Conversations With a Supermodel and an Actor

A friend told me a story today about a London mini-cab driver who picked up Kate Moss and Daniel Craig last weekend from the Holiday Inn in Camden. He recounted a sample of their conversation:

Daniel, "You're gorgeous"

Kate, "I know that."

Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime

Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime

Change your heart, look around you
Change your heart, it will astound you
I need your loving like the sunshine
And everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime
Everybody's gotta learn sometime

Not Enough Drew in My World

I have just got back from one of those excursions that are always so bitter sweet. Kate and I just dropped Drew off at Heathrow. Sweet because it's always nice to see someone off on a new adventure and chapter in their lives. Bitter because you're saying goodbye.

One of the last cute things I did was when I was about nine. I remember visiting someone in London with my parents and saying goodbye to them at the station as we boarded the train to come back home. I looked at my mum and, trying not to cry, said "Goodbyes make my throat hurt."

Drew has become something really special to me since I came back from New York. He has listened endlessly to my woes and never, not once, complained or belittled me. And he has made me soup with no bits in. And he made me feel good about having a mouth full of elastic and metal - last night he even said that it could be considered almost attractive (I think he may have been trying to humor me.)

So goodbye Drew. I miss you already. I double promise to make sure that I have the car to pick you up from the airport in March!

But something sweet always comes from something sad, and I think that today I made a new friend. I have met Kate on a number of occasions and we have always greeted each other with much enthusiasm. But usually the situation we were in was not conducive to conversation (or rather the state we were in was not conducive to conversation!)

Kate is one of these people who immediately intrigues you and makes you think "I want her to be my friend." So although I wasn't looking forward to today, in that Drew was leaving, I was looking forward to spending some time with Kate, to really start to get to know her. And that I did. No awkward silences on the long journey back into London from Heathrow on the Piccadilly Line - we were chatting nine to the dozen the whole way. And although I didn't tell her this, I actually stayed on the train two stations past my stop because I wanted to carry on talking with her.

We have arranged to meet on Tuesday for lunch. No doubt we will be lamenting the lack of Drew in our worlds.

Rapid Eye Movement

Last night I had the strangest dream.

No, this isn't a song lyric. It was an actual dream where me and a bunch of my friends piled into an auditorium, like in a school, ostensibily. We were waiting for REM to play this small, private show. This was basically REM circa somewhere between 94 and 97, so everyone was still in the group, but it was after Bill Berry had an aneurysm and also before he left the band and before Peter Buck got arrested for beating up some stewardesses or whatever.

Anyway, so in my dream, Peter Buck, Bill Berry and Mike Mills filed out first and then a few seconds later, Michael Stipe. And of course he garnered the most hoopla. Anyway, so I'm in something like the third row, and I'm really excited but really cold. So Michael walks up to me and leans over the railing and covers me in this gigantic, comfy fleece blanket, smiles, and then starts the show!

WTF? I won't even get into the number of Freudian daddy issues this brings up as well as the latent Christ imagery.

Bloody Engineers

The telephone in the apartment has been almosst impossible to use because there has been so much background interference. So I was really proactive the other day and finally got around to calling BT to ask them to send an engineer out. I was informed that they would turn up today between 8am and 1pm. "Ah" I thought. The chance for a lie in. I mean what are the chances of the man turning up at 8am?

Every chance apparently. The engineer seems to think that the neigbours downstairs have been mucking about with the connection box. The same neighbours who play electric guitar at 4am.

Wanna know what I am doing today? Buying a tax disc for the car, lunch with Rachel and then catch a train to Birmingham to spend the weekend with Clare and Lucy. It's Matt's birthday tonight so we are going to get drunkety, drunk, drunk.

Happy weekend everyone!

Au Revoir, But Not Goodbye

One of the people who showed me the most unrelenting kindness while I lived in New York is Zach.

In just over a year, even though for most of the time we have been separated by vast expanses of ocean or land, he has become and remained a consistently true and faithful friend. It has been my pleasure, over the past seven days, to have him stay in my home and to be able to show him around some of London's more earthy landmarks. I already miss having him constantly forget that I can't eat anything solid at the moment!

"It is so gratifying of you to say in your letter that you like me. Things of that kind, which can be very important, people usually omit to mention. Personally, I have no use for unspoken affections, and so I will most readily reply that I like you a great deal also..."
Sylvia Townsend Warner, letter to Paul Nordoff, 24 July 1939

Roar!

No real blog entry today because I am just too angry (my jaw).

It's not often that I feel anger like this. I am just managing to keep it restrained, but am nonetheless, teetering on a knife edge where I could at any moment JUST FUCKING LOSE IT!!! I swear to god I am going out tonight to get rat arsed and if anyone so much as insinuates that I should be sensible and take it easy I will, with no compunction, quite simply, with the bluntest of chainsaws, provide them with a new one.

It is not advisable for the world to test the extent of my wrath today (flexes wrath). As Glenn Close famously said in Dangerous Liaisons, "Remember. I'm better at this than you are."

(Oooh! Now I feel all empowered in a Darth Vadar kind of way - anger really is the path to the dark side! And the dark side feels goooood!!)

Bring me...

...the head of Ben Jelen. Preferably attached to his body. Alive would be good as well.

Nooooooooooo!

I quote...

"Fisting is an incredible experience, not only physically, but mentally and emotionally. This book thoroughly details all the ins-and-outs of giving and receiving vaginal orgasms with the fisted hand. There are surprisingly few texts on this subject (no shit!). This one is very easy to understand. It has a caring, down-to-earth, comfortable style. Headings include: Troubleshooting, Self-Fisting, and Anatomy. This book will answer all of your questions and help you develop some simple yet mind-blowing possibilities. (If you're giving this book as a gift, be sure to check out our Lubricants Section!)."

Self fisting???!!! Ew GROSS!!! In today's world is nothing sacred? I am seriously thinking about hiking over to China and becoming a Shaolin monk. Apparently they draw the line at water sports.

If fortune favours the brave...

...then I am about to become seriously wealthy and successful. I mean if I have been one thing over anything else this year, I have been brave!

So last Saturday night Drew and I go out to my friend Louise's birthday. I dress in my beloved black Gucci dress shirt, ripped bootcut jeans and brand spanking new shoes from Rockit. I style my hair differently - freshly washed, shiny and falling seductively infront of my eyes. And I decide to wear the Comme des Garcons fragrance that everyone loves, but I think smells a bit like perfume. To put not too fine a point on it I look (and smell) fierce. I celebrate by dancing to Fleetwood Mac on the balcony, imagining that I am Stevie Nicks in a man's body.

Drew comes over, we drink wine for a while and then we leave for Louise's birthday. Birthday is great. We drink champagne. Then we leave and go to pick up Sam from his fabulous new flat on Charing Cross Road. Errol, who I haven't seen since before I left for New York is there. He has just broken up with his girlfriend so is coming out with the 'boys' for the evening. Errol is of dubious sexuality and, while on the short side, is very, very cute and it passes my mind that maybe I should flirt a little with him. But by this point I am feeling quite drunk so I steal cigarettes from him instead.

From Sam's we go on to Shadow Lounge, and once again we drink champagne. Because Sam works there we get to stay in the VVIP section and at one point Ivan Massow sits next to us (I still think is he is eligible even if he is rumored to sleep with rent boys) along with Geri Halliwell. They are there for, oh, about two minutes, before they get up and leave again. I guess we are all being a bit lairy for their taste.

And so the evening progresses. I get more drunk. Some of us play kissy-poo (except Errol) and drink, and dance, until 4am when we get unceremoniously pushed back out onto Brewer Street to be harassed by refugees uttering "mini-cab" and "£25" over and over.

We get into the flat at about 4.30am and because of all the champagne I decide that I should take a sleeping tablet in order to sleep properly. Good idea. Take sleeping tablet. Sleep very, very well.

Until about 8am, when my bladder wakes me up. Feeling hung over and groggy, I slouch off to the bathroom and mid-pee I decide that I am feeling rather dizzy and just about manage to kneel on the floor without keeling over. Still bash into the bath though. When I am feeling slightly better I pick myself up and begin to stagger out of the bathroom, into the hall and back towards my bedroom.

And that's about as much as I can remember. The next thing I know I am lying with my head on the mat, the guys at my side, blood coming from a huge gash on my chin (you can actually see the bone) and from my right ear. Bits of teeth are on the floorboards. I am feeling very disorientated and they want to call an ambulance but I'm insistent that I'm ok and try to get up.

Oooh...blood. So much blood! It is starting to dawn on me that I am really not ok and that actually perhaps an ambulance might not be such a bad idea.

So off I get driven to King's Hospital where I am ravagely attacked by stupid nurses who seem to think that my effing and blinding is directed at them. They're trying to make me recline so that I am horizontal and it frikkin hurts. "Ow! It fucking hurts" I exclaim. "Don't you swear at me or you can just go home!" spits the nurse back. For a second I manage to compose myself and I turn to her and say "Don't be so ridiculous. I am not swearing at you." and then I turn to the guys and in all seriousness go "Let's go home..." to which Vix responds by squeezing my hand and smiling says "I don't think that's a very good idea, sweetie."

Several hours later, after many X-rays, cat-scans and having my chin sutured, the doctors come to tell me that I need to have surgery. Apparently when I went down I completely shattered my jaw and I need to have wiring to hold my teeth together and a steel plate put into the front on my mouth. Great. Not. Although I am peversely looking forward to the anesthetic. I love the way that it feels like someone is pulling you into sleep.

Anyway - the result of all this is that I had to have a week off work. I went back to mum's to rest and recuperate. And in the process I became a casualty of daytime television. I was shocked to see that Judy Finnigan is looking very, very haggard these days. But not surprised to learn that Richard Madely is still as deeply irritating and smug as he always has been.

So for the next four to six weeks I have my teeth clenched together in a tight rictus, with a retainer like thing and elastic junking up my mouth. I have lost the feeling in my chin and everything aches. But I am back at work so am not as bored.

Zach told me that the reason that Reid became a model was because his brother kicked him in the face and broke his jaw. The new jaw completely changed him and he stopped being fat and dorky and become a bona fide sex god. I wonder if that will happen to me?

Groucho Marx once said "Tragedy is when I cut my finger. Comedy is when you fall into an open sewer and die."

I just read that suicide bombers are told that their sacrifice will be rewarded in heaven, because the Koran suggests that martyrs get to have sex with 72 virgins.

However, an eminent Islamic scholar suggests this is a mistranslation from the Koran of the word "Houri" as Virgin. He's traced the word back to its original Arabic root and says it means grape - or wine.

So, even if the Koran is completely correct, the suicide bombers will arrive in heaven to discover that they have slaughtered innocent people in exchange for a couple of chardonnays.

The War on Terror

I don't really write about anything of real substance on this thing, but I guess this time of year is now a kind of anniversary for pondering and thought.

I just read an article where the writer described 9/11 as the "most fetishised remembrance day of our times." I actually find it difficult not to agree with her. My own gut reaction to the event will always be etched in my memory: I experienced it as an attack on humanity.

Later, reflecting on this, I realised to my shame that I could identify with people in tall buildings in a way I could not with people in refugee camps. However, it seemed to me that at least we were now all in the same boat and there was a chance to wake up to some of the injustices we had previously insulated ourselves from.

The deeper shock for me, and no doubt for many, was the failure of the American political establishment to see 9/11 as anything other than an attack on America and all that it represented. In their own way, it seemed, they were mimicking the tiny minority who at the time suggested that "America had it coming". The demand that one is "either for us or against us", not just on the lips of Bush but also of Hillary Clinton, and the action of Mayor Giuliani in rejecting a substantial aid donation from a leading Saudi prince because he went on to make some mild criticisms of US foreign policy, gave the impression that what America wanted was not so much friends as acolytes.

Everything that has happened since has only served to strengthen that impression. It does indeed seem to me that we are on the verge of McCarthyism, or even fascism, not just in the US but also here. Suddenly we can no longer see beyond the confines of Western civilisation - anything that resists its global spread is seen as non-human, or alien. In the name of defending our precious freedoms and material comforts perhaps we are creating a monster. If that indeed is how our civilisation appears to those who are outside then the so-called war on terror is already lost.

Petri-fied!

I have nothing better to do today than post Blog entries...

We have been sent an email from the NYC HQ about Anthrax preparedness. I am not sure why. It's been a while since I've even heard that word. Maybe it is just to wake us up to the possibilities again. Are we on red alert or something?

The email was interesting, but made me want to be sick, really. Anthrax seems like such a mysterious thing - the email had a little attachment that showed how it is dispersed by atomizers or via the regular mail.

Apparently there are 4 scenarios to be acted on differently. These are inspired. I can imagine that it took a whole (expensive) think tank to come up with these:

1. a threat is received, but no package has been found

2. a threat is received, and an unopened package has been found

3. a package has been opened, but no substance is inside

4. a package has been opened and a substance has been found

In the interests of national security, I am not going to advertise the contingency for each circumstance (I don't want to give Osama any bad ideas). Anyway it was interesting and I think I will be better prepared if the day ever comes that I will need to deal with this type of situation. The hardest thing for me would be to not.... FREAK OUT!

Words...can't...describe...

His name is Jon Passavant. I know this because I met him once at a party at some millionaires mansion in a gated community in Beverly Hills (yes, my life used to be that fabulous).

Unfortunately he's straight. This information rained all over my parade. So the chances of him and I hooking up are...er...rather unlikely.

But I can dream.

He is what I call "a cryer." At the moment of truth I would start crying.

How to make a Versace Salad

I've had a long standing interest in the perma-toned, overtly bleached doyenne of the fashion industry. It's akin to watching a car wreck. According to Popbitch, guests at Donatella Versace's dinner parties have marveled at the special dish she always chooses. Here's the recipe...

1. Ingredients: 3 grammes of cocaine, 1 salad plate.

2. Rack out lines the size of cigarettes on the plate.

3. While the other dinner guests eat dinner, snort lines.

4. Do not offer round.

5. Go straight to rehab.

Apparently guests at Donatella's place report that she used to keep her cocaine in the fridge "in blocks the size of feta cheese."

I'm not sure about some of these figures...

But look at those numbers go really, really fast!!!

Is Virginity Worthwhile?

Read this!

I quote...

"Psychiatrists claim people usually cannot remain good friends after they stop having sexual intercourse together. If they don't remain lovers, they must become very distant from each other. In a close situation such as attending the same school or the same church, this "distant" relationship can conflict with being near each other in classes. The two former lovers can develop a "hate" relationship as a way of maintaining the "distant" relationship.

An example of this hate after intercourse is Israel's prince Amnon and his affair with his half sister Tamar. After sex, "his love turned to hate and now he hated her more than he had loved her." -- 1 Samuel 13:15 LB."

Of course the fact that their relationship became dysfunctional after sex had, of course, nothing to do with the fact that they were actually brother and sister.

Bloggers around the world, unite!

My rather fabulous NYC friend Sally (gracing the above cover of NYC photographer Patrick McMullen's latest book "So80s") took up a dare from me to start her own blog. Now if anyone is deserving of their own blog it's Sally cause she, reader, has some helluva lot of stories to tell (sorry Sally - the pressure to deliver!) One of them even involves an encounter with a pre-fame Ms. Ciccone, but I'll leave it up to her to provide the low down on that one at her own discretion.

Read all about her here.

My Waking Life

I’m going to see where this one takes me…

For the last two weeks I have meant to change my bedclothes. The last time I changed them was over a month ago. Yes...I know what you are thinking - "Gross!", right? Yeah probably, but you see the thing is I quite like it that way. Some people love the smell of clean sheets - sliding in beneath the covers and feeling that gentle caress that only the best fabric conditioner can buy.

But right now I quite like the smell of me. And the smell isn't that musty "boy" smell that you can detect on most student halls of residence. It's a combination of red Dax hair wax, Clinique Happy for Men and Origins Ginger Shower Gel (I have taken to showering before I go to bed).

My room is a small room - probably the smallest I have ever resided in. Apart from for sleeping I don't use it very much. At previous addresses I have seen my bedroom as a kind of sanctuary from the areas outside, but still within the apartment. I have always been very lucky with my bedrooms. The best being the one I had at 50 Murray in NYC.

This is the first time that I have only lived with one other person. I have always lived with at least two other people - right the way through university and my working life in London. When I lived in West Hampstead - 1996 through to 2003 - I lived with three other people. But now I only live with Vix, and it's all very grown up. She inherited most of the furniture from her father when he died. So the apartment is very furnished in a very grown up way. That said, it is also very comfortable. So for the first time I feel like a proper grown up in a proper grown up apartment. So comfortable that on Saturday night I fell asleep on the sofa and didn't wake up until 7am in the morning, at which I dragged myself to my bedroom and slept for a further four hours until about 11am.

I live in an area of London called Clapham South. It has a "village" mentality, the centre being Abbeville Road - a long street with six or seven restaurants mingled in with little gift shops that sell small nick nacks at high prices. The roads surrounding Abbeville Road are lined with Porsches, BMWs and top of the range Volkswagens.

Clapham South is south of the river Thames. It is the first time that I have lived south of the river. I can only compare living south of the river with how New Yorkers view living in Manhattan with living in Brooklyn. People who live north of the river are the Manhattanites. People who live south of the river are the residents of Brooklyn and maybe even Queens.

The other night Drew and I were watching Will and Grace. There was this joke about how the boys refused to go and visit Grace because they were in Manhattan and she was in Brooklyn. "How far away is Brooklyn from Manhattan?" asked Drew.

"On the tube it's about as far away as Stockwell is from here - Clapham South." I answered. I think that this kinda threw him because Stockwell is about five minutes away. But those are the rules.

On Thursday night my Dad drove up to London to take me out for dinner. We went to Café Rouge on Abbeville Road. My Dad and I have a colourful history. He was only 18 when I was born, and in many ways he feels like he sacrificed his youth in order to be a father. As a result we got along like cat and dog and when I was 23 I refused to talk to him for the best part of two years.

But today we are less like father and son and more like two friendly men who have found a deep and important respect for one another. My Dad told me something that I had not even considered but something that I found immensely comforting. When he left my mum he could not conceive that he would ever love anyone as much as her again. Then he met Kathy, my stepmom of about three years now, and everything changed. For one he has his youth back. I don’t know many 53 year old men as young as my father.

Last night I went out onto the balcony for a cigarette. It was about 10pm and the sky was midnight blue. No clouds and for once there couldn’t have been that much light pollution because you could see the stars. So I focused in on the first one that I saw and I made a wish.

And the star has promised not to tell anyone the secret! ;)

Some things are too fabulous...

Look...I know I write a lot about my job, but bear with me, ok? Just let me try and convince myself of a few things...

Sometimes my job is relentlessly full of pretentious muppetry. (See previous Blog entry re Comms review.) But sometimes I am required to do something that has such breathtaking results that it makes me do a stock check and in turn brings me the realisation that I am quite lucky to be part of a creative process that can produce a visual as beautiful and iconic as the above image.

A few weeks ago one of my clients designated to me the monolithic task of single handedly organising an ad shoot with supermodel Erin O'Connor. For those of you that don't really know what I do, one thing I definitely don't do is organise ad shoots...that's the job of the ad agency (see Saatchi & Saatchi, WCRS, TBWA). But in this instance my client is too cheap to hire an ad agency. So over the course of five days I developed a creative concept for the campaign with the photographer, hired hair stylists and make up artists and even chose some frocks for Erin to wear (the dress in the picture - Stella McCartney - I chose that!!)

Anyway - the highlight of all this was arriving at the studio on the day of the shoot, to be greeted by the photographers assistant...one hell of a man (yeah a little on the short side, but that's manageable), wearing nothing but a pair of sneakers and a pair of cut off cargo pants. Bronzed, ripped and gorgeous. He actually apologised for being half naked (it was a hot day) - if only he knew!

So that was the highlight...until this morning when I got the scans from the shoot. I haven't put them all up cause I don't want to bore you? Aren't they great!? Aren't I great???!!!!

Oh yes, Christopher...you are. Yes you are.

Have a fatuous weekend, everyone!!!