I've had a bunch of calls today from concerned friends and family checking up on me. "Are you ok?" they ask. "Yes." I tell them. "Good," they reply. The conversations have been brief and on the whole there seems to have been less 'talking' and more 'listening'.
Yesterday I wrote that I am proud of my country and proud to be British. Today I feel even more proud, if that's possible. I know that us Brits often get ribbed for our sometimes rather rigid sobriety, but I have to say that I think that it is on days like today that our true spirit really shines through.
Earlier on, for some reason, I remembered that scene in Elizabeth, where Cate Blanchett's infamous monarch confronts Richard Attenborough's Lord William. On the surface this quote is not entirely relevant to today's events, but for me it speaks volumes about my nation's character and spirit.
"I am my father's daughter. I am not afraid of anything."
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
For one of the few times in my life ...
... I'm feeling really proud to be British and even more proud to be a Londoner!
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
A good / bad date
Last night I went on a date with Paul.
I met Paul very briefly on Friday night while out drinking with Drew. It was a case of eyes meeting across a crowded pavement. At first he seemed to be leaving with some friends, but as he walked away he carried on glancing back at me. I smiled. He dumped his friends. I told him that I wasn't in a position to dump my one friend. He gave me his digits. I texted him. Last night we went on a date.
As I walked down Clapham High Street towards Kazbah (if it ain't broke, etc) I spotted Paul walking towards me. Even though I had only spoken to him briefly I recognised him instantly, but the thing I was most struck by was not his handsome good looks (which he has) but by how he was walking like a slightly deranged, homeless man who has just downed a quart of vodka.
Anyway - he didn't recognise me and as this wasn't where we were supposed to meet - on the street - I decided to play dumb and carry on to Kazbah, order a drink, grab a free gay rag, decide which dance tents at Big Gay Out I would grace with my presence and try to forget that disconcerting walk.
Paul arrived a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, apologising for being late. Knowing very well that I had just walked past him on the street I said, "Did I just walk past you on the street?" on the offchance that he had also seen me and wondered why I hadn't said, "Hello!" He hadn't, but apologised for not having seen me.
The next two hours went without hitch and as time wore on we started to inch closer and closer and we began to do all the little physical things one does when one finds oneself more and more attracted to the person sat opposite - resting your feet on the footsteps of their stool, the occasional brush against a leg, grabbing their shoulder during the middle of a really funny story. "Yes," I'm thinking, "I actually quite like you." Oh, and we agree on stuff, but not in that "Oh, yes, I also like James Blunt and I'm just saying this because I think it's what you want to hear way." More of the excited, "So do I!!!"
Eventually I looked at my watch and saw that it was 11.15pm. I explained that I was up a little bit past my bedtime and while I was having a great time, I really should be going home. It turned out that he lived not too far from me, so I agreed to walk some of the way home with him. We finished off our drinks and left.
And then, suddenly, all of the warm, fuzzy, "I think I quite like this guy" feelings instantly dissipated as he started doing that walk again. What the fuck was that shit? Again, slightly deranged lunatic. Definitely flat footed and upper body leaning forward. All I could think was "patient" and the overall illusion was ruined. As quick as it had arrived, it vanished. No more dates for me and Paul.
Now you might think that after having spent two hours on what was essentially a really good date, I would be really disappointed. But if you did, you'd be wrong.
All I could feel was massive relief that I would not be spending my ever-after with a guy who made me cringe with embarrassment every time he put foot to floor. It is for important reasons like these that I am not willing to compromise. It makes the idea of an eternal singledom entirely bearable.
I met Paul very briefly on Friday night while out drinking with Drew. It was a case of eyes meeting across a crowded pavement. At first he seemed to be leaving with some friends, but as he walked away he carried on glancing back at me. I smiled. He dumped his friends. I told him that I wasn't in a position to dump my one friend. He gave me his digits. I texted him. Last night we went on a date.
As I walked down Clapham High Street towards Kazbah (if it ain't broke, etc) I spotted Paul walking towards me. Even though I had only spoken to him briefly I recognised him instantly, but the thing I was most struck by was not his handsome good looks (which he has) but by how he was walking like a slightly deranged, homeless man who has just downed a quart of vodka.
Anyway - he didn't recognise me and as this wasn't where we were supposed to meet - on the street - I decided to play dumb and carry on to Kazbah, order a drink, grab a free gay rag, decide which dance tents at Big Gay Out I would grace with my presence and try to forget that disconcerting walk.
Paul arrived a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, apologising for being late. Knowing very well that I had just walked past him on the street I said, "Did I just walk past you on the street?" on the offchance that he had also seen me and wondered why I hadn't said, "Hello!" He hadn't, but apologised for not having seen me.
The next two hours went without hitch and as time wore on we started to inch closer and closer and we began to do all the little physical things one does when one finds oneself more and more attracted to the person sat opposite - resting your feet on the footsteps of their stool, the occasional brush against a leg, grabbing their shoulder during the middle of a really funny story. "Yes," I'm thinking, "I actually quite like you." Oh, and we agree on stuff, but not in that "Oh, yes, I also like James Blunt and I'm just saying this because I think it's what you want to hear way." More of the excited, "So do I!!!"
Eventually I looked at my watch and saw that it was 11.15pm. I explained that I was up a little bit past my bedtime and while I was having a great time, I really should be going home. It turned out that he lived not too far from me, so I agreed to walk some of the way home with him. We finished off our drinks and left.
And then, suddenly, all of the warm, fuzzy, "I think I quite like this guy" feelings instantly dissipated as he started doing that walk again. What the fuck was that shit? Again, slightly deranged lunatic. Definitely flat footed and upper body leaning forward. All I could think was "patient" and the overall illusion was ruined. As quick as it had arrived, it vanished. No more dates for me and Paul.
Now you might think that after having spent two hours on what was essentially a really good date, I would be really disappointed. But if you did, you'd be wrong.
All I could feel was massive relief that I would not be spending my ever-after with a guy who made me cringe with embarrassment every time he put foot to floor. It is for important reasons like these that I am not willing to compromise. It makes the idea of an eternal singledom entirely bearable.
I am recovering from a slightly hectic weekend.
(Incidentally - before I continue if you spot any random puntuation marks or copyright symbols in my text, please ignore them. I write my posts in Word, before copying and pasting them into Blogger. For some reason Blogger has stopped recognising punctuation transferred across and gets confused. Very annoying, but it raises less suspicion when blogging at work if I spend two hours writing a post in a Word document, as opposed to the Blogger compose window. The bloggers amongst you will understand what I mean.)
I spent Saturday with my Dad and my stepmom, doing the tourist "thang" around central London. Despite Live8 taking place just under half a mile away in Hyde Park, the city was eerily quiet - more so than during a quiet week day, which was actually brilliant for dragging parents around.
We had a nice lunch at a small cafe in Piccadilly and then we walked down South Bank, next to the Thames, to the Tate Modern to see the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Dad messed it up and went through the exhibition the wrong-way-round. I met him half way through and he actually said to me, "Her painting style seems to get worse as she got older."
Anyway - I learned a couple of things. I learned that Frida Kahlo had an affair with Leon Trotsky while he was staying as a guest at the home of her and her husband. How fabulous. I wonder if he was hot?
The other thing I learned, or rather I realised, is that regardless of whether you live a life of pain, whether you enjoy your life (as, for one reason or another, Frida generally didn't seem to) you can live a life which has a profoundly positive effect on other people – making you realise that you’re never alone in how you feel and / or you can understand and empathise with someone elses pain without the need for words. I'd always thought that it was kind of narcissistic of Kahlo to feature herself so prominently in her paintings, but what I now understand is that in her case she felt that it it was essential in order to create an emotional connection with the theme she was conveying.
Oh – another thing my Dad said to me (with absolute seriousness), "She was very good at drawing fruit and vegetables, wasn't she?"
Saturday night / Sunday morning were spent gaying it with my friends at clubs in Vauxhall. Action, which occurs once every fortnight, was followed by Beyond, a weekly after-hours club night, just around the corner at the Coliseum. As usual I had a great time with my friends. There was not much drinking, a little bit of boy-kissing at Action, a couple of compliments from guys significantly bigger than me on what a good body I have (bring this one on as much as you like) and a tired trudging through my front door at midday on Sunday.
I remembered this morning that my friend Kelly (a girl) demanded that I take her through the sex maze at Action. While I was, at first, hesitant about performing such an action at Action, I eventually relented, on the proviso that the only thing she grabbed was my hand. Later on in the evening she joked that she thought she might be pregnant. I am undecided whether to tell her that it might actually be wise to buy a pregnancy test.
I spent Saturday with my Dad and my stepmom, doing the tourist "thang" around central London. Despite Live8 taking place just under half a mile away in Hyde Park, the city was eerily quiet - more so than during a quiet week day, which was actually brilliant for dragging parents around.
We had a nice lunch at a small cafe in Piccadilly and then we walked down South Bank, next to the Thames, to the Tate Modern to see the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Dad messed it up and went through the exhibition the wrong-way-round. I met him half way through and he actually said to me, "Her painting style seems to get worse as she got older."
Anyway - I learned a couple of things. I learned that Frida Kahlo had an affair with Leon Trotsky while he was staying as a guest at the home of her and her husband. How fabulous. I wonder if he was hot?
The other thing I learned, or rather I realised, is that regardless of whether you live a life of pain, whether you enjoy your life (as, for one reason or another, Frida generally didn't seem to) you can live a life which has a profoundly positive effect on other people – making you realise that you’re never alone in how you feel and / or you can understand and empathise with someone elses pain without the need for words. I'd always thought that it was kind of narcissistic of Kahlo to feature herself so prominently in her paintings, but what I now understand is that in her case she felt that it it was essential in order to create an emotional connection with the theme she was conveying.
Oh – another thing my Dad said to me (with absolute seriousness), "She was very good at drawing fruit and vegetables, wasn't she?"
Saturday night / Sunday morning were spent gaying it with my friends at clubs in Vauxhall. Action, which occurs once every fortnight, was followed by Beyond, a weekly after-hours club night, just around the corner at the Coliseum. As usual I had a great time with my friends. There was not much drinking, a little bit of boy-kissing at Action, a couple of compliments from guys significantly bigger than me on what a good body I have (bring this one on as much as you like) and a tired trudging through my front door at midday on Sunday.
I remembered this morning that my friend Kelly (a girl) demanded that I take her through the sex maze at Action. While I was, at first, hesitant about performing such an action at Action, I eventually relented, on the proviso that the only thing she grabbed was my hand. Later on in the evening she joked that she thought she might be pregnant. I am undecided whether to tell her that it might actually be wise to buy a pregnancy test.
Friday, July 01, 2005
Score!
Last night, while I was working out at the gym, my friend Richard walked up to me. Looking vaguely concerned, he whispered, "Have you been taking steroids?"
While it is true that, of late, I have been attending the gym a lot more and working out harder than I ever have before, it's not true that I have been taking steroids.
It is, however, an appropriate indication of the type of world that I live in that I took Richard's question as the best compliment ever.
While it is true that, of late, I have been attending the gym a lot more and working out harder than I ever have before, it's not true that I have been taking steroids.
It is, however, an appropriate indication of the type of world that I live in that I took Richard's question as the best compliment ever.
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Tom talks rubbish
As many of you know, I have been subject to extensive psychiatric treatment for the majority of both my teenage and adult life. Last year, for reasons I won't go into again, I decided to take myself off my prescrition medication. If you are a regular visitor here, you will know that I feel that the change in my overall mood and my ability to deal with everyday problems has been quite remarkable. Infact I believe that the years spent taking those drugs was, in actual fact, detrimental to my overall mental health and really responsible for much of my anti-social behaviour.
However, while I feel very strongly that anti-depressive medication is definitely not for me, I do believe that psychiatry and the appropriate medication definitely has it's place in the world. Probably more so today than at any other point in history. Modern life is, emotionally, very taxing, so sometimes we need some help to get through the dark, dark times that almost all of us will experience at various points as we plod on through our worlds.
I am really beginning to dislike Tom Cruise. Historically I have had very little interest in him. As far as I'm concerned, he's kind of bland. He definitely has some kind of screen presense, and there is no doubt that he is very good looking. As to whether or not he's gay, I didn't used to think so, but recently his declarations of love for Katie Holmes, well ... perhaps the "lady" doth protest too much?
In an interview with NBC-TV's Matt Lauer, Tom denounced psychiatry as a "pseudo-science" after being asked about his stance against anti-depressant drugs. A couple of weeks ago he criticised Brooke Shields for taking anti-depressants after the birth of her daughter in order to counteract what was apparently a severe post-natal depression.
A fellow blogger wrote about this interview this week and asked why Lauer, upon hearing Tom's tirade against the psychiatric extablishment, had not pushed him to explain why psychiatric patients should follow the advice of an actor and not that of their qualified doctors.
While, in my mind and a in a few others, there is a question mark over the mental sanity of anyone who jumps up and down on a sofa, on international TV, declaring his love for someone he only met a couple of months prior, Tom's comments don't appear to be a prompted by a personal psychiatric condition. We all know that he is a dedicated follower of the Church of Scientology, which, as far back as the 1960s has been rabidly against the institution of psychiatry. This belief is key to the overall mission of the church's founder, Ron Hubbard.
While there is no denying that some patients have occasionally benefitted from the church exposing cases of extremely poor psychiatric care, this doesn't mean that the overall Scientologist argument actually stands up upon closer inspection. Scientologists are most often irrationally opposed to scientifically supported treatment in the forms of both therapy and medication, which have been life-saving for millions of people all over the world.
The inherent problem with psychiatry, in all it's many forms and treatments is that it is not an exact science. We all know that and I think that most of the scientific community would agree. It's well documented that the human brain is the most unchartered and indeed the most mysterious part of the human body. Because of my own negative experiences at the hands of the psychiatric community in both the UK and the States, I, for one, welcome intelligent debate on the subject. But what really annoys me most about Tom's comments was his inability to provide alternative treatments for people suffering with mental illnesses: what treatments does the Church of Scientology suggest using? Does it run hospitals for people suffering from clinical depression, bipolar disorder, personality disorder, etc? Will it take legal responsibility for patients care? Do they have indepent proof that it's methods are effective?
However unlikely, maybe Tom has done his homework and he does know what he's talking about. But someone with a high-profile voice is being entirely irresponsible and not doing anyone any favours when they publicly denounce treatment that is widely held to be the best that we have available. If Tom can't outline what treatments he would recommend and show us evidence that they would work, then he really should stick to what he's best at - publicising his new movie.
However, while I feel very strongly that anti-depressive medication is definitely not for me, I do believe that psychiatry and the appropriate medication definitely has it's place in the world. Probably more so today than at any other point in history. Modern life is, emotionally, very taxing, so sometimes we need some help to get through the dark, dark times that almost all of us will experience at various points as we plod on through our worlds.
I am really beginning to dislike Tom Cruise. Historically I have had very little interest in him. As far as I'm concerned, he's kind of bland. He definitely has some kind of screen presense, and there is no doubt that he is very good looking. As to whether or not he's gay, I didn't used to think so, but recently his declarations of love for Katie Holmes, well ... perhaps the "lady" doth protest too much?
In an interview with NBC-TV's Matt Lauer, Tom denounced psychiatry as a "pseudo-science" after being asked about his stance against anti-depressant drugs. A couple of weeks ago he criticised Brooke Shields for taking anti-depressants after the birth of her daughter in order to counteract what was apparently a severe post-natal depression.
A fellow blogger wrote about this interview this week and asked why Lauer, upon hearing Tom's tirade against the psychiatric extablishment, had not pushed him to explain why psychiatric patients should follow the advice of an actor and not that of their qualified doctors.
While, in my mind and a in a few others, there is a question mark over the mental sanity of anyone who jumps up and down on a sofa, on international TV, declaring his love for someone he only met a couple of months prior, Tom's comments don't appear to be a prompted by a personal psychiatric condition. We all know that he is a dedicated follower of the Church of Scientology, which, as far back as the 1960s has been rabidly against the institution of psychiatry. This belief is key to the overall mission of the church's founder, Ron Hubbard.
While there is no denying that some patients have occasionally benefitted from the church exposing cases of extremely poor psychiatric care, this doesn't mean that the overall Scientologist argument actually stands up upon closer inspection. Scientologists are most often irrationally opposed to scientifically supported treatment in the forms of both therapy and medication, which have been life-saving for millions of people all over the world.
The inherent problem with psychiatry, in all it's many forms and treatments is that it is not an exact science. We all know that and I think that most of the scientific community would agree. It's well documented that the human brain is the most unchartered and indeed the most mysterious part of the human body. Because of my own negative experiences at the hands of the psychiatric community in both the UK and the States, I, for one, welcome intelligent debate on the subject. But what really annoys me most about Tom's comments was his inability to provide alternative treatments for people suffering with mental illnesses: what treatments does the Church of Scientology suggest using? Does it run hospitals for people suffering from clinical depression, bipolar disorder, personality disorder, etc? Will it take legal responsibility for patients care? Do they have indepent proof that it's methods are effective?
However unlikely, maybe Tom has done his homework and he does know what he's talking about. But someone with a high-profile voice is being entirely irresponsible and not doing anyone any favours when they publicly denounce treatment that is widely held to be the best that we have available. If Tom can't outline what treatments he would recommend and show us evidence that they would work, then he really should stick to what he's best at - publicising his new movie.
Christopher considers charity
Two of my friends owe me approximately £20 each. This morning, as I drank my cup of tea, a wave of benevolence swept over me and I considered taking heed of the advice Bob Geldof is proffering to the various leaders who are soon to attend the G8 summit in Gleneagles.
I thought to myself, perhaps I should cancel my friends' debt?
Then I thought that maybe I should not only cancel their debt, but also offer them monetary aid. In line with the agreement signed by world leaders at the 2002 Monterrey Financing for Development Conference I should offer them aid packages constituting 0.7% of my annual salary - amounting to £158 each.
And, quite frankly, this isn't going to happen.
So then I realised that it would be much more fortuitous for me to listen to the World's banks. Therefore, as of today, I will be heaping an inordinate amount of interest onto my friends' debts. I feel that it's important to make them understand that borrowing is a serious matter and one not to be taken lightly.
As Thatcher once said, "If you can't afford it today, then leave it out." Or something like that. And what a wise woman she was.
I thought to myself, perhaps I should cancel my friends' debt?
Then I thought that maybe I should not only cancel their debt, but also offer them monetary aid. In line with the agreement signed by world leaders at the 2002 Monterrey Financing for Development Conference I should offer them aid packages constituting 0.7% of my annual salary - amounting to £158 each.
And, quite frankly, this isn't going to happen.
So then I realised that it would be much more fortuitous for me to listen to the World's banks. Therefore, as of today, I will be heaping an inordinate amount of interest onto my friends' debts. I feel that it's important to make them understand that borrowing is a serious matter and one not to be taken lightly.
As Thatcher once said, "If you can't afford it today, then leave it out." Or something like that. And what a wise woman she was.
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Christopher's Fashion Advice 101 - sunglasses
(via an email exchange with my friend, Katie)
Katie: Do you know where I can get pink sunnies??!!!!
Christopher: Why the hell would I know, bitch?!
Katie: I'm shocked to the core you BITCH!!!! I think of you as a style guru! Given that colored sunnies are so this season, thought you may know! God some people!!!
Christopher: Oh! I thought you were implying that I would know because pink is the international colour for dudes who like taking it up the wrongun. But in that case (me being a style guru), Chanel has some really great, candy-pink, plastic sun's with tortoise-effect temples (arms to you.) But if you're short of cash I could russle a pair with an old pair of 3D cardboard glasses, some cling-wrap and a pink Crayola?
Katie: Do you know where I can get pink sunnies??!!!!
Christopher: Why the hell would I know, bitch?!
Katie: I'm shocked to the core you BITCH!!!! I think of you as a style guru! Given that colored sunnies are so this season, thought you may know! God some people!!!
Christopher: Oh! I thought you were implying that I would know because pink is the international colour for dudes who like taking it up the wrongun. But in that case (me being a style guru), Chanel has some really great, candy-pink, plastic sun's with tortoise-effect temples (arms to you.) But if you're short of cash I could russle a pair with an old pair of 3D cardboard glasses, some cling-wrap and a pink Crayola?
Monday, June 27, 2005
The most depressing email ever
As my last post stated, I am currently working in Wimbledon, which is an unusual location for a PR company to operate from, most of them preferring to be relatively positioned around central London, as that's where most of the media is situated.
I am doing the PR for financial services. Given the fact that my professional background is steeped richly in fashion and grooming PR, I'll leave it up to you to decide how bored you think I am right now.
I am on the books of about five recruitment agencies. I have little experience of any other kind of recruitment agency, but I can reliably inform you that PR recruitment agencies are not a whole lot of cop when it comes to, er, PR recruitment. I guess if I was an actor I would have only one agent. But in my line of work it seems to be wiser to throw the net out wide. I should point out that I have never acquired a job through an agency, always managing to snag one myself.
One of the companies is unbelievably rubbish and even though I have been on their books for about eight months they have yet to send me on an interview or even tell me that a position is available ... anywhere.
However, on Friday I received an email from my agent at this company. Given that the title read "Hello!" and that I had not spoken to her in about four months, I could only assume that she had found me some to-die-for position in the most global PR agency in the world, directing the international PR for Gucci, working closely with Tom Ford.
It was an invitation. To her birthday party.
The idea that my poor agent was so short of friends that had been forced to invite me, someone she had only met once for about five minutes and spoken to only three or four times briefly on the phone, to her birthday party was so depressing that I almost wanted to attend.
But then I read that it's happening at O'Neill's pub in Putney. I don't think so.
I am doing the PR for financial services. Given the fact that my professional background is steeped richly in fashion and grooming PR, I'll leave it up to you to decide how bored you think I am right now.
I am on the books of about five recruitment agencies. I have little experience of any other kind of recruitment agency, but I can reliably inform you that PR recruitment agencies are not a whole lot of cop when it comes to, er, PR recruitment. I guess if I was an actor I would have only one agent. But in my line of work it seems to be wiser to throw the net out wide. I should point out that I have never acquired a job through an agency, always managing to snag one myself.
One of the companies is unbelievably rubbish and even though I have been on their books for about eight months they have yet to send me on an interview or even tell me that a position is available ... anywhere.
However, on Friday I received an email from my agent at this company. Given that the title read "Hello!" and that I had not spoken to her in about four months, I could only assume that she had found me some to-die-for position in the most global PR agency in the world, directing the international PR for Gucci, working closely with Tom Ford.
It was an invitation. To her birthday party.
The idea that my poor agent was so short of friends that had been forced to invite me, someone she had only met once for about five minutes and spoken to only three or four times briefly on the phone, to her birthday party was so depressing that I almost wanted to attend.
But then I read that it's happening at O'Neill's pub in Putney. I don't think so.
Thursday, June 23, 2005
New balls
I just had an "ick" moment. Kind of.
I am working a few hundred metres away from the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Association which, as you may or may not know, is currently holding its annual grand slam tournament.
So me and my friend Lindsay, who also works in the locale, were sat outside the Dog and Fox pub, eating panini, nursing pints of cold cider, soaking up the summer sun and gossiping about stuff n' shit. All of a sudden I got distracted by the sight of six immaculately groomed, Wimbledon ball boys, casually sauntering past us, dressed in head-to-toe white: white cotton pants, white tennis shoes and white cricket sweaters.
The overall effect was quite mesmerising and I began to imagine myself in a gay tennis-porn, locker-room showdown with these white-clad hotties. Picture it - "Excuse me, but I think you just dropped your balls ... " etc, etc.
Lindsay stopped talking, looked at me and then followed my line of vision and clocked what I was checking out.
"Chris! That's disgusting," she exclaimed. "They’re about 16 years old!"
I tried to reason with her that they looked at least 18 and even if they were 16, they were still "legal", but she wasn't having it.
So, for the first time in my life, I was made to feel like a dirty old man.
I am working a few hundred metres away from the Wimbledon Lawn Tennis Association which, as you may or may not know, is currently holding its annual grand slam tournament.
So me and my friend Lindsay, who also works in the locale, were sat outside the Dog and Fox pub, eating panini, nursing pints of cold cider, soaking up the summer sun and gossiping about stuff n' shit. All of a sudden I got distracted by the sight of six immaculately groomed, Wimbledon ball boys, casually sauntering past us, dressed in head-to-toe white: white cotton pants, white tennis shoes and white cricket sweaters.
The overall effect was quite mesmerising and I began to imagine myself in a gay tennis-porn, locker-room showdown with these white-clad hotties. Picture it - "Excuse me, but I think you just dropped your balls ... " etc, etc.
Lindsay stopped talking, looked at me and then followed my line of vision and clocked what I was checking out.
"Chris! That's disgusting," she exclaimed. "They’re about 16 years old!"
I tried to reason with her that they looked at least 18 and even if they were 16, they were still "legal", but she wasn't having it.
So, for the first time in my life, I was made to feel like a dirty old man.
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Girls are dumb
Well, ok ladies, I know you're not really dumb, but you have to admit that you are very slightly "special" (pejorative) when it comes to technology, aren't you? At least, that has been my experience, especially of late.
Three examples:
1.
Yesterday morning I noticed that one of my colleagues who sits across from me, well call her Pam, was slowly getting more and more frustrated with something that her computer wouldn't seem to want to do.
After a few minutes of watching Pam inching closer and closer to throwing her rather sexy, slimline Sony Vaio laptop out of the window in an explosion of super-colossal rage I eventually leaned forward and, so as not to feel the full extent of her wrath, whispered, "What's wrong?"
"It's my laptop," she explained, the vein in her temple waving at me. "I'm trying to open someone's CV and my computer won't let me!"
I leaned forward a bit more and pulled her laptop round towards me. "Show me what you're doing," I told her. So she moved the mouse cursor up to the "File" dropdown and clicked on "Open", by which point I had already ascertained what the problem was.
"Pam," I say, trying my best not to be patronising, because Pam is technically more senior than me. "You're trying to open a Word document in Outlook."
2.
Just over a month ago I persuaded my Mum to buy a new Mac Mini to replace the ancient iMac I gave her about three years ago.
Unfortunately I wasn't there when she tried to set the thing up, which meant that I got called with a zillion and one stupid questions like, "The booklet tells me to put the CD into the hard drive. What's the hard drive?"
Now don't give me that spiel about it being harder for people of my mother's age to learn even the rudimentary aspects of modern technology. Besides, she's only 53. It's been proven that there is no physiological reason (aside from actual ailments like Alzheimer's or senile dementia) why old people should suddenly become stupid. It's not that they can't work it out themselves; in my opinion it's because they're lazy. They have grown up children or grandchildren to rely on to install their new microwave. I'm not afraid to call my Grandma an asshole if she can't figure out how to plug in her brand new toaster. Yeah! I'll kick her in the shins too, the bitch.
Regardless, I let my mum off the first few dumb questions. But I did lose my temper with her when she called me during a client meeting. Normally I won't answer my mobile during a meeting, but when I saw my mum's number flash up (especially given the fact that my Granddad recently died) I figured that it must be something important. So I quickly excused myself and slipped outside to take the call.
"Mum, I'm in a meeting. What's wrong?"
"It's the computer."
"Mum! I'm in a meeting! Can't this wait until after I finish work?"
"Well just quickly then. The new flat screen I just bought. It won't turn on. I've tried everything but it won't work. Do you know what it could be?"
Upon further investigation, my mother and I established that the monitor was not plugged in to the power. No joke. Her logic was that she thought the "hard drive" (see, she learned one thing!) provided the power for the monitor, but I explained to her that would be like assuming that her DVD player provides the power for her TV.
3.
This morning my housemate informed me that she had not been able to listen to any music on her iPod for almost a week because someone had locked it and she couldn't work out how to un-lock it. Handing the offending item over to me she asked if I could fix it.
I flicked the "Hold" switch off and handed it back to her.
Being gay affords me a closeness to women that many straight men don't have. For that reason I believe that I have a good grasp of the mysterious machinations of the female mind. But I just don't get why the vast majority of you are so unbelievably rubbish with technology. I'm sorry if that sounds all superior and offensive, but seriously? What is it? Do you like us boys to patronise and rib you endlessly for being dumb? Are you secretly masochists in this respect? And surely it can't just be laziness. I mean, why would you walk around not being able to listen to music for a week, just because you're not prepared to spend ten seconds analysing all the surfaces of your MP3 player for signs of a switch which could be construed as being a lock?
I can guarantee that if a guy asks me to help him with something technical it will be something genuinely complicated. I have never known a guy to announce in the middle of the office, "I can't print!" It will be something like, "Can you help me configure this POP server?"
So what is it, ladies? C'mon! Give me something to work with here!
Three examples:
1.
Yesterday morning I noticed that one of my colleagues who sits across from me, well call her Pam, was slowly getting more and more frustrated with something that her computer wouldn't seem to want to do.
After a few minutes of watching Pam inching closer and closer to throwing her rather sexy, slimline Sony Vaio laptop out of the window in an explosion of super-colossal rage I eventually leaned forward and, so as not to feel the full extent of her wrath, whispered, "What's wrong?"
"It's my laptop," she explained, the vein in her temple waving at me. "I'm trying to open someone's CV and my computer won't let me!"
I leaned forward a bit more and pulled her laptop round towards me. "Show me what you're doing," I told her. So she moved the mouse cursor up to the "File" dropdown and clicked on "Open", by which point I had already ascertained what the problem was.
"Pam," I say, trying my best not to be patronising, because Pam is technically more senior than me. "You're trying to open a Word document in Outlook."
2.
Just over a month ago I persuaded my Mum to buy a new Mac Mini to replace the ancient iMac I gave her about three years ago.
Unfortunately I wasn't there when she tried to set the thing up, which meant that I got called with a zillion and one stupid questions like, "The booklet tells me to put the CD into the hard drive. What's the hard drive?"
Now don't give me that spiel about it being harder for people of my mother's age to learn even the rudimentary aspects of modern technology. Besides, she's only 53. It's been proven that there is no physiological reason (aside from actual ailments like Alzheimer's or senile dementia) why old people should suddenly become stupid. It's not that they can't work it out themselves; in my opinion it's because they're lazy. They have grown up children or grandchildren to rely on to install their new microwave. I'm not afraid to call my Grandma an asshole if she can't figure out how to plug in her brand new toaster. Yeah! I'll kick her in the shins too, the bitch.
Regardless, I let my mum off the first few dumb questions. But I did lose my temper with her when she called me during a client meeting. Normally I won't answer my mobile during a meeting, but when I saw my mum's number flash up (especially given the fact that my Granddad recently died) I figured that it must be something important. So I quickly excused myself and slipped outside to take the call.
"Mum, I'm in a meeting. What's wrong?"
"It's the computer."
"Mum! I'm in a meeting! Can't this wait until after I finish work?"
"Well just quickly then. The new flat screen I just bought. It won't turn on. I've tried everything but it won't work. Do you know what it could be?"
Upon further investigation, my mother and I established that the monitor was not plugged in to the power. No joke. Her logic was that she thought the "hard drive" (see, she learned one thing!) provided the power for the monitor, but I explained to her that would be like assuming that her DVD player provides the power for her TV.
3.
This morning my housemate informed me that she had not been able to listen to any music on her iPod for almost a week because someone had locked it and she couldn't work out how to un-lock it. Handing the offending item over to me she asked if I could fix it.
I flicked the "Hold" switch off and handed it back to her.
Being gay affords me a closeness to women that many straight men don't have. For that reason I believe that I have a good grasp of the mysterious machinations of the female mind. But I just don't get why the vast majority of you are so unbelievably rubbish with technology. I'm sorry if that sounds all superior and offensive, but seriously? What is it? Do you like us boys to patronise and rib you endlessly for being dumb? Are you secretly masochists in this respect? And surely it can't just be laziness. I mean, why would you walk around not being able to listen to music for a week, just because you're not prepared to spend ten seconds analysing all the surfaces of your MP3 player for signs of a switch which could be construed as being a lock?
I can guarantee that if a guy asks me to help him with something technical it will be something genuinely complicated. I have never known a guy to announce in the middle of the office, "I can't print!" It will be something like, "Can you help me configure this POP server?"
So what is it, ladies? C'mon! Give me something to work with here!
Monday, June 20, 2005
One. Of. These. Days.
I think I might have anger management issues. I am liable to do some really ill thought out things as a result of being on the receiving end of genuine stupidity, irrationality or poor service.
The other day I went to an appointment at the hospital to see a consultant about this. Upon observation the consultant told me that while there is still every chance that it will go away by itself, it might be worth operating on anyway.
"Rosie?" he called out to the nurse working at the station opposite our booth. "Can we fit Christopher in for an [insert name of unpronouncable surgical procedure here] this afternoon?"
The response was in the negative, so my consultant wrote me up an appointment request and sent me back to the main reception desk to get myself booked in for another day.
Imagine my consternation and frustration upon being told that the next available appointment would be on Tuesday, September 27. I told the receptionist, in no uncertain terms, that this date was totally unacceptable to me, not least because September 27 is my birthday and I'll be buggered if I'll spend the day having my eyelid splayed, scraped and sewn back up again. But more than that, five minutes previously my consultant had been under the impression that appointments in this place were so freely available that procedures could be carried out as quickly and easily as by calling out to the nurse in the station opposite.
This line of approach didn't really get me anywhere. The fact that the receptionist was a gay man with really bad highlights probably didn't help. No doubt my own gorgeous hair made him feel inferior.
Anyway ... I kinda lost it.
To cut a long story short I caused such a fuss over having to live with thishideous deformity barely noticeable lump for three and half more months that I managed to get the receptionist to agree to leave his post in order to discuss the situation with my consultant all the way back at the booth.
After a short, heated exchange I realised that the only way I was going to get these fuckers to concede to my demands was by threatening to go private - because clearly the possibility that I might unburden myself from an already overcrowded NHS waiting list would surely put the fear of God into them.
Cut to me walking out of the clinic with no appointment and very little dignity.
There was a time when losing your rag actually got you somewhere. Even if you made little or no sense, people would be so keen to get rid of you and your ranting that they would bow to almost any demand you made.
I can reliably inform you all that those days are gone. These days you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't.
The other day I went to an appointment at the hospital to see a consultant about this. Upon observation the consultant told me that while there is still every chance that it will go away by itself, it might be worth operating on anyway.
"Rosie?" he called out to the nurse working at the station opposite our booth. "Can we fit Christopher in for an [insert name of unpronouncable surgical procedure here] this afternoon?"
The response was in the negative, so my consultant wrote me up an appointment request and sent me back to the main reception desk to get myself booked in for another day.
Imagine my consternation and frustration upon being told that the next available appointment would be on Tuesday, September 27. I told the receptionist, in no uncertain terms, that this date was totally unacceptable to me, not least because September 27 is my birthday and I'll be buggered if I'll spend the day having my eyelid splayed, scraped and sewn back up again. But more than that, five minutes previously my consultant had been under the impression that appointments in this place were so freely available that procedures could be carried out as quickly and easily as by calling out to the nurse in the station opposite.
This line of approach didn't really get me anywhere. The fact that the receptionist was a gay man with really bad highlights probably didn't help. No doubt my own gorgeous hair made him feel inferior.
Anyway ... I kinda lost it.
To cut a long story short I caused such a fuss over having to live with this
After a short, heated exchange I realised that the only way I was going to get these fuckers to concede to my demands was by threatening to go private - because clearly the possibility that I might unburden myself from an already overcrowded NHS waiting list would surely put the fear of God into them.
Cut to me walking out of the clinic with no appointment and very little dignity.
There was a time when losing your rag actually got you somewhere. Even if you made little or no sense, people would be so keen to get rid of you and your ranting that they would bow to almost any demand you made.
I can reliably inform you all that those days are gone. These days you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Dumbass chicken agreement
Yesterday I accepted an invitation from someone at work to attend a brainstorm to think of media ideas for what was cited as "a breakthrough in snacking!"
This morning I learned that the breakthrough was nothing to do with potato chips which make people thinner or chocolate chip cookies that increase emotional empathy. No. The breakthrough is pre-packed, pre-cooked chicken pieces.
Aside from the fact that the likes of Tesco, Sainsbury, Asda, Marks & Spencer, et al, have been selling similar products for two or three years it is not an easy task to concoct credible story hooks to encourage the tabloid press to write about chicken pieces (which, incidentally, taste like processed cocker spaniel chunks. And yes, before you ask, I do know what cocker spaniel tastes like) unless you’re prepared to pay for Abi Titmus to wear a bikini made out of them.
(Which is, actually, not such a bad idea.)
But get this - I actually had to sign a confidentiality agreement to prevent me from talking about this unbelievable revolution in cooked chicken outside of work! Apparently it has never crossed anyone’s mind that by making me sign a confidentiality agreement for a new processed meat it might actually encourage me to talk to people about it.
This morning I learned that the breakthrough was nothing to do with potato chips which make people thinner or chocolate chip cookies that increase emotional empathy. No. The breakthrough is pre-packed, pre-cooked chicken pieces.
Aside from the fact that the likes of Tesco, Sainsbury, Asda, Marks & Spencer, et al, have been selling similar products for two or three years it is not an easy task to concoct credible story hooks to encourage the tabloid press to write about chicken pieces (which, incidentally, taste like processed cocker spaniel chunks. And yes, before you ask, I do know what cocker spaniel tastes like) unless you’re prepared to pay for Abi Titmus to wear a bikini made out of them.
(Which is, actually, not such a bad idea.)
But get this - I actually had to sign a confidentiality agreement to prevent me from talking about this unbelievable revolution in cooked chicken outside of work! Apparently it has never crossed anyone’s mind that by making me sign a confidentiality agreement for a new processed meat it might actually encourage me to talk to people about it.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Existential question
Why is it that even though orange cordial tastes nothing like real oranges, we still know what it is supposed to be? The same goes for almost every other* flavour of cordial: blackcurrant, lemon, apple, strawberry and especially fruits of the forest, which is actually how Radox Essence of Peach** shower gel might taste if you licked it off a Formica work surface.
The thing with orange cordial - is it because it looks kind of orange in colour and the bottle tells us that it is orange in flavour that our senses are convinced? Is it all another example of corporate conditioning and deception?
Either way, I am assuming that I could, hypothetically, concoct a brownish coloured, watery blend of charcoal and twigs and call it “Chair Leg Squash”.
It’s pretty profound, really.
* With the exception of Passion Fruit. Anything that has been artificially flavoured to taste like Passion Fruit, does indeed taste like Passion Fruit. Think about it! It’s true!
** Actually smells like Yardley April Violets eau de toilette***
*** Actually smells like old ladies****
**** Actually smells like Yardley April Violets eau de toilette*****
***** I think I’m in a K-hole
The thing with orange cordial - is it because it looks kind of orange in colour and the bottle tells us that it is orange in flavour that our senses are convinced? Is it all another example of corporate conditioning and deception?
Either way, I am assuming that I could, hypothetically, concoct a brownish coloured, watery blend of charcoal and twigs and call it “Chair Leg Squash”.
It’s pretty profound, really.
* With the exception of Passion Fruit. Anything that has been artificially flavoured to taste like Passion Fruit, does indeed taste like Passion Fruit. Think about it! It’s true!
** Actually smells like Yardley April Violets eau de toilette***
*** Actually smells like old ladies****
**** Actually smells like Yardley April Violets eau de toilette*****
***** I think I’m in a K-hole
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Fashion stock is down
For the last two days Sam, the account executive who sits opposite me, and Rachel, one of my fellow account directors, have been ploughing through various style websites in order to find out what “the” fashion item will be for Autumn/Winter 2005/2006.
Never missing an opportunity to demonstrate my extensive sartorial knowledge I have been helpfully reeling off trends such as “Big! Big! Big!”, “Ethnic” and “Capes!”
Now I should point out that neither Sam, nor Rachel (especially Rachel) are the types of cosmopolitan women who realise that metropolitan gay men are, quite simply, the frikkin Oracle when it comes to sound fashion advice. Sam and Rachel both live in Croydon. Nuff said. Therefore my advice has been met with mistrust, poorly disguised as surprised graciousness.
This morning Sam presented her final list of “must-have” items to Rachel. Cue lots of cooing from Rachel - “Oh, yes! Lovely, oh lovely!” – while I sat there and gnashed my teeth.
Finally Rachel gets to the bottom of Sam’s list and screams in delight, “Absolutely yes! Ponchos! Yes! Everyone is wearing them!”
I very, nearly spontaneously combusted.
The very point of a must have fashion item for Autumn/Winter 2005/2006 is that no one in Summer 2005 is wearing the bloody thing (which they aren’t, actually.) Also, ponchos had their time, which, with those in the know, finished at the close of winter in 2004. Ponchos have evolved … INTO CAPES!!! I said that, remember??!!
And if that wasn’t enough I just logged onto vogue.com and saw that Anna Wintour, the frikkin arbiter of conservative, yet deeply fashionable taste, wore this monstrous Vera Wang “thing” to the CFDA Style Awards in New York:
Still, all is not lost. Linda Evangelista still looks as damn fine as ever. Just look at the way she brings her left foot in at that perfectly jaunty angle. Perfection!
That was quite a gay post. I'm off now to chop some wood.
Never missing an opportunity to demonstrate my extensive sartorial knowledge I have been helpfully reeling off trends such as “Big! Big! Big!”, “Ethnic” and “Capes!”
Now I should point out that neither Sam, nor Rachel (especially Rachel) are the types of cosmopolitan women who realise that metropolitan gay men are, quite simply, the frikkin Oracle when it comes to sound fashion advice. Sam and Rachel both live in Croydon. Nuff said. Therefore my advice has been met with mistrust, poorly disguised as surprised graciousness.
This morning Sam presented her final list of “must-have” items to Rachel. Cue lots of cooing from Rachel - “Oh, yes! Lovely, oh lovely!” – while I sat there and gnashed my teeth.
Finally Rachel gets to the bottom of Sam’s list and screams in delight, “Absolutely yes! Ponchos! Yes! Everyone is wearing them!”
I very, nearly spontaneously combusted.
The very point of a must have fashion item for Autumn/Winter 2005/2006 is that no one in Summer 2005 is wearing the bloody thing (which they aren’t, actually.) Also, ponchos had their time, which, with those in the know, finished at the close of winter in 2004. Ponchos have evolved … INTO CAPES!!! I said that, remember??!!
And if that wasn’t enough I just logged onto vogue.com and saw that Anna Wintour, the frikkin arbiter of conservative, yet deeply fashionable taste, wore this monstrous Vera Wang “thing” to the CFDA Style Awards in New York:
Still, all is not lost. Linda Evangelista still looks as damn fine as ever. Just look at the way she brings her left foot in at that perfectly jaunty angle. Perfection!
That was quite a gay post. I'm off now to chop some wood.
New vocation
At the weekend, because it was my friend Lucy's birthday, I went up to Birmingham to accompany her and my other friends to the dogs - a British expression for going to see greyhounds race around a mini-stadium, chasing an electric rabbit.
I discovered three important things about myself at the dogs:
1) I am not a born gambler I put down a total of £17.00 on the various races and I won a total of £0.80. So actually I didn't win anything. I lost £16.20.
2) My new favourite dogs are greyhounds. They are, apparently, very loving and contrary to popular opinion, don't need that much exercise. So my two bedroom, narrow, 1st floor apartment is the perfect living environment.
3) I am naturally gifted at sports photography. Look at the picture, below - see how I communicate the great speed of the greyhounds by not actually capturing them while in the frame. Cunning, huh?
I discovered three important things about myself at the dogs:
1) I am not a born gambler I put down a total of £17.00 on the various races and I won a total of £0.80. So actually I didn't win anything. I lost £16.20.
2) My new favourite dogs are greyhounds. They are, apparently, very loving and contrary to popular opinion, don't need that much exercise. So my two bedroom, narrow, 1st floor apartment is the perfect living environment.
3) I am naturally gifted at sports photography. Look at the picture, below - see how I communicate the great speed of the greyhounds by not actually capturing them while in the frame. Cunning, huh?
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
The verdict
Ages ago, one of my friends said to me, "What if Michael Jackson is telling the truth? What if he didn't do anything?" I considered it for a few moments and then brushed the idea away. After all, grown men simply do not share their beds with young, unrelated boys.
This evening I'm asking myself a different question.
Have we all become really cynical? If he really, truly is not guilty, which is what we should now believe, I guess, then I suppose I should feel a little guilty for judging him. Although I'm not sure that I do.
Another thing struck me this evening for the first time. Not guilty. It doesn't have quite the same ring as "innocent".
This evening I'm asking myself a different question.
Have we all become really cynical? If he really, truly is not guilty, which is what we should now believe, I guess, then I suppose I should feel a little guilty for judging him. Although I'm not sure that I do.
Another thing struck me this evening for the first time. Not guilty. It doesn't have quite the same ring as "innocent".
Friday, June 10, 2005
"You're a drunk and a bad mother!"
A little while ago I heard on the radio that a Hollywood studio is going to make an all-star feature movie of Dallas. Fortunately it won't follow on from where the series and the three abismal TV movies left off and will start afresh, using just the basic plot and original characters.
Dallas was the first TV show I religiously watched as a young-un. A few years ago it was repeated on BBC 1 on Saturday mornings and you could watch three episodes back to back. I think over the course of six months my housemate, Alison, and I watched every single episode. I remember feeling a pang of something kind of like brotherhood upon realising that Pam and Bobby's offspring, Christopher, my namesake, was infact, when compared to John Ross Jr. ("Swellen" and J.R.'s sprog), a little bit poofy, even if he was only about 8 at the time.
The other day I was checking out the IMDB message boards for the movie and I saw that someone had put together a "dream team" of actors who they thought would be perfect in each of the roles. This got me rather over-excited and for the past few days I have been paying very careful consideration as to who I would cast in each of the infamous roles. Bear in mind that I have tried not to be influenced by who played the character previously. Because that's what good casting is all about, dontcha know?
Dallas - The Movie
casting by Christopher [cue theme music]:
John Ross 'Jock' Ewing, Sr.
Paul Newman
Eleanor Southworth Ewing
Gena Rowlands
John Ross 'J.R.' Ewing, Jr.
Brad Pitt
Bobby Ewing
Christian Bale
Sue Ellen Shepard Ewing
Amber Valetta
Pamela Barnes Ewing
Catherine Zeta Jones
Cliff Barnes
Matthew McConaughey
Digger Barnes
Richard Gere
Ray Krebbs
Luke Wilson
Lucy Ewing Cooper
Elisabeth Harnois
Dallas was the first TV show I religiously watched as a young-un. A few years ago it was repeated on BBC 1 on Saturday mornings and you could watch three episodes back to back. I think over the course of six months my housemate, Alison, and I watched every single episode. I remember feeling a pang of something kind of like brotherhood upon realising that Pam and Bobby's offspring, Christopher, my namesake, was infact, when compared to John Ross Jr. ("Swellen" and J.R.'s sprog), a little bit poofy, even if he was only about 8 at the time.
The other day I was checking out the IMDB message boards for the movie and I saw that someone had put together a "dream team" of actors who they thought would be perfect in each of the roles. This got me rather over-excited and for the past few days I have been paying very careful consideration as to who I would cast in each of the infamous roles. Bear in mind that I have tried not to be influenced by who played the character previously. Because that's what good casting is all about, dontcha know?
Dallas - The Movie
casting by Christopher [cue theme music]:
John Ross 'Jock' Ewing, Sr.
Paul Newman
Eleanor Southworth Ewing
Gena Rowlands
John Ross 'J.R.' Ewing, Jr.
Brad Pitt
Bobby Ewing
Christian Bale
Sue Ellen Shepard Ewing
Amber Valetta
Pamela Barnes Ewing
Catherine Zeta Jones
Cliff Barnes
Matthew McConaughey
Digger Barnes
Richard Gere
Ray Krebbs
Luke Wilson
Lucy Ewing Cooper
Elisabeth Harnois
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
I am not having a good day
I have fallen out with my mum over something really stupid which is, at the same, time rather complicated and serious.
Some of my friends are annoying me, which is a really unfair thing of me to feel, because they’re all actually good people and they're not trying to intentionally bug me.
But more than all of that I have written “5. Biggs” in my work day book and I can’t, for the life of me, remember why.
I just know that someone, tomorrow or later on in the week, is going to say “Blah, blah, blah, Biggs,” and I’ll suddenly remember what it referred to and it’ll signal the beginnings of an almighty catastrophe.
You know when you were young and your parents said to you that the years spent being a kid are the best of your life and you thought, “Yeah, right!”?
Oh, the pathos!
Some of my friends are annoying me, which is a really unfair thing of me to feel, because they’re all actually good people and they're not trying to intentionally bug me.
But more than all of that I have written “5. Biggs” in my work day book and I can’t, for the life of me, remember why.
I just know that someone, tomorrow or later on in the week, is going to say “Blah, blah, blah, Biggs,” and I’ll suddenly remember what it referred to and it’ll signal the beginnings of an almighty catastrophe.
You know when you were young and your parents said to you that the years spent being a kid are the best of your life and you thought, “Yeah, right!”?
Oh, the pathos!
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