Tuesday, May 31, 2005

A novel way to deliver groceries

Quitting smoking has given me the impetus to make other changes in my life - some of them small, some of them big.

One of the bigger ones is to start eating properly in order to be more healthy and to spend less money - i.e. not constantly ordering from Deliverance and making my own lunch as opposed to buying it from Prêt.

London, geographically, is not hugely dissimilar to Los Angeles. It's a vast, sprawling city, with many boroughs and towns, albeit with a fairly workable public transport system. Still, without a car (I can't rely on using my housemates) a weekly shop without recruiting a taxi-cab can be a bit of a nightmare and when your local supermarket is in Brixton it is actually an experience to be avoided at all costs.

Last week I decided to try online grocery shopping with Tesco (interesting tidbit - when I was a student and but a lowly checkout cashier, I was the fastest "scanner". We'll forget the fact that, as a result, your groceries were pummeled as I threw them into the packing bin at supersonic speed.)

Now there is a cost to online grocery shopping - the £3.99 ($7.27) delivery fee. But still, that's a small price to pay to have them delivered straight to your door. And if that wasn't good enough, the system remembers what you ordered from previous weeks so all you have to do in future is click a box. It's amazing and almost arouses me sexually. Almost.

Last week was the second week that I ordered my groceries online. Saturday was extra special because I had ordered the ingredients to make Oatmeal and Raisin cookies, Mama Christopher style. So, imagine my excitement when the front door buzzer went.

Sorry, before I continue, I need to tell you that I live on the first floor (for my American readers, that's the second floor) of an apartment block. To get into the building you have to buzz up at the front door and when I've answered I press a button and you're allowed in. Except that our front door is currently broken and whenever someone wants to come up one of us has to go downstairs and let them in. It's most annoying, but apparently no one in the building can be bothered to let the building managers know about it. Including us.

So I answered the buzzer.

"Hello?"

"Delivery."

"Ok. The door doesn't work, so I'll come down and open it."

As I am only wearing a pair of tighty-whities I desperately run around the apartment trying to find a pair of PJ pants. While I am doing this I can hear the delivery guy hammering away at the door downstairs, trying to get in.

Miraculously, in about 15 seconds I am halfway decent. I lift up the intercom phone again and repeat. "Don't try and push the door open. It doesn't work. I'm coming down right now!"

I open the front door run down the stairs, arriving in the hall at just the right moment to witness the delivery-man literally kicking the door down!

"What are you doing?"

"The door wouldn't open."

"So you thought you'd kick it down? I told you it didn't open and I was coming down."

"No you didn't."

So instead of getting into an argument I collect myself and calmly try to explain why kicking the door down is not acceptable behaviour from a Tesco delivery-man. But in the back of my mind I remind myself that this is only the second week I've used to service so maybe it actually is.

Either way, my calm, rational approach did not go down well with the very argumentative and belligerent delivery fuckwit. In the end I conceded to his point of view and just grabbed the computer sign-y box thing and gave him my autograph for the groceries.

As he leaves I decide that actually I'm not going to take this crap lying down so I call out to him. "Hey! What's your name?"

"Peter Jones," he shouts over his shoulder. I immediately doubt this, not only because the man is black and sounds like he comes from Jamaica, but because Peter Jones is the name of a famous London department store.

I went back to my apartment and called the customer service centre. The representative I spoke to was appalled and shocked at the story I told her. Clearly she was used to people complaining that all their eggs were broken or that they had received a 200g of Tesco Economy Mature Cheddar as opposed to the Demi Pont L'eveque that they actually ordered. Oh and she also confirmed that my order was actually delivered by a man called something not at all like Peter Jones.

We finished our conversation with me understanding that the representative would talk to her supervisor and decide how the situation could be addressed and resolved to my satisfaction.

That was Saturday morning and it is now Tuesday evening. Has anyone called me back? What do you think?

Someone at Tesco HQ is going to get a right earful tomorrow morning. They were going to get an earful this morning too, but I forgot to call them.

Monday, May 30, 2005

It's good to gloat.

I just had to record this here for posterity:

Last night I went to DTPM and ended up kissing the same guy I kissed the last time I went. Only this time he asked for my number. We've spent the majority of today on our respective sofas, texting one another.

I just got this:

"Well u are a handsome guy, but u have the most incredible abs...I couldn't stop touching them last night!"

Me! Abs!!! Bless him! No one has ever said that about me / my stomach before!

Clearly he made out with someone else last night.

Sunday, May 29, 2005

Which of these scenarios is the worst?

A) Walking past a busker who is playing guitar and singing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion, thinking Ooh! That's not a bad rendition!, yet not offering the busker any spare change.

B) Walking past a busker who is playing guitar and singing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion, thinking Ooh! That's not a bad rendition!, not offering the busker any money, then finding and listening to the song on my iPod.

C) Having "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion on my iPod.

Saturday, May 28, 2005

Hmm...

Hayden Christensen's sexuality is drawing an unprecedented amount of people to my blog.

Suckers!

Friday, May 27, 2005

Christopher's Choice

If I were a superhero I would very probably be a sinister Tim Burton-esque type character. I would call myself something like Grosslyunfortunateboy, for example. In the past year I have suffered from a broken jaw, vocal chord paralysis, strydor and a blocked salivary gland. The latter, if you recall, required "milking".

*shudders*

On Saturday I went to a pub in my old stomping ground, West Hampstead, to watch the FA Cup Final with Lynda, Alison, Robbie and Richard. Actually I did less "watching football" and much more "getting in the way of the big TV screen", much to the irritation of the local punters.

At one point during our conversation, Robbie (who is going to be a father in two weeks time) starts to look strangely at my right eye. "Do you have a sty?"

"No!" I tell him, and, irritated, touch the "offending" eyelid with my finger.

What I find is not a sty. I've had many a sty before and they are not like what I found this time - hard and not painful. A lump, basically.

Great. Cancer.

I start to wonder if I'm going to have to have my eyelid removed. Will I have to wear an eyepatch, Darryl Hannah / Kill Bill style? It has not escaped me that whenever faced with a crisis that will affect my appearance (you may laugh, but if you are a regular here you will know joke I most certainly do not) my first thought is, "But will boys at DTPM want to kiss me?"

(I can reliably inform you that in the instance of a wired-up broken jaw, the answer to this particular question is, "no.")

This morning I went to my doctor. My doctor is, quite simply, the best freaking doctor in the entire northern hemisphere, nay, the world. I know this, because by lightly touching my eyelid for a fraction of a second he knew that the lump was not malignant but actually a simple Meibomian Cyst.

Amazing.

My doctor told me that I have two options. The first is that I rub the cyst with a warm flannel every night, for five minutes before I go to bed for the next month. He clearly doesn't know me very well. If he did he would have understood why I could barely suppress my mirth for, oh, about ten minutes.

The second option is that I have surgery to remove it. "Most people don't elect for this option, because it's not a very nice procedure."

Oooh! Surgical gross out! I lean forward and excitedly, and slightly conspiratorially, whisper, "Why? What do they do?"

"Well," he explains, using that incredibly patronizing I'm a medical professional and thus very clever - I have your eyelid life in my hands tone. "It's not a general anesthetic procedure. You receive a local anesthetic and you can see everything they do to you. Or at least you can see the surgical implements coming towards your eye. Most patients who have a Meibomian Cyst elect for the non-surgical option."

I think it over, but it doesn't take long to come to a conclusion. DTPM plus Meibomian Cysts. Hmmm.

No prizes for guessing what I opted for.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Up in smoke

I have been a smoker since the tender age of 18. I started when I was at art-college, because it was a way to hang out with Craig Piercy in his car in the campus car park. Craig was and probably still is one of the most beautiful men I have ever been acquainted with – all baby blue eyes, eyelashes like elegant spiders and long blonde hair. He majored in pottery, so he was always dirty looking. There’s definitely something about a guy in jeans and a white, clay-streaked T-shirt, especially when that guy is hotter than, dare I say it, Hayden or Clive, both sweating and standing directly over the Equator.

Sadly, my relationship with Craig did not progress further than deep, post-pubescent tête-à-tête’s. My relationship with Marlboro Lights, however, proved to have substantially more longevity.

As most of you know, five weeks ago I had surgery on my throat. To cut (har-har!) a long story short, the surgery was not as successful as I was hoping for and in actual fact seemed to be detrimental to both the quality of my breathing and my voice.

Three weeks ago he accompanied me to Brighton to another consultation with my throat surgeon. During the consultation my surgeon asked me if I had given up smoking, to which I regretfully responded by telling him that I had not. In no uncertain terms he told me that if I was going to have any chance of getting better I had to stop smoking. No question about it. I just had to stop.

So immediately following the appointment Drew frog-marched me to W.H Smith and made me buy Allen Carr’s Easy Way to Stop Smoking, which three of my friends, Drew included, have read to successfully quit smoking. I actually bought it myself a couple of years ago, but in retrospect I don’t think that I was actually ready or prepared to stop smoking, so it didn’t work. I’m also not a big proponent of self-help books, or of therapy in general, having stumbled around under it’s “jurisdiction” for many, many years.

Not only because of my own health, but seeing how smoking induced lung cancer had recently consumed my Granddad, this time I was ready. In essence, the way the book works is by deprogramming you, while making you smoke at the same time. It forces you to challenge and re-evaluate all the subtle lies you, as a smoker, have told yourself over the years. One of the most fundamental of these is the concept of “giving up” smoking and understanding that this phrase is a total misnomer, because in actual fact you are giving up nothing and gaining everything – health and money to name but two of the obvious benefits. The book was so effective that by the time I was half way through I knew that I was already a non-smoker. Every cigarette was a nightmare and painful to smoke. By the time I reached the last chapter and was told to smoke my last cigarette I was relieved to say the least.

That last cigarette was two weeks ago today. Two weeks might not seem like a long time to you, but consider this – that is the longest I have voluntarily not smoked for eight years when I last attempted to give up, using the old fashioned willpower. That last time I was literally gagging to smoke for most of about four weeks.

This time has been completely different. I am quite simply a non-smoker now. One of the things the book tells you to do is to not avoid the situations where you would normally want to smoke, because the successful ability to get through these situations, during this withdrawal period, will provide the impetus for continued success.

Since I became a non-smoker two weeks ago I have been clubbing four times, been on two major benders and have been out for four dinners. I have had only one “moment” – two days after quitting while waiting in the queue for Ghetto with this man. Fortunately he refused to give me one of his, which I am glad about, because I would have been so mad at myself and probably would have killed him.

I cannot exaggerate what an achievement this is for me! Anyone who has known me for any amount of time will tell you that there was every possibility that I would be a smoker until my smoking-catalyzed dying day. The other thing is that I find myself noticing smokers so much more than I did when I was a smoker and I’m regarding them with pity. There is something about someone walking down the street, puffing away on a cigarette that is so NOT attractive - they are in fact a drug-addict. I can see now what all my friends saw when they looked at me and I have to say that I’m a little embarrassed.

So – me … a twenty a day smoker, now smokes zero a day, with no pangs at all and I keep finding myself smiling or giggling at the thought of how ridiculous I used to be.

Now, I wonder if Allen Carr has written an Easy Way to Control Your Crack Habit?

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

Hayden, he no gay - part deux

As you may recall, I recently embarked on a small mission to uncover the truth about those Hayden Christensen "gay" rumours.

It has always seemed to me that gay men, in particular, are extremely willing and eager to believe the rumours about Tom Cruise / Richard Gere / Brandon Routh / Kevin Spacey / Matthew McConaughey / Hayden Christensen / Robbie Williams / et al.

The thing with a rumour is that is all it usually is. In the absence of a truth or a fact, a rumour will always be a rumour. I get to work with many entertainment reporters from newspapers, magazines and TV shows alike. These people get sent picture evidence of celebrity un-doings all the time, but many of those pics are unprintable because they are just too far over the line. One of my journo contacts at Heat magazine (the British equivalent of In Touch) told me that she once received pictures of a certain British supermodel unconscious at some party, with a hyperdermic syringe still inserted into a vein in her arm. She told me that in the UK or the US, that type of picture, 99% of the time, would never get printed. It's one step too far. But she told me that what definitely would get printed is a picture of Robbie Williams kissing his boyfriend on a sunlounger at the Sunset Marquis. Except, she told me, she has hardly ever received a picture of a celebrated man or woman kissing or embracing their respective boyfriend or girlfriend.

This does not, of course, mean that there are no gay celebrities working in the entertainment industry today. Like, duh! But it would be naive of anyone to think that Tom Cruise publicly outing himself would have either little or no negative impact on his box-office stock. With that in mind one can assume that any A-list actor working in Hollywood today would go to desperate measures to cover up the truth about his or her sexuality.

But consider this - these stars are followed and photographed constantly. People slip up, all the time. And when you consider how easy it is, these days, to take photographs of anyone in any situation, incredibly discreetly, it seems "moderately" inconceivable that there is still no picture evidence of any of this apparently rampant celebrity gayness.

It's not really surprising that many gay men (myself included) want the likes of Tom Cruise to be gay. After all, we have so few role-models (although I'm not sure Tom Cruise is really worthy of anyone role-modeling themselves on. Shagging, maybe) in the entertainment industry. I have to wonder though - would Tom Cruise be quite as desirable if he were out? Isn't the allure in the fact that we don't really know for sure?

Regardless - however damning the rumours appear to be, in the absence of afore mentioned truth / fact, 100% of the time I will always regard any kind of rumour, whether it relates to a celebrity or a close friend, with reservedness.

But I'm allowed to have my suspicions. Mr.Christensen - I am not convinced about you. I certainly don't believe the tabloid rumours that Hayden is currently pashing Kevin Spacey - a hug is, in my eyes, not damning evidence. But when I saw this clip of Hayden and Ewan McGregor sharing a "moment" outside the London premiere of Revenge of the Sith, I couldn't help but wonder.

In this instance my gaydar is not screaming to me that Ewan is gay. But he is, by his own admission, very metrosexual. In real life and in his movies (anyone seen The Pillow Book?) he appears to be the type of guy who is both old enough and secure enough in his heterosexuality to not have a problem with kissing a man on the lips.

Hayden, however, as far as I am concerned, does not have the relevant case history. How many 24 year old, heterosexual men do you know who would feel comfortable kissing another man on the lips for a good second? A second is actually quite a long time in heterosexual-men-kissing-each-other-on-the-lips terms. What do you think?

Ok - you've probably guessed that I really want to believe this one particular rumour. Regardless of the truth, sadly I have to face that fact that even if Hayden is gay, it is unlikely that he will ever be my boyfriend. *sniff*

Still, no harm in extendedly briefly looking upon him and feeling vaguely weak in the presence of his beauty.

Hayden? J'taime.

hayden

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

And again...

I just returned home with Vix after having watched Revenge of the Sith for the second time.

As Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, holding baby Luke, looked out at the two suns of Tattooine, I began to cry again although, admittedly, not as much as on Saturday night.

Alerted by my sniffling, Vix turned to me and with mock-exasperation, shook her head. "You are so gay!"

I believe she may have a point.

Monday, May 23, 2005

What’s with the socks?

*untapes mouth*

Good lord! That was quite difficult! All week long, so many little things happened which I totally wanted to blog about and I couldn't! If you are ever having blogger’s block or whatever you want to call it, this is the thing to do.

Ok, first off, I may have confused some of you with the photographs. So let me explain. If I were a true artist I would probably not feel the need to do this (and, er, yes, I have Photoshop), but I'm nice, so…

Monday - Expectations is a gay sex shop I visited on Monday - that was a picture of the entrance. It’s on Old Street, around the corner from where I work and also from where I used to work. It’s really huge and kinda dingy but the assistants are really nice and friendly (but not that friendly). Scandalously, one of my friends recognised the neon entrance sign, as he was once employed by the owners to name a range of dildos.

Tuesday - that was the fountains in the courtyard of Somerset House. Somerset House is where every birth and death in the UK is recorded and archived. I went there with the intention of finding out if I could “see” my name, but when I got there I realised that was kinda dumb. So I sat in the courtyard instead and watched the fountains and read some of The Time Travellers Wife.

Wednesday - that was Millie - mine and my housemate’s friend’s baby. I got home to find her on my housemate’s bed. And that was not red eye. Like Christina, in the recently cancelled Fox show Point Pleasant, I believe that Millie might actually be half-human and half the daughter of Lucifer. Most of the time she is really well behaved but occasionally she can be a real little bitch.

Thursday - (left to right) yours truly, Drew and Drew’s friend Sam. We went to Nag Nag Nag at Ghetto - the second time I had been there in less than four days. We had the most fabulous time and we all kissed boys, I think. By writing “I think” I don’t mean that we may have kissed girls (perish the thought!) but that I’m not sure if Sam kissed a boy or not. But Drew and I definitely kissed boys.

Friday - I accidentally took a picture of my crotch while sitting on the railings next to the Southbank Centre, which is right next to the Thames. Earlier in the week Dantallion had requested that I post up naked pictures. Later in the week I read that he had decided to take an indefinite break from blogging, which made me sad. So I dedicated that picture of my crotch to him.

Saturday - I was drunk and for reasons too complicated to go into here I took my favourite teddy bear, Kwah Wah (at the point of naming him I was far too young to be able to properly pronounce the word “Koala”) to work. On the way home I stopped off at Tesco and thought it would be amusing to take a picture of him next to a trolley. I had a working title for this one – “Kwah Wah has an existential dilemma”.

Sunday - I went to see Star Wars - Revenge of the Sith with Helen, Lindsay, Drew, Atul and Richard. This is incredibly embarrassing to admit, but when the film ended I was upset and crying, almost to the point of hyperventilating. Yeah, I know – gay. As we left the cinema, Helen had to accompany me away from other others for a minute or two so that I could compose myself. Basically this was never going to just be a regular movie trip for me - Star Wars was one of the first movies I saw at the cinema and is very much a part of both my youth and my adulthood. I have watched each of the movies countless times, so in more ways than one this movie was going to bring “closure”. Aside from that it was also just a pretty cool movie as well as more than compensating for the previous two, which were, it has to be said, a little bit of a let down.

Oh, and the title of this post? Those of you who get Urban Dictionary’s Word of the Day will know what it means. And those of you who just clicked on that link.

Until tomorrow...

Sunday, May 15, 2005

Blogtox, um, thingy

Ok, there are things I want to say. Things about work, health, family, friends, travel, money, etc.

But, of late, it's been about hair.

I do feel like I need to write some kind of mental "enema". I'm not unhappy per se, but I feel that my brain is congested with so much stuff at the moment ...

But before I write about those things, I need to clear my head. I once heard that Evan Dando stopped speaking for a month or for a year, or something, and that he found the whole experience incredibly cathartic and cleansing. So I'm going to do the same. Kind of ...

For the next seven days (that’s Monday to Sunday, peeps) there will be no more words from Christopher. Only pictures. One a day. A peek into my world.

Ooooh! Maybe this could be the new big thing! Blog detox!?

Or not.

Anyhoo ... here are some nice soft floor cushions to lie back on.

*throws cushions*

Depending on your point of view this could be the longest, or the shortest, slide show known to man.

*tapes mouth shut*

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

Christopher's Wednesday blog post (Christopher his Wednesday blog post)

It's a long, boring story but there is a genuine, legitimate reason why I am not the world's expert when I turn my hand to the subject of punctuation and grammar.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I asked him a question:

"Where in the 'dogs cats bowl' does / do the apostrophe/s go?"

And he told me:

"The dog's cat's bowl. Perhaps it might help you to know that (I could be wrong about this but I don't think so) the possessive apostrophe is actually a contraction of '[noun] his.' So people used to say things like 'the dog his bowl.' That got shortened to 'the dog's bowl.'

"The apostrophe always comes after the noun of ownership. If that noun is singular (dog), the apostrophe comes after that, followed by an s (dog's). If the noun is plural (dogs), the apostrophe comes after that (dogs')."

[now etched onto my brain]

As a "thank you" for his outstanding tutelage, I promised him that I would recommend (not loan) his new book "Gay Haiku", which was released yesterday, to all of my friends.

Faustus's book (Faustus his book.)

I am slightly disgruntled over the fact that the soonest Amazon can get said book to me is by May 24. Goddamn this far-flung isle.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

My breakfast

porridge

I've recently started eating porridge for breakfast. I hadn't eaten porridge for years, not since I was a kid, when I thought it looked and tasted like vomit. But with honey and bananas (not sure about the Kiwi in this picture though) it is deelish! It's also a slow release energy food so you don't get that mid-afternoon nap slump.

And the best thing about porridge? Celebs are eating it! Kate Moss, Donna Air, Mischa Barton, P. Diddy and most importantly my favourite homeboy, Clive.

I'm going to a Puma by Maharishi party tonight and I'm hoping for something scandalous to happen, so tomorrow I won't have to tell you what I currently have for my lunch (gravy.)

Monday, May 09, 2005

The One About the Promise

Sometime last year I made someone I care about very much make me a promise. In retrospect I guess it was a stupid promise to ask him to make, with no real consequence one way or the other, but nonetheless at the time it was important to me that I felt that this was one line that he would never, ever cross.

I actually found out some time ago that the promise had been broken - the day after it happened, if I remember correctly. Discretion, it would seem, has never been a particularly favored virtue amongst gay men. It was actually a good friend who told me that what had happened had happened. With good, honest intentions this was someone who felt that I should know. And it was an act of kindness I quickly rebuffed in a misguided attempt to sweep the gravity of what the broken promise meant to me, at the time, under the carpet.

That didn’t stop me, however, indirectly attempting to discover the truth, direct from the horse’s mouth. But I was told in a roundabout way that I had been misinformed and I chose to believe that. I believed it because I wanted to believe it.

Yesterday, for some reason, he told me the truth. Which of course, really I already knew. And I told him that, but I didn’t tell him how I knew. Some things are better left unsaid.

Isn’t it amazing how our minds work? I knew. I knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt! I had the word of a good friend. Yet it is months and months after the fact that I finally actually hear it. Really, really hear it.

Here’s the thing - when I made this person make that promise I really cared that they wouldn’t break it. And I now I find myself not caring that they did. Not in a bad way. I just woke up this morning with the realisation that it doesn’t really matter. Life is way too short. I don’t think any less of him. It doesn’t make him a bad person. He’s still one of my favourite people.

This is the thing - I can’t be mad at anyone for breaking any promise. Because I made a promise to him and to everyone I know once too. A really, really big one. And I broke it spectacularly and there were consequences.

But then, afterwards, I made the same promise again. Once more. This one won't be broken.

I know that you all know that.

Sunday, May 08, 2005

[proof]

Taken last night, at dinner, in Birmingham (for my best friend's 31st birthday).

CIMG1205

I wish my cheeks were more sculpted. I must have practically 0.01% body fat, except on my cheeks. I smile and hampsters within a twenty mile radius start knawing through their cage bars in order to get to me.

Oh! I made a remarkable discovery last night. Or was it this morning? Anyway - sticking to the same drink, i.e. not mixing, means that you don't get incredibly drunk, very, very quickly and you don't wake up in the morning with the hangover from hell!

I'm sometimes a little slow on the uptake.

Saturday, May 07, 2005

Friday, May 06, 2005

Right...

I had my hair cut and you'll be most relieved to know that I am pleased with the result.

Now, I know your next questions is going to be, "Can we see a picture?" Well, you can, but you're going to have to wait until Monday because this evening I had a fuck up with the hair dye. I decided to get rid of the highlights and go back to being my usual mono shade of dark brown (Gayer Nutresse No.145 - Sexual Chocolate). But when I came to mix the solution, instead of using the colour concentrate, I accidentally dumped the contents of the post-colour intensive conditioning treatment tube into the developing mix.

Even though I realised I'd messed up before I put the contents of the bottle onto my freshly sheared barnet, I will admit to freaking out, just a little bit.

Unfortunately it was my second freak out in less than 48 hours, both of which occurred infront of Vix, who after having lived with me for almost a year, had never born witness to a Christopher freak out.

I'd like to say that when I freak out I'm like Madeline Kahn in Clue:

"I hated her ... so ... much ... I ... it ... it ... flame. Flames ... on the side of my face ... breathing ... breath ... heaving breaths ... heaving ..."

Or that I freak out like my brother - pure, unbridled rage, coupled with a spark of pure psychopathy. He's very, very good at this one and will demonstrate it at the drop of a hat - for example, the time when he found out that the fleas present on William, our cat, had laid eggs in the follicles of his chest hair, or the time when I accidentally drove my car over his already broken foot, or the time when Mum found and destroyed his hidden marijuana farm, or the time when...

But I don't freak out in either of those ways. I'll leave you to guess exactly how I freak out. But I'll tell you this: I'm seriously considering exacting a terrible revenge against Vix for laughing profusely at me, on both of the occasions.

Thursday, May 05, 2005

The One With the Bathhouse

Elizabeth has an expression for the sordid dens of iniquity that many of us gay boys like to frequent from time to time. It's an expression I rather like:

Steam emporiums.

Yesterday afternoon, at about 4.30pm, I realised that I had a bit of the horn thang goin' on. As the dial on the wallclock inched towards home time, I began to realise that this particular sensation was not something that I was simply going to be able to take into, erm, hand once I had arrived back at the pad. Therefore I decided that needs must sometimes involve another and at 6pm I hopped on the Northern Line to the fairly newly decked out steam emporium in Waterloo.

For the uninitiated amongst you (my female and dwindling straight male readership), here is the deal with gay bathhouses:

1) Gay bathhouses are not necessarily seedy affairs. Infact many of the more established ones in London are more akin to top notch health clubs than your average heterosexual "Swedish Saunas"

2) Hot guys with good bodies and decent sized, er, intellects are often in abundance (although it does depend on the time of the day)

3) You get free condoms and safe sex is actively encouraged

4) People are not, on the whole, going at it infront of each other

5) There is usually a bar, where you can have a civilised pre / post coital drink with your new fun-buddy

6) It is possible to turn a steam ream rendezvous into something less steamy afterwards

7) The guys are not completely naked (and guys look surprisingly hot in a white towel and nothing else)

8) Most gay men have been to a bathhouse at least once

9) Most gay men have been to a bathhouse at least twice

10) It's good clean fun!

So I get to the steam emporium, hand over my £12 (yeah, ok - it is quite expensive) and receive my two towels (no prizes for guessing why you get two.) I probably spent about half an hour soaking up the atmosphere, literally and metaphorically, before I start gettin' down to the serious business of gettin' myself some serious business.

Now ok, while I said that the guys are not, on the whole, going at it infront of each other, you will, if you keep your eyes peeled, notice a few fumbles going on under towels. That's not really my scene. I prefer catching some cute guy's stare, exchanging a few cheeky smiles and having a bit of a chat, before venturing off into a private (lockable) cabin and getting down to some fun, fun, fun!

And that was how it was last night. No sex on a rope swing a la Joan Collins and Oliver Tobias in The Stud. His name was Stephan, looked a bit like the footballer Ryan Giggs, had a great bod and was a really, really good kisser. And he knew all the other stuff. After we were done, we exchanged the customary pleasantries ("Thanks man! That was hot! What was your name again?") And I went off to have a shower and get changed.

On my way out I handed my locker key over to the attendant at reception. As I put the key infront of him on the desk the guy (actually a breathtakingly cute early twentysomething) looked up from his copy of Boyz or whatever it was and looked at me, at first, absentmindedly. But after about a millisecond a look of recognition sparked into his face, which then extended into a very broad, very "knowing" grin.

"Looked like someone was having some fun earlier!"

The cute receptionist is talking to me, I thought. But what words are these, coming out of his mouth?

"Ergh?"

"You! In the Jacuzzi! Looked like you were having some fun!" he exclaimed with this kinda weird smug thing going on, gesticulating towards a CCTV screen, semi-hidden behind his desk.

I believe that what must have been, initially, a look of distant interest in having this young whippersnapper speak to me quickly turned into a glare of incredulous disdain.

"I didn't do anything in the Jacuzzi. I didn't get in the Jacuzzi!"

The whippersnapper just smiled and gave me the "Yeah, whatever." look, before dipping his head back down to his free gayboy rag.

"But I didn't," I quietly repeated, more to myself this time around.

And then I left, feeling much less randy, but somewhat confused. Was that a line he pulls on all the punters as they leave the premises feeling all washed and clean (and spent), in order to try to make them feel embarrassed about having random, lusty sex with strangers?

Or did I actually just get wildly gang-banged in a Jacuzzi whilst being watched on grainy black and white CCTV by a cute, young whippersnapper ... all of it without my knowledge?

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

"If I Don't Look Good, You Don't Look Good"

Thank you, thank you, thank you! Your votes are in and you appear to have elected for this:

me1

But, I swear, with Vidal Sassoon as my witness, that once I have it done on Thursday, if I hate it and regret it, you will all be so very, very sorry! Yeah, you should be scared, because I am Rosemary's Baby:

Genuine baby picture of Christopher
pram

Seriously! You can just about see my head!

Now, my Mum took that picture and her name is Rosalie, which is almost Rosemary, so while I guess that technically makes me Rosalie's Baby, it's still near enough. Also, Vidal Sassoon did Mia Farrow's famous gamine crop on the actual set of Polanski's Rosemary's Baby. And I mentioned Vidal Sassoon earlier in this post. And I used to do the PR for Vidal Sassoon. And [insert further menacing coincidences].

All legitimate reasons why you should all be afraid that I might not like my new hair cut. Democracy comes at a price, kids.

(Note: it just occurred to me that this is not actually an experiment - I did have my hair cut like that before and I did like it. Oh. Perhaps I should just put a sock in it?)

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

Not a vanity post (er, no really, it's not...)

As many of you are doubtlessly aware, about six months ago I decided to undertake an extremely time consuming project - I decided to grow my hair out.

Now that my hair is genuinely that bit longer than normal I am beginning to have doubts that floppy hair is actually befitting a thirtysomething, professional gay man, like wot I am.

The plus side of having long hair, for me, is that, well, I just have the most sensationally amazing hair - naturally shiny and straight, in a rich and lustrous chocolate shade of brown. I get lovely comments from boys, jealous girls and friends, who know very well not to mess with the fragile ego of moi.

The downside is that, um, I get bored easily. When I was at the gay boy party at Soho House on Sunday afternoon I was struck by how I had the longest hair at the party. Not that there is anything wrong with setting yourself aside from the stereotype, but there were so many cute guys with lovely short barnets and suddenly I started to feel isolated from my fellow homoboys. I asked myself the question - am I just wasting my time, when I could be all stud-u-like with a short and messy? Am I just making myself look like even more of a bit of a pansy?

So today, dear readers, I am giving you The Ultimate Power*. I am providing each and every one of you with the chance to voice your opinion on how you think my hair best suits me. To give you a nice array of Christopher hair choices to pick from, I have literally spent ten minutes hours and hours trudging through old pics of me.

Please leave your thoughts and opinions in the comments section at the end of this post.

* Explanation of The Ultimate Power - I take on board your comments, nod a bit, then I do exactly the opposite of what you tell me to do.


Me, today (albeit, Sunday)
CIMG1142

And your choices are:

Cropped
DSCF0002_1

Short and messy
me1

Short and messy with blonde tips
me3

Short and messy and yellow blonde
me2

Preppy
DSCF0002

In-between
CIMG0729

Monday, May 02, 2005

Dimanche

My throat has been quite troublesome this last week. I’ve been really hoarse and short of breath and I’ve had to get two batches of steroids from the hospital, including one trip on Saturday.

So you probably think that I ditched my hectic Sunday plans for a quiet night in, infront of the TV, cozying myself under a blanket, right?

Like, duh!

Less words, more pictures...

CIMG1142

CIMG1147

CIMG1153

CIMG1158

CIMG1162

CIMG1164

CIMG1174

CIMG1176

CIMG1181