I want to put this down in writing, not because I want to boast or show off, but because I feel like I should. For posterity or something. We're so vocal when things aren't that great, but not so vocal when things are good.
I keep finding myself smiling for no apparent reason. When I catch myself doing it part of me asks just what it is I think I'm doing. But I carry on smiling. Have you ever noticed how rare it is to see someone walking down the street, by themselves, smiling? Just. Smiling.
Maybe it's having a job. Not sure. All I know is, I get up every day at 6.30am. I have some breakfast, I shower, I get changed. I read my book on the tube, I buy some coffee from Pret, I get to work and I settle in. I'm usually the first in so I can listen to classical music on the stereo. I fire off some emails and I write my action list.
Other stuff - press lunches, meetings, pitching. The usual. But for the first time in a long time I'm enjoying it. I'm staying late if I need to, to tie up any loose ends from the day. Then I go to the gym or meet friends for dinner or a few drinks. The day ends and I feel content. Contentment is an emotion I've never really had much to do with. Ok, I've only been in this job for two weeks, but you know when you get a feeling for something?
Anyway, some things I am excited about right now:
- Going to the theatre with Louise tomorrow afternoon
- Getting a facial at The Refinery on Sunday
- Going to the theatre with Kate on Wednesday evening
- Going to Paris next Friday
- Lunch at Claridges with the editor of Wallpaper* in two weeks
- One of my favourite people coming home in April
- Seeing my friends when I go back to NYC for a week in May
- Spending Christmas on a beach in Thailand with Tim
- Winning my first piece of new business at work
- My hair, my body and my weight
On the surface these things might not appear to be the stuff of legend, but isn't there some adage about life being in the details?
Sunday, February 20, 2005
Friday, February 18, 2005
Expensive dental work
When I broke my jaw last August I really managed to bugger up my teeth. Such a shame, cause after much orthodontic work as a kid I had a rather lovely set of gnashers.
Cosmetically, I still do. When I smile, you can't tell that I have *runs tongue around mouth to count* four major fractures (where almost half the tooth is missing) and three chips. But you can see that my front lower tooth has moved back, as a result of the metal plate screwed onto the bone, inside my chin, to mend one of the three breaks on my jaw itself.
To have all of the fractures and chips repaired I have to have three root canal surgeries, four crowns and three fillings. If I have this work done on the NHS I will have to contribute towards a co-pay, a figure somewhere in the sum of £300. But if I go for the NHS option the crowns won't be camouflaged, they will be silver. Ergo, I will look like James Bond's arch nemesis, Jaws. Clearly not a look I'm particularly eager to covet. So, to have the camouflaged dental work, I will have to pay almost £600.
And if I want the tooth at the front moved back to it's previous position, I will have to have a retainer placed by an orthodontist. Guess how much this will cost? Hazard a guess?
Approximately £1,000.
The tooth that moved is cosmetic. I can live with it being slightly misaligned. But the other dental work is a different matter. The teeth are damaged so much that if I don't have them fixed then they will eventually die and fall out. But not before I get severe gum disease and most likely an attractive case of halitosis.
And it doesn’t stop there. Because my condular processes (the arms that hook your lower jaw onto your upper jaw) both got crushed, my front top and bottom teeth are misaligned by a couple of millimeters and don’t bite together. Instead I am biting down on my back molars and my dentist thinks that I am grinding them during my sleep. So I may have to wear a protector when I sleep.
There is a moral to this story. Never go to the Shadow Lounge, never drink too much, never take a sleeping pill when you get home, never stand up too fast from sitting on the toilet. Had I not done any of these things in succession I may well be sat here with me pearly whites still in their former glorious state.
And £1,600 better off.
Cosmetically, I still do. When I smile, you can't tell that I have *runs tongue around mouth to count* four major fractures (where almost half the tooth is missing) and three chips. But you can see that my front lower tooth has moved back, as a result of the metal plate screwed onto the bone, inside my chin, to mend one of the three breaks on my jaw itself.
To have all of the fractures and chips repaired I have to have three root canal surgeries, four crowns and three fillings. If I have this work done on the NHS I will have to contribute towards a co-pay, a figure somewhere in the sum of £300. But if I go for the NHS option the crowns won't be camouflaged, they will be silver. Ergo, I will look like James Bond's arch nemesis, Jaws. Clearly not a look I'm particularly eager to covet. So, to have the camouflaged dental work, I will have to pay almost £600.
And if I want the tooth at the front moved back to it's previous position, I will have to have a retainer placed by an orthodontist. Guess how much this will cost? Hazard a guess?
Approximately £1,000.
The tooth that moved is cosmetic. I can live with it being slightly misaligned. But the other dental work is a different matter. The teeth are damaged so much that if I don't have them fixed then they will eventually die and fall out. But not before I get severe gum disease and most likely an attractive case of halitosis.
And it doesn’t stop there. Because my condular processes (the arms that hook your lower jaw onto your upper jaw) both got crushed, my front top and bottom teeth are misaligned by a couple of millimeters and don’t bite together. Instead I am biting down on my back molars and my dentist thinks that I am grinding them during my sleep. So I may have to wear a protector when I sleep.
There is a moral to this story. Never go to the Shadow Lounge, never drink too much, never take a sleeping pill when you get home, never stand up too fast from sitting on the toilet. Had I not done any of these things in succession I may well be sat here with me pearly whites still in their former glorious state.
And £1,600 better off.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
Striking fear into the heart of your mortal enemy...
At the weekend I watched "Meet Joe Black", a very underrated movie in my opinion. Primarily because Brad Pitt has never looked so handsome:
Sweet Jesus.
Anyway, there is this sublime scene at the end of the movie where a very calm and softly spoken Joe tells Bill's errant business partner, in no uncertain terms, that he needs to tread very, very carefully from now on:
"Should you choose to test my resolve in this matter, you will be facing a finality beyond your comprehension, and you will not be counting days, or months, or years, but millenniums in a place with no doors."
I want just one perfect opportunity in my lifetime to be able to say that to someone who is pissing me off, preferably someone who hasn't seen the movie.
Of course, the overall effect would be strengthened if I could back up my words with the unspoken threat that I am, indeed, the Grim Reaper himself.
Sweet Jesus.
Anyway, there is this sublime scene at the end of the movie where a very calm and softly spoken Joe tells Bill's errant business partner, in no uncertain terms, that he needs to tread very, very carefully from now on:
"Should you choose to test my resolve in this matter, you will be facing a finality beyond your comprehension, and you will not be counting days, or months, or years, but millenniums in a place with no doors."
I want just one perfect opportunity in my lifetime to be able to say that to someone who is pissing me off, preferably someone who hasn't seen the movie.
Of course, the overall effect would be strengthened if I could back up my words with the unspoken threat that I am, indeed, the Grim Reaper himself.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
St Oh Whatever Day
It is a dark, dark day. You know why.
Tonight my housemate and I are going to celebrate our own anti-Valentine's Day by going to Pizza on the Green. We're going to sit and chortle as the women lean across to their dates and whisper, "I can't believe you've bought me to Pizza on the Green for Valentine's Day! This is clearly not working."
(By the way - you may have noticed that I'm not very good at picking up plot lines from previous posts. The fact that I will be dining with my housemate rather than Jake should tell you that Jake and I are no more. Very boring story, but onwards, hey, hey...)
But because I am not a totally heartless bastard, here is a little message for all you blissfully happy, in-lurve couples out there. From me to you.
F*** off.
Tonight my housemate and I are going to celebrate our own anti-Valentine's Day by going to Pizza on the Green. We're going to sit and chortle as the women lean across to their dates and whisper, "I can't believe you've bought me to Pizza on the Green for Valentine's Day! This is clearly not working."
(By the way - you may have noticed that I'm not very good at picking up plot lines from previous posts. The fact that I will be dining with my housemate rather than Jake should tell you that Jake and I are no more. Very boring story, but onwards, hey, hey...)
But because I am not a totally heartless bastard, here is a little message for all you blissfully happy, in-lurve couples out there. From me to you.
F*** off.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
Continuing the theme...
...of change:
I just spent £80 having my hair coloured at Toni & Guy. I went in to see a colourist on Thursday during my lunchbreak to discuss what I could have done. I made it clear that I didn't want to have a hair colour that would make me look freakish and weird, making me stand out in a crowd. I just wanted a hair colour that would make more men want to have sex with me.
My hair is naturally dark brown, so we decided to best accent it with a full head of medium brown highlights, with three or four really chunky sweeps of burgundy. It sounds horrific, but trust me - we put some little acrylic hair sample swatch things together and the results were certainly trouser arousing.
The procedure began this morning at 11.30am. Two hours and several cups of tea later I emerged from the salon onto King's Road with a shiny head of hair that looked, well, exactly the same as it did when I had arrived, really.
It doesn't look any different! I mean if you kind of squint and look at my hair at a weird angle, with the light cast on it just right, with Venus in retrograde and Pluto in Uranus, you might think that my hair is, perhaps, a tad shinier that it was when I got up this morning.
I just spent £80 to get my hair made slightly shinier! This is the kind of thing that Ann would do (Marv - back me up here). Do I complain? What do I do?
The acid test will be tonight when I go to Crash with Richard and Phil. Last time I went to Crash I had sex with one person. If my hair has indeed worked, I will be having sex with, at least, two tonight.
Oh! That's it! If I don't end up having sex with more than one person tonight I'll just go back to Toni & Guy on Monday, explain the lack of booty action and they are sure to give me a refund!
I just spent £80 having my hair coloured at Toni & Guy. I went in to see a colourist on Thursday during my lunchbreak to discuss what I could have done. I made it clear that I didn't want to have a hair colour that would make me look freakish and weird, making me stand out in a crowd. I just wanted a hair colour that would make more men want to have sex with me.
My hair is naturally dark brown, so we decided to best accent it with a full head of medium brown highlights, with three or four really chunky sweeps of burgundy. It sounds horrific, but trust me - we put some little acrylic hair sample swatch things together and the results were certainly trouser arousing.
The procedure began this morning at 11.30am. Two hours and several cups of tea later I emerged from the salon onto King's Road with a shiny head of hair that looked, well, exactly the same as it did when I had arrived, really.
It doesn't look any different! I mean if you kind of squint and look at my hair at a weird angle, with the light cast on it just right, with Venus in retrograde and Pluto in Uranus, you might think that my hair is, perhaps, a tad shinier that it was when I got up this morning.
I just spent £80 to get my hair made slightly shinier! This is the kind of thing that Ann would do (Marv - back me up here). Do I complain? What do I do?
The acid test will be tonight when I go to Crash with Richard and Phil. Last time I went to Crash I had sex with one person. If my hair has indeed worked, I will be having sex with, at least, two tonight.
Oh! That's it! If I don't end up having sex with more than one person tonight I'll just go back to Toni & Guy on Monday, explain the lack of booty action and they are sure to give me a refund!
Friday, February 11, 2005
Changing
Yesterday I got the nicest email from Katie (don't worry! The head swelling properties wore off after a few minutes and the regular self loathing took precedent again):
"I can't believe how different you look! I was a bit stunned when I saw you the other night, which is why I was a little lost for words when we were standing there. You look amazing Christopher and you look about 5 years younger! You also look happier and more relaxed. This is all good stuff right?"
So the vast amounts of botox injections have paid off then?
Anyway, this got me to thinking, because when I was at home in Bath for Christmas and in Birmingham for New Year’s Eve three of my oldest friends each separately commented on how much I seem to have changed of late. My friend Tim said that it was how much more I seemed to be listening to him. Another friend said that there was a pervading sense of calm. She said that I used to be many good things, but calm was never part of the mix with me.
And for many of the reasons that I have cited here before I do believe that the last year has indeed bought about a number of subtle changes in me. But at the same time I still feel, ultimately, the same. Different and yet the same, if that makes sense. For the last few weeks I have been pondering the question, “do we ever really change?”
Sometimes I look at a friend, someone who I have known for a long, long time, and I think that I pretty much know who they are. It’s like I have them etched in my mind forever, that I totally have them figured out. Then later I see something different about them – it could be a subtle change in appearance, or that they proffer some opinion I wouldn’t have necessarily assigned to them. And suddenly I have this totally new picture. And it doesn’t match the picture that I had before.
My friends and I are infamous for changing our minds. In fact, we don’t always stop with our minds. We'll change our hair, our fashion, our facial expressions, our football teams - practically anything that can be changed, at some point, will be changed. None of us have actually changed genders yet, but I’m just biding my time, waiting for that interesting news flash. But at the end of the day, do people really change themselves?
Like a snake ... ok, not entirely like a snake (cause that would be kinda gross), apparently we shed all of our skin over a period of seven years. That means that the skin on my fingertips that I am typing with right now is not the same skin I was typing with at university ten years ago. Could there be a beautiful irony there? That apart from our eyes, our skin is the only part of us that people can physically see? In other words, don't get too attached to the “me” you see right now because it’s going to be gone in a few years time.
Which leads me on to this: I have always thought that the “soulmates” concept is pure evil. The implications of what it means to only have one perfect person available for us are truly chilling. But from experience I not only believe this, but I know that there are people who are so tuned into each other that they give immediate access to each others hearts. And even if one of them breaks the heart of the other and the broken heart itself has to mend, those two people could still meet up again several years later and still realise that nothing has changed. Because aren't we told that the heart is constant?
I think that our hearts and our skin are the exact antithesis of each other. Our hearts really are constant, beating through an entire lifetime without stopping once. But our skin is made new over and over. No one can deny that both our hearts and our bodies have a lot to do with whom we are. But I don’t think that it’s irrelevant that throughout history lovers and writers have focused on the heart. Because hearts go on, but like a photograph our appearance will fade.
So to answer my own question - do people ever really change? Yes, I suppose they can. But, at the same time, not that much.
"I can't believe how different you look! I was a bit stunned when I saw you the other night, which is why I was a little lost for words when we were standing there. You look amazing Christopher and you look about 5 years younger! You also look happier and more relaxed. This is all good stuff right?"
So the vast amounts of botox injections have paid off then?
Anyway, this got me to thinking, because when I was at home in Bath for Christmas and in Birmingham for New Year’s Eve three of my oldest friends each separately commented on how much I seem to have changed of late. My friend Tim said that it was how much more I seemed to be listening to him. Another friend said that there was a pervading sense of calm. She said that I used to be many good things, but calm was never part of the mix with me.
And for many of the reasons that I have cited here before I do believe that the last year has indeed bought about a number of subtle changes in me. But at the same time I still feel, ultimately, the same. Different and yet the same, if that makes sense. For the last few weeks I have been pondering the question, “do we ever really change?”
Sometimes I look at a friend, someone who I have known for a long, long time, and I think that I pretty much know who they are. It’s like I have them etched in my mind forever, that I totally have them figured out. Then later I see something different about them – it could be a subtle change in appearance, or that they proffer some opinion I wouldn’t have necessarily assigned to them. And suddenly I have this totally new picture. And it doesn’t match the picture that I had before.
My friends and I are infamous for changing our minds. In fact, we don’t always stop with our minds. We'll change our hair, our fashion, our facial expressions, our football teams - practically anything that can be changed, at some point, will be changed. None of us have actually changed genders yet, but I’m just biding my time, waiting for that interesting news flash. But at the end of the day, do people really change themselves?
Like a snake ... ok, not entirely like a snake (cause that would be kinda gross), apparently we shed all of our skin over a period of seven years. That means that the skin on my fingertips that I am typing with right now is not the same skin I was typing with at university ten years ago. Could there be a beautiful irony there? That apart from our eyes, our skin is the only part of us that people can physically see? In other words, don't get too attached to the “me” you see right now because it’s going to be gone in a few years time.
Which leads me on to this: I have always thought that the “soulmates” concept is pure evil. The implications of what it means to only have one perfect person available for us are truly chilling. But from experience I not only believe this, but I know that there are people who are so tuned into each other that they give immediate access to each others hearts. And even if one of them breaks the heart of the other and the broken heart itself has to mend, those two people could still meet up again several years later and still realise that nothing has changed. Because aren't we told that the heart is constant?
I think that our hearts and our skin are the exact antithesis of each other. Our hearts really are constant, beating through an entire lifetime without stopping once. But our skin is made new over and over. No one can deny that both our hearts and our bodies have a lot to do with whom we are. But I don’t think that it’s irrelevant that throughout history lovers and writers have focused on the heart. Because hearts go on, but like a photograph our appearance will fade.
So to answer my own question - do people ever really change? Yes, I suppose they can. But, at the same time, not that much.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Moi et mon foie
This morning, at the respectable hour of 7am, I pull back the duvet and lift myself out of the steaming pit / bed that I sleep in. As I yawn and stretch out I hear a quiet whimpering coming from behind me. Sleepily, I look over my shoulder.
It is my Liver, looking more than a tad frail.
“Why do you still do it, Christopher? Why? We’ve been together for 32 years now. Why do you never listen to me?”
“What, prey tell, are you twittering on about now, little Liver? What? What?”
“Vodka. Beer. Do. Not. Mix. VODKA! BEER!”
A look of flushed concern sweeps over my face. I lie down next to my Liver and with my index finger tenderly stroke it. “I’m sorry. I do listen really. I promise this time. I won’t do it again.”
“Really promise?”
“Really promise.”
We hug and I get up once again and just before I leave my bedroom for the shower I look back and smile. “Love you!”
My Liver smiles too and although it is quite clearly still fatigued and a little distressed, it responds weakly, “Love you too.”
I leave the room and pad up the hall towards the bathroom. Quietly, under my breath...
“Sucker!”
It is my Liver, looking more than a tad frail.
“Why do you still do it, Christopher? Why? We’ve been together for 32 years now. Why do you never listen to me?”
“What, prey tell, are you twittering on about now, little Liver? What? What?”
“Vodka. Beer. Do. Not. Mix. VODKA! BEER!”
A look of flushed concern sweeps over my face. I lie down next to my Liver and with my index finger tenderly stroke it. “I’m sorry. I do listen really. I promise this time. I won’t do it again.”
“Really promise?”
“Really promise.”
We hug and I get up once again and just before I leave my bedroom for the shower I look back and smile. “Love you!”
My Liver smiles too and although it is quite clearly still fatigued and a little distressed, it responds weakly, “Love you too.”
I leave the room and pad up the hall towards the bathroom. Quietly, under my breath...
“Sucker!”
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
NO WAY!!!!
I swear I'm not lying! I WON £10!!!
Ok, it's not £12million, but still! I have NEVER won anything on the lottery before! That is soooo cool!
I wonder if Mum will be happy with a cheap manicure?
Ok, it's not £12million, but still! I have NEVER won anything on the lottery before! That is soooo cool!
I wonder if Mum will be happy with a cheap manicure?
My number is up! (but probably not)
I have lottery fantasies. Many of them.
These fantasies can appear in my mind at any given time. How it would change my life, what I would do the second I found out, which of my friends I would bestow my newfound wealth upon, etc, etc. My Mum, having seen the before / after shots of Sharon Osborne, has requested full body liposuction, boob lift, tooth veneers, a facelift, botox and collagen filler. I'm going to take her to Miami to have it done. She can spend a week or so in a five star clinic, while I stay at the Delano and have midnight sex in the pool with hunky South Beach hookers.
I'm probably a bad person. No, not for having sex with hookers, silly! For taking my num to have plastic surgery! I mean I love my mum, but the idea of her emerging from the bandages as some fabulous Sharon Osborne type - I mean, what gay man doesn't want to be a part of that?!?!
Anyway, a lot less frequently than I have lottery fantasies I actually buy a lottery ticket. Do you know what the best part of owning a lottery ticket is? It's that point between some random celebrity pulling the numbers out of "Gertrude" on BBC1 at 8pm on a Saturday night (which I invariably miss) and the point that I go online to check my numbers and find out I have not even one single, sucking digit.
Because during that time I know, for an absolute certainty, that I am a potential lottery winner. And the longer I can go without checking my numbers, the longer I can indulge those fantasies, with the absolute certainty that I could in fact have won £12million.
It is now Tuesday evening and I bought a ticket on Saturday afternoon. I want to look now, but I am so aware that the overall outcome is more than likely to be the latter of the following:
1) I never work again
2) I work again
Ok, this is stupid. I'll check them now. If I have won, then you'll know by the fact that this post will be followed by another post, just a few minutes later.
Finger's crossed!
These fantasies can appear in my mind at any given time. How it would change my life, what I would do the second I found out, which of my friends I would bestow my newfound wealth upon, etc, etc. My Mum, having seen the before / after shots of Sharon Osborne, has requested full body liposuction, boob lift, tooth veneers, a facelift, botox and collagen filler. I'm going to take her to Miami to have it done. She can spend a week or so in a five star clinic, while I stay at the Delano and have midnight sex in the pool with hunky South Beach hookers.
I'm probably a bad person. No, not for having sex with hookers, silly! For taking my num to have plastic surgery! I mean I love my mum, but the idea of her emerging from the bandages as some fabulous Sharon Osborne type - I mean, what gay man doesn't want to be a part of that?!?!
Anyway, a lot less frequently than I have lottery fantasies I actually buy a lottery ticket. Do you know what the best part of owning a lottery ticket is? It's that point between some random celebrity pulling the numbers out of "Gertrude" on BBC1 at 8pm on a Saturday night (which I invariably miss) and the point that I go online to check my numbers and find out I have not even one single, sucking digit.
Because during that time I know, for an absolute certainty, that I am a potential lottery winner. And the longer I can go without checking my numbers, the longer I can indulge those fantasies, with the absolute certainty that I could in fact have won £12million.
It is now Tuesday evening and I bought a ticket on Saturday afternoon. I want to look now, but I am so aware that the overall outcome is more than likely to be the latter of the following:
1) I never work again
2) I work again
Ok, this is stupid. I'll check them now. If I have won, then you'll know by the fact that this post will be followed by another post, just a few minutes later.
Finger's crossed!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
First day of school
We made potato prints, we did "show and tell" and at break we played kiss chase.
Not really.
Well first, I set a few ground rules for my new job:
No giving out my email address to friends or family
No giving out my direct line to friends or family
No blogging related activity, of any kind, at work
Make lunch the evening before to conserve money
One cup of coffee per day (from Pret - Starfucks is too expensivo)
Two cigarette breaks
Read two newspapers every morning before I do anything else
Get into work by 8.30am, every day
I have already broken five of these rules. I'll leave it up to you to guess which ones they are. But I will tell you that the most heinous and inexcusable rule-break was that I was half an hour late in - ON MY FIRST DAY!!!
It started so well. I was supposed to be in by 9am for a board meeting within which all the other directors would be introduced to this supremely talented, experienced, savvy (and uber dashing) PR pro. So I set my alarm for 6.30am so that I would have plenty of time to shower, get changed, have my breakfast and sip my coffee infront of Lorraine Kelly on GMTV. I did all of these and I got to the station at 8.15am, which should have given me plenty of time to ride the tube to Sloane Square and walk up King's Road to work.
Except that I had forgotten to top up my Oyster card. You might ask me why the plastic travel card we get given to ride the tube is called an Oyster card? I don't know the answer to that. Some London Underground think tank employee will probably tell you that it is because London is like an Oyster within which the tube is the pearl. Assholes.
Anyway, I look back at the queue and it's huge. So rather than going to the window to get my ticket, I decide to use the automatic machine, because I figure it's going to be faster. Only it's not, because the people infront of me clearly haven't mastered the fine art of putting the credit card into the little slot the right way round.
Ten minutes later I finally get to the machine. Except that there is this little sign that says "not accepting credit cards". Now given that this machine is a credit card only machine, you would be right in assuming that the sign should actually read "this machine is out of order". I decide that I don't have enough time to queue up at one of the ticket windows as there is still an enormous queue (never, EVER wait until the beginning of the month to renew undergound travel cards). So instead I decide to run across the road to the newsagent and top my card up there.
Except the shop doesn't take plastic so I then have to run down the street to the ATM (another queue) and get the readies and run back to the shop again. Eventually the deal gets done, by which point yet another ten minutes has passed and I'm back at the station, back at the gate.
C'mon little travelcard, all warm from being nestled next to my ass cheek, fat with my hard borrowed cash. Please work for little moi?
"Seek assistance!"
Evil, wretched travelcard.
At this point if Satan (who naturally would have been in the guise of a London Underground worker) appeared to offer me instant teleportation to my new office in exchange for my penis, I would have accepted.
I look around. No staff. So I ran across the road, again, to tell the guy that he couldn't have topped the card up properly. Only he proves to me that he did by showing me a computer printout.
I can feel any respect and admiration that my new seniors and colleagues may have had for me slipping away. I realise that I now have two options: I can join the queue of over twenty other plebs too stupid to have topped up their travel cards earlier and I miss the company meeting, or I can do the most despicable, pikey, irritating thing that one can do on the underground - wait until the moment that the person infront of you at the gate has scanned their card and then instantly press yourself right...up...against...them as they go through.
Which I did.
I did miss the company meeting. The MD's first words to me were, nonetheless, kind. But the disgusting gate queue pushing in thing made me feel dirty. A feeling that stayed with me all day long.
Not really.
Well first, I set a few ground rules for my new job:
No giving out my email address to friends or family
No giving out my direct line to friends or family
No blogging related activity, of any kind, at work
Make lunch the evening before to conserve money
One cup of coffee per day (from Pret - Starfucks is too expensivo)
Two cigarette breaks
Read two newspapers every morning before I do anything else
Get into work by 8.30am, every day
I have already broken five of these rules. I'll leave it up to you to guess which ones they are. But I will tell you that the most heinous and inexcusable rule-break was that I was half an hour late in - ON MY FIRST DAY!!!
It started so well. I was supposed to be in by 9am for a board meeting within which all the other directors would be introduced to this supremely talented, experienced, savvy (and uber dashing) PR pro. So I set my alarm for 6.30am so that I would have plenty of time to shower, get changed, have my breakfast and sip my coffee infront of Lorraine Kelly on GMTV. I did all of these and I got to the station at 8.15am, which should have given me plenty of time to ride the tube to Sloane Square and walk up King's Road to work.
Except that I had forgotten to top up my Oyster card. You might ask me why the plastic travel card we get given to ride the tube is called an Oyster card? I don't know the answer to that. Some London Underground think tank employee will probably tell you that it is because London is like an Oyster within which the tube is the pearl. Assholes.
Anyway, I look back at the queue and it's huge. So rather than going to the window to get my ticket, I decide to use the automatic machine, because I figure it's going to be faster. Only it's not, because the people infront of me clearly haven't mastered the fine art of putting the credit card into the little slot the right way round.
Ten minutes later I finally get to the machine. Except that there is this little sign that says "not accepting credit cards". Now given that this machine is a credit card only machine, you would be right in assuming that the sign should actually read "this machine is out of order". I decide that I don't have enough time to queue up at one of the ticket windows as there is still an enormous queue (never, EVER wait until the beginning of the month to renew undergound travel cards). So instead I decide to run across the road to the newsagent and top my card up there.
Except the shop doesn't take plastic so I then have to run down the street to the ATM (another queue) and get the readies and run back to the shop again. Eventually the deal gets done, by which point yet another ten minutes has passed and I'm back at the station, back at the gate.
C'mon little travelcard, all warm from being nestled next to my ass cheek, fat with my hard borrowed cash. Please work for little moi?
"Seek assistance!"
Evil, wretched travelcard.
At this point if Satan (who naturally would have been in the guise of a London Underground worker) appeared to offer me instant teleportation to my new office in exchange for my penis, I would have accepted.
I look around. No staff. So I ran across the road, again, to tell the guy that he couldn't have topped the card up properly. Only he proves to me that he did by showing me a computer printout.
I can feel any respect and admiration that my new seniors and colleagues may have had for me slipping away. I realise that I now have two options: I can join the queue of over twenty other plebs too stupid to have topped up their travel cards earlier and I miss the company meeting, or I can do the most despicable, pikey, irritating thing that one can do on the underground - wait until the moment that the person infront of you at the gate has scanned their card and then instantly press yourself right...up...against...them as they go through.
Which I did.
I did miss the company meeting. The MD's first words to me were, nonetheless, kind. But the disgusting gate queue pushing in thing made me feel dirty. A feeling that stayed with me all day long.
Monday, February 07, 2005
Scoobies Go Mad in Yorkshire
An entire floor of interconnecting hotel suites
A gazillion crates of Moet
A sexy, sweaty club
Many handsome, shirtless boyz
Many lovely, smouldering laydeez
Rubbish drag
A birthday boy
A trigger happy photographer
A gazillion crates of Moet
A sexy, sweaty club
Many handsome, shirtless boyz
Many lovely, smouldering laydeez
Rubbish drag
A birthday boy
A trigger happy photographer
Friday, February 04, 2005
It's typical...
This afternoon I'm getting the train up to Leeds for Wayne's birthday and I'm pissed off. Not only do I have the flu, again, but because of that I've only been to the gym once this week as I've been extremely concerned that working out will make me even more sick.
Oh yeah, and I also have a cough that sounds like a Doberman barking.
Wayne, the Scoobies and I are all going to Federation tomorrow night and I'll invariably, at some point during the evening, be taking my top off. Only now I'll be prominently displaying chicken fillets (as Trinny and Susannah would call them) and not a fine pair of disco tits! That said, my chest is always going to be in the shadows of Wayne and Sam's pneumatic pectoral glory.
Of course, this all plays second fiddle to the more legitimate concern - that being, what if I get hit on by some hot, young Yorkshire-bred whippersnapper and I affirm my interest by inadvertently coughing phlegm up onto him?
Oh yeah, and I also have a cough that sounds like a Doberman barking.
Wayne, the Scoobies and I are all going to Federation tomorrow night and I'll invariably, at some point during the evening, be taking my top off. Only now I'll be prominently displaying chicken fillets (as Trinny and Susannah would call them) and not a fine pair of disco tits! That said, my chest is always going to be in the shadows of Wayne and Sam's pneumatic pectoral glory.
Of course, this all plays second fiddle to the more legitimate concern - that being, what if I get hit on by some hot, young Yorkshire-bred whippersnapper and I affirm my interest by inadvertently coughing phlegm up onto him?
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Me Against My Music
I stole this idea from Jef's blog.
10 random songs from my iBook, chosen automatically by iTunes:
1. That Kind of Love – Alison Krauss
2. Stan – Dido & Eminem
3. Sound of Silence – Simon & Garfunkel
4. Everybody’s Changing – Keane
5. Well Did You Evah? – Blondie
6. Wild Thing – Tone Lic
7. Six Barrel Shotgun – Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
8. Keep It Together - Madonna
9. Rehash – Gorillaz
10. By the Way – Red Hot Chili Peppers
The music files on my iBook amount to 18.4 GB
The last album I bought was "Hot Fuss" by Killers (although it was technically a download)
The last song I listened to on my iPod before writing this was "Love Will Tear Us Apart" by Joy Division
The five songs I often listen to or mean a lot to me, and why:
Let The River Run – Carly Simon
It's the song that I would listen to when I lived in New York, when I felt a little homesick, or a little blue. I would generally listen to it in the morning, walking to work between 42nd and 44th on Lex, with my little cup of Starbucks coffee that I'd bought as I came out of the subway at Grand Central. It would remind me that I was in a great city and that I had a charmed life. You just can't be miserable listening to that song. There's way too much hope in it to carry on being sad.
In These Shoes – Kirsty McColl
Kirsty McColl represents, for me, my first introduction to proper music. Me and my oldest friends from school, Tim, Jemma and Kate, would listen to Kirsty a lot, mainly due to the fact that she used to make hilarious guest appearances, singing, in French & Saunders, which at the time was the temple we would collectively worship at (hell, we still do!) I listen to this song a lot when I am getting ready to go out. It's just kind of sexy and cute. And the lyrics are fierce.
Come Here – Cath Bloom
Because it's the music to one of my favourite scenes in a movie ever, Before Sunrise. Jesse and Celine listen to it in an old listening booth in the Vienna music store. They keep stealing looks at each other, but try to pretend that they aren't at the same time. Awww! I also love it just because it's a really happy, romantic, folky song. A bit like something Joan Baez might have sung.
Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead
Although Radiohead is my second favorite band, they don't make the kind of music you should listen to if you are feeling a bit blue. That said, sometimes you want to listen to a song that has a lot of pent up existential angst in it - cause you're not feeling low per se, but you're not feeling particularly "yippee!" either. This is my plateau song.
Rainbow Connection – Peter Cincotti
A few reasons for this one: The first is that Peter Cincotti, at 21, is a little cutie and he sings the song like Frank Sinatra would have. The second reason is that it is a cover of the song that Kermit the Frog sang on the lily pad at the beginning of the first Muppet movie (which makes it even better that Peter Cincotti sings this version, as he's so young). The third reason is that I love the words of the last verse. It's, like, poetry man:
Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices
Cause I've heard them calling my name
Is this the sweet sound
That calls the young sailors
The voice might be one and the same
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm supposed to be
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
10 random songs from my iBook, chosen automatically by iTunes:
1. That Kind of Love – Alison Krauss
2. Stan – Dido & Eminem
3. Sound of Silence – Simon & Garfunkel
4. Everybody’s Changing – Keane
5. Well Did You Evah? – Blondie
6. Wild Thing – Tone Lic
7. Six Barrel Shotgun – Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
8. Keep It Together - Madonna
9. Rehash – Gorillaz
10. By the Way – Red Hot Chili Peppers
The music files on my iBook amount to 18.4 GB
The last album I bought was "Hot Fuss" by Killers (although it was technically a download)
The last song I listened to on my iPod before writing this was "Love Will Tear Us Apart" by Joy Division
The five songs I often listen to or mean a lot to me, and why:
Let The River Run – Carly Simon
It's the song that I would listen to when I lived in New York, when I felt a little homesick, or a little blue. I would generally listen to it in the morning, walking to work between 42nd and 44th on Lex, with my little cup of Starbucks coffee that I'd bought as I came out of the subway at Grand Central. It would remind me that I was in a great city and that I had a charmed life. You just can't be miserable listening to that song. There's way too much hope in it to carry on being sad.
In These Shoes – Kirsty McColl
Kirsty McColl represents, for me, my first introduction to proper music. Me and my oldest friends from school, Tim, Jemma and Kate, would listen to Kirsty a lot, mainly due to the fact that she used to make hilarious guest appearances, singing, in French & Saunders, which at the time was the temple we would collectively worship at (hell, we still do!) I listen to this song a lot when I am getting ready to go out. It's just kind of sexy and cute. And the lyrics are fierce.
Come Here – Cath Bloom
Because it's the music to one of my favourite scenes in a movie ever, Before Sunrise. Jesse and Celine listen to it in an old listening booth in the Vienna music store. They keep stealing looks at each other, but try to pretend that they aren't at the same time. Awww! I also love it just because it's a really happy, romantic, folky song. A bit like something Joan Baez might have sung.
Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead
Although Radiohead is my second favorite band, they don't make the kind of music you should listen to if you are feeling a bit blue. That said, sometimes you want to listen to a song that has a lot of pent up existential angst in it - cause you're not feeling low per se, but you're not feeling particularly "yippee!" either. This is my plateau song.
Rainbow Connection – Peter Cincotti
A few reasons for this one: The first is that Peter Cincotti, at 21, is a little cutie and he sings the song like Frank Sinatra would have. The second reason is that it is a cover of the song that Kermit the Frog sang on the lily pad at the beginning of the first Muppet movie (which makes it even better that Peter Cincotti sings this version, as he's so young). The third reason is that I love the words of the last verse. It's, like, poetry man:
Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices
Cause I've heard them calling my name
Is this the sweet sound
That calls the young sailors
The voice might be one and the same
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm supposed to be
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me
P.S.
I am proud to annouce that yesterday evening I accepted a job offer. As from Monday I will be earning £245,000* per annum as the director of the interiors department of a very hot and trendy PR agency on London's fabulously chic King's Road. I owe it all to my friend Katie who sent them my CV. Needless to say, Katie will be receiving a "thank you" from me in the form of an erotic dance, in the very near future. I might even give her a "happy ending". Or not.
The owner of my new company has already invited to me to attend an uber fashion party tonight at The Courthouse, London's blinging new members bar, right on the corner of So On Trend Road and Everyone Who Is Anyone Will Be There Avenue.
DADDY'S BACK, KIDS!!!
*not really
The owner of my new company has already invited to me to attend an uber fashion party tonight at The Courthouse, London's blinging new members bar, right on the corner of So On Trend Road and Everyone Who Is Anyone Will Be There Avenue.
DADDY'S BACK, KIDS!!!
*not really
Strippers and the L word
Any gay tendencies that I may have been showing over the past few weeks were recently nullified. Well, for about half an hour, anyway. Because Saturday night saw a rather motley crew - one gay man (me), two lesbians, a straight woman and a straight man, descend into the seedy underworld of "the dodgy geezer" - The Rocket Club, one of Birmingham's premiere "gentlemen's clubs".
Those girls could really work the pole in an impressive variety of gyrations that left little to the imagination. I actually found the whole experience fairly erotic. For a few seconds I considered the possibility that perhaps I was not quite the certifiable homo I thought I was. Then the master of ceremonies (if that’s what you can call a sad, fat, balding midlands DJ) starting egging on one of the girls who was dancing erotically with a geeze she had pulled up onto the stage.
(dancer slides down the pole towards the face of the willing male)
Master of ceremonies: "Yeah, get those luscious lips wrapped around his nose!"
Yup. He was referring to those lips. The fairly substantial tremor I felt emanating from my bile duct cleared away, once and for all, any doubts I may have just had about my sexuality.
But what I found most interesting about the whole thing was this: you could pay £20 for one of these nubile young ladies, wearing next-to-nothing, to lead you by the hand into a little booth where she would remove the next-to-nothing and perform a private dance for you. As long as you keep your hands by your sides and not on her (or in your pants) she would basically get extremely up close and personal without actually doing, er, stuff. Then after ten minutes she would put her clothes back on and then that would be that.
Now I didn't receive one of these private dances (although Lucy – one of the lesbians - was readily offering to put up the necessary funds. Actually, can we just think about that situation for a while? A lesbian, offering to pay for a gay man to receive a sexy lap dance from a straight woman. I think that genuinely may have been a first!). But nonetheless, I couldn't help but imagine how randy and unfulfilled these guys must have been after having had a hot, young, blonde minx shake her bits right in their face and lap for ten minutes. So what these guys do after they've had their dance made me not want to use the bathrooms incase I, well, found any "evidence".
Bleurgh.
Anyway, so as not to end this post on a sour note, I was wondering if someone could explain something to me that has been really playing on my mind of late. It hasn’t exactly caused sleepless nights, but I do like to feel confident that there is a reason for order in the chaos. It's to do with the folklore of Superman.
What is the relevance of the letter "L"? For example:
Lana Lang
Lois Lane
Lex Luther
Lionel Luther
Jor-El (Supe's pop)
Kal-El (Supe's birth name)
Lara (Supe's mom)
Linda Lee (Supergirl's alter ego)
Anyone who can provide me with a decent explanation receives a ten-minute lap dance from yours truly. Because I really paid attention the other night and boy, not only have I ever got some moves now, but I'm also extremely bendy!
Those girls could really work the pole in an impressive variety of gyrations that left little to the imagination. I actually found the whole experience fairly erotic. For a few seconds I considered the possibility that perhaps I was not quite the certifiable homo I thought I was. Then the master of ceremonies (if that’s what you can call a sad, fat, balding midlands DJ) starting egging on one of the girls who was dancing erotically with a geeze she had pulled up onto the stage.
(dancer slides down the pole towards the face of the willing male)
Master of ceremonies: "Yeah, get those luscious lips wrapped around his nose!"
Yup. He was referring to those lips. The fairly substantial tremor I felt emanating from my bile duct cleared away, once and for all, any doubts I may have just had about my sexuality.
But what I found most interesting about the whole thing was this: you could pay £20 for one of these nubile young ladies, wearing next-to-nothing, to lead you by the hand into a little booth where she would remove the next-to-nothing and perform a private dance for you. As long as you keep your hands by your sides and not on her (or in your pants) she would basically get extremely up close and personal without actually doing, er, stuff. Then after ten minutes she would put her clothes back on and then that would be that.
Now I didn't receive one of these private dances (although Lucy – one of the lesbians - was readily offering to put up the necessary funds. Actually, can we just think about that situation for a while? A lesbian, offering to pay for a gay man to receive a sexy lap dance from a straight woman. I think that genuinely may have been a first!). But nonetheless, I couldn't help but imagine how randy and unfulfilled these guys must have been after having had a hot, young, blonde minx shake her bits right in their face and lap for ten minutes. So what these guys do after they've had their dance made me not want to use the bathrooms incase I, well, found any "evidence".
Bleurgh.
Anyway, so as not to end this post on a sour note, I was wondering if someone could explain something to me that has been really playing on my mind of late. It hasn’t exactly caused sleepless nights, but I do like to feel confident that there is a reason for order in the chaos. It's to do with the folklore of Superman.
What is the relevance of the letter "L"? For example:
Lana Lang
Lois Lane
Lex Luther
Lionel Luther
Jor-El (Supe's pop)
Kal-El (Supe's birth name)
Lara (Supe's mom)
Linda Lee (Supergirl's alter ego)
Anyone who can provide me with a decent explanation receives a ten-minute lap dance from yours truly. Because I really paid attention the other night and boy, not only have I ever got some moves now, but I'm also extremely bendy!
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Validated
My love affair with clothes started, I think, when I was four and at playgroup. Our mothers and fathers had each donated numerous garments for us all to play dress up with. I remember that my favourite item was a huge pink taffeta ballgown, not unlike the one that Clare won an award for donning at Jerome's pink themed birthday party last year.
Through the decades I have gradually refined and tailored (like that?) my sartorial sensibility to the point where I now approach potential additions to my wardrobe with a very simple philosophy - fashion lasts for a season, style lasts forever.
Many of us think we have great style, but if that were true the high streets of life would be a non-stop Dries Van Noten runway show. The reality is that we have Beyonce and Christina Aguilera. Now, those girls might be able to belt out a tune, but "belt up", they most certainly cannot.
While my wardrobe does contain the skeletons of fashion disasters (e.g. a 1994 outing to Wild Fruit wearing a pair of black and white stripy Lycra leggings, a floaty polka dot shirt and red Dr.Martin's) on the whole I think that have a pretty good look going on. One that Tom Ford would proudly nod to. That said, sometimes it doesn't hurt to have an objective point of view and while I love all of my friends very, very much there are only a few who I trust to pick me up on a possible fashion faux pas.
Today I got the ultimate validation, only not from a friend. I got it from Trinny and Susannah.
I had just been to a job interview and I was walking down Bond Street towards Oxford Street. I was miles away, listening to "Freedom 90" by George Michael on my iPod, imagining that I was Linda Evangelista wearing the black polo neck sweater in the video. Linda had so much more class than Naomi Campbell who, as always, just got her kit off. There was of course Christy Turlington, who looked beautiful wrapped only in a white cotton sheet. But I chose to be Linda today.
Anyway, like I said, I'm miles away when all of a sudden these two scarily well groomed fashionable looking women pounce on me and start bombarding me with questions. This is before I've even had a chance to take my earphones out. Now, if you are au fait with Trinny and Susannah you will know that they will grab the most intimate part of your body with absolutely no compunction whatsoever and make no bones about telling you to your face that you do indeed have tits like Geoff Capes and a taste in ostentatious jewelry that would make Elizabeth Taylor proud.
I realised the gravity of the situation immediately. This was my moment. I struggled to do several things at once, while all the while remaining calm, collected and eminently stylish. While being filmed. While being scared. Because there was every possibility that I was about to be told that I looked like a sack of shit and made an example of to the nation - i.e., what not to wear.
This is how I recall the conversation went:
Trinny: "So tell us what you're wearing."
Christopher (shaking): "Well my jacket (maroon velvet) is something I found at H&M. The sweater (baby blue cashmere v-neck) was supposed to be a birthday present for an old client, but I stole it for myself. Um, the cowboy boots are from Rockit in Covent Garden and the jeans (boot-cut and distressed) are, er, from H&M again. And the scarf (stripy in autumnal colours) was a Christmas present but I like it because the red matches my jacket."
(No emotion registering on either of their faces. Fuck.)
Susannah: "So what are you dressing for today? Do you dress like this everyday?"
C: "Er, well I've just been to a job interview. I was a bit worried that I look a bit too casual, but I think it's kind of important to give a realistic impression of who you are, not only in what you say, but in how you look. Because in my industry, that being public relations, appearances are often of equal importance to what I actually do. And yes, on the whole I do dress like this most days. I like to take simple tailoring and mix it with a nice pair of jeans and some great knitwear."
(Work, Christopher, work!)
T: "Ok, well first of all..."
(prepares self for crucifixion)
T: "...you've mixed a really great range of colours. Velvet jackets are really in right now and you've been bold enough to choose one in a colour that not many people could wear. I'm also impressed with the tailoring, slim fitting, not too boxy, great considering that it's from H&M. Usually red and blue don't sit well together, but the baby blue sweater under the maroon works, surprisingly. The jeans are pretty standard, although you have picked a good cut. Let's see your bum."
(Susannah lifts up my jacket to expose my butt. Cameraman zooms in. Awesome. Not.)
S: "Now on the whole I always say that it is important to invest in a good pair of jeans. Decent jeans will usually make your legs look longer and thinner and will lift your bum, something equally important for both men and women. However, you seem to have a pretty nice bottom anyway [she grabs my cheeks] and long legs so while the jeans are cheap you actually make them look more expensive. Often it's the clothes that make the wearer look good. It's not often the other way around."
T: "Now the only thing that gives me pause are the cowboy boots. I am not a big fan of cowboy boots, even on cowboys. But if you absolutely have to wear them, only ever wear them with jeans. Boot-cut jeans. Which you've done. So great. Also, as cowboy boots go, you actually chose a good pair - camel colour, suede and buffed leather, with minimal detail and a good heel. And finally I like the scarf. Its length is a little mean, but you're right in saying that the colours in the stripes match what you are wearing. They do - perfectly."
S: "So overall you've created a great look here, mixing a variety of different styles and colours without spending a fortune. Well done."
Then a signing of a release form, a promise from the producer to call me if they air it, and it was all over. Trinny and Susannah flounce off to find their next victim. I doubted, somehow, that they would be quite so kind next time.
So let's recap:
I mix colours well
I accessorise well
I make cheap clothes look expensive
I think it's fair to say that I am now certifiably stylish.
You better know that I'm going to be dining out on that qualified fact for a long, long time.
Through the decades I have gradually refined and tailored (like that?) my sartorial sensibility to the point where I now approach potential additions to my wardrobe with a very simple philosophy - fashion lasts for a season, style lasts forever.
Many of us think we have great style, but if that were true the high streets of life would be a non-stop Dries Van Noten runway show. The reality is that we have Beyonce and Christina Aguilera. Now, those girls might be able to belt out a tune, but "belt up", they most certainly cannot.
While my wardrobe does contain the skeletons of fashion disasters (e.g. a 1994 outing to Wild Fruit wearing a pair of black and white stripy Lycra leggings, a floaty polka dot shirt and red Dr.Martin's) on the whole I think that have a pretty good look going on. One that Tom Ford would proudly nod to. That said, sometimes it doesn't hurt to have an objective point of view and while I love all of my friends very, very much there are only a few who I trust to pick me up on a possible fashion faux pas.
Today I got the ultimate validation, only not from a friend. I got it from Trinny and Susannah.
I had just been to a job interview and I was walking down Bond Street towards Oxford Street. I was miles away, listening to "Freedom 90" by George Michael on my iPod, imagining that I was Linda Evangelista wearing the black polo neck sweater in the video. Linda had so much more class than Naomi Campbell who, as always, just got her kit off. There was of course Christy Turlington, who looked beautiful wrapped only in a white cotton sheet. But I chose to be Linda today.
Anyway, like I said, I'm miles away when all of a sudden these two scarily well groomed fashionable looking women pounce on me and start bombarding me with questions. This is before I've even had a chance to take my earphones out. Now, if you are au fait with Trinny and Susannah you will know that they will grab the most intimate part of your body with absolutely no compunction whatsoever and make no bones about telling you to your face that you do indeed have tits like Geoff Capes and a taste in ostentatious jewelry that would make Elizabeth Taylor proud.
I realised the gravity of the situation immediately. This was my moment. I struggled to do several things at once, while all the while remaining calm, collected and eminently stylish. While being filmed. While being scared. Because there was every possibility that I was about to be told that I looked like a sack of shit and made an example of to the nation - i.e., what not to wear.
This is how I recall the conversation went:
Trinny: "So tell us what you're wearing."
Christopher (shaking): "Well my jacket (maroon velvet) is something I found at H&M. The sweater (baby blue cashmere v-neck) was supposed to be a birthday present for an old client, but I stole it for myself. Um, the cowboy boots are from Rockit in Covent Garden and the jeans (boot-cut and distressed) are, er, from H&M again. And the scarf (stripy in autumnal colours) was a Christmas present but I like it because the red matches my jacket."
(No emotion registering on either of their faces. Fuck.)
Susannah: "So what are you dressing for today? Do you dress like this everyday?"
C: "Er, well I've just been to a job interview. I was a bit worried that I look a bit too casual, but I think it's kind of important to give a realistic impression of who you are, not only in what you say, but in how you look. Because in my industry, that being public relations, appearances are often of equal importance to what I actually do. And yes, on the whole I do dress like this most days. I like to take simple tailoring and mix it with a nice pair of jeans and some great knitwear."
(Work, Christopher, work!)
T: "Ok, well first of all..."
(prepares self for crucifixion)
T: "...you've mixed a really great range of colours. Velvet jackets are really in right now and you've been bold enough to choose one in a colour that not many people could wear. I'm also impressed with the tailoring, slim fitting, not too boxy, great considering that it's from H&M. Usually red and blue don't sit well together, but the baby blue sweater under the maroon works, surprisingly. The jeans are pretty standard, although you have picked a good cut. Let's see your bum."
(Susannah lifts up my jacket to expose my butt. Cameraman zooms in. Awesome. Not.)
S: "Now on the whole I always say that it is important to invest in a good pair of jeans. Decent jeans will usually make your legs look longer and thinner and will lift your bum, something equally important for both men and women. However, you seem to have a pretty nice bottom anyway [she grabs my cheeks] and long legs so while the jeans are cheap you actually make them look more expensive. Often it's the clothes that make the wearer look good. It's not often the other way around."
T: "Now the only thing that gives me pause are the cowboy boots. I am not a big fan of cowboy boots, even on cowboys. But if you absolutely have to wear them, only ever wear them with jeans. Boot-cut jeans. Which you've done. So great. Also, as cowboy boots go, you actually chose a good pair - camel colour, suede and buffed leather, with minimal detail and a good heel. And finally I like the scarf. Its length is a little mean, but you're right in saying that the colours in the stripes match what you are wearing. They do - perfectly."
S: "So overall you've created a great look here, mixing a variety of different styles and colours without spending a fortune. Well done."
Then a signing of a release form, a promise from the producer to call me if they air it, and it was all over. Trinny and Susannah flounce off to find their next victim. I doubted, somehow, that they would be quite so kind next time.
So let's recap:
I mix colours well
I accessorise well
I make cheap clothes look expensive
I think it's fair to say that I am now certifiably stylish.
You better know that I'm going to be dining out on that qualified fact for a long, long time.
Monday, January 31, 2005
The quest for the perfect hair
A couple of weeks ago I made a reference in a blog post to my quest for the perfect hair, which right now, in my world, is hair like the cute blonde boy, John, in Gus Van Sant's movie "Elephant".
My hair is currently at that annoying stage where it's neither long enough or short enough to do anything clever with. It just looks like it needs a bloody good cut. The last time I went to the salon was about four months ago when it was chopped short and into different lengths on top, which means that right now my fringe looks a bit thin. It needs more body. However, round the corner, at the back of my head, my hair is doing this kind of "kick" thing, which I think is quite cute.
Anyway, every day I have an "oh, sod it" moment where I decide to get it cut back to it's former short and choppy fame. So far I have talked myself out of it, but it's getting more difficult. If I'm ever to get glorious Elephant hair I have to see this in between stage through.
So, to give me the incentive to let it GROW I thought that I would post monthly pictures of my hair's short-term evolution here on my blog. That way I'll feel really stupid if I do succumb and get it all chopped off and I have to admit defeat to y'all.
So let's remind ourselves. This is what my hair should be looking like (only not blonde):
This is what it currently looks like (as of last night):
It goes without saying that your support during this difficult time is much appreciated.
(I've just realised that my nose looks ENORMOUS in that picture. Look, it's a bad angle, ok?! My nose, in reality is well proportioned to the rest of my face. No, really it is!)
My hair is currently at that annoying stage where it's neither long enough or short enough to do anything clever with. It just looks like it needs a bloody good cut. The last time I went to the salon was about four months ago when it was chopped short and into different lengths on top, which means that right now my fringe looks a bit thin. It needs more body. However, round the corner, at the back of my head, my hair is doing this kind of "kick" thing, which I think is quite cute.
Anyway, every day I have an "oh, sod it" moment where I decide to get it cut back to it's former short and choppy fame. So far I have talked myself out of it, but it's getting more difficult. If I'm ever to get glorious Elephant hair I have to see this in between stage through.
So, to give me the incentive to let it GROW I thought that I would post monthly pictures of my hair's short-term evolution here on my blog. That way I'll feel really stupid if I do succumb and get it all chopped off and I have to admit defeat to y'all.
So let's remind ourselves. This is what my hair should be looking like (only not blonde):
This is what it currently looks like (as of last night):
It goes without saying that your support during this difficult time is much appreciated.
(I've just realised that my nose looks ENORMOUS in that picture. Look, it's a bad angle, ok?! My nose, in reality is well proportioned to the rest of my face. No, really it is!)
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Jesus wept!
Look at Hanson! They're all grown up!
Now, that's one multi-deck sandwich I wouldn't mind being a filling in. Incest? Pah!
Now, that's one multi-deck sandwich I wouldn't mind being a filling in. Incest? Pah!
Saturday, January 29, 2005
A wall of heroes
I decided to do something a little different with my day today. As well as going to the gym and touring shops that sell numerous things I can't currently afford, I steered myself off the beaten track.
Postman’s Park was opened in the City in 1880. In 1887 some guy called G.F. Watts conceived the idea of a national memorial to men and women who had died carrying out acts of heroism. The memorial took the form of a wall featuring individual tiles dedicated to each hero. It opened in 1900. Anyone who has seen the movie Closer will be familiar with this wall as this is the place that Alice and Dan begin to fall in love. They'll also appreciate the significance of the above picture that I took.
My primary reason for finding this wall today was to see if this tile really existed or if it was made up for the movie. But clearly, as you can see, it is real and Alice Ayres was a real person. After I found this tile I read the other ones. All of them. It seemed wrong not to, somehow.
After many of the events that have occurred over the past few years the words "hero" or "heroes" have become familiar, much used expressions. But upon seeing this wall and reading what some of these people did (most of whom died over a hundred years ago) made me consider what constitutes a true hero. I can think of lots of examples of people who have been cited in recent times as being heroes. But when I scratch at the surface I start to have doubts as to whether a hero is what they truly were.
This wall, to me, answers the question - does true altruism really exist? I find it hard to believe that in the moments when you rescue three children from a house on fire, a fire that you know you could ultimately succumb to, that there are any visions of grandeur. These people gave their lives for others, with no spin, no rhetoric and no promise of reward. They just gave their lives.
There should be more of these tiles. They should be everywhere. For all true heroes – living or dead. Because I, for one, have little interest in some obscure “water feature” (one that only works when it feels like it), dedicated to a woman who "did quite a lot of work for charity".
After all ... a victim is not necessarily a hero.
Postman’s Park was opened in the City in 1880. In 1887 some guy called G.F. Watts conceived the idea of a national memorial to men and women who had died carrying out acts of heroism. The memorial took the form of a wall featuring individual tiles dedicated to each hero. It opened in 1900. Anyone who has seen the movie Closer will be familiar with this wall as this is the place that Alice and Dan begin to fall in love. They'll also appreciate the significance of the above picture that I took.
My primary reason for finding this wall today was to see if this tile really existed or if it was made up for the movie. But clearly, as you can see, it is real and Alice Ayres was a real person. After I found this tile I read the other ones. All of them. It seemed wrong not to, somehow.
After many of the events that have occurred over the past few years the words "hero" or "heroes" have become familiar, much used expressions. But upon seeing this wall and reading what some of these people did (most of whom died over a hundred years ago) made me consider what constitutes a true hero. I can think of lots of examples of people who have been cited in recent times as being heroes. But when I scratch at the surface I start to have doubts as to whether a hero is what they truly were.
This wall, to me, answers the question - does true altruism really exist? I find it hard to believe that in the moments when you rescue three children from a house on fire, a fire that you know you could ultimately succumb to, that there are any visions of grandeur. These people gave their lives for others, with no spin, no rhetoric and no promise of reward. They just gave their lives.
There should be more of these tiles. They should be everywhere. For all true heroes – living or dead. Because I, for one, have little interest in some obscure “water feature” (one that only works when it feels like it), dedicated to a woman who "did quite a lot of work for charity".
After all ... a victim is not necessarily a hero.
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