UK blogger fired from employment

Three of Britain's biggest newspapers - The Times, The Guardian and The Scotsman - have reported the recent firing by Waterstone's (the UK's biggest highstreet bookshop) of an employee, Joe Gordon, with an eleven year tenure at the Edinburgh branch of the company. The reason for termination was cited as the content of his blog, specifically several "defamatory" comments about Waterstone's. In brief Waterstone's has always been keen to present itself as a bastion of freedom and self expression in the promotion of literature in all it's forms, a sentiment that by this recent action now seems irrelevant. This case is important for the reason that it is the first time that someone in Britain has lost their job because of comments made on their blog.

First, I am angry over the hypocritical way that Waterstone's proffers freedom of expression, yet will not extend that same courtesy to it's employees. And for that I feel that it is only fair that the company provides an eloquent explanation to their actions.

However, for example, a company would be unlikely to tolerate an employee appearing on national television to negatively comment on their employer, however satirical those comments might be. And if I were an employer I would feel duty bound to protect my company (and possibly my own job) by dealing with that errant staff member in an appropriate way. That said, termination of employment in this instance does seem to be the adoption of a very hard line (and daft when Waterstone's apparently didn't want it's name dragged through the mud!) I am sure that an official warning would have been more effective.

More and more, blogs are becoming a legitimate conduit for communication in all it's forms. I am not a fan of censorship and would not discourage anyone to write about whatever it is that they feel compelled to write about, but we should all acknowledge that there can be consequences to what we say and most will have an opinion - including our employers.

I just called Waterstone's head office in London to get the name of the person that I can write a letter of complaint to. You can voice your opinion to Kathryn Dobson who heads up the Customer Services department. Kathryn's email address is:

kathryn.dobson@waterstones.co.uk

You can also write a letter (what's that?) to Kathryn at the following address:

Waterstone's
Capital Court
Capital Interchange Way
Brentford
TW8 0EX

It made me laugh (despite myself)

An email from Jake, earlier today:

"If a tree fell in a forest, but then sprang back up again as a joke, do you think that the squirrels would freak out?"

OMG!

I was just sat here with Vix watching Big Brother, live on TV, and the most frikkin brilliant thing happened!

All of the housemates (except John, who isn't participating until he gets some Diet Coke) which includes Sylvester Stallone's ex-wife Brigitte Nielsen, were gathered around the front door of the house by Big Brother to greet a new addition. Guess who the new addition is?

JACKIE STALLONE!!!

Brigitte is actually handling it very well to Jackie's face, but to the other housemates she is FREAKING OUT!

And Jackie! The woman is CRAZY! She doesn't seem to have any concept of the game or anything and is kicking up because there are cameras in the shower and she has to sleep in a dorm with everyone else under horse blankets.

And how much surgery has she had? Her face is actually lop-sided.

I love this show so much!

I NEED TO STOP SHOUTING!

Cool!

I've got a bunch of emails from some of you with some really great questions! I was a bit worried that you wouldn't ask me anything and that I would have to ask myself! Better get my thinking cap on!

Today I have been really putting myself out there in terms of trying to get some work. I am now on the books of three seperate recruitment agencies and I am really bugging them now to get me interviews. I have an interview with another recruitment agency tomorrow which is promising.

I've also realised that I shouldn't just be relying on these agencies to get me work, so I've started to send my CV out on spec to several big multi national PR agencies with offices in London.

In the meantime I have a company to call about doing some odds and ends work to bring some money in. Most of the things they offer are pretty menial data entry placements, but I kinda like that kind of work for a while. Mindless envelope stuffing and the lark.

I have succumbed to peer pressure and have started to read The Da Vinci Code and it's actually quite good! Apparently it is being made into a movie starring Harrison Ford and from what I have read so far he seems like a good choice for the main character.

What would you like to know?

The other day my friend Marv posted a link on her blog to an online article about blog preservation (Marv is an archivist by trade) which actually turned out to be very interesting reading (not that I ever thought it wouldn't be, Marv!)

One of the points that gave me pause was the idea of Blogs "dying". It was no surprise to me that many people give birth to their blogs with wonderfully good intentions and fervently make several posts a day which gradually dwindle to one or two a week before abandoning the thing altogether. I guess it's like getting a puppy for Christmas – for a while all cute and fluffy, but then it grows up and demands to be walked and shits all over the floor. Well, maybe blogs don't do that exactly, but I'm sure you get my jist.

I too neglected my first child and it died. When I moved to NYC I started a blog so that I could keep my family and friends up to speed with what I was doing overseas, but when I moved back to the UK I forgot the login details and had to start a new one (this one). Which was probably for the best. I still know the URL and recently went back to read some of it and it is so self indulgent and maudlin, most of the posts obsessing on the fact that my boyfriend hadn't called me as quickly as I would have like him to have done. It's nice to know that my writing has evolved (I hope!)

Anyway - the article goes on to talk about blogs that come to a natural conclusion and how as a result the blogs readers often experience a profound sense of bereavement. An example of this is Belle de Jour's infamous blog, which she terminated in September last year (ironically, I just discovered that she has temporarily revived it!) This got me to thinking - I really love writing my blog and I write it I think as much for myself as I do for everyone who reads it. Without wanting to over-intellectualise why I blog I think that there is a definite catharsis in knowing that you have to write about something every day. For me, at least, it has made me take notice of both the significant and often, more importantly, the seemingly less significant things in life that much more - something that I have not always been very skilled at .

But what happens when I meet the love of my life and he objects to my spending two hours a day (I have resolved to NEVER again blog at work, whenever I get another job, that is) updating my blog and reading my favorites? Will it become a modern day interpretation of Sophie's Choice?

The article also got me thinking about something else, which is that it is only me who decides which elements of my life you get to read about. If you are a returning reader you may also have noticed that I don't always pick up the thread of previous posts. That's often because nothing ended up happening, therefore nothing to report.

So, later this week I would like to write a post which answers some of your questions, if that is ok with you? Indulge me! Ask me anything - I'm not coy, as you may have noticed. It can be about things I have previously written, my thoughts on a political issue, or whether or not I like asparagus (I do, by the way).

You can email your questions to me at ckboy29@hotmail.com (I hope you do, cause I'm going to feel REAL unpopular if you don't!!)

Best quiz EVER!

"You are O-Ren Ishii! Twisted and homicidal, you respect most people, but let them know not to mess with you. You have a talent for sensing danger, and keep only the most loyal and skilled people around you."

That is the most accurate descriptions of my character. I am thrilled to be like O-Ren. I can actually recite, verbatim, the entire monologue she delivers after slicing the errant bosses head off in Vol.1. Don't mock me! I might need to dress someone down in that vein someday!

Which Deadly Viper Assassin Are You?

Things that are winding me up

JOHN MCCRIRICK
Celebrity Big Brother, is back on TV and I am already addicted. The cast features some quite interesting people, although I think it is a bit of a misnomer to call them celebrities.

Anyway - one of the contestants is the eccentric horse racing commentator John McCririck.



John is perhaps the most offensive man to have ever set foot on planet Earth. I will even go as far to say that he exceeds George Bush in the stupidity stakes.

John's gems so far include telling Germaine Greer that she is responsible for allowing women to believe that they could rise above their station. He thinks it is great that Bush was re-elected. He told "supermodel" Caprice that beautiful women don't have to bother with little things like achievement because everything falls at their feet anyway. He says he only stays with his wife because she is stupid (I don't doubt this - she married John McCririck) and wouldn't be able to function without him. Oh, and he feels that certain African nations should stop moaning about their problems and asking for aid and start taking more responsibility and finding their own solutions.

Idiot.


DOUGLAS COUPLAND
First of all I should say that Douglas Coupland is my favorite, favorite author. I have loved every single one of his books and he wrote the only book to make me cry (Girlfriend in a Coma).

So it was with excitement that I tripped into central London yesterday to see his new installation at the Canadian Embassy. This is what the work is supposed to represent:

"An ongoing relationship with both nature and distance. A complex set of unexpected and loaded images and icons which can function on both the surface and on profoundly deep levels. The works are both amusing and reassuring and are meant to include rather than exclude."

An example:



I don't, um, get it.

Douglas - just because you have penned several best selling novels that have defined a generation, does not mean that you are a skilled artist. Still love you though ... v.v.much.


THE CHURCH
So while I walking through Trafalgar Square to get to the Coupland exhibition, I noticed that with the exception of one establishment all of the flags on top of the buildings were flying at half mast out of respect for the victims of the Tsunami. Here is the flag on top of the Candian Embassy:



The exception? The church at St Martin in the Fields, of course.



(Am writing this watching the live feed of Celeb Big Bruv on E4 - John is lying on his bed wearing only his white boxers. Words. Can't. Describe.)

And another thing!

The Christmas Day episode of "The Vicar of Dibley" received a huge number of complaints, apparently most of which were from the religious right, who took offense at Vicar Geraldine's (Dawn French) consumption of a chocolate Jesus (despite the fact that the Arch Bishop of Canterbury provided a cameo in the show).

Now, granted, I am not the most religious person in the northern hemisphere, but am I wrong in thinking that there is this little churchy thing called Communion, where worshippers eat some nasty dry rice paper and drink red plonk, both of which are meant to symbolise the body and blood of Christ?

I think that it is safe to assume that most Vicar's force their flocks to drink the likes of a very cheap Merlot from their local 24 hour off-license. Now that's offensive! Hey Vic! If that red wine is supposed to be the blood of Christ, shouldn't it be a nice 1995 Chateau Neuf de Pape? Huh?

I think that the world's churches would receive an exponential rise in followers if during Communion they were served expensive vin de rouge and Swiss chocolate figurines of everyone's favourite homeboy.

Jerry Springer - The Opera

"Jerry Springer - The Opera" started up in the West End of London a couple of years ago now. It's sleazy, gross, salacious, shocking and revolting. And I loved it and so has anyone else who I know who has seen it. Indeed it has also been praised by critics - The Guardian's Michael Billington described it as "a mega hit ... easily the hottest ticket in London." And if The Guardian likes it, then it must be good!

The Sun (Britain's biggest newspaper) was up in arms yesterday over the BBC's decision to screen a live performance of the show, tonight on BBC2. The BBC has already received about 15,000 complaints in total, which is absolutely unprecedented - shows that have offended viewers usually receive up to 200-300 complaints, but the other thing with this is that people are complaining BEFORE they have seen the show, which seems vaguely ridiculous in the least.

Through the duration of the show there are 3,168 uses of the word "fuck" and 297 references to "cunt". The Sun is outraged. OUTRAGED I tell you. The main reason was that while theatre goers are choosing to hand their well earned cash over to see the show, the British public are forced to pay the compulsory annual TV license fee to help fund BBC programming and they are not paying to see twaddle like this. The Sun also wouldn't be The Sun if it didn't bring in some kind of moral judgments, these being "what if our children should see it?" and "what about all this swearing?" The Sun also reported that Christian groups are also not happy with the fact that the second half features the burning fires of hell where Springer is confronted by God and the Devil.

First of all: the swearing. I think if The Sun did a straw poll it would find that the majority of it's readers, at various points during the day, use a colorful variety of cusses that would make the most seasoned fishwife blush. And it's all a bit hypocritical anyway, because The Sun's writers aren't unaccustomed to effing and blinding themselves, only they'll hide behind a few "**" so as not to offend anyone. Really - is there anyone on this planet who is less offended by "f**k" or "c**t" than "fuck" and "cunt"? And if kids read it and don't know what "f**k" means (knowing the kids of today, this is unlikley) aren't they just going to ask their parents?

Secondly, I believe that British TV license payers DO want to see mind numbingly boring and crass entertainment. Why else would 10 million people tune into Eastenders almost every night of the week? That said, I for one, want my license money spent on programming that is challenging, entertaining, shocking and from time to time, a bit racy. There is a reason that so many theatre goers have gone in their droves to see "Jerry Springer - The Opera". It is because they WANT to see the fighting and hear the swear words and they WANT to be shocked. And I am sure that many people will tune in tonight. They'll say it's because they are curious, but really they'll want to see it for all the reasons that I have just cited. There will also, of course, be a lot of people who'll watch it simply because The Sun is so vehemently opposed to it.

But it's the Christian groups that piss me off the most. Christian groups are notorious for pre-emptively complaining about something, usually when they haven't seen it. It's really patronising for the most part, because they believe that we, the unenlightened (the irony!), are so unbelievably dumb that by watching "Jerry Springer - The Opera" we will surely have our souls irreversibly tainted and before you can say "your mother sucks cocks in hell", the lush green meadows of England will have become a veritable Dante's Inferno.

When I lived in the States I actually had a number of chats with different people about Jerry Springer and the general consensus of opinion was, that while these people who appear on the show really do exist, for the most part American's are not that extreme. Remember, these people are chosen for their immesurable idiocy for the very fact that it makes good TV. Also, if that kind of crassness was all around us all the time, we would be totally used to it and wouldn't care. Jerry Springer is also a big wake up call to us - how NOT to be!

Then of course there is the fact that if you do find something on TV really offensive you can just turn over or turn off.

On a related note: Page 3 is a British institution and for years now, every day, The Sun on page 3 features a bare breasted glamour model. Yesterday's was Tracy from Luton, posing on all fours on a fluffy pink cushion, wearing nothing but a lacy black thong and a lusty gaze. I wonder how many mothers and fathers up and down the country had to field questions from children who had seen Tracy "presenting" herself? "Mummy - what is that lady doing?"

Of course, you might want to ask me what I was doing reading The Sun?

Er. Research.

I could get used to this. I think.

So once again I am in Jake’s apartment on Bankside, tapping away at his computer (I will be deleting his history before I leave – don’t want him coming across THIS!). He left for work EARLY (so glad I'm not working. Careers are for losers) and so I am now, again, pretending that I live here and making full use of all his facilities. He said help myself to anything, so I did by opening his new expensive amaretto cafetiere coffee. It's yum!

Jake and I haven't spent a lot of time together since his appendix op, after we broke up, so when I got to his apartment last night it was kind of weird. Dating is such a weird lark. Even if you have only been dating someone for just a few weeks, you get to this place, often very quickly, where you share really intimate moments together. And then the moment you break up it's all kind of weird because really, unless you have been dating for years, you don't really know each other that well and you have to reestablish things as being only friends.

So we kinda did this dance around each other for a bit, asking each other how we were, even though we already knew because we have been talking on the phone. Then we settled down, ordered some food and watched a DVD. We both sat on the sofa but there was no "touching" to start with. And then when the movie was over and we (I) had drunk quite a bit of wine we started talking. Not about anything consequential - just stuff. Eventually, slowly, feet start brushing together and hands find other hands and before you know it we're going at it on the floor. And then in the shower. And then in bed.

Ok, if you are new to my blog, then I'll give you a little history. Jake and I dated very intensely last November, after he picked me up at the gym, for literally about three weeks. Week two saw the two of us going to Paris for the weekend and it was just after that, that he broke up with me because there was the chance that I was going back to New York and he didn't want to get hurt further down the line. And that was the story of Jake and I (with a bit of appendicitis and nursing thrown in).

Jake is amazing on paper - very handsome, 32, financial lawyer at a big firm in the city, financially solvent, educated, mature, funny, great in the sack and, of course, has a legendary washboard stomach. Basically the dream man that I have had in my head since my first crush on Roger Taylor and the type of guy that I lust after from afar when I'm out at a club.

The conversations that we have been having on the phone ever since I told him that I didn't get the job in NYC have been kind of, erm, loaded. What I mean by that is that we have both been aware that now could be a good time for us to consider getting back together and trying to work something out. I had lots of conversations with friends about this over Christmas and the general consensus of opinion is that I should give it another try. We do make sense - there are no games being played, we're happy chatting or being silent together. Oh, and I can sleep in the same bed as him and not be tossing and turning all night. I sleep like a baby. That is RARE for me.

But the thing is, even though last night was, aside from the initial awkwardness, really cool and fun and sexy, I still have this nagging feeling inside - that being, I'm just not sure that I like him in the way that he has previously professed to liking me. The irony in the fact that I may have met the man of my dreams and yet I have kind of chilly feet has not escaped me. And most of my friends will tell you, absolutely in character.

I'm really jumping the gun here. He hasn't actually said anything to me yet about getting together. I have a feeling that we may just slip back into this and not actually discuss it at all, which is ok I guess.

We'll see. We'll see.

First interview of the new year

Today was the first day in over a month that I actually had to be up at 7.30am. I had an interview with the Director of Communications of a very, very famous and prestigious cosmetics company at 10am. I actually could have gotten up later, but I wanted to have plenty of time to smoke my first cigarette (really, REALLY have to give that up this year), drink a couple of extra, extra strength coffees and have some toast. And learn the names of the beauty directors at the major magazine houses, whose names I have forgotten from being in New York.

Left the house, looking FINE and all suited up. I rarely get to wear a suit. I'm glad I never had a job where I didn't have to wear a suit every day, cause it makes the times that I do have to wear one extra special and it also makes me feel kinda sexy.

Anyway, I get to the company and Sarah, the Comms Director, comes to take me to her office. She's really, really nice and was very impressed at my extensive knowledge of the company (I used to do their PR in New York) and it's structure. Now I knew already that there wasn't necessarily a position available in the company, but I was kinda hoping, well you know, that I would wow her so much with my incredibly strategic mind that she would say "You know, I just have to hire you."

But while the interview did go well, she did end it by saying "As you know, we don't have any positions available at the moment, but I think you're great so I'll definitely be in touch should anything come up. You never know."

I put up a great front and said that was completely cool and that I understood, but I went away feeling slightly deflated. And because I am not very bright I then proceeded to check out all the sales in the various designer stores littering Bond Street, seeing what I couldn't afford, because there is no moolah coming in.

And I spent the rest of the afternoon playing Tomb Raider.

This not working lark is not good. I am SO BORED!!!

I do have a slightly welcome distraction though - this evening I am going round to Jake's. I haven't seen him for a few weeks now, although I have spoken to him a fair bit on the phone. We're staying in and watching DVD's and ordering Chinese food. I told him that I wasn't going to spend the night, which is a total lie, because I absolutely intend to stay over. Is that bad? Probably. But it's been almost three weeks now since I last got me some and I need to fix that, pronto!

Speaking of photography

A few years ago I went round to my friend Louise's house to get ready together for a magazine party that we were attending at Cafe de Paris in Soho. I think it was GQ's Man of the Year, or something like that.

Anyway, Louise is a friend from university, although we haven't spoken for a while. Total fashion babe, got the whole look goin on, but as some of my friends who have met her will testify, slightly vacuous (she once asked my friends Clare and Lucy "but how DO lesbians get carpet burns?")

So Louise and I are in her huge, lavishly-furnished bedroom titivating ourselves when I spot these two really lovely photographs of her and her then boyfriend, Adrian, framed and hung on the wall. In the first one, Louise is looking over her shoulder and laughing, looking serenely beautiful. "That's such a lovely picture of you," I tell her. She stops applying her make up for a second and follows my line of sight. "Oh yes, Adrian took it. He's fucking me from behind."

"Oh..." I respond, taken aback. The ethereal illusion is somewhat shattered. I go onto the next picture. It is of Adrian. His eyes are closed and he has this kind of dreamy expression going on. You can just see that he's wearing a suit and looks very debonair and handsome. "Adrian looks really sexy in that picture," I tell her. She looks up again. "Yeah. I took it. He's fucking me again. I think he's about to cum."

Ok, it's a visual anecdote I guess, but I thought I would share it with you.

(One of my best friends, Wayne, has started a blog. I guess I should wait to see if he is consistently good at it before I put a link to him on my sidebar, but I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. By the way - he is not a wannabe muscle mary. He is a CERTIFIABLE muscle mary. Wrote the book, sold the film rights, etc)

My new toy

You may have noticed that my last two posts have incorporated a number of photographs. The reason is this:



I bought it with some of the money that I got for Christmas. I love it. It has the exact dimensions of a credit card and only about six times as thick. It shoots at something like 3.5 megapixels. I have no idea what that means, but it's forcing me to believe it. The camera is even better than a boyfriend because it doesn't ask for anything more than an ample supply of electricity every now and then. And it thinks that I look great naked. And as we know, the camera never lies.

See?

Best game ever

No, I am not warning off an army of persistantly intrusive paparazzi, but participating in what I feel is the best game ever ... The Name Game.

Loads of you probably already know the game, but incase you don't, here is how you play it:

1) Arrange a group of friends into two to three teams of equal numbers of players

2) Each player writes a name of someone famous (literary, thespian, political, musical, etc) on a scrap of paper, folds it up and places it into a recepticle. We used a hot pink trilby hat, but you can make do with a saucepan or something. You want about 50 names if you have two teams of four.

3) First round: taking it in turns, a player has 60 seconds to explain as many names written on the pieces of paper to their fellow team mates as possible, based on an explanation without saying the actual name written down. For example, one of the names I pulled out was "Janet Street Porter" - an unfortunate looking British media mogul, who looks like my friend Ann, who was also playing. Me - "Female media mogul who looks like Ann!" Team responds - "JANET STREET PORTER!" Correct. Pull next name. At the end of the round each team counts the total number of names they won and records them on a sheet of paper. Then you all fold the names back up again and chuck 'em back in the hat. (Clare demonstrates how to play the first round, below, with "Hilary Clinton")



4) Second round: same format, only this time rather than verbally explaining the names each player, when it is their turn, mimes the name. Sometimes this can be easy. Sometimes not so easy. A handy hint - if you do ever pull out "Leon Trotsky" mime yourself being stabbed in the head with an icepick. Jerome demonstrates by miming "Nina Simone"



See? Easy isn't it? Nina Simone.

5) Third and final round: again, same format, but this time each player describes each name using only ONE word. Lucy demonstrates by using the word "c**t" (George Bush Jr)



Then each team works out how many names they guessed correctly, in total. The team with the most names wins.

Believe me when I say that this is the best game ever. EVER I tell you. Play it now. Even if you are on your own, although it may be quite easy.

(By the way, on the final round David, Ann's boyfriend, "did" Nina Simone with the word "Defecation", which clearly stumped us all. David is insistant that Nina Simone was famous for "doing her business" while performing on stage. None of us were at all convinced but still, I Googled using various relevant words, but there was nothing to support David's theory. However, he did seem pretty sure, so if you do have evidence supporting his claims, can you please let me know by posting a comment below? Thanks! Cheerio!)

New Years Eve 2004, Kings Heath, Birmingham - A Photo Essay

The musical theme for the evening


Milliner (that's hats) Philip Treacy's Spring / Summer 2005 Show was a resounding failure


Christopher sacrifices one of Clare and Lucy's cats in the name of fashion


Lucy about to introduce two very old friends


Lucy incorrectly re-enacts the infamous Christine Keeler pose


Helen re-enacts Madonna's "Material Girl" video, aided by David and Christopher


Big Ben blows his wad at the strike of midden-nightly


The hostesses demonstrate how to give good tongue

Embarassing question from Mum

Somehow I managed to get through 32 years on this planet without having to field any embarrassing questions from my parents. Our relationship has traditionally been quite open and honest and historically I have divulged information before it was asked for (unless I have been bad). I guess, there was the one time when Dad asked me why I changed my bed sheets so much, but he knew the answer really and was really actually trying to embarrass me (no, I did not wet the bed, but think - what do teenage boys do in bed that might require frequent sheet changing?)

Anyway - the 32 years of embarrassment free parenting ended a few days ago when on a drive to my friend's house in the country, my mum said, "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question? Do you promise not to be offended?"

There is no right answer when someone asks this of you so rather than responding with a "No, I won't be offended," I just sighed and said "What?"

"Do you want to be a woman? Do you think you might want a sex change?"

I basically told her that I was not going to dignify the question with a response. But then after a couple of moments of silence I realised that I couldn't possibly leave the subject unanswered, so I replied. "No Mum. I don't want to be a woman. I like being a man. I have never dressed up as a woman [a lie, but I only did it as a joke and was very drunk. There is actually a video of the episode in existence] and neither do I want to."

First I should say that I wasn't embarrassed or pissed off that Mum had asked me the question because I have a problem with the transgendered. I have no issue or ill feeling toward anyone who has had, or thinks that they would like, a sex change. But I pride myself on the fact that I am a fairly straight acting and looking gay man (although my profile picture, left, perhaps has a question mark over it). Anyway, it turns out that there were two things that prompted the question. The first had been that a few minutes earlier I had been waxing lyrical about Nicole Kidman's Karl Lagerfeld designed Chanel dresses in the No.5 TV commercial. I can see how to the uninitiated this may have been confusing. But the other reason is that Mum has acquired a new friend - a woman called Sandra who a few weeks ago became Sean. Apparently Sean is a rather unconvincing man and because he feels that he will be ridiculed at the hairdresser he would like Mum to do his hair at home (Mum is a hairdresser by trade).

I guess I should be rather pleased that my mothers' conservative, vaguely provincial lifestyle has room for something as traditionally alien to it as a transgender friend. It's just that ever since Nadia won Big Brother this summer the transgendered among us have become somewhat De Rigueur, especially on the London social circuit and the fact that I don't have any transgender friends and now Mum does kinda pisses me off.

Maybe I should be reminding myself that a transgender friend is for life and not just for Christmas.

What I got for Christmas

• A Sex and the City boardgame
• A funky stripey scarf
• Lots of money (too much perhaps? Noooooo!)
• A St Christopher necklace (because he is my namesake)
• Tom Ford's book
• A book on how to write your autobiography
• Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind DVD
• A book of gay movie posters
• A pair of black leather gloves
• An inflatable remote controlled robot
• A wooden thing that I can put photos in
• Showergel
• Too much chocolate, which will be given to the kids
• A shirt
• A pirate DVD of The Incredibles
• Underwear and socks
• A Terry's chocolate Orange (which mum has bought for me every Christmas since I could eat chocolate)
• A turkey induced coma
• Too much Port and wine
• An "I love you" from Jake (I think it was platonic, but still, it's the first time that he has said it. And no, we are not going back out with each other)

Merry Christmas

Am drunken. Merry Christmas everyone! Yay!

I wonder if Father Christmas has a cute son?

TV Moment

About to drive home to Bath, so a quick blog entry - something to make you all chuckle. Was just watching an episode of the UK's "The Vicar of Dibley" and there is a brilliantly comedic scene between the Vicar and Alice (both above):

Geraldine (the Vicar) to Alice:
"So Superman is feeling a bit bored because Spiderman and Batman are on a scuba diving course. He doesn’t have anyone to play with. So anyway, he’s flying around trying to amuse himself and suddenly he sees Wonderwoman naked, spread-eagled on the top of a tall building. Now he’s always fancied Wonderwoman, so he thinks to himself, “Now’s my chance!” So he swoops down and faster than a speeding bullet he does the business and then he flies off again. A moment later Wonderwoman says, 'What was that?!' And the Invisible Man climbs off her and says, 'I don’t know, but it hurt A LOT!'"

Alice to the Vicar (said in a thick, stupid west country farmer accent):
"My problem with that joke is that it seems to be suggesting that Superman committed homosexual rape upon the Invisible Man and I just don’t find that funny. In fact the joke besmirches the reputation of two of the finest superheroes this world has ever known. I mean I've never actually met the Invisible Man. Well, I might have met the Invisible Man. I wouldn’t know. He’s invisible. But I have heard that they are both really nice guys and frankly I think you should be ashamed of yourself for telling that joke."

Weird stuff going on with my swimwear...

I go to a rather lovely gym. Apparently it's the biggest and most equipped in London. I think that The Third Space in Soho is actually nicer, but it's about three million £ a month, so I choose Cannons instead.

My routine is usually an hour of weights, followed by a twenty to thirty minute rest in the spa, which is really awesome - huge 50 person jacuzzi next to floor to ceiling windows overlooking the Thames. Then I have a little sauna, a little steam room and then a seven minute hydrotherapy massage before I hit the showers.

Before I jump in the shower I usually spin out the water from my swimming costume and then I stick it in the tumble dryer to dry while I perform my ablutions.

Last Thursday, after I had dried off, got dressed and dried my hair I went back to the tumble dryer to discover that my beloved navy blue Hugo Boss speedos (I love them because like afore mentioned tighty-whity post, they sit REAL low and show off those diagonal hip-to-crotch lines to the best advantage) were GONE!

I was really gutted that someone had pinched them, but then it ocurred to me that perhaps an over zealous cleaner (an aside - because I am reading Brave New World again, I keep seeing everyone in terms the book's caste system, and yesterday I was thinking that in Huxley's World the cleaner would be an Epsilon-Minus Semi-Moron and I would be an Alpha-Plus intellectual, which is just terrible!) had removed them from the tumble dryer and put them in lost and found.

So I checked at the front desk, but nothing had been handed in. So I assumed that someone else must have taken them thinking that they were there own. Sniff. Goodbye my favorite Hugo Boss swimming trunks.

Then yesterday the exact same thing happened. Only this time it was with my pink Abercrombie boardies. Now these ones don't do as much for my figure, but they have far more sentimental value because I bought them while on holiday with Nick and Vix in Hawaii three years ago and since then they have literally been all around the world with me - from Thailand to Fire Island to California to East Hampton and Miami. And once again they were not in lost and found.

Now once may be a mistake on the part of another gym member. But twice? Surely a sign that I have an obssessive stalker that waits for me to put my bathing suit in the tumble dryer and disappear off to the shower before swiping them. Ugh! I hope they don't go home and, like, do stuff with them. Like rubbbing Marmite onto them and then licking it off. Unless it's that cute, ripped, surfery looking dude that I keep seeing in the changing room, in which case perhaps he'd like to do the lickin' with me in the boardies or speedo.

The biggest problem I am now faced with is that all I have left to wear in the pool and in the spa are what can only be described as "porn shorts". They are black nylon with an orange, red and silver stripe going across the front and are EXTREMELY tight. Some might say that speedo's are pretty porny, but withhold judgement until you see them. They were actually hand me downs from an ex-boyfriend and I have never had the courage to wear them. But needs must I feel. If I do have an obsessive stalker, these babies are really gonna drive him mad. And if these ones get nicked I'm going to have to consider doing my spa thang in the buff.

Which may have been the stalker's singular intention all along.