One of the only reasons I would like to be extremely famous is so that I get asked to do those celeb Q&A thingys.

Fortunately I am aready EXTREMELY famous on this here blog of mine, which means that I get to do the Evening Standard magazine's Q&A:

Christopher: My London
The self-congratulated PR lounge-luvvie is a Clapham townie who would get taxis everywhere if only he could afford to.

Where do you live?
Clapham. I love it here - Abbeville Road is just around the corner with all it's restaurants, cosy pubs and high contingent of DILF's, the Common which is great in the summer and two rubbish but good gay bars on the high street.

How long have you lived there?
About a year and a half. Prior to living in Clapham I had always lived north of the river, so this is all pretty new to me. I am surprised that "south of the river" is not as pikey as I have always been it is.

What was the last play you saw in London and did you enjoy it?
Whose Life Is It Anyway. It starred Kim Cattrall as a hospitalised woman paralysed from the neck down as the result of a car accident. The play is a dark comedy telling the tale of how Cattrall's character tries to obtain a Habeas Corpus so that she can go home and commit suicide. Cattrall played the part pitch-perfect, with just the right amount of sadness and good-humour. I thought it was tres bon.

What have been your most memorable London meals?
Long Sunday lunches in cosy pubs with good wine and good friends. I also love eating at Criterion in Piccadilly Circus. Even though it's a Marco Pierre White restaurant it's comparatively inexpensive, so every now and then I can afford to eat there with a friend. It's also very opulent with the most incredible, gold, mosaic covering the whole ceiling.

What do you miss most when you're away from London?
Aside from my urban family, the incredible views: Parliament Hill on Hampstead Heath, Primrose Hill and practically any of the views from any of the bridges which stretch across the Thames (especially the Waterloo Bridge.)

What is your life philosophy?
Think big and be brave.

What items are in your winter wardrobe?
Lots and lots of very colourful, very long scarves, a bunch of thick, warm socks and a black, heavy-knit, Nehru-collared, three-quarter length coat from All Saints. It's all about the warmth, especially as this winter is supposed to be one of the coldest on record.

Which aftershave do you wear?
For the last eight years I have worn Sander for Men by Jil Sander. It's the fragrance which most of my friends would associate with me. But I always like to have one or two others on the go as well. At the moment they are Rhubarb Sherbet by Comme des Garcons and John Varvatos by John Varvatos.

What are your current projects?
Being good in my job. Finding a nice man to settle down with. Saving enough money for my holiday in Thailand.

What were the last books you bought?
Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx and Lunar Park by Brett Easton-Ellis. These days I almost always buy my books from Amazon. I feel like I'm missing out on the bookshop experience.

What is in your secret address book?
Some very valuable mobile and home phone numbers, including a national newspaper gossip columnist, an American supermodel and an extremely famous British actor.

What is your earliest London memory?
Visiting the Whispering Gallery up in the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral when I was nine years-old. It's very, very high up and I had to crawl on the floor of the balcony because I was so scared of falling over the edge.

What advice would you give to a tourist?
In a thunderstorm don't do what two Japanese tourists did a couple of years back - stand under a tree . You get electrocuted and die. In fact this is not only dangerous in London, but pretty much anywhere else in the world when there is a thunderstorm.

What do you listen to on your iPod as you travel around London?
In a perfect world it would be a bracing winter morning and I would be walking in the opposite direction to the throng, in the middle of the city, as Carly Simon lets rip on the opening chords of Let The River Run.

What would you do if you were Mayor for the day?
I would extend the Congestion Charge to every square millimeter of road within the M25 and then pump all the revenue into the Tube so that it could, you know, work properly from time to time.

Where were the last three places you went on holiday?
Rome with my Mum, then Paris to see a friend and before that South Beach in Miami to see my friend, Zach.

What was the last album you downloaded?
The Back Room by The Editors.

As you all know, my housemate, Vix, is a total pushover a rare British flower of exquisite kindness, polite manners and overall gentility.

Last night we had a discussion about why I leave my vitamins on the kitchen counter as opposed to putting them away in the cupboard. I explained to Vix that if they are hidden in the cupboard I will inevitably forget to take them. That's why I leave them out. And that's why it annoys the crap out of me if she puts them away (which she does ... all the time!)

Vix then proceeded to explain to me that the reason that she puts them away is because my vitamins are ugly and spoil the overall look and feel of the pretty kitchen (apparently our kitchen is listed and changes have to be approved by the Duchy of Clapham.) In particular she pointed out that they are currently ruining the design aesthetics of the Phillipe Stark lemon squeezer:



Well, ok ... she has a point. That juxtaposition is slightly jarring.

But hey! Better that than yours-truly at 60-years-old, all creaky-jointed and depressed because in my youth I kept forgetting to take my Cod Liver Oil capsules and Vitamin C tablets with added Zinc.

This morning I sleepily entered the kitchen to discover this somewhat unsubtle message scrawled on the kitchen blackboard:



The next time her boyfriend, Ben, stays over I'm going to sneak into her room when they're asleep and put her hand into some warm water. Because everyone knows that it totally makes you pee the bed. And then the next morning Ben will wake up, see that she's a bedwetter and that is awesome!

Perhaps it's time for me to live by myself?

Last week I watched the last ever episode of Six Feet Under.

[spoilers ahead]

I have been totally addicted to the show ever since I saw the first episode back in 2001. Everything, everything about it is so rich: from the intimate depictions of the moments before someone's death, to the title sequence, to the intricate and specific characterisations. It's so rare to watch a TV show where you care about each of the characters absolutely the same amount.

The last five minutes of the final episode were among the most moving and lasting five minutes of TV I've ever watched. Those of you who have seen the ending will know that it features clips of Clare driving through the desert, interspersed with vignettes of each of the main characters lives and their ultimate demises - all set to an appropriately epic song called Breath Me sung by Sia.

One of the reasons that this segment was so affecting for me was because it showed the young Clare next to her increasingly elder-self and finally as an old woman with cataracts and white hair, literally about to die. Again, as anyone who has watched Six Feet Under will know, whenever someone dies the screen fades to white and their name and their significant dates appear for just a moment.

Seeing those dates for each of the characters that, over the past four years, I have grown very attached to and fond of was a really moving experience ... for the most part because it served to remind me that the only certain thing about life is death. Now I am not a fatalist. I don't believe that there is some mystical guiding force behind my actions or my life in general. I know that I am absolutely in control of a great deal of my life and that the remainder is subject to a series of random coincidences and events.

But, again, the one absolute certainty is death. There are no sketchy statistics regarding that. 100% of everyone and everything will die some day.

I write this as a 33-year-old man who was born at 4.20am on Wednesday, September 27, 1972. And as I write this there is a point in the future which will mark the moment that I will die.

That moment is 7.32pm on Sunday, March 17, 2058.

Ok, it probably isn't. But when you think about your life in such literal terms, if only for a moment, it has the effect of bringing everything into focus. It doesn't even have to be a depressing thought. It's just black and white. It reminds you of how absolutely irrefutable and definite death is and it makes everything else seem so important. Even the small things.

It makes me want to squeeze as much into my life as possible.

And when did TV get so good?

I HATE YOU, TOM CRUISE!!!

*waves fist*

From IMDb:

Tom Cruise is terrifying film-makers on the set of Mission: Impossible III, by insisting on carrying out his own death-defying stunts. The superstar actor has refused to allow a stunt double to take on the dangerous high falls necessary for his part as secret agent Ethan Hunt in the sequel - and his willingness to push himself to the limit even scares legendary stunt coordinator Vic Armstrong, who is working on the film with him. Armstrong tells Total Film magazine "He did a 70 foot fall for us last week. He's amazing. He did about seven takes. It absolutely terrifies me - I can see the headlines! What a way to finish a career."

Most of you already know this, but I hate Tom Cruise SOOOOOOOOO much. Seriously, his current mid-life crisis thing is really nauseating. It's like he thinks that performing his own stunts will convince me, personally, that he's straight [as an aside, I will admit to finding the whole Katie Holmes pregnancy debacle most vexing. Or at least I did until someone reminded me of that miraculous turkey basting device.]

Anyhoo, if I was the stunt coordinator on Mission: Impossible III I would be all like, "So you wanna jump that 1,000 foot-wide precipice on a BMX? Sure! Knock yourself out." And then , under my breath, "Die! Die!"*

Of course, you know that if I ever had to work with him on a high-falutin' PR project I'd be all like, "Tom! It's so nice to meet you. Can I get you a cup of tea?

And then, under my breath, "Please touch my face!"

*If, at some point in the next few weeks, Tom Cruise dies performing a 1,000 foot jump on a BMX for Mission: Impossible III, I will feel really, really bad. For five minutes and then I'll probably get over it.

Ten things that happened to me this week ...

1. I have been incredibly inspired by my new board director (after four days of him scaring the crap out of me)
   
2. I worked alongside people I last worked alongside eight years ago
   
3. I attended a party where George Clooney was present
   
4. I learned that an inverted fork provides a better ride (!)
5. I went to two tres, tres expensive restaurants for lunch
6. I got to buy expensive desk furniture
7. I was given a really cool pair of black leather biker boots
   
8. I was twice told I am much nicer than my predecessor (although it should be noted that my predecessor was sacked for embezzlement)
9. I was told by my first ever boss (who, after nine years, is my boss again) that I am like a completely different person
   
10. I had sex five times with the same person (and I still really like him!)
    

Blogiversary Deux

You know how it goes:

"Hap...py birth...day ..."

So now that I'm a motorbike petrolhead, does that mean that I get to date guys like these?

Even though I come from a family of motorbike petrolheads (my Mum, Dad and brother each have motorbikes) I have never, ever been even slightly interested in them. Motorbikes all look the same to me. Then there's also the fact that they are very, very dangerous.

At least that was what I thought until this morning, when my new account manager, Bill (who I took out for an introductory breakfast) informed me that the motorbike brand we will be representing will be paying for me to take my motorbike test. And not only that, but the brand lends us actual, real, shiny bikes to take to show the press and we're TOTALLY allowed to look after them in the interim!!!

After breakfast Bill and I stopped by the office and I picked up a sales brochure for the bikes. As I flicked through I still found myself having trouble distinguishing each model from the next - two wheels, handlebars, seat, yadda, yadda, yadda.

So I asked Bill, "If [motorbike] was a car, what would it be?"

"An Aston Martin."

And so in the moment that followed I became a baby motorbike petrolhead.

Last night I dreamt that I was working on a publicity stunt for the new Harry Potter movie, where J.K. Rowling, herself, would drive the Hogwarts Express into King's Cross Station.

In my dream I was standing at the end of the platform, the furthest end away from the front of the station. As the train motored past me with J.K. at the wheel, waving to all the children lining the platform, I thought to myself, She's not paying attention! She's going too fast! She's not going to be able to stop in time!

Sure enough a couple of seconds later there was a huge explosion and lots and lots of steam. Suddenly I was surrounded by hundreds of TV crews and reporters screaming and yelling at me, "J.K. Rowling is dead because of you! Who's going to write the final book now!" And then all the kids who had been in the station started to bawl and cry.

It was a MESS!

In fact it was so realistic that it actually woke me up.

Is my subconscious trying to tell me something about my PR / Event Management / Celebrity Liaison skills in advance of starting my new job next week?

While I was at home I berated my Dad for not having set aside the first weekend in December for coming to London to see his number one son, in advance of Christmas (when I will be in Thailand) as he had agreed he would do over three months ago.

Dad emailed me yesterday suggesting that perhaps, instead, he could come up from Bath one evening, take me out for dinner and then drive home afterwards. I emailed him back and agreed to the evening and time.

I received this email back from him:

Great! It's a date! x

This is WAY too exuberant for my Dad who usually responds with a singular "OK" or a "Good" and NEVER with a kiss. I mean we only started hugging about two years ago and even that feels forced and uncomfortable.

Of course it's made all the worse by the fact that I have been told that I am going on a "date" with my Dad.

I feel nauseous.

Today I met Jess, an old friend from my last company, for lunch.

Jess had recently been dumped by a long-term ex-boyfriend, shortly before they were supposed to move in together. Apparently he got cold feet. Last week he asked to see her because he thought that he had made the wrong decision.

By this point Jess was pretty sure that she didn't want to get back together with him, but agreed to meet up with him anyway to hear exactly what he had to say.

After a few minutes with him she was reminded what an ass he is and it cemented in her mind exactly why they were not meant to be together.

She told me, "You should have heard me! I was brilliant! I said to him, 'Do you want to know why there is more chance of Hell freezing over before the two of us get back together? Because there is more chance of Hell freezing over before the two of us get back together.' He didn't really have anything to say after that."

She crossed her arms, pretty pleased with both herself and her fait a'complit.

After a pause, I said, "Well I'm not surprised he didn't say anything. What you said doesn't actually make any sense."

"What do you mean? I was saying that there is no way we're getting back together."

"Well, it seems to me that what you actually said was that the seemingly high chance that Hell will freeze over before you get back together means that you do actually think you'll eventually get back together again. That is providing the Hell Ice Age occurs before you both die. Either way, the high-chance of Hell freezing over doesn't in itself validate the high chance of Hell freezing over, before you and Mark get back together. To be honest I don't really know what you said."

She responded with a frosty stare and I reminded myself that a good friend just nods sympathetically. Always.

I went home to Bath this past weekend so that I could help my brother, Stephen, my Dad and my Aunt scatter my Grandma's ashes.

After my Granddad's funeral, which was earlier this year, my Grandma told me and my Grandpa that she wanted her ashes scattered by the brook in Holt which she and her brother would play in when they were both kids.

This might sound a bit silly, but we were all a bit unsure how to actually go about scattering someone's ashes. Like, what do you actually do? In the end we all took it in turns to take the urn and the whole thing turned out just perfect and, weirdly, not at all sad.

Here is my Grandma's view ...



In other news ...

My Mum has just had an extension put onto the back of her house and on Friday morning she got up extra early to paint one of the walls in the extension white. Before she left for work she gave me one very simple instruction:

"Don't let Henry into the extension, because the wall is still wet!"

In my defense she told me this about 0.5 seconds after she had woken me up. Needless to say, I forgot. While Henry didn't seem to be that bothered by the subsequent incident, Mum certainly was:



Finally, please give it up and put your hands together for yours truly, as I am pleased to announce that I have bagged myself a hawt new job with a really cool PR agency just off Oxford Street. I am going to be directing the UK PR for a famous motorbike brand and a famous SUV brand. I start next Monday. Even since I left my last permanent job, back in April, I have been freelancing and while it has paid well, it has not provided regular-work "security". I cannot begin to tell you what a weight it is off of my mind that I now have a steady income to look forward to, again.

Today, while attempting to learn what homosexuality is on Wikipedia, I discovered the most amazing and simultaneously heartwarming and heartbreaking thing ever!

Gay penguins!

(I'm not going to post a direct link to this information, because that would ruin the impression that I am something of a gay penguin expert, which for the purposes of today's post, I am.)

Meet Squawk and Milou, a pair of gay Chinstrap penguins. They are one of several pairs of such penguins kept at the Central Park Zoo in Manhattan.



(Squawk is looking rather flamboyant in that picture. I bet he's a bottom.)

Like their heterosexual counterparts, gay penguins mate for life. However, while the strong instinct for raising and co-operating in caring for a brood is still very much present, obviously gay penguins cannot have babies. Therefore once they have mated and built their nest together, gay penguins often use a stone as a replacement for an egg.

A stone! Seriously! Is that not the cutest thing?! There's something almost Dickensian about it. Like when I was little boy all my parents would give me for Christmas (because we were poor) was a lump of coal or a log (not entirely the truth) and I was always happy. Just as I am sure Squawk and Milou are with their stone.

A few years ago the gay baby Jesus (albeit in the form of some meddling, but well-intentioned zoologists) shone down on another pair of gay penguins at the same zoo. Silo and Roy's rock was replaced with a fertilised egg which they continued to incubate. Once the chick had hatched they raised and nurtured it as if it were their own.

Or at least that was what happened until Silo left Roy and their adopted chick for a female penguin.

I think the interesting point about all of this is not the proof that homosexuality is valid and accepted in other forms of existence, but that there will always be some utter bastard just itching to break your heart and abandon both you and your children.

That particular instance also just goes to prove that bisexuals are tossers (just kidding!!)

I've just got around to putting Just the Way You Are by Billy Joel onto my iPod. While the short-term analysis of the song could be that it is a criticism of perfection, albeit in the best possible way, it's still pretty much the perfect love song. It says exactly what you would want to hear from your partner: that they don't want you to change your hair and they don't wish you were smarter and they don't want you to go trying "some new fashion". To them you are perfect. They couldn't love you any more than they do.

Billy Joel wrote Just the Way You Are about his then-wife and manager, Elizabeth Weber (who he then went on to divorce, four years later). He's saying that he loves her because she's not perfect and that he could never leave her in times of trouble. The fact that they didn't stay together seems to make the song even more poignant.

When I got back from New York I was nowhere near being over my ex-boyfriend, Will (we had broken up just before I left.) Shortly after I moved in with Vix I asked her to look after all the little notes, love-letters and emails Will had written to me when we were together as I had a tendency to wake up in the middle of the night, read them and make myself really upset.

It took me almost a year to properly get over Will. It was in February of this year. I knew when I received an email from him and for the first time ever my heart didn't flip - I just loved him as a friend. That feeling of emotional release is such an amazing sensation. For so long I thought that I was never going to get over Will, that I would never meet anyone like him and that I would always love him from afar. Then suddenly I realised that I had moved on.

Yesterday I remembered those notes and decided to ask Vix for them back, lest they got lost in the annals of time! Aside from a Valentines Day card and a couple of emails, the notes mainly consist of musings that he would have written before leaving for work and then left on his pillow for me to find (he is a nurse and often starts at around 6am.) Obviously I'm not going to write them all out for you, because they're private, but one of them that I looked at yesterday read, simply:

No morning is a bad morning when I wake up next to you. I love you. W.

In his book Sex, Lies and Cocoapuffs, Chuck Klosterman talks about how songs like Just the Way You Are make him think about all of the perfectly romantic emails and notes he has written over the years for various girlfriends, each of them proclaiming his profound and enduring love.

Like him, in a way I hate the fact that those notes and emails that I penned for Will are still out there somewhere. Not because I didn't mean them when I wrote them, but because I meant them when I wrote them.

The good thing is that they are all a reminder that I have felt love and that I have been loved and that very possibly I'll feel it all again some day.

I can't think of anything particular to blog about today, so how 'bout some gratuitous man action instead ...



His name is Will Chalker and he's originally a builder from the east of London. He makes me feel all swoony and weak in the knees [insert crude joke here].

Today I went into town without a coat and for the first time in months I seriously regretted it. It was COLD! As if that wasn't enough, by the time I got home at 6pm it was almost dark. In fact as I type this it is pouring with rain outside. It's beating down so loud that I can actually hear it.

I kinda have the winter blues.

To try to cheer myself up I have been reminding myself that in eight weeks time I will be spending almost three weeks here with four other fabulous gayers, for the whole of the Christmas and New Year holiday.

It would have worked if it weren't for the fact that the occupiers of the apartment below us are playing Unchained Melody on a loop and so loud that it is almost making the room shake.

So I go to Fiction with my friend Matt, where I meet a really hot guy. We call him Dan. While Dan was a little on the short side, he was what I thought to be a dead ringer for Tom Ford, albeit ten years younger. He even had the same hairline. Result.

So we eventually hooked up and we ended up spending the rest of the next day in bed, chilling out, doing a lot of the fun naked stuff and having those great little chats that make you think, "Click!"

Aside from my making a quick pit stop at my place to shower and change, Dan and I carried on like that. We went out clubbing again that evening with some of his friends who were all, also, really great and friendly. After the clubs we went back to his again where we cooked, drank wine, talked and spooned infront of the TV.

Later, before we went to sleep, for the umpteenth time that weekend, we had sex. In the middle of the sex I felt the condom break.

After a quick, "I'm, er, 'ok'. Are you 'ok'?" chat and a moment of awkwardness Dan smiled at me and said, "Well, we could carry on anyway? If you're cool with that?"

I told him that I was not really cool with that. And then I asked him, "Is that something that you do often?"

"Well, not 100% of the time. I guess 80% with, 30% without."

After he said that I kinda lost respect for him. I will admit to the odd careless slip-up when I've been really, really drunk or whatever. None of us are infallible and when it has happened I've certainly not felt great about it. But it's never happened so frequently that I could actually offer up a statistic like that.

And then there is, of course, the important fact that I am not going to spend my everafter attached to a guy who thinks 80% and 30% equals 100%.

On Wednesday I went to see the new Rachel Whiteread exhibit in the Turbine Hall at the Tate Modern.

For those of you who haven't been to the Tate Modern, the Turbine Hall is the huge space that you walk into as you enter the gallery, which itself used to be a power station. The space is enormous and to completely fill it is an equally massive challenge. The most impressive installation I have seen to completely fill the space was the Anish Kapoor exhibit, over two years ago. The picture, below, only shows a third of it. Apparently it was actually physically impossible to view or photograph the whole piece at once.



The Rachel Whiteread installation, while much smaller than the Anish Kapoor, is completely amazing in a totally different way.



The work was inspired by an old, worn cardboard box that Whiteread found in her mother's house shortly after she died. Whiteread remembered the box from her childhood as it used to be kept in her toy cupboard.

For the installation itself Whiteread filled a number of different sizes of similar boxes with plaster. She then peeled away the exteriors, which left her with perfect casts, each recording and preserving all the bumps and indentations on the inside. To retain their quality as containers, they were refabricated in a translucent polythene.

The title of the installation, Embankment, refers to the riverside location (the Tate Modern sits on the Thames) as well as the nature of the installation's construction, with the piles of boxes forming barriers which you can walk around. Looking at it from above I was reminded of piles of sugar lumps, but when you start walking amongst them it's kind of like being in a maze, with lots of branches and dead ends. Then right in the middle is this huge towering structure, which makes you feel really, really small.



The thing that really affected me was how empty the installation made me feel. I don't know if that was Whiteread's intention, but I kept reminding myself that these boxes weren't actually boxes at all, but impressions of the nothingness inside boxes that themselves really existed. It was really profound.

I love stuff like this. For me, this is what art is all about. Anything that make me feel something: even if that feeling isn't necessarily good, or even comfortable.

If my housemate, Victoria (we would usually call her Vix, but Victoria serves us better for today's tale), was a literary character she would probably be something of a cross between Cathy from Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights and Fanny Price from Jane Austen's Mansfield Park. Fiery passion trapped within a romantic and sensible young woman. Looks-wise, she's very "English-rose" with long red hair framing an almost heart-breakingly beautiful face. She is a gentile lady in every possible way. However, I have not known her to run around Clapham Common, brandishing a parasol, calling out, "Heathcliffe!" at the top of her lungs.

Well, not yet, anyway.

Now that you know my housemate intimately and understand her deepest motivations, let me share with you the following discussion that I just overheard her having with the scaffolders who are currently noisily constructing outside our bedroom windows.

Victoria [remember now ... gentile English lady]: "Erm, hello! Hello! Oh yes, hello. I was, um, wondering how long you're going to be building out there for."

Scaffolder: [loud, rough, gravelly, Dartford accent. Americans: watch an episode of Eastenders on BBC America and notice how the men speak]: "Wot's that my luv?"

Victoria: "Er, I was just, er, wondering how long you would be building out there for."

Scaffolder: "Well for a start we're not builders now, are we darlin'? No, we're scaffolders. But don't you worry! We'll be finished by four, my luv!"

Victoria: "Oh, lovely. Sorry! Sorry for bothering you."

Scaffolder: "Yeah, we'll definitely be finished by four my darlin'. We 'ave to be 'cause I've gotta get dahn Soho way latah to get the missus a pair of them rubber knickers."

Victoria: "Oh!"

(The other scaffolders laugh)

Victoria: "Well, maybe she might like some nice underwear from somewhere else as well."

Scaffolder: "Yeah, well. She likes them rubber knickers don't she! Yeah, she loves 'em, she does! But not as much as I love 'em when I'm doin' 'er from behind, ya' know, doggy-style, like."

(More laughter from the other scaffolders)

By this point I knew that the conversation had reached an critical impasse and that it was up to me to save whatever was left of Victoria's purity. I dove into her bedroom and gently spirited her away from the window.

She looked at me quizzically. "Did you hear that?"

"Oh my God! Er, yes!?"

"Rubber knickers? Isn't that a bit unhygienic?"

She's ruined. Ruined, I tell you.

Morph: 1977 - 2005. RIP.

Clearly I have been otherwise occupied as I have only just learned of the demise of Morph, who burned to death in a fire during the early hours of Monday morning. A part of my childhood is dead.

Obviously when something terrible like this happens one has many, many spiritual and philosophical questions to ask. For example:

What does happen to Plasticine when you set it on fire?

Because if it just melts then surely that means that Morph can be resurrected. I remember that he would always get into scrapes where he would melt and shit and then he'd just pop back up and be all fine and make that noise that sounded like,"Mnupel!"

I fear I may have to let go.