Tuesday, March 22, 2005

A short lesson in PR and a potentially big mistake

Last week I was feeling a little undervalued and generally overlooked at work. I know I have only been at the agency for a relatively small amount of time (a month and a half) and in any new job anyone has a fair bit to prove. But while I might be impatient at the best of times, the fact remains that I have worked in PR for nine years and without wanting to sound immodest I have a really broad brand marketing experience and I assumed that was one of the reasons I was employed for the job. Not only have I created and implemented pure media relations campaigns, but I have also devised and deployed strategy and PR mechanics for local markets to implement by themselves in Europe, North America, South America, the Far East and Australasia. And I have done this for some of the biggest, most iconic brands in the world including one rather famous cola manufacturer. No. Not that one - the other one.

As far as I was concerned the straw that broke the camels back was when I happened to learn, last week, that my company was pitching (today) for a luxury car marque. My agency (and all the people involved in the pitch) has no experience on working on car marques, whereas I do. In my time I have worked on [insert famous car marque] and [insert famous car marque] in the United Kingdom, and [insert famous car marque] in the US. As far as consumer publicity campaigns for car marques go, it’s safe to say that I know my stuff.

Now admittedly I am somewhat predisposed to jumping to the wrong conclusion. I assumed that there must be some dark power play going on behind the scenes, hence the reason behind my boss not inviting me to contribute towards the campaign strategy and platform and an even darker motive as to I was not asked to demonstrate my knowledge of the automotive industry at the pitch itself.

Of course the real reason that I wasn’t asked to do either of these things was because the pitch is highly confidential and I shouldn’t have actually known about it in the first place. The other reason is that my main boss (the company owner) didn’t actually interview me for my position and therefore had no idea I had all this relevant experience. It was only when I told her that I knew about the pitch and wanted to help out using my knowledge that she asked for my help.

Now, marketing directors are very aware that editorially placed, third party brand endorsement is at least three times more effective at influencing consumer purchasing decisions than advertising ever will be. But because in PR there are fewer overheads (no media buying, focus groups, creatives, etc) brand directors know that they can get away with paying their incumbent and prospective PR agencies a considerable degree less than they would have to pay their ad agencies to get three times the equivalent page space or air time. In actual fact in PR the overheads are so low that for some of my current clients return on investment (editorial vs. advertising space cost x total campaign value) is in some cases as high as 100:1. To the uninitiated, that is what we in PR call “a bit of a bargain”.

So, marketing directors absolutely get the value of PR, but won’t cough up in any significant way for it. Well some of them will. Most of them will try it on first. So getting back to this car company – my boss first shows me the brief we received in order for us to prepare for the pitch and write the document. As per usual the brief was extremely broad and the allocated budget was tighter than a ducks arse. But this company is so prestigious that they know we will take any amount of money to work on it. It’s kind of like God telling you that, yes, you can go out with Brad Pitt for life, but you’ll have to deal with the fact that he’s only ever going to fuck you up the arse with not so much as a simple reach around.

Actually, I could live with that.

Anyway, anyway – aside form the broadness of the brief and the fact that the budget was small a salient part of our remit was to create a campaign platform that would, in addition to speaking to the core target audience, also address, in a relevant manner, the Asian market.

The plan that my boss showed me, which she had written over the course of two weeks, was actually very well thought through, despite the fact that we had no real market intelligence or brand guidelines to work with. I liked most of the ideas and the ones that I didn’t think were so strong I gave constructive feedback for on how to make them work more effectively. Finally the suggested campaign platform completely took into consideration the Asian market.

But I had a question for my boss. I asked her - was she sure that when the marque briefed us to address the Asian market that they were talking about the Indian / Pakistani market, which she had taken the term “Asian” as referring to. Because in my experience at least, any campaign where I was asked to speak to an Asian market, was always referring to Far Eastern territories – Chinese, Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese. Not Indian or Pakistani. My boss, who unlike me, has never worked on a Far Eastern campaign, assured me that if they had wanted to address a Far Eastern audience they would have definitely asked for an “Oriental” themed campaign – a term I have personally never heard used by a brand manager.

Now I will admit that I might have been wrong and she was right – but the only way to ascertain that would be to go back to the potential client and get them to clarify exactly which territories they were referring to. But my boss didn’t do that. Even though, in my mind, that would have been both logical and actually critical.

Today we went to the potential clients office and presented the pitch document. We presented well, they smiled and nodded a lot and at the end they told us that they recognized that we had collectively put a lot of effort and thought into our ideas.

But there was one thing. The one area of our pitch that they did not comment on was how they felt we had answered the part of the brief that asked us to address the Asian market (or as we had put it in the pitch, the “Indian and Pakistani” market). When my boss bought this element of the document up and asked them what their thoughts were we were met with a couple of seconds of stony silence and a few awkward looks. The response? “Yeah, it was great. Yup – good ideas.”

And the thing was, they weren’t good ideas. They were GREAT ideas. But only great ideas if we were indeed supposed to have been specifically talking to the Indian and Pakistani communities. Because if we were supposed to have been talking about anyone else we would have looked like fucking idiots.

I have a sneaking suspicion we might be the latter. And I think we might find out pretty soon.

One day someone will actually listen to me. But until then, I’m not holding my breath.

Saturday, March 19, 2005

Spring is sprung

With a slightly mussed up, bleary eyed stagger I just went out onto the balcony to drink my morning cup of coffee and Spring excitedly leapt out at me and screamed in my face, "I'M BACK!!!"

The tree in the yard down below has little tiny, baby buds on it and just by its base there is a little, lone daffodil. The little birdies are singing happily and the old man face Sun in the sky is shining, unobstructed by a single cloud. It was like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Even Sam, the neighbour's dog, seemed to be walking around sniffing things with a tiny sense of awe. Before peeing on them.

Yesterday it was so warm I went to work without a jacket for the first time this year. Today I think I may *gasp* go out just wearing a T-shirt!

What a difference a year makes

...or so the phrase, er, doesn't go.

It was exactly a year ago today that I ran out of the three months worth of prescription Ativan I'd pretty much become addicted to and had knocked back over the course of six days. This bought me out of the practically catatonic state I’d been in and my newfound sobriety totally freaked me out. So I tried to kill myself.

(Interestingly I found a site featuring guidelines on the use of Ativan. In the “warnings” section it states that Ativan should not be administered to patients displaying the characteristics of a severe depression. I’m not trying to shy away from taking responsibility for the things I did, but I can’t say that it doesn’t make me a little bit angry that I was ever given that drug.)

I've talked about it a lot before here, so I won't labour the point any more than I have to. Just suffice it to say that, 365 days later, I am in a very different place. But the best thing is that I don't feel either really ecstatically happy or desperately un-happy. I feel calm. I've come to believe that a pervading sense of calm is a highly virtuous emotion.

Today, especially, feels like a good day to live.

Friday, March 18, 2005

A good reason to work for my company

One of the great things about my job is that every lunchtime, at around 1pm, I get to stand up and yell out to my team, "I'M GOING TO GET MY LUNCH FROM FAT FUCK. DOES ANYONE WANT ANYTHING?"

And I'm sort of not lying...

CIMG1006

See?

Oh, the hilarity never wears off. For me at least. Can't speak for my team.

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Fashion "Don't" - Men's Capri Pants

38967item1

I mentioned last week that I am reading Will in the World: How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare by Stephan Greenblatt. One of the reasons cited in the book as to why Shakespeare was so great was because he was simply too good a playwright for the textual cavities in his plays to be the result of some kind of author's oversight or ineptitude.

Greenblatt reasons that Shakespeare frequently omitted explanations on purpose to create an illusion of metatextual depth. For example, why does Hamlet pretend to be mad? Why does Lago hate Othello? Why does Lear make his daughters do language love tests? We are never told. Apparently Shakespeare ignores the perfectly logical explanation in his original sources (The Gesta Danorum, Hecatommithi and Holinshed, respectively), so that he can demonstrate that the play is a totally perfect snapshot of a fully realised world that can be viably manifested beyond the confines of any of his work.

In other words, Shakespeare's apparent mistakes are the distinguishing mark of his genius.

Men's Capri Pants, however, are just a mistake.

Alistair is in the next room...

...naked, my housemate reliably informs me.

She came into the living room just to tell me that. Then she skipped off to the kitchen to grill sausages (the bitch has a one-track, freaking mind).

I hate her.

I love him.

Monday, March 14, 2005

Sir Alec Kenobi

I'm very aware that Sir Alec Guinness was blessed with a wide ranging acting talent that evoked both gravity and flair. But somehow his role in the Star Wars movies has tainted my appreciation of those skills.

Yesterday afternoon I was watching Dr. Zhivago on TV. Whenever he spoke using that powerfully commanding voice I found myself naturally expecting him to say something like, "General Yevgraf Zhivago? Now that's a name I've not heard for a long time. A long time."

Saturday, March 12, 2005

Attn: Barbara Broccoli - Eon Productions

Re: Suggested treatment for new 007 movie

Dear Ms. Broccoli

As I have been a fan of his for many years now, I am very excited to learn that Golden Globe winner and Oscar nominee, Clive Owen, is being considered to replace Pierce Brosnan as James Bond, 007. I was also interested to learn that Eon Productions and Sony Pictures are keen to make some changes to the Bond formula, bringing the franchise up to date.

With this in mind, coupled with the possibility that Owen may be starring in the new vehicle, I have penned a suggested treatment. Once you have read it I would be very keen to hear your thoughts. Please find the treatment outlined below.

Yours sincerely

Christopher Esq.


WORKING TITLE - BOND 21

Introduction
Through the barrel of a gun, we observe Bond (Clive) - shirtless, toned and sweaty - walking across a white background. He spins around to face us and with a few choice put-downs really hurts the feelings of the unseen villain holding the gun. Big, fat tears roll down the screen.

The opening sequence
Bond attends a fabulous leather-themed South Beach circuit party. After intercepting a seemingly innocuous microchip from a dead leather-daddy in a backroom Bond avoids certain death at the hands of an evil henchman who goes by the name Thrust. Unaware that this will not be the last time he will encounter Thrust, Bond escapes out to sea in a small pod helmed by a beautiful, blonde, buff secret service hottie. Bond cracks open the Bollinger and proceeds to make a proper seaman out of the hottie. By fucking him.

The title sequence
Kylie croons the movie's theme-tune while dancing, flexing, naked muscle boys, S&M paraphernalia and grooming products float artily around the screen.

Bond is briefed by M
In the early hours of the morning Bond staggers out of Crash in London's Vauxhall and walks the twenty or so yards across the road to MI6 where Thruppencehalfpenny (Orlando Bloom) and Bond exchange several unsubtle innuendos about the tightness of Bond's clubwear. Because this is gay 007, they make good on the innuendos by actually fucking. They are impatiently interrupted by M (still Judy Dench) who buzzes through on the intercom. After Bond compliments a delighted M on her fierce Thierry Mugler suit, M explains to Bond that the leather-daddy he procured the microchip from was an employee of a famous French haute couture fashion designer called Max De Cherrypop and that the chip is one of two stolen from the US government – they can control an array of secret space weapons, each capable of immense mass destruction. Before Bond sets off on his mission M sternly gives him a warning. "Don't do too much bumming, 007."

Bond collects his gadgets
Bond visits the MI6 dungeon and receives the latest gadgets from Q (Ian McKellan). Q kits Bond out with a pink iPod Mini (which explodes after playing 60 seconds of Diana Ross's Chain Reaction), a retro Keith Haring Swatch (which can create a tear in the very fabric of space time) and a pack of condoms (which can prevent communicable diseases present in bodily fluids being exchanged through anal sex). Bond cracks a rubbish joke. Q tells him to stop being so immature.

Bond heads out
After seeing Bond's plane touch down, we are treated to panoramic views of the exotic location of Mykonos, all set to a classical version of the Kylie soundtrack.

Bond meets the villain
Bond attends a fabulous white-themed circuit party at the beachfront home of Max De Cherrypop (Richard Gere, adopting a thoroughly convincing French accent). Max immediately spots Bond and makes a beeline for him. A breathtakingly cute waiter passes by and Bond orders a drink. "Cosmopolitan on the rocks. Not frozen." Bond and Max exchange loaded comments that suggest neither one trusts the other. But they fuck anyway.

Bond uncovers some information
Bond snoops (wearing only a pair of tighty-whities) and locates Max's secret study and stylish Apple computer system. He instantly gains access to heavily encrypted computer files and deduces that Max has the second stolen microchip and is in control of the US government owned space weapons. He also discovers that they are set to fire at gay villages across the globe, including West Hollywood, Chelsea and Old Compton Street. Bond is vexed. Max seemed quite gay when Bond was bumming him a couple of hours ago. Why would he want to kill his fellow gayers?

Bond meets the Bond Boy
An intruder interrupts Bond from pondering the extent of Max's insane plan. After an extended and impressive Kung Fu and wrestling fight sequence both Bond and intruder end up on the floor, panting heavily. Bond is surprised to see that the intruder is the breathtakingly cute waiter from the circuit party (played by Adam Brody). After a heated and highly flirtatious discussion (and another wrestle) Bond learns that the waiter is actually a CIA spy called Lucky Bender. Lucky has been assigned to find out who it was who stole the prototype microchip and get it back. Lucky asks our hero who he is and 007 gets to utter the immortal line, "Bond. James Bond." Realising that they are on the same side they pledge allegiance to one another. Then they fuck.

Bond and Lucky get into a fight
Bond and Lucky attempt to escape Max's beachfront mansion. Lucky urges caution but Bond is too cocky and barely escapes the violent advances of several tweaked out muscle daddies. Lucky shouts "James! Be careful!" a lot.

Bond drives fast
Bond and Lucky procure a bright red Jeep Wrangler and an extended chase scene occurs involving incredible stunts and wanton destruction. Lucky "tuts" and rolls his eyes a lot because Bond is driving irresponsibly. Bond pulls over and they have their first argument.

Bond and Lucky find Max's secret base
Despite having no hard facts or solid information Bond and Lucky deduce that Max's secret base is hidden inside a remote mountain in Guatemala. To get to the base Bond and Lucky must hike through thick rainforest, wearing only Abercrombie cargo pants and practical yet stylish hiking boots. Both lament the fact that it is unlikely that there will be a fabulous, themed circuit party awaiting them at their destination. As they struggle on through the dense foliage we get to see lovingly extended shots of their sweaty torsos and arms.

Bond battles Max's dogs
Max sees Bond and Lucky enter the secret base on CCTV and sets his muscle daddies on them. Bond and Lucky are captured and Lucky is put into a sling. Rather than just killing him outright, Max leaves Bond to die a certain death by being eaten alive by Max's vicious sharpeis, in a deep pit from which there is no escape. Max continues with his plans but not before telling Bond his motive. It turns out that the gay boys of the world, a notoriously fickle bunch, have stopped buying Max De Cherrypop fashions in favour of more critically acclaimed designers. Therefore Max has decided that all gays must die. Bond says "But they are your brothers!" to which Max responds by laughing like the crazed lunatic that he is.

Bond escapes
Bond tries to blow the sharpeis up with the iPod, but he can't figure out how to use it and ends up playing Jennifer Lopez by mistake, which just pisses the sharpeis off even more. Lucky shouts out to Bond that he should use the retro Keith Haring Swatch to go back in time, which Bond does.

Bond creates an army
Bond goes to DTPM and rounds up a bunch of gayers to assist him in the vicious battle against Max's evil henchmen. Upon confronting the muscle daddies and seeing their really dated Max De Cherrypop outfits, Bond's gay army burst into peals of laughter, which makes the muscle daddies really embarrassed. Eventually Max's men are pacified when Bond's army stops laughing and offers some practical, sensible fashion advice. Realising they have been duped by Max they remove the unfashionable garbs until they are naked. Some of Bond's men and Max's men start getting it on.

Bond wins
Bond rescues Lucky and the two of them remotely disable the array of space weapons by destroying the stolen microchip. Then they take on Max who is now alone. Lucky strains his shoulder, which has been playing up ever since he fell off the climbing wall at Crunch. Bond takes on Max alone. After an extended fight scene Bond finally has Max cornered and threatens to shoot him. Max tells Bond that he knows he won't shoot because after they fucked Bond told Max that he loved him. Bond says that he only said that because he was tweaking out on X. Max dies of a broken heart. Bond sheds a single tear.

Max's secret base avoids destruction
Bond finds Lucky who has miraculously recovered from his shoulder strain. Bond wants to destroy the secret base, but Lucky convinces him not to because an interior designer has obviously gone to a lot of effort to make the base look pretty and the lighting is very flattering. Bond agrees and rigs his iPod Mini up to the computer system and everyone has a fabulous secret-base themed circuit party.

Final battle with Thrust
Thrust reappears. He is upset at Bond for killing Max by breaking his heart, as Max was Thrust's mentor and they also used to have quite a lot of hot sex. Bond and Thrust fight, but Thrust gets the better of Bond and starts to throttle him, muttering "Bitch!" a lot, under his breath. Bond escapes a certain death when Lucky shoots Thrust in the back of the head.

Max's secret base is destroyed anyway
Just as we think the action and suspense is over, the iPod starts playing Chain Reaction and Bond still can't figure out how to operate it properly. Bond manages to evacuate everyone from the base but suddenly Bond and Lucky become trapped by a large piece of rigging and realise that they might die. Bond notices Max's escape pod and he and Lucky buckle themselves in. With a few seconds to spare they are blasted through the top of the secret mountain base. Beneath them we see the mountain explode.

Bond is located
Back in the MI6 dungeon M asks Q to locate Bond's whereabouts. Q patches in to a surveillance satellite and zooms it's sights into a section of ocean. Eventually we see Bond and Lucky on a life raft. They are fucking. "What is 007 doing?" enquires M, to which Q dryly responds, "I'm not sure ma'am, but it would appear that he's getting lucky."

JAMES BOND WILL RETURN!

Friday, March 11, 2005

Me, not looking my best

Last night I went out for dinner with my friends Richard and Lynda. I see Richard all the time but I haven't seen Lynda probably since sometime in July last year, so we had lots to catch up on.

At one point during dinner Lynda exclaims "Oh my God! How is your jaw now?" She was referring to the unfortunate incident that happened to me last September when I broke my jaw (if you want to know the specifics check out the September 13 post last year in my archives. I would put a link, but my links system for each day doesn't seem to want to work).

I explained that I am much better now and that the only real reminder is a few buggered up back teeth and a skewed bite.

Then Richard starts telling Lynda how hideously deformed and ultimately GROSS I looked the day after it happened when he, along with Drew, Kate and Vix, came to laugh at visit me in hospital.

"Infact," he gleefully exclaimed, "I think I still have a picture in my phone!"

picture

Attractive, wasn't I?

Given that I have had the courage to put that picture up on my blog, never let it be said ever again that I am even remotely vain!

(And what is my hair doing?!)

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Another great date...

His name is Alistair. He’s 34 and while he looks his age he still has that naughty, twinkly-eyed, boyish (but very chiselled) charm thing going on. His hair is dark brown and cropped fairly short, but you can see that it’s starting to go salt and pepper grey at the sides which I’ve always found really attractive. Then there are his intensely blue eyes, great skin, full kissable lips - the list goes on.

Bodywise, we’re talking total rugby player (he was actually wearing a rugby top) - big and muscled, but not defined. When he leans forward over the table to talk to you all you can focus on are the mountains of his chest and biceps, stretching through the cotton of his top.

Last night Alistair came over to the flat for a late dinner – chicken breast wrapped in Parma ham and potatoes roasted with basil and olives. He’s very intense and I kind of bookish, I guess. When you talk to him you're totally confident that he's completely focused on what you’re saying. And then, just for a few seconds, you can see that he’s quietly considering what he’s going to say in return. Have you ever noticed how when someone does that it makes you really listen to whatever they subsequently say so much more seriously?

“Hmm. That’s a really interesting point. Put like that I guess I can see that whale hunting isn’t so bad after all.”

Anyway, we shared stories of our work, our youth, our families – some sad and some funny. And we laughed and laughed (oh, his laugh!) until there were tears in our eyes and the muscles in our stomachs ached.

And the best thing? He doesn’t drink alcohol! Only tea!

It was the perfect evening. And as we all know, there is only one perfect way to end the perfect evening.

“Alistair, er, shall we, er…?” (With head, gestures in direction of bedroom)

“Erm, sure. So anyway, it was really nice to meet you Christopher! Maybe see you soon?”

“Yeah, definitely! Great to meet you! Night Alistair! Night Victoria!”

From my seat at the kitchen table I watch them walk up the hall and disappear around the corner and into Vix’s bedroom.

She sent me a text this morning. All it said was "HUGE!"

Smug cow.

Wednesday, March 09, 2005

Uneventful tube journey

I took my seat on the southbound Northern Line train at Stockwell station. As I fished around in my man-bag to retrieve my book (finished Flaubert - am now reading "Will in the World - How Shakespeare Became Shakespeare". This is all payment to my brain for excessive Dan Brown-ing) I noticed that I had spilt some of this morning's Pret coffee down the front of my favourite pink sweater.

*relieved sigh*

And everything was right in the world.

Monday, March 07, 2005

Ok...

...this is becoming less and less funny...

This evening, on the tube, again, a man four seats down from me stood up and punched the woman, who had been stood above him, in the face. He just freaking punched her in the face! She hadn't done anything to him from what I could tell - she was just quietly reading a book. And until that moment the guy had just looked like a regular guy in his 30s.

No one hit the passenger alarm, or went to the woman's aide. I was really ashamed of myself afterwards for not doing anything. Clearly very scared and shocked the woman just scrambled down the carriage, through the people, while the man stayed where he was and just glared at her.

At the next station she got off the train. Then the doors closed, the train moved away and the guy sat down. As if nothing had happened. Gradually people started getting up and moving away from him, obviously scared for their own safety.

It was one of the strangest things I have ever seen. And it was definitely scary. And crazy. Animals do that kind of thing, just going for each other - but not humans. Not like that, do they? He didn't even look drunk. Just kind of wild eyed for only a few moments. And then normal.

I don't know what the hell is going on in this town...

Happy Day, Mom!

CIMG0999

I was a good son and took my Mom for lunch. When she offered to pay for the bill I let her. What? She wanted to, ok? Who am I to deny my Mom anything she wants to do on Mother's Day?

Sunday, March 06, 2005

A cruel irony

It's just been realised for me that if a hot guy appears in a gay lifestyle magazine, it more than likely means that he's straight.

Saturday, March 05, 2005

Throat Update

vocal photo

“Oh my God! What are all those lines in my throat? WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME?” I mock-exclaimed as the doctor handed me this printout.

With grave seriousness he responded, “Our printer isn’t working very well at the moment.”

Some of you are aware that I have a partially paralysed set of vocal chords. Yesterday I finally got to see the throat surgeon who is going to correct the problem. But before I go into the outcome of the appointment, would you like a little anatomy lesson? Well regardless, you’re going to get one anyway.

Observe:

(a) A healthy pair of vocal chords (shaded areas)
(a)

(b) A partially paralysed pair of vocal chords
(b)

Vocal chords perform two functions. Despite their name, our vocal chords raison d’etre is actually not to help us speak. That’s an unexpected bonus. Their most important function is to stop food and drink going down into our lungs. When you swallow those shaded areas (the white bits in the top right of my photo) close together, sealing off your windpipe.

The problem with my vocal chords is not that they don’t close together, but that they don’t fully open up after I have swallowed and move fully when I speak. This lack of movement has resulted in two problems. The first is that my airway is restricted by almost three quarters. This means that I get out of breath really quickly when I do anything aerobic (including walking) or when I talk for too long. The second is that my vocal range is really limited. My voice is very deep and gravelly and I certainly can’t reach the notes required to sing (not that I could before anyway). As I mentioned before, this has been the only positive thing, as I get lots of comments now on how sexy my voice sounds.

The surgeon told me that in order to alleviate these problems he has to laser away part of the vocal chord with the least amount of movement, which is the one on the right. This will give me more breathing capacity. But take too much away and it could mean that not only does my voice change again (it would become more “whispery”) but that also there would be a greater likelihood of my coughing and spluttering when I eat and drink.

Because the procedure is irreversible he wants to do it a bit at a time. This way we can see how I heal, how my breathing improves, ensure that my voice doesn’t change too much again. It also means that we can limit the chance of the coughing / spluttering thing.

(c) This is how my vocal chords will look after the procedures:
(c)

The only problem with this is that I will have to have at least three separate surgeries, under general anesthetic, to fix it over the course of this year. Looks like 2005 is going to have as many hospital visits for me as last year did! The first op is on April 22.

I’m not going to say that I’m not disappointed that the procedure isn’t going to be quite as straight forward and risk free as I was hoping it would be. Yesterday I was pretty pissed off and upset. But after thinking about it I have to concede to one important thing:

Had I not taken the overdose last March I would not have had to have the emergency intubation procedure that caused the damage to my vocal chords. While that procedure may have provided me with a lot of grief and hassle over the last year, it saved my life. It's a small price to pay for my still being here to tell the tale.

Friday, March 04, 2005

The tube passenger from Hell

What with news stand splatting and viciously mean old women, my journeys to and from work have become more and more bizarre. Perhaps they should form the crux of a new comedy skit show:

(Radio Times listings)

Thursday, March 3, 2005
BBC3 – 10.00pm
In which our hero even manages to screw up selecting a seat on a tube carriage.

This evening I went to a magazine party. It was crap. The champagne was warm, the canapés were stale and there was a live band, the type of which you would hire for a wedding reception (“That’s the way, uh-huh, uh-huh, I like it, uh-huh, uh-huh…") And absolutely zero cute boys. By 9pm I’d totally worked the room, at least twice, and decided that it was safe for me to chip off home in time to watch ER and Fool Around With My Boyfriend.

The tube wasn’t that packed. But for some stupid reason, I unconsciously sat next to some guy (not a hottie), despite the fact that there were plenty of solitary seat choices.

So, I was buried deep in my book (“Oh, why, dear God, did I marry him?”) when the guy next to me coughed. It was a cough so deep, hacking and penetrating that it forced me to abandon my reading and vividly imagine viscous phlegm slowly slipping down a pinky-white mottled windpipe.

After a moment or so I’d managed to erase that nasty vision from my mind and was back in Flaubert’s world of high romance, voracious spending and wicked adultery. But only for a few moments as my neighbour decided to spark up a Malboro red.

On the tube.

By this point I’d totally abandoned all hope of discovering whether Emma Bovary would get a good seeing to by the Viscount d’Andervilliers as a result of “accidentally” dropping her fan on the ballroom floor. Instead all I could consider was that my fellow commuters (who were all averting their gaze in a way that said that they were 100% focused on what was happening to my right) might think that the issue sat next to me was my boyfriend. Because, despite the fact that there were many vacant seats left, right and opposite us we were indeed sat together.

Fortunately the excruciating “I can’t believe this is happening 30cm away from me”-ness was short lived as, after only a few puffs, the-most-hateful-fellow-Underground-traveler-ever decided he’d had enough of his cigarette and dropped it on the floor, treading it out with his Reebok classics.

And the rancid fog (literal and otherwise) that I had been immersed in for the past few moments began to lift.

That was until he pulled a small brown bottle from his jacket pocket, unscrewed it and bought it up to his nose, drawing a couple of powerful inhalations through both of his nostrils.

Oh God, I thought. He’s actually sniffing poppers on a tube train.

By this point I'd experienced about as much as I could handle. I closed my book, picked up my bag and strode off, disgustedly, to the end of the carriage.

Ok, I’ll admit that I shouldn't be too sanctimonious about such things. But there is a time and a place, for crying out loud!

For example, 5.30am on a Sunday morning in some randoms bedroom in Acton. Er...

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Grrrr! (Ouch!)

This morning I was walking down the King's Road, listening to the brilliant Nightmares on Wax (why, why am I always the last to know?), when I spotted this Benetton model on the side of a bus:

03b

"For heaven's sake!" I thought to myself. "How can one person have such perfect hair? I want my hair to look like that! Gianni Versace model circa 1985. Oh, and I want to have sex with him."

As I thought these things I was not aware, as the bus slowly ambled past me with the direction of my gaze and head following, that I was about to walk into an object. Of course, me being me, I couldn't just walk into any old pavement object like a lamp post or a phone box. No, no, no. I walked into a news stand. A freaking 6 x 5 ft RED news stand. And it really hurt! The part of my body that took the hardest blow was my right ear. This pushed my earphones in so hard that my ear began to bleed from inside.

(It's not entirely irrelevant for me to point out that, weirdly, the exact same thing happened to me last year, only it was a lamp post I walked into cause I'd been looking at an overflowing drain or something boring like that)

The icing on the cake was that Rob, the drop-dead-gorgeous account exec from the company's fashion department, who I have fancied pretty much from day one, was walking a few yards behind me and saw the whole thing - the lusting after the Benetton model and his hair as well as the slapstick splaying against the side of the news stand. At the time he was really sweet and actually quite concerned when he saw that I was bleeding slightly profusely.

However, once my ear had scabbed up I really just wanted to forget the whole sorry episode. But apparently I wasn't allowed to as the Gods had deemed that every time I ventured out onto the stairs Rob would also be there to not so subtly draw everyone's attention to the fact that I am a clutz with a gammy ear.

I don't fancy him anymore.

But I do fancy Benetton boy. Look! He lost his shirt!

03a

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

I might get flamed for saying this...

...but I feel more than a little sympathy for Maxine Carr.

Because of what I do, every morning I read each newspaper front-to-back (not counting sports pages, of course!) Actually, that’s a lie - I don't technically "read" the tabloids. I scan them. I do even less with the Daily Mail. I do a kind of sideways glance while barely touching it, even though I'm donning those white, latex gloves that Amanda Burton wears in Silent Witness. The two newspapers that I actually read for objective reporting are The Guardian and The Independent.

If I only read the tabloid press I would most likely be of the mind that Maxine Carr's mortal soul is doomed to burn in the eternal fires of Hades, but not before she is ripped apart, limb by limb, by some blood-thirsty, soccer-mum lynch mob. I know this, because on Thursday and Friday I had three separate conversations with friends and family who pretty much are of that mind - all of whom are devout Sun / Mirror / Mail readers.

This isn’t supposed to sound like some sort of stuffy intellectual snobbery - it really isn't supposed to come across like that. But had they read something with a few less pictures and a few more nouns and adjectives they would be a little more enlightened to certain facts. Such as, at the time of lying to the police for her lover, Carr was herself a genuinely sad, beaten down and mentally unstable victim. She was not a hideous child-killing or abusing monster the gutter press have and still are painting her as. She was never even close to a Myra Hindley or a Rose West. But these not so subtle comparisons have indeed been made, on countless occasions and, for the most part, have remained largely unchallenged.

It's also struck me that Huntley got off quite lightly really, considering that he was infact the soul homicidal maniac. I guess this is another example of a very complicated form of sexism - for what is worse than a monster, but a female monster? In fact so desperate was the media to have a reprise of the Hindley and West scenarios that at the time of the whole furor around the case it would make several completely unsupported claims which included suggesting that she concealed evidence and that it was actually her who suggested to Huntley that he should burn the girls bodies. The courts later established that these claims were wholly untrue and, at the time of lying for Huntley, that Carr was also unaware of the real extent of his crimes.

But then when has the truth ever been a valuable commodity for shifting papers?

On Friday I coaxed myself into reading the Daily Mail’s coverage of the story. I had to deal with the very real threat that I might vomit at any moment, but I got through the ordeal in the end. The news feature that I read was based on some really dubious claim that the false identity protection that Carr is being provided with will cost British tax payers at least £50million. It goes without saying that this illogical figure was not backed up or explained in any detail. But it doesn't make a lot of difference anyway, because had the press done what they are supposed to do (at least in Christopher's rosy tinted view of the world) they would have covered the whole issue with some degree of respect, objectivity and compassion. And the cost for Carr's official protection would have been minimised.

I hope this is not true, but I think I might belong to a minority who believe that Maxine Carr's only real crime was to lie for the man she loved. From what I have read and understand, that was all she did. Perhaps it was stupid, misguided, whatever, but each of us is capable of doing incredibly dumb things for love.

But this is what I hope the most - I hope that I’m not the only person who can see that the real monsters in this whole sorry mess are the cretin writers who have sunk the journalistic profession to previously unrealised depths of soul-selling idiocy by encouraging such vitriolic public hatred.

Monday, February 28, 2005

Paris - dans les mots et imagine...

CIMG0976
Me and my host, Frederic (note to self - must not dip head back, producing unnattractive double chin)

CIMG0939
A distant Arc de Triomphe from a Louvre window

CIMG0898
Sadly, sometime back in 1984, I was one of these kids

CIMG0938
The Louvre pyramid

CIMG0969
Eric and Neil at Le Queen

CIMG0973
Les garçons de Le Queen

CIMG0942
A Canaletto dog

CIMG0951
London's competition

CIMG0928
Louvre stairwell

CIMG0909
A painting of some chick. Or dude. Or both.

CIMG0903
"Dirty baby-cupid things! Stop that right now!"

CIMG0920
And look! Divine hand crafted miniature gold and platinum objets d’art , lovingly adorned with sublime depictions of the French royal family. And, er, stuff.

Saturday, February 26, 2005

Off to Paris!

Ce soir je monterai le 18.40 Eurostar afin de commencer ma balade de weekend gaie dans Paris gai. Je suis très excité. Lequel est pourquoi j'écris cette poste en français.

Ne pas beaucoup plus rapporter vraiment, seulement que je serai arrière lundi pour classer un rapport plein.

Le weekend heureux tout le monde!

Note: Apologies for the poor quality of the French in this post

Friday, February 25, 2005

Help the aged? Pah!

This morning, at about 7am, I was walking off the escalator at Clapham South tube station looking tres handsome, if I do say so myself, in a black Helmut Lang suit and black Costume Nationale shirt undone to *there*. I will admit that I was a tad cold as I stepped outside my front door but I rarely get to wear a suit in my line of work so when I do I feel, in every way, the uber professional, suave businessman. Of course, had anyone been aware that I was listening to Irene Cara’s “Flashdance” on my iPod the overall vision may have been slightly skewed.

As I sweep round the corner to the northbound platform I see that the train has already pulled up and the doors are open. I’m feeling way to cool to make a run for it, so instead I pick up the pace so that I can hop on before the doors close.

The doors start to beep and I’m literally about to step up into the carriage when all of a sudden, from absolutely nowhere, this tiny and seemingly frail grey haired old lady appears at my side. Using her entire upper body and with the strength of a thousand elephants she literally shoves me out of the way. As I stagger and try to regain my balance this ancient-powerful-Yoda-like woman nimbly hops up into the carriage a fraction of a second before the doors slide shut.

As the train begins to inch away from the platform she turns around, looks straight at me through the glass and smiles. The cow uses the very same smile used by my Grandma at Christmas after receiving Radox bath salts from me for the umpteenth year running.

And then she was gone.

The humiliation I felt was palpable. In an instant I had been cruelly transformed from afore mentioned suave businessman and into the bitch of a tiny, wrinkly octogenarian.

Thursday, February 24, 2005

The theatre, again

Tonight Kate and I went to see “Whose Life is it Anyway”, the play starring Kim Cattrall. It's the story of a woman, who after being paralyzed from the neck down after a car accident, decides that she wants to be allowed to die.

The play, technically, is not about euthanasia, but about the character Claire's right to be discharged from hospital. Without the medical care, her body will start to shut down. At one point in the play she says something like, "I just want you to take me some place and leave me there."

The play was really, really great and I didn't fidget at all. You know a newspaper should use me as a kind of yardstick for movies and plays. It could be a regular Friday feature entitled "Christopherfidgetometer" and it would be all about how good or bad the production was based on how much I moved and shifted around.

Anyway, there is something I want to say about the theme of the play, but it's kind of personal, and I have to think about what I want to say otherwise it won't make a lot of sense. And it's late now.

So, in other news:

I really HATE that Toilet Duck advert. You know, the one with the woman actually cleaning the toilet with the brush? It makes me feel queasy. I like to believe that the bathroom toilet is cleaned by my flatmate self-cleaning.

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

Q. When is snow not snow?

A. When there is no snow.

I have experienced two long, harsh, arctic New York winters. Winters when the snow would fall so hard and fast that within just a couple of hours cars would be completely submerged in the stuff for days on end. There would be so much snow that people would actually ski through Times Square. So much snow, in fact, that people were physically trapped in their buildings and you could not see your hand before your face! Airports would close, trains would stop running and old people would die. But, somehow, us gainfully employed would still manage to get to work without complaining too much. We would even still have enough good humour, when we arrived, bedraggled and tired, to look out of our skyscraper office windows and take in the view. The snow would melt our hearts and we would say, "Aw! It's quite pretty really!"

So, dear Londoners, let me reliably inform you that barely, barely, an inch of snow on the ground does not represent a catastrophic Act of God. It does not constitute a citywide emergency. And there is most certainly no earthly reason why it should make you almost twenty minutes late to pick me up this morning, Mr Thoroughly Annoying Chatty Taxi Driver.

I had to be up by 6am this morning to get a 7am taxi to get to Waterloo train station to get an 8am train to Havant to get to a 10am new business pitch. I had a very specific time line to adhere to in order to get to this meeting by the designated time. And not lose my job. Because a new business pitch that you are leading is one meeting you cannot be late for. Lateness will not cut it and will not win you the business.

Despite the lateness of the taxi, I manage to get on the train on time. Once seated, all around me, all I can hear, are comments such as:

"I could barely open my front door!"

"It took me two whole minutes to wipe it off my windshield!"

"I thought that the tube might not be running!"


Ok, can we take a reality check, please? First, as I stated, there was hardly an inch of snow. Secondly, most of the snow melted - there was no slush or ice on either the pavements or on the roads. I will concede that there were a few puddles. So actually the most dangerous thing that could have happened is that you could have stepped in a deep puddle and made your shoes wet (a phenomenon you should not be too unfamiliar with given that you live in London, you strange little idiots). In fact by morning, the only place where there was any snow was in the parks and in the fields that I passed while I was on the train.

Back to the train - eventually people shut up about all the wetness snow and I could finally read through the pitch document and make notes without being supremely irritated. Then, all of a sudden, the train grinds to a halt and the conductor makes an announcement...

"Sorry for the delay ladies and gentlemen. It seems that there are some problems with the snow on the tracks this morning. We should be moving again in a few minutes."

AN INCH!!! AN INCH OF SNOW!!!

I know you're all very concerned that I may not have got to the pitch in time. Well somehow, by the grace of God, I did. With ten minutes to spare I victoriously and purposely stride up to the reception desk of the company that I’ve come to visit.

"Christopher from [London PR agency], here to see [Marketing Director] please."

"Oh yes. Christopher. [Marketing Director] just called in. She's running late and apologises. It's just that she's had problems with the snow."

I think the heat from my burning and unbridled anger melted any remaining snow within a 26-mile radius.

(Incase you were wondering, it snowed in the South of England last night.)

Monday, February 21, 2005

Sell out!

I’ve always found it quite brilliant the way that us gayers cleverly shroud our numerous naughty doings behind the guise of something innocent and lovely. For example, one of my friends keeps his obscenely massive modeled-on-a-Falcon-porn-star dildo wrapped in a swathe of beautiful, orange, embroidered, raw silk fabric that he purchased from a peasant woman in Sri Lanka. A couple of years ago my buddies Angela and Matt gave me a set of anal beads, various condoms and flavours of lube and some gay porn playing cards packaged neatly within an exquisite Chinese, hand-carved, wooden box.

As a marketing person, if you get what all of this means, then you will know that in order to promote your bland, generic, ultimately hetero products in a way that will appeal to us intelligent, discerning, savvy gays you'll have to be prepared to create a clever spin that is both a little sexy and a little racy. Semi-naked, oiled up men will not go amiss (just as long as they are intelligent, discerning and savvy semi-naked, oiled up men.)

One of my clients makes very expensive, mock antique, miniature boxes (we call them objets d'art) made out of precious metals, featuring little renditions of famous works of art. During a meeting to discuss the campaign media strategy I was informed by my client that he had read an article in a newspaper about the power of the pink pound and that he thought perhaps we should be attempting to get the boxes in the gay press.

Now, this guy is about 60, most likely has a huge country pile somewhere in Nottinghamshire, a farty old Labrador called Hugo and a wife called Felicity who is on first name terms with Princess Michael of Kent (I wonder if she is ever called Mike?) Despite this, the way that he said "pink pound" spoke volumes to me about how he probably wants to be seen as "trendy", as I'm sure he would put it, and in touch with the "playas" without, of course, literally having to touch us.

With what I thought was immensely staggering logic I suggested that the best route to achieve this objective would be to subtly appeal to the type of gay man (of whom within London there are many) who takes weekend recreational drugs. Of the kind that might be stored in a little box. Now, obviously you wouldn't distribute a press release that read:

"...divine hand crafted miniature gold and platinum objets d’art , lovingly adorned with a sublime depiction of the Venus de Milo. Discreet enough to hide your stash of Ecstasy in without setting off metal detectors or raising unwanted suspicion while being frisked at Beyond."

...however you could distribute a press release that read:

"...divine hand crafted miniature gold boxes, lovingly adorned with a sublime depiction of the Venus de Milo. The perfect gift for the gayer who likes to get the most out of his weekend."

The client just tilted his glasses and mumbled something incoherent. With lightening speed I tried to turn my apparently unfortuitous suggestion around.

"Well how about some kind of cause related marketing initiative? You could extol the virtues of the product to HIV+ gay men who have strict meds regimes and donate a proportion of the profits from certain sales to an HIV/AIDS related charity? The gay press would love it."

Silence. I can feel my profit related bonus slipping through my fingers.

So what did I do? I saved my ass by scraping the bottom of the barrel, selling out both myself and my fellow homos:

"Or...we could do a press mailing about the box which features the Andy Warhol painting of James Dean? Gay men love Andy Warhol and James Dean."

He looks up, considers this option for a second and then nods.

"Yes. I like that idea. Let's do it."

Three odd things

1) At the end of an incredibly relaxing facial at The Refinery the technician asks how my skin feels. I reach to touch it and she yells at me "No! I just cleaned it!"

2) A man on the tube using a CD Walkman, but with iPod headphones. I figured he either had an iPod but somehow managed to lose it but not the headphones, or he had bought just the headphones to fool people into thinking he has an iPod when in fact he doesn't. Sad, whatever way you want to look at it.

3) While watching Smallville, my flatmate turns to me and says, "You know, now that your hair is longer you look a bit like Tom Welling." I don't see it myself, but I'm going to make out with her for saying that, right now.

Sunday, February 20, 2005

Saturday afternoon theatre trip

Yesterday afternoon Louise and I went to see the Mamet play, A Life in the Theatre, starring Patrick Stewart and Joshua Jackson.

First, both Patrick Stewart and Joshua Jackson get almost all of their kit off at several points throughout the play. I can reliably report back that Patrick Stewart most definitely still has it going on while Joshua Jackson has shed the Dawson’s Creek puppy fat and is sporting a very respectable six pack.

Now I've got the primary reason I went to see the play out of the way...

I think David Mamet is an awesome talent. In my career I have been lucky enough to meet some very famous people and yet there are few who have acually floored me (although Jack Nicholson was a close call). But if I was, let's say, at dinner with David Mamet at the table I would definitely be quieter than my normal self. He probably knows the acting profession in all its guises better than most and he has written or adapted several of my favourite plays or movies including Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard, Speed-The-Plow and the movies Hannibal and State & Main (which he also directed).

A Life in the Theatre is a two man set piece about two actors, one younger and one older, both working in an unnamed theatre production in New York. We see them interacting both behind the scenes and actually "on-stage" in various skits involving amusing costume changes. We are told very little about the play. In fact most of the scenes seem intentionally random and entirely different from the previous one - a scene from WW1 trenches, a modern hospital operating theatre, a private detectives office. It's the botched lines, unreliable stage hands and missed cues that make up most of the play's guffaws. At one point Patrick Stewart's character's character is waiting for a phone to ring and it doesn't so he picks it up and says "I told you not to interrupt me with any calls!" at which point the phone starts ringing. It’s a silly joke – the kind of thing that French & Saunders would do – but it is deeply funny when an actor of the stature of Patrick Stewart is pretending to fluff his cues and lines.

After I settled into the play the first thing that began to annoy me was that I was being told very little about these characters lives off of the stage, but after a while it became evident to me that that was not really relevant to the story. Because while, on the surface, the play seems to be just an amusing pastiche on the life of the "real" working actor - the type that literally spends a life in the theatre - it is actually about what it is these types of people are made up of. So while you don't get the character's back history, you do get to see their insecurities, paranoias, foibles, etc, in all their raw glory.

Anyway, when I got home I did a Google search on Mamet and I found this quote from him. I think it sums up the play much better than I can here:

"A life in the theatre. That is what acting is. Doing the play for the audience. The rest is just practice. And I see that the life of the academy, the graduate school, the studio, while charming and comfortable, are as removed from the life (and the job) of the actor as aerobics are from boxing..."

Now I would be lying if I said that I really enjoyed the experience. I actually did enjoy the play. What I didn't enjoy was that our seats were all the way up in the upper circle and the incline was very, very steep. This, coupled with the fact that I am not good with indoor heights (to the point that I practically have to crouch on the floor and shuffle to get to my chair), made me feel very on edge (literally and figuratively) the whole time.

But that's the price you pay for £15 tickets.

It's been a while

I want to put this down in writing, not because I want to boast or show off, but because I feel like I should. For posterity or something. We're so vocal when things aren't that great, but not so vocal when things are good.

I keep finding myself smiling for no apparent reason. When I catch myself doing it part of me asks just what it is I think I'm doing. But I carry on smiling. Have you ever noticed how rare it is to see someone walking down the street, by themselves, smiling? Just. Smiling.

Maybe it's having a job. Not sure. All I know is, I get up every day at 6.30am. I have some breakfast, I shower, I get changed. I read my book on the tube, I buy some coffee from Pret, I get to work and I settle in. I'm usually the first in so I can listen to classical music on the stereo. I fire off some emails and I write my action list.

Other stuff - press lunches, meetings, pitching. The usual. But for the first time in a long time I'm enjoying it. I'm staying late if I need to, to tie up any loose ends from the day. Then I go to the gym or meet friends for dinner or a few drinks. The day ends and I feel content. Contentment is an emotion I've never really had much to do with. Ok, I've only been in this job for two weeks, but you know when you get a feeling for something?

Anyway, some things I am excited about right now:

- Going to the theatre with Louise tomorrow afternoon
- Getting a facial at The Refinery on Sunday
- Going to the theatre with Kate on Wednesday evening
- Going to Paris next Friday
- Lunch at Claridges with the editor of Wallpaper* in two weeks
- One of my favourite people coming home in April
- Seeing my friends when I go back to NYC for a week in May
- Spending Christmas on a beach in Thailand with Tim
- Winning my first piece of new business at work
- My hair, my body and my weight

On the surface these things might not appear to be the stuff of legend, but isn't there some adage about life being in the details?

Friday, February 18, 2005

Expensive dental work

When I broke my jaw last August I really managed to bugger up my teeth. Such a shame, cause after much orthodontic work as a kid I had a rather lovely set of gnashers.

Cosmetically, I still do. When I smile, you can't tell that I have *runs tongue around mouth to count* four major fractures (where almost half the tooth is missing) and three chips. But you can see that my front lower tooth has moved back, as a result of the metal plate screwed onto the bone, inside my chin, to mend one of the three breaks on my jaw itself.

To have all of the fractures and chips repaired I have to have three root canal surgeries, four crowns and three fillings. If I have this work done on the NHS I will have to contribute towards a co-pay, a figure somewhere in the sum of £300. But if I go for the NHS option the crowns won't be camouflaged, they will be silver. Ergo, I will look like James Bond's arch nemesis, Jaws. Clearly not a look I'm particularly eager to covet. So, to have the camouflaged dental work, I will have to pay almost £600.

And if I want the tooth at the front moved back to it's previous position, I will have to have a retainer placed by an orthodontist. Guess how much this will cost? Hazard a guess?

Approximately £1,000.

The tooth that moved is cosmetic. I can live with it being slightly misaligned. But the other dental work is a different matter. The teeth are damaged so much that if I don't have them fixed then they will eventually die and fall out. But not before I get severe gum disease and most likely an attractive case of halitosis.

And it doesn’t stop there. Because my condular processes (the arms that hook your lower jaw onto your upper jaw) both got crushed, my front top and bottom teeth are misaligned by a couple of millimeters and don’t bite together. Instead I am biting down on my back molars and my dentist thinks that I am grinding them during my sleep. So I may have to wear a protector when I sleep.

There is a moral to this story. Never go to the Shadow Lounge, never drink too much, never take a sleeping pill when you get home, never stand up too fast from sitting on the toilet. Had I not done any of these things in succession I may well be sat here with me pearly whites still in their former glorious state.

And £1,600 better off.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Striking fear into the heart of your mortal enemy...

At the weekend I watched "Meet Joe Black", a very underrated movie in my opinion. Primarily because Brad Pitt has never looked so handsome:

meetjoeblack

Sweet Jesus.

Anyway, there is this sublime scene at the end of the movie where a very calm and softly spoken Joe tells Bill's errant business partner, in no uncertain terms, that he needs to tread very, very carefully from now on:

"Should you choose to test my resolve in this matter, you will be facing a finality beyond your comprehension, and you will not be counting days, or months, or years, but millenniums in a place with no doors."

I want just one perfect opportunity in my lifetime to be able to say that to someone who is pissing me off, preferably someone who hasn't seen the movie.

Of course, the overall effect would be strengthened if I could back up my words with the unspoken threat that I am, indeed, the Grim Reaper himself.

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

St Oh Whatever Day

It is a dark, dark day. You know why.

Tonight my housemate and I are going to celebrate our own anti-Valentine's Day by going to Pizza on the Green. We're going to sit and chortle as the women lean across to their dates and whisper, "I can't believe you've bought me to Pizza on the Green for Valentine's Day! This is clearly not working."

(By the way - you may have noticed that I'm not very good at picking up plot lines from previous posts. The fact that I will be dining with my housemate rather than Jake should tell you that Jake and I are no more. Very boring story, but onwards, hey, hey...)

But because I am not a totally heartless bastard, here is a little message for all you blissfully happy, in-lurve couples out there. From me to you.

F*** off.

Sunday, February 13, 2005

Continuing the theme...

...of change:

I just spent £80 having my hair coloured at Toni & Guy. I went in to see a colourist on Thursday during my lunchbreak to discuss what I could have done. I made it clear that I didn't want to have a hair colour that would make me look freakish and weird, making me stand out in a crowd. I just wanted a hair colour that would make more men want to have sex with me.

My hair is naturally dark brown, so we decided to best accent it with a full head of medium brown highlights, with three or four really chunky sweeps of burgundy. It sounds horrific, but trust me - we put some little acrylic hair sample swatch things together and the results were certainly trouser arousing.

The procedure began this morning at 11.30am. Two hours and several cups of tea later I emerged from the salon onto King's Road with a shiny head of hair that looked, well, exactly the same as it did when I had arrived, really.

It doesn't look any different! I mean if you kind of squint and look at my hair at a weird angle, with the light cast on it just right, with Venus in retrograde and Pluto in Uranus, you might think that my hair is, perhaps, a tad shinier that it was when I got up this morning.

I just spent £80 to get my hair made slightly shinier! This is the kind of thing that Ann would do (Marv - back me up here). Do I complain? What do I do?

The acid test will be tonight when I go to Crash with Richard and Phil. Last time I went to Crash I had sex with one person. If my hair has indeed worked, I will be having sex with, at least, two tonight.

Oh! That's it! If I don't end up having sex with more than one person tonight I'll just go back to Toni & Guy on Monday, explain the lack of booty action and they are sure to give me a refund!

Friday, February 11, 2005

Changing

Yesterday I got the nicest email from Katie (don't worry! The head swelling properties wore off after a few minutes and the regular self loathing took precedent again):

"I can't believe how different you look! I was a bit stunned when I saw you the other night, which is why I was a little lost for words when we were standing there. You look amazing Christopher and you look about 5 years younger! You also look happier and more relaxed. This is all good stuff right?"

So the vast amounts of botox injections have paid off then?

Anyway, this got me to thinking, because when I was at home in Bath for Christmas and in Birmingham for New Year’s Eve three of my oldest friends each separately commented on how much I seem to have changed of late. My friend Tim said that it was how much more I seemed to be listening to him. Another friend said that there was a pervading sense of calm. She said that I used to be many good things, but calm was never part of the mix with me.

And for many of the reasons that I have cited here before I do believe that the last year has indeed bought about a number of subtle changes in me. But at the same time I still feel, ultimately, the same. Different and yet the same, if that makes sense. For the last few weeks I have been pondering the question, “do we ever really change?”

Sometimes I look at a friend, someone who I have known for a long, long time, and I think that I pretty much know who they are. It’s like I have them etched in my mind forever, that I totally have them figured out. Then later I see something different about them – it could be a subtle change in appearance, or that they proffer some opinion I wouldn’t have necessarily assigned to them. And suddenly I have this totally new picture. And it doesn’t match the picture that I had before.

My friends and I are infamous for changing our minds. In fact, we don’t always stop with our minds. We'll change our hair, our fashion, our facial expressions, our football teams - practically anything that can be changed, at some point, will be changed. None of us have actually changed genders yet, but I’m just biding my time, waiting for that interesting news flash. But at the end of the day, do people really change themselves?

Like a snake ... ok, not entirely like a snake (cause that would be kinda gross), apparently we shed all of our skin over a period of seven years. That means that the skin on my fingertips that I am typing with right now is not the same skin I was typing with at university ten years ago. Could there be a beautiful irony there? That apart from our eyes, our skin is the only part of us that people can physically see? In other words, don't get too attached to the “me” you see right now because it’s going to be gone in a few years time.

Which leads me on to this: I have always thought that the “soulmates” concept is pure evil. The implications of what it means to only have one perfect person available for us are truly chilling. But from experience I not only believe this, but I know that there are people who are so tuned into each other that they give immediate access to each others hearts. And even if one of them breaks the heart of the other and the broken heart itself has to mend, those two people could still meet up again several years later and still realise that nothing has changed. Because aren't we told that the heart is constant?

I think that our hearts and our skin are the exact antithesis of each other. Our hearts really are constant, beating through an entire lifetime without stopping once. But our skin is made new over and over. No one can deny that both our hearts and our bodies have a lot to do with whom we are. But I don’t think that it’s irrelevant that throughout history lovers and writers have focused on the heart. Because hearts go on, but like a photograph our appearance will fade.

So to answer my own question - do people ever really change? Yes, I suppose they can. But, at the same time, not that much.

Thursday, February 10, 2005

Moi et mon foie

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

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

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

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

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

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

Really promise?”

“Really promise.”

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

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

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

Sucker!

Christopher and Louise do Diesel S/S 2005

CIMG0876

CIMG0746

CIMG0743

CIMG0805

CIMG0764

CIMG0781

CIMG0872

Wednesday, February 09, 2005

NO WAY!!!!

I swear I'm not lying! I WON £10!!!

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

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

My number is up! (but probably not)

I have lottery fantasies. Many of them.

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

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

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

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

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

1) I never work again

2) I work again

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

Finger's crossed!

Tuesday, February 08, 2005

First day of school

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

Not really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Seek assistance!"

Evil, wretched travelcard.

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

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

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

Which I did.

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

Monday, February 07, 2005

Scoobies Go Mad in Yorkshire

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

CIMG0666

CIMG0672

CIMG0679

CIMG0671

CIMG0685

CIMG0687

CIMG0692

CIMG0696

CIMG0701

CIMG0705

Friday, February 04, 2005

It's typical...

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

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

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

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

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Me Against My Music

I stole this idea from Jef's blog.

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

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

The music files on my iBook amount to 18.4 GB

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

P.S.

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

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

DADDY'S BACK, KIDS!!!

*not really

Strippers and the L word

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bleurgh.

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

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

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

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