Possible Au Revoir

The day has arrived and I am out of this pox-ridden office for good.

I have it on good information that a collection and card have gone round and in this company that means only one thing: There will be an insincere speech at the end of the day from the publisher and I will be expected to give one in return to the whole company.

When I was told all those weeks ago they were making me redundant, my initial reaction was, "Thank Christ I won't have to suffer the indignity of the leaving speech." But I think so much time has passed since then, that they have forgotten the exact reason why I am going.

I know that a collection has gone round as a co-worker 'casually' asked me yesterday what alcohol I liked, you know, just hypothetically. This surely means they have bought me something.

So, I am going for drinks at lunch to make sure I am suitably lubricated for my audience this afternoon. This could be the point I read out the email.

Failing that, I might just confess my love for Mr Sexy Delicious and ask him to run away with me.

What I do know is that I am going to be away from a computer from today onwards and then it'll be on to pastures new and a new office.

I don't know how keen the new people are going to be on letting me blog all day when I should be working. Perhaps I should have established that with them in the first interview.

Until I am back in the land of computing and t'internet, I blog no more.

Great minds think alike

So, tomorrow is my last day.

Doormouse knows what it's like to be made to leave from this company, so he has sent me something he thinks I should send round tomorrow.

Whenever people leave this company, they send the obligatory 'great to know you, see you down the pub' email.

Here is what he thinks I really ought to say:

Ladies, Gentlemen and undecided,

For some time now, I have been searching my conscience and wracking my brain, wondering whether I should send this statement to you all. After meeting with various ‘advisors’, and a hands down unanimous decision, here I sit typing the statement I have deliberated painstakingly over.

As you will all no doubt be aware, tomorrow will be my very last day here at The Company, having become the latest in a long line of redundancy victims. Though my job isn’t actually redundant, and someone is waiting in the wings to fill my position, they are calling it ‘redundancy’ but that is no more than a crock of shit. You know it, I know it, they know it.

Although technically I should be in a position to introduce you guys to my new Japanese best friend I Sue-U who works for the firm Gouie Getem and Howe, I have been made to sign a ‘compromise’ agreement, waiving all of my employment rights showing what a bunch of utter charlatans you really are.

But this email isn’t about all that. This is my chance to say a few special words to a few people.

On the whole, I wanted to take this opportunity to tell you all what a bunch of cunts I think you all are, and how happy I feel knowing that I won’t have to share the same rancid air with you. No more will I have to make awkward small talk in lifts with people who I really couldn’t give a rat’s arse about what you got up to at the weekend.

I’d like to say that I have enjoyed working here, and have built some fantastic relationships with a lot of you, but have never been one to propagate falsehoods. You’re all cunts, and have screwed me big time, and for that I sincerely hope you rot in hell.

Now for those personal messages:

Chip fat John: Thank you for imposing bulimia upon me. Every time I inhaled your aroma of chip fat, smelly feet and general soap dodging-ness I was unable to contain myself, and as a result at least ten times a day, I was powerless to stop myself from regurgitating. May your deep fryer live long, and your greasy hair grow longer.

Office Snide: Thank you for the ugliness that I have had to endure on a daily basis. Never have I known a more jagged tooth cunt who is about as straight as an intestine. You are sleazy, shameless, and apparently a marketer, and I am sure everyone would like to join in a congratulatory bum fuck for you. I’m sure we all look forward to seeing the Publisher’s baby come out with your squinty eyes, your teeth like a shark, and when it’s old enough to walk, the same crab like walk.

Miserable Receptionist: When I first started here, you pretended I did not exist, to the point where you would sit at my desk and eat your lunch, rendering me desk-less for the first 6 months of my employ. You still ignore me and act like I am invisible, but now, you are the man who checks the gangways for ‘hazardous’ objects such as paper clips and elastic bands, and I want to extend a heart felt thanks to you, for putting all of our safety here at the top of your list of priorities. Some would say that any menial task you are given is just a further way to blatantly validate your ridiculously redundant position, therefore keeping your pointless manager Mandy the Honey Monster in a job, but talk is cheap right?

This is generally the point where the person leaving gives you their email address and phone number for you to keep in contact, so here we go.

Phone:

Email:

See you all on the twelfth of never gonna happen.

AND YOU CAN WALK UP AND DOWN PAST MY DESK AS MUCH AS YOU WANT COS I DON’T WORK HERE ANYMORE.

Denim Boy

(You see, I really am a name not a number)

If I had that redundancy cheque in my hand, I'd send the email now!

Do you have a Walking Licence?

The top of this blog says that London is the greatest city in the world.

But there are many, many occasions when I don't actually feel this way and those times are any days when I have to walk through Central London during rush hour. So, basically every poxy morning and evening.

When I was 17 I wanted to learn to drive, so I took up driving lessons. I had to read the Highway Code to familiarise myself with the rules of the road and then I took a test, after which I was allowed to be set free on the road.

Well, where is the code to familiarise people with the rules of the pavement? Why do pedestrians think that they have the freedom to walk at any speed and in any direction with no thought for others using the walkways?

Central London is exceptionally busy, full of people rushing back and forth all trying to get somewhere in the shortest possible time. So why do so many do this journey with absolutely no awareness of those around them?

If it's not people reading a newspaper when they're walking along (have you ever heard anything like it?), it's people walking out of shops and offices onto a busy pavement and then stopping in the middle. If it's not people walking really slowly, it's people in twos or threes walking together down a two-man deep path so that no one can get passed in either direction.

The only thing more irritating than a pedestrian is a pedestrian with an umbrella, especially one intended for a golf course rather than Threadneedle Street. Having been absent-minded enough to lose three umbrellas on trains in the last month, I was already in a foul mood when I saw the rain this morning and the last thing I wanted was to have to duck and dive to avoid getting my eyes poked out by all the nutters with wandering brollies. And at six foot two, that's no simple feat.

I think laws should be brought in to bring some kind of order to the pavements of London. I remember hearing a rumour once that Oxford Street was going to have lanes introduced for slower walkers allowing faster ones to go about their business without the need for tripping people up.

This would be a lifesaver and should be brought in across the city. Millennium Bridge, for example, should be split into two lanes: one for people with somewhere to go and the other for the cuntish tourists who clog it up on a regular basis.

If there was some order introduced, I'd be able to get to work without wanting to throw myself in the Thames with rocks in my pockets.

The situation has got so bad that I've picked up a dangerous habit. Each time someone gets in my way or walks in front of me or fails to give me the right of way when they ought to, I mutter "cunt" under my breath.

This is fine while no one hears, but one day some burly bloke is going to get wind of it and, as opinionated as I am, I'm not overly keen on confrontation, so I should try and curb it.

In the end I had to nip to Pret to get a hot chocolate and a ham and cheese croissant. Just to take the edge off.

Men I have loved (6)

#6 in an occasional series - Channing Tatum

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

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

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

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

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

Channing Tatum: Silly name; great big hunk.

'A' Lister

I had to wear a disguise on my way to work this morning.

I didn't want to get recognised on the train.

I donned oversize shades, a baseball cap and a scarf to cover my mouth.

You see, fame has finally reached me. It took longer than I'd hoped, but at last I can now call myself a celebrity.

Of sorts.

My favourite rave, Sunshine Daze, has released a CD and DVD pack* of the last ever event they held at The Scala in King's Cross in July of last year and me and Snow are on it.

Looking very sweaty.

Every time we went to these events, we'd jump up on stage when our favourite DJ, Norris Da Boss Windross, came on and we'd dance to his entire set. Without getting off the stage. It was a trip down Memory Lane for us because back in the day, he used to do our favourite set at Bagley's each and every Saturday.

The last time we went, there were cameramen floating around and they caught us dancing to Norris.

The point where we were filmed was quite late in the night - around 2:30am - and so we were looking particularly choice. Very out of it, hair stuck to our faces and throwing ourselves around in gay abandon.

I couldn't stop laughing when we appeared on my screen and I got to see what other people get to see when we go dancing.

And it did give me a little insight into why we never get approached by hunks when we're out.

While everyone else reacted to the cameras being thrust into their faces by jumping around and screaming and waving (and many of the girls did their very best 'sexy' dance), each time they pointed the cameras at us, we looked very serious and turned our backs.

I told Snow about this and she defended us by saying that we really get into the music and that's why we look so serious.

I agree with that, but no one wants to chat up someone who looks so unapproachable.

Some of our other friends are also on the DVD and when they got in front of the camera, they were smiling and blowing kisses and as a result, looked much more fun.

So next time we go dancing - which will be a night at Fiction (if it's open) next Friday - I will aim to have more fun, to smile at every opportunity and not to take the dancing too seriously.

I'll need to look as approachable as possible for all the potential autograph hunters.



* In order to get this pack, I had to walk into Uptown Records in Soho, go down the metal staircase to the Garage section and ask at the counter if they had it. Let's just say, when little old gay me strolled in and sauntered through the thick cloud of 'ganja' smoke, there was a fair amount of confused faces, kissing of teeth and not-very-well-disguised sniggers. I'm not really Uptown Records' target audience.

If your best friends can't tell you...

It's my last Monday in this office. I am very happy about this.

But that doesn't stop me from not wanting to be here today. I had much fun at the weekend and that always makes Mondays hard to cope with.

I popped for a couple of swift ciders with Doormouse to the Retro Bar on Friday and we put the world to rights. In an ideally fabulous world, we would have stayed out all night and ended up at Fiction, but the purse strings needed to be tightened after Christmas, so we had an early one.

Spent Saturday shopping for an outfit with my mum - she needs to wow everyone at my sister's surprise 30th birthday party this weekend - so I spent most of the day vetoing things and dressing her in what I wanted her to wear. Who cares what she wants as long as she looks good at the end of it?

Then it was onto Dame Saskia of Pinkdom's Highgate palace for an evening of fun with her and The Husband. The fun turned into debauchery and we drank our body weights in red wine and fell very heavily off the healthy-eating wagon.

When we woke up on Sunday, we jumped in my car and headed down the hill to Snow's Crew Shond pad for an extra day of hilarity. Seeing as Saskia and I had already gone down the chocolate path (that sounds ruder than it actually is), we stayed in the gutter and dragged Snow with us, ordering Domino's pizza and scoffing a box of choccies.

By the end of the session, we turned to New Year's resolutions and established that none of us had really made any. Saskia agreed that she would use 2007 to focus on her career and Snow decided that she was going to be more open to new experiences and say 'yes' more often.

When it came to my turn, I initially said that I was aiming to put the 'sex' back into homosexual. Saskia agreed, telling me I needed to get laid and Snow jumped in, adding that it was imperative I got some cock this year.

From this we discussed my life in general and my new job and possible new home.

I asked for advice on whether I should look to get a place of my own or look into doing a flat share and apart from the fact that both Saskia and Snow guffawed when I suggested I could live with strangers ("but you hate everyone," they said), they also raised issues with my ability to spend my money wisely and live without new purchases.

"You buy more clothes and skin care products than us two put together," Snow said.

"I think if you get a place on your own," added Saskia, "you won't have any money left over to buy fragrances or jumpers. And I don't think you could cope with that."

Well, naturally I jumped on the defensive at first.

"But I only buy all that stuff because I'm unhappy where I live," I protested. "I'd stop if I had bills to pay."

While that is true (when I did have my own flats, money always went on the important stuff before I bought treats - which were extremely rare), it made me think all the way home about my spending habits and I have to agree that they are quite right.

I don't know what I'm going to do when I move out and all the money I've been spending on new outfits, glossy mags and general presents to myself has to go on rent, bills and council tax.

I now have to weigh up what's more important: Can I continue living in my current situation so I can afford to treat myself, or do I need to get out and stop spunking my money?

I know I need to get out and be independent, but does living in London mean I will have to wear last winter's clothes while I'm doing it?

The prospect of living with The Bear indefinitely is beginning to look ever so slightly more attractive now.

Men I have loved (5)

#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.)

Relive the horror

Sometimes it takes someone else's reaction for you to realise the severity and/or hilariousness of a situation.

Last night I had let's-get-together-coz-I-haven't-seen-you-in-ages drinks with an old gal pal. We were dishing out the sordid details of what we had been up to over the last couple of years and practically immediately we got onto which misfits we had bumped uglies with.

The story about the last bloke I shagged made her titter (his name was either Mark or Steve, it was outside at 4 in the morning and he drove a white Cadillac. And he came from Watford), but it was the loser before that which really made her smile.

Let me set the scene with relevant background information: I moved to London when I was 19 and I was very naive and rather shoddy. I had the standard short spiky hair with blonde highlights, very bad jeans (usually borrowed from my female flatmate) and an overall look of dreadfulness.

I made some new London friends, one of them being South African (referred to as The SA), straight and (I thought at the time) very good looking. He had a gay brother back in SA, he said. He was even better looking than him, he said.

When The SA got married, his brother arrived, was the best man and was indeed very handsome. To me and my equally impressionable flatmate, Snow, he was quite unlike any man we had seen: chiselled; confident; sexy; mysterious.

He didn't look twice at me. Why would he? I wouldn't have done. The wedding ended, he went back home and that was that.

Five years later and he was back over here seeing his brother again. We all planned to go out and go dancing. The girls were dancing their g-strings off at Stringfellows, so me and the brothers were going to meet up first, head to Pacha and then the girls would come and meet us when they'd finished.

Arrived at the club slightly nervous about seeing The Brother as I remembered how much I had fancied him before, but at the same time I was fairly confident as I knew that I had come on leaps and bounds since then. I was now wearing men's jeans for a start. And my hair was now acceptable, my skin was no longer pallid and lifeless and I no longer had the whiff of the student.

When I clapped eyes on him, I was very smug indeed. Where the last five years had been somewhat kind to me, they had most definitely taken their toll on him. He had gone from being muscular to looking gaunt, he was wearing a black crocheted shirt which revealed his not-so rippling torso and he had turned into one of those men who smelt like tobacco, coffee and Armani aftershave.

And yet he had the audacity to do one of those things that drives me insane - he pretended not to remember me, so I had to be re-introduced to him. He could barely drag himself from his mobile phone to shake my hand and he made no effort at all to be polite to me, his brother's friend.

So we head into Pacha, me ignoring him and him thinking he was something special, he tried to get me to pay for him to get in (which I did not do) and also expected me to pay for him to put his coat in the cloakroom (again, I did not agree).

When I saw his old man's dancing ability on the dance floor, I was too embarrassed to stay with them, so I went for a wander upstairs and planned to wait there on my own until the girls arrived.

Had a few too many. Why not? It was the weekend. In fact, had a lot too many and needed to sit down. The Brother appears out of nowhere and sits next to me, telling me he had done too many pills and was 'totally out of it, man'. Can he rest his head in my lap, he asks. Er, OK, I think, but this is highly inappropriate behaviour considering a) we are in public and b) you are a big ole cunt.

With his head now snuggled deep into my groin, I can't fight the drunkenness any more and tell him I feel sick and need to go to the toilet. He springs into action, takes me by the hand and leads me off to the loos.

He bundles me into a cubicle, sits me down and rubs my back. Luckily, I don't actually chunder, but I didn't feel too great.

"You need to piss it out," he says.

What? Is that the old famous 'if you're drunk have a wee' remedy?

I complied anyway and got my wanger out, but there was no pissing to be done from me.

And then he unzips and gets his own todger out and just stands there smiling.

Well, I may have said it before, but my mum always taught me to be polite. There I was standing in a cubicle with a man with his knob out, so I did what anyone else would do in that situation and I got on my knees. It'd be rude not to.

In my drunken state, I was still able to do some good business. I have it on good authority that I give 'good head', from real people and, if it could speak, I'm sure the chocolate penis I was given for Christmas would say the same thing (does it make me a pervert that as I devoured it, I pretended it wasn't made of chocolate and that it was joined to Mr Olivier? And no, it wasn't cream-filled).

The fellating continued for a few minutes until he pulled himself free from my mouth and said:

"I think we should come back later and finish this off."

I would have expected something more along the lines of, "Oh, baby, I'm gonna cum," but instead I got that.

You can offer to blow someone and be rejected, but can you be rejected mid-blow?

I should've said something like 'you should consider yourself lucky to have had that thing in my mouth in the first place and you needn't think you're gonna get another shot', but rather said 'OK' and stood up.

We zipped up and headed back to the bar and rejoined The SA.

I was seething, time went by and the girls arrived, to hear all my gory details. They laughed.

Shortly after this, he sidled over and asked me if I wanted to accompany him to a fetish club in Vauxhall because he was supposed to be meeting 'some guy' there and he didn't know how to get there.

No thanks.

"Well, how about we go to the loos then, and finish off what we started?"

Finally, I said the right thing. I looked him in his once-dreamy eyes and said: "Thanks, but no thanks."

He was not happy and decided the time was right to go. He said goodbye to and kissed everyone in the group except me, who got the cold shoulder.

"Why did you suck his dick?" asked Snow. "You don't even fancy him anymore."

"I'm not really sure," I said. "I was there, it was there. I just thought 'in for a penny, in for a pound'."

The only thing that made this story more typically me was about six months later, I heard talk of him attending a family function with people I know and he was still maintaining that he was straight.

I've just added him to the list of losers.

I only hope 2007 is the year I stop being polite and only put penises in my mouth if I actually want to.

Maybe that could be my New Year's resolution.

Two out of three ain't bad

Went to see a lovely lawyer lady today.

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

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

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

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

Great. Things are looking up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I will keep on smiling and see what happens.

But I'm not going to expect too much.

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

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

Yes, I will definitely not expect too much.

This Life is Brilliant

Tonight my phone will be switched off from 9pm.

This Life is returning for a one-off special ten years after the second series ended.

It was watching this show as a sexually-confused teenager that made me realise I was going to end up moving to London one day.

Warren, one of the original 5 characters, was openly gay and a beacon of light in an otherwise shitty teen existence.

I've waited for a whole decade to see what happened to Miles and Anna, Milly and Egg and my fingers are crossed that Joe (Steve John Shepherd) will be making an appearance.

This is he:



And I loved him.

New Year Backtracking

Right, I take it all back.

I don't hate Christmas anymore.

Christmas is fucking brilliant.

Why the change of heart?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy New Year to me!


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

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

Gaying it forward

Crikey, what a hang over.

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

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

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

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

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



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

What begins with P?

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

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

Here goes (in no particular order):

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!

Nice jumper!

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

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

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

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

Men are all bastards!

Holidays and hookers

The office is dead this morning.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Today I would like to be...

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

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

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

What three things would you like to be today?

Not the only Grinch in town

At Last!

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

Emz sent me this email:

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

I couldn't have put it better myself.

Emz, I welcome you aboard The Grinch Express.

Who else wants to jump on board?

Men I have loved (4)

#4 in an occasional series* - Danny Dyer

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

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

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

Danny Dyer really is the business.


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

WANTED: Cruising Classes

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

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

Plans never work.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I blame Christmas.

Should not be allowed

Novelty ties with pictures of snowmen are one thing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cretin.

Misery and kisses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Men I have loved (3)

#3 in an occasional series* - Philip Olivier

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

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

Look at the picture. I need say nothing more.


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

The Grinch is back

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

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

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

Actual Christmas carols.

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

Go West (End)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

Once, twice, three times a stalker

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

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

Sadly he caught me. Not once, but thrice.

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

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

I'll have to be quicker tomorrow.

I can't stop moaning

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'd dump my friends for it

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

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

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

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

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

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

Who needs old school friends anyway?

What happened at the Christmas party

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

Glasses of champagne before sitting down for meal: 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

Standard of dinner: Far cry from canapés at beginning

First person on the dancefloor: Me

Time it took anyone to join me: 20 minutes

Music played: Varied from semi-decent to early Madonna

Favourite conversation of the night:

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

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

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

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

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

Amount of friends who answered their phones: 0

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

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

Size of my hang over: Gargantuan

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

Quick whinge

People say some really annoying things.

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

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

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

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