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*

The War of Don Christopher's Nether Parts

I'm going to talk at length (Length! I kill myself!) about penises today ... just so you know ...

I keep receiving emails entitled "enhance::ur:gr8wth" and "bi88ger::g1rth". Every single one of the 32 unsolicited emails delivered to my Hotmail's junk folder in the last few days are to do with dick size and how I might increase it. Now I'm not going to use this as a forum to talk about my dick, because that would be crass, but ... well, maybe I will a bit...

I like my dick. It's length is not John Holmes-esque, but neither is it an AA Duracell. Similarly it's girth is neither beer can nor Biro in proportions. I like to think that I have the "original penis" - the prototype that God created for Adam, which was used as the master design for all subsequent "peni". Then along the way the different master-craftspeople, who replicated this original, applied their own personal quirks and preferences, in addition to a little artistic license, until we got to a point where we now have a beautiful Skittles' rainbow of fruity phallus flavas.

I've never personally had a problem with my dick size. It's one of the few things about myself that I don't have a hang up over. On the same token I am not a size queen. Extremes either way are never good - really massive ones are nice to look at, but you know when your boyfriend wins you a huge oversized Tigger at the fairground? It looks real pretty and everything, but where the buggery bollocks are you supposed to put it? And really, really tiny ones can actually be a BIG issue. A couple of years ago I hooked up with this guy at a club. Because I am a filthy-whore-slut-boy I generally cop a feel before slinking off home with them to do the dirty deed. Only with this guy I couldn't locate anything at all. But I was kinda drunk and didn't really think too much of it at the time. But then we get home and we start gettin' nekkid and basicallly it turns out that this guy is like really, really small! I mean REALLY small. I had the feeling that I was a character in a clunky Monty Python animation. Let's just say that things stopped working and there was no way with all the will in the world that I could go any further. So I did the worst, most disgusting thing - I hit the "PRESS IN EMERGENCY!" stop-gay-sex-button. I turned away looking sad and woefully said "I'm sorry. I can't. I only just got dumped by my ex and I don't think I can do this."

Poor guy. I'm sure I secured my pass to Hell with that, but anyway...

I am a fervent supporter of manscaping and I will concede to the fact that one of the benefits of this intimate grooming routine is that, yes, it does make your cock look a little more cocky. But that isn't the reason I do it. I do it because tidiness is next to Godliness and as I am sure someone has suggested before, few people go down there with the intention of flossing. And if they do, well then that's just ineffective (but fun!) dental hygiene.

Back to those emails - usually I just ignore them, because after five days or something like that, Hotmail automatically deletes them. But yesterday I got a little curious. I took a look at one entitled "Be A Larger Man" quietly hoping to see pictures of naked dudes. Admittedly I got this. But although the guys were really cute and buff the potent sexual illusion was ruined by the fact that they were all using cock pumps, each of them wearing to varying degrees what appeared to be sheer rampant ecstacy on their faces.

Now physics was never really my bag, man, but I know enough to realise that the vacuum used to make your cock bigger is only a temporary (and potentially dangerous) fix and the action alone would doubtfully cause the immensely pleasurable sensations that the ad guys seem to be experiencing. Maybe someone was providing each of them with an intimate tickle with a feather at the moment the shot was taken, which they later Photoshopped out.

The thing that I don't get is that while yes, I will put my hands up to subscribing to certain types of websites, I have never subscribed to anything that would lead anyone to believe that I have "size issues". Feeling rather deflated (sorry - couldn't resist) I decided to send one of these companies an email stating that unless they could offer me free pictures and MPEG's of really, really great gay porn (a free lifetime subscription to the afore mentioned site would be super!) they should take me off their mailing lists sooner than immediately. How organised of me! I love complaining and it's the thing I miss most about having a career.

This afternoon I told a friend who works in IT all about the problem and what I had done and to my horror I was informed that these companies actually act on those kind of complaints by basically sending you even more unsolicited crap. Great. Why can't I ever get the kinds of brilliant and genuine unsolicited email that my friends get? You know the ones - "You're our millionth customer and you've won 75 trillion gazillion dollars!!! Claim now!"

A few of my friends seem to be jumping the boat and going over to Gmail so maybe I should follow suit. One of the great things about Gmail, I am reliably informed, as that you get a really sizeable inbox. Not that I need a sizeable inbox, you understand.

La nuit

Whenever I have had a friend who has been out of work for a while I have always mercilessly berrated them for sitting around on their lazy asses all day long and not getting out into the City, not only to look for a job, but to take in the many and varied cultural delights that London has to offer. London! It's like an orgy for the senses - avante garde dance, a deep appreciation for fashion, brilliant theatre and fine cuisine. How can you not throw yourself into it with gusto?

But of course, as you all know, for a while now the shoe has been on the other foot and it is now me who is un-em-ploy-ed. And all of those things cost money. So sitting around on my ass seems sensible.

Not working for a significant amount of time does weird things to you that no one ever really talks about. One of these is that your body clock goes to hell. You don't get up early in the morning for a simple reason, that being you don't have to get up early! So even though every night you go to to bed with the intention of getting up early and starting the day as you would if you actually had a job to go to, when the alarm goes off at 8.30am it is quickly flung across the room. Since the beginning of the month I have got up before 9am only once.

The effect of this late rising is that you don't get tired until about 3am. All my life, I've always thought that the time between 1am and say 6am was kind of like a no-man's land: everyone is asleep and the world is really quiet. It's a bit sinister. It's one of the worst things about insomnia - waking up and knowing that you are really, really alone. But in the last couple of months I have really made my peace with those five hours. This has helped by a little bit of non-human company, in the form of a family of foxes who live in the bushes just beyond our balcony at the back of the apartment. Whenever I go out for a late night cigarette I invariably see one of them. Sometimes I whistle and they look up at me, totally fearlessly. Cool foxes.

But I think the real reason that I have become so au fait with night is because I can appreciate it for what it really is - peace and quiet. I am a country boy - born and raised. I grew up in the kind of place where the sky is literally teaming with stars at night and it is always so quiet. Both of which you rarely get here. There is always noise and there is always too much light.

But I've found a little bit of that in London now. At about 2.30am. It's cold, quiet, some of the streetlights have gone out, foxes are playing and I can sit and puff on Marlboro Lights and blow smoke rings that gently float off the balcony towards the trees.

It's kind of solipsistic in a way and I think I like it.

On a completely different subject I chickened out. I didn't take the gay porn back. My friend Matt told me off for being a pussy, but Matt is a very different animal to me. He would, without any embarrassment, go in with all gun's blazing and probably not only would he get an exchange, but also a free dildo and a blow job from the assistant for his trouble.

Maybe I'll pluck up the courage tomorrow.

Gay porn, illness and a strange coincidence

Coincidences rarely happen to me and this one is worthy of a blog post. I swear it's true!

I have the flu. Not a snotty, coughy, running eyes "cold", which people often incorrectly name "flu", but actual flu. By this I mean aching limbs, shivering fits, sore throat and headaches. I have had the central heating on constant and the fake coal gas fire in the living room set to "flame thrower".

However, there are some benefits to being ill. I wrote about it here once before, but being ill for me means that I can heavily indulge myself in the kind of guilty pleasures that I normally berate myself for. As the old adage goes - "A little bit of what you fancy does you good!"

I little bit of what I fancied was spending the majority of Saturday night and Sunday daytime lying under a duvet on the sofa drooling over Adam Brody and Tom Welling in back to back episodes of Smallville and The OC. Who says being ill sucks? I did venture out of the house for a few hours with Wayne in the evening to go and see Closer, but in order to stop shaking enough to button up my jeans I had to heavily dose myself up with paracetamol. I probably should have stayed in really, but Clive Owen was seductively beckoning me. About half way through the movie (which I LOVED) I began to feel like crap again and by the time I had got home I was shivering so much that I was a bit like a vibrator. Um. Only not.

Anyhoo, if I'm honest, for the time that I was suffering on the sofa I wasn't being completely faithful to Adam and Tom, as I was also checking out the archives of some of my favourite blogs. One of the posts I came across was this one. You should go and read it now and then come back because it will make the rest of this post make sense and help you understand the coincidence.

You're back? Brilliant, hilarious and cringe worthy huh? Now where was I?

Oh yes. This morning I felt a lot better which was quite fortuitous as I had an 11am job interview with a small PR agency in Soho. When the interview was over I started walking back down towards Leicester Square tube and on the way passed Prowler, a kind of upmarket gay sex shop. "Sale!" and "50% off!" signs were plastered all over the windows which appealed to me for a couple of reasons. The first was because I am currently financially insolvent. The second was that I have been recently lamenting the fact that my porn collection has become a little tired. Just like any movie, watch it too many times and it all starts to get a bit samey. I did borrow some good stuff off a friend, but I had to give it back.

So I ventured forth and quickly decided to purchase this one. It might surprise some of you that while I will, without compunction, discuss the most intimate and intricate details of my sex life at great length and depth (length and depth - tee hee!) I do come over slightly coy when having to buy porn or other "objets de sexe" from total strangers. I know it's completely irrational, expecially when you consider that the person you are buying it from spends their entire day selling the stuff, surrounded by enormous latex phalluses, standing directly underneath a giant plasma screen featuring muscle-bound guys endlessly going at it.

Anyway, the deal goes through without hitch (and without my having to make eye contact with the assistant) and soon enough I am on the tube excitedly riding back to Clapham in order for me to view my new purchase.

When I get back home, I pop the disc in the player, set myself up all nice and comfortable on the sofa and press play. The video opens with the two main characters chatting and walking into this building and everything seems to be going smoothly. As with all gay porn, the script is quality and the acting, award winning.

The initial build up is nice and quick and soon enough the first scene is well into full "swing". Only, to my dismay, there was a problem - certain repeated physical movements are, er, rather rapid. More rapid than they are supposed to be. There is this thing going on with the screen where everything is jarring, kind of like I've speeded the movie up. So I jumped to the next scene and sure enough, the same thing. So I ejected the disc, wiped off any dust and tried it again. Still, the same problem. So I eject the disc once more and try it on my iBook. Yeah, you guessed it.

Now I was in a quandary. By this point I had seen enough of the movie to want to draw things to a, er, conclusion. But I didn't know whether I could manage getting to that conclusion without being supremely irritated by the fact that everything was jumping about. And not jumping about in a good way.

Somehow I managed.

Anyway, in more financially solvent times, I may have been inclined to just bin the offending item. But as I am poor, I can't justify being quite so frivolous with my money (and for those of you who say that it could be considered more frivolous to buy porn while on the breadline ... you have obviously never been a red blooded gay man! Besides, it was on sale, remember?)

So while it won't be quite as soul destroyingly embarrassing as Faustus's experience, I will have to take the DVD back tomorrow and explain the fault and ask for an exchange. I hope they don't ask me to explain the fault ("Well you know when they, like, do stuff? Well, there is a fault in the picture quality that makes the stuff seem faster than it should be.")

But what if there is a problem with the batch of the movie and I end up having to take it back again? Maybe I should just pick another title. Only there wasn't another title I wanted that was on sale.

Oh, sod it.

In other news, Clive Owen won the Best Supporting Actor Golden Globe for Closer.



I've loved him ever since I saw him years ago in Close My Eyes. Who needs porn when there are pictures of Clive?

Goddamn!

I just read this and got very, very excited. For a second.

Then I was very, very dissapointed.

Death and comments

Two fucked up things happened to me today...

1) I lost all your comments here on my blog
2) An errant bagel almost cost me my life

I know that you are more concerned about the first fucked up thing, so I'll begin there.

If you have been with me for a while you will notice that my blog has slowly been undergoing some beautification and streamlining. This is the result of me teaching myself some of the rudimentary elements of the HTML / CSS code that makes up our blogs. I chose a template (inspired by my friend YoYo Bunny) and I tinkered with it - changed the colors, the alignment etc. But the thing that I most wanted to do was to insert the title logo I had designed on my iBook at the top of the page. I literally spent hours trying to work out how to do it, but to no avail. In the end fellow blogger Billy gave me the proper pointers and hey presto - my blog now has the lovely pastel blue, lavender mix of fonts that you can see above.

I was pretty much satisfied after that, but then I remembered that many of you fellow bloggers have that Haloscan comments system on your blogs, and as Andy would say to Lou, in Little Britain, "I want that one!"

Haloscan is really cool, because once you have registered you can actually select this option where the code for the comments system is automatically installed into your template for you. AUTOMATIC INSTALLATION I TELL YOU! And it worked, which was great until I realised that it had deleted every single comment that anyone has ever left for me here.

I almost cried. In my mind the comments on peoples blogs are of equal importance to the content of the authors post. It's the thing that really brings this whole blogging thing to life and creates a forum for discussion. But the thing that really upset me is that many of the comments that people have left me were kind of personal and really from the heart. And now they are no more. Gone to blog heaven.

So I now ask you, all of you, to make up for this sad loss by commenting as much as possible on each of my posts, using my new gorgeous commenting facility. Merci bien.

Right, onto my near death experience.

As you may know, since March last year when I OD'd (another near death experience - I'm not making light of that, btw, but it's a fact) I have been suffering with a paralysed vocal chord. When I arrived at the hospital I wasn't breathing and so the ER staff had to intubate me very quickly, which damaged my vocal chord. I am having surgery in the next couple of months to correct it, but in the meantime I have a partially obstructed throat, which means that I get breathless quite easily. I also have a wicked cough - something akin to a walrus barking.

So I worked out (focused on my chest today - prior to last March I had a fine pair of disco tits and I am trying to get them back to their previous, glorious state). The workout was followed by a five minute sesh on the hydrotherapy bed and a spell in the steam room. After I got changed, I went downstairs to the Bagel Factory, ordered a bacon and egg bagel and a protein shake and then took my grub to a table to eat while reading a hugely bitchy article penned by Julie Birchell in The Times about Germaine Greer's appearance on Big Brother.

After a couple of minutes of eating my bagel a bit of bacon goes down the wrong way. I involuntarily coughed, the way you do when something goes down the wrong way, except that every time I coughed I expelled air, which I very soon realised I couldn't retrieve - like I could blow out but I couldn't breath in again. I think it was to do with the partial obstruction of my throat and the bit of bacon or whatever it was.

If any of you suffer from asthma you'll know how scary it is when you can't draw breath. For about ten seconds I was freaking out - I literally couldn't breath in. So in the end I had to get down on the floor, on all fours, and use all the muscles in my chest to force my lungs to intake air (thank God for all those push ups!) If getting down onto the floor was not enough to draw people’s attention to me then the noise that my chest and throat made certainly was. I can’t even describe how horrible it sounded and how loud it was. The woman from behind the bagel counter came running round to the table to see if I was ok. By this time I was just about managing to get enough air, but not enough to talk, so she ran to get first aid. Fortunately by the time the first aid person got to me, I was just about breathing and able to say that I was going to be ok.

Now incase you were wondering I can reliably inform you that yes, it is possible to experience profound terror and acute embarrassment at the same time. But do you want to know how I was really, really brave? When I had regained my breath (and my composure) I didn't make a run for it. I simply sat down, cleared my throat and carried on reading Julie Birchell and eating the rest of my bagel.

Which, by the way, was yummy...

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?)