My "if money was no object" wardrobe

From the Autumn/Winter 2006/7 menswear collections:

A touch of Dries Van Noten ...

dSquared2 ...

Givenchy ...

Costume National ...

And finally my favourite menswear designer in the world, Alexander McQueen ...

God, that suit is amazing.

Yesterday, Ken Turan wrote in the Los Angeles Times:

"So for people who were discomfited by Brokeback Mountain but wanted to be able to look themselves in the mirror and feel like they were good, productive liberals, Crash provided the perfect safe harbor. They could vote for it in good conscience, vote for it and feel they had made a progressive move, vote for it and not feel that there was any stain on their liberal credentials for shunning what Brokeback had to offer. And that's exactly what they did."

It's cynical, but I can't help but see that there is at least a grain of truth there. It's totally conceivable.

I've never been one to moan about my lot, where being gay is concerned. I love everything about being gay and my first reaction to Brokeback Mountain was to be grateful at how lucky I am to be able to be who I want to be, in this country and to have never, ever felt real fear or oppression.

But then I have only ever been gay in London and New York. That makes it so easy for me.

Manscaping: do's and don'ts

Because I am a responsible gay man I like to keep my nether regions in a good state of repair.

On Saturday evening, in advance of a night out on the tiles (and because I hadn't been laid in exactly three weeks) I decided to do a bit of man-scaping, most particularly around my sack and my crack, but not my back because, well, I don't have any hair on my back.

For the uninitiated amongst you, there are four main reasons for removing excess hair from your or your partner's man-bits:

1) General trimming back to a grade two or three (maximum) will make your equipment look bigger. And it doesn't matter if your equipment is already pretty big. After all, you can never have too much of a good thing.

2) General shaping will help make your lower abdomen appear more defined and means that there is less risk of your sexual partner accidentally flossing while he / she is downstairs.

3) The sensation of having no hair on your balls or around your arse feels very, very wrong ... but oh-so right!

4) Incorporating all of the above into your sexual repertoire can be fun!

There are, however, a few caveats:

Only ever use an electric trimmer and never, ever a pair of scissors.

Only ever use a safety razor and never, ever a cut-throat razor.

If you do use a safety razor make sure you or your partner has a clear field of vision (even using a mirror can be dangerous.) For that reason it is advisable to use a male depilatory cream around the sack and crack areas. This also helps to reduce itchy stubble!

That is unless you have been taking a course of steroids for two weeks, which will have left your skin extremely sensitive to various chemicals, especially to calcium thioglycolate, which is the active ingredient used in most common off-the-shelf depilatory creams.

Doing this can cause burning and blistering.

Which is what I discovered on Saturday night.

Which is why I have not been laid now in three weeks and two days.

My friend (and right now I use that term loosely), Marv, left a comment on my blog, yesterday, referring to some other ugly famous person that she thinks I look like (I amended the comment, so don't bother looking.) I don't actually know which hideously deformed celebrity she has in mind and to be honest I don't really want to know, especially as I am still smarting from previous comparisons to David Cameron ...


... and Christopher Biggins ...


Last night, over dinner with my account team, I bought up the conversation of my doppelgangers, hoping to get a misleading objective point of view from people who don't know me incredibly well yet.

The general consensus of opinion, and this is without prompting (and I always get this from strangers) is that I look like David Arquette.


Spooky!

Ok, this I can live with.

Marv darling: while I might seem to possess the outward constitution of a hardened ox, I am actually quite a sensitive soul, not unaccustomed to going to see Harley Street surgeons about having my cheeks "reduced" (I'm not joking.)

Oooh! I must write about that incident.

Anyway, anymore horrible celeb comparisons and you will be on the receiving end of my almighty wrath. I will also be sending you the substantial bill for my cosmetic surgery, you little minx.

They are, apparently, four Tesco's in Inverness in Scotland, which is surely unnecessary? The independent village grocery store where I used to work when I was at school (before I, er, worked at Tesco. It was either that or Bowyers, the local pork farm, ok?) is now a Tesco Express.

And now Tesco has plans to conquer America.

So this is a boycott I heartily approve of.

My first step on the path to supermarket revolution has been canceling my weekly internet grocery order with Tesco and moving it to Sainsbury. When I called up yesterday to tell Sainsbury why I had done this the lady in the customer services department said that she would send me a free voucher for twenty pounds!

I love being socially disruptive. You get free stuff.

Double-0 Shut Up

Many things have been playing on my mind this week. Most of them I will go into in more detail tomorrow or on Friday.

In the meantime, this is particularly silly.

Now, you are all probably aware of the fact that during the selection period I was firmly on the Clive Owen, um, camp. But for whatever reason, Daniel Craig was perceived by the powers that be to be the cheaper better option. The deed is done. Daniel Craig was offered and accepted the part.

The main problems that the media and the people behind that absurd website seem to have with Daniel Craig is that he is not very Bond-like. One critic in last Saturday's The Sun compared this "disappointing miscasting" to another potential cultural spectacular: losing the Great British Pound to the Euro (which, by the way, I don't particularly care about either. Would the new money have the Queen's head on it? Am I bothered? Can I still spend it? Yes. Ok then. Silence!)

These are, apparently, the main reasons that Craig has been miscast:

1) He got two teeth knocked out by an extra while rehearsing an action scene.

2) He doesn't like guns.

3) He got seasick when delivered to the casting announcement on a furiously quick SAS raft thing.

4) He's blonde.

For crying out loud.

I don't remember anyone complaining when Sigourney Weaver was cast as Ripley in Alien (the fact that I was six at the time is beside the point) because she didn't have any real life experience in kicking xenomorphic butt. I also don't remember anyone complaining about Tom Hanks being cast in Philadelphia because he didn't actually have AIDS in real life. And I don't remember anyone complaining about Heath Ledger and Jake Gyllenhaal being cast in Brokeback Mountain just because they're not gay off screen (and for those of you who might be thinking, but why couldn't they get two gay actors to play those parts? I say to you, would it have been the same if it had been Rupert Everett and Sir Ian McKellan going at it on the range? No. I don't think so.)

Getting back to Daniel Craig. I think people are forgetting some very salient points.

First and foremost Daniel Craig is an actor. He doesn't do the things he does in movies in real life. In real life he's like anyone else.

Well, he's like me, anyway. He's probably not much like you.

Secondly, does anyone seriously think that the makers of Casino Royale will be keeping in the bits where DC hesitantly picks up his Walther PPK between his thumb and his forefinger? Or that they'll keep in the bit where he projectile vomits over the edge of his Sunseeker yacht after a high speed chase down the Nile? And that the bit when the Bond Girl slaps him round the face and leaves a really nasty hand print won't end up on the cutting room floor?

And as for the blonde hair. Well cause, you know, like that's so important. I can just imagine it ... people leaving the movie theatre, muttering things like, Well, I thought the bit where he saved The Houses of Parliament from being destroyed by that nuclear weapon by cutting the wires while riding it and jumping off at the last second before it blew up over a field would have been so much more believable had his hair been slightly more, I don't know, "burnt chestnut"?

Because of the films that I have seen him in, I think that Daniel Craig is a more than proficient actor and will be able to conjure up just the right amount of grit, darkness, brooding, menacing and sex-appeal to play 007 more than adequately. I am sure that he will make me suspend my disbelief long enough for me to enjoy the two or so hours of iconic opening credits, catchy theme tune and mindless, popcorn, formulaic action sequences and wanton destruction.

And lets not forget one other critically important thing about Daniel Craig.

He looks damnfine in a tight pair of beach shorts:

Pablo

I've just realised that I promised you all three boy stories and so far I have only really delivered on one.

Ok, the last is Pablo and is in actual fact, probably the least interesting.

Well, aside from the fact that he looks like Gael Garcia Bernal:


[That is Gael, in case you were wondering, not Pablo.]

So here's the lowdown:

Pablo is a 24 year-old Argentinean, living permanently in London.

We meet at Crash where very minor flirting (but no actual touching) is consistently protracted through the night and then onto Beyond (and beyond .. ha ha!)

As I'm staggering walking through Beyond to the cloakroom to get my things in order to go home Pablo grabs me and quickly persuades me pretend to be his boyfriend so that some guy I know called Allen will stop molesting him. I happily agree. After all, Allen once gave me the cold shoulder and I still harbor some considerable bitterness and resentment towards him for that incident.

As Pablo and I create our own super-hawt gayboy version of ...


... Sharon Stone's "let's really piss off Michael Douglas" lesbian dancefloor get-down in Basic Instinct, I notice with enormous satisfaction that Allen is looking really out of shape these days. Awesome!

Half an hour or so later Pablo and I leave and spend the rest of the day napping, eating, talking and having lots of hot pash. It's very nice because, you know ... he looks a lot like Gael Garcia Bernal.

The next day Pablo emails me to tell me that he would like to see me again, but that I should know that he is currently living with his boyfriend who he doesn't have sex with anymore. They are, by all accords, "splitting up."

I tell Pablo that I don't really want to get involved in that kind of situation but that I wish him all the best anyway.

Naturally we still keep calling each other anyway and texting each other anyway and making plans to see each other anyway, for almost a month.

One Sunday afternoon (um, er, literally five minutes after Andy dumped me) I call Pablo to say "Hi!" By an odd coincidence he was just leaving Later (yet another Vauxhall afterhours club) which is very close to where I live. He agrees to come over to mine for a booty call. I crack open a bottle of wine.

The booty call turns into a well-orchestrated, major bout of rumpy-pumpy, followed by me cooking dinner, the two of us watching half a movie on the sofa (half a movie, because I kept putting my hand down his pants), more le hot sex and eventually a cuddly sleep over.

In the morning, after he had left, he sent me one of the nicest, sweetest, semi-broken English texts EVER in the history of nice, sweet, broken English texts.

Something like, "You nice. I really like. Ass sore. xxx"

Followed by total silence for almost a week.

Followed by calling and texting and making plans and breaking them anyway. But not quite as much as before.

Oh, and he's still living with his boyfriend who he sleeps with, but doesn't have sex with, etc etc.

Why do we do it to ourselves?

Why do I do it to myself?!

Is it just because he looks like Gael Garcia Bernal?

Is attempting to understand the whys and wherefores of men dating men harder than trying to understand and then explain String Theory?

Nah.

It's definitely just the Gael thang.

Fabio

So I just finished writing this really long epitaph in memoriam of my doomed, fledgling relationship with Fabio. I got to the end and started to re-read and it suddenly began to dawn on me that I can't actually write anything about him.

The reason is that he is a fairly well-known name on the UK and European gay club circuit (for various professional reasons) and some of your British readers especially will totally know who I am talking about.

So sorry about that. Sometimes I really regret not having been anonymous on this blog.

But it's all ok really because there are, after all, other things to blog about:

Takeout
last night I ordered twenty pounds worth of Chinese takeout from Deliverance and when it arrived it was cold. I called to complain and they resent the order again, but this time with dessert and totally free of charge.

But when it arrived the order was stone-cold again. So I called again (incandescent with rage) and got the order resent again, with a promise that it would be with me in less than 20 minutes and with a twenty pound voucher for next time.

So, to recap, even though I had to wait almost three hours for my food, I eventually got one hot meal with a free dessert, two free meals (both of which are now in the freezer) and one free voucher for twenty pounds.

Awesome.

Dry cleaning
Spotted on the Fulham Road. Is this perhaps the best dry cleaner in the world?


Tales of the City
I'm sure many of you have read the Armistead Maupin books, but some of you won't have watched the Channel 4-produced TV show. There were actually three series made from the first three books, but the first is by the far the best, not least because Marcus D'Amico and Bill Campbell, who play Michael and Jon, are both smokin' hot.


See?

I watched half the series last night (in between the great, cold takeout debacle.) Best bit: when Jon helps Mouse to rollerskate properly and Michael says, meaningfully, "Let me know if you're going to stop."

Actually, before I get onto Fabio (as so to speak) I read in yesterday's paper that women are more attracted to men with deep voices.

For those of you who don't know, I have an extremely deep voice (moreso at the moment, what with my post surgical traumatic woes.) And the girls ... they love it. On my one day in the office last week, Susan, another of the directors, was flirting outrageously, getting me to say things like "Susan, you've been a very bad girl."

She was probably touching herself under the desk. How revolting.

Last night, during a phone conversation I told my friend Romain about the news story and asked him if he thought that the same was true for gay men as it was for women, that they also prefer men with deep voices.

"I don't know," he said. "Let's find out. Say something from a porn film. Yeah, you like that, dontcha?"

"Yeah, you like that, dontcha?"

"Do it again. Something else."

"Yeah, harder. Bring it home, fucker."

"Yeah, that definitely works."

"Ew! Did we just have phone sex?"

So I now I can provide expert witness that I have a certain Jeff Stryker like quality. Unfortunately it doesn't come with the matching appendage (although, I hasten to add, to date no one has ever complained!)

Andy - part two

So two months goes by.

While on holiday in Thailand Zach talks about his new boyfriend, Ricky, quite a lot. I'm sure he won't mind me saying this, but Zach doesn't really do relationships. He moves around quite a lot and I think his priorities are sometimes skewed or set too high (no different to most of the rest of us, then.) That said, despite the fact that Ricky was being quite keen (to my chagrin he bought Zach a PSP for Christmas) Zach was, for the most part, enjoying being with him and was putting aside more time and making more of an effort than was normal for him.

So this got me to thinking: if Zach could overlook the little things wrong in his relationship with Ricky, then perhaps I could have overlooked the little things that weren't quite perfect in my (week-long) relationship with Andy.

When I got back to the UK I texted Andy (the fact that I hadn't deleted his number from my phone when I dumped him should be telling), "Hey! How are you? x"

The response I received was, "Who is this?"

Yes. He had deleted my number from his phone.

To cut a long story short we spent the next few weeks busily texting and reacquainting ourselves. We spoke on the phone a few times too. Not quite so often as the texting, but when we did we would talk for a good hour at a time.

And something strange began to happen. This vacuous, superficial 21 year old model was becoming a much more attractive proposition. For example, I began to see that the designer clothes provided him with a sense of security. I realised that he actually had a really brilliant sense of fashion (this is a guy who wears Plein Sud winklepickers and Mulberry cloaks to Beyond) and an even more brilliant sense of humour. In between me dumping him and getting back in touch he had scored himself an internship at my old PR agency. He seemed to be doing well and from the way that he spoke about the job I could tell that he was being very dilligent in his duties.

Following on from what I said, we actually texted each other and spoke on the phone for about three weeks before we actually saw each other again. Perhaps therein lies the secret - instead of having le hot sex we were actually getting to know each other. Wow! Who'da thunk?

When we did meet up again it was at Beyond and again we were both trashed. He did come back with me to Wayne's hotel room for a chill out, but there was to be no rumpy pumpy because there were four non-sexual friends there. He left early because he had to go to a friend's birthday party.

The second time we saw each other was at Family the weekend before last. He wasn't supposed to come along, but I called him at the last minute and he dropped his plans. A sure sign, I thought at the time, of his deep and abiding love for me.

Now by this point we had been back in contact for almost a month and a half, but had actually only seen each other twice. I leave you to imagine just how horny I was by this point. No, actually I'll tell you. I was SOOOOOO fucking horny I could have almost exploded in a mass of pink, sweet-flavoured, sexy Creme Egg-style fondant.

But it wasn't to be. Although he came back to our friend's house for an hour, after Family had ended, he made his excuses (something about another friend's birthday the next day) and left. But not before he promised me that we would go to see Munich at the movies the following afternoon. Because I was so very, very horny I texted him several times on the way home, telling him that if he wanted to he could stay the night at mine after we had seen the movie.

In retrospect, probably not my smoothest seduction move.

The next day I checked the movie times (6.30pm) and left him a message on his voicemail. He didn't actually call me back until about 4.30pm, informing me that he had only just woken up (which, by the way, was one of the other reasons I had dumped him in the first place ... because 21 year olds sleep ... a lot!)

To cut a long story short-er he didn't waste anytime telling me that he was still in love with his ex-boyfriend (transparently a lie, as any of us over thirty and have used this line, like a gazillion times, can tell you) and that he didn't think he could really date me anymore. He also told me that he was still smarting a little from me dumping him the first time around (transparently the truth.) I had to say that I understood, but I didn't admit to him that I was completely gutted. Because now I really, really liked him.

[Aside - this all happened two days before Valentine's Day. A small irony is that I had been gloating to Drew that I would have a date on Valentine's Day. Drew met someone that Saturday night at Family and ended up having the best Valentine's date while I sat at home and cried.]

Anyway - here's the moral to this story.

The first time around Andy really liked me. The second time around I really liked Andy. Which just goes to show that the most important factor is usually timing. It's not the fact that he is 21, or sometimes vacuous, or that he mumbles from time to time. It's the fact that we weren't in the same place at the same time.

So that's Andy. One down, two more to go.

Next - Fabio.

Andy

My friend Bill emailed me a while ago to complain about the lack of boy talk on my blog. Usually I don't have an awful lot to say, boywise. But upon reflection, the last few months appear to have bucked a trend.

I met Andy at Beyond (a massive Sunday morning after-hours nightclub in London's Vauxhall) at the tail end of last October. The first thing I noticed about him was that he had very pouty lips, unusual messy hair and a slightly pointy nose - but all in an attractive way. It wasn't long before I'd got around to alerting him that I was kinda interested (by snogging him) and after that it wasn't long before I had alerted him to the fact that I wanted to take him home (by putting him in a taxi with me.)

Once the effects of Beyond had worn off and we were finally able to speak in something resembling English, I learned that Andy (for that was his name) was an out of work model, for the most part living off of his parents and spending most of his daytimes at the gym.

I also learned that he was 21.

Now I have nothing against fucking 21 year-olds. After all, there's twenty of them. [Ok, sorry, that was a BAD joke.] I have nothing against 21 year-olds, but this particular one reminded me ENORMOUSLY of myself when I was in my early 20s. Scarily so. I could see that there was a mind there, somewhere, lurking at the back ... but at the forefront was an unhealthy obsession with designer clothes, intense vacuousness, a propensity for fast mumbling about utter rubbish, no respect for his parents, no respect for himself, etc, etc.

Nothing like the Christopher you know today. Nothing! *shakes fist*

HOWEVER, the sex was frikkin' awesome! He was totally up for anything and I really mean anything. Well, apart from that. Well, he might have been up for it, but I wasn't. That's never gonna happen anywhere near me, thankyouverymuch.

And naturally, because the sex was so awesome, I decided that it might not be out of the question or too ridiculous for me to pursue a relationship with him. Because after all was said and done, despite the vacuous, mumbling, lack of respect-edness, Andy was a hot 21 year old model who was really into me (he said so after the second date) and with whom I could have regular, mind-blowing sex.

On Wednesday (day three and a half) I received a text from him which read, "Are we ok?" Neediness alarm bells sounded. But I quickly silenced them because, hey! Hot sex with a 21 year-old model!

Saturday (day six and half) came around and we agreed that he would come over after work (he got a job at a designer clothes store during the week) and I would cook him dinner. He was supposed to be at mine by 7.30pm.

By 10pm I had called him several times and left several messages consisting of various tones ranging from amusement, to concerned, to pissed, to an anger burning with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. By the time that he arrived at 10.30pm, exactly three hours late, I was practically incandescent with rage and anyone who has seen me that pissed off will tell you that it is a very, very amusing spectacle.

And, for some reason, didn't think it was funny and couldn't have been more apologetic. He even bought Krispy Kreme donuts as an olive branch. Think about this for a second. A model. Buying Krispy Kreme donuts. That's pretty fucking intense.

And for a few hours it worked. I calmed down, salvaged something from the chicken parmesan I had so lovingly prepared and settled down with him to watch a movie (which didn't get watched, really, because we kept getting distracted by putting our hands down each others pants.)

For some reason, the next morning, I woke up feeling very different and very grown-up. Andy slept softly and soundly next to me. He looked so sweet. And then I knew then that I could no longer date him. I pretty much know what I need from someone in a relationship and a 21 year-old, despite how genuinely good-natured he might be, was never going to be able to offer me any of the things that matter so much to me (besides a great horizontal repertoire.) So when he woke up I made him breakfast and then gently told him that it was over.

I looked out of the front window and watched him walk down the drive and around the corner and finally out of sight and for some reason I felt a pang of sadness, which was unusual because usually when I dump someone I feel intense relief.

At the time I didn't pay it too much attention ...

My funny Valentine

Even though the thought of you no longer makes my heart do somersaults,

Even though I can finally smell cK Be without feeling like you're in the room with me,

Even though at last I can listen to "Milkshake" without getting a lump in my throat,

Even though I no longer feel guilt when I hook up with someone else,

Even though the idea of you with your new boyfriend doesn't make me feel sick,

Even though I have stopped waking up in the middle of the night feeling crippled with guilt over what I did to you,

Even though we're separated by over 3,000 miles of land and sea,

Even though we broke up almost two years ago,

I still love you.

And I would be with you,

If you asked me to be,

In a heartbeat.

Tom Ford has been annoying me a bit.

For example, there was no real reason for him to appear on the cover of Vanity Fair with Keira Knightley and Scarlett Johansen (although it's claimed that Annie Leibowitz told him to jump in because Rachel McAdams wouldn't get her kit off).


He really didn't need to pose with identical male triplets for W magazine.


It was also really unnecessary for him to tell everyone that the cheese fondue I made the other night was, like, totally bland.

This evening, over dinner, I told my friend my theory, which is that Tom, for all his genius, seems to be displaying all the signs of possessing an over-sexualised God complex. She nodded in agreement and said, "Also I hear that he has his anus bleached."

Once I had pondered upon this new news for a second or two I decided that I didn't actually think that such an action was necessarily a bad thing. I explained to my friend, "Look, put delicately, a gay boy's anus is likely to receive more visitors than your average heterosexual man or woman. So I think that it's kinda nice that someone would want to make sure that their own looks nice and pretty."

My friend took a moment to consider what I had said. "Yes," she nodded, contemplatively. "I suppose you have a point."

And then we continued eating our shared spicy duck with Chinese broccoli.

Anyone who keeps a blog will know that to do so requires a certain amount of good housekeeping. By that I mean that you need to post about four or five times a week to keep it relevant and to keep your readers coming back to read more.

Last week I read an article in the Evening Standard which talked about how blogging was a useful tool in treating anxiety and depression: it provides a conduit through which to "unload" or "rant" and encourages the owner, or author, to be organised.

I had never really considered this before and my immediate reaction was to dismiss it as another piece of make-believe about the miracles of the blogisphere. But the more I thought about it the more I began to see that it was actually probably true, or at least it is for me.

When I started my blog, back at the tail end of 2003 I wasn't in a very good place emotionally and you can probably tell that from my writing: not just in the style, but in the content. I was in a really great city, but the wiring was all wrong.

Although I stopped for a few months it wasn't until I returned to England that my blogging really came into it's own. I hope this doesn't sound immodest, but I can see for myself that my writing got better, I learned which parts of my life would be the most interesting to write about, I discovered my humour. And I discovered that when I feel passionately about something I can be very committed.

I think it would be a misnomer to imply that it was entirely my blog which encouraged me to use a formula which enabled me to turn my life around. But there is definitely something in the fact that the two most important years of my life so far ran parallel to my writing a daily journal. I think there is something there that shouldn't be ignored.

Christopher in 2006: I have a really, really great job, albeit ones with challenges, I have a wide circle of friends whom I love very, very much, I have created a routine which I follow almost to the minute. I feel like I have come into my own and I quite like saying it.

Of course I am still rubbish with money, but getting better. I still tend to cane it for a few more hours than I should do on a Saturday night, but I'm not a drug addict or an alcoholic. Hey! I even gave up smoking! I don't have a boyfriend, although for the first time ever, the acquisition of one is not the most important thing (and I don't think will be, ever again. Or at least not until I have one.)

I think you'll agree that this is all good stuff. Things are pretty good.

The problem is: it doesn't make for a very interesting blog.

This week I wrote and presented two new business pitches. I lost one and won the other. I had to make a difficult decision relating to the career of someone I work with. I didn't go out once during the week preferring, instead, to work late. I had my hair cut (just a trim). I drove a nice car on a dirt track. I helped my housemate with her college project. I went to the gym five times (today for an hour!) I drank a lot of protein shakes. I knocked back a lot of creatine. I quite like the way my shoulders and arms are shaping up. I had some holes put in a belt.

I actually considered stopping this thing. But to do so seems akin to having something put to sleep.

If I'm honest (and I think most regular bloggers will agree with me) one of the reasons that I have tried to post so frequently is because I don't want people to forget about me. I don't want my site traffic to decrease. It's totally ego, so there you go.

But then I realised that actually site traffic is so unimportant. This is going to sound like the biggest load of mush / cliche / whatever ... but in many ways my blog has been something of a friend. A blank tablet on which I could write whatever. If I didn't have a stat counter and a comments function I wouldn't even know that anyone visited anyway.

I have had a point all through this post, which was to let you know that I might not post quite as frequently as five or more times a week from now on. But I will post. And sometimes it might be five times a week. But probably not. And that's not sad really. It just means that this thing helped me realise what a great life I have and that perhaps I should devote some more time to it (and that for some peculiar reason, you all seem to think that it's one worth reading about!)

There has always been something about The Blue Man Group that I haven't liked but I've never actually been able to put my finger on exactly what it is.

Then last night, when I saw a poster for the current show on the tube, I realised ...

I don't like their shade of blue.

Day Five - Reasons to like Tom Cruise

Ok, perhaps I have been a little bit mean towards Tom Cruise this week.

As Anna Wintour once said, "There is always something to like. Even if the entire collection is horrendously dull, try to find a shoe or even a button and write about that. Quite literally it means that next season you won't be relegated to the third row."

Here are some reasons to like Tom Cruise:















Well, what a rollercoaster week it has been. I do feel like I have purged his insignificance from my system. From this moment on I will never blight this blog with his name again.

Unless I ever let him fuck me, in which case I will divulge all the juicy details, natch.

Day Four - Yet another reason to hate Tom Cruise

Imagine if you will:

Tom Cruise, while Googling the words "Tom Cruise", discovers my blog (because surely I have written the words "Tom Cruise" enough now to ensure that this blog is among the first to appear on Google), sees that I am inciting hatred towards him and immediately picks up his phone, calls his lawyers and instructs them to slap a Cease and Desist order on me.

Now normally the victim of such heavy-handed legal tactics would be scared to death and would immediately throw in the towel. But not me. When his lawyers call me I will absolutely tell them "No! I won't be gagged!" I'll also categorically, eloquently and in no uncertain terms tell them exactly what I think of their client ("And anyway, Tom Cruise is just a big stupid-head!")

Naturally the whole incident will become a MAJOR freedom of speech / human rights debacle and will be covered heavily by the international media with my blog's URL appearing in leading publications and on broadcast outlets the world over, dramatically increasing my traffic.

I will eventually have to go to court and while wearing a Hedi Slimane for Christian Dior suit I will be overcome by the magnitude of the situation and weep openly.

Despite the fact that the public will have rallied behind me, I still end up going to prison for six to eight years for being so unrelenting and fierce in my campaigning against Mr. Cruise. His lawyers are that good!

And when I'm in prison, deprived of the normal day to day things that we all take for granted, like the sound of a bird in a tree or the sensation of sunlight falling on my face, when all I ever smell is disinfectant and the rancid stench of old cabbages, when I am the bitch to some 47 year-old, massive, hairy, convicted drug-dealer called Viking, I will curse Tom Cruise and really, really hate him.

And as they sit there in their billions, diligently writing their letters to Amnesty International, demanding my release, so will the world!

Day Three - One reason to hate Tom Cruise

If I were ever presented with the opportunity I would let him fuck me. And for that (making me drop my pants and my integrity) I hate him.

And so must you.

Day Two - Three reasons to hate Tom Cruise

1. The Last Samurai
2. Vanilla Sky
3. The Firm

There may be others but these three, in particular, are patently not up for discussion.

Day One - 10 reasons to hate Tom Cruise

1. Modest
2. Self-effacing
3. Altruistic
4. Humble
5. Self-aware
6. Witty
7. Conscientious
8. Open-minded
9. Tolerant
10. Tall*

Tom Cruise is none of these things.

* Shortness is only unattractive if you are a mega-star with an "alleged" 50ft personality

Two things made me cry today.

The first was this, which is not entirely surprising.

The second was this.

This bit especially:

"In the last day or so lovers will have been taken, jobs will have been won and lost, novels begun, tears shed at funerals, new life conceived and, when asked can you remember when that happened, we can answer: I remember it well, because it was that day. The day a whale sailed through the middle of London; and the people of the city, rather than trying to hack it to death, came in their thousands and lifted it and tried their hardest to sail it back."

Clearly I still have a lot of latent anger towards Tom Cruise. I think that I need some sort of conduit through which to vent. Therefore I declare that next week will be "Anti-Tom Cruise Week."

At least it will be here at Everything is Not Real.

Have a great weekend people. Unless you're Tom Cruise, in which case, you and I, outside, right now!

Tom Cruise is once again flexing his considerably sizeable litigious muscles.

I have an idea! How about, from this point on, we boycott his movies?

In a clear indication that my current employer won't be sacking me on January 31st, which is when I complete my three-month probationary period, I received a brand spanking new Apple Power Book G4. It's silver and when I look at it's surface, if I squint hard enough, I can kinda make myself out (and no, I do not see David Cameron staring back at me - see footnote.)

My new PowerBook is Bluetooth enabled. And so is my mobile phone. So for the first time ever I was properly able to view and disseminate the pictures I had taken ever since I bought the phone back in July last year. Cue an afternoon of much techno-fun and no work. Whoo!

I found an old picture of Drew which I took on the escalators of Tottenham Court Road tube station, en route to Fiction for his birthday. I decided to email it to him.

"I just learned how to get pictures off my phone! You're so 'moody'! And Katy [our friend] doesn't even look like Katy!"

He responded:

"Um, I think that's because that's Amy [Drew's flatmate]..."

Oh. So that would, er, be why then.

Footnote: I have reached a ceasefire with Lizzie. From now on I will be known as "The Man Who Looks Like David Cameron's More Attractive Younger Brother, TM"

A couple of weeks ago I was rudely interrupted from watching culturally important television by a picture message from my friend Lizzie. She was at a party where David Cameron was in attendance. The text which accompanied the visual read:

"I'm sorry, but you do."

Can I put this to bed (to coin a phrase) once and for all?

David Cameron (courtesy of Lizzie):



Me:



Now trust me when I say that Lizzie will be dealt with appropriately but in the meantime, before she has that little accident is given a thorough ticking-off, would anyone else like to agree with her?

Last night, while aboard a commuter-packed Northern Line train travelling slowly and tediously toward Clapham South, I felt something brush up against my crotch. I ignored it to start with, assuming that it was someone's bag or something. Besides, who am I to pass up the opportunity of receiving an accidental crotch rubbing?

But then it happened again. I looked down the pole that some large breasted woman in a really horrible green Principles (probably) suit was pressing me up against. First I saw my hand holding onto the pole and then, underneath, another hand also gripping the pole, but with the index finger outstretched and gently, yet purposefully, brushing ... erm ... little Christopher, through my jeans. I looked up to discover that my assailant was a ratty-looking, late thirty-something male with an unattractive nose piercing, purposely and intently staring in the opposite direction.

I was literally shocked into silence. There was absolutely no-way that he didn't know what he was doing, so I moved my mid-section away as far as I could until we reached the next station at which point I used the opportunity to move away from the perv and stand at the other end of the carriage.

When I surfaced from the Underground at Clapham South I immediately texted my nearest and dearest to tell them that I had just been sexually abused.

Helen was the first to text back. "Violated or aroused? I take it he wasn't cute."

And therein lies the sad truth. I don't know if this is a gay "thing", a human "thing" or a Christopher "thing", but the fact remains that had he looked like this then it is not out of the question that I may have encouraged the behaviour and even, perhaps, returned the favour. But the fact that he didn't means that I felt shocked, appalled and violated.

But then I thought, am I allowed to have it both ways?

I am still suffering from The Worst Jet-lag Ever Ever Ever (TM). Or, at least, I think I am. I conferenced the proven medical journal, Wikipedia, and it would seem that I am, indeed, suffering from the following symptoms:

Fatigue
Disorientation and / or grogginess
Nausea and / or upset stomach
Insomnia and / or highly irregular sleep patterns
Dehydration and loss of appetite
Irritability
Irrationality

Apparently I have to allow one day to recover for every time-zone I flew through, which is eight. Therefore I should be normal Christopher by Thursday.

Until then ...

Even though the occasion (that being Helen's imminent departure) was serious ...



... there was, yet, laughter ...



... tears ...



... drunkenness ...



... dancing ...



... amusing chalkboard alterations ...



(well, it seemed it amusing at the time, anyway)

... and, of course, the lady herself ...



(Doesn't she look ever-so-slightly like Sigourney Weaver, circa 1978?)

So, until she leaves these shores on Saturday next, here's to the lovely Hels and all those who sail in her. Bon voyage, etc.

(I don't even want to think about the grammatical correctness of this post and neither should you)

I could say, fairly, that (thus far) today has been the worst day of the year for me. But instead I choose to learn a lesson from it and see the whole debacle, in retrospect, as a huge fucking learning curve.

Having had no sleep whatsoever I went to work where I spent almost an hour-and-a-half doing things like looking for carrier bags and getting salary advances and then forgetting what I was doing mid-task. For obvious reasons it is never good to forget to arrange a salary advance. Or not find a carrier bag.

When I (and my team) realised that I was as much use at work as a one-legged dog trying to bury a poo on a frozen pond the decision was made that it was for the best that I go home sooner-than-immediately as I was clearly suffering from the worst jet-lag EVER EVER EVER.

But, on the way home, because next weekend Helen, my best friend (the same one who hates the Eiffel Tower), is leaving the country to live in South Africa, where she will help people not to get HIV and AIDS, is having a party this weekend in Birmingham to celebrate (kind of) her departure, on the way home I picked up the VERY expensive car (which I do the PR for) from the garage, so that I could drive it up to said city, tomorrow morning.

[sharp intake of breath]

My housemate was in when I got home. This was fortuitous, as my arrival was supervened by an emotional breakdown of monolithic proportions. Over a cup of tea I managed to pour my heart and my tear ducts out big time. Oh, yeah! Apparently the "insignificant minutiae of the only slightly less-than-great things about my life" did not, collectively, feel quite so insignificant after all.

Much later on in the day (by which point I was feeling only slightly better) Vix asked me if I could help her take her bags out to her car as she was leaving to spend the weekend with her boyfriend, Ben, in Tunbridge Wells.

As I walked across the road towards her car I called out to her, "Let me just check that the [insert name of $100,000 car here] is ok," before looking around the corner to discover an empty car space.

Cut to right now with lots of swearing, panicked running, much relief that the $100,000 car had simply been impounded for being parked in the wrong zone (whole other contentious subject, at least from my point of view) coupled with the payment of a two hundred pound release fee and a housemate with a lonely boyfriend in a Streatham bowling alley ... [another sharp intake of breath] ... in-between.

In summation, today I was reminded of a very simple principle, which is that life is all about perspective.

This morning I had none.

This evening I have much.

Because when all is said and done jet-lag and an impounded car which technically doesn't belong to you is far better than a pointless, worthless life and a stolen car which technically doesn't belong to you.

I clearly have much to update you on, post my recent jaunt to Thailand, but I have been slightly run off my feet since I returned the day before yesterday and have not had time to even call my parents to wish them a Happy New Year.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I prioritised other things higher than calling my parents to wish them a Happy New Year. Other things, like going out with the sole purpose of buying a birthday card for an ex-work colleague whose birthday isn't for another two weeks.

Anyway. There was a point to this specific post, which is that is (as I type) 4.57am and I have not slept a wink. I have insomnia. Although I fear it might just be that my body clock is in another time-zone.

Either way, I had forgotten how wretchedly awful it is to be lying awake, staring at a darkened ceiling, hearing the wind whistling outside my window, catastrophising endlessly about the smallest, most insignificant minutiae of the only slightly less-than-great things about my life.

Not being able to sleep SUCKS!

(Note to you boys: I did try "that", just in case you were wondering. About an hour ago, actually. It didn't work.)

First thing first - HAPPY NEW YEAR! Sore head?

Now, moving on let me warn you that this might all seem a bit boring to begin with but please bear with me.

I understand statistics. For example, the statistic "90% of women have faked an orgasm" would have been gleaned from a survey, but all surveys are caveated by the admission that there is a margin of error. I'll admit to actually quite liking statistical factoids. They allow me to think of things in numbers. This is also fortunate considering my career. Although I don't really want to think too long about the amount of throwaway coverage I have gained for clients on the back of some stupid survey.

That said, I hate probability. Whereas statistics are gathered from actual polling or research evidence, probability is always just a hunch. And probability is often used as a smoke and mirror device for arguments that need slightly more substance in order to make them slightly more credible. It seems to me that politicians use statistical evidence far less than they should do.

Because here's the thing: when you get down to business there is only one mathematical probability and that's 50/50. Either something will happen or it won't. When you flip a coin the odds of it coming down heads or tails are 50/50. It will either be heads or it won't. When you roll a six sided dice the chances that you will get a three are 50/50. You either will get a three or you won't.

What got me thinking about this was my lottery numbers. I use the same numbers every time I enter the lottery, which until a month ago, when I subscribed online, was not all that frequent. Prior to subscribing my dilemma had been what if I don't participate one week and my numbers come up?

But then I started to think back to ten years ago or whenever it was that the UK lottery was first commissioned. Prior to that there was no lottery, so no probability. After all - the future has no memory of the past and every second is a new opportunity. At the first lottery draw, back in 1994, every possible number equation had an equal chance of being the right combination of numbers to be the jackpot.

Now, I feel almost embarrassed to admit this, because it is so improbable, but because I've just spouted on about how I don't believe in probability I'll just come out with it ...

I have won the lottery every Saturday for the last three Saturdays. Granted, I only won ten pounds each time, but still. I'm a bit freaked out and it leads me to believe only one thing.

There is a glitch in the Matrix.

There is one day between my return to the UK on January 4 and when I return to work and I was thinking that I was going to be spending the whole of that day in a tanning salon. So it is with some relief that I can inform you that that particular occurence will not be happening. The sun came out. Lots. And I am now tanned. I know how concerned you will all have been so you breath a collective sigh of relief.

In other news I learned to scuba dive and yesterday I got my PADI certification. Without explaining why, in any great detail, if you ever get the chance to learn to scuba dive, then do it. It is one of the most awesome things that I have ever experienced.

If I don't post again this year, have a great celebration evening and don't do anything that I wouldn't (naturally that gives you license to do pretty much whatever.)

I've actually been able to blog for almost five days now, but I've felt that to do so would make me feel like I was working on holiday. Yet here I am. I have yet to decide if I'm a geeky loser.

So I'm staying with my friend, Zach, at a resort on Ko Phangan, which is a small island in the Gulf of Thailand. The resort is called The Sanctuary and is seemingly populated entirely by 40-something British hippies. I can't help but feel supremely more culturally relevant when I see them attempting to dance (swaying is a better descriptor) to Slave to the rhythm on the beachfront veranda. However, I do feel slightly uneasy with the fact that I am reading The Insider by Piers Morgan while all around are reading The Road Less Traveled. I'm wondering if I would have been better off holidaying in Magaluf.

I am getting on very well with Zach, which is a relief. Not that I thought I wouldn't, but Zach is one of my best friends and two weeks in the company of a close friend can be testing at the best of times. We are actually having lots of interesting and sparky discussions about celebrity, the human soul, American politics and the fact that Dawn French is NOT a lesbian (like, DUH!?) Thankfully our (my?) more knowledgeable friends are not here to challenge some of our (my?) more outrageous statements.

There is one small problem and that is that the weather has been pretty mixed. While there have been pockets of sunshine and I have managed to begin to obtain the beginnings of a tan, most of the time the sky is completely overcast and I am often finding myself wearing a sweatshirt. When deciding upon Thailand as the destination of my winter vacation back in the summer I had been unaware that December can be severely unpredictable, weatherwise.

Because there is absolutely no-way, no-how that I am returning to the UK in just over a week and a half only slightly paler than I was before my departure, tomorrow Zach and I are going to scour the internet for a "Plan B". Fortunately flights to other Far Eastern destinations from close-by are incredibly cheap, so we have already discussed relocating to Singapore, Malaysia, Cambodia or Vietnam. Or just simply returning to Bangkok and spending the days by a hotel pool and the nights in the gay bars in Pat Pong.

Oh yes. I chickened out on doing the fast (which, incidentally, involved the colonic irrigation). I hadn't realised that not all of the occupants of the resort would be fasting and that some would be being normal (i.e. drinking alcohol and eating). So while Zach sits with in a tent, drinking herbal broth with hard-core hippies with names like Moon, Sunbeam and Whale Breath, I can been found eating (organic) cheeseburgers and sipping Pina Colada's in the restaurant.

The other night, while we were both half-asleep, Zach knocked something into my hair which I then collected in my hand and threw across the room. It wasn't until the next morning that we established that the "something" had been a small gecko.

This would not have happened had I had hired a cottage in the Cotswolds.

Au revoir!

Well mon petit blogeurs ... it's now time for me to say bonsoir. It's doubtful that I will have access to sophisticated technology over the next two and a half weeks so I'll wish you all a very merry Christmas and an extremely happy and prosperous New Year right now.

In the meantime, a little gift from me to you: a beautiful, blonde pole dancer!

Ok, quieten down already. I have important beachwear purchasing decisions to make:



... or ...



Discuss.

In little over three days I will be jetting off for a tropical island in the middle of the Gulf of Thailand where I will spend two and a half weeks sunbathing, reading, getting drunk, playing volleyball with hot straight men, listening to my iPod and having hosepipes stuck up my ass.

Thank you. As you were.

First things first:

Marv: you look like Ann Widdecombe

Lizzie: you look like Christine Hamilton

*wipes hands*

I was so upset by the David Cameron comparison made by those two afore mentioned "friends" that I almost posted pics of myself not wearing very much, lying on a bed, with a come-hither expression on my face, juxtaposed above a picture of David Cameron: just to show that I DO NOT LOOK LIKE DAVID CAMERON!!! However much I fancy him.

But I decided that it was unfair to showcase such a scintillating picture of moi next to a clothed pic of Davey. And his office won't respond to my request for naked pics, so basically that whole idea went out of the window.

I did, however, still need to reassure myself that I don't look like David Cameron so I decided to pose the question to a bitchy queen who would never intentionally pass up the opportunity to make me feel like crap.

This morning, at the gym, I asked my bitchy queen friend, "Do you think I look like David Cameron?"

"No!" he replied, rolling his eyes. "You look as much like David Cameron as I look like Robert Mugabe." [before you ask, my friend does not look like Robert Mugabe.]

I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Besides," he continued. "David Cameron is sexy."

So now I have affirmation that I don't look like David Cameron. But this knowledge is coupled with the possibility that gayers think that he is more attractive than me.

I hate everyone.

I have a horrible, horrible confession to make.

I find David Cameron strangely attractive. For the Americans among you, this is kinda like fancying Ari Fleishman (I would provide reference points for all other nations too, but I can't be bothered. Canada: Celine Dion?)

Someone please shoot me.

As of today all gay men and women who permanently reside in the UK are legally entitled to marry their partners in civil ceremonies. These partnerships will afford them all of the same legal privileges and rights as their heterosexual counterparts.

I am now surely doomed to a lifetime of jokey (but actually very serious) "Why aren't you married yet?" style questioning from friends, relatives and acquaintances.

This is a disaster.

I have lottery fantasies.

I dream about being able to buy fast cars and designer clothes until they come out of my ears. I want houses in London, New York, East Hampton and Rio. I want to be able to travel first class and work out at The Third Space and get reservations at Annabel's just because of who I am. I want to be able to take hot guys on tours of the National Gallery. When it's closed. Because I'm one of it's biggest benefactors.

Needless to say, twice a week, I am disappointed.

This morning, on the way to work on the tube, I was reading a Times article, written by Annie Lennox, about the millions and millions of people in Africa who are suffering with HIV and AIDS, and dying, and how the governments of the richer nations, such as the one I live in, have pledged support over an eight year period. And how they absolutely must stay comitted to this goal.

One of the kids she spoke to on a recent trip to Africa was dying of AIDS. But before he got sick he lost his mother, father, brothers, sisters and pretty much everyone else he cared about to the same disease. He was totally alone in the world. With no hope. And certainly no dreams of fast cars or a nice comfortable house, anywhere. And that shit isn't even near the important stuff.

There are approximately 6,450,000,000 humans on Earth.

Most of them are not 33 year olds who have careers which afford them access to guest lists to the best clubs and bars the city has to offer. They don't have friends who will stick with them no matter what (and slip them Jil Sander dress shirts every now and then.) They don't have housemates who have Thai cuisine prepared and ready to eat when they arrive home.

They don't have comfortable beds to sleep in at night.

6,450,000,000.

When I think about it I kinda did win the lottery.

About 33 years ago.

Jesus wept.

(In a good way.)

The other day I admitted to a gay friend and his boyfriend that I have, of late, been downloading and watching lesbian porn. I also admitted to quite enjoying it. While they thought that the idea of watching pneumatic, blonde pornstars go at each others lady bits was kind of a kinky thing for a gay man to do, they didn't seem to be that bothered by the overall concept.

However, the straw that really broke the camels back was when I admitted that I have also been thinking that I would like to try having sex with a woman, just to see what it was like. I made it very clear that if this was to happen I would want it to be pretty dirty and certainly not lurve making. Regardless, this was apparently too much for them to handle. My friend told me that he didn't know if he could accept me as a straight man or even a gay man who had sex with women from time to time. Or even once.

Gayers: am I alone in the lesbian porn thing? Do none of you find a woman's body even slightly arousing? And do any of you ever consider having sex with a woman, just for hell of it?

Discuss.

My housemate, Vix, after having had the bathroom refitted is on something of a house restoration spree. The current project is having the windows and doors sanded down and repainted.

Paul, the guy who is undertaking the job is a friend of Dave, the guy who did the bathroom. Today was his first day.

I've just got home to find the entire house, literally every single surface, COVERED in paint dust. It is EVERYWHERE. The air is actually hazy with the stuff. It turns out that Paul, the complete moron that he is, used a power sander to sand the doors and windows down but didn't cover a single surface with a dust sheet or even open a window.

The long and short of it is that we are going to have to get a professional cleaner in for at least a day to clean the whole place up, which will cost at least one hundred pounds. However, because my housemate is so nice I can't trust her to deal with Paul effectively: i.e. basically tell him that the cost of the cleaner is going to be offset against his fee, which was only three hundred pounds. So I'm having to stay back at the flat with her in the morning so that we can deal with him together.

My personal opinion is that we should just sack him, as my question is if he made this much of a bodge with the sanding, what's he going to be like with painting. And dried paint on floorboards is a whole different matter than dust on surfaces. But Vix is uncomfortable with the idea of sacking him. She thinks it is mean.

I am bristling with anger.

And I'm asthmatic.

So If I don't ever post again, you'll know the reason why.

The other day, on a train journey back to London from a meeting in the Midlands, I got bored and decided to go through my Palm address book and do some tallying up:

I have 38 close friends *

I have 109 good friends **

I have 472 amiable acquaintances ***

I have 7 enemies ****

* These are the people who I would phone immediately if I were to find out that I had a brain tumour.

** These are the people whose death from a brain tumour would make me ineffably sad.

*** These are the people I would hope could recover from a brain tumour.

**** These are the people I would generally hope could recover from a brain tumour, but if they didn't then I wouldn't lose any sleep over it.

So this email goes around today introducing us all to some recent new recruits. I reached the end of the email and was struck by the last joiner - not only was he awesomely hot, but he also had oodles of professional experience and was clearly really, really clever and very, very funny. Where does this guy sit? I thought to myself. I must date him.

And then I realised I was reading about myself:



Name: Christopher

Current Job Title and Team: Account Director, XXX

Sits: Opposite J, between A and S, on the third floor

Background:
After studying Fashion in Southampton I began my career in PR as an intern at XXX in 1996 (H was my first boss!) I stayed with the company through its merger with XXX in 1998 and at the end of 2002 I transferred with the company to New York, where I spent the best part of two years. I returned to the UK towards the end of 2004 and since then I have freelanced for a number of small and large London-based consumer PR agencies. I have a broad communications experience from having represented a diverse range of brands - including XXX, XXX, XXX, XXX, XXX, XXX, the XXX and XXX.

Likes:

1. Notes and lists
2. Logic
3. Kindness
4. Brushing his teeth
5. The European Union
6. The O.C.
7. Right-angles
8. Walks along the beach
9. Vintage T-shirts
10. Men who aren't afraid to cry
11. Hilary Clinton
12. Winning the Lottery

Dislikes:

1. Ignorance
2. Meanness
3. Tardiness
4. Scientology
5. Losing stuff
6. Fatalists
7. Bad personal hygiene
8. Junkie-rockers
9. Crap show tunes
10. Tom Cruise
11. Littlejohn (columnist in The Sun)
    
12. Not winning the Lottery

Yeah. You wanna make out with me right now, dontcha?

This morning I was thinking, God! This work thing is taking up all my creative focus! I can't blog! And then this evening I thought, God! I should blog about how work is taking up all my creative focus!

I am coming to the end of my fourth week at work and things are going swimmingly. For a long, long time I have been forced to work with crack-whores and utter nincompoops, most of them neurotic women as well as the odd (being the operative word) gay man. In all cases they have sapped all my confidence and stunted my creativity.

But no more. All of my board directors, bar one, are straight men (believe me when I say that in PR this makes all the difference) and my immediate boss is just the most coolest, chilled-outest gurl ever, ever. And everyone is absolutely cool with me taking the lead and no one second guesses any of my decisions.

*knocks on wood*

Something else. A couple of weeks ago my line board director told me that there is no point in attempting to pursue a work / life balance, because in our line of work it's just not possible. That might seem absurd / obvious depending on your own line of work or point of view, but this has been a revelation to me. I know it's still early days but I'm just not getting in a state about doing long hours - either coming in early or going home late.

And then there are the perks. You already know that I am having to take my motorbike test soon (January!!!!) and that I get to ride any of the bikes whenever I want. But what you don't know (and what I didn't know until a few days ago) was that I get to drive this whenever I want too:



Isn't it beautiful?

Yes sir. Things are pretty good right now.

It has just dawned on me that the colours that I purchased the pashminas in are exactly the same colours as the title of my blog!

Which, of course, means absolutely nothing.

McConaughey Tops Sexiest Man Alive List.

What does it say about me that when I first read that title on the IMDb homepage my sub-conscious skipped the last word?

Or perhaps the question should be: what does it say about Matthew McConaughey that he made my sub-conscious do that?

I'm a bit concerned that I'm becoming a little too gay. Last weekend in Paris I bought two pashminas. My purchasing rationale was that viewed objectively pashminas are only large rectangles of fabric and with no inherent characteristics that make them "feminine".

And this would be true, except that the two pashminas I purchased are lilac and turquoise.

That said, there is no reason why a confident man cannot wear those colours. I just made sure I wore the pashminas in the normal man-scarf manner: i.e. wrapped around the neck in a bunch and not draped around the shoulders.

At least that was until Wednesday when I draped the lilac one around my shoulders because I was cold.

But if you think all of that is bad enough, then consider this:

Pashminas are so 2003.

Something sinister is afoot.

This afternoon, during a random conversation about Star Wars with my board director, I said something which made him laugh so hard that he choked on his sushi:

"Sure Jar Jar Binks was annoying. But think about how irritating R2-D2 must have been to parents watching the original Star Wars movie back in the 1970s. Viewed objectively, R2-D2 is like a dwarf holding a Simon."

While he did finally recover, I couldn't help but wonder: is it bad form to inadvertantly kill your boss with humour?

Merde!

As you know, this last weekend one of my best friends, Helen ...



... and I ...



...went to Paris ...



.

Over supper at Kong, Helen, with practically no warning, announces to me that she hates the Eiffel Tower. "It's ugly," she tells me. "It's like a giant radio transmitter."

The fact that the Eiffel Tower, amongst other things, actually is a giant radio transmitter is by-the-by. I almost choked on my food. It was kind of like the time that another of my best friends, Jemma, told me that not only did she own Margaret Thatcher's autobiography, but had she been of legal age in the 70s, she probably would have voted for Thatch as well.

(Hi Jemma!)

Once I had accepted my repulsion over the fact that I had been friends with someone who hated the Eiffel Tower for quite so long, I tried to explain to Helen why not only was she very wrong but that she was also, very probably, dead inside. Hating the Eiffel Tower, to me at least, is like hating puppies.

"The Eiffel Tower is a testament to the human spirit. It signifies what we can achieve when we focus on solidarity, on working together," I passionately ranted at her. "For that reason not only is it a French symbol, but an international symbol. It gives us hope. It reminds us of what we can do when we focus. It is functional. It is beautiful. Remember, that it was supposed to exist as a temporary feature for the Paris Expo, yet over a hundred years after it was built it still dominates the Parisian skyline, strong and proud. At night, on the hour, every hour, for five minutes, it sparkles like a hyperactive Christmas tree ...



"... and all of the time a searchlight penetrates the night sky ...



[Aside - photos taken from the window of our hotel room! Do you have any idea how much I've always wanted a hotel room with a view of the Eiffel Tower?]

"In fact there is only one problem with the Eiffel Tower. The view of Paris, as seen from it, is missing one essential feature: the Eiffel Tower."

Finally I summarised: "The Eiffel Tower, after all is said and done, is a quite outstanding erection."

The next day I made her walk down the Parc du Champ de Mars so that she could take in its full glory.

This was her reaction:



Does anyone know whether or not I can legally emancipate a best friend?

I'm off to Paris for the weekend today with my friend, Helen. When we get there we're meeting up with someone else I know and her friend and then the quatre of us are going hors sur la ville! (out on the town.)

We're, like, totally gonna have a riot!

Boom-boom!

See what I did there? Paris? Riot = fun / street violence? Boom-boom = punchline / petrol-bomb exploding? Yes, I know but it's funny!

Oh just forget it.

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?