There is one day between my return to the UK on January 4 and when I return to work and I was thinking that I was going to be spending the whole of that day in a tanning salon. So it is with some relief that I can inform you that that particular occurence will not be happening. The sun came out. Lots. And I am now tanned. I know how concerned you will all have been so you breath a collective sigh of relief.

In other news I learned to scuba dive and yesterday I got my PADI certification. Without explaining why, in any great detail, if you ever get the chance to learn to scuba dive, then do it. It is one of the most awesome things that I have ever experienced.

If I don't post again this year, have a great celebration evening and don't do anything that I wouldn't (naturally that gives you license to do pretty much whatever.)

I've actually been able to blog for almost five days now, but I've felt that to do so would make me feel like I was working on holiday. Yet here I am. I have yet to decide if I'm a geeky loser.

So I'm staying with my friend, Zach, at a resort on Ko Phangan, which is a small island in the Gulf of Thailand. The resort is called The Sanctuary and is seemingly populated entirely by 40-something British hippies. I can't help but feel supremely more culturally relevant when I see them attempting to dance (swaying is a better descriptor) to Slave to the rhythm on the beachfront veranda. However, I do feel slightly uneasy with the fact that I am reading The Insider by Piers Morgan while all around are reading The Road Less Traveled. I'm wondering if I would have been better off holidaying in Magaluf.

I am getting on very well with Zach, which is a relief. Not that I thought I wouldn't, but Zach is one of my best friends and two weeks in the company of a close friend can be testing at the best of times. We are actually having lots of interesting and sparky discussions about celebrity, the human soul, American politics and the fact that Dawn French is NOT a lesbian (like, DUH!?) Thankfully our (my?) more knowledgeable friends are not here to challenge some of our (my?) more outrageous statements.

There is one small problem and that is that the weather has been pretty mixed. While there have been pockets of sunshine and I have managed to begin to obtain the beginnings of a tan, most of the time the sky is completely overcast and I am often finding myself wearing a sweatshirt. When deciding upon Thailand as the destination of my winter vacation back in the summer I had been unaware that December can be severely unpredictable, weatherwise.

Because there is absolutely no-way, no-how that I am returning to the UK in just over a week and a half only slightly paler than I was before my departure, tomorrow Zach and I are going to scour the internet for a "Plan B". Fortunately flights to other Far Eastern destinations from close-by are incredibly cheap, so we have already discussed relocating to Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia or Vietnam. Or just simply returning to Bangkok and spending the days by a hotel pool and the nights in the gay bars in Pat Pong.

Oh yes. I chickened out on doing the fast (which, incidentally, involved the colonic irrigation). I hadn't realised that not all of the occupants of the resort would be fasting and that some would be being normal (i.e. drinking alcohol and eating). So while Zach sits with in a tent, drinking herbal broth with hard-core hippies with names like Moon, Sunbeam and Whale Breath, I can been found eating (organic) cheeseburgers and sipping Pina Colada's in the restaurant.

The other night, while we were both half-asleep, Zach knocked something into my hair which I then collected in my hand and threw across the room. It wasn't until the next morning that we established that the "something" had been a small gecko.

This would not have happened had I had hired a cottage in the Cotswolds.

Au revoir!

Well mon petit blogeurs ... it's now time for me to say bonsoir. It's doubtful that I will have access to sophisticated technology over the next two and a half weeks so I'll wish you all a very merry Christmas and an extremely happy and prosperous New Year right now.

In the meantime, a little gift from me to you: a beautiful, blonde pole dancer!

Ok, quieten down already. I have important beachwear purchasing decisions to make:



... or ...



Discuss.

In little over three days I will be jetting off for a tropical island in the middle of the Gulf of Thailand where I will spend two and a half weeks sunbathing, reading, getting drunk, playing volleyball with hot straight men, listening to my iPod and having hosepipes stuck up my ass.

Thank you. As you were.

First things first:

Marv: you look like Ann Widdecombe

Lizzie: you look like Christine Hamilton

*wipes hands*

I was so upset by the David Cameron comparison made by those two afore mentioned "friends" that I almost posted pics of myself not wearing very much, lying on a bed, with a come-hither expression on my face, juxtaposed above a picture of David Cameron: just to show that I DO NOT LOOK LIKE DAVID CAMERON!!! However much I fancy him.

But I decided that it was unfair to showcase such a scintillating picture of moi next to a clothed pic of Davey. And his office won't respond to my request for naked pics, so basically that whole idea went out of the window.

I did, however, still need to reassure myself that I don't look like David Cameron so I decided to pose the question to a bitchy queen who would never intentionally pass up the opportunity to make me feel like crap.

This morning, at the gym, I asked my bitchy queen friend, "Do you think I look like David Cameron?"

"No!" he replied, rolling his eyes. "You look as much like David Cameron as I look like Robert Mugabe." [before you ask, my friend does not look like Robert Mugabe.]

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Besides," he continued. "David Cameron is sexy."

So now I have affirmation that I don't look like David Cameron. But this knowledge is coupled with the possibility that gayers think that he is more attractive than me.

I hate everyone.

I have a horrible, horrible confession to make.

I find David Cameron strangely attractive. For the Americans among you, this is kinda like fancying Ari Fleishman (I would provide reference points for all other nations too, but I can't be bothered. Canada: Celine Dion?)

Someone please shoot me.

As of today all gay men and women who permanently reside in the UK are legally entitled to marry their partners in civil ceremonies. These partnerships will afford them all of the same legal privileges and rights as their heterosexual counterparts.

I am now surely doomed to a lifetime of jokey (but actually very serious) "Why aren't you married yet?" style questioning from friends, relatives and acquaintances.

This is a disaster.

I have lottery fantasies.

I dream about being able to buy fast cars and designer clothes until they come out of my ears. I want houses in London, New York, East Hampton and Rio. I want to be able to travel first class and work out at The Third Space and get reservations at Annabel's just because of who I am. I want to be able to take hot guys on tours of the National Gallery. When it's closed. Because I'm one of it's biggest benefactors.

Needless to say, twice a week, I am disappointed.

This morning, on the way to work on the tube, I was reading a Times article, written by Annie Lennox, about the millions and millions of people in Africa who are suffering with HIV and AIDS, and dying, and how the governments of the richer nations, such as the one I live in, have pledged support over an eight year period. And how they absolutely must stay comitted to this goal.

One of the kids she spoke to on a recent trip to Africa was dying of AIDS. But before he got sick he lost his mother, father, brothers, sisters and pretty much everyone else he cared about to the same disease. He was totally alone in the world. With no hope. And certainly no dreams of fast cars or a nice comfortable house, anywhere. And that shit isn't even near the important stuff.

There are approximately 6,450,000,000 humans on Earth.

Most of them are not 33 year olds who have careers which afford them access to guest lists to the best clubs and bars the city has to offer. They don't have friends who will stick with them no matter what (and slip them Jil Sander dress shirts every now and then.) They don't have housemates who have Thai cuisine prepared and ready to eat when they arrive home.

They don't have comfortable beds to sleep in at night.

6,450,000,000.

When I think about it I kinda did win the lottery.

About 33 years ago.

Jesus wept.

(In a good way.)

The other day I admitted to a gay friend and his boyfriend that I have, of late, been downloading and watching lesbian porn. I also admitted to quite enjoying it. While they thought that the idea of watching pneumatic, blonde pornstars go at each others lady bits was kind of a kinky thing for a gay man to do, they didn't seem to be that bothered by the overall concept.

However, the straw that really broke the camels back was when I admitted that I have also been thinking that I would like to try having sex with a woman, just to see what it was like. I made it very clear that if this was to happen I would want it to be pretty dirty and certainly not lurve making. Regardless, this was apparently too much for them to handle. My friend told me that he didn't know if he could accept me as a straight man or even a gay man who had sex with women from time to time. Or even once.

Gayers: am I alone in the lesbian porn thing? Do none of you find a woman's body even slightly arousing? And do any of you ever consider having sex with a woman, just for hell of it?

Discuss.

My housemate, Vix, after having had the bathroom refitted is on something of a house restoration spree. The current project is having the windows and doors sanded down and repainted.

Paul, the guy who is undertaking the job is a friend of Dave, the guy who did the bathroom. Today was his first day.

I've just got home to find the entire house, literally every single surface, COVERED in paint dust. It is EVERYWHERE. The air is actually hazy with the stuff. It turns out that Paul, the complete moron that he is, used a power sander to sand the doors and windows down but didn't cover a single surface with a dust sheet or even open a window.

The long and short of it is that we are going to have to get a professional cleaner in for at least a day to clean the whole place up, which will cost at least one hundred pounds. However, because my housemate is so nice I can't trust her to deal with Paul effectively: i.e. basically tell him that the cost of the cleaner is going to be offset against his fee, which was only three hundred pounds. So I'm having to stay back at the flat with her in the morning so that we can deal with him together.

My personal opinion is that we should just sack him, as my question is if he made this much of a bodge with the sanding, what's he going to be like with painting. And dried paint on floorboards is a whole different matter than dust on surfaces. But Vix is uncomfortable with the idea of sacking him. She thinks it is mean.

I am bristling with anger.

And I'm asthmatic.

So If I don't ever post again, you'll know the reason why.

The other day, on a train journey back to London from a meeting in the Midlands, I got bored and decided to go through my Palm address book and do some tallying up:

I have 38 close friends *

I have 109 good friends **

I have 472 amiable acquaintances ***

I have 7 enemies ****

* These are the people who I would phone immediately if I were to find out that I had a brain tumour.

** These are the people whose death from a brain tumour would make me ineffably sad.

*** These are the people I would hope could recover from a brain tumour.

**** These are the people I would generally hope could recover from a brain tumour, but if they didn't then I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.

So this email goes around today introducing us all to some recent new recruits. I reached the end of the email and was struck by the last joiner - not only was he awesomely hot, but he also had oodles of professional experience and was clearly really, really clever and very, very funny. Where does this guy sit? I thought to myself. I must date him.

And then I realised I was reading about myself:



Name: Christopher

Current Job Title and Team: Account Director, XXX

Sits: Opposite J, between A and S, on the third floor

Background:
After studying Fashion in Southampton I began my career in PR as an intern at XXX in 1996 (H was my first boss!) I stayed with the company through its merger with XXX in 1998 and at the end of 2002 I transferred with the company to New York, where I spent the best part of two years. I returned to the UK towards the end of 2004 and since then I have freelanced for a number of small and large London-based consumer PR agencies. I have a broad communications experience from having represented a diverse range of brands - including XXX, XXX, XXX, XXX, XXX, XXX, the XXX and XXX.

Likes:

1. Notes and lists
2. Logic
3. Kindness
4. Brushing his teeth
5. The European Union
6. The O.C.
7. Right-angles
8. Walks along the beach
9. Vintage T-shirts
10. Men who aren't afraid to cry
11. Hilary Clinton
12. Winning the Lottery

Dislikes:

1. Ignorance
2. Meanness
3. Tardiness
4. Scientology
5. Losing stuff
6. Fatalists
7. Bad personal hygiene
8. Junkie-rockers
9. Crap show tunes
10. Tom Cruise
11. Littlejohn (columnist in The Sun)
    
12. Not winning the Lottery

Yeah. You wanna make out with me right now, dontcha?

This morning I was thinking, God! This work thing is taking up all my creative focus! I can't blog! And then this evening I thought, God! I should blog about how work is taking up all my creative focus!

I am coming to the end of my fourth week at work and things are going swimmingly. For a long, long time I have been forced to work with crack-whores and utter nincompoops, most of them neurotic women as well as the odd (being the operative word) gay man. In all cases they have sapped all my confidence and stunted my creativity.

But no more. All of my board directors, bar one, are straight men (believe me when I say that in PR this makes all the difference) and my immediate boss is just the most coolest, chilled-outest gurl ever, ever. And everyone is absolutely cool with me taking the lead and no one second guesses any of my decisions.

*knocks on wood*

Something else. A couple of weeks ago my line board director told me that there is no point in attempting to pursue a work / life balance, because in our line of work it's just not possible. That might seem absurd / obvious depending on your own line of work or point of view, but this has been a revelation to me. I know it's still early days but I'm just not getting in a state about doing long hours - either coming in early or going home late.

And then there are the perks. You already know that I am having to take my motorbike test soon (January!!!!) and that I get to ride any of the bikes whenever I want. But what you don't know (and what I didn't know until a few days ago) was that I get to drive this whenever I want too:



Isn't it beautiful?

Yes sir. Things are pretty good right now.

It has just dawned on me that the colours that I purchased the pashminas in are exactly the same colours as the title of my blog!

Which, of course, means absolutely nothing.

McConaughey Tops Sexiest Man Alive List.

What does it say about me that when I first read that title on the IMDb homepage my sub-conscious skipped the last word?

Or perhaps the question should be: what does it say about Matthew McConaughey that he made my sub-conscious do that?

I'm a bit concerned that I'm becoming a little too gay. Last weekend in Paris I bought two pashminas. My purchasing rationale was that viewed objectively pashminas are only large rectangles of fabric and with no inherent characteristics that make them "feminine".

And this would be true, except that the two pashminas I purchased are lilac and turquoise.

That said, there is no reason why a confident man cannot wear those colours. I just made sure I wore the pashminas in the normal man-scarf manner: i.e. wrapped around the neck in a bunch and not draped around the shoulders.

At least that was until Wednesday when I draped the lilac one around my shoulders because I was cold.

But if you think all of that is bad enough, then consider this:

Pashminas are so 2003.

Something sinister is afoot.

This afternoon, during a random conversation about Star Wars with my board director, I said something which made him laugh so hard that he choked on his sushi:

"Sure Jar Jar Binks was annoying. But think about how irritating R2-D2 must have been to parents watching the original Star Wars movie back in the 1970s. Viewed objectively, R2-D2 is like a dwarf holding a Simon."

While he did finally recover, I couldn't help but wonder: is it bad form to inadvertantly kill your boss with humour?

Merde!

As you know, this last weekend one of my best friends, Helen ...



... and I ...



...went to Paris ...



.

Over supper at Kong, Helen, with practically no warning, announces to me that she hates the Eiffel Tower. "It's ugly," she tells me. "It's like a giant radio transmitter."

The fact that the Eiffel Tower, amongst other things, actually is a giant radio transmitter is by-the-by. I almost choked on my food. It was kind of like the time that another of my best friends, Jemma, told me that not only did she own Margaret Thatcher's autobiography, but had she been of legal age in the 70s, she probably would have voted for Thatch as well.

(Hi Jemma!)

Once I had accepted my repulsion over the fact that I had been friends with someone who hated the Eiffel Tower for quite so long, I tried to explain to Helen why not only was she very wrong but that she was also, very probably, dead inside. Hating the Eiffel Tower, to me at least, is like hating puppies.

"The Eiffel Tower is a testament to the human spirit. It signifies what we can achieve when we focus on solidarity, on working together," I passionately ranted at her. "For that reason not only is it a French symbol, but an international symbol. It gives us hope. It reminds us of what we can do when we focus. It is functional. It is beautiful. Remember, that it was supposed to exist as a temporary feature for the Paris Expo, yet over a hundred years after it was built it still dominates the Parisian skyline, strong and proud. At night, on the hour, every hour, for five minutes, it sparkles like a hyperactive Christmas tree ...



"... and all of the time a searchlight penetrates the night sky ...



[Aside - photos taken from the window of our hotel room! Do you have any idea how much I've always wanted a hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower?]

"In fact there is only one problem with the Eiffel Tower. The view of Paris, as seen from it, is missing one essential feature: the Eiffel Tower."

Finally I summarised: "The Eiffel Tower, after all is said and done, is a quite outstanding erection."

The next day I made her walk down the Parc du Champ de Mars so that she could take in its full glory.

This was her reaction:



Does anyone know whether or not I can legally emancipate a best friend?

I'm off to Paris for the weekend today with my friend, Helen. When we get there we're meeting up with someone else I know and her friend and then the quatre of us are going hors sur la ville! (out on the town.)

We're, like, totally gonna have a riot!

Boom-boom!

See what I did there? Paris? Riot = fun / street violence? Boom-boom = punchline / petrol-bomb exploding? Yes, I know but it's funny!

Oh just forget it.