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.

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