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.

Flipping Christmas

When I was younger I LOVED Christmas. Mum and Dad used to really get into the whole deal for me and my brother. They would do the whole Christmas stocking thing. We would leave a mince pie and a glass of sherry out for Father Christmas and a carrot outside for Rudolph. I remember the best Christmas ever was when I walked out onto the landing and saw that there were loads of presents and crackers lying on the stairs and mum said that it was because Father Christmas had fallen over and tumbled down the stairs. Of course, I wasn't that concerned about FC's welfare. I was more concerned about swiping the majority of the booty before my brother woke up.

The last couple of years have been different. Christmas has become this really irritating time of year. For me it starts around October when my Dad usually calls me up because he wants to know what I am doing on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day. How am I supposed to know this in October when I barely know what I am doing this weekend. Invariably my mum will call me a few weeks later because she wants to know if I want to get Grandma "you know, that thing she asked for."

"What thing?"

"You know. The thing she asked for a little while ago. You know...the, um, thing."

Drives. Nails. Up. Arm.

And so on and so forth right up until Christmas Eve. Christmas itself (Eve, Day, Boxing) is usually fine. We're not the kind of family that spend the holiday's arguing and fighting (did you know that you are most likely to be murdered by a family member at Christmas). Also I have a "second" family that I can spend part of Christmas with - that of the family of my dear friends Helen and Clare, all of which I have known since I was at school.

Anyway I was scouring the internet earlier to find similar like-minded, anti-Christmas people and I came across this sorry collection of tales - My Miserable Christmas

And then I came across another site - Masturbate For Peace. Not sure that this is that festive really. Well I guess it is promoting peace and this is the time of peace towards all men. Hmm. Oh, alright then. I'll allow it.

By the way, Jerome's blog has a new contributor. Me. Marv and I are trying to keep it alive. We're seeing him on New Year's Eve, so we will mercilessly kick his ass until he agrees to post at least one entry a week.

I am not holding my breath.

Identifying / resonating

I’ve always thought, or maybe not “thought” but have been told, that it is a bit of a cliché to identify too much with anything from popular culture. I guess the cliché depends on what you are identifying with. I mean if you are identifying with Meg Ryans and Billy Crystals character's relationship in “When Harry Met Sally”, then yes, I suppose that is a bit of a cliché.

And on the whole I don’t identify in a major way with those types of films. I identify, usually, with a sentiment, a gesture or a look. But there have been some things that I have identified with in a big way. For example, most books written by Douglas Coupland. And most of Richard Linklater’s movies. I like to pretend that I am Jack Black in "School of Rock" and sometimes even Julie Delpy in "Before Sunrise".

Today I identified with a film called “Garden State” by Zack Braff, of “Scrubs” fame. I knew that Braff starred in the movie, alongside Natalie Portman, but wasn’t aware that he had also written the screenplay as well as having directed it. As an aside, it is safe to say that he is my new crush, but it is a more legitimate crush, because it’s not based solely on looks. Not. Solely.

Anyway, the film is about this guy (Braff) who is in his late twenties, living in LA, pursuing the acting dream, but failing. We learn that he has suffered from depression for most of his life. He returns home, to the garden state of New Jersey, after his father calls him to tell him that his mother has died. He accidentally leaves his medication, a combination of everything from Effexor to Lithium, at his house in LA.

We soon find out that this is the first time that he has not been on some kind of medication since he was ten and as a result he learns much about himself, what he is capable of, etc, etc. And he falls in love.

It’s an independent film so it has a little more weight than your mainstream Hollywood trash, but the reason that I identified with it was because I have recently come of all of my meds too. And similarly I have always been on something pretty much since I was 12. That’s almost twenty years of my life. I was going to write a blog post about my going on the meds and coming off them, but it’s something that I need to think about a bit. I don’t know what I want to say. But I think I have something to say. I’ll set myself an objective to write about it here before the end of the week. Check back for an insight into the machinations of ma fragile lil mind!

In the meantime, I have just started reading again “Brave New World” by Aldous Huxley. There is a foreword written by him, obviously before he died in 1963, but about twenty years after he originally wrote the book and had it published. “Brave New World” is his most famous book, because in many ways it was prophetic, in regards to how society would develop. In the foreword he discusses this and that part of him wanted to go back and rewrite the story. But he didn’t. And he explains why. This is the first paragraph of the foreword and it resonated with me for many reasons:

“Chronic remorse, as all the moralists are agreed, is a most undesirable sentiment. If you have behaved badly, repent, make what amends you can and address yourself to the task of behaving better next time. On no account brood over your wrongdoing. Rolling in the muck is not the best way of getting clean.”

Amen to that.

[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?