Au Revoir, But Not Goodbye

One of the people who showed me the most unrelenting kindness while I lived in New York is Zach.

In just over a year, even though for most of the time we have been separated by vast expanses of ocean or land, he has become and remained a consistently true and faithful friend. It has been my pleasure, over the past seven days, to have him stay in my home and to be able to show him around some of London's more earthy landmarks. I already miss having him constantly forget that I can't eat anything solid at the moment!

"It is so gratifying of you to say in your letter that you like me. Things of that kind, which can be very important, people usually omit to mention. Personally, I have no use for unspoken affections, and so I will most readily reply that I like you a great deal also..."
Sylvia Townsend Warner, letter to Paul Nordoff, 24 July 1939

Roar!

No real blog entry today because I am just too angry (my jaw).

It's not often that I feel anger like this. I am just managing to keep it restrained, but am nonetheless, teetering on a knife edge where I could at any moment JUST FUCKING LOSE IT!!! I swear to god I am going out tonight to get rat arsed and if anyone so much as insinuates that I should be sensible and take it easy I will, with no compunction, quite simply, with the bluntest of chainsaws, provide them with a new one.

It is not advisable for the world to test the extent of my wrath today (flexes wrath). As Glenn Close famously said in Dangerous Liaisons, "Remember. I'm better at this than you are."

(Oooh! Now I feel all empowered in a Darth Vadar kind of way - anger really is the path to the dark side! And the dark side feels goooood!!)

Bring me...

...the head of Ben Jelen. Preferably attached to his body. Alive would be good as well.

Nooooooooooo!

I quote...

"Fisting is an incredible experience, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. This book thoroughly details all the ins-and-outs of giving and receiving vaginal orgasms with the fisted hand. There are surprisingly few texts on this subject (no shit!). This one is very easy to understand. It has a caring, down-to-earth, comfortable style. Headings include: Troubleshooting, Self-Fisting, and Anatomy. This book will answer all of your questions and help you develop some simple yet mind-blowing possibilities. (If you're giving this book as a gift, be sure to check out our Lubricants Section!)."

Self fisting???!!! Ew GROSS!!! In today's world is nothing sacred? I am seriously thinking about hiking over to China and becoming a Shaolin monk. Apparently they draw the line at water sports.

If fortune favours the brave...

...then I am about to become seriously wealthy and successful. I mean if I have been one thing over anything else this year, I have been brave!

So last Saturday night Drew and I go out to my friend Louise's birthday. I dress in my beloved black Gucci dress shirt, ripped bootcut jeans and brand spanking new shoes from Rockit. I style my hair differently - freshly washed, shiny and falling seductively infront of my eyes. And I decide to wear the Comme des Garcons fragrance that everyone loves, but I think smells a bit like perfume. To put not too fine a point on it I look (and smell) fierce. I celebrate by dancing to Fleetwood Mac on the balcony, imagining that I am Stevie Nicks in a man's body.

Drew comes over, we drink wine for a while and then we leave for Louise's birthday. Birthday is great. We drink champagne. Then we leave and go to pick up Sam from his fabulous new flat on Charing Cross Road. Errol, who I haven't seen since before I left for New York is there. He has just broken up with his girlfriend so is coming out with the 'boys' for the evening. Errol is of dubious sexuality and, while on the short side, is very, very cute and it passes my mind that maybe I should flirt a little with him. But by this point I am feeling quite drunk so I steal cigarettes from him instead.

From Sam's we go on to Shadow Lounge, and once again we drink champagne. Because Sam works there we get to stay in the VVIP section and at one point Ivan Massow sits next to us (I still think is he is eligible even if he is rumored to sleep with rent boys) along with Geri Halliwell. They are there for, oh, about two minutes, before they get up and leave again. I guess we are all being a bit lairy for their taste.

And so the evening progresses. I get more drunk. Some of us play kissy-poo (except Errol) and drink, and dance, until 4am when we get unceremoniously pushed back out onto Brewer Street to be harassed by refugees uttering "mini-cab" and "£25" over and over.

We get into the flat at about 4.30am and because of all the champagne I decide that I should take a sleeping tablet in order to sleep properly. Good idea. Take sleeping tablet. Sleep very, very well.

Until about 8am, when my bladder wakes me up. Feeling hung over and groggy, I slouch off to the bathroom and mid-pee I decide that I am feeling rather dizzy and just about manage to kneel on the floor without keeling over. Still bash into the bath though. When I am feeling slightly better I pick myself up and begin to stagger out of the bathroom, into the hall and back towards my bedroom.

And that's about as much as I can remember. The next thing I know I am lying with my head on the mat, the guys at my side, blood coming from a huge gash on my chin (you can actually see the bone) and from my right ear. Bits of teeth are on the floorboards. I am feeling very disorientated and they want to call an ambulance but I'm insistent that I'm ok and try to get up.

Oooh...blood. So much blood! It is starting to dawn on me that I am really not ok and that actually perhaps an ambulance might not be such a bad idea.

So off I get driven to King's Hospital where I am ravagely attacked by stupid nurses who seem to think that my effing and blinding is directed at them. They're trying to make me recline so that I am horizontal and it frikkin hurts. "Ow! It fucking hurts" I exclaim. "Don't you swear at me or you can just go home!" spits the nurse back. For a second I manage to compose myself and I turn to her and say "Don't be so ridiculous. I am not swearing at you." and then I turn to the guys and in all seriousness go "Let's go home..." to which Vix responds by squeezing my hand and smiling says "I don't think that's a very good idea, sweetie."

Several hours later, after many X-rays, cat-scans and having my chin sutured, the doctors come to tell me that I need to have surgery. Apparently when I went down I completely shattered my jaw and I need to have wiring to hold my teeth together and a steel plate put into the front on my mouth. Great. Not. Although I am peversely looking forward to the anesthetic. I love the way that it feels like someone is pulling you into sleep.

Anyway - the result of all this is that I had to have a week off work. I went back to mum's to rest and recuperate. And in the process I became a casualty of daytime television. I was shocked to see that Judy Finnigan is looking very, very haggard these days. But not surprised to learn that Richard Madely is still as deeply irritating and smug as he always has been.

So for the next four to six weeks I have my teeth clenched together in a tight rictus, with a retainer like thing and elastic junking up my mouth. I have lost the feeling in my chin and everything aches. But I am back at work so am not as bored.

Zach told me that the reason that Reid became a model was because his brother kicked him in the face and broke his jaw. The new jaw completely changed him and he stopped being fat and dorky and become a bona fide sex god. I wonder if that will happen to me?

Groucho Marx once said "Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die."

I just read that suicide bombers are told that their sacrifice will be rewarded in heaven, because the Koran suggests that martyrs get to have sex with 72 virgins.

However, an eminent Islamic scholar suggests this is a mistranslation from the Koran of the word "Houri" as Virgin. He's traced the word back to its original Arabic root and says it means grape - or wine.

So, even if the Koran is completely correct, the suicide bombers will arrive in heaven to discover that they have slaughtered innocent people in exchange for a couple of chardonnays.

The War on Terror

I don't really write about anything of real substance on this thing, but I guess this time of year is now a kind of anniversary for pondering and thought.

I just read an article where the writer described 9/11 as the "most fetishised remembrance day of our times." I actually find it difficult not to agree with her. My own gut reaction to the event will always be etched in my memory: I experienced it as an attack on humanity.

Later, reflecting on this, I realised to my shame that I could identify with people in tall buildings in a way I could not with people in refugee camps. However, it seemed to me that at least we were now all in the same boat and there was a chance to wake up to some of the injustices we had previously insulated ourselves from.

The deeper shock for me, and no doubt for many, was the failure of the American political establishment to see 9/11 as anything other than an attack on America and all that it represented. In their own way, it seemed, they were mimicking the tiny minority who at the time suggested that "America had it coming". The demand that one is "either for us or against us", not just on the lips of Bush but also of Hillary Clinton, and the action of Mayor Giuliani in rejecting a substantial aid donation from a leading Saudi prince because he went on to make some mild criticisms of US foreign policy, gave the impression that what America wanted was not so much friends as acolytes.

Everything that has happened since has only served to strengthen that impression. It does indeed seem to me that we are on the verge of McCarthyism, or even fascism, not just in the US but also here. Suddenly we can no longer see beyond the confines of Western civilisation - anything that resists its global spread is seen as non-human, or alien. In the name of defending our precious freedoms and material comforts perhaps we are creating a monster. If that indeed is how our civilisation appears to those who are outside then the so-called war on terror is already lost.

Petri-fied!

I have nothing better to do today than post Blog entries...

We have been sent an email from the NYC HQ about Anthrax preparedness. I am not sure why. It's been a while since I've even heard that word. Maybe it is just to wake us up to the possibilities again. Are we on red alert or something?

The email was interesting, but made me want to be sick, really. Anthrax seems like such a mysterious thing - the email had a little attachment that showed how it is dispersed by atomizers or via the regular mail.

Apparently there are 4 scenarios to be acted on differently. These are inspired. I can imagine that it took a whole (expensive) think tank to come up with these:

1. a threat is received, but no package has been found

2. a threat is received, and an unopened package has been found

3. a package has been opened, but no substance is inside

4. a package has been opened and a substance has been found

In the interests of national security, I am not going to advertise the contingency for each circumstance (I don't want to give Osama any bad ideas). Anyway it was interesting and I think I will be better prepared if the day ever comes that I will need to deal with this type of situation. The hardest thing for me would be to not.... FREAK OUT!

Words...can't...describe...

His name is Jon Passavant. I know this because I met him once at a party at some millionaires mansion in a gated community in Beverly Hills (yes, my life used to be that fabulous).

Unfortunately he's straight. This information rained all over my parade. So the chances of him and I hooking up are...er...rather unlikely.

But I can dream.

He is what I call "a cryer." At the moment of truth I would start crying.

How to make a Versace Salad

I've had a long standing interest in the perma-toned, overtly bleached doyenne of the fashion industry. It's akin to watching a car wreck. According to Popbitch, guests at Donatella Versace's dinner parties have marveled at the special dish she always chooses. Here's the recipe...

1. Ingredients: 3 grammes of cocaine, 1 salad plate.

2. Rack out lines the size of cigarettes on the plate.

3. While the other dinner guests eat dinner, snort lines.

4. Do not offer round.

5. Go straight to rehab.

Apparently guests at Donatella's place report that she used to keep her cocaine in the fridge "in blocks the size of feta cheese."

I'm not sure about some of these figures...

But look at those numbers go really, really fast!!!

Is Virginity Worthwhile?

Read this!

I quote...

"Psychiatrists claim people usually cannot remain good friends after they stop having sexual intercourse together. If they don't remain lovers, they must become very distant from each other. In a close situation such as attending the same school or the same church, this "distant" relationship can conflict with being near each other in classes. The two former lovers can develop a "hate" relationship as a way of maintaining the "distant" relationship.

An example of this hate after intercourse is Israel's prince Amnon and his affair with his half sister Tamar. After sex, "his love turned to hate and now he hated her more than he had loved her." -- 1 Samuel 13:15 LB."

Of course the fact that their relationship became dysfunctional after sex had, of course, nothing to do with the fact that they were actually brother and sister.

Bloggers around the world, unite!

My rather fabulous NYC friend Sally (gracing the above cover of NYC photographer Patrick McMullen's latest book "So80s") took up a dare from me to start her own blog. Now if anyone is deserving of their own blog it's Sally cause she, reader, has some helluva lot of stories to tell (sorry Sally - the pressure to deliver!) One of them even involves an encounter with a pre-fame Ms. Ciccone, but I'll leave it up to her to provide the low down on that one at her own discretion.

Read all about her here.

My Waking Life

I’m going to see where this one takes me…

For the last two weeks I have meant to change my bedclothes. The last time I changed them was over a month ago. Yes...I know what you are thinking - "Gross!", right? Yeah probably, but you see the thing is I quite like it that way. Some people love the smell of clean sheets - sliding in beneath the covers and feeling that gentle caress that only the best fabric conditioner can buy.

But right now I quite like the smell of me. And the smell isn't that musty "boy" smell that you can detect on most student halls of residence. It's a combination of red Dax hair wax, Clinique Happy for Men and Origins Ginger Shower Gel (I have taken to showering before I go to bed).

My room is a small room - probably the smallest I have ever resided in. Apart from for sleeping I don't use it very much. At previous addresses I have seen my bedroom as a kind of sanctuary from the areas outside, but still within the apartment. I have always been very lucky with my bedrooms. The best being the one I had at 50 Murray in NYC.

This is the first time that I have only lived with one other person. I have always lived with at least two other people - right the way through university and my working life in London. When I lived in West Hampstead - 1996 through to 2003 - I lived with three other people. But now I only live with Vix, and it's all very grown up. She inherited most of the furniture from her father when he died. So the apartment is very furnished in a very grown up way. That said, it is also very comfortable. So for the first time I feel like a proper grown up in a proper grown up apartment. So comfortable that on Saturday night I fell asleep on the sofa and didn't wake up until 7am in the morning, at which I dragged myself to my bedroom and slept for a further four hours until about 11am.

I live in an area of London called Clapham South. It has a "village" mentality, the centre being Abbeville Road - a long street with six or seven restaurants mingled in with little gift shops that sell small nick nacks at high prices. The roads surrounding Abbeville Road are lined with Porsches, BMWs and top of the range Volkswagens.

Clapham South is south of the river Thames. It is the first time that I have lived south of the river. I can only compare living south of the river with how New Yorkers view living in Manhattan with living in Brooklyn. People who live north of the river are the Manhattanites. People who live south of the river are the residents of Brooklyn and maybe even Queens.

The other night Drew and I were watching Will and Grace. There was this joke about how the boys refused to go and visit Grace because they were in Manhattan and she was in Brooklyn. "How far away is Brooklyn from Manhattan?" asked Drew.

"On the tube it's about as far away as Stockwell is from here - Clapham South." I answered. I think that this kinda threw him because Stockwell is about five minutes away. But those are the rules.

On Thursday night my Dad drove up to London to take me out for dinner. We went to Café Rouge on Abbeville Road. My Dad and I have a colourful history. He was only 18 when I was born, and in many ways he feels like he sacrificed his youth in order to be a father. As a result we got along like cat and dog and when I was 23 I refused to talk to him for the best part of two years.

But today we are less like father and son and more like two friendly men who have found a deep and important respect for one another. My Dad told me something that I had not even considered but something that I found immensely comforting. When he left my mum he could not conceive that he would ever love anyone as much as her again. Then he met Kathy, my stepmom of about three years now, and everything changed. For one he has his youth back. I don’t know many 53 year old men as young as my father.

Last night I went out onto the balcony for a cigarette. It was about 10pm and the sky was midnight blue. No clouds and for once there couldn’t have been that much light pollution because you could see the stars. So I focused in on the first one that I saw and I made a wish.

And the star has promised not to tell anyone the secret! ;)

Some things are too fabulous...

Look...I know I write a lot about my job, but bear with me, ok? Just let me try and convince myself of a few things...

Sometimes my job is relentlessly full of pretentious muppetry. (See previous Blog entry re Comms review.) But sometimes I am required to do something that has such breathtaking results that it makes me do a stock check and in turn brings me the realisation that I am quite lucky to be part of a creative process that can produce a visual as beautiful and iconic as the above image.

A few weeks ago one of my clients designated to me the monolithic task of single handedly organising an ad shoot with supermodel Erin O'Connor. For those of you that don't really know what I do, one thing I definitely don't do is organise ad shoots...that's the job of the ad agency (see Saatchi & Saatchi, WCRS, TBWA). But in this instance my client is too cheap to hire an ad agency. So over the course of five days I developed a creative concept for the campaign with the photographer, hired hair stylists and make up artists and even chose some frocks for Erin to wear (the dress in the picture - Stella McCartney - I chose that!!)

Anyway - the highlight of all this was arriving at the studio on the day of the shoot, to be greeted by the photographers assistant...one hell of a man (yeah a little on the short side, but that's manageable), wearing nothing but a pair of sneakers and a pair of cut off cargo pants. Bronzed, ripped and gorgeous. He actually apologised for being half naked (it was a hot day) - if only he knew!

So that was the highlight...until this morning when I got the scans from the shoot. I haven't put them all up cause I don't want to bore you? Aren't they great!? Aren't I great???!!!!

Oh yes, Christopher...you are. Yes you are.

Have a fatuous weekend, everyone!!!

Bridget Jones!

So this is a little taster of what I have been busy writing in the last week. It's for a paid for advertorial in Glamour magazine, but my client has approved it and I am beginning to feel, more and more, that I too could become a journalist in the style of Heat magazine...

20 Reasons Why We Love Bridget Jones

1 She gave a name (too cheeky to mention here) to the collection of ways men mess with our hearts, such as neglecting to call the morning after a date, flirting then disappearing etc.

2 We can all eat dessert because she sparked the comeback of granny pants and control briefs (Stella McCartney soon reinvented them in high-waisted bikinis).

3 In a highly satisfying twist, she pashed and dashed on the dastardly cad Daniel Cleaver – go grrrl!

4 She made every self-help book hoarding, chardonnay swilling, hairbrush diva feel NORMAL.

5 Anything is possible - even escaping an infamous Thai gaol is possible – on Planet Bridget.

6 She’s the ultimate underdog: the least likely to succeed but the most likely to be adored by everyone for trying.

7 Compared to Bridget, we’re a vision of grace. She commits every clutzy mistake we’ve ever made (only on a grander scale!) then some, but makes them seem hilarious.

8 Her heart is in the right place. She may cringe at her parents and feel like a disappointment, but she always fulfils her daughter duties.

9 The girl’s got guts. She scored a TV job, landed her lawyer hunk, lost the podge and endured life behind bars. That’s a lot of achievements for a little Bridge.

10 She gives us faith: love handles and all, she ousted Mark Darcy’s primped, proper fiancé and won back Daniel Cleaver after his humiliating affair.

11 She never has anything appropriate to say – what a breath of fresh air!

12 Even when she lost the podge she still had a nice feminine layer of flesh – something for us to hug. Never has a carved bicep or hollow cheek reared its freakish head on Bridge.

13 She’d provide all the entertainment at the office Christmas party.

14 She’s a gifted sartorial teacher, always committing fashion experiments (and, frequently, crimes) for us – in wide screen no less – so we don’t have to.

15 Even when her world is caving in, Bridge never gets nasty. In fact, she’s the best best friend a gal could hope for.

16 Bridge is a girl’s girl. You just know that she’ll never become a smug married, even if she wins her handsome Mr Darcy, her fairytale comes true and she lives happily ever after.

17 She’ll NEVER utter the words “tick tock!” in your ear, demand you spill your sex life to a dinner party of smug marrieds or ask (in a loud voice in a quiet, crowded room) why you’ve been left on the shelf.

18 Unlike our doctors, Bridget recognises the healing power of vodka and Chaka Kahn.

19 She makes us laugh out loud.

20 She reminds us of us.

Not so good

Lament...

Willy on the Block...

I haven't mentioned Will for a while, but as some of you know he is currently on Big Brother in the US. He's been in the house now for about seven weeks, which I find incomprehensible - not that he is still there, but that for me, being caged up that long, I would literally be going out of ma' fragile lil mind!!!

Now Big Brother in the US is very different from the UK Big Brother that we all know so well and so intimately. It is much more of a "game" and from what I can ascertain from reading endless feed updates and watching the odd clip or two, it is one fundamentally consisting of strategy and alliances - with a double dollop of backstabbing thrown in.

There is no public vote on BB US, so the man in the street has no say as to who stays and who goes. Instead it works like this (I think I have this right)...

Every week there is a competition where the winner of a randomly themed competition wins what is entitled "Head of Household". That person then chooses two people who will be put up on the "block". I hate that expression - makes me think of Tudor days when Mary Queen of Scots was doing the rounds.

Anyway, later in the week there is another competition and the winner of that competition wins what is called the Power of Veto. That person can choose to use the veto, and if they do they will choose one person who will be taken "off" the block. The Head of Household then replaces that person with another housemate.

After that all the non-nominated housemates vote for the person that they would like to stay and the person that they would like to go. The results are announced on a live show on Thursday nights and the evictee gets booted out and has an interview with the US version of Davina McCall - CBS anchorwoman Julie Chen. Not like Davina though in that she doesn't have that coquettish little run up to the housemates and she doesn't have to shield them from about 50 paparazzi!

On BB in the UK it is illegal to discuss nominations with any of the other housemates, upon pain of eviction. In the US, because of game formula it is actively encouraged. The only way to survive is to align yourself with a group of people who you are pretty certain have your back covered. There are all kinds of twists and turns that are too numerous to mention.

Anyway the point of me explaining all of this is that Will was chosen as one of the housemates to be put up for eviction tonight, and as much as I hate to say this, it looks like he might be going. Reason - three of the seven housemates eligible to vote seem to be determined to kick him off (he's part of a rival alliance and a strong player). This will mean that there will be a tie-break and it is thought that the woman who will make the break is going to boot Will off.

If he get's booted out Will will become the first person to enter a sequestered house somewhere exotic where he will sit and wait for about five weeks. And then at the end of September he will, with his fellow evicted housemates, form a jury who will vote for the person, out of the final two housemates, who should win.

But this is all subjecture - because things change and I have a funny feeling that Will will live to see another day in the BB house and subsequently be a little closer to the $500,000 prize (and to think that all our Rock Star housemates get is £68,000!!!)

Go Will! (But don't go yet!!!)

Me as Dad...

Look at the mewling little bugger! All domed head, chubby cheeks and cute. The baby is quite sweet as well.

It's amazing the responses that holding a small child can produce. It can warm the cockles of the coldest heart, it can draw blood from a stone, it can make a grown man cry.

My holding this child ("owned" by my friend Clare - see previous Blog entry) produced a rather difference response - from the baby. About thirty seconds after this picture was taken it puked on my beloved hocky top. Now I don't know how many of you have encountered baby sick in your time, but it's smell and consistency has baffled the most learned scientists and scholars for hundreds of years. It's kind of like that ectoplasm that Bill Murray and co got slimed with in Ghostbusters, except that this stuff is greeny-white and smells like congealed Farleigh's Rusks.

Anyway - yeah, I think I would still like to be a Dad, but when I get emails from the baby's mum saying things like "I left him at the creche so that I could go to the gym for an hour and I very nearly had a panic attack because I missed him so much", it does give me pause.

10 Things I like / dislike

Things I like:
1) the smell of rain

2) waking up, thinking you have to go to work and then realising that it's a Saturday

3) the first cigarette of the day

4) the chocolates you get with the bill at an expensive restaurant

5) the picture of me when I was two, with my Dad pushing me down a slide

6) bumping into an old friend at a huge and busy nightclub

7) opening a new bottle of my favorite fragrance (Sander for Men, by Jil Sander)

8) that my Mum's dogs never forget who I am and are always ecstatic to see me

9) presenting a really slaved over cooked meal

10) Pink Geraniums

Things I dislike:
1) people who dot their "i"s with little circles, or even worse, hearts

2) waking up in the morning, feeling contented and then realising that you have a conference call at 9am and it's 8.45am already

3) regret

4) the smell of laundry that you have forgotten to put out to dry

5) pashminas (so 2001)

6) buying the Evening Standard and discovering that Laura Craik is on vacation

7) being given goody bags at parties and discovering that they only contain products from some random hair care line

8) being made to feel like a child by my boss

9) not having any wine in the house

10) spending good money to see a crap film (Catwoman on Friday night - if you're thinking of going to see it, my advice is...don't)