"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

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!

I love living in London right now...

... but when I hear that one of my friends in NYC might be watching Madonna's new tour documentary at a private preview with Ingrid Casaras and that this morning he saw Leo and Giselle smooching outside his apartment, I can't help but feel a little pang of "homesick-ness".

Throw Christopher from the train

A word of warning: never, ever get into an argument with me. I’m not necessarily saying that I’ll beat you, but either way it’s guaranteed that I will drive both of us a little bit crazy. I will, with no compunction, argue that black is white, especially when I feel that I am being dealt the short end of the stick. I will often lose all logic and sensibility to try and bring the situation round to my favour. Sometimes it works but most of the time it doesn’t.

Take yesterday for example…

On weekends and the occasional bank holiday Monday the various companies who operate the trains which run on the miscellaneous tracks which used to constitute the British rail network collectively run this offer whereby for an upgrade fee of £10 you get to travel First Class. On a Silverlink train this means that you get to sit in the partitioned section of the second carriage, separated from the plebs by a swing door that may / may not work depending on the efficacy of the vandals operating in the Willesden and Harlesden areas of North London. On a GNER or a Branson run Virgin train you get lots of leg room, very likely a table unit to yourself, a free sandwich, a cup of tea or coffee, biscuits and a copy of The Daily Telegraph or The Times if you are travelling under the steam of Mr. Branson

Because I have ideas above my station (Station! Ha-ha! Geddit!?) if I travel by rail at the weekend I almost always pay the upgrade and travel First Class. After all, £10 isn’t much money for afore mentioned luxuries.

This past weekend I went home to Bath to see my family and friends and to teach my Mum how to use her new Mac Mini (which in itself is worthy of a lengthy blog post.) Yesterday, at about 6pm, Mum dropped me off at Bath station and I hopped onto the train that would take me back to London.

As usual economy was packed, so I hauled my ass down to the First Class carriages and proceeded to make myself at home by taking over four seats and a table with my iPod, mobile phone, book, newspapers, sweater and hand luggage.

Not long after the train pulled away from the platform the ticket inspector entered the carriage and started asking us passengers for our tickets. Eventually he got to me and I produced my normal economy ticket and my Solo card and asked for the weekend upgrade.

Before I go on I need to explain, for the benefit of my non-British readers what a solo card is. How shall I do this? Oh, ok...

American Express Centurion = Versace*
American Express = Jil Sander
Mastercard = Miu Miu
Visa = Gucci
Switch /Maestro = Urban Outfitters
Solo = Target / George at Asda

* Because wealth and good taste do not always go hand-in-hand

Now, I should point out that I have, at various points in my personal life and career, been in possession of all of the above credit cards, except for the Centurion, which I am working on. I have even had a Coutts business account credit card which would have gotten me upgrades and access to premium class lounges at airports worldwide, but I had to give it back two weeks after I received it, because I resigned from my job.

The reason that I currently only have a Solo card is because when I lived in America my British bank account went stagnant or putrid or whatever the correct banking terminology is for an account which has stopped operating. As a result, when I returned to England, I was only allowed a Solo card and not a normal Switch card because the bank needed to see healthy account activity. Healthy meaning that my account should not go over the agreed overdraft facility. I’ll leave you to deduce why, after twelve months, I am still in possession of a Solo card.

Back to the story:

Inspector - “Sorry sir, but we don’t accept Solo. Do you have a Switch card?”

It was an affront to me that he was even insinuating that I would actually choose to pay by Solo if I was, indeed, in possession of a Switch or any other type of card for that matter. Also I immediately realised that I was facing the very real possibility that I was going to be made to do the walk of shame – ejected from First Class to Cattle Class, because I couldn’t pay a measily £10.

So I did what any gay man worth his salt would have done in the same situation.

I completely over-reacted.

Christopher (completely aware that hardly anyone or any company accepts Solo) - “But that’s completely ridiculous that you don’t take Solo! Besides, I’ve paid by Solo countless times before.”

Inspector - “You can’t have done sir. We’ve never accepted Solo.”

Instantly I realise that he’s completely correct and that, previously, I’ve always paid using one of my credit cards, all of which I recently cut up in the effort to streamline my life.

Fuck.

Christopher (out and out lying now) – “Well that’s just as ridiculous, because I paid for a train ticket by Solo just last week. Here, I have the receipt in my wallet."

As I search through my wallet for a non-existent receipt which proved I paid for a non-existent journey with a payment card that the company didn't accept I realised that I had pretty much lost my mind, but much more importantly, the argument.

I looked up at the inspector.

Christopher - "I'm going to have to move to economy, aren't I?"

He nodded.

Making the most almighty fuss I collected my belongings and slumped back off to economy where I was forced to sit next to some chav who was, while being scum (naturally), deeply attractive in a chav-y kind of way.

Eventually the same ticket inspector made his way up to Saddo Class and asked for my ticket. I knww that the bastard did this on purpose because his smile showed that he recognised me and he had already stamped my ticket when I was in First.

It took every micron of restraint I could muster to stop myself pouncing out of my seat and deftly cutting his throat with a quick swipe of my Solo card.

Nude

When I was younger I would do almost anything to avoid being alone. I was actually deeply insecure about it. Occasionally I would have these visions – really, really vivid waking dreams where I would be in the present but after some kind of apocalypse had taken place and I would be the only person in the world - completely alone.

That was a long time ago. As an adult, especially in my thirties, I really value the time that I get to spend by myself. The house that I live in is very conducive to being by one’s self. It’s homely and warm – alive. Maybe that’s the key – although I know I’m alone I feel that I am in the company of my home?

One of the things that I like most of all about being by myself is that feeling when you realise that you haven’t spoken out loud for hours and hours.

Last night I took the state of being alone one step further. While I am by no means a prude, I am not (always) comfortable with being completely naked (note the importance of the previous parenthetical!). Even if there is no one at home, I will generally put on some underwear before venturing from my bedroom to the bathroom to take a leak.

Last night I found myself at home, alone, wearing just a pair of tracksuit pants. For some reason I decided to be bold and took everything off to, you know, see how it felt, to see if I could just get used to the idea of being nekkid, without any sexual undertones, without feeling overly self-conscious or stupid.

So I “disrobed” and watched some TV and for a while I did feel kind of stupid. So I decided the best thing to do was to not just lie on the sofa, sans clothing, but to do stuff around the house.

So I tidied my room and hung out my washing (fortunately we have an indoor clotheshorse) and sorted through some of my clothes.

After that I was really completely oblivious to the fact that I was in my birthday suit. I decided that I would do the washing-up. So I stood there and washed the dishes and happily sang along to Fleetwood Mac.

As I finished cleaning the last dish I looked up and saw the guy who lives opposite us, stood in his kitchen window, staring directly at me. For a moment our eyes locked. And then we both scurried away with that unique brand of acute-embarrassment that is very poorly disguised as some sort of vacant absent-mindedness.

Needless to say I was somewhat mortified. So I went and put my tracksuit pants back on.

And a yashmak.

You know technology has a lot to answer for ...

... when you get invited to your friend's wedding by text!

Back in the saddle again

So the boy from DTPM and I … hold that thought. I need to give him a pseudonym. Ok, how about DT-boy? Yeah, that works.

So DT-boy and I have been rampantly emailing and texting each other for the past 48 hours. Already he has complemented me on my abs and my dress sense (which is extraordinarily perceptive of him, given that for most of the night I was only wearing a pair of Abercrombie cargo pants and a stupid grin.) As we all know, this is a sure fire way to my heart (and my loins.)

And just a few minutes ago he wrote (1% paraphrasing) “I remember enough about you to know that I definitely want to see you again.”

Phew! I haven’t been “pursued” for ages! Not since Jake! This is great!

Unfortunately we’re both incredibly busy boys and the soonest we can see each other is next Tuesday. Which is actually kind of good because it means that things are forced to move slow.

There is a small problem though.

I can’t remember what he looks like.

A novel way to deliver groceries

Quitting smoking has given me the impetus to make other changes in my life - some of them small, some of them big.

One of the bigger ones is to start eating properly in order to be more healthy and to spend less money - i.e. not constantly ordering from Deliverance and making my own lunch as opposed to buying it from Prêt.

London, geographically, is not hugely dissimilar to Los Angeles. It's a vast, sprawling city, with many boroughs and towns, albeit with a fairly workable public transport system. Still, without a car (I can't rely on using my housemates) a weekly shop without recruiting a taxi-cab can be a bit of a nightmare and when your local supermarket is in Brixton it is actually an experience to be avoided at all costs.

Last week I decided to try online grocery shopping with Tesco (interesting tidbit - when I was a student and but a lowly checkout cashier, I was the fastest "scanner". We'll forget the fact that, as a result, your groceries were pummeled as I threw them into the packing bin at supersonic speed.)

Now there is a cost to online grocery shopping - the £3.99 ($7.27) delivery fee. But still, that's a small price to pay to have them delivered straight to your door. And if that wasn't good enough, the system remembers what you ordered from previous weeks so all you have to do in future is click a box. It's amazing and almost arouses me sexually. Almost.

Last week was the second week that I ordered my groceries online. Saturday was extra special because I had ordered the ingredients to make Oatmeal and Raisin cookies, Mama Christopher style. So, imagine my excitement when the front door buzzer went.

Sorry, before I continue, I need to tell you that I live on the first floor (for my American readers, that's the second floor) of an apartment block. To get into the building you have to buzz up at the front door and when I've answered I press a button and you're allowed in. Except that our front door is currently broken and whenever someone wants to come up one of us has to go downstairs and let them in. It's most annoying, but apparently no one in the building can be bothered to let the building managers know about it. Including us.

So I answered the buzzer.

"Hello?"

"Delivery."

"Ok. The door doesn't work, so I'll come down and open it."

As I am only wearing a pair of tighty-whities I desperately run around the apartment trying to find a pair of PJ pants. While I am doing this I can hear the delivery guy hammering away at the door downstairs, trying to get in.

Miraculously, in about 15 seconds I am halfway decent. I lift up the intercom phone again and repeat. "Don't try and push the door open. It doesn't work. I'm coming down right now!"

I open the front door run down the stairs, arriving in the hall at just the right moment to witness the delivery-man literally kicking the door down!

"What are you doing?"

"The door wouldn't open."

"So you thought you'd kick it down? I told you it didn't open and I was coming down."

"No you didn't."

So instead of getting into an argument I collect myself and calmly try to explain why kicking the door down is not acceptable behaviour from a Tesco delivery-man. But in the back of my mind I remind myself that this is only the second week I've used to service so maybe it actually is.

Either way, my calm, rational approach did not go down well with the very argumentative and belligerent delivery fuckwit. In the end I conceded to his point of view and just grabbed the computer sign-y box thing and gave him my autograph for the groceries.

As he leaves I decide that actually I'm not going to take this crap lying down so I call out to him. "Hey! What's your name?"

"Peter Jones," he shouts over his shoulder. I immediately doubt this, not only because the man is black and sounds like he comes from Jamaica, but because Peter Jones is the name of a famous London department store.

I went back to my apartment and called the customer service centre. The representative I spoke to was appalled and shocked at the story I told her. Clearly she was used to people complaining that all their eggs were broken or that they had received a 200g of Tesco Economy Mature Cheddar as opposed to the Demi Pont L'eveque that they actually ordered. Oh and she also confirmed that my order was actually delivered by a man called something not at all like Peter Jones.

We finished our conversation with me understanding that the representative would talk to her supervisor and decide how the situation could be addressed and resolved to my satisfaction.

That was Saturday morning and it is now Tuesday evening. Has anyone called me back? What do you think?

Someone at Tesco HQ is going to get a right earful tomorrow morning. They were going to get an earful this morning too, but I forgot to call them.

It's good to gloat.

I just had to record this here for posterity:

Last night I went to DTPM and ended up kissing the same guy I kissed the last time I went. Only this time he asked for my number. We've spent the majority of today on our respective sofas, texting one another.

I just got this:

"Well u are a handsome guy, but u have the most incredible abs...I couldn't stop touching them last night!"

Me! Abs!!! Bless him! No one has ever said that about me / my stomach before!

Clearly he made out with someone else last night.

Which of these scenarios is the worst?

A) Walking past a busker who is playing guitar and singing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion, thinking Ooh! That's not a bad rendition!, yet not offering the busker any spare change.

B) Walking past a busker who is playing guitar and singing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion, thinking Ooh! That's not a bad rendition!, not offering the busker any money, then finding and listening to the song on my iPod.

C) Having "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion on my iPod.

Hmm...

Hayden Christensen's sexuality is drawing an unprecedented amount of people to my blog.

Suckers!

Christopher's Choice

If I were a superhero I would very probably be a sinister Tim Burton-esque type character. I would call myself something like Grosslyunfortunateboy, for example. In the past year I have suffered from a broken jaw, vocal chord paralysis, strydor and a blocked salivary gland. The latter, if you recall, required "milking".

*shudders*

On Saturday I went to a pub in my old stomping ground, West Hampstead, to watch the FA Cup Final with Lynda, Alison, Robbie and Richard. Actually I did less "watching football" and much more "getting in the way of the big TV screen", much to the irritation of the local punters.

At one point during our conversation, Robbie (who is going to be a father in two weeks time) starts to look strangely at my right eye. "Do you have a sty?"

"No!" I tell him, and, irritated, touch the "offending" eyelid with my finger.

What I find is not a sty. I've had many a sty before and they are not like what I found this time - hard and not painful. A lump, basically.

Great. Cancer.

I start to wonder if I'm going to have to have my eyelid removed. Will I have to wear an eyepatch, Darryl Hannah / Kill Bill style? It has not escaped me that whenever faced with a crisis that will affect my appearance (you may laugh, but if you are a regular here you will know joke I most certainly do not) my first thought is, "But will boys at DTPM want to kiss me?"

(I can reliably inform you that in the instance of a wired-up broken jaw, the answer to this particular question is, "no.")

This morning I went to my doctor. My doctor is, quite simply, the best freaking doctor in the entire northern hemisphere, nay, the world. I know this, because by lightly touching my eyelid for a fraction of a second he knew that the lump was not malignant but actually a simple Meibomian Cyst.

Amazing.

My doctor told me that I have two options. The first is that I rub the cyst with a warm flannel every night, for five minutes before I go to bed for the next month. He clearly doesn't know me very well. If he did he would have understood why I could barely suppress my mirth for, oh, about ten minutes.

The second option is that I have surgery to remove it. "Most people don't elect for this option, because it's not a very nice procedure."

Oooh! Surgical gross out! I lean forward and excitedly, and slightly conspiratorially, whisper, "Why? What do they do?"

"Well," he explains, using that incredibly patronizing I'm a medical professional and thus very clever - I have your eyelid life in my hands tone. "It's not a general anesthetic procedure. You receive a local anesthetic and you can see everything they do to you. Or at least you can see the surgical implements coming towards your eye. Most patients who have a Meibomian Cyst elect for the non-surgical option."

I think it over, but it doesn't take long to come to a conclusion. DTPM plus Meibomian Cysts. Hmmm.

No prizes for guessing what I opted for.

Up in smoke

I have been a smoker since the tender age of 18. I started when I was at art-college, because it was a way to hang out with Craig Piercy in his car in the campus car park. Craig was and probably still is one of the most beautiful men I have ever been acquainted with – all baby blue eyes, eyelashes like elegant spiders and long blonde hair. He majored in pottery, so he was always dirty looking. There’s definitely something about a guy in jeans and a white, clay-streaked T-shirt, especially when that guy is hotter than, dare I say it, Hayden or Clive, both sweating and standing directly over the Equator.

Sadly, my relationship with Craig did not progress further than deep, post-pubescent tête-à-tête’s. My relationship with Marlboro Lights, however, proved to have substantially more longevity.

As most of you know, five weeks ago I had surgery on my throat. To cut (har-har!) a long story short, the surgery was not as successful as I was hoping for and in actual fact seemed to be detrimental to both the quality of my breathing and my voice.

Three weeks ago he accompanied me to Brighton to another consultation with my throat surgeon. During the consultation my surgeon asked me if I had given up smoking, to which I regretfully responded by telling him that I had not. In no uncertain terms he told me that if I was going to have any chance of getting better I had to stop smoking. No question about it. I just had to stop.

So immediately following the appointment Drew frog-marched me to W.H Smith and made me buy Allen Carr’s Easy Way to Stop Smoking, which three of my friends, Drew included, have read to successfully quit smoking. I actually bought it myself a couple of years ago, but in retrospect I don’t think that I was actually ready or prepared to stop smoking, so it didn’t work. I’m also not a big proponent of self-help books, or of therapy in general, having stumbled around under it’s “jurisdiction” for many, many years.

Not only because of my own health, but seeing how smoking induced lung cancer had recently consumed my Granddad, this time I was ready. In essence, the way the book works is by deprogramming you, while making you smoke at the same time. It forces you to challenge and re-evaluate all the subtle lies you, as a smoker, have told yourself over the years. One of the most fundamental of these is the concept of “giving up” smoking and understanding that this phrase is a total misnomer, because in actual fact you are giving up nothing and gaining everything – health and money to name but two of the obvious benefits. The book was so effective that by the time I was half way through I knew that I was already a non-smoker. Every cigarette was a nightmare and painful to smoke. By the time I reached the last chapter and was told to smoke my last cigarette I was relieved to say the least.

That last cigarette was two weeks ago today. Two weeks might not seem like a long time to you, but consider this – that is the longest I have voluntarily not smoked for eight years when I last attempted to give up, using the old fashioned willpower. That last time I was literally gagging to smoke for most of about four weeks.

This time has been completely different. I am quite simply a non-smoker now. One of the things the book tells you to do is to not avoid the situations where you would normally want to smoke, because the successful ability to get through these situations, during this withdrawal period, will provide the impetus for continued success.

Since I became a non-smoker two weeks ago I have been clubbing four times, been on two major benders and have been out for four dinners. I have had only one “moment” – two days after quitting while waiting in the queue for Ghetto with this man. Fortunately he refused to give me one of his, which I am glad about, because I would have been so mad at myself and probably would have killed him.

I cannot exaggerate what an achievement this is for me! Anyone who has known me for any amount of time will tell you that there was every possibility that I would be a smoker until my smoking-catalyzed dying day. The other thing is that I find myself noticing smokers so much more than I did when I was a smoker and I’m regarding them with pity. There is something about someone walking down the street, puffing away on a cigarette that is so NOT attractive - they are in fact a drug-addict. I can see now what all my friends saw when they looked at me and I have to say that I’m a little embarrassed.

So – me … a twenty a day smoker, now smokes zero a day, with no pangs at all and I keep finding myself smiling or giggling at the thought of how ridiculous I used to be.

Now, I wonder if Allen Carr has written an Easy Way to Control Your Crack Habit?

Hayden, he no gay - part deux

As you may recall, I recently embarked on a small mission to uncover the truth about those Hayden Christensen "gay" rumours.

It has always seemed to me that gay men, in particular, are extremely willing and eager to believe the rumours about Tom Cruise / Richard Gere / Brandon Routh / Kevin Spacey / Matthew McConaughey / Hayden Christensen / Robbie Williams / et al.

The thing with a rumour is that is all it usually is. In the absence of a truth or a fact, a rumour will always be a rumour. I get to work with many entertainment reporters from newspapers, magazines and TV shows alike. These people get sent picture evidence of celebrity un-doings all the time, but many of those pics are unprintable because they are just too far over the line. One of my journo contacts at Heat magazine (the British equivalent of In Touch) told me that she once received pictures of a certain British supermodel unconscious at some party, with a hyperdermic syringe still inserted into a vein in her arm. She told me that in the UK or the US, that type of picture, 99% of the time, would never get printed. It's one step too far. But she told me that what definitely would get printed is a picture of Robbie Williams kissing his boyfriend on a sunlounger at the Sunset Marquis. Except, she told me, she has hardly ever received a picture of a celebrated man or woman kissing or embracing their respective boyfriend or girlfriend.

This does not, of course, mean that there are no gay celebrities working in the entertainment industry today. Like, duh! But it would be naive of anyone to think that Tom Cruise publicly outing himself would have either little or no negative impact on his box-office stock. With that in mind one can assume that any A-list actor working in Hollywood today would go to desperate measures to cover up the truth about his or her sexuality.

But consider this - these stars are followed and photographed constantly. People slip up, all the time. And when you consider how easy it is, these days, to take photographs of anyone in any situation, incredibly discreetly, it seems "moderately" inconceivable that there is still no picture evidence of any of this apparently rampant celebrity gayness.

It's not really surprising that many gay men (myself included) want the likes of Tom Cruise to be gay. After all, we have so few role-models (although I'm not sure Tom Cruise is really worthy of anyone role-modeling themselves on. Shagging, maybe) in the entertainment industry. I have to wonder though - would Tom Cruise be quite as desirable if he were out? Isn't the allure in the fact that we don't really know for sure?

Regardless - however damning the rumours appear to be, in the absence of afore mentioned truth / fact, 100% of the time I will always regard any kind of rumour, whether it relates to a celebrity or a close friend, with reservedness.

But I'm allowed to have my suspicions. Mr.Christensen - I am not convinced about you. I certainly don't believe the tabloid rumours that Hayden is currently pashing Kevin Spacey - a hug is, in my eyes, not damning evidence. But when I saw this clip of Hayden and Ewan McGregor sharing a "moment" outside the London premiere of Revenge of the Sith, I couldn't help but wonder.

In this instance my gaydar is not screaming to me that Ewan is gay. But he is, by his own admission, very metrosexual. In real life and in his movies (anyone seen The Pillow Book?) he appears to be the type of guy who is both old enough and secure enough in his heterosexuality to not have a problem with kissing a man on the lips.

Hayden, however, as far as I am concerned, does not have the relevant case history. How many 24 year old, heterosexual men do you know who would feel comfortable kissing another man on the lips for a good second? A second is actually quite a long time in heterosexual-men-kissing-each-other-on-the-lips terms. What do you think?

Ok - you've probably guessed that I really want to believe this one particular rumour. Regardless of the truth, sadly I have to face that fact that even if Hayden is gay, it is unlikely that he will ever be my boyfriend. *sniff*

Still, no harm in extendedly briefly looking upon him and feeling vaguely weak in the presence of his beauty.

Hayden? J'taime.

And again...

I just returned home with Vix after having watched Revenge of the Sith for the second time.

As Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru, holding baby Luke, looked out at the two suns of Tattooine, I began to cry again although, admittedly, not as much as on Saturday night.

Alerted by my sniffling, Vix turned to me and with mock-exasperation, shook her head. "You are so gay!"

I believe she may have a point.

What’s with the socks?

*untapes mouth*

Good lord! That was quite difficult! All week long, so many little things happened which I totally wanted to blog about and I couldn't! If you are ever having blogger’s block or whatever you want to call it, this is the thing to do.

Ok, first off, I may have confused some of you with the photographs. So let me explain. If I were a true artist I would probably not feel the need to do this (and, er, yes, I have Photoshop), but I'm nice, so…

Monday - Expectations is a gay sex shop I visited on Monday - that was a picture of the entrance. It’s on Old Street, around the corner from where I work and also from where I used to work. It’s really huge and kinda dingy but the assistants are really nice and friendly (but not that friendly). Scandalously, one of my friends recognised the neon entrance sign, as he was once employed by the owners to name a range of dildos.

Tuesday - that was the fountains in the courtyard of Somerset House. Somerset House is where every birth and death in the UK is recorded and archived. I went there with the intention of finding out if I could “see” my name, but when I got there I realised that was kinda dumb. So I sat in the courtyard instead and watched the fountains and read some of The Time Travellers Wife.

Wednesday - that was Millie - mine and my housemate’s friend’s baby. I got home to find her on my housemate’s bed. And that was not red eye. Like Christina, in the recently cancelled Fox show Point Pleasant, I believe that Millie might actually be half-human and half the daughter of Lucifer. Most of the time she is really well behaved but occasionally she can be a real little bitch.

Thursday - (left to right) yours truly, Drew and Drew’s friend Sam. We went to Nag Nag Nag at Ghetto - the second time I had been there in less than four days. We had the most fabulous time and we all kissed boys, I think. By writing “I think” I don’t mean that we may have kissed girls (perish the thought!) but that I’m not sure if Sam kissed a boy or not. But Drew and I definitely kissed boys.

Friday - I accidentally took a picture of my crotch while sitting on the railings next to the Southbank Centre, which is right next to the Thames. Earlier in the week Dantallion had requested that I post up naked pictures. Later in the week I read that he had decided to take an indefinite break from blogging, which made me sad. So I dedicated that picture of my crotch to him.

Saturday - I was drunk and for reasons too complicated to go into here I took my favourite teddy bear, Kwah Wah (at the point of naming him I was far too young to be able to properly pronounce the word “Koala”) to work. On the way home I stopped off at Tesco and thought it would be amusing to take a picture of him next to a trolley. I had a working title for this one – “Kwah Wah has an existential dilemma”.

Sunday - I went to see Star Wars - Revenge of the Sith with Helen, Lindsay, Drew, Atul and Richard. This is incredibly embarrassing to admit, but when the film ended I was upset and crying, almost to the point of hyperventilating. Yeah, I know – gay. As we left the cinema, Helen had to accompany me away from other others for a minute or two so that I could compose myself. Basically this was never going to just be a regular movie trip for me - Star Wars was one of the first movies I saw at the cinema and is very much a part of both my youth and my adulthood. I have watched each of the movies countless times, so in more ways than one this movie was going to bring “closure”. Aside from that it was also just a pretty cool movie as well as more than compensating for the previous two, which were, it has to be said, a little bit of a let down.

Oh, and the title of this post? Those of you who get Urban Dictionary’s Word of the Day will know what it means. And those of you who just clicked on that link.

Until tomorrow...

(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"?)