[swoon]

I have nothing much to say or comment on today. So instead here is Rodrigo for us all to gaze upon. Extensively.

God, I love him.

Saucy gay poetry

A couple of weeks ago my housemate and I were discussing poetry and I told her that my favorite poem is called "As I Walked Out One Evening" by W.H Auden.

Vix then informed me that Auden was also famous for being the author of several works of homoerotic poetry. Because I don't like being told something that I don't already know I dismissed this as ridiculous!!

But this morning she produced a book of erotic poetry and showed me one of the poems that she was referring to. I think it might be a bit of a misnomer to cite this as homoerotic. It's more like down and dirty porn! Yay! Don't read if you are of a sensitive disposition or concerned that you might become all hot and bothered.

"The Platonic Blow" by W.H. Auden.

When reading that poem I imagine W.H Auden to look like:


In actual fact, W.H Auden looked like:

Covent Garden - Day Two

Earlier on today I got this email from my old, old (29) friend Becca:

"You know a few weeks ago when we were talking about the episode in Sex and the City when Carrie refers to New York as her boyfriend? She says that while she might have her own issues with her boyfriend, still no one else can slag him off? Mr Christopher - download the attached song and stick it on your ipod. Don't play it yet. Go into Covent Garden, the same place where you were yesterday, and then play it. And while you listen to it tell yourself that while you both may have your ups and downs together, London is your boyfriend. You split up for a while, but now you're back together and it's all going to be great."

The song? "Underneath it All" by No Doubt. A little sample:

There's times where I want something more
Someone more like me
There's times when this dress rehearsal
Seems incomplete
But, you see the colors in me like no one else
And behind your dark glasses you're...
You're something else

You're really lovely
Underneath it all
You want to love me
Underneath it all
I'm really lucky
Underneath it all
You're really lovely

Cheese factor? Yes, but a good quality Stilton. Glad to be in London? Yes. Christmas shopping completed? Yes. Tears cried? Well, I did well up a little. Just a little, you understand.

Tis the season to be jolly...or something like that

After the bad news of yesterday morning I decided that I should do something to take my mind off things. Christmas shopping. That should do the trick.

Because I am not working at the moment I really don't have much money. At one point I did consider not buying Christmas presents at all. My friends and family all know my situation and would have understood but the way I see it, it's still a lose / lose situation. I could not buy anything for anyone and then feel like crap when everyone is giving me presents and I'm not giving anything back. Or I could buy Christmas presents and not have as much money.

The latter is just an unfortunate financial hiccup and let's face it, very few people can really "afford" to buy Christmas presents. So I decided to do it. I didn't spend a fortune and in actual fact I think that setting yourself a spending limit makes you think more about what you are getting the person. I have lottery fantasies where I buy everyone iPods. This might still happen, but I have to remember to buy a ticket tomorrow.

So I made a quick list of family and friends and set off into town.

The area around Covent Garden was actually not quite as busy as I thought it would be. I started off with the bookshops on Charing Cross Road. I had intended to go to the big ones like Foyles and Blackwells, but then I got distracted by all the smaller, older ones and I began to think that maybe I should get everyone bargain first edition prints of Jane Austen novels. Except that the only first edition book I could find was a 1993 copy of "An Introduction to Global Geophysics" , by some dude.

After a little while I decided that there would be more progress in traditionalism so I went to a great graphic design shop, bought some T-shirts, a DVD on a visual artist and it all started to go swimmingly. That was until I got to Urban Outfitters. I needed to get something for my housemate and I just couldn't find anything and I knew that was stupid cause Urban Outfitters has everything for a modern guy or girl and the prices really aren't that expensive even though the quality isn't that great only everything was so plastic looking and not really suitable for the flat and...

I started to cry. Not an eyes-welling-up crying. This was like uncontrollable vomiting. Only crying. So I bowed my head as to not draw attention and made my way outside which was not an easy task because the shop was heaving and despite my best efforts people were infact beginning to notice me. Eventually I got outside and ran across the road to the Donmar and stood in the doorway, facing the corner and bawled.

After a couple of minutes I got to the point where the histrionic stage had passed and I was just gently sobbing. So I dug in my jacket pocket and retrieved a cigarette and smoked it. This bought about a moment of clarity and I decided that it was all a bit too much and I could complete the Christmas shopping another day. It would be better for me to buy some wine, go home, order a pizza and watch some TV. Which I did.

And it was great until for some reason I remembered that song by Art Garfunkel from Watership Down. "Bright Eyes". So I downloaded it and listened to it. And I started crying all over again.

"Bright Eyes" and being drunk and alone. A winning combination for bringing about happy festive cheer.

Today I woke up with streaming eyes, glands the size of, um, large sized glands and a runny nose. I have dinner tonight with my Dad and my Stepmom. No doubt I will be lectured about how I need to take better care of myself.

WEBSITES OF THE DAY
1) The Chanel No 5 ad - I know the general consensus of opinion is that it is overblown and expensive, but I just keep watching it for the music, the gorgeous frocks, Nicole looking beautfiul and Rodrigo being one tall drink of water. And the arial view, with the sweeping searchlights when Nicole takes to the red carpet ... wow!

2) Your height in iPods.

A sign...

I was just reading Little Hedonist's blog and saw that today he posted the following quote. I have heard it before, but I guess today it has for me a little more meaning and relevance:

"Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford." - Samuel Johnson

A name that should strike fear into the heart of any mortal human

"'Sinderella' is back with a raunchy all new hilarious adult Panto*. All the cast reunite to bring an all new show that is guaranteed to leave you hot under the collar and laughing for more! 'Sinderella Comes Again' sees Buttons, Sinderella and Baron Von Hard-on up to all their own tricks and naughty makeovers! It's a hilarious tale for adults that should know better. It'll definitely heat up your stockings this Christmas!"

Now I know it sounds like the back description of a porno, but believe me, it's not. "Sinderella Comes Again" is a UK Virgin Records top 10 DVD. It is currently selling more copies than "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind". But that is not the biggest crime. The biggest crime is that it is a starring vehicle for one ... I can't believe that I am writing these two words together in my blog (swallows) ... Jim Davidson.

Jim Davidson is a pro-war, neo-nazi, sexist, homophobic, racist, wife-beating, cheeky, popular British comedian. Earlier this year he announced to the press that he had become disillusioned with Britain (nothing to do, you understand, with his flagging career) and was moving to Dubai. But not before refusing to play a gig in Bolton because there were too many wheelchair users in the front row. Bless him.

Earlier in September Popbitch reported that a heavily pregnant fan spotted Jim in a bar in Dubai and greeted him with, "You're Jim Davidson!"

"And you're a whore," the comedian replied.

I indulge myself in fantasies where Jim steals fruit from a Dubai market stall and has his penis chopped off infront of a braying crowd.

Anyway - last night I was happily watching a documentary about one of my favorite movie directors, Richard Linklater, when Vix's 17 year old sister and her boyfriend walk in and ask very nicely if they can put a DVD on. Normally I would have given up my TV viewing, but when I asked what the DVD was I was informed that it was, you guessed it, "Sinderella Comes Again". I recall that my exact words were, "No. No Way. Absolutely not."

I tried to explain why I had responded in the resoundingly negative, but when you are 17 you don't really care much about political correctness and now I fear that I am being viewed as Vix's old, miserable housemate. Jim Davidson became the underdog and I felt guilty. What kind of fucked up world is this?

*A Panto is a kind of British phenomenon. Kind of like Icecapades. But not on ice.

BAD NEWS OF THE DAY
Didn't get the job in NYC (sob)

MOVIE SCENE OF THE DAY
"Donnie Darko" - in slow motion the characters walk through the school in one, unbroken, shot to "Head Over Heels" by Tears for Fears.

All About E

I think I have made a few references to the Scoobys in this blog. The Scoobys are comprised of a number of really awesome guys and ladies, some straight, some gay, some undecided, most of whom can be seen in the photograph that I posted last Friday.

The Scoobys were named by Drew a few years ago - a more detailed explanation stolen from his blog:

Scoobys > The name of my group of friends. Basically they'll become characters in their own right so I won't introduce them straight away, suffice to say that they're all quite kooky in their own bewitching ways. The term Scooby was stolen by me from Buffy (the Vampire Slayer) where it's used as a post modern reference in-joke thingy to the fact that they go around "solving mysteries" in a similar fashion to the original Scooby gang in the cartoon, you got it, "Scooby Doo". Although we don't technically solve mysteries, we are a gang, and we have seen some pretty strange things between us. Anyhoo, the name has stuck.

Now I can’t really claim that I am a Scooby as I was not really on the scene when they were conceived all those years ago. But I was told by Scooby Joe recently that I am a guest character, which is something that I take great pride in. After all the best episodes of “Frasier” were the ones within which Lilleth made guest appearances. At least I keep telling tell myself that.

Now if Drew is the patriarch of the Scoobys, then it’s matriarch must surely be Sam. It has only really been over the last twelve months or so that I started spending any time with Sam, although I have been acquainted with him for a few years now. I had traditionally always approached Sam rather cautiously, as he is the ex-boyfriend of my ex-boyfriend Wayne, who is now one of my best friends, as are many of my closest male friends – a sad / happy trend, depending on your / my point of view, probably worthy of a future blog posting.

I digress…

On Saturday night Sam hosted a party at his apartment to celebrate his 25th birthday. Sam’s outfit pretty much epitomized the evening – dress trousers and black shoes with braces and nothing else. Unless you count the 100 diamante studs stuck to his torso as a“top’. Kate DJ’d in a pair of knickers with “Get It Here” emblazoned on her ass. Katie wore a huge, appliquéd, shoulder-less, gold ballgown and Kevin came as someone’s Mum. It was a complete blow out and a most resounding and fabulous success.

Despite the numerous raucous, sordid and shocking distractions that took place over the 14 hours that I was present (at 12pm on Sunday I blearily-eyed sloped off for a roast lunch at Lindsay’s) I managed to spend a great deal of the evening with another Scooby guest character called E (no stupid jokes please - E is actually a living person).

Despite being only 23 (and also being quite short) E is an absolute gem. I’ve only spent a few evenings (and early mornings) in his company and all of those times neither of us was capable of having a proper conversation, but I always liked him from afar (he’s also quite easy on the eye, which helped). But on Saturday night we talked. And talked. And talked. We discussed Aldous Huxley, art deco, architecture, the hey day of the 1920s, modern theatre and polyphonic ring tones. And it was really lovely and uncomplicated. Right up until the point where he asked for my telephone number.

A little background - E is of dubious sexuality. Until about two years ago he was straight. But then he met Sam and decided to give the lifestyle a go. I don’t know if it was Sam or something else – I wasn’t privy to the details – but soon after I left for America I found out that Sam and E had spilt up and that E was now dating a woman.

Anyway – aside from the fact that Saturday, for E and I, was the meeting of minds, I will freely admit that I would have been up for it to have been the meeting of other organs – as I inferred (despite the height issue) E really is a hottie of the highest percentile. But given that he tried “it” out before and then went back to being straight I should probably assume that the exchange of phone numbers meant little more than one guy saying to another “Hey! Let’s do this again!” Because not everything in life has to be about sex, right?

So I am well aware that I should be expecting, at the very most, just a nice little friendship. Except that I can’t remember that last time I exchanged numbers with a straight guy, with the intention of going to the theatre or an art gallery together. And I don’t think that I have EVER swapped numbers with a straight guy with the intention of going to the theatre or an art gallery together, when said straight guy was so freaking hot AND who, for a little while, quite liked bum fun.

So that was Saturday night.

Yesterday morning I was confronted with a question that I have certainly had to ask myself many times before, but this time with a twist: When do I call him? The twist being: What am I expecting?

So I didn’t call him yesterday, cause that would have been stupid, way over keen and would have sent out all the wrong messages. I texted him instead. I’m pleased to say that I did get a text back and while he can’t meet during the week (school exams) we have tentatively arranged to do something “arty” at the weekend.

Of course, I have already imagined countless scenarios occurring, one of which being despite his better nature (tried it, didn’t like it) E can’t help but acknowledge his burgeoning romantic feelings towards me by brushing his hand against mine during a production of “Another Country”.

(Drew, who knows exactly who I am referring to, is no doubt staring at his screen, shaking his head with despair. Yet I am sure he feels a sense of fond nostalgia over how DUMB I can be).

Frodo - Part Deux

Following on from Marv's great explanation (see comments at the end of the last post) I went back to my housemate's copy of the book to read that section before they get on the boat. I found this passage. I won't go on about how lovely yet achingly sad it is, because you can read it for yourself and most likely come to the same conclusion:

"Where are you going Master?" cried Sam, though at last he understood what was happening.

"To the Havens, Sam," said Frodo.

"And I can't come?"

"No Sam. Not yet anyway, not further than the Havens. Though you too were a Ringbearer, if only for a little while. Your time may come. Do not be too sad, Sam. You cannot be always torn in two. You will have to be one and whole, for many years. You have so much to enjoy and to be, and to do."

"But," said Sam, and tears started in his eyes, "I thought you were going to enjoy the Shire, too, for years and years, after all you have done."

"So I thought too, once. But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, to lose them, so that others may keep them. But you are my heir. All that I had and might have had I leave to you. And also you have Rose, and Elanor. And Frodo-lad will come, and Rosie-lass, and Merry, and Goldilocks, and Pippin; and perhaps more that I cannot see."

Frodo, Frodo, Frodo...

Clare, Nick and Bill just came round with the new extended version of Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King. For those of you who are unaware, we're talking about almost four hours of nobility, honor, fighting and Orlando Bloom with beautifully flowing long blonde hair.

I've seen the film before twice at the movies and I loved it. And I loved it when we watched it again this evening, but I have one problem with the ending. And I have read the book so I know that Peter Jackson was being true to the original text, but still...

Why the hell does Frodo have to get on that boat at the end of the movie? Where are they going? I know he has had a bit of a tough time of late, you know, fighting monster spiders, having had his finger bitten off by a loinclothed, anorexic, um, thing and overthrowing the most formidable presense in the universe. But is a peaceful life in The Shire drinking ale, smoking weed and getting booty 24/7 from all those hero-worshipping nubile hobbit girls not enough for poor Frodo?

Apparently no, because instead he chooses a life on a decidedly poky boat, with a couple of senile old men and some pseudo intellectual Elves all suffering from post traumatic stress disorder. Rock and roll! I have a sneaking suspicion that he's going to get a few miles out to sea and realise that he has made a bad decision, by which time it will be too late. I'm worried about him. I am of the belief that young Frodo should be back at his home in the company of his friend Samwise and all the bows and frills of their, er, special relationship.

(Marv - I know you are an expert on the "Rings", so perhaps you can offer an explanation of this silliness?)

I *heart* my friends

Will's website has gone live! (subscribe for free to see the content)

I have been quite proud of Will this year. When I first found out that he was going on Big Brother I believe I inwardly groaned. But any misgivings I had about him taking part were quickly nullified and I have learned so much about him as a result. Qualities mainly. Maybe they were qualities that I perhaps already knew really, but being aware of what he has been through this year - on and off screen - certain qualities were definitely highlighted. Like integrity, truth, respect, compassion and love. Qualities that make me proud to be able to call Will, or anyone else for that matter, my friend.

What I want to say is that this post should not read only as an ode to Will and his achievements. This post should symbolise in no uncertain terms how I feel about all of my friends. Maybe I say this too much or not enough, depending on who you are and where in the world you are: you, my friends, all achieve such wonderful things. Some seemingly big, some seemingly small. But they are, regardless, achievements. And I love it when these things make you happy. They make me happy. I sit in the audience and watch each of you take the stage. And I am ear-to-ear grinning and clapping resounding applause.

You people! My friends! (Can I borrow some money?)

PS: There is a little section on Will's site (Ask a Supermodel), written by someone who may sound familiar to you...

London Calling

Career Update

Today I had my fourth (FOURTH!) interview with the company that is interested in me setting up their NYC office. I have been interviewing with them now for a month and a half. I already feel like part of the team. My bank account isn't feeling it though.

I am also of the mind that maybe I am being recruited for a sinister government wing and will be posted in NYC as an assasin. Or something like that.

The interview today was to decide whether I should go into the agency and work in the London office while the finishing touches are being put to the NYC office. But it was all a bit incoherent - I had never met the woman I saw today and she didn't seem to have the full deal on what was going on stateside. So I had to fill her in, which was kinda weird.

I know that these things take time, but I am seriously starting to get anxy now. A transatlantic move is no small thing and while I would sell my first born to George Bush to get back, equally I do need a little bit of security.

I need a fall back - so for the rest of today I have been making mucho phone calls to friends and agencies on spec to see what they have going down and equally to highlight what I could bring. And a few doors do seem to be open. Which is good cause I seriously need some cash from somewhere.

I called Drew yesterday and we had a serious conversation about setting up a business together when he gets back to London in April. We were thinking about an escort service, with the two of us being the main attractions, at least at the outset. We have a very clear and definitive business strategy - we will only accept clients that fall into the rich, ripped, handsome and funny category. Basically Richard Gere's character in Pretty Woman. If the first two clients can fit that criteria that would be great - ensuring that our sorry asses are taken off the streets and kept forever in Gucci and Helmut Lang.

It's Joe's birthday party tonight in Soho. He just texted me to ask if I can just wear a jockstrap. Erm, sure Joe. Anything for the birthday boy.

Fragrance ad pitch, starring yours truly

The best thing about Christmas is that all the fashion designers mercilessly push their fragrance lines in sumptuous, goregous TV ads shot by the likes of Stephen Meisel and Terry Richardson.

Now some people have aspirations of being actors, popstars, etc. Some even want to design furniture. But not me. I want to be the star of a fragrance ad, for something like, I don't know, "L'Etranger Pour Homme" by Fifi De La Froo-froo.

Rome, Italy - it's early morning and in black and white and sepia tones I run through the empty streets of the city to the beautiful strains of Elgar's Variations. I am dressed in a black tuxedo, white dress shirt underneath, buttoned down low, tie loosely hanging around my neck. My hair is all messed up but still, I am crushingly handsome. I carry a bunch of roses in my hand. I look and search everywhere: down side streets, in tiny chapels, into cafes that have just opened, but I can't find the object of my affection. Eventually I give up. Tired, exhausted I stumble backwards and fall onto some marble steps leading up to a beautiful fountain. I put the flowers aside and rest my head in my hands. I am a lost soul.

At that moment a hand comes into view and caresses the side of my face. I look up, wide eyed, my mouth slightly open. My surprise becomes a smile. It's him. He found me. He kneels down and rather than kiss, in slow motion we rest our foreheads together and look adoringly into each others eyes. A shaft of light appears and the scene morphs into a lovingly extended shot of the fragrance bottle (designed by Phillipe Stark) against a midnight velvet backdrop. A husky masculine voice utters the immortal words:

"L'Etranger Pour Homme. Be a stranger no more."

Fade to black.

First gay fragrance ad ever. Not a dry eye in the house. Somewhere in Hollywood Nicole Kidman curses Baz Luhrman for lack of vision.

The perils of the charity shop

I got to the station too early yesterday for my train back to London from Leeds. To kill some time I decided to peruse the shelves of Smith’s. I decided to buy a copy of Arena Homme Plus. Not only is the magazine my style bible, but it features mucho pages of male models in various stages of undress.

On the train I start to flip through the magazine and come across this article on charity shops, which contained a mini review of Saviour in Notting Hill. I am reliably informed that I will find the long desired piece de resistance for my wardrobe amongst their heavily laden rails. So because I am currently a man of leisure, I decided that I would stop by on my way to the gym. Besides, I like the atmosphere of Notting Hill and I can imagine that art could mirror life and I might accidentally spill my latte down some movie star's shirt. One thing will lead to another. Probably.

I’ll cut to the chase. The shop was crap. Nothing in there that I liked. And the prices? Are you kidding me!?

People talk a lot of crap about charity shops. Especially journalists in highfalutin fashion magazines, such as Arena Homme Plus, which I hate anyway because it’s pretentious and the models are ugly. How many times have you heard some story from one of your hipster friends about how they claimed to have found a vintage Vionnet dress on the rails at their local Sue Ryder shop in some market town where “daddy” owns half the county (I am thinking of a particular acquaintance here).

The idea that charity shops are bursting at the seams with fashion finds is patently bullshit. Because in fifteen years of generally having enough money to buy clothes I have only once found anything remotely worthy of putting on my body – a beautifully cut, black polyester (yup, I said polyester) shirt from Birmingham Flea Market. I can wear it unbuttoned almost to the waist (best when I have a tan) and it shows off my chest nicely. I wuv you, my little black shiny shirt!

Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the bargains are there, somewhere. Perhaps my finely honed fashion radar misfires in charity shops because I’m too busy avoiding the many freaks who congregate amid the musty clothes (people really have died in them if the smell is anything to go by) and the grossly yellowed Mills & Boon novels.

I went into a charity shop with my mummy a while ago and it occured to me the staff are all characters from the “League of Gentlemen” (for my foreign readers, this is a cult British comedy sketch show):

1. Little old lady – the one who is too scared to use the till so she does all the sums on the back of a paper bag, pausing only to yell across the shop, “Love a cup of tea, Connie, if you’re putting the kettle on!”

2. Surly teenage girl - who’s only doing her four hours a week because it’ll look good on her university application. That and the fact that her poor beleaguered parents are desperate to get her out of the house.

3. Finally, shifty, spotty “yoof” – wearing a shell suit and a sneer. He’s doesn’t go on the till either. But that's because he’s not allowed. He is only working there as part of his community service sentence for stealing mobile phones from people’s coat pockets at his local Wetherspoons.

But the most frightening aspect of any charity shop? The twitching, badly dressed man (which came first – the badly dressed man or the charity shop?) of a certain age who stares unblinkingly at you as you try to find something worth reading amongst afore mentioned yellowing M&B books (you know I did once find the “Hite Report on Male Sexuality” in a charity shop! Provided hours of adolescent homoerotic reading).

Four simple words: care in the community.

Anyway – compared to that motley crew the actual shoppers seem like the epitome of cleanliness, sanity and good fashion choices. Er, no!! Charity shop shoppers are comprised of the following cast:

1. Stingy mums – the determinedly Boho middle class type who are actually too stingy to buy new clothes for little Cosima and Bartley from Marks & Spencer, ensuring that the fruit of their loins are forever the victims of playground taunts (I know - I got beaten up because of the school blazer my mum bought from a charity shop. So I binned it and told her that it had been stolen during PE).

2. Middle aged man – he lives with his mum and spends three hours looking at every single freaking book and completely obscures your view of the shelves. Oi! Middle aged man! They don’t sell porn in Scope, so bugger off!

3. Hippies – of the type who really need to replace their mantra of “Better to reuse than recycle” with my personal fave, “cleanliness is next to Godliness.”

And last but not least, and it shames me to have to write this as between the years of 1993 - 1996 I was once one of these:

4. Fashion students – they humorlessly insist on buying horrible shiny monstrosities that looked shit in the 80s and aren’t going to suddenly look less shit 20 or so years later.

I guess at the end of the day everyone and everything has it’s place in the world. Charity shops will always be next to the fruit and veg shops and bizarrely within the pages of Vogue and Arena Homme Plus. And I am not playing down their importance - obviously they raise much needed cash for reallly great causes, like cat homes and church roof funds. But if you do accidentally wander into a charity shop please remember - do not look anyone in the eye under any circumstance!

How to be a PR professional

A couple of years ago one of my clients sponsored the premiere of Ms.Spear's movie "Crossroads" in London. Lucy and I took the features writer, Richard, from some girly teen magazine. I knew that he was gay but because of the theme of the magazine I envisaged that he would be a bit of a nelly queen.

Wrong. Trendy, very good looking with a bit of a diamond geezer quality thrown in for good measure. I don't usually go for guys with cropped haircuts, but Richard had it goin on. And on. And on...

So the premiere itself was pretty uneventful but I did get the opportunity to tell Richard afterwards my critical opinion of the movie. That it sucked mainly. The aftershow party in Mayfair was a completely different experience. Britney was a diva in the most fabulous sense of the word and spent the whole evening getting fucked up (not literally) on this sumptuous pink bed (she was in the papers the next day for two reasons - the first being that she had been an hour late for the movie and second reason being that she had drunkenly flipped the bird to several of our most eminent British photographers upon leaving the party).

Richard and I were definitely each others wing men at the party and spent the best part of the evening eyeing up Britney's hunky male co-star (forgotten his name), Antony from Blue and talking to Rachel Stevens from S Club 7. But as we got more and more drunk the two of us began blurring the professional lines. What I'm saying is it wasn't long before we had our hands up each other's shirts and were making out in the windowsill of Britney's faux bedroom.

The next day I left Richard's apartment suffering from a hangover extraordinaire and without showering cause I was late (we had morning sex for good measure). On the train on the way in I asked myself the moral question, "Does the fact that I have had sex with an important journo contact mean that I am unprofessional?" Then I figure it out - no, it just meant that I was just a slut.

Anyway, it wasn't until I actually got to work and went to the bathroom to sort myself out that I realised that Richard had left some evidence from the mornings proceedings, um, on my chest (was wearing a low cut v-neck jumper). I obviously scrubbed that issue away very quickly.

Later on that morning I got a call from the lovely Nicole, who worked at the time on the gossip pages of The Sun. "So who was the guy you were snogging last night, baby?" (I don't think she was looking for a page scoop by the way, but the need for gossip in all it's forms was obviously in her bones).

So I shared some of the details, told her who Richard was, etc. And then we had a laugh about some of the other events of the evening. Then for some insane reason I started to tell her about what I had discovered earlier in the bathroom. It wasn't until I got to a certain point in the tale that I realised what exactly it was I was telling her and that in actual fact she wasn't a dear old friend but really just a journalist buddy and that I probably needed to be professional.

"Actually Nicole, you really don't want to hear this story . It's kinda gross."

"NO! You can't do that! You HAVE to tell me!"

"Erm. I'm not sure. I think it might skew your professional opinion of me."

"Don't be so ridiculous. You should see some of the stuff we get sent here. Nothing shocks me, hon. Spill..." (bad choice of words)

So I told her and at the end of the story I laughed. But on the other end of the phone...silence. Then eventually. "Hmm. Anyway, the real reason I was calling you was to ask if you knew the name of the girl Duncan (from Blue) was chatting up last night?"

Mortified. Sometimes I really need to just shut my mouth.

Anyway - the reason that I am writing this is because this morning Lucy, the old colleague who I took Richard to the premiere with, emailed me to say that she had been to a party last week and had bumped into him. Richard and I never really figured it out after that night and never got around to meeting up again. But apparently at this party he had been grilling Lucy about me - where I was, what I was doing and more to the point was I single?

So I emailed Lucy back in so uncertain terms as to her mission. Her response:

"Leave it to me Christopher. I have high hopes for this one!"

I wonder if he'll want to mess my hair up?

I love this...

I don't know if it is really good blog etiquette to post someone elses post on your own blog, so I won't. Instead here is the link. It's from the "Cult of Jef" blog (see left.) Read it now and then come back.

We all interpret things differently, but for me, that is awesome. They say that life is in the details. I agree with that - grand gestures are just gestures. But things like that - they're what makes me smile and, for me anyway, what makes life great.

I want someone to mess my hair up!

Achy-breaky crotch

"Wayne?"

"Yes Christopher?"

"My crotch aches."

"Why is that Christopher?"

"Well you know that machine at the gym? The one with the knee pads and you sit in the chair and bring your knees together? Well I saw some guy using it and I thought that I would try it too. And now my crotch really aches."

"Don't use that machine Christopher. It doesn't make your arms or chest bigger. Besides, I don't think your crotch needs any more exercise than it's already getting."

(punches Wayne)

"Wayne? Will that make my arms bigger?"

Fierce Female Film Performances (in my humble opinion)

Whenever I watch the Oscars, Best Actor is usually of little interest to me (except when Adrien brody won - phwoar!). I just want to know which leading lady is gonna be honored with the prestigious "Best" title. Anyway, I have just been watching Kill Bill Vol.2 (for the umpteenth time) with Vix's brother Matt, and it inspired me to write this post. Maybe Kill Bill is a good place to start (feel free to comment at the end if you feel that I have missed out an important all-time fierce performance):




Elle Driver (Darryl Hannah) – Kill Bill Vol.2
“Now you should listen to this, 'cause this concerns you. 'The amount of venom that can be delivered from a single bite can be gargantuan.' You know I've always liked that word gargantuan? I so rarely have an opportunity to use it in a sentence.”




Ellen Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) – Aliens
“Get away from her you bitch!”




Bridget Gregory / Wendy Troy (Linda Fiorentino) – The Last Seduction
“'I’m sorry, it’s just that I haven’t felt this way about a guy before.' How’s that? Will that do?”




Barbarella (Jane Fonda) – Barbarella
After having experienced physical sex for the first time, “La, la, la, la, la, la, la, la…”




Catherine Tramell (Sharon Stone) – Basic Instinct
“I had sex with him for about a year and a half. I liked having sex with him. He wasn't afraid of experimenting. I like men like that. I like men who give me pleasure. He gave me a lot of pleasure.”




Ingrid Fleming (Miranda Richardson) – Damage
"You should have killed yourself. I would have buried you. And I would have wept."




Princess Leia (Carrie Fisher) – Star Wars
“Governor Tarkin, I should have expected to find you holding Vader's leash. I recognised your foul stench when I was brought on board.”




Catwoman (Michelle Pfieffer) – Batman Returns
“As I was saying, I’m a woman and can’t be taken for granted. Life’s a bitch. Now so am I.”




Lamborghini Babes (Tara Buckman & Jill Rivers) – Cannonball Run
No lines, just a little cleavage enhancing “unzipping”.


But, for me, the winner of the All Time Fierceness In a Movie Award goes to:



Marquise Isabelle de Merteuil (Glenn Close) - Dangerous Liaisons
“When I came out into society I was 15. I already knew then that the role I was condemned to, namely to keep quiet and do what I was told, gave me the perfect opportunity to listen and observe. Not to what people told me, which naturally was of no interest to me, but to whatever it was they were trying to hide. I practiced detachment. I learned how to look cheerful while under the table I stuck a fork into the back of my hand. I became a virtuoso of deceit. I consulted the strictest moralists to learn how to appear, philosophers to find out what to think, and novelists to see what I could get away with, and in the end it all came down to one wonderfully simple principle: win or die.”


MUST TRY HARDER!



Rebecca Carlson (Madonna) – Body of Evidence
“Men lie. I don’t know why. They just do.”

Group sex anyone? No? No?

There are many things in life which are considered, for many different reasons, to be landmarks. For some it's buying their first pair of Manolo's. For others, it's getting that dream job. For me it was being invited to my first gay orgy.

Sex really has come out of the bedroom in the last few years. It is now not only acceptable, but deeply de rigueur to talk about sex at every available opportunity. Thank about this: when was the last time that you were actually embarrassed about discussing anything sexual? I remember being at school and my friend asking me how often I knocked one out (Brit term for masturbation) and I can still remember now that I turned Pantone reference 7544C. I was asked the same question just the other day and I was embarrassed again - this time not because I do it, but because apparently, judging by their reaction, I don't do it enough.

So no one is embarrassed anymore. Especially us boys of a certain persuasion - we love talking about sex. LOVE IT! Why just yesterday I emailed Brandi the slightly exaggerated details (it was two and a half hours, not four) of an afternoon of hot pash resulting from a trip to the gym (seriously - the gym has been a veritable sexual mecca for me recently!) Telling your friends that you have just been "at it" all afternoon is these days pretty much on a par with telling them that you had a massage, a wet shave and a pedicure. "How was my day? Oh you know, just a little lunch, a workout, sex with some guy Ben, then a movie in the evening with Jess. It was really lovely."

A case in point is the fact that last month the Harvard Crimson (described by the Washington Post as "the nation's best campus newspaper") reported that Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia had raised a few eyebrows by claiming that he favored sexual orgies. "I even take the position (great choice of words there Antonin) that sexual orgies eliminate social tension and ought to be encouraged." No doubt an unexpected sentiment but nonetheless, refreshing to hear.

Which brings us neatly back to the subject - being invited to my first gay orgy. I got the specifics from my friend. It is a legitimate affair, which takes place once a month at "Doug's" loft apartment in Soho. It is attended by thirty to forty guys between the ages of 20 and 35, who fall into the attractive and svelte category - hot basically. And I saw some pictures of these guys and they were indeed rather easy on the eye. Anyway, I weighed the idea up for a little while and really couldn't make up my mind. I guess it is something that everyone should do at least once in their lives. But you see I am actually a bit of a meat and veg type guy, and the idea of an orgy...well I have mixed feelings about it. I mean as long as they are safe and drug free (which I am promised, this one is) I don't see anything particularly wrong with them, per se. But still...

So I emailed my friend to ask them what they would do and this is what they said. "Have the sex party! God, I would. Take pictures. Send them to me. Make a boy very happy. No really, do it. Sounds HOT."

So I agreed to my friend sending his friend (the organiser) a pic of me so that I could be visually vetted. And then if I passed I would be forwarded all the sordid details. Apparently I still have some "thing" goin' on (note the pic of me was a fully clothed face pic!) cause boy did I ever get the details! An extremely detailed description of what occurs from the moment you arrive to the moment you leave. VERY specific detail to what goes on in the middle. It made my face burn. The accompanying picture "evidence" made me blind. Overall, I felt slightly queasy.

So for the last week I have been walking around with the knowledge that on Saturday I am attending a gay orgy. And questions began to pop into my mind. Apparently I need to take drink. So what do I take? A nice Liebfraumilch? Or do I splash out on a bottle of Chateau Neuf de Pape? And what underwear do I wear? Do I invest in a nice new pair of Calvins? Or is that silly, because, lets face it, they probably won't stay on for very long. And then I began to actually pay serious consideration to me, in situ...in the middle of the orgy. A mental picture appeared, one not entirely devoid of comedy.

Imagine reader, if you will, me, in a pair of tighty-whities and not much else, standing in the middle of a room surrounded by thirty to forty guys going at it. My head is tilted to one side, my face sports a confused expression. And then I notice the three guys at my feet. "Um. That's so...I mean, er, how does that work? Oh my! Oh, I see!"

Yeah. Not a hot look, is it?

So last night I sent the organiser a little email, apologising that I wouldn't be able to attend as something has come up (probably could have phrased that better). Instead, tomorrow I will be Leeds-bound to see Wayne and his boyfriend Vince. Wayne has informed that the weekends proceedings will be wholesome and lovely, but still with the opportunity to hook up with a cute, floppy haired art student called Stuart, if so choose I.

But I'll end on this note. You never know what is round the corner and if I ever do find myself in the midst of a seething gay orgy then, courtesy of the same friend who told me to go, I have the best brush off line ever for spurning the advances of someone you don't really want touching you:

"Get off me! You know you're only here to make up the numbers!"

It was my PLEASURE!

Hey guys! No problem! I thoroughly enjoyed this afternoon's impromptu twenty minute stop between Stockwell and Oval. It didn't bother me that there was no announcement explaining the delay or even that the lights went off so that we were plunged into darkness. No! Neither was I at all concerned that I might be mugged or violated. Infact I was kinda hoping...

One question though - travelling by Underground, as opposed to what? My Gulf Stream IV jet? My Aston Martin Vanquish V8? Or do you mean my Sikorsky S76 luxury helicopter?