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.

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 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 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.

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

Men I have loved (6)

#6 in an occasional series - Channing Tatum

The guys I include in my 'Men I Have Loved' list are ones that have been with me for many years (and fantasies).

But every now and then a hottie comes into the radar who manages to get close to the top in an instant.

Mr Channing Tatum is one of these hunks and he goes into the list today.

I saw him in Step Up and the only thing that paralleled his jaw line and rock hard abs was his street dance style.

If you look like that and can dance like that, then I want some of that.

Channing Tatum: Silly name; great big hunk.

Men I have loved (5)

#5 in an occasional series - Jeremy Sheffield

From Natalie Imbruglia's 'Torn' video, to Hollywood via Holby City, Jeremy Sheffield has got it all.

He's a tanned, strapping lad with rugged manly charm and looks that make me go weak at the knees.

Despite a co-worker claiming to have been propositioned by him in a club of ill repute, Mr Sheffield remains one of my top hotties to swoon over.

He is at his best when he takes his top off, revealing his glorious tattoo across his shoulders and I should expect he has a great bedside manner.

What makes him an unusual entry in my list of men that I have loved, is that he is a big old bender.

Yum.

Friday: Time to moan

They say that there's no prude like a reformed whore.

And that whore was me this morning.

A scabby, blotchy-faced bloke sat in front of me on the train this morning.

He made me feel sick. I knew what he'd been doing. He reeked of it.

Smoke.

He must've just finished a cigarette and as soon as he sat down, the stale stench hung in the air like a cloud of shit.

On 21 April it will be one year to the day since I gave up smoking. I won't call myself a non-smoker until that day; instead I'll label myself a 'recovering smoker'.

I don't want to jinx it, but I still have no desire to start up again and when I smell someone like him, it makes me deeply ashamed that I ever smoked.

It means that every morning when I got on the train, other people could smell it on me. The same thing goes for people unfortunate enough to share a lift with me in my building.

Well, now I don't smell and those that do make me sick to the pit of my stomach. I wanted to ask him to sit somewhere else, but that might have been too much so early in the morning.

I'd hoped when I got to work that I wouldn't have to endure any more unpleasant odours, but I have discovered that one of the people who sits behind me has personal hygiene issues of his own: he clearly doesn't brush his teeth as his breath stinks like pig shit.

Couple that with Chip Fat John who sits on the other side of the office, and I have a day full of stench to look forward to.

He's known as Chip Fat John because he smells like chip fat. And his name is John. He also smells of dirty towels. You know when you wash a towel and for some reason it gets left lying around indoors and ends up smelling like stale sweat, feet and cabbage? That's what he smells like all day, every day.

And he seems to think that as we are the only two gayers who work in my office anymore, I will enjoy talking to him all day about the fact that Rupert Everett saw him and his boyfriend snogging, that Jeremy Sheffield propositioned him in a 'leather club' and which male Gladiator I used to fancy.

I enjoy none of these conversations.

(But I fancied Trojan.)

(And Rupert Everett and Jeremy Sheffield, if you want to get technical.)

Two out of three ain't bad

Went to see a lovely lawyer lady today.

Had to go through my Compromise Agreement with a solicitor ready for my redundancy next week. As I got myself a new (better) job I am going before the company wanted me to leave, but I still get the pay-off and therefore needed a legal eye to look through it.

She was very friendly indeed and made all the baffling jargon make sense. And she was also very enthusiastic about my new job and our conversation made me realise how excited I am about the (unexpected) change in career.

On the walk back to the office, I started thinking about the fact that once I am in the new job, I'll be in a position to start looking for somewhere else to live. Lodging with The Bear is now more dire than it's ever been before and I need to get out. Immediately, if not sooner.

So I am planning on signing up with the agents who got Snow her Crew Shond boudoir in the hope of getting a fabulous pad (shoebox) I can call my own.

Great. Things are looking up.

2007 is the year of a new job and a new home.

But, and there always has to be a but, my joint New Year's resolution with Doormouse was that 2007 is going to be the year we find gorgeous boyfriends who treat us well and buy us gifts.

If I have already secured one of the elusive three (job, home, man) and am pretty certain it's only be a matter of weeks before I get the second, am I expecting too much for wanting all of them?

The entire 12 months that were 2006 had a distinct lack of any of the three and I wonder if maybe I should just be satisfied with what I have got and not hanker after any more.

On the man front though, I have started a new hobby which is to smile at one stranger a day.

I did it this morning at a suited City hunk and he half-smiled back. It wasn't a full hey-sexy-man smile, but I think I threw him off by doing it in the first place. Londoners don't expect smiling strangers and they tend to be very suspicious.

I will keep on smiling and see what happens.

But I'm not going to expect too much.

Ooh, actually, maybe my future husband will be waiting for me in my new job.

And perhaps I could have an affair with a chap living in the building I am going to move into.

Yes, I will definitely not expect too much.

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'.

Once, twice, three times a stalker

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'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?

Men I have loved (2)

#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.

Girl after my own heart

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?

Men I have loved (1)

#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!

Someone call 999!

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!