Wayne broke up with his boyfriend on Thursday, so decided to come to London to in some way drown his sorrows. He’s doing ok in the unique way that Wayne deals with things – he just gets on with life. I admire him for that. He’s a rock in every sense of the word.
Anyway - it was Ollie’s birthday today so Wayne went with the other Scoobie’s to see The Barber of Seville in the afternoon, followed by dinner. The idea was that I would meet with them all afterwards, mainly so that I could see Wayne. Only Wayne calls me at about 8pm and says that he is feeling “old” (I quickly point out to him that he is in fact the same age as me) and is going home to bed. I think he misses Vince. I know how that feels, so I offer some words of encouragement and then we text each other for a bit afterwards.
So then of course, I was at a bit of a loose end. Earlier Jake had texted me and asked what I was doing. I was quite glad to have already made plans with Wayne, so that I could truly sound like I had a life beyond sitting at home waiting for sexy lawyers to call / text me. Except that now my plans had fallen through I began to devise means with which I could muscle in on what Jake was doing (entertaining friends at home.) So I sent a mournful text, explaining that my heartbroken friend had decided to turn in for the night and that I would now be at home lamenting the demise of a night at TooTooMuch by nursing a cheap bottle of Merlot.
It worked. Within two minutes he called me and ordered me round (like a pizza!) I offered to bring the bottle of Merlot, but he said that it was ok, cause he had loads of other wine. I have a sneaking suspicion that he was being a wine snob.
So within 24 hours of properly meeting Jake, I was now meeting his friends. It hasn’t escaped my attention that the seemingly consequential events in my life seem to have incredible inertia, propelling themselves forward at light speed! Or maybe I just move too fast. If you think about it, it’s kind of true – everything about me is fast…the way I move, speak, eat, drive. I’m kind of, um, “rapid-fire”. It’s an endearing quality, don’t you think?
Jake’s friends were Annie, a very attractive lesbian, and Jason, the guy I forgot I met at the Shadow Lounge. I still didn’t recall him upon re-meeting him, which was quite amusing to the three of them. Apparently it was the night of my birthday and I hadn’t seemed to them to be that drunk (although I know I was!) Anyway - Annie is the manager at Comme des Garcons (I was glad I changed into my Donna Karen shirt – I wanted to rectify the gym-disaster outfit I had been wearing previously) and Jason is a VP at Credit Suisse in Canary Wharf. And they were both super lovely and seemed to be very interested in me – I did seem to get a bit of a grilling when I arrived. Twenty questions. I got the distinct feeling that I had been “discussed” in some detail before I got there.
And so the evening went – the three of us stayed up talking and drinking until about 2ish, at which point Annie and Jason decided to share a cab home together. And after they left Jake and I carried on talking. This led to us going through his books and we discovered that he too is a big fan of Douglas Coupland (my favorite author.) This, in turn, led on to photo albums and I pretended to be really interested as he tried to find pictures he’d taken of Komodo Dragons in Indonesia.
In the morning we got up at a respectable hour and at Jake’s suggestion we went out together to get some breakfast things and some Sunday newspapers. He lives right next to the Millennium Bridge (the one that used to wobble) and I hadn’t walked over it before and was eager to find out if it still shook. So we walked across to the other side, decided that it definitely didn’t wobble, and walked back again. After we walked to the grocery store and got all the bits and pieces we sat down by the Tate garden so that I could have a cigarette (he doesn’t smoke in his apartment.) And we got to talking about our brothers.
I have never had a particularly close relationship with my brother. There was always this fragile age gap between us of two and a half years, where it was just impossible for us to find any middle ground where we be able to get on. There must have been some times when we were really young and we played together, but I can’t remember them. Mum does say that when my brother was born and he was bought home, I would try to hold him and would say that he was “my baby”. That makes me smile.
My brother and I are chalk and cheese. I think with my heart. He thinks with his head. I am good at communicating. He is good with his hands (he is a really skilled carpenter.) We are alike, however, in that we are always being told that we are very good looking boys, albeit in different ways. I’ve always thought that I’m cute in a kind of smiley, “grab his cheeks and squeeze them” kind of way, whereas my brother is just dark, moody and handsome!
The only times I remember between my brother and I are the times that we would fight. And it’s funny, because my brother is much stronger than I am, yet I would always win. This had a lot to do with my fighting dirty. Stephen would always go to punch me in the face. Meanwhile I had picked up the breadboard and was already prepared to bring it down on the top of his head. I don’t know to this day how I didn’t ever end up seriously hurting him. I remember this one time where he was annoying me by changing the TV channels, so I literally frisbeed a plate of food at him, cracking him sharply on the side of the head. And this was the other thing with Stephen. As children he was always the one who cried. I would never, ever cry. My Dad says that when I was really young they could smack me and shout at me but I would remain completely dry - although my bottom lip would sometimes tremble!
So anyway – Jake and I sat and recounted tales of our relationships with our brothers. It’s funny, because not only are we almost the same age (give or take three or four months) but our brothers are equidistant in terms of age to / from us (Jake’s brother is older than him.) And both of us have no functioning relationship with our brothers.
I told Jake something that I have always felt. “People always think that it’s strange that I don’t get on with my brother. I mean our relationship is limited to me asking him to put Mum on the phone - that’s pretty much it. I always get the impression that people think there is something dysfunctional in the way that I, as an adult, don’t communicate with my sibling.”
And Jake said something like, “But the thing is, you and I know that we’re not coldhearted. And those people who judge us didn’t have our relationships with our brothers. So they don’t know, do they? It’s like people don’t know about or 'get' a lot of things.”
And then he turns to me and says with real seriousness, "We kind of get each other, don't we?"
It felt that he had hit on something irreducible here and talking much beyond this point would have betrayed the moment. So I just smiled and nodded. So we got up and walked back to the apartment. We set out the breakfast stuff – muffins and croissants and juice – on the floor in the living area and we sat and read the papers. And for a couple of hours that was all we did. We just read and didn’t talk much.
And it was just two people who have acknowledged some random connection not feeling uncomfortable in the silence.
Monday, October 25, 2004
Saturday, October 23, 2004
About Last Night...
...well this is a weird blog entry. I’m still kinda tripping on this one!
I’m currently sat in the most amazing loft apartment. The view out of the window is the entrance to the Tate Modern - you know, the entrance into the turbine hall? The kitchen where I just made my coffee is like a million miles across the room and the walls are decorated with really cool New York style tag art. And I’m writing on this PC that is like the monolith from 2001. And I have a kind of warm, fuzzy glow…
So how did I get here? Here’s the story…
Last night at about 5pm I decided that I should really go to the gym as I didn’t have any other more superior plans. That would give me enough time to get home to watch French & Saunders at 9pm. So I left the house unshaved, hair all over the place, wearing tracksuit pants, a really old T-shirt, a denim jacket and a scarf.
So I get to the gym in Covent Garden and start my work out by doing the obligatory look around. And there are the usual suspects. There’s Scott, the Select model, who I only know by name because I once called in his Z card for a casting. And Ben, the Models One booker, who has met me about a million times but never remembers who I am. And Alec, the dancer guy, who I once hooked up with at Fiction. We chat for a while until he starts talking about his boyfriend and then I kinda lose interest.
I start working out proper. After about half an hour I notice that there is this guy who seems to be looking from over near the rowing machines. It’s kinda far away and as I’m not wearing my glasses I’m not entirely sure that it’s definitely me he’s looking at. I decide that it’s probably not because this guy is one of those very beautiful, male model, ripped types – the ones who only ever stick to their own gene pool. In other words, out of my league (ok, I know I’m no dog, but you have to be realistic sometimes.)
Then because I can’t see him that well I decide to work out a bit nearer him. Decide to do some shoulder presses (which I HATE doing) just to get a better view. Casual, casual…don’t want to give the game away. I stop between sets and casually look around, stopping on him just long enough to take it all in, without being obvious (this will surprise some of my friends, that I can be discreet from time to time – only when it’s someone I’M interested in, mind you!). Ok…to not put too fine a point on it – this guy is for want of a better word, just amazing looking. Messy brown hair, dark dark brown eyes, a bit of stubble, big lips (not too big) tanned, punctuated with a beautiful tattoo running up his arm and across the top of his chest. Definitely a model I decide.
So I look away and act all cool. But then it’s all too much so I look back. And then I realize that I know him from somewhere. This isn’t that unusual, cause guys like this are pretty easy to spot, and can usually be found on the main floor, shirtless, at DTPM. Me and my friends have lusted after them from afar on many, many occasions.
And then the worst thing in the world happens – he catches me looking at him. Argh! Busted! But then something weird happens. He smiles and mouths “Hey!” So I regain my composure in like a millisecond and smile my best non-broken jaw smile back – “Hey,” I mouth in return.
And that’s it. About a minute later he gets up and I don’t see him again. It occurs to me that maybe he’s working out somewhere else, so I try and find him (casually, casually) but it looks as if he’s definitely gone. Damn. Oh well. Too much to wish for anyway. But I did get a smile. That’s gotta be worth something, right?
So I carry on working out. The place is starting to thin out now, so I can get on the free weights. I stay for probably about another half hour before deciding to call it a day. I run up to the changing rooms, shower, freshen up and get my stuff together. I decide that I am going to see if my jaw (still a little sore) can cope with a honey and sunflower bagel with turkey and cream cheese, so I run into the Bagel Factory before I leave. Yes – Bagel seems to be manageable. So I leave, but as I walk out of the door onto Endell Street the cream cheese gets the better of me and I manage to smooth it all over my cheek. Attractive!
“Hi!” Someone taps me on the back.
I spin around while wiping the remnants of the cream cheese from my mouth. Then I almost choke because the person who has accosted me is none other than the guy from the gym. THE guy from the gym. Again, I miraculously regain my composure in record time, while trying to swallow without choking. “Hi” I say, very, very coolly. “What’s up?”
He smiles. Wow! That smile!!! My knees weaken. “This is going to sound really crap, but I think I know you. Aren’t you Chris?”
“Yeah,” I respond, hoping and praying that I haven’t got any more cream cheese on my face. “We know each other from somewhere don’t we?”
“From the Shadow Lounge a few weeks ago. You were talking to my friend Jason.”
Now I’m really lost. I mean it’s very possible that I have seen him before in Shadow Lounge, but I don’t remember speaking to anyone called Jason. I don’t know anyone called Jason. I grin. “I have a really bad habit of talking to people for ages and then not remembering their name. Sorry! Did I talk to you as well?”
“I think we were kind of introduced, but that was it.”
“You know I thought I recognized you downstairs, but thought that I’d probably just seen you out and about. So we were introduced? Needless to say I’ve forgotten your name!”
“Jake,” he stretches out his hand…
Now anyone who knows me knows that Jake is one of my favorite names ever. Really masculine and simple and unusual. So I can’t believe that I a) met him and didn’t try to keep talking to him and b) forgot his name when it’s, like, one of my fave names!
I accept his handshake. “Christopher. But you already know that!”
So we start chatting and he tells me who Jason is, cause I have no recollection at all. And I explain that I have a memory like a sieve and that very probably I was fucked up anyway. And all the time all I can think is “Why are you talking to me? Why are you talking to me?”
After a couple of minutes the customary pleasantries seem to be winding themselves up and it is probably time for one of us to move on. And because I am nervous as hell it’s me. “Well it was really nice to meet you…again!”
“Um…so do you have any plans for this evening?” Now he’s looking sheepish. Could he be asking me out? No. Definitely not. He’s just being polite.
“A bit sad I’m afraid. No plans so I’m staying in to watch TV!”
“Oh ok. Um…well do you fancy going for a drink. I mean if you don’t have to get home soon?”
Oh…my…god…! Inside I’m dissolving. This can’t be happening. And all the time, regardless of the fact that now it’s very clear that he’s hitting on me, there is still this voice in my head going “he’s just being friendly!”
But outside I’m working. “Sure. That would be nice.”
So we wander off in no particular direction. We chat about the inconsequential – how long we’ve been going to Cannons, how long we usually work out for, etc – the whole way down the street until we get to Opollo’s, some bar I’ve been to only a couple of times before. “Do you want to go here?” I ask, “or somewhere, er, gay?”
“Here is fine.”
So we go in. And for the next two hours or so we literally don’t stop talking. And I don’t get too drunk, considering that I’ve just worked out and am now replacing all my fluids with lager!
So this is Jake in a nutshell. 32, a lawyer in the City, originally from Cheshire and yes he did go to a boys school, hence the posh accent. Graduated in Law from Cardiff University in 1995 and that’s when he moved to London. Been in one long term relationship – four years – but broke up with him last year after he discovered the boyfriend cheating on him. Used to have a dog but the boyfriend got that in the “divorce.” Goes clubbing from time to time, but has grown out of the whole drug scene so tries to limit it to once a month. LOVES the movies and his favorite recent film was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This provides about half an hour of conversation in itself as I too have only just seen it and LOVED it.
And so the evening goes until I look at my phone and notice that it’s about 9.30pm. “Do you have to go?” he asks me?
“No. But was just thinking that I missed French & Saunders!”
“Well that’s ok, cause I taped it,” he says giving my knee a gentle squeeze, smiling cockily. At this point my pulse quickens dramatically.
“Really? Well I guess I’ll have to come round and watch it sometime.”
“You could come round tonight and watch it?”
And then I did something I almost NEVER do…I blew him out.
“Um. The thing is that, if I’m going to be really honest, this is all going quite well and I think that, er, maybe we should leave it for another time. Kind of quit while the going is good?”
“Got it,” he says and doesn’t look crushed, which kind of annoys me. “But you don’t have to go yet, do you? I was thinking we could go somewhere else…maybe get something to eat?”
So we settle up and leave and start walking. Again, we don’t seem to be heading towards anywhere in particular…just walking. And he keeps doing this thing where he kind of playfully bumps into me when I’m talking and then smiles like he’s been naughty.
We end up walking down to Embankment and I ask where he wants to go, cause really there’s only Q-Bar and Heaven and I’m not really in the mood to go clubbing! He says that there is this really nice bar across the Thames on the Festival Hall side so we walk over the bridge. Halfway over he insists that we stop to take in the view. I have to agree – the view from Waterloo bridge is one of my favorites of London. Especially at that time of the night because the water picks up the reflection of all the lights along the bankside. So we stand there side by side and no one is saying anything. So then I can feel him looking at me, so I turn, and then as I do he looks away as if he’s been caught out.
We cross the river and start walking along the South Bank, past the Festival Hall. And I ask where this bar is and then he kind of smirks. “Well there is this bar further along that’s ok I guess, but if we keep walking we’ll come to where I live and I was thinking that maybe we could have a few drinks there.”
I give him my best “I thought we had this discussion” look while at the same time mulling the proposition over. I mean I had been strong enough to say that I wasn’t coming back in the first place. Maybe I could go for a bit and be strong enough later to not stay the night. Yeah, I could do that…no problem.
So I make up my mind, but of course, for effect, I kinda act like I am still thinking about it. I want to look like one of these guys that is NOT easily bowled over by a guy like this one!
After a well chosen delay of about 1.5 seconds I respond, “Ok, but seriously, just one or two drinks. I can’t stay…I have about a million things I need to do tomorrow.”
He nods earnestly, “Definitely. Just one or two.” And then he smiles and I know that things aren’t gonna go my way.
We carry on walking along South Bank, past the OXO tower, past IPC, until eventually we get to Blackfriars, then down this street until we get to this building. We go in and he says “Evening” or something like that to the doorman. It’s a pretty unspectacular lobby. We get into the lift and as soon as the doors close he turns to me and starts to kiss me. Really, really well I might add.
The lift stops at somesuch floor and we stop kissing and emerge into this hall area. His apartment seems to be right at the end, and it’s kind of a long hall and I semi-consciously look around for the fire escape. I always do that. I don’t know why…
Well I’ve already described the apartment. We haven’t discussed how much money he earns but I’m guessing it has to be a lot. And he’s posh obviously, so perhaps he has money from parents. I don’t know. Not that it really matters (dollar signs appearing in my head!)
Anyway - I’ve written too much already. I won’t give you all the other minute details. But I’ll leave you with this: we did have more than two glasses of wine. And I did stay the night (well that’s obvious isn’t it, cause I’m still here!) I am a bit worried about writing this on his computer. He left at about 11am to go to the office but said I could stay as long as I wanted, which is pretty trusting for someone he’s only really properly met once.
But you see the thing is this…when I got up there was this note on the kitchen counter reading:
“I’m hoping you might still be here when I get back. About 4pm. Can you wait? J x”
And you know what? I don’t think I will! I’m a busy boy and have a hundred and one things to do, for real. But not until I have another coffee, and pretend that it’s my apartment and my kitchen!
(Yeah, I’m leaving my number! I’m not a complete fool!)
I’m currently sat in the most amazing loft apartment. The view out of the window is the entrance to the Tate Modern - you know, the entrance into the turbine hall? The kitchen where I just made my coffee is like a million miles across the room and the walls are decorated with really cool New York style tag art. And I’m writing on this PC that is like the monolith from 2001. And I have a kind of warm, fuzzy glow…
So how did I get here? Here’s the story…
Last night at about 5pm I decided that I should really go to the gym as I didn’t have any other more superior plans. That would give me enough time to get home to watch French & Saunders at 9pm. So I left the house unshaved, hair all over the place, wearing tracksuit pants, a really old T-shirt, a denim jacket and a scarf.
So I get to the gym in Covent Garden and start my work out by doing the obligatory look around. And there are the usual suspects. There’s Scott, the Select model, who I only know by name because I once called in his Z card for a casting. And Ben, the Models One booker, who has met me about a million times but never remembers who I am. And Alec, the dancer guy, who I once hooked up with at Fiction. We chat for a while until he starts talking about his boyfriend and then I kinda lose interest.
I start working out proper. After about half an hour I notice that there is this guy who seems to be looking from over near the rowing machines. It’s kinda far away and as I’m not wearing my glasses I’m not entirely sure that it’s definitely me he’s looking at. I decide that it’s probably not because this guy is one of those very beautiful, male model, ripped types – the ones who only ever stick to their own gene pool. In other words, out of my league (ok, I know I’m no dog, but you have to be realistic sometimes.)
Then because I can’t see him that well I decide to work out a bit nearer him. Decide to do some shoulder presses (which I HATE doing) just to get a better view. Casual, casual…don’t want to give the game away. I stop between sets and casually look around, stopping on him just long enough to take it all in, without being obvious (this will surprise some of my friends, that I can be discreet from time to time – only when it’s someone I’M interested in, mind you!). Ok…to not put too fine a point on it – this guy is for want of a better word, just amazing looking. Messy brown hair, dark dark brown eyes, a bit of stubble, big lips (not too big) tanned, punctuated with a beautiful tattoo running up his arm and across the top of his chest. Definitely a model I decide.
So I look away and act all cool. But then it’s all too much so I look back. And then I realize that I know him from somewhere. This isn’t that unusual, cause guys like this are pretty easy to spot, and can usually be found on the main floor, shirtless, at DTPM. Me and my friends have lusted after them from afar on many, many occasions.
And then the worst thing in the world happens – he catches me looking at him. Argh! Busted! But then something weird happens. He smiles and mouths “Hey!” So I regain my composure in like a millisecond and smile my best non-broken jaw smile back – “Hey,” I mouth in return.
And that’s it. About a minute later he gets up and I don’t see him again. It occurs to me that maybe he’s working out somewhere else, so I try and find him (casually, casually) but it looks as if he’s definitely gone. Damn. Oh well. Too much to wish for anyway. But I did get a smile. That’s gotta be worth something, right?
So I carry on working out. The place is starting to thin out now, so I can get on the free weights. I stay for probably about another half hour before deciding to call it a day. I run up to the changing rooms, shower, freshen up and get my stuff together. I decide that I am going to see if my jaw (still a little sore) can cope with a honey and sunflower bagel with turkey and cream cheese, so I run into the Bagel Factory before I leave. Yes – Bagel seems to be manageable. So I leave, but as I walk out of the door onto Endell Street the cream cheese gets the better of me and I manage to smooth it all over my cheek. Attractive!
“Hi!” Someone taps me on the back.
I spin around while wiping the remnants of the cream cheese from my mouth. Then I almost choke because the person who has accosted me is none other than the guy from the gym. THE guy from the gym. Again, I miraculously regain my composure in record time, while trying to swallow without choking. “Hi” I say, very, very coolly. “What’s up?”
He smiles. Wow! That smile!!! My knees weaken. “This is going to sound really crap, but I think I know you. Aren’t you Chris?”
“Yeah,” I respond, hoping and praying that I haven’t got any more cream cheese on my face. “We know each other from somewhere don’t we?”
“From the Shadow Lounge a few weeks ago. You were talking to my friend Jason.”
Now I’m really lost. I mean it’s very possible that I have seen him before in Shadow Lounge, but I don’t remember speaking to anyone called Jason. I don’t know anyone called Jason. I grin. “I have a really bad habit of talking to people for ages and then not remembering their name. Sorry! Did I talk to you as well?”
“I think we were kind of introduced, but that was it.”
“You know I thought I recognized you downstairs, but thought that I’d probably just seen you out and about. So we were introduced? Needless to say I’ve forgotten your name!”
“Jake,” he stretches out his hand…
Now anyone who knows me knows that Jake is one of my favorite names ever. Really masculine and simple and unusual. So I can’t believe that I a) met him and didn’t try to keep talking to him and b) forgot his name when it’s, like, one of my fave names!
I accept his handshake. “Christopher. But you already know that!”
So we start chatting and he tells me who Jason is, cause I have no recollection at all. And I explain that I have a memory like a sieve and that very probably I was fucked up anyway. And all the time all I can think is “Why are you talking to me? Why are you talking to me?”
After a couple of minutes the customary pleasantries seem to be winding themselves up and it is probably time for one of us to move on. And because I am nervous as hell it’s me. “Well it was really nice to meet you…again!”
“Um…so do you have any plans for this evening?” Now he’s looking sheepish. Could he be asking me out? No. Definitely not. He’s just being polite.
“A bit sad I’m afraid. No plans so I’m staying in to watch TV!”
“Oh ok. Um…well do you fancy going for a drink. I mean if you don’t have to get home soon?”
Oh…my…god…! Inside I’m dissolving. This can’t be happening. And all the time, regardless of the fact that now it’s very clear that he’s hitting on me, there is still this voice in my head going “he’s just being friendly!”
But outside I’m working. “Sure. That would be nice.”
So we wander off in no particular direction. We chat about the inconsequential – how long we’ve been going to Cannons, how long we usually work out for, etc – the whole way down the street until we get to Opollo’s, some bar I’ve been to only a couple of times before. “Do you want to go here?” I ask, “or somewhere, er, gay?”
“Here is fine.”
So we go in. And for the next two hours or so we literally don’t stop talking. And I don’t get too drunk, considering that I’ve just worked out and am now replacing all my fluids with lager!
So this is Jake in a nutshell. 32, a lawyer in the City, originally from Cheshire and yes he did go to a boys school, hence the posh accent. Graduated in Law from Cardiff University in 1995 and that’s when he moved to London. Been in one long term relationship – four years – but broke up with him last year after he discovered the boyfriend cheating on him. Used to have a dog but the boyfriend got that in the “divorce.” Goes clubbing from time to time, but has grown out of the whole drug scene so tries to limit it to once a month. LOVES the movies and his favorite recent film was Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. This provides about half an hour of conversation in itself as I too have only just seen it and LOVED it.
And so the evening goes until I look at my phone and notice that it’s about 9.30pm. “Do you have to go?” he asks me?
“No. But was just thinking that I missed French & Saunders!”
“Well that’s ok, cause I taped it,” he says giving my knee a gentle squeeze, smiling cockily. At this point my pulse quickens dramatically.
“Really? Well I guess I’ll have to come round and watch it sometime.”
“You could come round tonight and watch it?”
And then I did something I almost NEVER do…I blew him out.
“Um. The thing is that, if I’m going to be really honest, this is all going quite well and I think that, er, maybe we should leave it for another time. Kind of quit while the going is good?”
“Got it,” he says and doesn’t look crushed, which kind of annoys me. “But you don’t have to go yet, do you? I was thinking we could go somewhere else…maybe get something to eat?”
So we settle up and leave and start walking. Again, we don’t seem to be heading towards anywhere in particular…just walking. And he keeps doing this thing where he kind of playfully bumps into me when I’m talking and then smiles like he’s been naughty.
We end up walking down to Embankment and I ask where he wants to go, cause really there’s only Q-Bar and Heaven and I’m not really in the mood to go clubbing! He says that there is this really nice bar across the Thames on the Festival Hall side so we walk over the bridge. Halfway over he insists that we stop to take in the view. I have to agree – the view from Waterloo bridge is one of my favorites of London. Especially at that time of the night because the water picks up the reflection of all the lights along the bankside. So we stand there side by side and no one is saying anything. So then I can feel him looking at me, so I turn, and then as I do he looks away as if he’s been caught out.
We cross the river and start walking along the South Bank, past the Festival Hall. And I ask where this bar is and then he kind of smirks. “Well there is this bar further along that’s ok I guess, but if we keep walking we’ll come to where I live and I was thinking that maybe we could have a few drinks there.”
I give him my best “I thought we had this discussion” look while at the same time mulling the proposition over. I mean I had been strong enough to say that I wasn’t coming back in the first place. Maybe I could go for a bit and be strong enough later to not stay the night. Yeah, I could do that…no problem.
So I make up my mind, but of course, for effect, I kinda act like I am still thinking about it. I want to look like one of these guys that is NOT easily bowled over by a guy like this one!
After a well chosen delay of about 1.5 seconds I respond, “Ok, but seriously, just one or two drinks. I can’t stay…I have about a million things I need to do tomorrow.”
He nods earnestly, “Definitely. Just one or two.” And then he smiles and I know that things aren’t gonna go my way.
We carry on walking along South Bank, past the OXO tower, past IPC, until eventually we get to Blackfriars, then down this street until we get to this building. We go in and he says “Evening” or something like that to the doorman. It’s a pretty unspectacular lobby. We get into the lift and as soon as the doors close he turns to me and starts to kiss me. Really, really well I might add.
The lift stops at somesuch floor and we stop kissing and emerge into this hall area. His apartment seems to be right at the end, and it’s kind of a long hall and I semi-consciously look around for the fire escape. I always do that. I don’t know why…
Well I’ve already described the apartment. We haven’t discussed how much money he earns but I’m guessing it has to be a lot. And he’s posh obviously, so perhaps he has money from parents. I don’t know. Not that it really matters (dollar signs appearing in my head!)
Anyway - I’ve written too much already. I won’t give you all the other minute details. But I’ll leave you with this: we did have more than two glasses of wine. And I did stay the night (well that’s obvious isn’t it, cause I’m still here!) I am a bit worried about writing this on his computer. He left at about 11am to go to the office but said I could stay as long as I wanted, which is pretty trusting for someone he’s only really properly met once.
But you see the thing is this…when I got up there was this note on the kitchen counter reading:
“I’m hoping you might still be here when I get back. About 4pm. Can you wait? J x”
And you know what? I don’t think I will! I’m a busy boy and have a hundred and one things to do, for real. But not until I have another coffee, and pretend that it’s my apartment and my kitchen!
(Yeah, I’m leaving my number! I’m not a complete fool!)
Modern Technology
So today flat 12 joined the technological revolution! Yes - we now have cable AND ssuper fast speed broadband. Now I can download porn ad infinitum. Yay!
So today I was having lunch with my friend Tyler and he was telling me that he just spontaneously (combusted! Sorry, am being silly) came out with this line to his mum the other day. He said "I may not be god's gift to man, but I think that men are god's gift to me." I quite like that. Although somewhat doubt it's originality.
So I didn't end up going to Kate's birthday last night. I was just too hungover. I don't often get hangovers (being such a lush) but that one was BAD! Anyway - slept until about 7.30pm and then Vix persuaded me to come to Exhibit B to see Rachel. I think she only wanted me to go so that I could drive her, knowing that I wouldn't be drinking.
Anyway. Had a nice evening. Talked a lot about the pros and cons of internet dating. And we ate loads of barsnacks. This wasn't so good because when I got home and got into bed it became rapidly apparent that I was about to vomit. Got to my bedroom door and realised that the kitchen was gonna be a safer bet than the bathroom - nearer. So don't tell Vix but I chundered in the kitchen sink. And the worst thing was that I had to twizzle my finger around in the sinkhole to make, er, everything go away. I know, I know...gross. But I'm not proud. I think the Jorizo Chips were the straw that broke the camel's back.
So today I was having lunch with my friend Tyler and he was telling me that he just spontaneously (combusted! Sorry, am being silly) came out with this line to his mum the other day. He said "I may not be god's gift to man, but I think that men are god's gift to me." I quite like that. Although somewhat doubt it's originality.
So I didn't end up going to Kate's birthday last night. I was just too hungover. I don't often get hangovers (being such a lush) but that one was BAD! Anyway - slept until about 7.30pm and then Vix persuaded me to come to Exhibit B to see Rachel. I think she only wanted me to go so that I could drive her, knowing that I wouldn't be drinking.
Anyway. Had a nice evening. Talked a lot about the pros and cons of internet dating. And we ate loads of barsnacks. This wasn't so good because when I got home and got into bed it became rapidly apparent that I was about to vomit. Got to my bedroom door and realised that the kitchen was gonna be a safer bet than the bathroom - nearer. So don't tell Vix but I chundered in the kitchen sink. And the worst thing was that I had to twizzle my finger around in the sinkhole to make, er, everything go away. I know, I know...gross. But I'm not proud. I think the Jorizo Chips were the straw that broke the camel's back.
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Yeah, but no, but yeah...
"Cause what happened was right that you know the Redmon sisters? Well they found a verruca sock in the ladies changing rooms and so Rochelle put it in Carrie’s bag and like she completely had an eppy and turned up to Kamal Sharma’s party with a compass that she nicked from school and stabbed Kamal Sharma. But anyway Shelley Bentley gave Craig Sherman a blow job in the shallow end for a bit of his Funny Foot ice cream. Anyway I couldn’t have done nuffin because I was with Michaela the whole time because she was crying because you know Dominic Malone? Well she was supposed to be goin down the swings with him to go to third base. But anyway Ian Papworth, who I once got off with as a joke nicked a whole bottle of Dubonnet off Stacey Malin’s mum and hid it in the woods but then he couldn’t find it but then he did find it but then he didn’t like it so he threw it at a family of gypos."
Yes - I have been vegging for the past two hours in front of the sofa watching Little Britain. I am OBSESSED with Vicky Pollard. For those of you who haven’t watched the show, Vicky is the illiterate, delinquent teenager – we all had one in our class – who talks with a very strong farmer accent, which is particularly hilarious to me as I come from the West Country!
Anyway. I am suffering from a hangover, the likes of which I haven’t known for quite some time. After having a very nice catch up with Will on the phone I went over to Matt’s house last night for dinner. We ended up necking two bottles off wine and half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin before going to sleep at like 4am or something. Was rudely awakened at 8am by a load of builders outside. But one of them was really cute so I didn’t mind too much!
So…the old wives tale of “Hair of the Dog” is not to be believed. Thinking that another glass of wine might do the trick in terms of ridding me of said hangover, when I got home I, er well, drank a glass of wine. It didn’t work. It just had the effect of making me feel really, really nauseous. So don’t do it is my advice. In fact my advice is…don’t drink. I know I won’t be again. For next four hours at least. It’s Kate’s birthday and we're celebrating it tonight at Sam’s pad. I am reliably informed that there will be alcohol present. Yay!
Yes - I have been vegging for the past two hours in front of the sofa watching Little Britain. I am OBSESSED with Vicky Pollard. For those of you who haven’t watched the show, Vicky is the illiterate, delinquent teenager – we all had one in our class – who talks with a very strong farmer accent, which is particularly hilarious to me as I come from the West Country!
Anyway. I am suffering from a hangover, the likes of which I haven’t known for quite some time. After having a very nice catch up with Will on the phone I went over to Matt’s house last night for dinner. We ended up necking two bottles off wine and half a bottle of Bombay Sapphire gin before going to sleep at like 4am or something. Was rudely awakened at 8am by a load of builders outside. But one of them was really cute so I didn’t mind too much!
So…the old wives tale of “Hair of the Dog” is not to be believed. Thinking that another glass of wine might do the trick in terms of ridding me of said hangover, when I got home I, er well, drank a glass of wine. It didn’t work. It just had the effect of making me feel really, really nauseous. So don’t do it is my advice. In fact my advice is…don’t drink. I know I won’t be again. For next four hours at least. It’s Kate’s birthday and we're celebrating it tonight at Sam’s pad. I am reliably informed that there will be alcohol present. Yay!
Wednesday, October 20, 2004
Weird Dream No.1456
So I am in this old castle which is kind of like Hogwarts I guess and I am stood at the top of this stepladder trying to get these two old spell books off their hooks. And then I get the rings at the top of these two spell books caught together and I can't seperate them.
Then this scary wizard says "you'd better get those seperated quick sharp!"
So I run into this kitchen-like room and there are these two old witches and I ask them if there is a spell to seperate two things that are caught together. And they say "of course - just point your magic wand at them and say 'Right Said Fred'"
What...the...f!!!???
Then this scary wizard says "you'd better get those seperated quick sharp!"
So I run into this kitchen-like room and there are these two old witches and I ask them if there is a spell to seperate two things that are caught together. And they say "of course - just point your magic wand at them and say 'Right Said Fred'"
What...the...f!!!???
Jamiroquai
I have a temporary freelance job with a company called _______. I keep wanting to say Jamiroquai, but that's wrong. It's a ten person agency, so I'm going to be a big fish in a small pond, but that's good. Momma's got bring home the bacon, after all.
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
Christmas in October
Yes. It’s official. Christmas is here.
Not only I have just seen the first Christmas commercial of the year (an ad for Disneyland Paris) but I also just experienced a newly decorated Tesco – complete with garlands and special offers on yuletide logs. I mean who the hell is going to buy a yuletide log? Maybe the kind of people who are so organized that they buy their Christmas presents throughout the course of the year. I’ve always wanted to do that. But of course I never do and I appease myself with the idea that it’s probably a bit sad to do that anyway.
No – this year, as always, I will be doing my Christmas shopping in Bath on Christmas Eve. If you see me running hectically along Milsom Street on the 24th December it would probably be best to give me a wide berth as I will probably burst into tears with the stress of it all.
So anyway, since I had the elastic and metal taken off on Friday I haven’t really gone mad for the kinds of foods that I haven’t been able to eat. That changed this evening. I was sat here watching TV and suddenly got a craving for donuts. So I jumped into the car and drove to Tesco. Not only did I buy 20 mini donuts but also six Mr. Kipling bakewell slices, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, six Dairylea Slices (light I might add) and 2 pints of Chocolate milkshake. Yummy.
Now I definitely have to go to the gym tomorrow to burn it all off.
Not only I have just seen the first Christmas commercial of the year (an ad for Disneyland Paris) but I also just experienced a newly decorated Tesco – complete with garlands and special offers on yuletide logs. I mean who the hell is going to buy a yuletide log? Maybe the kind of people who are so organized that they buy their Christmas presents throughout the course of the year. I’ve always wanted to do that. But of course I never do and I appease myself with the idea that it’s probably a bit sad to do that anyway.
No – this year, as always, I will be doing my Christmas shopping in Bath on Christmas Eve. If you see me running hectically along Milsom Street on the 24th December it would probably be best to give me a wide berth as I will probably burst into tears with the stress of it all.
So anyway, since I had the elastic and metal taken off on Friday I haven’t really gone mad for the kinds of foods that I haven’t been able to eat. That changed this evening. I was sat here watching TV and suddenly got a craving for donuts. So I jumped into the car and drove to Tesco. Not only did I buy 20 mini donuts but also six Mr. Kipling bakewell slices, a tub of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, six Dairylea Slices (light I might add) and 2 pints of Chocolate milkshake. Yummy.
Now I definitely have to go to the gym tomorrow to burn it all off.
Monday, October 18, 2004
The Result
Didn’t fancy Mauro.
Ended up in Nightingales, drunk with my top off, dancing to Shakira. Finished the evening off by making out with an 18 year old Daniel Radcliff (Harry Potter) lookalike.
I was saying to Clare today that there is someth ing creepy about snogging 18 year olds. Imagine me at 14 looking at a baby and saying “I’m gonna snog him one day!” Ew! EW!!!
Ended up in Nightingales, drunk with my top off, dancing to Shakira. Finished the evening off by making out with an 18 year old Daniel Radcliff (Harry Potter) lookalike.
I was saying to Clare today that there is someth ing creepy about snogging 18 year olds. Imagine me at 14 looking at a baby and saying “I’m gonna snog him one day!” Ew! EW!!!
Sunday, October 17, 2004
Blind Date
So I didn’t get much sleep. I had to be on a train to Birmingham at 2pm, you see. Bearing in mind my lack of rest I am actually quite excited. I’m on one of the new trains in Virgin’s fleet – the ones that tilt when they go around a corner. I’m keeping a close eye on my complementary cup of tea (I paid the ten pound weekend upgrade to First Class) to see if it spills over as we round treacherous bends.
Did you know that Virgin First Class has little output sockets so that you can listen to a soothing collection of classical music? And that every seat comes with it’s own AC socket so that you can charge your laptop? So as I write this I am powering up my trusty little iBook, thanks to Mr. Branson.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, set up for me by a woman. Well it’s a kind of blind date – I’ll come onto that in a minute. Now, usually I avoid blind dates like the plague because with all due respect, women are just not very accomplished at matchmaking gay men. Sorry ladies, but you’re just not.
Ok, this is going to sound like I am trying to ingratiate myself, but bear with me. I have a theory that all women are ever so slightly in love with their gay boyfriends. I’m not talking about the kind of love that speaks in the language of heart flips, poetry and The Carpenters’ Greatest Hits (well maybe the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits.) I’m talking about the same kind of love that Mum’s have for David Essex and Richard Chamberlain.
Put it this way – how many times have you heard a woman describe her best gay boyfriend with the following adjectives – “Gorgeous!”, “Funny!”, “Stylish!” Yes? A few? And how many times have you (I am directing this question to my fellow gayers) eventually met said gay boyfriend on a highly orchestrated and artificial blind date and discovered that while, yes, he is actually quite funny and yes, come to think of it he is quite stylish (although, duh, he is gay afterall!), it is clearly apparent that he was beaten mercilessly with the ugly stick at a very young age. Girls always tend to omit that small little detail.
So why don’t girls notice any negative physical traits in gay men? The answer is this. Every gayer is born with an and innate and inherent cunning in terms of exactly what is required in order to make his girlfriend (and, incidently, all mothers) fall in love with him. All it takes are one or two carefully chosen liners, a la “You look fabulous in that Beret. No, it doesn’t make your face look fat. To me it just screams Faye Dunaway in Bonnie & Clyde,” and girlfriend is yours for the long haul. No more will she see the slightly bulbous tip of your nose, developing jowels, thread-veins (too many frozen Cosmopolitans) and receding hairline – from this day forward she will see only the devilishly handsome, eternally reliable and oh-so-sensitive prince within. Ha! Pushovers!!!
Just a quick aside – it has been documented that it is not only gay men have the gift of afore mentioned “innate and inherent cunning.” Ever wonder why there are so many gorgeous women on the arms of fat, shiny faced gnomes? They too have the power to make women feel like a million pounds. Incidentally, I’ve always wondered, before the introduction of the Euro of course, if Italian men would ever say (in Italian) “Baby – you look like a million lire tonight”, because a million lire is not actually very much money.
I digress. On the whole women are matchmakers. It’s in their blood. And on the whole the mature gay man, especially those in their 30s (!) are, when it comes to matters of the heart, somewhat cynical (by 30 overall general disappointment and failure becomes somewhat less painful – each new occurrence just conjures up a sense of nostalgia for all the previous disappointments.)
But even while we may be cynical, most of us gay boys can be at the same time slightly romantically delusional (blame too many late night re-runs of Meg Ryan movies), believing that our very own knight in shining armor is just around the corner, waiting to sweep us up and place us on the back of his valiant and trusty steed, before riding us off into the crimson sunset (to live forever in a choicely furnished Manhattan style loft apartment.)
But this is the important thing - all gay men would like their potential life partner to be good looking. They just do. Us gays are a shallow bunch, but accept the fact that we like the world to look beautiful. More so if you are a Libran (me). And good looking does not have to be the latest Calvin Klein underwear model (although…). I for example have a really big crush on Colin Firth, who while not a minger by any standards, is also not Freddie Ljundberg.
So, you go into work and Samantha (or Smanfah if she is from Essex) from accounts insists that you simply must meet her really good friend Graham. She asserts that you will love him. It is important that you note that she will use the word “gorgeous” as an overall character descriptor, and does not necessarily mean that he is, well, gorgeous, exclamation mark! Note that when we say “Is he good looking?” we will always be answered with the affirmative. But again, remember that she is seeing the inner prince, not the outer frog. And that she is in love with him a bit. And that she is a girl. And that girls are a bit stupid.
Yes, I have had my fingers burned by blind dates. One time my friend Superna set me up with this guy called Simon (name changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I can’t remember it) – we met at the Prince of Bonapartes in Maida Vale. I have no idea why because it’s not even a gay bar. So he walks in and he cannot be considered by anyone’s (apart from Superna’s) standards, attractive. Long, waxy, intensely curly hair and fat. And wearing a tie-died T-shirt. But yes, I will graciously concede to the fact that he was really lovely.
I’m not saying that every gay blind date is aesthetically disastrous. For instance there was a date I went on with this really cute guy called Michael (real name), but about an hour into the date he ruined it by announcing to me that he had sufffered from numerous STI's. It kinda put me off.
So why am I going on a blind date tonight? Well a while ago I was talking to Clare about who my perfect boyfriend would be. He is late twenties / early thirties, Italian, an architect, very funny, likes staying in on a Friday night and cuddling infront of the TV, wears glasses sometimes, floppy brown hair that he keeps pushing back off his face, dark brown eyes, a great cook, a wine expert, sensitive, likes walks on the beach, not afraid to cry, has a Labrador and reads Keat’s just for a laugh (I know, I’ve never been very specific.)
Earlier this week Clare calls me and wants to know if I want to join her and her buddies on the annual Gay Switchboard Tour. I am reliably informed that my Italian Dream Boat fantasy might actually come true and while I am not really looking to date right now, the opportunity is intriguing. There is an Italian gay man called Mauro who has just joined the group and she thinks that I might like him. He’s not an architect, but is handsome and is an artist, which peaks my interest sufficiently.
Now Clare is not any old woman. As a lesbian she has special immunity from Gay Boy Bullshit and therefore does not develop platonic crushes on her gay male friends, so can objectively tell the handsome ones from the not so handsome ones. Also Clare knows double that I can be a fairly fickle chap and would not try to set me up with anyone who could be deemed below par.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, although it’s pretty failsafe if I don’t fancy him, cause he doesn’t actually know it’s a blind date, and has never heard of me before in his life.
But if I do like him I will be seducing him with my newly regained mega-watt killer smile (metal/elastic was taken out yesterday) and sparkling, witty small talk. Roar!
Did you know that Virgin First Class has little output sockets so that you can listen to a soothing collection of classical music? And that every seat comes with it’s own AC socket so that you can charge your laptop? So as I write this I am powering up my trusty little iBook, thanks to Mr. Branson.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, set up for me by a woman. Well it’s a kind of blind date – I’ll come onto that in a minute. Now, usually I avoid blind dates like the plague because with all due respect, women are just not very accomplished at matchmaking gay men. Sorry ladies, but you’re just not.
Ok, this is going to sound like I am trying to ingratiate myself, but bear with me. I have a theory that all women are ever so slightly in love with their gay boyfriends. I’m not talking about the kind of love that speaks in the language of heart flips, poetry and The Carpenters’ Greatest Hits (well maybe the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits.) I’m talking about the same kind of love that Mum’s have for David Essex and Richard Chamberlain.
Put it this way – how many times have you heard a woman describe her best gay boyfriend with the following adjectives – “Gorgeous!”, “Funny!”, “Stylish!” Yes? A few? And how many times have you (I am directing this question to my fellow gayers) eventually met said gay boyfriend on a highly orchestrated and artificial blind date and discovered that while, yes, he is actually quite funny and yes, come to think of it he is quite stylish (although, duh, he is gay afterall!), it is clearly apparent that he was beaten mercilessly with the ugly stick at a very young age. Girls always tend to omit that small little detail.
So why don’t girls notice any negative physical traits in gay men? The answer is this. Every gayer is born with an and innate and inherent cunning in terms of exactly what is required in order to make his girlfriend (and, incidently, all mothers) fall in love with him. All it takes are one or two carefully chosen liners, a la “You look fabulous in that Beret. No, it doesn’t make your face look fat. To me it just screams Faye Dunaway in Bonnie & Clyde,” and girlfriend is yours for the long haul. No more will she see the slightly bulbous tip of your nose, developing jowels, thread-veins (too many frozen Cosmopolitans) and receding hairline – from this day forward she will see only the devilishly handsome, eternally reliable and oh-so-sensitive prince within. Ha! Pushovers!!!
Just a quick aside – it has been documented that it is not only gay men have the gift of afore mentioned “innate and inherent cunning.” Ever wonder why there are so many gorgeous women on the arms of fat, shiny faced gnomes? They too have the power to make women feel like a million pounds. Incidentally, I’ve always wondered, before the introduction of the Euro of course, if Italian men would ever say (in Italian) “Baby – you look like a million lire tonight”, because a million lire is not actually very much money.
I digress. On the whole women are matchmakers. It’s in their blood. And on the whole the mature gay man, especially those in their 30s (!) are, when it comes to matters of the heart, somewhat cynical (by 30 overall general disappointment and failure becomes somewhat less painful – each new occurrence just conjures up a sense of nostalgia for all the previous disappointments.)
But even while we may be cynical, most of us gay boys can be at the same time slightly romantically delusional (blame too many late night re-runs of Meg Ryan movies), believing that our very own knight in shining armor is just around the corner, waiting to sweep us up and place us on the back of his valiant and trusty steed, before riding us off into the crimson sunset (to live forever in a choicely furnished Manhattan style loft apartment.)
But this is the important thing - all gay men would like their potential life partner to be good looking. They just do. Us gays are a shallow bunch, but accept the fact that we like the world to look beautiful. More so if you are a Libran (me). And good looking does not have to be the latest Calvin Klein underwear model (although…). I for example have a really big crush on Colin Firth, who while not a minger by any standards, is also not Freddie Ljundberg.
So, you go into work and Samantha (or Smanfah if she is from Essex) from accounts insists that you simply must meet her really good friend Graham. She asserts that you will love him. It is important that you note that she will use the word “gorgeous” as an overall character descriptor, and does not necessarily mean that he is, well, gorgeous, exclamation mark! Note that when we say “Is he good looking?” we will always be answered with the affirmative. But again, remember that she is seeing the inner prince, not the outer frog. And that she is in love with him a bit. And that she is a girl. And that girls are a bit stupid.
Yes, I have had my fingers burned by blind dates. One time my friend Superna set me up with this guy called Simon (name changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I can’t remember it) – we met at the Prince of Bonapartes in Maida Vale. I have no idea why because it’s not even a gay bar. So he walks in and he cannot be considered by anyone’s (apart from Superna’s) standards, attractive. Long, waxy, intensely curly hair and fat. And wearing a tie-died T-shirt. But yes, I will graciously concede to the fact that he was really lovely.
I’m not saying that every gay blind date is aesthetically disastrous. For instance there was a date I went on with this really cute guy called Michael (real name), but about an hour into the date he ruined it by announcing to me that he had sufffered from numerous STI's. It kinda put me off.
So why am I going on a blind date tonight? Well a while ago I was talking to Clare about who my perfect boyfriend would be. He is late twenties / early thirties, Italian, an architect, very funny, likes staying in on a Friday night and cuddling infront of the TV, wears glasses sometimes, floppy brown hair that he keeps pushing back off his face, dark brown eyes, a great cook, a wine expert, sensitive, likes walks on the beach, not afraid to cry, has a Labrador and reads Keat’s just for a laugh (I know, I’ve never been very specific.)
Earlier this week Clare calls me and wants to know if I want to join her and her buddies on the annual Gay Switchboard Tour. I am reliably informed that my Italian Dream Boat fantasy might actually come true and while I am not really looking to date right now, the opportunity is intriguing. There is an Italian gay man called Mauro who has just joined the group and she thinks that I might like him. He’s not an architect, but is handsome and is an artist, which peaks my interest sufficiently.
Now Clare is not any old woman. As a lesbian she has special immunity from Gay Boy Bullshit and therefore does not develop platonic crushes on her gay male friends, so can objectively tell the handsome ones from the not so handsome ones. Also Clare knows double that I can be a fairly fickle chap and would not try to set me up with anyone who could be deemed below par.
So tonight I am going on a blind date, although it’s pretty failsafe if I don’t fancy him, cause he doesn’t actually know it’s a blind date, and has never heard of me before in his life.
But if I do like him I will be seducing him with my newly regained mega-watt killer smile (metal/elastic was taken out yesterday) and sparkling, witty small talk. Roar!
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Eurgh...
I feel like the underside of a camels scrotum right now. I have just got in after a marathon clubbing session with Kelly and Mark.
Started at The Box, then onto The Edge, then Fiction followed by A:M. It's 9.22am and I have been dancing non stop for almost ten hours.
Dang, my legs are gonna ache later!
And that's about it. I am too befuddled to write anything more cerebral. Cheerio, etc.
(I think I'm still drunk)
Started at The Box, then onto The Edge, then Fiction followed by A:M. It's 9.22am and I have been dancing non stop for almost ten hours.
Dang, my legs are gonna ache later!
And that's about it. I am too befuddled to write anything more cerebral. Cheerio, etc.
(I think I'm still drunk)
Friday, October 15, 2004
Spot the deliberate mistake
It's not actually Friday. Stupid Christopher! (Hits self hard around head.)
Stupid Spice Girls
Poor Mel B. Her career over, all her money taken by Jimmy Gulzar... you would almost feel sorry for her, were it not for the fact that she is such a vile cow.
According to Popbitch a dinner guest at Mel B's mansion during happier times, reported that Mel had a giant ornately-carved gold and wood chess set in her living room.
While coming back from the toilet, the guest spotted Mel's dog humping and chewing one of the pawns.
"Don't worry,” said Mel. “It's only one of the little pieces. I've got 16 of those."
Silly moo.
And just because it’s Friday, here’s a little joke to make you chuckle:
A man walks into a bar dressed as Shakespeare.
The barman says "Get Out - you're barred."
Boom boom!
Yeah, ok…I’m going, I’m going…
According to Popbitch a dinner guest at Mel B's mansion during happier times, reported that Mel had a giant ornately-carved gold and wood chess set in her living room.
While coming back from the toilet, the guest spotted Mel's dog humping and chewing one of the pawns.
"Don't worry,” said Mel. “It's only one of the little pieces. I've got 16 of those."
Silly moo.
And just because it’s Friday, here’s a little joke to make you chuckle:
A man walks into a bar dressed as Shakespeare.
The barman says "Get Out - you're barred."
Boom boom!
Yeah, ok…I’m going, I’m going…
Thursday, October 14, 2004
The Opposite of a Kiss
My friend Lara and I were talking at lunch about the existential and stuff. She asked me what would be the opposite of a kiss. This is what I think it is...
It repels. It does not draw you in.
There is no gentle sigh afterwards. It is cold. Dry.
It sucks the air out of your lungs. Not like an exhale.
There is a vacuum with no end and no beginning.
It does not leave you wanting more.
It is like a shock from an electrified fence. It is ice on glass.
It repels. It does not draw you in.
There is no gentle sigh afterwards. It is cold. Dry.
It sucks the air out of your lungs. Not like an exhale.
There is a vacuum with no end and no beginning.
It does not leave you wanting more.
It is like a shock from an electrified fence. It is ice on glass.
Wednesday, October 13, 2004
Life from both sides...
Driving back through Hampton Court. The sun is setting and the sky looks pinky mauve. I feel content and although the gearbox is a bit clunky (I keep almost putting the car into reverse) the world seems good and full of infinite possibilities. And then this song comes on the radio. It’s Joni Mitchell, and she sings…
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all
Moons and dunes and ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show
You leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say I love you right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed
Well something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
Yeah, it sounds depressing. But somehow it wasn’t. It was a moment and I felt…well, I felt like a grown man.
Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way
But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all
Moons and dunes and ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way
But now it’s just another show
You leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away
I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all
Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say I love you right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way
But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed
Well something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
Yeah, it sounds depressing. But somehow it wasn’t. It was a moment and I felt…well, I felt like a grown man.
Monday, October 11, 2004
Air Force One
This might be a really boring read for the rest of you, but to me, well, this kind of stuff brings out the straight boy geek in me…
I have just been reading an article in the newspaper about Air Force One. Did you know that it is one of the most technologically advanced and secure vessels in the air today?
The plane, also known as “Angel”, undergoes rigorous maintenance everyday whether the plane is flying or not. Every 154 days, the plane is completely taken apart and put back together again.
24 hours before wheels-up, the plane’s fuel is sealed in a tank truck guarded by sharpshooters. One hour before wheels-up, Air Force specialists analyze fuel for purity and the right levels of octane and water.
The wiring on the plane is shielded to protect it from a thermonuclear blast.
If you want to sabotage Air Force One you have to get past 48 armed members of the Airlift Security Unit or join the maintenance crew, which takes 12 years after a two year background check.
The plane takes off at an above normal velocity and altitude vector for a Boeing 747. This is to minimize the risk of the plane being hit by any ground to air weapons systems.
I once saw Air Force One on the tarmac at Kennedy in NYC. I got goosebumps!
I have just been reading an article in the newspaper about Air Force One. Did you know that it is one of the most technologically advanced and secure vessels in the air today?
The plane, also known as “Angel”, undergoes rigorous maintenance everyday whether the plane is flying or not. Every 154 days, the plane is completely taken apart and put back together again.
24 hours before wheels-up, the plane’s fuel is sealed in a tank truck guarded by sharpshooters. One hour before wheels-up, Air Force specialists analyze fuel for purity and the right levels of octane and water.
The wiring on the plane is shielded to protect it from a thermonuclear blast.
If you want to sabotage Air Force One you have to get past 48 armed members of the Airlift Security Unit or join the maintenance crew, which takes 12 years after a two year background check.
The plane takes off at an above normal velocity and altitude vector for a Boeing 747. This is to minimize the risk of the plane being hit by any ground to air weapons systems.
I once saw Air Force One on the tarmac at Kennedy in NYC. I got goosebumps!
Do Fern's Count Sheep?
Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night but in actuality you’re not really awake, but still in a dream like state? Where the dream feels so real that you’re stood in front of the bathroom washbasin thinking “I have to get back to my customers” or something like that? I have. I had it happen last night. I have no idea what time of the night it was and for right now what I was dreaming about is pretty inconsequential. But last night was like the third time it’s happened in the last week or so.
I’ve often wondered what sort of dreams people have who are born blind. Do they dream in touch, sound and temperature? Has anyone ever documented this?
On the whole I think that humans are the only animal to know the difference between sleeping and dreaming. It doesn’t matter if you are a lion cub, a jellyfish or a fern – I think that wakefulness and dreaming are the same thing to them all. I think that until recently, maybe a few thousand years ago, that was the case for humans too. But then there must have been someone out there who broke the cycle, who told people the difference between the two worlds. And so, for a few centuries, people became used to thinking of real life and dreaming as two different places.
And I thought about this more – maybe it was something to do with yesterday’s billboard. There must have also been someone who told us all about the past, present and future, that a day wasn’t just a day (isn’t this what Trekkies call “Temporal Mechanics”?)
And finally there had to be someone out there who came along and told people that on top of everything else, not only was there life and death, but there was also life after death? Perhaps I am being dumb here. I think that particular someone's name was Jesus.
I think I have too much time on my hands to think about things like this. It is amazing how much more you ponder on things when you don’t have imminent communications reviews to pen.
I’ve often wondered what sort of dreams people have who are born blind. Do they dream in touch, sound and temperature? Has anyone ever documented this?
On the whole I think that humans are the only animal to know the difference between sleeping and dreaming. It doesn’t matter if you are a lion cub, a jellyfish or a fern – I think that wakefulness and dreaming are the same thing to them all. I think that until recently, maybe a few thousand years ago, that was the case for humans too. But then there must have been someone out there who broke the cycle, who told people the difference between the two worlds. And so, for a few centuries, people became used to thinking of real life and dreaming as two different places.
And I thought about this more – maybe it was something to do with yesterday’s billboard. There must have also been someone who told us all about the past, present and future, that a day wasn’t just a day (isn’t this what Trekkies call “Temporal Mechanics”?)
And finally there had to be someone out there who came along and told people that on top of everything else, not only was there life and death, but there was also life after death? Perhaps I am being dumb here. I think that particular someone's name was Jesus.
I think I have too much time on my hands to think about things like this. It is amazing how much more you ponder on things when you don’t have imminent communications reviews to pen.
Sunday, October 10, 2004
Three Words
I came out of the Tate Britain and the sun was shining really gently and the air was bracing, but not too cold. It was Autumn in the most beautiful way and going home on the tube would have been rude. So I started to walk.
Somewhere near Kennington I saw this huge billboard and all it said on it was “Watch this space.” Nothing else. And I thought that was so simple, brilliant and inspiring all at once and the fact that it was probably just a prelude to another advertisement for some new online banking service seemed kind of irrelevant. Maybe the overall theme of the afternoon had put me in a certain frame of mind, but I thought it was luminous and it stirred me enough to write the words down in my notebook.
I’m not one of those people who think, like in F.Scott Fitzgerald, that their best years were 20 years prior. No - I think the best day has got to be the next day. I’m not saying that today is irrelevant. But I think for me life is all about what’s next.
It’s like the billboard - before the actual ad went up they put in, in big block letters:
“Watch this space.”
Somewhere near Kennington I saw this huge billboard and all it said on it was “Watch this space.” Nothing else. And I thought that was so simple, brilliant and inspiring all at once and the fact that it was probably just a prelude to another advertisement for some new online banking service seemed kind of irrelevant. Maybe the overall theme of the afternoon had put me in a certain frame of mind, but I thought it was luminous and it stirred me enough to write the words down in my notebook.
I’m not one of those people who think, like in F.Scott Fitzgerald, that their best years were 20 years prior. No - I think the best day has got to be the next day. I’m not saying that today is irrelevant. But I think for me life is all about what’s next.
It’s like the billboard - before the actual ad went up they put in, in big block letters:
“Watch this space.”
Saturday, October 09, 2004
Two Go Mad in Ikea
Vix and I are currently both ‘sans’ work, so we are making the best of our free days in the manner of lunches, treatments and spa sessions at my gym. Only yesterday’s particular spa treatment was cut short by the spa being closed due to essential maintenance. Apparently the filter in the pool needed changing. No doubt the fault of the really unattractive guy I saw there the other day with hair running all down his back. The kind of length with which you could plait.
So instead of curing our collective hangovers with a refreshing swim, steam and sauna, we decided that we would cleanse ourselves in an entirely different way – with Swedish designed disposable furniture.
I shop at Ikea out of necessity. That being I simply can’t afford to buy my shelving units from Heal’s. I probably visit Ikea about once a year and every visit is preceded with the kind of excitement you feel when you’re very young and your parents take you on a special pre-Christmas trip to Hamleys. It’s the promise of a trolley full of the kinds of things that you didn’t realize that you needed – sets of three matching sandblasted vases, miniature cactuses and the odd Ficus tree.
Yet whenever I actually arrive at Ikea and walk through the doors (it really bothers me, by the way, that every single Ikea I have ever been to, from London to New Jersey, has looked exactly the same) the excitement is washed from me and I am left with the feeling that I left anything resembling personal quirkiness in the carpark. There is nothing in Ikea to dislike. And you have this eerie feeling that you have in fact seen everything before. Which you probably have, in the homes of numerous friends and colleagues.
Anyway – I set myself a budget of thirty pounds and for that I managed to purchase a basic wooden four shelf unit (the kind found in every university student’s bedroom), a wooden box for a white orchid plant and a three photo picture frame. Pretty good going, nest pas?
Did you know that the actual price you pay for the absurdly cheap (68p) Ikea hotdog is that the hotdog itself is, well, gross? Until yesterday I hadn’t actually had one before, but Vix assured me that I really did want one, so I relented and she gleefully bounded off to the hotdog counter while I fumed in the obscenely long queue for the checkout.
So the colour of the hotdog is not the standardized red of the common hotdog, but rather more like a kind of beige. Which led me to think that maybe the hotdog was in fact chicken. Then there is the skin of the hotdog which is extremely thick - only god truly know's what it is made from. So thick was the skin that I was unable to bite through it. Ok, this has something to do with the fact that I currently can’t bite down fully on my front teeth. The effect of this dental misalignment was that whenever I took a bite I actually just squeezed the hotdog meat through end of the skin. I’ll leave you to imagine the overall effect. Vix thought that it was highly amusing. Which of course it wasn't.
I am going to the Tate this afternoon to reestablish my appreciation of aesthetics and design. I might decide to adorn my new Ikea shelving unit with a snazzy new Anish Kapoor bedside lamp.
So instead of curing our collective hangovers with a refreshing swim, steam and sauna, we decided that we would cleanse ourselves in an entirely different way – with Swedish designed disposable furniture.
I shop at Ikea out of necessity. That being I simply can’t afford to buy my shelving units from Heal’s. I probably visit Ikea about once a year and every visit is preceded with the kind of excitement you feel when you’re very young and your parents take you on a special pre-Christmas trip to Hamleys. It’s the promise of a trolley full of the kinds of things that you didn’t realize that you needed – sets of three matching sandblasted vases, miniature cactuses and the odd Ficus tree.
Yet whenever I actually arrive at Ikea and walk through the doors (it really bothers me, by the way, that every single Ikea I have ever been to, from London to New Jersey, has looked exactly the same) the excitement is washed from me and I am left with the feeling that I left anything resembling personal quirkiness in the carpark. There is nothing in Ikea to dislike. And you have this eerie feeling that you have in fact seen everything before. Which you probably have, in the homes of numerous friends and colleagues.
Anyway – I set myself a budget of thirty pounds and for that I managed to purchase a basic wooden four shelf unit (the kind found in every university student’s bedroom), a wooden box for a white orchid plant and a three photo picture frame. Pretty good going, nest pas?
Did you know that the actual price you pay for the absurdly cheap (68p) Ikea hotdog is that the hotdog itself is, well, gross? Until yesterday I hadn’t actually had one before, but Vix assured me that I really did want one, so I relented and she gleefully bounded off to the hotdog counter while I fumed in the obscenely long queue for the checkout.
So the colour of the hotdog is not the standardized red of the common hotdog, but rather more like a kind of beige. Which led me to think that maybe the hotdog was in fact chicken. Then there is the skin of the hotdog which is extremely thick - only god truly know's what it is made from. So thick was the skin that I was unable to bite through it. Ok, this has something to do with the fact that I currently can’t bite down fully on my front teeth. The effect of this dental misalignment was that whenever I took a bite I actually just squeezed the hotdog meat through end of the skin. I’ll leave you to imagine the overall effect. Vix thought that it was highly amusing. Which of course it wasn't.
I am going to the Tate this afternoon to reestablish my appreciation of aesthetics and design. I might decide to adorn my new Ikea shelving unit with a snazzy new Anish Kapoor bedside lamp.
Conversations With a Supermodel and an Actor
A friend told me a story today about a London mini-cab driver who picked up Kate Moss and Daniel Craig last weekend from the Holiday Inn in Camden. He recounted a sample of their conversation:
Daniel, "You're gorgeous"
Kate, "I know that."
Daniel, "You're gorgeous"
Kate, "I know that."
Friday, October 08, 2004
Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime
Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Wednesday, October 06, 2004
Not Enough Drew in My World
I have just got back from one of those excursions that are always so bitter sweet. Kate and I just dropped Drew off at Heathrow. Sweet because it's always nice to see someone off on a new adventure and chapter in their lives. Bitter because you're saying goodbye.
One of the last cute things I did was when I was about nine. I remember visiting someone in London with my parents and saying goodbye to them at the station as we boarded the train to come back home. I looked at my mum and, trying not to cry, said "Goodbyes make my throat hurt."
Drew has become something really special to me since I came back from New York. He has listened endlessly to my woes and never, not once, complained or belittled me. And he has made me soup with no bits in. And he made me feel good about having a mouth full of elastic and metal - last night he even said that it could be considered almost attractive (I think he may have been trying to humor me.)
So goodbye Drew. I miss you already. I double promise to make sure that I have the car to pick you up from the airport in March!
But something sweet always comes from something sad, and I think that today I made a new friend. I have met Kate on a number of occasions and we have always greeted each other with much enthusiasm. But usually the situation we were in was not conducive to conversation (or rather the state we were in was not conducive to conversation!)
Kate is one of these people who immediately intrigues you and makes you think "I want her to be my friend." So although I wasn't looking forward to today, in that Drew was leaving, I was looking forward to spending some time with Kate, to really start to get to know her. And that I did. No awkward silences on the long journey back into London from Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line - we were chatting nine to the dozen the whole way. And although I didn't tell her this, I actually stayed on the train two stations past my stop because I wanted to carry on talking with her.
We have arranged to meet on Tuesday for lunch. No doubt we will be lamenting the lack of Drew in our worlds.
One of the last cute things I did was when I was about nine. I remember visiting someone in London with my parents and saying goodbye to them at the station as we boarded the train to come back home. I looked at my mum and, trying not to cry, said "Goodbyes make my throat hurt."
Drew has become something really special to me since I came back from New York. He has listened endlessly to my woes and never, not once, complained or belittled me. And he has made me soup with no bits in. And he made me feel good about having a mouth full of elastic and metal - last night he even said that it could be considered almost attractive (I think he may have been trying to humor me.)
So goodbye Drew. I miss you already. I double promise to make sure that I have the car to pick you up from the airport in March!
But something sweet always comes from something sad, and I think that today I made a new friend. I have met Kate on a number of occasions and we have always greeted each other with much enthusiasm. But usually the situation we were in was not conducive to conversation (or rather the state we were in was not conducive to conversation!)
Kate is one of these people who immediately intrigues you and makes you think "I want her to be my friend." So although I wasn't looking forward to today, in that Drew was leaving, I was looking forward to spending some time with Kate, to really start to get to know her. And that I did. No awkward silences on the long journey back into London from Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line - we were chatting nine to the dozen the whole way. And although I didn't tell her this, I actually stayed on the train two stations past my stop because I wanted to carry on talking with her.
We have arranged to meet on Tuesday for lunch. No doubt we will be lamenting the lack of Drew in our worlds.
Tuesday, October 05, 2004
Rapid Eye Movement
Last night I had the strangest dream.
No, this isn't a song lyric. It was an actual dream where me and a bunch of my friends piled into an auditorium, like in a school, ostensibily. We were waiting for REM to play this small, private show. This was basically REM circa somewhere between 94 and 97, so everyone was still in the group, but it was after Bill Berry had an aneurysm and also before he left the band and before Peter Buck got arrested for beating up some stewardesses or whatever.
Anyway, so in my dream, Peter Buck, Bill Berry and Mike Mills filed out first and then a few seconds later, Michael Stipe. And of course he garnered the most hoopla. Anyway, so I'm in something like the third row, and I'm really excited but really cold. So Michael walks up to me and leans over the railing and covers me in this gigantic, comfy fleece blanket, smiles, and then starts the show!
WTF? I won't even get into the number of Freudian daddy issues this brings up as well as the latent Christ imagery.
No, this isn't a song lyric. It was an actual dream where me and a bunch of my friends piled into an auditorium, like in a school, ostensibily. We were waiting for REM to play this small, private show. This was basically REM circa somewhere between 94 and 97, so everyone was still in the group, but it was after Bill Berry had an aneurysm and also before he left the band and before Peter Buck got arrested for beating up some stewardesses or whatever.
Anyway, so in my dream, Peter Buck, Bill Berry and Mike Mills filed out first and then a few seconds later, Michael Stipe. And of course he garnered the most hoopla. Anyway, so I'm in something like the third row, and I'm really excited but really cold. So Michael walks up to me and leans over the railing and covers me in this gigantic, comfy fleece blanket, smiles, and then starts the show!
WTF? I won't even get into the number of Freudian daddy issues this brings up as well as the latent Christ imagery.
Friday, October 01, 2004
Bloody Engineers
The telephone in the apartment has been almosst impossible to use because there has been so much background interference. So I was really proactive the other day and finally got around to calling BT to ask them to send an engineer out. I was informed that they would turn up today between 8am and 1pm. "Ah" I thought. The chance for a lie in. I mean what are the chances of the man turning up at 8am?
Every chance apparently. The engineer seems to think that the neigbours downstairs have been mucking about with the connection box. The same neighbours who play electric guitar at 4am.
Wanna know what I am doing today? Buying a tax disc for the car, lunch with Rachel and then catch a train to Birmingham to spend the weekend with Clare and Lucy. It's Matt's birthday tonight so we are going to get drunkety, drunk, drunk.
Happy weekend everyone!
Every chance apparently. The engineer seems to think that the neigbours downstairs have been mucking about with the connection box. The same neighbours who play electric guitar at 4am.
Wanna know what I am doing today? Buying a tax disc for the car, lunch with Rachel and then catch a train to Birmingham to spend the weekend with Clare and Lucy. It's Matt's birthday tonight so we are going to get drunkety, drunk, drunk.
Happy weekend everyone!
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
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
Saturday, September 18, 2004
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!!)
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!!)
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
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.
Monday, September 13, 2004
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."
Sunday, September 12, 2004
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.
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.
Saturday, September 11, 2004
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.
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.
Saturday, September 04, 2004
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.
Friday, September 03, 2004
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."
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 31, 2004
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.
Monday, August 30, 2004
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! ;)
Friday, August 27, 2004
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!!!
Thursday, August 26, 2004
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.
Saturday, August 21, 2004
Friday, August 20, 2004
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!!!)
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
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.
Monday, August 16, 2004
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)
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)
Saturday, August 14, 2004
My boss is a bitch...
And I have a staus report to write. I promise not to neglect my blog writing duties so much next week. Have a great weekend y'all!!!
Thursday, August 12, 2004
My most exciting email this morning...
I am not going to even mention the weather as it is just too depressing but I'm sure you will all join me in lamenting the dilemma facing us every morning with these unpredictable tempests, namely what shoes to wear.
Your feet get too hot in proper shoes or trainers and yet with flip-flops your feet get wet when it inevitably pours down! I thought cowboy boots might be the answer until my friend Jane wore her's yesterday and they began to fill with rain!! Disaster!
Anyway apart from footwear woes, I am all fine here and just starting work on this glorious morning. I thought I would share with you the most exciting email I received in the last fourteen hours regarding the October/November issue of "Hair and Beauty Inspirations". This is what I will be pulling information on for the duration of this morning. What joy! Does this woman not understand that I am a man? Yes, yes, yes...a gay man, but still - the only double ended product I know about it is a...
"Hi Chris!!!
We need everything here by next Wednesday, the 18th August. Hopefully there's something on the list you can help with. Thank you!
1. Sexiest hair EVER
Quotes from the experts on what sums up sexy hair for them plus product recommendations and tips for getting sexy hair.
2. Well red
Products for red hair. Quotes from the experts on how to wear it well, what shade to go for etc.
3. Hair Accessories
The best new hair accessories.
4. Green hair products
Shampoos, conditioners and stylers.
5. Berry Nice
The best make-up in berry shades.
6. Chocoholic
All things chocolatey - hair, body, make-up with a chocolate theme.
7. Matte skin
The lightest powders, make-up bases and products designed to create a modern matte finish.
8. Sexy scents
The newest scents to seduce
9. Double-ended products
Mascaras, pencils, concealers etc.
10. Tried and tested beauty
Facial scrubs.
11. Tried and tested hair
Volumising shampoos."
Your feet get too hot in proper shoes or trainers and yet with flip-flops your feet get wet when it inevitably pours down! I thought cowboy boots might be the answer until my friend Jane wore her's yesterday and they began to fill with rain!! Disaster!
Anyway apart from footwear woes, I am all fine here and just starting work on this glorious morning. I thought I would share with you the most exciting email I received in the last fourteen hours regarding the October/November issue of "Hair and Beauty Inspirations". This is what I will be pulling information on for the duration of this morning. What joy! Does this woman not understand that I am a man? Yes, yes, yes...a gay man, but still - the only double ended product I know about it is a...
"Hi Chris!!!
We need everything here by next Wednesday, the 18th August. Hopefully there's something on the list you can help with. Thank you!
1. Sexiest hair EVER
Quotes from the experts on what sums up sexy hair for them plus product recommendations and tips for getting sexy hair.
2. Well red
Products for red hair. Quotes from the experts on how to wear it well, what shade to go for etc.
3. Hair Accessories
The best new hair accessories.
4. Green hair products
Shampoos, conditioners and stylers.
5. Berry Nice
The best make-up in berry shades.
6. Chocoholic
All things chocolatey - hair, body, make-up with a chocolate theme.
7. Matte skin
The lightest powders, make-up bases and products designed to create a modern matte finish.
8. Sexy scents
The newest scents to seduce
9. Double-ended products
Mascaras, pencils, concealers etc.
10. Tried and tested beauty
Facial scrubs.
11. Tried and tested hair
Volumising shampoos."
Saturday, August 07, 2004
When you are drunk...
Things that are difficult to say when you're drunk . . .
a) Innovative
b) Preliminary
c) Proliferation
d) Cinnamon
Things that are VERY difficult to say when you're drunk ...
a) Specificity
b) British Constitution
c) Passive-aggressive disorder
d) Transubstantiate
And of course things that are DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE to say when you're drunk ...
a) Thanks, but I don't want to sleep with you
b) Nope, no more booze for me
c) Sorry, but you're not really my type
d) No kebab for me, thank you
e) Good evening officer, isn't it lovely out tonight?
f) I'm not interested in fighting you
g) Oh, I just couldn't - no one wants to hear me sing
h) Thank you, but I won't make any attempt to dance, I have zero co-ordination
i) Where is the nearest toilet? I refuse to vomit in the street
And as an added extra...
"I must be going home now as I have work in the morning."
a) Innovative
b) Preliminary
c) Proliferation
d) Cinnamon
Things that are VERY difficult to say when you're drunk ...
a) Specificity
b) British Constitution
c) Passive-aggressive disorder
d) Transubstantiate
And of course things that are DOWNRIGHT IMPOSSIBLE to say when you're drunk ...
a) Thanks, but I don't want to sleep with you
b) Nope, no more booze for me
c) Sorry, but you're not really my type
d) No kebab for me, thank you
e) Good evening officer, isn't it lovely out tonight?
f) I'm not interested in fighting you
g) Oh, I just couldn't - no one wants to hear me sing
h) Thank you, but I won't make any attempt to dance, I have zero co-ordination
i) Where is the nearest toilet? I refuse to vomit in the street
And as an added extra...
"I must be going home now as I have work in the morning."
Friday, August 06, 2004
Tip of the day!
If your child is choking on an ice cube, don't fret! Just pour a pint of boiling water down the youngster's throat and, hey presto! The blockage is clear.
Wednesday, August 04, 2004
I'm not a shrinking violet...
I'm not afraid to wear my heart on my sleeve or be honest with the way I am feeling. I think most of my friends know that I have been in and out of therapy and on meds for depression for most of my adult life. And if you are reading this and you didn't know that, the chances are that you're not entirely surprised. One thing I am not is consistent, and I think everyone knows that. Consistency is a character trait that would serve me well, but alas, at 32 it is one that I have yet to master.
I began therapy when I was about 14. I developed an obsessive compulsive disorder where I had an irrational fear of germs, particularly that I would scratch myself and somehow contract HIV and die of AIDS. Ridiculous, I know, but bear in mind that I was a child of the Thatcher years and the government's scary campaign featuring tombstones slamming and smashing violently on the ground succeeded in entering my consciousness, frightening the living crap out of me.
Cut to almost eighteen years later, get to know me and and you'll note that I did get over those fears. I now have a healthy respect for HIV and AIDS and other similar boogie monsters. I have reached a point in my life where they don't loom over me. I do my best, I follow the wiser advice and I take my life into my own hands. But the question now is, did I get to that point as a result of the therapy or simply because I came to realise that you can't live in fear all your life (If you did, quite simply, you'd never have any fun.)
I may not be afraid of germs any more. I'd like to say that I am not afraid of anything. But the reality is that I am. I'm not afraid of getting run over by a bus but I do join the ranks of the kind of people who are afraid of the kinds of things such as always being alone and never finding the "one". Waking up and dreading the day ahead because there is one thought that you know will stalk you all day long, no matter what you do, no matter what you try to think. What if my job is completely pointless and therefore I, by default, am pointless? What if my friends don't really like me? Was the last time I was loved be the last time I will ever be loved?
Of course I know that the true answer to these questions is "No, no, no!" I know that deep, deep down inside. But that knowledge doesn't answer the contradiction - why don't I entirely believe it?
Over the years I have seen behavioral therapists, cognitive specialists, regular shrinks and general counselors. Despite this I have to say that I genuinely don't think that I am any more fucked up than the next person. The only reason I saw them was the determination to not be governed by a way of thinking that I could never change. Yes, I may have done some incredibly stupid things and as a result I have hurt a lot of people. I concede to that and I am learning to take responsibility for those actions. But I would argue that I know myself better than anyone. In all my years of being in therapy I have never had an epithany. I have never learned some dark or mystical secret about myself that I didn't already know. The task I set out to achieve has never been to make windows into my own heart. I know my heart. It doesn't need an explanation.
Recently my psychiatrist took me off my anti-depressants. She didn't lower the dosage, gradually weaning me off them...she just cut them out all together. This goes against every strong word of advice that I have ever been told by a doctor...never just stop your anti-depressants. So I never did. But this time I thought, "why the hell not?" So I followed the doctor's orders and I stopped. That was nearly three weeks ago. And astonishingly I don't feel any different, making me think that maybe I didn't ever need them in the first place. Perhaps they were a crutch? There is an argument to suggest that perhaps I have never actually been depressed. If anything I think that I actually suffer from prolonged grief. I don't like change and when things inevitably do, change that is, it can really, really get me down. I think if I had to put my finger on the button it would be just that - that I really, really HATE change and I am scared of the unknown.
So in addition to coming off the anti-depressants I have decided to stop something else. I have decided to stop my therapy once and for all. Like I said...it has never been revolutionary in helping me change my behaviour patterns and after eighteen years of being in it I can say, fairly confidently, that it is unlikely to start any time soon.
But I don't think that I can make these behavioral changes alone and I do think that I need outside help from someone. So after years of considering and shying away from it because of a combination of cost and scepticism, I have decided to undertake a course of hynotherapy. I have contacted the body that regulates hypnotherapists in the UK and have been recommended someone in London who they feel can help me "address and adjust." And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am actually excited. This could really be something that could help me become the person that I want to be. Not make me be the person that I want to be, but help me. I am doing this for myself and for no one else and it feels great. In a way it's kind of working already.
Watch this space...
I began therapy when I was about 14. I developed an obsessive compulsive disorder where I had an irrational fear of germs, particularly that I would scratch myself and somehow contract HIV and die of AIDS. Ridiculous, I know, but bear in mind that I was a child of the Thatcher years and the government's scary campaign featuring tombstones slamming and smashing violently on the ground succeeded in entering my consciousness, frightening the living crap out of me.
Cut to almost eighteen years later, get to know me and and you'll note that I did get over those fears. I now have a healthy respect for HIV and AIDS and other similar boogie monsters. I have reached a point in my life where they don't loom over me. I do my best, I follow the wiser advice and I take my life into my own hands. But the question now is, did I get to that point as a result of the therapy or simply because I came to realise that you can't live in fear all your life (If you did, quite simply, you'd never have any fun.)
I may not be afraid of germs any more. I'd like to say that I am not afraid of anything. But the reality is that I am. I'm not afraid of getting run over by a bus but I do join the ranks of the kind of people who are afraid of the kinds of things such as always being alone and never finding the "one". Waking up and dreading the day ahead because there is one thought that you know will stalk you all day long, no matter what you do, no matter what you try to think. What if my job is completely pointless and therefore I, by default, am pointless? What if my friends don't really like me? Was the last time I was loved be the last time I will ever be loved?
Of course I know that the true answer to these questions is "No, no, no!" I know that deep, deep down inside. But that knowledge doesn't answer the contradiction - why don't I entirely believe it?
Over the years I have seen behavioral therapists, cognitive specialists, regular shrinks and general counselors. Despite this I have to say that I genuinely don't think that I am any more fucked up than the next person. The only reason I saw them was the determination to not be governed by a way of thinking that I could never change. Yes, I may have done some incredibly stupid things and as a result I have hurt a lot of people. I concede to that and I am learning to take responsibility for those actions. But I would argue that I know myself better than anyone. In all my years of being in therapy I have never had an epithany. I have never learned some dark or mystical secret about myself that I didn't already know. The task I set out to achieve has never been to make windows into my own heart. I know my heart. It doesn't need an explanation.
Recently my psychiatrist took me off my anti-depressants. She didn't lower the dosage, gradually weaning me off them...she just cut them out all together. This goes against every strong word of advice that I have ever been told by a doctor...never just stop your anti-depressants. So I never did. But this time I thought, "why the hell not?" So I followed the doctor's orders and I stopped. That was nearly three weeks ago. And astonishingly I don't feel any different, making me think that maybe I didn't ever need them in the first place. Perhaps they were a crutch? There is an argument to suggest that perhaps I have never actually been depressed. If anything I think that I actually suffer from prolonged grief. I don't like change and when things inevitably do, change that is, it can really, really get me down. I think if I had to put my finger on the button it would be just that - that I really, really HATE change and I am scared of the unknown.
So in addition to coming off the anti-depressants I have decided to stop something else. I have decided to stop my therapy once and for all. Like I said...it has never been revolutionary in helping me change my behaviour patterns and after eighteen years of being in it I can say, fairly confidently, that it is unlikely to start any time soon.
But I don't think that I can make these behavioral changes alone and I do think that I need outside help from someone. So after years of considering and shying away from it because of a combination of cost and scepticism, I have decided to undertake a course of hynotherapy. I have contacted the body that regulates hypnotherapists in the UK and have been recommended someone in London who they feel can help me "address and adjust." And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I am actually excited. This could really be something that could help me become the person that I want to be. Not make me be the person that I want to be, but help me. I am doing this for myself and for no one else and it feels great. In a way it's kind of working already.
Watch this space...
A recent blog entry...
but said in the words of a pimp...(can't think of anything to write today)
"Ah have, stupidly perhaps, agreed to do dis TV thin' wid ma best homie Helen. It be called "Deck Diners" 'n gets shown on UK Living. It be a bit like Street Date, but involves cookin' 'n a boat! We're filmin' dat shit da Monday afta next in Brighton 'n Ah be mad anxious about it! Basically Ah cook a meal wid a top chef (Ah has been told tha dude's name but dat shit escapes me right now) on da yacht, while Helen goes into town 'n cruises to find me a date to eat da meal Ah be preparin' with. Then tha byatch comes back, we swop, tha byatch makes desert wid da chef, while Ah find ha a date, know what I'm sayin'?
Now I'm not so worried about Helen choosin' me a date because tha byatch knows dat Ah just go fo looks as opposed to anythin' barely resemblin' a personality (not entirely true). Ah be worried because Ah mad don't think Ah has any idea what type of muthafucka dat Helen goes for, which be appallin' really. As Ah has said, tha byatch IS ma best homie 'n Ah has known ha fo gettin' on fo 15 years - 'n Ah has naw idea mad of da type of muthafucka dat tha byatch goes for.
Ah think Ah would has had a betta idea when we wuz both students. Tha byatch would has gone fo someone like Stu on Big Brother. Mmmm...Stu from Big Brother.. n' shit. Anyway.. n' shit. Ah be mad nervous dat tha byatch gots to choose someone mad handsome 'n lovely 'n dat Ah gots to pick ha a city wanka who'll tha byatch end up havin' dinna wid 'n mad hate. And then she'll hate me! Oh dear n' shit.
I'm also mad worried dat da microphones they put on us gots to pick up ma heavy breathin' Darth Vadar like throat issue, know what I'm sayin'?
Sorry, what did yo' ass say? Yo' ass want to know what Ah be doin' dis weekend? Well, let me tell you...Ah be goin' to Swansea to stay wid Vix's brotha 'n sit in tha dude's hot tub all weekend swiggin' beer! Yum!"
"Ah have, stupidly perhaps, agreed to do dis TV thin' wid ma best homie Helen. It be called "Deck Diners" 'n gets shown on UK Living. It be a bit like Street Date, but involves cookin' 'n a boat! We're filmin' dat shit da Monday afta next in Brighton 'n Ah be mad anxious about it! Basically Ah cook a meal wid a top chef (Ah has been told tha dude's name but dat shit escapes me right now) on da yacht, while Helen goes into town 'n cruises to find me a date to eat da meal Ah be preparin' with. Then tha byatch comes back, we swop, tha byatch makes desert wid da chef, while Ah find ha a date, know what I'm sayin'?
Now I'm not so worried about Helen choosin' me a date because tha byatch knows dat Ah just go fo looks as opposed to anythin' barely resemblin' a personality (not entirely true). Ah be worried because Ah mad don't think Ah has any idea what type of muthafucka dat Helen goes for, which be appallin' really. As Ah has said, tha byatch IS ma best homie 'n Ah has known ha fo gettin' on fo 15 years - 'n Ah has naw idea mad of da type of muthafucka dat tha byatch goes for.
Ah think Ah would has had a betta idea when we wuz both students. Tha byatch would has gone fo someone like Stu on Big Brother. Mmmm...Stu from Big Brother.. n' shit. Anyway.. n' shit. Ah be mad nervous dat tha byatch gots to choose someone mad handsome 'n lovely 'n dat Ah gots to pick ha a city wanka who'll tha byatch end up havin' dinna wid 'n mad hate. And then she'll hate me! Oh dear n' shit.
I'm also mad worried dat da microphones they put on us gots to pick up ma heavy breathin' Darth Vadar like throat issue, know what I'm sayin'?
Sorry, what did yo' ass say? Yo' ass want to know what Ah be doin' dis weekend? Well, let me tell you...Ah be goin' to Swansea to stay wid Vix's brotha 'n sit in tha dude's hot tub all weekend swiggin' beer! Yum!"
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
I don't particularly want to be someone else...
But every now and then I wonder what it must be like to be a woman. I don't particularly want all the messy bits. I don't particularly care for surfing the crimson tide once a month. But it would be nice to be a woman for maybe a few months.
It was my weekend away that prompted me to think this. I went to the Mumbles in Swansea to stay with my housemates brother. It was fun - I got to drive Vix's Golf down the whole way to Wales and got into Matt's hot tub on various occasions. We made sushi and ate it (as opposed to making sushi and not eating it) and drank mucho wine, sambuca and tequila.
Anyway, getting back to my point, I was very intrigued to watch my work colleague, Tasha, working her booty at the various dancy drink establishments we visited on Saturday night. Who says that guys don't like girls to be too forward. She was giving it some for sure and the kind of guys she was picking up - well. Let's just say that one was a life guard and also one tall drink of water!
Girls are so much more fierce than guys when they aggressively go out on the pull. They just ooze sex appeal and attitude. Guys just look like pissed wankers - all open necked shirts and silver buckled black shoes. trev's basically.
Anyway, if I could choose to be any woman it would probably be Uma Thurman in the Kill Bill movies, or Sigourney Weaver in the Aliens films. Not Halle Berry in Catwoman, as that looks like a pile of cat shit. I don't really want to brandish swords or kill evil space monsters (well, maybe I do), but I do want that kind of attitude that comes only from a fierce woman kicking serious butt. Somehow that attitude is something that I am unlikely to have.
My NYC buddy, Bill, saw Uma Thurman in the street the other day and told her that she looked a million dollars, to which she responded, "So do you honey!" COOL! I wish it had been me!
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