Moi et mon foie

This morning, at the respectable hour of 7am, I pull back the duvet and lift myself out of the steaming pit / bed that I sleep in. As I yawn and stretch out I hear a quiet whimpering coming from behind me. Sleepily, I look over my shoulder.

It is my Liver, looking more than a tad frail.

“Why do you still do it, Christopher? Why? We’ve been together for 32 years now. Why do you never listen to me?”

“What, prey tell, are you twittering on about now, little Liver? What? What?”

“Vodka. Beer. Do. Not. Mix. VODKA! BEER!”

A look of flushed concern sweeps over my face. I lie down next to my Liver and with my index finger tenderly stroke it. “I’m sorry. I do listen really. I promise this time. I won’t do it again.”

“Really promise?”

“Really promise.”

We hug and I get up once again and just before I leave my bedroom for the shower I look back and smile. “Love you!”

My Liver smiles too and although it is quite clearly still fatigued and a little distressed, it responds weakly, “Love you too.”

I leave the room and pad up the hall towards the bathroom. Quietly, under my breath...

“Sucker!”

Christopher and Louise do Diesel S/S 2005

NO WAY!!!!

I swear I'm not lying! I WON £10!!!

Ok, it's not £12million, but still! I have NEVER won anything on the lottery before! That is soooo cool!

I wonder if Mum will be happy with a cheap manicure?

My number is up! (but probably not)

I have lottery fantasies. Many of them.

These fantasies can appear in my mind at any given time. How it would change my life, what I would do the second I found out, which of my friends I would bestow my newfound wealth upon, etc, etc. My Mum, having seen the before / after shots of Sharon Osborne, has requested full body liposuction, boob lift, tooth veneers, a facelift, botox and collagen filler. I'm going to take her to Miami to have it done. She can spend a week or so in a five star clinic, while I stay at the Delano and have midnight sex in the pool with hunky South Beach hookers.

I'm probably a bad person. No, not for having sex with hookers, silly! For taking my num to have plastic surgery! I mean I love my mum, but the idea of her emerging from the bandages as some fabulous Sharon Osborne type - I mean, what gay man doesn't want to be a part of that?!?!

Anyway, a lot less frequently than I have lottery fantasies I actually buy a lottery ticket. Do you know what the best part of owning a lottery ticket is? It's that point between some random celebrity pulling the numbers out of "Gertrude" on BBC1 at 8pm on a Saturday night (which I invariably miss) and the point that I go online to check my numbers and find out I have not even one single, sucking digit.

Because during that time I know, for an absolute certainty, that I am a potential lottery winner. And the longer I can go without checking my numbers, the longer I can indulge those fantasies, with the absolute certainty that I could in fact have won £12million.

It is now Tuesday evening and I bought a ticket on Saturday afternoon. I want to look now, but I am so aware that the overall outcome is more than likely to be the latter of the following:

1) I never work again

2) I work again

Ok, this is stupid. I'll check them now. If I have won, then you'll know by the fact that this post will be followed by another post, just a few minutes later.

Finger's crossed!

First day of school

We made potato prints, we did "show and tell" and at break we played kiss chase.

Not really.

Well first, I set a few ground rules for my new job:

No giving out my email address to friends or family
No giving out my direct line to friends or family
No blogging related activity, of any kind, at work
Make lunch the evening before to conserve money
One cup of coffee per day (from Pret - Starfucks is too expensivo)
Two cigarette breaks
Read two newspapers every morning before I do anything else
Get into work by 8.30am, every day

I have already broken five of these rules. I'll leave it up to you to guess which ones they are. But I will tell you that the most heinous and inexcusable rule-break was that I was half an hour late in - ON MY FIRST DAY!!!

It started so well. I was supposed to be in by 9am for a board meeting within which all the other directors would be introduced to this supremely talented, experienced, savvy (and uber dashing) PR pro. So I set my alarm for 6.30am so that I would have plenty of time to shower, get changed, have my breakfast and sip my coffee infront of Lorraine Kelly on GMTV. I did all of these and I got to the station at 8.15am, which should have given me plenty of time to ride the tube to Sloane Square and walk up King's Road to work.

Except that I had forgotten to top up my Oyster card. You might ask me why the plastic travel card we get given to ride the tube is called an Oyster card? I don't know the answer to that. Some London Underground think tank employee will probably tell you that it is because London is like an Oyster within which the tube is the pearl. Assholes.

Anyway, I look back at the queue and it's huge. So rather than going to the window to get my ticket, I decide to use the automatic machine, because I figure it's going to be faster. Only it's not, because the people infront of me clearly haven't mastered the fine art of putting the credit card into the little slot the right way round.

Ten minutes later I finally get to the machine. Except that there is this little sign that says "not accepting credit cards". Now given that this machine is a credit card only machine, you would be right in assuming that the sign should actually read "this machine is out of order". I decide that I don't have enough time to queue up at one of the ticket windows as there is still an enormous queue (never, EVER wait until the beginning of the month to renew undergound travel cards). So instead I decide to run across the road to the newsagent and top my card up there.

Except the shop doesn't take plastic so I then have to run down the street to the ATM (another queue) and get the readies and run back to the shop again. Eventually the deal gets done, by which point yet another ten minutes has passed and I'm back at the station, back at the gate.

C'mon little travelcard, all warm from being nestled next to my ass cheek, fat with my hard borrowed cash. Please work for little moi?

"Seek assistance!"

Evil, wretched travelcard.

At this point if Satan (who naturally would have been in the guise of a London Underground worker) appeared to offer me instant teleportation to my new office in exchange for my penis, I would have accepted.

I look around. No staff. So I ran across the road, again, to tell the guy that he couldn't have topped the card up properly. Only he proves to me that he did by showing me a computer printout.

I can feel any respect and admiration that my new seniors and colleagues may have had for me slipping away. I realise that I now have two options: I can join the queue of over twenty other plebs too stupid to have topped up their travel cards earlier and I miss the company meeting, or I can do the most despicable, pikey, irritating thing that one can do on the underground - wait until the moment that the person infront of you at the gate has scanned their card and then instantly press yourself right...up...against...them as they go through.

Which I did.

I did miss the company meeting. The MD's first words to me were, nonetheless, kind. But the disgusting gate queue pushing in thing made me feel dirty. A feeling that stayed with me all day long.

Scoobies Go Mad in Yorkshire

An entire floor of interconnecting hotel suites
A gazillion crates of Moet
A sexy, sweaty club
Many handsome, shirtless boyz
Many lovely, smouldering laydeez
Rubbish drag
A birthday boy
A trigger happy photographer

It's typical...

This afternoon I'm getting the train up to Leeds for Wayne's birthday and I'm pissed off. Not only do I have the flu, again, but because of that I've only been to the gym once this week as I've been extremely concerned that working out will make me even more sick.

Oh yeah, and I also have a cough that sounds like a Doberman barking.

Wayne, the Scoobies and I are all going to Federation tomorrow night and I'll invariably, at some point during the evening, be taking my top off. Only now I'll be prominently displaying chicken fillets (as Trinny and Susannah would call them) and not a fine pair of disco tits! That said, my chest is always going to be in the shadows of Wayne and Sam's pneumatic pectoral glory.

Of course, this all plays second fiddle to the more legitimate concern - that being, what if I get hit on by some hot, young Yorkshire-bred whippersnapper and I affirm my interest by inadvertently coughing phlegm up onto him?

Me Against My Music

I stole this idea from Jef's blog.

10 random songs from my iBook, chosen automatically by iTunes:

1. That Kind of Love – Alison Krauss
2. Stan – Dido & Eminem
3. Sound of Silence – Simon & Garfunkel
4. Everybody’s Changing – Keane
5. Well Did You Evah? – Blondie
6. Wild Thing – Tone Lic
7. Six Barrel Shotgun – Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
8. Keep It Together - Madonna
9. Rehash – Gorillaz
10. By the Way – Red Hot Chili Peppers

The music files on my iBook amount to 18.4 GB

The last album I bought was "Hot Fuss" by Killers (although it was technically a download)

The last song I listened to on my iPod before writing this was "Love Will Tear Us Apart" by Joy Division

The five songs I often listen to or mean a lot to me, and why:

Let The River Run – Carly Simon
It's the song that I would listen to when I lived in New York, when I felt a little homesick, or a little blue. I would generally listen to it in the morning, walking to work between 42nd and 44th on Lex, with my little cup of Starbucks coffee that I'd bought as I came out of the subway at Grand Central. It would remind me that I was in a great city and that I had a charmed life. You just can't be miserable listening to that song. There's way too much hope in it to carry on being sad.

In These Shoes – Kirsty McColl
Kirsty McColl represents, for me, my first introduction to proper music. Me and my oldest friends from school, Tim, Jemma and Kate, would listen to Kirsty a lot, mainly due to the fact that she used to make hilarious guest appearances, singing, in French & Saunders, which at the time was the temple we would collectively worship at (hell, we still do!) I listen to this song a lot when I am getting ready to go out. It's just kind of sexy and cute. And the lyrics are fierce.

Come Here – Cath Bloom
Because it's the music to one of my favourite scenes in a movie ever, Before Sunrise. Jesse and Celine listen to it in an old listening booth in the Vienna music store. They keep stealing looks at each other, but try to pretend that they aren't at the same time. Awww! I also love it just because it's a really happy, romantic, folky song. A bit like something Joan Baez might have sung.

Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead
Although Radiohead is my second favorite band, they don't make the kind of music you should listen to if you are feeling a bit blue. That said, sometimes you want to listen to a song that has a lot of pent up existential angst in it - cause you're not feeling low per se, but you're not feeling particularly "yippee!" either. This is my plateau song.

Rainbow Connection – Peter Cincotti
A few reasons for this one: The first is that Peter Cincotti, at 21, is a little cutie and he sings the song like Frank Sinatra would have. The second reason is that it is a cover of the song that Kermit the Frog sang on the lily pad at the beginning of the first Muppet movie (which makes it even better that Peter Cincotti sings this version, as he's so young). The third reason is that I love the words of the last verse. It's, like, poetry man:

Have you been half asleep
And have you heard voices
Cause I've heard them calling my name
Is this the sweet sound
That calls the young sailors
The voice might be one and the same
I've heard it too many times to ignore it
It's something that I'm supposed to be
Someday we'll find it
The rainbow connection
The lovers, the dreamers and me

P.S.

I am proud to annouce that yesterday evening I accepted a job offer. As from Monday I will be earning £245,000* per annum as the director of the interiors department of a very hot and trendy PR agency on London's fabulously chic King's Road. I owe it all to my friend Katie who sent them my CV. Needless to say, Katie will be receiving a "thank you" from me in the form of an erotic dance, in the very near future. I might even give her a "happy ending". Or not.

The owner of my new company has already invited to me to attend an uber fashion party tonight at The Courthouse, London's blinging new members bar, right on the corner of So On Trend Road and Everyone Who Is Anyone Will Be There Avenue.

DADDY'S BACK, KIDS!!!

*not really

Strippers and the L word

Any gay tendencies that I may have been showing over the past few weeks were recently nullified. Well, for about half an hour, anyway. Because Saturday night saw a rather motley crew - one gay man (me), two lesbians, a straight woman and a straight man, descend into the seedy underworld of "the dodgy geezer" - The Rocket Club, one of Birmingham's premiere "gentlemen's clubs".

Those girls could really work the pole in an impressive variety of gyrations that left little to the imagination. I actually found the whole experience fairly erotic. For a few seconds I considered the possibility that perhaps I was not quite the certifiable homo I thought I was. Then the master of ceremonies (if that’s what you can call a sad, fat, balding midlands DJ) starting egging on one of the girls who was dancing erotically with a geeze she had pulled up onto the stage.

(dancer slides down the pole towards the face of the willing male)

Master of ceremonies: "Yeah, get those luscious lips wrapped around his nose!"

Yup. He was referring to those lips. The fairly substantial tremor I felt emanating from my bile duct cleared away, once and for all, any doubts I may have just had about my sexuality.

But what I found most interesting about the whole thing was this: you could pay £20 for one of these nubile young ladies, wearing next-to-nothing, to lead you by the hand into a little booth where she would remove the next-to-nothing and perform a private dance for you. As long as you keep your hands by your sides and not on her (or in your pants) she would basically get extremely up close and personal without actually doing, er, stuff. Then after ten minutes she would put her clothes back on and then that would be that.

Now I didn't receive one of these private dances (although Lucy – one of the lesbians - was readily offering to put up the necessary funds. Actually, can we just think about that situation for a while? A lesbian, offering to pay for a gay man to receive a sexy lap dance from a straight woman. I think that genuinely may have been a first!). But nonetheless, I couldn't help but imagine how randy and unfulfilled these guys must have been after having had a hot, young, blonde minx shake her bits right in their face and lap for ten minutes. So what these guys do after they've had their dance made me not want to use the bathrooms incase I, well, found any "evidence".

Bleurgh.

Anyway, so as not to end this post on a sour note, I was wondering if someone could explain something to me that has been really playing on my mind of late. It hasn’t exactly caused sleepless nights, but I do like to feel confident that there is a reason for order in the chaos. It's to do with the folklore of Superman.

What is the relevance of the letter "L"? For example:

Lana Lang
Lois Lane
Lex Luther
Lionel Luther
Jor-El (Supe's pop)
Kal-El (Supe's birth name)
Lara (Supe's mom)
Linda Lee (Supergirl's alter ego)

Anyone who can provide me with a decent explanation receives a ten-minute lap dance from yours truly. Because I really paid attention the other night and boy, not only have I ever got some moves now, but I'm also extremely bendy!

Validated

My love affair with clothes started, I think, when I was four and at playgroup. Our mothers and fathers had each donated numerous garments for us all to play dress up with. I remember that my favourite item was a huge pink taffeta ballgown, not unlike the one that Clare won an award for donning at Jerome's pink themed birthday party last year.

Through the decades I have gradually refined and tailored (like that?) my sartorial sensibility to the point where I now approach potential additions to my wardrobe with a very simple philosophy - fashion lasts for a season, style lasts forever.

Many of us think we have great style, but if that were true the high streets of life would be a non-stop Dries Van Noten runway show. The reality is that we have Beyonce and Christina Aguilera. Now, those girls might be able to belt out a tune, but "belt up", they most certainly cannot.

While my wardrobe does contain the skeletons of fashion disasters (e.g. a 1994 outing to Wild Fruit wearing a pair of black and white stripy Lycra leggings, a floaty polka dot shirt and red Dr.Martin's) on the whole I think that have a pretty good look going on. One that Tom Ford would proudly nod to. That said, sometimes it doesn't hurt to have an objective point of view and while I love all of my friends very, very much there are only a few who I trust to pick me up on a possible fashion faux pas.

Today I got the ultimate validation, only not from a friend. I got it from Trinny and Susannah.

I had just been to a job interview and I was walking down Bond Street towards Oxford Street. I was miles away, listening to "Freedom 90" by George Michael on my iPod, imagining that I was Linda Evangelista wearing the black polo neck sweater in the video. Linda had so much more class than Naomi Campbell who, as always, just got her kit off. There was of course Christy Turlington, who looked beautiful wrapped only in a white cotton sheet. But I chose to be Linda today.

Anyway, like I said, I'm miles away when all of a sudden these two scarily well groomed fashionable looking women pounce on me and start bombarding me with questions. This is before I've even had a chance to take my earphones out. Now, if you are au fait with Trinny and Susannah you will know that they will grab the most intimate part of your body with absolutely no compunction whatsoever and make no bones about telling you to your face that you do indeed have tits like Geoff Capes and a taste in ostentatious jewelry that would make Elizabeth Taylor proud.

I realised the gravity of the situation immediately. This was my moment. I struggled to do several things at once, while all the while remaining calm, collected and eminently stylish. While being filmed. While being scared. Because there was every possibility that I was about to be told that I looked like a sack of shit and made an example of to the nation - i.e., what not to wear.

This is how I recall the conversation went:

Trinny: "So tell us what you're wearing."

Christopher (shaking): "Well my jacket (maroon velvet) is something I found at H&M. The sweater (baby blue cashmere v-neck) was supposed to be a birthday present for an old client, but I stole it for myself. Um, the cowboy boots are from Rockit in Covent Garden and the jeans (boot-cut and distressed) are, er, from H&M again. And the scarf (stripy in autumnal colours) was a Christmas present but I like it because the red matches my jacket."

(No emotion registering on either of their faces. Fuck.)

Susannah: "So what are you dressing for today? Do you dress like this everyday?"

C: "Er, well I've just been to a job interview. I was a bit worried that I look a bit too casual, but I think it's kind of important to give a realistic impression of who you are, not only in what you say, but in how you look. Because in my industry, that being public relations, appearances are often of equal importance to what I actually do. And yes, on the whole I do dress like this most days. I like to take simple tailoring and mix it with a nice pair of jeans and some great knitwear."

(Work, Christopher, work!)

T: "Ok, well first of all..."

(prepares self for crucifixion)

T: "...you've mixed a really great range of colours. Velvet jackets are really in right now and you've been bold enough to choose one in a colour that not many people could wear. I'm also impressed with the tailoring, slim fitting, not too boxy, great considering that it's from H&M. Usually red and blue don't sit well together, but the baby blue sweater under the maroon works, surprisingly. The jeans are pretty standard, although you have picked a good cut. Let's see your bum."

(Susannah lifts up my jacket to expose my butt. Cameraman zooms in. Awesome. Not.)

S: "Now on the whole I always say that it is important to invest in a good pair of jeans. Decent jeans will usually make your legs look longer and thinner and will lift your bum, something equally important for both men and women. However, you seem to have a pretty nice bottom anyway [she grabs my cheeks] and long legs so while the jeans are cheap you actually make them look more expensive. Often it's the clothes that make the wearer look good. It's not often the other way around."

T: "Now the only thing that gives me pause are the cowboy boots. I am not a big fan of cowboy boots, even on cowboys. But if you absolutely have to wear them, only ever wear them with jeans. Boot-cut jeans. Which you've done. So great. Also, as cowboy boots go, you actually chose a good pair - camel colour, suede and buffed leather, with minimal detail and a good heel. And finally I like the scarf. Its length is a little mean, but you're right in saying that the colours in the stripes match what you are wearing. They do - perfectly."

S: "So overall you've created a great look here, mixing a variety of different styles and colours without spending a fortune. Well done."

Then a signing of a release form, a promise from the producer to call me if they air it, and it was all over. Trinny and Susannah flounce off to find their next victim. I doubted, somehow, that they would be quite so kind next time.

So let's recap:

I mix colours well
I accessorise well
I make cheap clothes look expensive

I think it's fair to say that I am now certifiably stylish.

You better know that I'm going to be dining out on that qualified fact for a long, long time.

The quest for the perfect hair

A couple of weeks ago I made a reference in a blog post to my quest for the perfect hair, which right now, in my world, is hair like the cute blonde boy, John, in Gus Van Sant's movie "Elephant".

My hair is currently at that annoying stage where it's neither long enough or short enough to do anything clever with. It just looks like it needs a bloody good cut. The last time I went to the salon was about four months ago when it was chopped short and into different lengths on top, which means that right now my fringe looks a bit thin. It needs more body. However, round the corner, at the back of my head, my hair is doing this kind of "kick" thing, which I think is quite cute.

Anyway, every day I have an "oh, sod it" moment where I decide to get it cut back to it's former short and choppy fame. So far I have talked myself out of it, but it's getting more difficult. If I'm ever to get glorious Elephant hair I have to see this in between stage through.

So, to give me the incentive to let it GROW I thought that I would post monthly pictures of my hair's short-term evolution here on my blog. That way I'll feel really stupid if I do succumb and get it all chopped off and I have to admit defeat to y'all.

So let's remind ourselves. This is what my hair should be looking like (only not blonde):



This is what it currently looks like (as of last night):



It goes without saying that your support during this difficult time is much appreciated.

(I've just realised that my nose looks ENORMOUS in that picture. Look, it's a bad angle, ok?! My nose, in reality is well proportioned to the rest of my face. No, really it is!)

Jesus wept!

Look at Hanson! They're all grown up!



Now, that's one multi-deck sandwich I wouldn't mind being a filling in. Incest? Pah!

A wall of heroes

I decided to do something a little different with my day today. As well as going to the gym and touring shops that sell numerous things I can't currently afford, I steered myself off the beaten track.



Postman’s Park was opened in the City in 1880. In 1887 some guy called G.F. Watts conceived the idea of a national memorial to men and women who had died carrying out acts of heroism. The memorial took the form of a wall featuring individual tiles dedicated to each hero. It opened in 1900. Anyone who has seen the movie Closer will be familiar with this wall as this is the place that Alice and Dan begin to fall in love. They'll also appreciate the significance of the above picture that I took.

My primary reason for finding this wall today was to see if this tile really existed or if it was made up for the movie. But clearly, as you can see, it is real and Alice Ayres was a real person. After I found this tile I read the other ones. All of them. It seemed wrong not to, somehow.

After many of the events that have occurred over the past few years the words "hero" or "heroes" have become familiar, much used expressions. But upon seeing this wall and reading what some of these people did (most of whom died over a hundred years ago) made me consider what constitutes a true hero. I can think of lots of examples of people who have been cited in recent times as being heroes. But when I scratch at the surface I start to have doubts as to whether a hero is what they truly were.

This wall, to me, answers the question - does true altruism really exist? I find it hard to believe that in the moments when you rescue three children from a house on fire, a fire that you know you could ultimately succumb to, that there are any visions of grandeur. These people gave their lives for others, with no spin, no rhetoric and no promise of reward. They just gave their lives.

There should be more of these tiles. They should be everywhere. For all true heroes – living or dead. Because I, for one, have little interest in some obscure “water feature” (one that only works when it feels like it), dedicated to a woman who "did quite a lot of work for charity".

After all ... a victim is not necessarily a hero.

Oh, dear Lord!

I just walked to Starbucks to get a grande, skinny, mint flavoured mocha. On the way I listened to "Toxic" by Britney Spears on my iPod. As I walked I imagined myself as Britney-as-flight attendant in the video, specifically the section where she pulls the ugly fat bloke into the toilet and then pulls his mask off to reveal a hot, ripped stud. I think that I may have actually been mouthing the words "you're toxic, I'm slipping under" as I walked and even did a kind of little Spears wiggle.

Will someone please shoot me now?

I finished two things today

The first was this. I completed every level with three stars and a commendation report from my commanding officer. My weapon of choice is a Smith & Wesson (although I did had quite a lot of fun with the assault rifle and shotgun). Most of my enemies were disposed of with a clear shot to the head. The whole thing was no easy task - it took at least two dedicated hours a day for the past three weeks out of my time. I am now sporting an abnormally buff right thumb.

The second thing I finished today was "The Da Vinci Code". Will someone please tap me on the shoulder the next time something like "The Da Vinci Code" happens? I always get to these things too late. Crap really, when you consider that one of the key factors of my job is to not only have my finger on the pulse, but to have a central line to the aorta of the heart of popular culture.

(spoilers ahead)

While I thought that the basic storytelling in the book was sometimes a bit "blah" (how often does he repeat the same old ancient fable again and again?), I was just blown away by the big revelations in the book. I went online and checked out Da Vinci's "The Last Supper" and the figure to Christ's right is absolutely a woman! Look! How has no one written about this kinda stuff in a way that has captured the public imagination as well as this book has? If everything in the book even has a grain of truth in it, well then, wow!

I'm on a roll now. This is like when I watched "Elizabeth" and then obsessively read about four tomes on the Tudor dynasty. There is a documentary about the key claims from the book on Channel 4 next week. I am so watching that.

But the really cool thing?

I totally worked out three of the riddles in the book before they were revealed - the "O, Draconian Devil" anagram, the Alexander Pope / Knight reference and the weird handwriting. PR is obviously not for me, when I am clearly a potential Grail hunter.

I actually scared myself a bit with the weird handwriting - it was early this morning at about 2am and the TV was off and I was lying on the sofa with the fire burning away and I was completely absorbed in the book. I turn the page and see the weird handwriting and, well, if you have read the book you can imagine what I got up and did with the book next. I completely freaked myself out! So much so that I double locked the front door.

I've just learned that they are making the book into a film with Tom Hanks as Langdon and Audrey Tatou as Sophie. Audrey Tatou - cool. I loved her in "Amelie" and I can completely buy her as Sophie. But Tom Hanks?! I can't list the reasons why Tom Hanks is completely wrong for this part because they are infinite. Apparently Richard Attenborough is being groomed to play Teabing. Ok, yeah. I'll alllow that.

Incidentally, that name, Teabing - I kept reading it as "teabagging" and making myself giggle.

I'm 32.

A rant

I was going to write a lighthearted-ish post today about the state of my love life, but then I read something this morning that made me so mad and, at the same time, very sad. I don’t very often use this as a forum to really rant, but I want to get this off my chest! I’ll come onto what it was that made me write this shortly, but here is a bit of background.

When I arrived in New York, just over two years ago, there was a lot of discussion within the gay community about a Rolling Stone article which discussed an emerging trend within the gay community called “bug chasing”. While there are complicated issues around the concept of bug chasing, the practice is very simple: HIV- men actively seeking out HIV+ sexual partners with the hope of becoming infected with the virus.

The Rolling Stone article was very disquieting, as I am sure it was for many people, both gay and straight. It is unthinkable and horrifying that someone would actually try to acquire such a dangerous and life altering virus. However, soon after the article appeared many gay organizations such as GLAAD released statements that basically eschewed the Rolling Stone article, based on the very unreliable and misinformed statistical evidence that was cited within.

The most problematic statistic was gleaned from a comment from Dr. Bob Cabaj, director of behavioral-health services for San Francisco County, a comment he later refuted. He apparently said that 25 percent of all newly infected gay men fall into that category of guys consciously or subconsciously seeking the virus. The article said that every year there are 40,000 new infections in the US, which meant that if the 25% statistic is true, then around 10,000 of those new infections are attributable to bug chasers.

It doesn’t take a great deal of logic to see that this is a highly dubious claim. For a start, that 40,000 figure is not only comprised of gay men – it includes intravenous drug users and heterosexuals. In fact the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention estimates that only 42% of those infections occur in men who have sex with other men, which means that new infections in gay and bisexual men each year is more along the lines of 17,000. So if you apply that 25% statistic again, you get a figure along the lines of 4,200.

So, in short, the Rolling Stone article was dismissed as being sensationalist, alarmist and overly creative with the figures. Something I felt happy in believing.

But of late I have become aware of a few things, which lead me to believe that while those statistics may be inaccurate, there may, perhaps, be some truth in the madness.

The first thing is that while that afore mentioned 25% figure may, or may not be, true or you only have to look at any gay dating / hook up website or free gay newspaper to see plenty of ads placed by men who flout the use of condoms, preferring instead to “bareback”. Their motivation is very simple – to experience sex without the hindrance of condoms. While they are not “conscious” bug chasers per se, they still feel content with the idea of becoming infected to go ahead and be exposed to the risk.

The second thing that made me rethink was a gay porn DVD that a friend of mine had recently purchased, entitled “Breeding ... (some guy's name - not going to give it any fame here)”. When he bought the DVD my friend was unaware that “breeding” is a term used by gay men who are seeking to be infected with HIV: Bug Chasers. What he saw appalled him. I saw it recently – it is a documentary style porno focusing on the movie’s name bearer, a cute young guy who spends his time being mercilessly screwed by a whole bunch of HIV+ men, in the hope that he will be infected with the virus. For me, what I felt watching that movie was probably not far from what it must be like to watch a snuff movie. The ramifications of what this guy was doing, and what all these other guys were potentially doing to him was so disturbing that I just couldn’t get it out of my head for a good few days afterwards. And the worst thing was that this movie was not sold on some illicit website – it was sold to my friend at a mainstream gay sex shop in Chelsea in New York. It’s very existence and the fact that it was so readily available has very obvious implications. In actual fact, you only have to check out your local gay video store to see that there are entire sections devoted to non-condom movies and not all of them are old pre-condom Falcon movies. Many of them have been made really recently.

Then yesterday I read a story in The Times about Erasure front man Andy Bell and his recent announcement that he is living with HIV. This is what I was referring to at the beginning of this post. Within the story there was a quote from Andy, where he said that “while people might think this strange, I always wanted to get HIV because for me it is part of what being gay means.” I really don’t get that – Andy Bell is of the age where I am sure that he lost many friends and loved ones to AIDS. He must have seen at some point the way that the virus can literally decimate it’s victims in any number of horrible ways.

Or maybe he hasn’t.

Fortunately I am HIV-, but I have both dated people and have many friends who are living with the virus. I know, from being party to my friends’ experiences, that while the anti-retroviral medication available today can be very effective at managing HIV, a positive status is still far from being a bundle of laughs. ARV’s are toxic – before they make you “better”, they often make you feel very ill. One of my old school friends takes a combination of drugs that often make him nauseous at quite inopportune moments. Another friend, while he hasn’t suffered from nausea, has extremely lucid dreams, so much so that often times he suffers with confusion in his waking life as to what is really happening to him. Another friend has had more visual physical problems – he has gained very high muscle definition in his legs, chest and arms, but at the same time suffers with what he calls his “Buddha” belly – a very inflated stomach. So the idea that someone could be aware of all of this and yet still deliberately go out and try to become infected is terrible.

Through discussions with some (really only a few) of my gay male friends I have sometimes garnered the impression that in a fucked up way they actually “like” the idea of knowing someone who is HIV+. It’s almost as if being exposed, albeit second hand, to the virus is some kind of right of passage. Some of them talk about their HIV+ friends with something akin to pride, reminding me of straight people who feel the need to validate their “cool-factor” by announcing that they have “loads of gay friends!”

If you follow that thought process through you could come to the point of view that some may view the positive community with a degree of reverence. Before I get anyone’s back up, I am not suggesting that HIV+ men and women do not deserve compassion, respect or help. Clearly I am not suggesting that. But in itself having HIV is not something, to me, that can be, or should be revered. If you want to revere anything about HIV, revere the admirable way these people who are infected have often learned to make important step changes in their lives. You don’t have to get HIV to learn from people with HIV and apply those ways of living to your own life.

Back to the bug chasers – there will always be people who take things to extremes, who have so little respect for themselves or others, who are so emotionally detached from everyday life, that they will resort to terrible measures in order to fit in or seek random gratification, in whatever form that takes. I think it is easy to take what is, in all probability, an extremely small minority of the community and sensationalize them out of all proportion. But from what I have been hearing there are more and more people who are just not scared anymore. There are so many gay men now who don’t use condoms. Maybe that’s because of lack of education through poor funding, or because of irresponsible media reporting on ARV medication, citing the drugs as “miracle cures”. I don’t know.

But here’s it is: if I take every single thing I have learned, all my experiences - being gay, the education, the two occasions where I stupidly didn't use a condom where I then had to suffer weeks of doubt before I could get tested, seeing my friends learn that they have HIV and then seeing how that has affected their lives – if I take all of that information and I distill it down to one simple rule, it's this:

Use a condom!

It sounds like such a cliché to say that now. But clichés are clichés because through all the pointless things we say in life, they are words that hold the truth.

I’ll finish with this. It’s from a speech which American gay activist Larry Kramer wrote and delivered at the Cooper Union in New York at the end of last year. It’s a really long speech, so I printed it off and read it on the way home on the tube. There is much in the speech that initially made me cross, mostly Larry’s alarmism. But I’ll concede that is sometimes required to force people to sit up, take notice and subsequently take action.

”’Ah’, you say, ‘aren't we to have a little fun? Can't I get stoned and try barebacking one last time?’ Are you out of your fucking mind? At this moment in our history, no, you cannot. Anyway, we had our fun and look what it got us into. And what it is still getting us into. You kids want to die? Because that's what I sometimes think. Well, then, die.”

Offers, anyone?

I am worth $2,346,698.00 on HumanForSale.com.

Britney is Vicky

I read something in a, ahem, newspaper (no prizes for guessing which one) which suggested that Britney Spears is the American version of Vicky Pollard, the much loved illiterate juvenile delinquent from the cult British TV programme Little Britain.

It's so true! Look!





You know I have a theory - not only do Britney and Vicky look alike but I think that they could in fact be the same person. Think about it. You never, ever see Britney Spears and Vicky Pollard together at the same time.

Conclusive proof, in my opinion.

Christopher takes a test

A little while ago I was with a friend, lamenting the fact that I don't really have a "thing" - a party trick. I can't play Rach 5 on the piano with one hand and I can't ride a unicycle. I speak practically zero foreign languages and I have yet to correctly learn the offside rule. My friend assured me that every single person does have at least one "thing" and that maybe it would be a little while longer before I worked out what mine was and that I just had to be patient.

So rather than chastising myself for not having a special thing I have, as you know, been putting my all into finding a job. But PR work has not been forthcoming. I incorrectly assumed that it would be a piece of cake to find a new job in the New Year. Things were really thin on the ground before Christmas but that's not surprising really because human resources managers can't be arsed to recruit, choosing (sensibly) to sink pitchers of mulled wine instead.

But once staffers have banked and spunked away their Christmas bonuses they promptly hand their notices in on Jan 2, right? And all those HR peeps suddenly have a purpose in life (with several neurotic MD's breathing down their necks). Only the trend seems to have been bucked and jobs are still few and far between. Ok, I have been for a few interviews in the last couple of weeks and I actually have another on Monday. But the companies I have seen are invariably rather small and I am to them, without wanting to sound like a twat, a bigger gun. I'm a Senior Account Director with almost nine years experience of working for an international company. Two of those years were spent working in New York. In my time I have been incredibly lucky enough to have had some of the biggest companies in the world as my clients - brand icons that a few of my fellow PR buddies would have killed to work on. My career has also allowed me to meet and schmooze with the likes of Sharon Stone, Charlize Theron, Sean Penn, Robert D Jr, Gwyneth Paltrow, Adrien Brody and has also given me the chance to use J-Lo's Beverly Hills pad's bathroom - which, incidentally, you can completely see into from the road outside. All immensely satisfying and has richly fed my inner starfucker. So anyway, my CV is kind of impressive and to these smaller agencies, perhaps a little imposing.

Of course, this all disguises the fact that very often I don't have the slightest clue what I am doing.

Anyway, I often get the impression that the owners of these seven / eight person gigs only ask to see me out of curiosity and because they think I might be able to lure some old clients into coming over with me (not a hope in hell!)

I have no doubt that something will eventually come up, but the more immediate problem at the moment is that I am absolutely financially destitute. I have never been in such a bad way where money is concerned. Without citing actual figures, I have a personal debt that would make even Donald Trump weep. But for some reason I don't get down about it. Considering some of the things that I do allow myself to get down over this is an irony that is not completely lost on me.

So I decided to bite the bullet. I have to do something and unemployment benefit in the UK is just a big fat joke. So I signed on with a basic admin recruitment agency - the kind that pays £8 an hour for menial Microsoft Excel data entry. I sent my CV over to the girl, Tanya, the other day and I went in this morning for a Microsoft proficiency test.

But before I do the test we have a little chat so that Tanya can get a better idea of what it is I want to do. This seems slightly ridiculous to me, because this is not the kind of company that is going to be able to dramatically boost your career - it's a filler for graduates and recently arrived travelers. But this is Tanya's job so I humour her.

"I have to say that I was very impressed by your CV. You're very senior and have so much experience. Are you really going to be ok with data entry placements? Are you going to be motivated?"

Er, no!?

"Well, you know I am looking for a more permanent mooring in my proper line of work, but you know how it is ... gotta bring home the bacon!" I cheerily tell her. "Besides, sometimes I quite like mindless work - I can kind of get lost in it, do you know what I mean?"

She nods.

"Right Christopher. I'm going to set you up on this computer so that you can do an aptitude test. Make sure that you read the questions properly, because you only get two chances to get each question right. Some of them have hidden meanings!" she tells me cryptically. I'm excited to learn that Word and Excel have hidden depths! (This may or may not be true, but I once read that if you type "I'd like to see Bill Gates dead" in Word, then highlight it and do a thesaurus check then the computers suggests "I'll drink to that" as a replacement!)

So Tanya leaves me in this horrible sterile little cubicle and as I start the test I begin to get a feel of what data entry really means and how it will quietly gnaw away at my soul with it's mindless mediocrity. And the mouse isn't working properly.

The test was dead easy, even though I did come a cropper on a couple of Excel questions and that frikkin mouse caused me to hit the wrong button twice on one of the Word questions. Anyway, I completed the whole thing in about fifteen minutes without breaking a sweat. I stuck my head around the side of the cubicle and did a little "ahem" to get Tanya's attention.

"Have you finished already? Surely you can't have finished already?"

I decide that this means that I have probably failed and that once again my fondness for doing every single thing in life at light speed has resulted in my not being able to even secure a bloody temporary career in data entry.

Tanya leans over me and taps away and in a few seconds the printer sat next to the computer is churning out my test results.

She picks the sheet up and studies it for a second. The indifferent look on her face morphs into a look of dumbstruck awe. "Er, have you had a lot of training on Microsoft Office?"

"Not really. I just gradually taught myself the basics over the years."

"Well, I think this is probably the highest score we've seen. Seriously! Look!"

She flips the sheet of paper around so that I can see it. Word 93% proficiency, Excel 89% proficiency. I act all non-plussed, but inside I am deeply relishing the fact that I am not a computer pleb.

"So what is the average?" I ask her.

"Well what we would consider to be a high score is about 75% for both Word and Excel. That's usually someone who has had a lot of training."

I carry on letting her inflate my ego a little bit more, but then after a while it's time for me to leave. I plug myself into my iPod and breezily walk up Kingsway to the strains of Damien Rice, allowing myself the momentary luxury of feeling a tad smug.

And then it hit me...

I’d finally found my special thing … I frikkin ROCK at data entry!

Now, you better know that if you and I should ever go head to head in a data entry contest, I will take you down, baby!.

*sobs*