaster, or we could go to the club anyway. We jumped in a cab and went to the club. By the time we got there, my left hand was purple and three times its normal size, so with my right hand I stuffed it into my pocket and spent the night dancing with only one arm. I went to the hospital the next day and they put it in plaster for me. Even a broken bone won't stop me dancing.

What begins with P?

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

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

Here goes (in no particular order):

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

Holidays and hookers

The office is dead this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men I have loved (4)

#4 in an occasional series* - Danny Dyer

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

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

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

Danny Dyer really is the business.


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

Men I have loved (3)

#3 in an occasional series* - Philip Olivier

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

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

Look at the picture. I need say nothing more.


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

I'd dump my friends for it

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who needs old school friends anyway?

August is going to be HOT!

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.