Thursday, September 29, 2005

First, thank you for all your kind birthday wishes yesterday! Forthwith, I will now be 23 33, every day, for the next 365 days. Probably even longer.

I had a great birthday pardee last night at The Langley in Covent Garden, attended by a whole bunch of friends - old and new.

However, there's a small problem with parties that are for me - they make me incredibly, unbelievably anxious. Prior to the party starting I had managed to work myself up into such a state that not only was I craving beta blockers but I was actually physically sick. And then, about an hour after it had started, I had to step outside for a quiet moment and a cigarette. Not great especially as, if you recall, I gave up smoking some months back.

But I'm glad to report that I did chill out in the end and had a great time. I even stopped drinking alcohol after a while and stuck to soft drinks. No hangover for Chrissy this morning!

I did take photos, but I'm saving them for a birthday montage. I'm going to Birmingham at the weekend for a birthday dinner and no doubt there will be some more outrageous antics to document (and hopefully none that involve smoking or vomiting. Well, maybe vomiting.)

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

33 today ...

... and this much I know:
  1. If you live in London you should own a small umbrella and carry it with you at all times.
  2. Mona in Tales of the City was right: I too would rather have six really great friends and no partner, than have a partner but no real friends.
  3. You only need two pairs of shoes: one brown pair, one black pair. And you only need two pairs of sneakers: one white pair and one pair for the gym.
  4. People who notice shoes should stop looking at the floor as much.
  5. When I was a child, nine times out of ten my parents were right.
  6. My parents have yet to learn that as an adult, nine times out of ten, I am right.
  7. There is no shame in not knowing something and asking for an explanation. It's much more shameful to pretend that you do know and then get caught out.
  8. Lying to a PR is a waste of time: don't bullshit a bullshitter.
  9. It's PR, not ER.
  10. The expression "a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush" is a highly subjective metaphor.
  11. The expression "a rolling stone gathers no moss" is a great metaphor.
  12. It is absolutely not possible to party non-stop for 24 hours and not feel like ten shades of crap the next day.
  13. Putting the hand of someone who is sleeping into warm water does not make him or her pee the bed.
  14. Good taste is highly overrated.
  15. Other people don't annoy me. I allow myself to be annoyed by other people.
  16. I always know what is best for me. I'm just not very good at doing it.
  17. Morecombe and Wise were comic geniuses.
  18. Russ Abbot was not a comic genius.
  19. Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder: some people just dig unattractive people.
  20. Isabella Blow may be as mad as the hats that she wears, but she is massively responsible for helping to put British fashion on the map.
  21. For some obscure reason my friends see something in me.
  22. Posing with big cats in official portraiture only works for Jackie Collins and Siegfried and Roy. And as Roy will attest to, not all of the time.
  23. Rent is the worst musical I have ever seen.
  24. You can't do anything you set your mind to. I will never be a dancer for Madonna on one of her world tours.
  25. I have a finely tuned instinct for things that do not directly relate to me.
  26. Inappropriate or politically incorrect jokes are usually the funniest.
  27. Nothing is ever as bad as it seems.
  28. My sex drive does not decrease as I get older.
  29. You can succeed without talent.
  30. You should be proud of your porn stash.
  31. When a musician is described by critics as being a "poet" it generally means that they are talented at communicating in unintelligible rhetoric which they would be hard pressed to explain. Applying this logic, Pete Doherty is a poet. Eminem is not.
  32. It is necessary to back up your hard-drive.
  33. I've learned the hard way that life isn't like a movie or a book, but more like a photograph. Stories don't always have a beginning, middle and an end. It's about taking hold of the moment and enjoying it, if you can, without thinking too much about what happens next.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Although I was born on the 27th of September, I am not actually 33 until 4.20am, tomorrow morning. That means that you each have 16 hours birthday present shopping time betwixt now and then.

Lost for inspiration? Lets see if I can help:

Table 39 at Nobu
table 39

Right in the middle of the famous Mayfair restaurant, this is the table that Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts dined at in Notting Hill. The waiting list for table 39 is between three to six months, but fortunately I reserved it over eight months ago, you know, just in case.

A Magnum of '98 Dom Perignon
dom perignon

Most London dining and drinking establishments have been waiting for over eight months to receive their orders but you only have to pop down to Harrods or Selfridges to grab a bottle. But bear in mind that a case is only 1,350 squid, so it might make better sense to buy it in bulk.

A cleansing and decongesting facial at Eve Lom
eve lom

If it's good enough for Cate Blanchett, Gwyneth Paltrow, Rupert Everett and Elton John, then it's good enough for me.

A life soundtrack consultation with Allessandra Nerdrum
During an hour-long session, Allesandra will quiz you on everything to do with how you feel when you're driving to what fragrance you use. With the answers as her inspiration she will go away and create a playlist of two hours worth of songs and music to download straight onto your iPod.

An Aston Martin DB9
DB9

Please don't have it delivered with a giant red bow wrapped around it. That's just tacky.

A labradoodle
labradoodle

I'm not as allergic to dogs as I am to cats, but they can still make me a bit sniffly. Therefore the labradoodle, a cross between a labrador and a standard poodle is the perfect choice pour moi. Apparently Brad and Jen bought one shortly before they split up which in my mind just increases it's stock.

That should do for now. I haven't put prices here, because I feel that just really spoils the point of giving. And it really is just about giving. I'm actually thinking of y'all and not myself.
A few weeks ago I ordered this T-shirt online. I thought it would be kind of quippy and ironic. I imagined myself wearing it and people looking on, whispering, "Look at him! All quippy and ironic!"

With hindsight, this was clearly not one of my finer purchases.

Friday, September 23, 2005

I don't know whether or not Kate Moss is a drug addict, but what I do know is that she has not deserved to be on the receiving end of one of the most vitriolic and rabid character assassinations I have witnessed in the media for a really long time. These stories have been written by a group of "journalists" who apparently regard themselves as bastions of healthy sobriety and good, clean morals. They think that drug taking is bad.

Are you kidding? I have worked with journalists for over nine years now and I would be highly surprised if not all of them have at least tried coke and that not only some of them use it as much as they are claiming Kate Moss does. This whole gnarly debacle just reeks of bitter, sanctimonious, shameless hypocrisy - from the hacks writing the stories, to the companies culling her contracts. And now Metropolitan Police Commissioner, Sir Ian Blair (the head of Scotland Yard), has apparently made it his mission to make an example out of Kate. Clearly he would be much better advised to attend to more pressing (but less glamorous) matters, such as ensuring that his police force are able to tell the difference between innocent members of the public and suspected terrorists.

Taking drugs is illegal and I accept that. I'm sure Kate Moss does too. I, personally, would like to see drugs legalised and properly regulated. The problem has never really been in the consumption of drugs. After all, most people who take drugs are not addicts, just as most people who drink alcohol are not alcoholics. The problems, for the most part, lie in the production and the deployment of drugs. But for significant changes in the law to occur people would be required to open their eyes to the real issues and to listen to the real facts. But because drugs still is such an emotive issue for most people, it is unlikely that this will happen any time soon.

Here's why I think I feel sorry for Kate Moss. She is one of the few celebrities who actually goes out of her way not to court media attention. To my knowledge she has only been officially interviewed on four occasions in a career that has spanned well over sixteen years. That's not to say that she hasn't made some really questionable decisions in her personal life, which have been picked up extensively by the media (anyone mention Pete Doherty?) I'm pretty certain that she didn't want people, across the land, to see her snorting cocaine in a private recording studio, late one night, alongside her boyfriend and a few of his mates.

Oh and as far as the issue of her suitability as a parent goes, all I know is that I have friends who use drugs recreationally and are still really great parents. There is of course the fact that Kate Moss doesn't look after her child for most of the time. The baby's father, Jefferson Hack, does and apparently always has. It has not been in the interests of the media to report this, as it doesn't help to facilitate the "bad mother" angle.

Overall, the story "fashion model takes drugs" is not one worthy of this kind of media attention. And if she really does have a problem, again, Kate Moss certainly does not deserve this kind of media attention. I will concede that some of it may prove to be her savior, but it still doesn't excuse the overall behaviour.

I admit to occasionally using drugs for recreational purposes. I don't think I could write all of this and not fess up to that. But then I am no different to hundreds of thousands of other middle class Londoners. I personally think that taking drugs is neither cool, nor uncool. But like Kate Moss I've made some pretty awful decisions in the past that I am in no way proud of. For those reasons it would be really inappropriate for me or, for that matter, anyone else who has ever taken drugs or fucked anything up, to judge Kate Moss.

What I really hope is that she receives all the best help that she needs, in whatever form that is, from people who genuinely love her and really have her best interests at heart.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

First, is it wrong to want a baby just so I can put it in this?

Secondly, here is an order of words that I never thought that I would write:

Ozzy Osbourne used to be cute.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Into my closet

This post was inspired by my friend Marv's post of well over a-year-and-a-half ago, in combination with this weekend's culling of any clothes which I haven't worn for over 12 months (this is the third major task I referred to in yesterday's post.)

I'm largely assuming that you're all interested in what I wear / have decided not to wear, as well as some of the bittersweet memories or tales behind some of my favourite garments.

So, without further ado:

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These are a pair of ridiculously tight, 70s style, Hawaiian surf shorts. I like the idea that one day I might actually wear them on a beach, let alone on a surfboard. I'm holidaying in Thailand for Christmas and New Year, so we shall see. They were given to me by an ex-boyfriend who actually surfed at home in LA.

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I recently showed this vest to a friend and his response was, "Please, dear God, no." Regardless, this was my favourite top to wear to homosexual dancing establishments when I lived in NYC. It was bought for me by my friend Adam who I think was trying to convert me into being some big gay wrestling stud. Silly boy. I stopped wearing it because I started to become afraid that I would be asked to "double clutch" and I wouldn't know what to do.

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This is a limited-edition, deep-V, Karl Lagerfeld sweater for H&M. The stripes are actually supposed to be white, but last Christmas my 4 year-old cousin knocked a glass of wine on it and it stained. So I tie-died it purple to, you know, match the stain. The effect is kind of Joan Baez circa 1971 and I highly doubt that I will ever leave the apartment with it on. Shame, because it makes my pecs look really good.

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You either really love this shirt or really hate it. It's black cotton with a sewn on white satin sash, designed by Helmut Lang. I really love it because it was the shirt I was wearing when I first met Will. He later said that he knew we would end up dating because anyone who would intentionally make themselves look like a horse jockey had to be game for a laugh.

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Until yesterday I had forgotten all about this shirt. As you all know, my Grandma died a month ago. This was her present to me, last Christmas. At the time I didn't really like it, but now I think it would work well underneath a cool T-shirt with some big gaudy print on it. The Seth Cohen look. Bubby would be proud.

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Here is a selection of my accessories. From left to right (skipping out some): the scarf on the left is a really cool silk neck scarf by Ermenegildo Zegna and looks great worn with a T-shirt or underneath a dress shirt. The blue silk scarf is by Matthew Williamson and is grey on the reverse. Again, it looks great with a T-shirt, dressed with a suit jacket or even a mandarin collared biker jacket. The pink belt is a pink belt. The red silk-backed, navy, pinstriped tie was a freebie from a Tommy Hilfiger catwalk show I attended in Bryant Park in NYC. The gold sequined scarf was a present from Lindsay for my birthday last year and I only wore it once. Big surprise. And the scarf on the far right is the one that Trinny and Susannah complemented me on, hence it's appearance in this picture.

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This sweater is perhaps one of my favourite items of clothing and was a gift from Lincoln. It's by Armand Basi and features a huge leather flash on both of the sleeves. I rarely wear it because it provokes such grown up remarks as, "Flash! I love you! But we only have 14 hours to save the Earth!"

Idiots.

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I LOVE this sweatshirt. It's a basic marl-grey, raglan-sleeved sweatshirt, but it's really special because it was made especially for me by my ex-boyfriend, Nick. It's not brilliantly constructed and there isn't actually a right-way-round to wear it, but it's really comfortable. He also wore it to bed for a week before giving it to me and I've never washed it. Just like my bed-linen.

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Everyone should have a winter fleece and this is mine. It's a really tight fitting, electric blue / black DKNY fleece sweater. It's almost nine years old, so I guess you could officially call it designer vintage and was actually my first designer purchase. It was 1996 and I was on holiday in Italy with my friends Tim and Jemma. It only cost something like ninety pounds (probably about six million lire!) but Tim and Jemma were absolutely scandalised that I could be so "frivolous" with money. They learned pretty quick.

CIMG1736

This is a sleeveless denim shirt that I have never worn because it's a size large. For me, to wear something fitted, shirts need to be a size small. I bought this a few months ago because I thought that with my current excessive gym-going I would fill into it. But that would require me to grow exponentially and short of taking steroids, that currently looks unlikely to happen.

CIMG1738

This is a really great top by BDg and I bought it in an attempt to channel some kind of stylish (yet masculine) vibe from the ghost of Jean Seberg. In reality all that I channeled was a lot of anger and a less than flattering overall visage, courtesy of horizontal stripes.

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This is a Gucci scarf and was a present from Vidal Sassoon and his wife, Ronnie Sassoon. I'm including it here, you know, just to demonstrate that I have been bought clothes as presents by famous people.

CIMG1740

In the absence of a real boyfriend, every night (except when he's in the washing machine) I go to bed with Adam Brody.

What?
I would like my future husband, whoever the sorry bastard is, to be:
  1. Anally retentive about having clean bed linen on the bed at all times.
  2. Really diligent about opening mail as it arrives.
You may have already guessed that I am completely rubbish at both of these things. This weekend I actually undertook three major tasks, two of which relate to the above. The third I will discuss in tomorrow's post. But for now:

For some reason I can sleep in the same bed linen for up to three months (disgusting, yes, but it has been known) and after that time it neither smells nor sticks. This is good, because I HATE HATE HATE changing bed clothes - to the extent that I will do almost anything to avoid doing it. You know, you have to picture it: Christopher, standing on his bed, violently shaking his duvet into a cover which refuses to fit. It's an absurd image, isn't it? Yes, it is.

Yesterday I changed my bed linen. It took only five minutes, but those moments felt like an eternity and were the most intolerable since, well, the last time I changed my bed linen. And I'm not telling you when that was. Anyway, to recap, I changed my bed linen. Round of applause, please.

For the past six months I have been placing all of my mail in a neat pile in the corner of the living room. I really hate opening mail. It's not like I get bills that need to be paid. All of my debts and bills are paid by Direct Debit or standing order and utilities are covered in my rent which, again, is paid by s/o. My problem, and this is a general problem, is that boring things get me down. Especially glossy leaflets from my bank featuring pictures of heterosexual couples, all happy and smiley, standing in the rain, underneath a huge umbrella, basically glorifying fixed-term mortgage schemes with a free ISA / PEP / Unit Trust. They make me want to kill myself.

Today, over lunch, my friend Louise told me a horror story about her boyfriend and a pile of mail which he had "filed" in the back of his wardrobe and she had found while snooping through his stuff. As he is currently in Barcelona for work she decided to organise his life in the UK, in preparedness for his return. While sorting his mail she happened to discover that a debt collection agency had become so infuriated by his non-compliance at offering payments to a loan of like 50p or something ridiculous, that they were about to send around the bailiffs.

The idea of bailiffs arriving at my front door freaked me out more than the idea of, you know, opening my mail. So this evening I sat down infront of the mountain of post and started to plough through it.

Now, as there was six months worth of correspondence to go through this was never going to be an easy task. So I applied a bit of logic. I figured that as my credit cards and bank cards were still working (for the most part) I could assume that there was nothing in any bank correspondence that needed addressing. This effectively culled at least 50% of the mail, which made the job much more manageable. The rest of the mail was just random receipts for internet purchases, hospital appointment notes that I had already diarised, etc, etc.

Then something brilliant / potentially horrible happened. I opened a plainly addressed letter from my bank, returning a State of New York cheque for last year's tax return, amounting to $490 (about 250 sterling!) The reason for the bank returning the cheque (or check for you Americans) was unclear, but I do know that banks, from time-to-time, do send foreign cheques back unpaid, so ultimately I could still cash it and get the money.

The potentially horrible thing is that the cheque is dated May 2004, which could mean that it is so out of date that it can't be cashed anyway. This is bad for two reasons:
  1. It means I cannot fund the purchase of additional items to my new A/W 2005-06 wardrobe.
  2. It further illustrate to me that it is WRONG to open mail.
If you are an American with expert knowledge on cheque expiry dates, especially those written by tax executives for the State of New York, I would be most appreciative if you could let me know if I might still be able to go shopping next weekend. Your payment will be a nice pair of winter socks from Marks & Spencer (maybe.)

Saturday, September 17, 2005

This evening I went to the movies to see Annie Hall. I forgot how much I love that movie. And I'd never noticed that neither Alvy nor Annie actually say "I love you." (I just read the trivia section on iMDB.)

I don't consciously consider myself to be a Woody Allen fan, but I must be, because Annie Hall, Sleeper and Manhattan are three of my all-time favourite movies. I also really like Everyone Says I Love You. The scene where Goldie Hawn jumps and majestically sails up into the air, right next to the Seine, is one of my favourite scenes in a film.

Anyway, on the way home I decided upon something: I think I am a male Diane Keaton. I seriously think that she subconsicuosly inspired me to buy that waistcost a few weeks back. And the car that I often drive like a maniac is a VW. Proof, surely?

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Just because I'm a PR extraordinaire with my finger on the pulse of popular culture doesn't mean that I'm not, from time to time, completely infallible.

Six months after it broke as a news story this morning I noticed that Smarties have stopped being sold in their traditional round tubes.

I agree with Val Oliver from England:

"Smarties in a box? Yet a further erosion of our national identity. What next, white Marmite?"

The apocalypse is surely upon us.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

CIMG1687

Last Wednesday night I met up with my friends Lara and Jon. We met each other in 1991, when I was studying at Swindon College of Art, the year before I went off to university.

As can be expected, much has happened to the three of us over the years. These days Lara lives just outside London with her boyfriend of 10 years, Toby, and works in a law firm. Jon did live in London for a long time, but now lives in Marlborough with his boyfriend, James and is a PA at an environment agency.

We each have remarkably different lives from each other now than we did in the days when we were at college and we would skip class, drive out to a remote hill overlooking Bath, listen to The Smiths on my car stereo and get really, really mashed from smoking cheap weed sold to us by Stoner Leo in life drawing. These days Jon likes nothing better than potting orchids and walking his dog, Moshi, over Wiltshire fields while Lara DJ's for fun once a week after transvestite bingo nights at her local S&M club.

And me? Well, you know. I do my thing.

But despite all of this, however much we've each moved on, however much water has gone under the bridge, however infrequently we see each other, all of those things ... within four hours of meeting up in Soho Square the three of us had got really drunk, been complained about by fellow customers for being too loud in a posh restaurant, tried on hooker shoes in a sex shop, looked at kinky sex pictures in an Erotic book cafe and taken stealthy pictures of cute boys in a gay bar.

I was nineteen when I met Lara and Jon and I'll be 33 at the end of this month. I've met a lot of people and made a lot of other very good friends since meeting the two of them. And I still have a lot of fun, a lot of the time. But every so often it's good to have 19 year-old fun. And to be reminded that while, yes, you are a bit older, you're not always a lot wiser.

Because who wants to be old and wise if it means that you can't accept your friends sticking paper napkins up your nose without seeing it as a sign of affection?

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Saturday, September 10, 2005

Yesterday afternoon I was trawling through the IMDb message boards for Basic Instinct 2: Risk Addiction (I feel that I should point out that I wrote my university thesis on film noir and how the genre had evolved from its hey-day in the 1940s and its revival in the 1990s, using Double Indemnity and Basic Instinct as examples. That's the only reason I was interested and not because I wanted to see any more gratuitous leg-uncrossings.)

On my travels I happened to come across what must surely be the most hilarious plot translation in history. If this film is anywhere near as good as this translation it is going to be a critically acclaimed blockbuster of massive proportions!

(If there are plot-spoilers in this then they surely went over my head.)

I quote:

"You minds on whichever thing, on your erections, yours want matta to sweep to me. When tasks to fottermi, like the images? I know that you cannot answer to me, but thinks to us. As you would want to sweep to me."

Thursday, September 08, 2005

There is some statistic in existence that says that after the age of 25 you are 75% likely to meet your life partner through your place of work. What with being asked out by lesbians and the like, it would appear that I am amongst the remaining 25%.

For a while now (two and a half weeks) I have known that Paul, the breathtakingly cute, pocket-sized account manager who sits opposite me, is straight. But this has not stopped me having un platonic crush on him: i.e. whenever he asks me something I, ever so slightly, lose my professional cool. Also, he is incredibly private and never ever talks about anything aside from work. This is good because it has allowed me to elaborate upon the notion that he is single and therefore desperately lonely and could very well be tempted over to the dark side.

My delusions were shattered this morning when, in an unprompted and spiteful manner, he practically vomited forth the information that yesterday his girlfriend had some hair extensions put in. His girlfriend.

I hate her. Hair-obsessed bitch.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Upon further reflection (and after having watched three more episodes of The OC) I realised that being asked out for a drink by a lesbian is exactly the kind of thing that might happen to Seth Cohen, which made me feel much better.

And then I remembered that I had been asked out for a drink by a lesbian and I felt depressed again.
Last week I bleached my hair to within an inch of its life, but, as is the usual story, I soon decided that punky-blonde probably wasn't befitting of a soon to be 33 year-old, professional publicist. So last night I dyed it back to its usual dark brown colour.

This (coupled with the fact that I watched six episodes, back-to-back, of The OC on Sunday night) encouraged me to try out a new look, which I am sporting today - cute / intellectual / preppy. Basically an older Seth Cohen. I'm wearing old scuffed-up, white Adidas Superstar trainers, faded blue jeans, a fitted white cotton shirt and a navy-blue pinstriped waistcoat. I did try accessorising with a neck scarf, but decided that it was a bit too dandy and opted to just wear my specs instead (usually only worn in front of the computer or when I'm watching TV.)

I think that the effect is really quite devastating and my new, shiny mop of chocolate brown totally hits the mark. The result is that I have already been asked out for a drink by someone I work with.

Unfortunately that person is a 22 year-old lesbian called Grace.

I'm so depressed.

Monday, September 05, 2005

This weekend, in the changing room of my gym, I unfortunately bore witness to a pale, unattractive, naked man lift his leg up onto a bench and apply a stick deodorant to the whole of his undercarriage. He was not being discreet.

The only logical reason that I could think of as to why he was doing this was that he was expecting someone to be paying a "visit". Obviously I had to think about this some more and I couldn't decide which would be the worse - Sure 24 Hour stick deodorant, or the general funk of, er ... well, you know ... the other.

So, when I got home I licked my roll-on deodorant on decided it would be the former.

Saturday, September 03, 2005

Yesterday I received a group email from a friend in NYC, giving instructions on how to help out with Hurricane Katrina relief effort at the American Red Cross Centre. Given that I now live a few miles out of town I found myself limited as to how much help I could provide. This morning, after having read more horrifying newspaper reports of the situation, I made a donation.

I'm ashamed to say that making charitable donations is not something I do very often. I generally mean to, but I never quite get around to actually doing it.

However, there was a time when your favourite, superficial and vacuous PR luvvie was a tad more conscientious. As a university student I started spending time with my friend Clare, this woman and their other female university buddies. Any of them will provide expert witness that prior to knowing them I was shockingly ignorant about, well, pretty much everything. I would often be harshly berated for making various un-pc comments, such as, "I think Sharon Stone's character in Basic Instinct is a positive depiction of bisexuality." Clare would actually dub my visits "PC training."

Clare and her friends encouraged me to read the newspaper and to stop reading The Sun (even though I do still scan it for work purposes. Er, um ...) For many years my newspapers of choice have been The Guardian and The Observer: the two publications at the furthest-left of British newspaper reporting and social commentary.

As I began to understand issues such as the world domination by *copies from PC dictionary of 1992* capitalist societies through rampant consumerism (Ann shopping at Liberty) Clare and Co. began to invite me to political street marches. Soon after I took their lead and joined Amnesty International and wrote letters to the leaders of oppressive regimes on behalf of prisoners of conscience such as Aung Sang Su Chi. I even sold Socialist Worker newspapers. Once. For an hour on a rainy Saturday afternoon. In fact all I really did was just stand next to the guy selliung them. Although I did once carry aloft a Socialist Worker banner that Ann and I found on the side of the road during the Criminal Justice Bill march of 1992. We thought it would make cute male demonstrators notice us more (they didn't.)

But I think my fondest memory of personal charity was when I was a final year university student. I lived in the red-light district of Southampton with my gay friend Anthony and my girls of the time, Nikki, Vei and Karen. During the infamously harsh winter of 1994 we would often make cups of tea for the hookers working on the pavement just outside our front door. They were always very nice and very appreciative (not too appreciative) and would tell us shockingly salacious stories involving their dirty-old-man clients. I remember there was one hooker though who was rather tight-lipped (to coin a phrase) and would never disclose anything interesting at all. We didn't make tea for her for very long.

An sad indication, perhaps, that true altruism doesn't really exist.

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Last night I drove to the supermarket to buy a whole host of healthy foodstuffs for consumption over the course of the next week. I spent a good forty five minutes working the aisles, being seduced by everything from pineapple and coconut juice, bramley apple pork sausages and chilled rose Zinfandel.

While I was loading my groceries onto the conveyor belt I overheard the assistant inform the customer in front of me that her bank card had been declined. The customer, looking rather embarrassed, turned to her partner and meekly asked him if he would pay for the bill on his credit card, which he did and without complaint, but not before planting a gentle kiss on the top of the woman's head.

Despite the man's obvious affection towards his girlfriend / wife, I couldn't help but feel slightly smug over the fact that I really didn't need a partner to foot my bill.

That was until about five minutes later, when my bank card was also declined.

I have never felt lonelier in my entire life.
On Sunday, because I was going clubbing later that evening, I decided to buy myself a session on the tanning bed at my gym.

On the way to the gym I stopped by the pharmacy and got distracted by the vast array of tanning products on the shelf in one of the aisles. One product that particularly caught my eye was called Solarimax. It was a smallish sized pump spray containing an attractive mixture of orange and yellow coloured oils that promised to "provide a supplement to the effects of an artificial tanning session - for a long-lasting, healthy looking glow."

When I got to the gym I went to the tanning room, locked the door, disrobed and sprayed the Solarimax all over my body before lying down on the sunbed and pulling the top down. Twenty minutes later I admired myself in the mirror - I did indeed look browner than I normally look after a regular tanning session. Solarimax was indeed a miracle. I couldn't wait to tell my friends all about my discovery.

Two hours later (and three hours before my friend was due to come to collect me to go to The Fridge) I began to realise that my skin colour was gradually turning from "long-lasting, healthy looking glow" to one-shade-off-tomato. I didn't even need to look at my face in the mirror to know that this was happening. I knew because my skin was prickling like I had been stabbed all over with a hundred small, but extremely spiky, cactuses.

Panicking, I retrieved the bottle of Solarimax from my gym bag to read the instructions, in detail (for the first time.) I was especially concerned that the label read "good for ten applications", especially as I had used almost the entire bottle in one.

So I did what any calm, rational, disintegrating homosexual would do, three hours before he was about to go to a club where the chances of him taking his top off were greater that 99%. I emailed my ex-boyfriend who is an ER nurse at a large uptown Manhattan hospital, telling him what had happened without, er, telling what had actually happened, i.e.:

"I fell asleep in the sun and now I'm sunburned and I'm going clubbing this evening. How do I stop being burned?"

Fortunately he was at work and happened to be near a computer so I got a reply within a matter of minutes.

"Girl, break out the Covergirl Matte Finish foundation."

Not the surgical answer I was hoping for. And anyway, I only own a Jean Paul Gaultier Le Male concealer pen and there was no way that was going to paint down my entire torso, shoulders, arms and face. So I Googled "sunburn remedy".

One of the websites I found suggested using everything from cold tea poultices to aloe, direct from the leaves. I didn't have time to chill some tea and my housemate doesn't grow aloe plants so in the end, with time seriously running out, I broke down and did a face and body mask using fresh Greek yoghurt straight from the refridgerator.

And believe it or not, it actually worked. It really did. And I even had enough left to have a small snack before my friend arrived.

Of course, what I hadn't actually considered during this fiasco, was that it is so dark in the club that I was going to I could have been a fluorescent shade of beetroot and still no one would have noticed.

The important thing, of course, is that I experienced this so that I could pass this knowledge onto y'all. Greek yoghurt, kids! Miracle cure, I'm telling you.

Next week on Everything is Not Real: cure herpes with raw egg yolks (and make a tasty, high-protein omelet with the leftovers!)

Tuesday, August 30, 2005

As you know I'm not exactly a huge fan of Tom Cruise. I was absolutely delighted when I read about Tom's marriage proposal to Katie Holmes in the Evening Standard for the simple fact that it gave the editors the chance to run the headline, "Tom Proposes to Katie in Gay Paree!" Ya' gotta love a clever, yet subtle, non-litigious character inferance.

I have just spent the best part of two and a half hours watching Mission Impossible: MI2. Previously I'd only seen it once when it came out at the cinema. This was during the days when I had little opinion of Tom one way or the other.

What struck me watching it again, is that, yes, while Thandie Newton is undeniably very, very beautiful, the main crux of the movie is not actually to entertain the viewers at all, but create as many opportunities as humanly possible, within a 180 minute window, to make Tom look as virile and handsome and clever and sultry, all in slow motion, than you could possibly begin to fathom. On second view all that this epic vanity project served to do was to irritate me beyond belief and I even *gasp* even began to hate Tom more than I did prior to switching on the TV. I mean I really, really hate him! And it also made me hate the fact that he is, in all likelihood, a fellow 'mo. He makes me want to become an anti-gay, right-wing Christian fundamentalist.

Now you might argue that it could be considered slightly odd that I have this opinion when I admit that I would certainly not pass up the opportunity to have le gay sex with him.

But I am, after all, a bit of a slut with very few morals, so it doesn't actually mean anything.

Monday, August 29, 2005

Ok, so it's a few weeks after the fact, but would you like to see some pics from the trip I took to Rome with my Mum? Yes? No?

Well you're going to see them anyway.

To set the scene, here is a picture of me and my Mum, so you know what she looks like:


Almost every time we got someone to take a picture of the two of us she would only remember after the picture had been taken that she hadn't removed her sunglasses. Almost*.

This is a picture of me in a Christopher-has-a-halo thang goin' on, with the occulus of the Pantheon above me:


Directly below the occulus, which is literally a hole in the dome, is a hole in the floor, presumably for the rainwater to drain away through.

Mum: "Hmmm ..."

Christopher: "What?"

Mum: "Why don't they just put in a proper stainless steel plughole?"

Christopher: "What?"

This is a picture of a traditional Italian ice-cream:


We ate a lot of these. Now, if you ever visit a Roman ice-cream parlour you are more than likely to be completely befuddled by the vast selection of every flavour and colour under the Sun and in the rainbow, respectively. I mention colour, because regardless of the fact that the flavour might actually be prawn, the pinky colour can be deeply seductive. Anyhoo, I can reliably inform you that the perennial pistachio flavour is still the best. Despite the fact that the colour looks like mould.

One time, while we were eating something like our twenty ninth ice-cream, my Mum turned and said to me, "Do you think Italians really eat ice-creams? Do you really think they eat pizza and pasta?"

Christopher: "Er, well ... I don't know. I imagine so, because they're Italian, aren't they."

Mum: "Well, do you think they're just for the tourists? I mean the British don't all eat fish and chips, but that's what we're famous** for."

Christopher: " ... "

This is a picture of my Mum and I inside the coliseum:


* Almost every time.

After looking around for about twenty minutes my Mum turned to me and said, "The Romans ... they were a lot like the Greeks really."

Christopher: "Why do you say that?"

Mum: "Well, you know. Because of Hercules."

Christopher: "I don't think you've really thought this through properly."

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a horrible person. I love my Mummy very, very much. Hell, on Friday she put £200 in my bank account! But sometimes, just sometimes, I really question my parental / genetic authenticity.

But I will give her this. As a nurse / hairdresser, she may well have missed her vocation, because it was she who was responsible for taking this awesome picture of me sitting on the base of a column (!) at the front of the Pantheon. Marvel at the long-exposure setting! The composition! How cute I look!!!


** Someone please tell me that us Brits are not only famous for our fish and chips.

Saturday, August 27, 2005

I'm not particularly into comic books, but I'm really into Superman. It was the first movie I ever saw at the cinema. So I'm highly anticipating the new Bryan Singer Superman movie, which is coming out on June 30th 2006.

This is a link to one of his video blogs - I think it features CGI prep for the flying sequences in the actual movie, but I guess it might also be for the video game. Not sure. Either way I have goosebumps.

But seriously, how HOT is Brandon Routh?

He's *this* hot .

Or maybe he's *tttthhhhhhhhhiiiiiiiiissssss* hot?

Mercy.

Thursday, August 25, 2005

This morning, at approximately 9.30am, I began to receive wafts of what seemed to be the most putrid case of halitosis, ever, in the history of history.

Now usually it's not possible to smell your own breath (unless you do that "lick forearm, wait ten seconds and sniff" thing.) However, because the team were all out at meetings and the nearest person was sat over 20 feet away from me, I could only deduce that it was indeed I who was responsible for manufacturing this revolting odor.

For the next two hours, as I ploughed through a beautifully prepared, 80-page document featuring statistical information garnered from an omnibus survey company, I felt mortified that I, the freaking self-appointed arbiter of good grooming, had developed a case of bad breath that would no doubt be sought after study fodder by the British Dental Association.

After I had completed my analysis of the survey information I closed the document and lifted it up to put it on the opposite side of my desk. As I passed it underneath my nose I received a great torrent of the afore mentioned foul-smelling effluvium and I instantly discovered that it was not myself who was emitting the breath-smell of a doddery, 80 year-old vicar, but the heavily lacquered document! You can only begin to imagine my relief.

Nonetheless (and because I always like to err on the side of caution), the incident has prompted me to book an emergency appointment to see my dental hygienist. It has also prompted me to make a mental note to never, ever use that particular survey company again, for no other reason than they actually made me doubt my grooming skills.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Yesterday that man and myself were sat in Soho square, with another friend, having lunch.

At one point he offered me a [insert name of round confectionery made by international chocolate conglomerate] which I readily accepted and chowed down on with much satisfaction.

However, after I had thoroughly enjoyed the small chocolate treat, I felt that it was both important and necessary for me to harshly berate him and make him feel guilty for buying the confectionery in the first place, as everyone knows that its parent company promotes and sells its powdered baby milk to mothers in poverty stricken countries for extortionately high prices. By the time that these mothers have run out of money to buy the product, it is too late for them to breast-feed their babies which, as a result, often die.

Of course my decision not to disclose the fact that this company is currently a client of mine was very important. Had he been aware of this information my argument would surely have fallen flat on its face.
Two weeks ago I bought my third iPod. I lost the first one in a fairly gay manner: I left it underneath a copy of Vogue that I discarded on a plane. Oh how I cursed Anna Wintour for not making that edition a collectors issue.

The second iPod, which I replaced last week (not enough room for my vastly-expanding music collection), did not receive such a odd fate (being found by some American Airlines cabin cleaner who will, no doubt, by now be singing along badly to Busted's What I Go to School For.) Well, perhaps it did. I don't know yet. With pure benevolence I gave it to my friend, this man (but not before discovering that I was not going to make more than twenty pounds by selling it on eBay.)

Before I continue it is important that you understand that prior to my bestowing upon him the afore-mentioned second-hand illustrious tune-playing gadget, he had always rolled his eyes any time I ever happened to drop it into conversation (which was, admittedly, fairly often) and had firmly resisted any attempt on my part to get him into the Apple store to, you know, check out the graceful, industrially-designed interior (not to get him to buy one, you understand.)

Of course, like so many people who have always declared loudly and proudly that they "never want children", he has taken to "parenthood" like Michael Jackson to [insert inappropriate analogy here]. Just the other day he proudly informed me that he had memorised the track numbers for a variety of Coldplay and Damien Rice ballads, and I admit to having felt slightly proud. (I also admit to having felt slightly smug over the fact that he had been so easily seduced by the iPod's sleek, shiny white facade.)

In addition to this I can now rely on him to email me, first thing in the morning, with the latest iPod news or hot tip. I'm sure you'll all think that this is quite sweet, which it is. But it also forces me to think something else ...

iPods have so had their day.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Anyone who visits my little blog with any regularity will know that I'm not very good at picking up threads from previous posts. From now on I'm going to try to be a bit better at doing that.

I haven't posted yet about my Grandma's funeral because I haven't really known what to write. After all, it's was a funeral. Unlike celebrations funerals are only ever, overarchingly sad. I managed to read that section from The House at Pooh Corner without sobbing, although my voice did falter on a number of occasions when I happened to glance over at my family for a just moment.

Anyway ... it was a funeral. 'Nuff said.

Over the past few weeks I've been doing a lot of thinking about Grandma. The main thing I can't get my head around (and I guess that this is true for everyone who is left behind) is the fact that for as long as I live I will never, ever see her or speak to her again. It's so obvious, but when someone has been a part of your life for over 30 years it's really quite hard to get your head around.

We all know that death is the only certain thing about life. So why is it almost always come as such a surprise?

Friday, August 19, 2005



















At last ... it's official! Mark Feehily, the gay one from Westlife, is officially gay! I'm so glad because I always fancied him and clearly now that he is definitely a 'mo I am in a much better position to have a long-term relationship with him.

A question though ... is it "brave" to come out just as your star is irretrievably dipping out of sight on the horizon? In the meantime, I'm off to listen to "Against All Odds" and imagine that he's crooning to me.
There was a time, not so long ago, when I was sat on the upstairs bench infront of the Genius Bar in the Apple Store on Regent Street feeling as cool as fuck.

A few minutes after writing yesterday's blog post my iBook spontaneously expired infront of the technician and I was instantly down £180 and over a year's worth of photos, documents and really, really good porn, Godamnit.

Today I am sat in a a dingy, basement internet cafe in Soho, which smells like catpiss and furniture polish. I am wearing a pair of jeans which are too long and keep getting caught underneath my trainers and a T-shirt with a hole under the armpit. I am sipping from a lukewarm bottle of Volvic. I am writing my blog on an ancient "blueberry" iMac, which is, no doubt, secretly laughing at the fact that it has outlived my sleek, white iBook, by several years.

I want to kill someone.

* Not retrievable, unless I am prepared to pay £1,500 to have my old hard drive broken open and cloned.**

** If anyone would like to do this in exchange for sex, email me.

Wednesday, August 17, 2005

There was a time, not so long ago, when the idea of sitting and waiting for my computer to be checked over by a techno-geek would fill me with intense feelings of dread and uncool paranoia.

This morning I am sat on the upstairs bench infront of the Genius Bar in the Apple Store on Regent Street. I am wearing a vintage purple T-shirt, camouflage Abercrombie combats and Calvin Klein flip-flops. I am leisurely sipping a Starbucks mocha. I am writing my blog on my iBook, using the store's free wireless broadband.

I feel as cool as fuck.

Sunday, August 14, 2005

My Mum and Dad were very young when I was born and didn't have an awful lot of money, so both often had to work during the day: my Dad as an engineer and my Mum as a hairdresser. Subsequently, Grandma, from only eight weeks after I was born, used to look after me, and a couple of years later, my brother a great deal.

When I was very young (you'll see what I did there in a moment!) one of my favourite things was to be read to, and one of the books I would always take to Grandma's house to be read to from was The House at Pooh Corner by A.A. Milne.

At Grandma's funeral on Tuesday I am going to do a reading. At my Granddad's funeral, a few months ago, I chose to read a chapter relating to death from Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet, which, as an adult, is one of my favourite books. Obviously I can't read the same section out again and I really don't want to read out one of those Hallmark-sentiment, copyright protected standard funeral readings, either.

So this week, while I was at home, I dug out my old copy of The House at Pooh Corner. The very last page is what I have decided to read on Tuesday. It seems kind of appropriate for more than a couple of reasons.

********

Christopher Robin, who was still looking at the world with his chin in his hands, called out, "Pooh!"
"Yes?" said Pooh.
"When I'm, er ... when I'm ..."
"Yes, Christopher Robin?"
"I'm not going to do Nothing any more, Pooh."
"Never again?" said Pooh.
"Well, not so much. They don't let you, you see."
Pooh waited for him to go on, but he was silent again.
"Yes, Christopher Robin?" said Pooh helpfully.
"Pooh, when I'm ... you know ... when I'm not doing Nothing, will you come up here sometimes?"
"Just me?"
"Yes, Pooh."
"Will you be here too?"
"Yes, Pooh, I will be, really. I promise I will be, Pooh."
"That's good," said Pooh.
There was a short pause and then Christopher Robin said, "Pooh, promise you won't forget about me. Ever. Not even when I'm a hundred."
Pooh thought for a little while.
"How old shall I be then?"
"Ninety-nine," said Christopher Robin.
Pooh nodded. "I promise," he said.
Still with his eyes on the world Christopher Robin put out a hand and felt for Pooh's paw.
"Pooh," said Christopher Robin earnestly, "If I ... if I'm not quite ..." He stopped and tried again, "Pooh, whatever happens to me, you will understand, won't you?"
"Understand what?"
"Oh, nothing." He laughed and jumped to his feet. "Come on!"
"Where are we going?" said Pooh.
"Anywhere," said Christopher Robin.

So they went off together. But wherever they go and whatever happens to them on the way, in that enchanted place on the top of the Forest, a little boy and his Bear will always be playing.

Friday, August 12, 2005

Just a quick post to say thank you for the messages and emails you have sent to me over the past couple of days. They have been very much appreciated.

I will admit that it's slightly surreal to think that, during times like these, there are people, all over the world, who are thinking about you. But it really means a lot to me and I am really touched.

Thursday, August 11, 2005

Despite having been blessed with a healthy dollop of intelligence, I am not always the sharpest tool in the box.

For instance, you might think that because I have been sunburned on a number of occasions in my life, one of those occasions being so severe that I had to go to hospital, that I might be more than just a bit clued up on sun-protection.

But, no ...

Today my friend Helen and I went to Studland Beach (real name - even has a gay nudist beach!) to catch some rays, except that our plan was thwarted by an overcast sky that did not diminish as the day wore on. Regardless of the fact that I knew from first-hand experience that you can still be burned through cloud, I rebuffed Helen's lotion-ed advances and chose to lie out, au naturel, as it were.

Several hours later and I am forced to sit upright, cross legged, in the middle of the floor because I can't bear for the skin on my back to touch anything.

The only fortuitous thing about all of this is that I have just finished watching the pilot of Lost and I would have been on the edge of my seat anyway.

Tuesday, August 09, 2005

What's that expression? Something about not raining, but pouring?

I actually had, for the most part, a really lovely weekend in Rome with my Mum, but my relaxed mood was kinda ruined the moment I stepped off the plane. Shortly after switching my cellphone back on I got two calls.

The first was from one of my recruitment agents. I haven't blogged about this yet, but last week I accepted a job with a PR company which, for all intents and purposes, offered a working environment and a position that seemed to be the perfect match for me and my experience. The call from the recruitment agent was to tell me that the company had retracted the offer. It turns out that when the managing director informed the rest of the company that I had been hired one of the members of staff enquired why they hadn't been given the opportunity to apply. The long and short of it is that they ended up placing the internal candidate in the role and dropped me.

To say that I am mad is an understatement. On the one hand I am angry because I turned down second interview opportunities with a couple of other potential "suiters" as well as a couple of interim freelance placements. I was supposed to start work with this company on Monday. I am now without any kind of work for at least the next two weeks. And cash is not exactly abundant at present.

On the other hand I am relieved that I am not going to work for a company that does not understand basic professionalism, such as being really sure about the situation your company and your staff are in before offering someone a permanent job.

The second call I received was from my Dad telling me that my Grandma had died earlier in the day. It turns out that she had taken a turn for the worst over the weekend and what with everything that has happened to her over the last three weeks her body just couldn't handle it anymore and shut down.

I had pretty much already accepted that this would happen the last time I saw her. She was really, really not very well and I knew with 100% certainty that she wasn't going to make it. You know when you just know? So Dad's news wasn't as shocking as it might otherwise have been. The really sad thing is that because she died as a result of an accident, from falling over and hitting her head, there has to be a post-mortem examination, which means that the funeral can't held until next week sometime.

The good thing in all of this is that because I had accepted that job I was never supposed to be working this week, which means that I can spend a bit of time with my family.

Small mercies and all that.

Thursday, August 04, 2005

I won't be blogging for a few days because I'm off to Rome tomorrow morning for a long weekend.

It should be an interesting trip, primarily for the reason that I'm going there with my Mum. When she received her inheritance from my Granddad I originally agreed to go on a two week holiday with her, to someplace exotic (I had my eye on Rio - no prizes for guessing why.)

However, I soon came to realise that two weeks in my mothers company would lead to either one of two eventualities: a) the murder of my mother at my own hands, or b) me, going insane.

So as a compromise I agreed to go on a mini-break with her. I'd like to say that we mutually decided upon Rome because I have had a life-long interest in the ancient Etruscan empire and because my mother would like to see, firsthand, where ecclesiastical bureaucracy bought about la Rinascimento.

But the real reason is that we have both read Dan Brown's Angels and Demons and we want to see the alcove in the Vatican where the anti-matter was placed.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

As you know, a couple of weeks ago my Grandma had a nasty fall and had to have brain surgery.

In the subsequent 16 days since she had her accident, we, her family, are as much in the dark with regards to her overall prognosis as we were at the very beginning. Now clearly where brain injuries are concerned you have to allow for a greater degree of overall uncertainty than you do with other injuries or illnesses.

Admittedly, the fact that Grandma now has MRSA complicates things. Infections are not conducive to great lucidity at the best of times, especially in an 85 year old woman who has recently encountered major head injuries.

That said, I simply do not buy the "we don't know what is going on" spiel that the doctors are feeding us. But the most annoying thing is that we only receive that spiel after we have asked several times to speak to someone. In the past two and a half weeks we have only been able to speak to the doctors on only three individual occasions.

I feel really guilty for dissing them because I do genuinely think that they do a good job, but the doctors really need to be more forthcoming with information, especially when the patient concerned is not able to ask the pertinent questions. In their professional opinions there must be a number of avenues they can expect Grandma to go down, each with their own varying degrees of recovery / deterioration. All we want to know is what those avenues are, so that we are just a little bit prepared. My Grandpa especially needs to be prepared. He is currently deluding himself that she is going to make a full recovery and it is clear to the rest of the family, even with our lack of medical knowledge, that this is not going to happen.
One of the things about being gay is that you tend to forget that it's not out of the question that the opposite sex might find you attractive.

This afternoon, while I was working out at the gym, I happened to notice that the very attractive tall, blonde woman, doing bicep curls on the adjacent Swiss Ball, was checking me out. (Seriously! I was as surprised as you are!)

I have to admit that while I was most definitely flattered, the notion that she may have been having even the mildest of lewd thoughts about me did bring on a feeling of slight awkwardness.

Is this how straight men feel when they catch us gayers checking them out in the changing room? I guess the difference is that an advance on my part is coupled with the risk of being messed up real bad.

Whereas the worst the afore mentioned attractive woman could have expected to get from me would have been a slight knock-back, but accompanied by the feel-good factor of my telling her that she looked fierce in her hot pink Baby Phat velveteen track pants and white Calvin Klein sports vest.

Tuesday, August 02, 2005

The other day my housemate told me that the previous weekend she had plucked up the courage to tell her boyfriend that she was in love with him. However, she quickly added that she wasn't ready yet to say "I love you."

This confused me greatly. I asked her what exactly it was she had told him.

"I said to him, "I'm madly in love with you.""

"Not, "I love you"?"

"God, no! I'm not ready to say that yet!"

What followed was a very lengthy and annoying conversation about the differences between saying "I love you" and "I'm in love with you". Apparently all my life I have been completely oblivious to the fact that the latter is much less intense.

I'm still not entirely convinced that there is a difference between the two at all, but it's hard to argue the semantics of amour with an opponent who thought she was Pippi Longstocking as a child and as an adult models herself on Ann of Green Gables.

Wednesday, July 27, 2005

Ever since I failed one following a job interview I have not really believed in psychometric evaluations. I mean, how do you "fail" a psychometric evaluation?! Just because I'm a raging sociopath doesn't mean that I'm necessarily a lesser person.

That was until yesterday when I got the results from another psychometric evaluation from yet another job interview.

I particularly agree with these strengths:
  • Exhibits poise
  • Highly competitive
  • Diplomatic and sensitive to other's points of view
  • Highly intellectual and investigative
  • Accomplished verbal communicator
I do not like the following weaknesses:
  • Energy often wasted by too much personal involvement
  • May be too critical and fault finding
  • May over-estimate his own abilities from time to time
  • Sets too high standards
  • Prone to procrastination
[One of the weaknesses was inability to accept criticism, but I left that off, because it is so very clearly complete nonsense.]

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

I only realised that I had a mojo about seven years ago. I was at Popstarz with some friends and my friend, Ann, asked me who in the club I thought was attractive. I looked around and pointed at some impossibly good looking, ripped guy at the end of the bar.

"Him," I said. "But he is SO out of my league."

"No he's not! Don't be stupid. You're really good looking!" Ann replied, completely oblivious to the secret gay code that decrees that one must not deem to step outside one's own genetic pool.

Later on in the evening, after quite a lot of drinks and with a bit of dutch courage, I managed to brush myself up against him on the dancefloor. Unbelievably, one thing led to another and it wasn't long before I was in a cab with him, heading back to his place.

Fortunately for me, it didn't turn out to be a one night stand and a few days later we went on our first date. I already knew this (obviously, or not obviously) but for your sake, his name was Phillipe. He was French and for some years had worked as a model, before becoming an actor. I've already said it, but he was handsome in that way that you are just forced to think to yourself, "What are you doing with me?"

During dinner we asked each other a few innocuous questions. One of them, from me, was "What's your star sign." A stupid question coming from me, as you faithful readers will know, because I don't really care.

"Well, when do you think I was born?" said Phillipe.

I looked away for a second, as if deep in thought, and took a guess.

"December 17."

A pause, and then, with the most serious of expressions, "How did you know that?"

All the blood drained from my face. "Oh. Er, seriously. I didn't. I just guessed."

That was all it took. From then on he wouldn't return my calls. And that is the story of Phillipe and I. And possibly of the worst date I have ever been on.

Friday, July 22, 2005

Yesterday lunchtime I was in Boots with my flatmate, Vix, buying grooming products. I went up to the counter to pay for my goodies while Vix went outside to call her boyfriend.

While I was at the counter I decided to ask the assistant if she could recommend a product that would minimise and dull any T-zone shine. She told me that she did sell something like that, but that it was in the stock room. While she was more than happy to go and grab some, I told her not to worry as I couldn't really wait.

"Why? Do you have a train to catch?"

"No, I just have a meeting to attend," I explained.

"Oh, that's ok. Because you know there have been some more bombs on the tube. They've closed down a load of the stations again."

I looked at her, aghast. "No! Seriously? That's awful! Has anyone been hurt?"

"I'm not sure. I guess so," and we both shook our heads, mournfully.

After a respectful pause the shop assistant said, "You know I can give you some samples of the product I was telling you about?"

"Great!" I replied.

I left the shop and gleefully showed my twelve, free, mini-sachets of Clinique Oil Control Hydrator to Vix.

Later on I was forced to consider that I am either shallow beyond belief, or that the terrorists have completely and utterly failed to inspire any real feelings of terror within me.
An email exchange with my friend Zach (a fellow iBook owner):

Christopher:
I REALLY need your help. Please respond to this email as soon as you can! I have hardcore gay porn stuck in the CD drive on my iBook and I am using it at work and the computer guy is due to come in to do something to it at 4pm!!! Usually there is a little hole you can stick a paperclip in and it ejects the disc, but I can't find it! I tried the Apple support website, but to no avail. Help me Zach! You're my only hope! (Note that I could have asked you to "help me find my hole" but am far too mature.)

Zach:
Oh gosh ... I don't really know. Did you try turning off the computer and restarting it? I had that happen to me once and that seemed to work. I think I was hitting the eject button before the computer was fully re-booted and it ejected. Good luck! If that doesnt work, just blame it on an intern...

Christopher:
No! I tried that! IT DOESN'T WORK!!! Rudy (IT guy) is going to learn that I like watching DVDs called "Anal Intruder 5".

Zach:
Tell him that it's from a new client of yours ... that you're doing the PR for Bel Ami.

Christopher:
I'm going to have to call Apple Support. This is too humiliating for words. Not least for the fact that I can't work out how to eject a DVD, regardless of the fact that it's bum-porn.

Zach:
Oh Christopher. You've done it again!

Christopher:
Shut up.

Wednesday, July 20, 2005

I'm sorry for not having written about my Grandma sooner. Forgive me if I don't go into too much detail here. It's not that I find it particularly upsetting, per se. It's just that I have dissected every minutiae of her condition with almost every member of my family over the past week and I am starting to get a little tired of the subject. That sounds awful, but you don't know my family (although I'm sure there are enough of you with your own dysfunctional families to be able to sympathise.)

Grandma is 85 years old, but in excellent health. She takes two walks a day, doesn't drink or smoke, eats incredibly healthily. She even rides a bike from time to time.

Last Monday she went to the beach with my Aunt and Grandpa. She walked along the beach, paddled in the sea. Apparently she had a nice day. When the three of them got back home, Grandma went around to the back of the car and as she was pulling something out of the boot she fainted and fell backwards, hitting the back of her head, apparently very, very hard.

A brain scan at the hospital confirmed that she had three hemorrhages: one between her skull and her brain, one on the surface of her brain and one in her brain. Initially the surgeons didn't want to operate on her because of her age, but because she is so healthy they eventually decided to go ahead.

They removed the first two hemorrhages, but because of it's depth, left the third with the hope that it would not get any bigger. A scan conducted a couple of days after the surgery revealed that it had indeed not grown, which was good news.

However, she is not out of the woods. Because of the head injury Grandma is required to be resting horizontally, or almost horizontally, so that excess blood can be drained from her head. This means that there is a likelihood that fluid will build up on her lungs. If this happens she will more than likely develop pneumonia. Once again, because of her age, there is a possibility that she will not pull through that. That said, if anyone can pull through at her age, Grandma can.

In terms of how she is in herself, she sleeps most of the time, which is normal after brain surgery. When she is awake, she is still very dopey, but for the most part she makes sense. She does lapse into occasional dementia, but again, this is normal for someone who has recently had brain surgery. The other day she kept talking about a little black boy standing at the end of the bed. I was a little bit concerned that she was being politically incorrect and that I would have to berate her, but then I realised that a black gas cylinder was confusing her (she hasn't been wearing her glasses.)

The weird thing about all of this, from my perspective, is how well I am dealing with the whole situation. When I first heard the news from my Dad last Tuesday I was really tearful and upset. But then when I saw her and spoke to the doctors and felt a lot more philosophical. She may pull through and she may not. If this is her time to go, then we can all feel good about the fact that she has a good life, with great family and fabulous (fabulous!!!!) grandchildren. If it's not her time to go, then she will get through this and she will have more days on the beach and chats with friends and relatives over cups of Earl Grey tea.

I hope it will be the latter.

However, through all of this, I have been struck by the complete randomness of life. All of us know that we will "end" at some point. For some of us that end will be sooner than for others and will come about in a variety of different ways. In Grandma's case the doctors think that it is possible she fainted because it was a hot day and she was dehydrated. That could have happened to anyone, regardless of their age. I mean, people jump into swimming pools and emerge paralysed from the neck down.

In particular I recalled a Phoebe-ism from Friends:

"Yeah, it's just so strange. I mean, she probably woke up today and thought, 'Ok, I'll have some breakfast, and then I'll take a little walk, and then I'll have my massage.' Little did she know God was thinking, 'Ok, but that's it.'"

For me, anyway, it re-illustrates the age-old phrase, "Live each day as if it were your last."

Monday, July 18, 2005

After the events of the past week I needed to start this week off on the right foot. Arguably, dancing into the first early hour of the morning with Drew at Horsemeat Disco probably wasn't the best way to bring this about, but miraculously I woke up this morning feeling as fresh as a daisy and as chipper as Chip the chipmunk.

Things felt good as I walked out of the tube station at Old Street. I felt at one. I had just finished a "fiendish" Su Doku puzzle on the train, cute Hoxton-y guys and girls walked by, glugging from bottles of Evian and giggling into their mobile phones. The sun was beating down and for once I wasn't evaporating.

And Nina Simone sung "Here Comes The Sun" on my iPod.

Perfection.

Thursday, July 14, 2005

I haven't posted for a couple of days because I have been back at home in Wiltshire. My Grandma had a really nasty fall on Monday evening and as a result had three brain hemorrhages. She had surgery to remove two of the three bleeds early on Tuesday morning, but we do not yet know if the operation has been successful.

I may post infrequently over the coming days, just so you all know. We'll see how things pan out. Fingers crossed that she gets better.

Christopher
xxx

Monday, July 11, 2005

Books

Jef tagged me with this book meme:

1. How many books do you own?

I'd estimate on about two to three hundred, the majority of which are at my Mum's house in Wiltshire, where I stored them before I moved to NYC. That figure counts for every book I've ever owned. While I may have loaned books out, I've never thrown any away.

2. Last book read?
The Time Traveller's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger. There are only three books that I have read that have actually made me cry (shut up, Drew) and this is one of them (one of the other two is listed below). It's a story about a man called Henry who suffers from a rare disorder where his genetic clock occasionally resets itself, flinging him from the present, back and forth through time. On his journeys he encounters Clare, his wife in the present, at various points in her life. On the surface the premise might seem rather fantastical, but the author makes it entirely believable. This is an old fashioned romance that had me hooked from the first page and literally sobbing by the end.

3. Last book purchased?
A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers. I don't really know what it is about. I know it's based on a true story and that one of my friends read it and greatly enjoyed it. I'm also very intrigued by a book called A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. All I'll say is that it had better be just that, or I'll be consulting the Trading Standards website.

4. Name five books that mean a lot to you.
Girlfriend in a Coma by Douglas Coupland. There are so many reasons why I love this book (it was one of the three that have made me cry). The first is that Douglas Coupland is my favourite author in the whole world and I've read all his books. He could write an obituary and I would love it. The second is that it contains one of the most moving scenes I've ever read in a book. I can't tell you any more about that point, because it would ruin a surprise. The third is that it includes some really clever references to huge cultural landmarks from the late 90s - the kind that give you goosebumps. I frikkin love this book! Go out and buy it now!

The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown. I'm probably hearing a bunch of you distantly yelling "Why?! Why?!" at me right now. Well, on the surface it's a pretty formulaic tale of conspiracy and the like, written in an absorbing, non-boundary pushing manner. I don't care for all that backlash nonsense - it's a bloody good read. And to question whether or not the "fact" is, indeed, fact is to thoroughly miss the point. For me the "fact" is that the Christian church is built on a fundamental lie. This realisation encouraged me to ask myself some really important and fairly profound questions about my faith and as a result I do not believe that the God I was taught about in school really exists. So while I wouldn't say I'm now an atheist, I'm definitely agnostic. That might seem rubbish - that Dan Brown made me question God. But then we can find truths in the most unlikely of places.

Alexander and the Magic Mouse by Martha Sanders. This is my favourite book from when I was a kid. An old lady lives on a hill with various animals that she has collected on her travels around the world: a yak from Tibet, a Brindle London Squatting cat, an alligator called Alexander and a magical mouse. The mouse has a premonition that the local town will be washed away by a terrible storm so the old lady sends Alexander to the town to deliver a letter to the mayor so that he can warn everyone of the impending danger. After his efforts Alexander catches flu and is deeply depressed that everyone in the town was scared of him. In the end the magical mouse gives him a tiny pink cake and overnight he gets better. Shortly after they learn that his mission was successful and the whole town comes up the hill to thank Alexander.

A Room With a View by E.M. Forster. I initially read it because I loved the movie - Rupert Graves, Julian Sands and, er, Simon Callow, naked and wrestling in a bathing pond. Sadly the book was less homoerotic than the movie, but I still enjoyed it very much. In fact it encouraged me to read all of Forster's other books, including a Passage to India, which I was supposed to have read for A Level English, but didn't. Still, better late than never.

Untitled by this man. I haven't read it yet because it's yet to be published, but as long as I get expensive Christmas and birthday presents as a result of his handsome royalties, it will forever be a book that will mean a lot to me.

5. Tag five more people.
I have had bad experiences of tagging people, so I'm going to leave it up to those who have not done this to decide if they want to do it.

Friday, July 08, 2005

Christopher hurts himself (again)

When something truly awful happens there is this inclination to just sit in front of the TV and absorb, absorb, absorb until you're as much of an expert on the goings-on as the anchorperson you've recently become best friends with. This was very much the case in my office yesterday, as the TV was on all day and no one was really doing anything apart from congregating around it.

At lunchtime I decided not to eat my low-carb, home-prepared bean and tuna salad at my desk and instead ventured down into Wimbledon town centre to meet Lindsay for lunch.

Because Lindsay didn't have much time to spare we decided to grab a quick bite and a drink at Coffee Republic, next to Wimbledon tube station. As Lindsay ordered our beverages at the front of the shop, I located an area at the back for us to sit down. As I reclined into my leather armchair, the back of my head connected heavily with the extremely sharp edge of the counter behind me. You know when you hit your head so hard that it doesn't actually hurt? That's how hard I hit my head.

As I pretended that I was actually completely fine to the cute guy sat adjacent to me I reached my hand behind my head to check out the damage and was quite shocked to discover that I was actually bleeding quite profusely. Without trying to draw too much attention to myself I got up and went to the counter to tell Lindsay what had happened and to grab some napkins from one of the baristas.

The manager of the shop, who was at this point standing behind the till, saw my bloodied hand and swiftly went into lifesaver overdrive. "Oh my God! Did you just come out of the station?!" he asked, hurriedly, grabbing a dishcloth. "Do you need some ice? Don't worry, it's ok!"

Realising that the manager had thought that I was walking wounded from the events that occurred earlier in the day, I felt a brand new rush of blood sweep through me , this time depositing itself firmly onto my cheeks. "Erm, no. I just hit my head on your counter."

Of course, Lindsay thought that it was extremely amusing that I had to include myself, however unintentionally, in amongst the overall melee.

Thursday, July 07, 2005

I guess it was only a matter of time.

I've had a bunch of calls today from concerned friends and family checking up on me. "Are you ok?" they ask. "Yes." I tell them. "Good," they reply. The conversations have been brief and on the whole there seems to have been less 'talking' and more 'listening'.

Yesterday I wrote that I am proud of my country and proud to be British. Today I feel even more proud, if that's possible. I know that us Brits often get ribbed for our sometimes rather rigid sobriety, but I have to say that I think that it is on days like today that our true spirit really shines through.

Earlier on, for some reason, I remembered that scene in Elizabeth, where Cate Blanchett's infamous monarch confronts Richard Attenborough's Lord William. On the surface this quote is not entirely relevant to today's events, but for me it speaks volumes about my nation's character and spirit.

"I am my father's daughter. I am not afraid of anything."

Tuesday, July 05, 2005

A good / bad date

Last night I went on a date with Paul.

I met Paul very briefly on Friday night while out drinking with Drew. It was a case of eyes meeting across a crowded pavement. At first he seemed to be leaving with some friends, but as he walked away he carried on glancing back at me. I smiled. He dumped his friends. I told him that I wasn't in a position to dump my one friend. He gave me his digits. I texted him. Last night we went on a date.

As I walked down Clapham High Street towards Kazbah (if it ain't broke, etc) I spotted Paul walking towards me. Even though I had only spoken to him briefly I recognised him instantly, but the thing I was most struck by was not his handsome good looks (which he has) but by how he was walking like a slightly deranged, homeless man who has just downed a quart of vodka.

Anyway - he didn't recognise me and as this wasn't where we were supposed to meet - on the street - I decided to play dumb and carry on to Kazbah, order a drink, grab a free gay rag, decide which dance tents at Big Gay Out I would grace with my presence and try to forget that disconcerting walk.

Paul arrived a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, apologising for being late. Knowing very well that I had just walked past him on the street I said, "Did I just walk past you on the street?" on the offchance that he had also seen me and wondered why I hadn't said, "Hello!" He hadn't, but apologised for not having seen me.

The next two hours went without hitch and as time wore on we started to inch closer and closer and we began to do all the little physical things one does when one finds oneself more and more attracted to the person sat opposite - resting your feet on the footsteps of their stool, the occasional brush against a leg, grabbing their shoulder during the middle of a really funny story. "Yes," I'm thinking, "I actually quite like you." Oh, and we agree on stuff, but not in that "Oh, yes, I also like James Blunt and I'm just saying this because I think it's what you want to hear way." More of the excited, "So do I!!!"

Eventually I looked at my watch and saw that it was 11.15pm. I explained that I was up a little bit past my bedtime and while I was having a great time, I really should be going home. It turned out that he lived not too far from me, so I agreed to walk some of the way home with him. We finished off our drinks and left.

And then, suddenly, all of the warm, fuzzy, "I think I quite like this guy" feelings instantly dissipated as he started doing that walk again. What the fuck was that shit? Again, slightly deranged lunatic. Definitely flat footed and upper body leaning forward. All I could think was "patient" and the overall illusion was ruined. As quick as it had arrived, it vanished. No more dates for me and Paul.

Now you might think that after having spent two hours on what was essentially a really good date, I would be really disappointed. But if you did, you'd be wrong.

All I could feel was massive relief that I would not be spending my ever-after with a guy who made me cringe with embarrassment every time he put foot to floor. It is for important reasons like these that I am not willing to compromise. It makes the idea of an eternal singledom entirely bearable.

I am recovering from a slightly hectic weekend.

(Incidentally - before I continue if you spot any random puntuation marks or copyright symbols in my text, please ignore them. I write my posts in Word, before copying and pasting them into Blogger. For some reason Blogger has stopped recognising punctuation transferred across and gets confused. Very annoying, but it raises less suspicion when blogging at work if I spend two hours writing a post in a Word document, as opposed to the Blogger compose window. The bloggers amongst you will understand what I mean.)

I spent Saturday with my Dad and my stepmom, doing the tourist "thang" around central London. Despite Live8 taking place just under half a mile away in Hyde Park, the city was eerily quiet - more so than during a quiet week day, which was actually brilliant for dragging parents around.

We had a nice lunch at a small cafe in Piccadilly and then we walked down South Bank, next to the Thames, to the Tate Modern to see the Frida Kahlo exhibition. Dad messed it up and went through the exhibition the wrong-way-round. I met him half way through and he actually said to me, "Her painting style seems to get worse as she got older."

Anyway - I learned a couple of things. I learned that Frida Kahlo had an affair with Leon Trotsky while he was staying as a guest at the home of her and her husband. How fabulous. I wonder if he was hot?

The other thing I learned, or rather I realised, is that regardless of whether you live a life of pain, whether you enjoy your life (as, for one reason or another, Frida generally didn't seem to) you can live a life which has a profoundly positive effect on other people – making you realise that you’re never alone in how you feel and / or you can understand and empathise with someone elses pain without the need for words. I'd always thought that it was kind of narcissistic of Kahlo to feature herself so prominently in her paintings, but what I now understand is that in her case she felt that it it was essential in order to create an emotional connection with the theme she was conveying.

Oh – another thing my Dad said to me (with absolute seriousness), "She was very good at drawing fruit and vegetables, wasn't she?"

Saturday night / Sunday morning were spent gaying it with my friends at clubs in Vauxhall. Action, which occurs once every fortnight, was followed by Beyond, a weekly after-hours club night, just around the corner at the Coliseum. As usual I had a great time with my friends. There was not much drinking, a little bit of boy-kissing at Action, a couple of compliments from guys significantly bigger than me on what a good body I have (bring this one on as much as you like) and a tired trudging through my front door at midday on Sunday.

I remembered this morning that my friend Kelly (a girl) demanded that I take her through the sex maze at Action. While I was, at first, hesitant about performing such an action at Action, I eventually relented, on the proviso that the only thing she grabbed was my hand. Later on in the evening she joked that she thought she might be pregnant. I am undecided whether to tell her that it might actually be wise to buy a pregnancy test.

Friday, July 01, 2005

Score!

Last night, while I was working out at the gym, my friend Richard walked up to me. Looking vaguely concerned, he whispered, "Have you been taking steroids?"

While it is true that, of late, I have been attending the gym a lot more and working out harder than I ever have before, it's not true that I have been taking steroids.

It is, however, an appropriate indication of the type of world that I live in that I took Richard's question as the best compliment ever.