(For Dan)

Blogtox, um, thingy

Ok, there are things I want to say. Things about work, health, family, friends, travel, money, etc.

But, of late, it's been about hair.

I do feel like I need to write some kind of mental "enema". I'm not unhappy per se, but I feel that my brain is congested with so much stuff at the moment ...

But before I write about those things, I need to clear my head. I once heard that Evan Dando stopped speaking for a month or for a year, or something, and that he found the whole experience incredibly cathartic and cleansing. So I'm going to do the same. Kind of ...

For the next seven days (that’s Monday to Sunday, peeps) there will be no more words from Christopher. Only pictures. One a day. A peek into my world.

Ooooh! Maybe this could be the new big thing! Blog detox!?

Or not.

Anyhoo ... here are some nice soft floor cushions to lie back on.

*throws cushions*

Depending on your point of view this could be the longest, or the shortest, slide show known to man.

*tapes mouth shut*

Christopher's Wednesday blog post (Christopher his Wednesday blog post)

It's a long, boring story but there is a genuine, legitimate reason why I am not the world's expert when I turn my hand to the subject of punctuation and grammar.

So, a couple of weeks ago, I asked him a question:

"Where in the 'dogs cats bowl' does / do the apostrophe/s go?"

And he told me:

"The dog's cat's bowl. Perhaps it might help you to know that (I could be wrong about this but I don't think so) the possessive apostrophe is actually a contraction of '[noun] his.' So people used to say things like 'the dog his bowl.' That got shortened to 'the dog's bowl.'

"The apostrophe always comes after the noun of ownership. If that noun is singular (dog), the apostrophe comes after that, followed by an s (dog's). If the noun is plural (dogs), the apostrophe comes after that (dogs')."

[now etched onto my brain]

As a "thank you" for his outstanding tutelage, I promised him that I would recommend (not loan) his new book "Gay Haiku", which was released yesterday, to all of my friends.

Faustus's book (Faustus his book.)

I am slightly disgruntled over the fact that the soonest Amazon can get said book to me is by May 24. Goddamn this far-flung isle.

My breakfast

I've recently started eating porridge for breakfast. I hadn't eaten porridge for years, not since I was a kid, when I thought it looked and tasted like vomit. But with honey and bananas (not sure about the Kiwi in this picture though) it is deelish! It's also a slow release energy food so you don't get that mid-afternoon nap slump.

And the best thing about porridge? Celebs are eating it! Kate Moss, Donna Air, Mischa Barton, P. Diddy and most importantly my favourite homeboy, Clive.

I'm going to a Puma by Maharishi party tonight and I'm hoping for something scandalous to happen, so tomorrow I won't have to tell you what I currently have for my lunch (gravy.)

The One About the Promise

Sometime last year I made someone I care about very much make me a promise. In retrospect I guess it was a stupid promise to ask him to make, with no real consequence one way or the other, but nonetheless at the time it was important to me that I felt that this was one line that he would never, ever cross.

I actually found out some time ago that the promise had been broken - the day after it happened, if I remember correctly. Discretion, it would seem, has never been a particularly favored virtue amongst gay men. It was actually a good friend who told me that what had happened had happened. With good, honest intentions this was someone who felt that I should know. And it was an act of kindness I quickly rebuffed in a misguided attempt to sweep the gravity of what the broken promise meant to me, at the time, under the carpet.

That didn’t stop me, however, indirectly attempting to discover the truth, direct from the horse’s mouth. But I was told in a roundabout way that I had been misinformed and I chose to believe that. I believed it because I wanted to believe it.

Yesterday, for some reason, he told me the truth. Which of course, really I already knew. And I told him that, but I didn’t tell him how I knew. Some things are better left unsaid.

Isn’t it amazing how our minds work? I knew. I knew it beyond the shadow of a doubt! I had the word of a good friend. Yet it is months and months after the fact that I finally actually hear it. Really, really hear it.

Here’s the thing - when I made this person make that promise I really cared that they wouldn’t break it. And I now I find myself not caring that they did. Not in a bad way. I just woke up this morning with the realisation that it doesn’t really matter. Life is way too short. I don’t think any less of him. It doesn’t make him a bad person. He’s still one of my favourite people.

This is the thing - I can’t be mad at anyone for breaking any promise. Because I made a promise to him and to everyone I know once too. A really, really big one. And I broke it spectacularly and there were consequences.

But then, afterwards, I made the same promise again. Once more. This one won't be broken.

I know that you all know that.

[proof]

Taken last night, at dinner, in Birmingham (for my best friend's 31st birthday).



I wish my cheeks were more sculpted. I must have practically 0.01% body fat, except on my cheeks. I smile and hampsters within a twenty mile radius start knawing through their cage bars in order to get to me.

Oh! I made a remarkable discovery last night. Or was it this morning? Anyway - sticking to the same drink, i.e. not mixing, means that you don't get incredibly drunk, very, very quickly and you don't wake up in the morning with the hangover from hell!

I'm sometimes a little slow on the uptake.

The Darth Side

God bless my friend Robbie for alerting me to this. Scottish people do, after all, have their uses:

Darth Vadar's blog!

"Okay, I admit it. I cut off the kid's hand. Everything went downhill after that. Blast! Blast! Blast! I am such an idiot."

Right...

I had my hair cut and you'll be most relieved to know that I am pleased with the result.

Now, I know your next questions is going to be, "Can we see a picture?" Well, you can, but you're going to have to wait until Monday because this evening I had a fuck up with the hair dye. I decided to get rid of the highlights and go back to being my usual mono shade of dark brown (Gayer Nutresse No.145 - Sexual Chocolate). But when I came to mix the solution, instead of using the colour concentrate, I accidentally dumped the contents of the post-colour intensive conditioning treatment tube into the developing mix.

Even though I realised I'd messed up before I put the contents of the bottle onto my freshly sheared barnet, I will admit to freaking out, just a little bit.

Unfortunately it was my second freak out in less than 48 hours, both of which occurred infront of Vix, who after having lived with me for almost a year, had never born witness to a Christopher freak out.

I'd like to say that when I freak out I'm like Madeline Kahn in Clue:

"I hated her ... so ... much ... I ... it ... it ... flame. Flames ... on the side of my face ... breathing ... breath ... heaving breaths ... heaving ..."

Or that I freak out like my brother - pure, unbridled rage, coupled with a spark of pure psychopathy. He's very, very good at this one and will demonstrate it at the drop of a hat - for example, the time when he found out that the fleas present on William, our cat, had laid eggs in the follicles of his chest hair, or the time when I accidentally drove my car over his already broken foot, or the time when Mum found and destroyed his hidden marijuana farm, or the time when...

But I don't freak out in either of those ways. I'll leave you to guess exactly how I freak out. But I'll tell you this: I'm seriously considering exacting a terrible revenge against Vix for laughing profusely at me, on both of the occasions.

The One With the Bathhouse

Elizabeth has an expression for the sordid dens of iniquity that many of us gay boys like to frequent from time to time. It's an expression I rather like:

Steam emporiums.

Yesterday afternoon, at about 4.30pm, I realised that I had a bit of the horn thang goin' on. As the dial on the wallclock inched towards home time, I began to realise that this particular sensation was not something that I was simply going to be able to take into, erm, hand once I had arrived back at the pad. Therefore I decided that needs must sometimes involve another and at 6pm I hopped on the Northern Line to the fairly newly decked out steam emporium in Waterloo.

For the uninitiated amongst you (my female and dwindling straight male readership), here is the deal with gay bathhouses:

1) Gay bathhouses are not necessarily seedy affairs. Infact many of the more established ones in London are more akin to top notch health clubs than your average heterosexual "Swedish Saunas"

2) Hot guys with good bodies and decent sized, er, intellects are often in abundance (although it does depend on the time of the day)

3) You get free condoms and safe sex is actively encouraged

4) People are not, on the whole, going at it infront of each other

5) There is usually a bar, where you can have a civilised pre / post coital drink with your new fun-buddy

6) It is possible to turn a steam ream rendezvous into something less steamy afterwards

7) The guys are not completely naked (and guys look surprisingly hot in a white towel and nothing else)

8) Most gay men have been to a bathhouse at least once

9) Most gay men have been to a bathhouse at least twice

10) It's good clean fun!

So I get to the steam emporium, hand over my £12 (yeah, ok - it is quite expensive) and receive my two towels (no prizes for guessing why you get two.) I probably spent about half an hour soaking up the atmosphere, literally and metaphorically, before I start gettin' down to the serious business of gettin' myself some serious business.

Now ok, while I said that the guys are not, on the whole, going at it infront of each other, you will, if you keep your eyes peeled, notice a few fumbles going on under towels. That's not really my scene. I prefer catching some cute guy's stare, exchanging a few cheeky smiles and having a bit of a chat, before venturing off into a private (lockable) cabin and getting down to some fun, fun, fun!

And that was how it was last night. No sex on a rope swing a la Joan Collins and Oliver Tobias in The Stud. His name was Stephan, looked a bit like the footballer Ryan Giggs, had a great bod and was a really, really good kisser. And he knew all the other stuff. After we were done, we exchanged the customary pleasantries ("Thanks man! That was hot! What was your name again?") And I went off to have a shower and get changed.

On my way out I handed my locker key over to the attendant at reception. As I put the key infront of him on the desk the guy (actually a breathtakingly cute early twentysomething) looked up from his copy of Boyz or whatever it was and looked at me, at first, absentmindedly. But after about a millisecond a look of recognition sparked into his face, which then extended into a very broad, very "knowing" grin.

"Looked like someone was having some fun earlier!"

The cute receptionist is talking to me, I thought. But what words are these, coming out of his mouth?

"Ergh?"

"You! In the Jacuzzi! Looked like you were having some fun!" he exclaimed with this kinda weird smug thing going on, gesticulating towards a CCTV screen, semi-hidden behind his desk.

I believe that what must have been, initially, a look of distant interest in having this young whippersnapper speak to me quickly turned into a glare of incredulous disdain.

"I didn't do anything in the Jacuzzi. I didn't get in the Jacuzzi!"

The whippersnapper just smiled and gave me the "Yeah, whatever." look, before dipping his head back down to his free gayboy rag.

"But I didn't," I quietly repeated, more to myself this time around.

And then I left, feeling much less randy, but somewhat confused. Was that a line he pulls on all the punters as they leave the premises feeling all washed and clean (and spent), in order to try to make them feel embarrassed about having random, lusty sex with strangers?

Or did I actually just get wildly gang-banged in a Jacuzzi whilst being watched on grainy black and white CCTV by a cute, young whippersnapper ... all of it without my knowledge?

"If I Don't Look Good, You Don't Look Good"

Thank you, thank you, thank you! Your votes are in and you appear to have elected for this:



But, I swear, with Vidal Sassoon as my witness, that once I have it done on Thursday, if I hate it and regret it, you will all be so very, very sorry! Yeah, you should be scared, because I am Rosemary's Baby:

Genuine baby picture of Christopher


Seriously! You can just about see my head!

Now, my Mum took that picture and her name is Rosalie, which is almost Rosemary, so while I guess that technically makes me Rosalie's Baby, it's still near enough. Also, Vidal Sassoon did Mia Farrow's famous gamine crop on the actual set of Polanski's Rosemary's Baby. And I mentioned Vidal Sassoon earlier in this post. And I used to do the PR for Vidal Sassoon. And [insert further menacing coincidences].

All legitimate reasons why you should all be afraid that I might not like my new hair cut. Democracy comes at a price, kids.

(Note: it just occurred to me that this is not actually an experiment - I did have my hair cut like that before and I did like it. Oh. Perhaps I should just put a sock in it?)

Not a vanity post (er, no really, it's not...)

As many of you are doubtlessly aware, about six months ago I decided to undertake an extremely time consuming project - I decided to grow my hair out.

Now that my hair is genuinely that bit longer than normal I am beginning to have doubts that floppy hair is actually befitting a thirtysomething, professional gay man, like wot I am.

The plus side of having long hair, for me, is that, well, I just have the most sensationally amazing hair - naturally shiny and straight, in a rich and lustrous chocolate shade of brown. I get lovely comments from boys, jealous girls and friends, who know very well not to mess with the fragile ego of moi.

The downside is that, um, I get bored easily. When I was at the gay boy party at Soho House on Sunday afternoon I was struck by how I had the longest hair at the party. Not that there is anything wrong with setting yourself aside from the stereotype, but there were so many cute guys with lovely short barnets and suddenly I started to feel isolated from my fellow homoboys. I asked myself the question - am I just wasting my time, when I could be all stud-u-like with a short and messy? Am I just making myself look like even more of a bit of a pansy?

So today, dear readers, I am giving you The Ultimate Power*. I am providing each and every one of you with the chance to voice your opinion on how you think my hair best suits me. To give you a nice array of Christopher hair choices to pick from, I have literally spent ten minutes hours and hours trudging through old pics of me.

Please leave your thoughts and opinions in the comments section at the end of this post.

* Explanation of The Ultimate Power - I take on board your comments, nod a bit, then I do exactly the opposite of what you tell me to do.

Me, today (albeit, Sunday)


And your choices are:

Cropped


Short and messy


Short and messy with blonde tips


Short and messy and yellow blonde


Preppy


In-between

Dimanche

My throat has been quite troublesome this last week. I’ve been really hoarse and short of breath and I’ve had to get two batches of steroids from the hospital, including one trip on Saturday.

So you probably think that I ditched my hectic Sunday plans for a quiet night in, infront of the TV, cozying myself under a blanket, right?

Like, duh!

Less words, more pictures...

Today

Today I literally spent about four hours trying to write a coherent blog post, but various factors seemed to be preventing me from doing it. So I've ditched the original post. Instead, here is a list of those combining factors that have bought me to this post:

• Going clubbing on a Thursday night. It was to Discotec at The End with Kate, Tom and Drew. I've never been before, which is quite remarkable given that it is, by all accounts, a gay Mecca.

• Waking up in a strangers house in Kennington at about 12pm, with no one, apart from me, at home. It was a rather fabulous apartment and I'll admit to having a good snoop around before I left. And I didn't leave my number. Does that make me a slut? Probably.

• Realising the utter brilliance of having a really blinding night out, while managing to spend only £30!

• My phone ringing constantly - why is it that when I am in a completely straight frame of mind no one calls me and the time when I really need some peace and quiet I get bombarded by calls?

• Being captivated by how adaptable my new longer hair is to different styles after having put it through a night of all kinds of colours of crap.

• Playing it Straight - after Zoe evicted him from the hacienda this evening, I think I am in love with Jonny. To me he seemed to be the first gay guy who was genuinely delighted to be "outed". And I want to sex him for that.

• Death Becomes Her - it really is as bad as I remembered it to be.

• Pictures of Sharon Stone filming Basic Instinct 2 - Risk Addiction. I want to like this movie, but I don't think I'm gonna. Apparently the opening scene has Stan Collymore sticking his hand up Sharon's skirt while they drive across London's Albert Bridge in a Laviolette Spyker. Surely I don't have to explain how wrong that scenario is?

• Deciding what I'm going to wear on Sunday. I need an outfit that will not only endure but also be appropriate for the following events: lunchtime champagne party at my friend Kelly's house, followed by Secret Sundaze at The Poet, followed by a gayer party thrown by a friend at Soho House, followed by more drinking at Sam's pad, followed by DTPM, followed by Orange (unlikely), followed by Sam's house with the Scoobies (more than likely).

• Worrying how I'm going to be able to get through Sunday.
  

Three things I hate right now

1) Akon.
I'm not surprised you're lonely when you record lame-ass tunes with cartoon-like backing vocals. What the fuck is that shit anyway? I swear to God, if I hear that song once more I will have to start hurting people.

2) The guy at the grocery store video store.
No, I don't still have Alien vs. Predator out. I bought it back the day after I rented it. And if you call me again and ask me to check my flat for it I will have to start hurting you.

3) Not being able to talk properly.
There is something very, very wrong with the fact that I, of all people, don't have the full use of my voice. If I don't get the full use of my voice back very soon, I'll have to start hurting myself. More.

One thing I like right now:
The fact that a guest character on Smallville called Clark "C.K." the other day. CK being my initials! Also that Allison Janney's character on The West Wing is called "C.J." and the first letters of my first name and middle name are C.J.

That was two things, wasn't it?

hayden-christensen-gay

So Elizabeth, Kate, Drew's sister, Amber, and I are stood at the end of the run, outside the arrivals gate inside Heathrow's Terminal 3. We're all a bit overexcited at the prospect of seeing our long lost friend / sibling again. So much so that every time we see a man walk through the gate one of us invariably exclaims, "Is that him? IS THAT HIM?!"

It was so funny when I thought some fat, balding, middle aged man was Drew. Yeah. I laughed at that one.

During the drive back into the city Drew told me that on his travels he had heard a rumour that Hayden Christensen may infact be a fellow shirt lifter (incidentally, I've never really understood that expression. Why "shirt lifter"?) Driven by concern over the plausibility of this rumour (not, you understand, by the possibility that Hayden might now be a future love interest for me) I did me a little Google search.

Most of the results I turfed up featured a quote from Hayden refuting the rumour, even though I'm not entirely convinced that "My perspective is that if it's not true, then I'm OK with it, and I get a laugh out of it" is actually a denial. In fact I'm not sure what that means.

Anyway, anyway, anyway. On my virtual travels I came across a blogger's website, on which the owner had written a post addressing the claim (and, judging by the date of the post, this particular rumour has been enjoying some degree of longevity.) While the post was in itself fairly humorous, what I found truly side-splittingly hilarious was the very last reader comment. A comment so fabulously incipient that it really doesn't matter whether it was written in jest or for real. Actually it does matter. I desperately hope it was the latter.

Here.

(am I a bad person?)

Playing it not so straight

Even though I've been watching it since it started just over two weeks ago, it wasn't until a few minutes ago I realised that I've hooked up with one of the guys on Playing it Straight. If any of you would like to know which one I will happily divulge.

For money.

The one where your protagonist attempts to rent a DVD and buy a coffee

Despite having consumed about twelve gazillion litres of Volvic A Touch of Fruit mineral water (Lemon and Lime, as opposed to the normal, yummy Strawberry), when I went to bed last night my vocal chords were still as dry as a virgin's...

When I woke up this morning the throat fairy seemed to have shined on moi and I felt sure enough of my regained vocal capabilities to attempt to venture out of the flat to rent a DVD and buy a Starbucks. Because my housemate has selfishly buggered off to Tunbridge Wells, yet again, to see her new boyfriend I had no one to practice on before I set off. So I practiced on myself in the bathroom mirror (fnar!)

"Hello! I was wondering if you have a copy of Enduring Love that I might be able to rent?" (just incase they didn't have it on the shelf and I had to ask)

"Hello! I was wondering if I might purchase a tall, skinny, no-whipped mocha?"

I decided that while I was still undoubtedly a little bit throaty and raspy I was, on the whole, dulcet and sexy. In other words, good to go.

First I get to the video shop and not only did they not have Enduring Love, but they didn't have Eurotrip any Krystov Kieslowski movies either. This really surprised me, even though my local video store is actually just a rotating stand in the corner of a grocery shop.

So I ventured up to the counter with my rehearsed line.

"I hwas huwenderi..."

The assistant tilted his head to one side.

"I hwas huwenderi ifff you haff..."

Leaning towards me, "What was that?"

Cut to me, about five minutes later, in Starbucks:

"Coul I haff a tall, skinny, no-whiffed moha plss?"

"What?"

"Coul I haff a tall, skinny, no-whiffed moha plss?"

[Puzzled expression]

"MOHA!"

I just got home with a copy of Hellboy and a semi-hot Latte. I'm not happy.

Oh God, yes!

Would you believe that I am actually more excited by this than I am at the prospect of seeing Batman Begins or the last episode of Star Wars? Superman was the first movie I ever went to see at the movies and the old Man of Steel has held a special place in my heart ever since.

So - not entirely sure about Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane, but I am now convinced that Brandon Routh is most definitely Superman. And who'd have thunk that Clark Kent could be so sexy?

Goosebumps!!!

Ahem

So ok, I am blogging today after all. It's just that I didn't think I'd be up to it. Opening my little iBook and positioning it comfortably on my lap is quite a big job for a poorly little boy. But I feel fine! That said, it'll still have to be a quick one because I have to rest my voice.

Everything went smoothly, although my throat is a bit sore now. But that's to be expected given that my right vocal chord has been charred and burnt into a mini pork scratching, right? I keep forgetting I can't speak though. I go to say something and nothing comes out - literally. It's the weirdest feeling. Not an entirely unpleasant one for my flatmate. I think she quite enjoyed the fact that I was completely silent the whole way back home from Brighton! Apparently I have to drink lots of water to loosen things up.

By the way - hello general anesthetics! I mean I had one not so long ago when I broke my jaw, but I forget how good they are! I hope dealers don't start selling them at clubs because I'll be all over them. Can you imagine? "Oi, Dave. Do you reckon your mate can get any general anesthetics? It's just that I'm going down Infernos tonight with the missus and she's never dun one before."

Hmmm. They are nice. Although I'm not sure how conducive to dancing they'd be.

"Are you coming up yet?"

"Oh yeah! It's like this totally crazy..."

Annnnnd asleep...

The Three Things

Don't they say that there are three important things in life? Good work, good health and good friends? Well, maybe the last two. Anyway...

Good work:
I'm freelancing at the same company my housemate is freelancing at. It's a very, very small agency, but the people are nice, the accounts fun and the office is spacious and very "Zen". My laptop is completely wireless, which I've had at home for ages, but never at work and I have a glass desk and really cool chair. After all these are critical things when it comes to job satisfaction. The other thing is that the project I have been bought in to work on is to do with water filtration. It sounds boring, but it's actually pretty cool and is being pioneered by the most unlikely brand that you definitely will have heard of. The reason that I'm excited about this particular project is that my Dad is a the director of the waterboard in Bath, where I grew up, and knows inside people in water filtration, who I now know, which means that I am golden kid at work.

Good health:
Tomorrow morning I'm going to Brighton to have my throat surgery. Finally. Although it's a proper general anesthetic job, I'm really excited because it's one step closer to being able to run flat out on the treadmill again. What I'm not looking forward to is the bit when they cannulise me. My ex is a nurse and he always used to admire my veins and tell me how great they would be to cannulise. Funny old world - some of us dream of roaring fires and passionate love making. Others dream of sticking hypodermics into their boyfriend's arms. That said, I think most of my ex-boyfriends have wanted to stick sharp things into my at various junctures.

Good friends:
After almost seven months of writing a poem, or a magazine article, or a mission statement, or something, Drew comes home! Tuesday morning will see the scoobygirls and I waving franticly at him as he walks through arrivals at Heathrow. I'm the designated driver and am expecting the journey back into London to be a rambunctious affair. I have no doubt that at some point I will have to use the "If you don't quieten down back there I'm going to stop the car and you can get out and walk!" line. Even though they'll just laugh at me. Anyhoo - the first weekend is already filled with the promise of much surreptitious, drunken bawdiness. London boys are shaking in their New Balances.

No blog tomorrow. Think of me at about 2pm, as I go under the laser thingamyjig.

Hmmm...

Yeah. You see when I rewrote the rules of conclave this wasn't exactly the result I had in mind:



Ok, I could get all righteous about the fact that he was once a member of the Hitler youth. But given that he eventually deserted the German army I'm willing to give him the benefit (Benedict?!) of the doubt.

There is still much that gives me pause. I read in the paper this morning that he has said, publicly, that homosexuality is an abomination, punishable by God. Thanks for that Ben. 'Scuze me if I blatantly ignore you for the time being. It's just that I've got quite a lot of sodomy to get on with. I'll worry about the holy ass-whooping I'm due for in fifty or so years, if that's ok?

Looks like it's gonna be a bumpy ride, kids!

My old man

There is this guy at my gym. I think he's called Mark (I saw his workout schedule). He's gotta be at least six foot tall, is bulky but defined and has a really chiseled, manly, kind face. In a nutshell he's one tall drink of water. And he's got to be at least 45.

And today, after having admired him from afar, shooting him the odd sideways smile, he finally spoke to me! This is kind of how it went:

Mark - "Do you have many more sets to do?"

Christopher - "Oh. Er, just one more."

Mark - "Cool. Thanks."

Now this might not seem to be of Earth shattering importance, but normally I am attracted to very pretty male model types such as Jon Passavant - not rugged, yet kindly 45 year old father figures. I did date this 42 year old called Jack about four years ago for all of about five minutes. Similarly to Mark, he had the chiseled face / body of death combo. The sex was hot but the conversation, not. Older men and life experience does not necessarily make for interesting conversation. But hey! Hot sex!

The thing is, I'm totally noticing older guys all over the place. I mean, I know fancying older guys is not exactly a disgusting perversion, but it worries me that I might snag myself a hot older boyfriend and then have to deal with the eventual awkwardness when my parents meet him and they discover that he is old enough to be their younger brother. Or even old enough to be their father (in the case of me going out with Paul Newman).

Which neatly leads me onto:

Christopher's Dream Celebrity Older Boyfriends

5. Paul Newman


4. Richard Gere


3. Scott Bakula


2. Doug Savant (from Desperate Housewives)


1. CLIVE OWEN!!!


Honorary Mention - Zach Braff
Ok, so he's actually younger than me, but he has that goofy intellectual thing goin' on which is a surefire way to get into my pants. He also has a blog which I commented on once or twice. I'm still waiting for him to comment on mine. Bastard.

The Rules of Conclave (revised 2005)

I think I've already admitted to having read Angels & Demons. Therefore I have joined the millions of people, worldwide, who now think they are experts on the rules of conclave - the ceremony of picking a new Pope - which starts today.

The biggest problem as far as I can see it is that the first rule of conclave decrees that the nominees must be of a certain age, i.e. old gits, which naturally skews the outcome, ensuring that the new spiritual leader will more than likely be an evil, fascist, homophobic, woman hating pontiff. And that would be very bad.

So I've changed the rules of conclave and the criteria for selecting the new Pope. Vatican City / Cardinals, please take note:

1. The first rule of conclave is that no one talks about conclave.

2. The Pope must be able to stick his hands into a burning fire. I figure that when the End of Days arrives and the Popester has to go all Yoda on the Devil's ass he's going to have to be just a little bit flame retardant.

3. The Pope must denounce horoscopes as a form of heresy and state that followers will go to Hell.

4. The Pope needs to be able to admit that Jesus was a bit of a hottie. I'm not saying the Pope should be gay. I'm just saying that he should be confident enough with that side of his sexuality to be able to make that admission.

5. The Pope should be gay.

6. The Pope must agree to have the glass-roofed Popemobile pimped up by Xzibit and his playas and renamed the Pimpmobile. It is important that The Pope is seen cruisin' the world's streets in style - and by that I mean in a shady, ultraviolet, bouncing, blingin' pimp ride.

7. And while we're on the subject, the Pope totally needs to sex up the communion chalice. The wine is supposed to represent the blood of Christ, for Christ's sake! I think a little added bling is definitely in order here.

8. The Pope isn't allowed to get bored during services. He's not allowed to de-pill his holy frock or stick Sellotape on the back of his hand and then pull it off. No weird ass Popes, please.

9. Simon Cowell must serve as his personal secretary and constantly tell the Pope what a truly terrible Pope he really is. This will help to ensure that the Pope's ego doesn't get too big. It also means that when the Pope dies, Simon will, for a few days, be the Camerlengo and we'll get to see him doing St.Peter's Square Idol ("I can say with all honesty that was the worst mass rendition of Venite Fedeli I have ever heard.")

10. The Pope has to admit that Marissa and Alex make much more sense that Marissa and Ryan ever did. The storyline is progressive and Alex is one majorly hot Lesbian . And since the first season Ryan has become a total dork.

11. Dries Van Noten must be appointed to redesign the Swiss Guard uniform and Tom Ford to redesign the wardrobe of the Pontiff.

12. The Pope must do the moonwalk every time he visits any country or city. Just think how awesome it would be if the Pope reaches the bottom of the steps of his plane and instead of kissing the ground just moonwalks across the tarmac? Imagine the cheers from the people!

So - if conclave follows these simple rules we'll have ourselves one kick ass Pope. It would be great if he also had powers, such as being able to form a ball of pink electricity in his palm at will and throw it at things. But I realise this is a tall order, so it's not a dealbreaker.

My frikkin job

Ok, I've been delaying writing this post, because while it may be new to y'all, dear readers, over the past few weeks my employment woes have been an ongoing saga, of which I am finally glad to be rid of.

So anyway, I started writing a long explanation and then I read it back to myself and it was kinda boring and here's the thing - if I don't find something in my life interesting then there is no way in the world you will. I mean I'm still telling my friends the story about when my car got blocked in and I left a note on the blocker's window screen saying, "Next time I'll bring a can opener!" 'Cause I think it's funny, but from the collective eye rolling I'm beginning to appreciate that they don't.

So, for perhaps the first time in my life, I will now try to write a succinct version of events:

When I accepted the job offer three months ago I was unaware that my primary function in the capacity of Account Director would be media relations. Despite being a PR I am not actually a publicist. My background is integrated marketing with a PR spin (pardon the pun). The first month was more or less ok, because I was finding my feet, so it was only natural that I would feel slightly out of sorts. But then I began to have serious reservations over whether my skills would ever be properly put to use. I raised these concerns with my direct boss on two occasions and neither time did I go away feeling that the situation would change.

By last Tuesday I'd pretty much had enough of working ridiculously long hours (average - 8am through 9pm) and trying to lead a team of only four people on twelve accounts (I'm used to having a team of about eight on just two or three accounts). So I handed my notice in to the owner of the company (my direct boss was in Milan).

The owner of the company (we'll call her Sarah) refused to accept my notice and instead asked me to think about it, promising a radical change in the priorities of my duties coupled with a nice pay rise. Sarah said that it might help if I also discussed my concerns with my direct boss (we'll call her Fuckhead Bitchface Slagbreath Fuckhead) on Thursday. I agreed and went away feeling slightly better about having more money to buy that cute D-Squared top I've had my eye on things.

Thursday came and the three of us sat down to have a rational, grownup conversation. Because that's what professionals in their 30s do, right?

Wrong. Any attempt by me to bring to light the differences in my experience and how the role I accepted turned out to be were blasted out of the water by Fuckhead. She simply could not accept that I might have actually put everything I had into the role in order to make it work. Eventually it got completely out of hand with Sarah berating Fuckhead for speaking down to me (did I mention how much I love Sarah?) and Fuckhead yelling back that she also found it hard to fit into her role, but she'd eventually managed it and therefore so could I if I really wanted to. At one point she even turned to me and said, "The fact that you moan about having to put in the long hours makes me think you were never really that dedicated to your work in the first place."

"The fact that you're such a horse-faced bitch makes me think that you need to be euthanised," I calmly responded (in my head).

It got so out of hand, infact, that in the end I just sat on the end of the sofa, in total silence, listening to these two women loudly blaming each other for the shortcomings of the company interview process. After a couple of minutes of listening to this crap I realised that there was only one thing that I could do.

"I'm sorry. We're just not getting anywhere and I'm now convinced, more than ever, that we're never going to get anywhere. So I'm definitely going to resign. So now we need to discuss how we tell the team and the clients."

We agreed that I would work through the rest of the day, that the team would be told immediately and that I would do half a day on Friday, during which I would hand over my work. This was great, because by this point all I wanted was to be shot of the place.

There was a downside though. Fuckhead delightedly informed me that because I was still within my three month probationary period I could only give a weeks notice and would therefore only receive one more week of pay. Suddenly I started viewing a jokey conversation I recently had with a friend about the two of us starting a rent boy agency in a much more serious light.

When I got home later that night (after a few vodka based cocktails with my boys) I took a look at my contract. And guess what? They fucked up!!!! I didn't sign a three month contract. They gave me a regular long term contract, in which it says that if I decide to leave I get paid for a full month from the date of resignation. They'd already decided that I could leave on Friday, so the long and short of it is that, with accrued holiday, I now get paid right up until the end of May.

On Friday, as I handed over my credit card to pay for the D-Squared top, my housemate called me with the news that her boss might need me to freelance for her, starting next week.

You see? Everything works out in the end. Except that I just proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that I can't be succinct for toffee.

The brief life of Basil

During Easter a friend presented my housemate with a small white chocolate duck named Basil, by Marks & Spencer. Yes, I'll concede to the fact that Basil is quite cute. But at the end of the day the fact remains that Basil is indeed just molded chocolate.

"But we can't eat him! He's too sweet and little!" my housemate has often protested over the past three weeks. So this evening I decided to teach her a harsh lesson (do not scroll down if you are of a sensitive disposition):

Basil wakes up


Basil about to take a bath


Basil watches some TV


Basil sits a little too close to the fire


Basil has a lobotomy


Basil mashed up real bad


Basil in a bodybag


THE END

What?!

O.C. ('Oly Cow!)

On Tuesday evening, at around 9.58pm, heterosexual men (and one homosexual man) aged 16-35, all over Britain, leapt off their sofas and high fived their TV screens, yelling "Score!!!!"

Why? Because Marissa and Alex shared their long-overdue first kiss! Look!!!

Now clearly, being a red-blooded gayer, I normally have little interest in watching women get it on. But Marissa and Alex? Like, dude!!! I would, like, totally provide the filling for that girl-on-girl sandwich! Yuhhhh! Huhhh-huhhhh!!! [and so on and so forth]

Infact if they continue like this for very long I might have to haul my ass over to Meow Mix and try to get me some.

(SPOILER! Marissa and Alex's love affair only lasts for three more episodes, so lesbians everywhere can breath a huge sigh of relief that my libido will shortly be fixed firmly on Seth again.)

I have sinned and I will go to Hell

I had the most bizarre day yesterday. For many reasons I had decided that I had had enough with my role at the company I work at, which I only joined just under three months ago. To cut a long story short I handed my notice in, totally expecting it to be accepted without compromise. But compromise was actually what I got - infact much more than that. I have another meeting with the owner of the company tomorrow morning to iron out the finer details, so I'm saving an explicitly detailed blog post about my recent work woes until then.

In the meantime I have a confession to make. A couple of weeks ago I told you that my friend Lindsay had, in turn, told me that my current hairstyle makes me look like Charlie from Busted. Again, I don't look like Charlie from Busted at all, but I'm getting off the point here. A good couple of years ago my friend Nathan, who worked at teen gossip magazine "Sneak", sent me a promotional copy of Busted's debut CD.

Now I know what you're probably thinking - "But surely, Christopher, you binned it? You did bin it didn't you?"

Er, no. I downloaded it onto my iPod. And apparently I listen to it. A lot.

Last night, while culling some of the stuff I never listen to from my iTunes library in order to make more room on my paltry 15GB iPod, I noticed that I have listened to "What I Go To School For" a total of 84 times. To you give you an idea of the gravity of this situation, I have only listened to my "official" favourite song, "Glory Days" by Bruce Springsteen, a total of 37 times.

If anyone knows of any way in which I can effectively cleanse my poor eardrums (and my mortal soul) please let me know. Ways in which I can do this involving hot gay sex with Charlie Busted are particularly welcome.

(Has anyone ever noticed that the spell checker on Blogger doesn't recognised the word "blog"?)

Christopher is...

Today I could write a post about how I hate my job with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. But I'm saving that for a day when I'm really, really unhappy with my job, because on that day not only will I have some really kick-ass, jump through hoops, take me down, oh yeah, right down to China Town blogging material but my anger will also, singlehandly, be able to provide an infinite (and enviromentally friendly) power source for Earth and for the human race, forever more.

Instead, here is something fun, stolen from David's blog. Apparently it's called "Googlism" - go to Google and in "Advanced Search" write "[your name] is" in the "exact phrase" box and see what it comes up with. This is what I got:

Christopher is right

Christopher is a pseudonym for Samuel Youd, a prolific author whose full bibliography runs to around 70 novels under seven different names

Christopher is a modern day Time Lord

Christopher is credited with discovering the New World

Christopher is the writer young readers turn to when they're looking for fast-paced, action-packed sports novels

Christopher is proud to introduce the Koh Young precision 3D solder paste inspection system

Christopher is now encouraging that more people "get the vision"

Christopher is in search of poor Gulliver Bear

Christopher is a precocious 3-year-old with a sly smile and a big heart

Christopher is a saint still venerated by Orthodox Christians

Christopher is a true genius who can lead us to new enlightenment as well as a state of vibrant health

Christopher is advised to get a job in the war office, but instead ends up at the front in France

Christopher is another personality inside me

Christopher is mostly heterosexual, but with the amount of time he spends around women, deep conditioning treatments, and glossifiers, his feminine qualities can't help rising to the surface

Christopher is still not potty trained, he wears a pull up all the time and rarely will he go use the toilet

Christopher is impulsive, and his impulses are often violent

Christopher is mindful of his position as heir to the Armestronge lands and sergeant of the Austhwaite garrison

Christopher is probably a charming, heroic young man

Christopher is worthy of the Bond villain mantle [how much do I love that one?]

Christopher is perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation

Christopher is chairman of the National Security Subcommittee

Christopher is impetuous and trigger-happy

Christopher is tax deductible

Christopher has the cool reserve which some of his contemporaries lack

Christopher is your hot candy

Cool shit (if you are so inclined)

Some of you know that I am a bit of an aviation geek. A while ago I posted the above picture on my Flickr pages with the intention of blogging about it. Then I thought that it might be a bit boring and didn’t. But then yesterday I noticed that a whole bunch of people had checked it out and had commented on how cool it was. Some of them had some questions as to exactly what it was. So I am guessing you all might be interested too. No? Well bugger off then and come back tomorrow.

The picture is an award winning photograph of a US Navy F-18 Hornet Fighter Jet, taken off the Coast of Pusan above the Pacific Ocean. The egg shaped cloud of vapour at the tail of the vehicle, which remains formed for only a fraction of a second, is called a Prandtl-Glauert Singularity.

There is much speculation over what causes a P-G Singularity. Many like to believe that it represents the point at which a jet breaks through the sound barrier. However, this is not actually the case.

These types of clouds only ever form for one reason - the air closest to the jet has cooled to the point where water vapour present in the atmosphere is forced to condense. In aviation, air flows around the fuselage and the wings change the temperature and the pressure of moisture in the air. That’s partly the reason why some jets leave cloudy tracks behind them in the sky – the pressure of air at high altitudes combined with the effects of temperature changes created by the aircraft are two of the factors involved in creating a slowly dissipating trail of vapour.

The only reason that planes can actually take off is because of the lift created by differences in air pressure on the top or the bottom of the wings and fuselage. Infact the pressure really varies from point to point in a flow around an object – that’s why you can also see a mini P-G Singularity at the rear of the pilot’s cockpit.

Anyhoo - pretty cool, n’est pas?

Lindsay is 30

Last night I went out with a bunch of my old friends and extended "family" to celebrate my friend Lindsay's 30th birthday. The drinking went on into the early hours of the morning and was followed by a few glasses of champagne in Wimbledon this afternoon. I'm too hungover to write anything really coherent, so here are some pictures - before it all got out of hand...

The birthday girl (it took several attempts to get a shot she was even mildly happy to approve)


Ben, Helen and James (Ben and James are actually twins. You can tell them apart because one of them is called Ben and the other is called James)


My housemate, Vix, basking in the light of Christopher


Helen and yours truly


Tim, Dan, Ads and Burnsy (who plays Nathan Barley, in Nathan Barley)