Blind Date

So I didn’t get much sleep. I had to be on a train to Birmingham at 2pm, you see. Bearing in mind my lack of rest I am actually quite excited. I’m on one of the new trains in Virgin’s fleet – the ones that tilt when they go around a corner. I’m keeping a close eye on my complementary cup of tea (I paid the ten pound weekend upgrade to First Class) to see if it spills over as we round treacherous bends.

Did you know that Virgin First Class has little output sockets so that you can listen to a soothing collection of classical music? And that every seat comes with it’s own AC socket so that you can charge your laptop? So as I write this I am powering up my trusty little iBook, thanks to Mr. Branson.

So tonight I am going on a blind date, set up for me by a woman. Well it’s a kind of blind date – I’ll come onto that in a minute. Now, usually I avoid blind dates like the plague because with all due respect, women are just not very accomplished at matchmaking gay men. Sorry ladies, but you’re just not.

Ok, this is going to sound like I am trying to ingratiate myself, but bear with me. I have a theory that all women are ever so slightly in love with their gay boyfriends. I’m not talking about the kind of love that speaks in the language of heart flips, poetry and The Carpenters’ Greatest Hits (well maybe the Carpenters’ Greatest Hits.) I’m talking about the same kind of love that Mum’s have for David Essex and Richard Chamberlain.

Put it this way – how many times have you heard a woman describe her best gay boyfriend with the following adjectives – “Gorgeous!”, “Funny!”, “Stylish!” Yes? A few? And how many times have you (I am directing this question to my fellow gayers) eventually met said gay boyfriend on a highly orchestrated and artificial blind date and discovered that while, yes, he is actually quite funny and yes, come to think of it he is quite stylish (although, duh, he is gay afterall!), it is clearly apparent that he was beaten mercilessly with the ugly stick at a very young age. Girls always tend to omit that small little detail.

So why don’t girls notice any negative physical traits in gay men? The answer is this. Every gayer is born with an and innate and inherent cunning in terms of exactly what is required in order to make his girlfriend (and, incidently, all mothers) fall in love with him. All it takes are one or two carefully chosen liners, a la “You look fabulous in that Beret. No, it doesn’t make your face look fat. To me it just screams Faye Dunaway in Bonnie & Clyde,” and girlfriend is yours for the long haul. No more will she see the slightly bulbous tip of your nose, developing jowels, thread-veins (too many frozen Cosmopolitans) and receding hairline – from this day forward she will see only the devilishly handsome, eternally reliable and oh-so-sensitive prince within. Ha! Pushovers!!!

Just a quick aside – it has been documented that it is not only gay men have the gift of afore mentioned “innate and inherent cunning.” Ever wonder why there are so many gorgeous women on the arms of fat, shiny faced gnomes? They too have the power to make women feel like a million pounds. Incidentally, I’ve always wondered, before the introduction of the Euro of course, if Italian men would ever say (in Italian) “Baby – you look like a million lire tonight”, because a million lire is not actually very much money.

I digress. On the whole women are matchmakers. It’s in their blood. And on the whole the mature gay man, especially those in their 30s (!) are, when it comes to matters of the heart, somewhat cynical (by 30 overall general disappointment and failure becomes somewhat less painful – each new occurrence just conjures up a sense of nostalgia for all the previous disappointments.)

But even while we may be cynical, most of us gay boys can be at the same time slightly romantically delusional (blame too many late night re-runs of Meg Ryan movies), believing that our very own knight in shining armor is just around the corner, waiting to sweep us up and place us on the back of his valiant and trusty steed, before riding us off into the crimson sunset (to live forever in a choicely furnished Manhattan style loft apartment.)

But this is the important thing - all gay men would like their potential life partner to be good looking. They just do. Us gays are a shallow bunch, but accept the fact that we like the world to look beautiful. More so if you are a Libran (me). And good looking does not have to be the latest Calvin Klein underwear model (although…). I for example have a really big crush on Colin Firth, who while not a minger by any standards, is also not Freddie Ljundberg.

So, you go into work and Samantha (or Smanfah if she is from Essex) from accounts insists that you simply must meet her really good friend Graham. She asserts that you will love him. It is important that you note that she will use the word “gorgeous” as an overall character descriptor, and does not necessarily mean that he is, well, gorgeous, exclamation mark! Note that when we say “Is he good looking?” we will always be answered with the affirmative. But again, remember that she is seeing the inner prince, not the outer frog. And that she is in love with him a bit. And that she is a girl. And that girls are a bit stupid.

Yes, I have had my fingers burned by blind dates. One time my friend Superna set me up with this guy called Simon (name changed, not to protect the innocent, but because I can’t remember it) – we met at the Prince of Bonapartes in Maida Vale. I have no idea why because it’s not even a gay bar. So he walks in and he cannot be considered by anyone’s (apart from Superna’s) standards, attractive. Long, waxy, intensely curly hair and fat. And wearing a tie-died T-shirt. But yes, I will graciously concede to the fact that he was really lovely.

I’m not saying that every gay blind date is aesthetically disastrous. For instance there was a date I went on with this really cute guy called Michael (real name), but about an hour into the date he ruined it by announcing to me that he had sufffered from numerous STI's. It kinda put me off.

So why am I going on a blind date tonight? Well a while ago I was talking to Clare about who my perfect boyfriend would be. He is late twenties / early thirties, Italian, an architect, very funny, likes staying in on a Friday night and cuddling infront of the TV, wears glasses sometimes, floppy brown hair that he keeps pushing back off his face, dark brown eyes, a great cook, a wine expert, sensitive, likes walks on the beach, not afraid to cry, has a Labrador and reads Keat’s just for a laugh (I know, I’ve never been very specific.)

Earlier this week Clare calls me and wants to know if I want to join her and her buddies on the annual Gay Switchboard Tour. I am reliably informed that my Italian Dream Boat fantasy might actually come true and while I am not really looking to date right now, the opportunity is intriguing. There is an Italian gay man called Mauro who has just joined the group and she thinks that I might like him. He’s not an architect, but is handsome and is an artist, which peaks my interest sufficiently.

Now Clare is not any old woman. As a lesbian she has special immunity from Gay Boy Bullshit and therefore does not develop platonic crushes on her gay male friends, so can objectively tell the handsome ones from the not so handsome ones. Also Clare knows double that I can be a fairly fickle chap and would not try to set me up with anyone who could be deemed below par.

So tonight I am going on a blind date, although it’s pretty failsafe if I don’t fancy him, cause he doesn’t actually know it’s a blind date, and has never heard of me before in his life.

But if I do like him I will be seducing him with my newly regained mega-watt killer smile (metal/elastic was taken out yesterday) and sparkling, witty small talk. Roar!

Eurgh...

I feel like the underside of a camels scrotum right now. I have just got in after a marathon clubbing session with Kelly and Mark.

Started at The Box, then onto The Edge, then Fiction followed by A:M. It's 9.22am and I have been dancing non stop for almost ten hours.

Dang, my legs are gonna ache later!

And that's about it. I am too befuddled to write anything more cerebral. Cheerio, etc.

(I think I'm still drunk)

Spot the deliberate mistake

It's not actually Friday. Stupid Christopher! (Hits self hard around head.)

Stupid Spice Girls

Poor Mel B. Her career over, all her money taken by Jimmy Gulzar... you would almost feel sorry for her, were it not for the fact that she is such a vile cow.

According to Popbitch a dinner guest at Mel B's mansion during happier times, reported that Mel had a giant ornately-carved gold and wood chess set in her living room.

While coming back from the toilet, the guest spotted Mel's dog humping and chewing one of the pawns.

"Don't worry,” said Mel. “It's only one of the little pieces. I've got 16 of those."

Silly moo.

And just because it’s Friday, here’s a little joke to make you chuckle:

A man walks into a bar dressed as Shakespeare.

The barman says "Get Out - you're barred."

Boom boom!

Yeah, ok…I’m going, I’m going…

The Opposite of a Kiss

My friend Lara and I were talking at lunch about the existential and stuff. She asked me what would be the opposite of a kiss. This is what I think it is...

It repels. It does not draw you in.

There is no gentle sigh afterwards. It is cold. Dry.

It sucks the air out of your lungs. Not like an exhale.

There is a vacuum with no end and no beginning.

It does not leave you wanting more.

It is like a shock from an electrified fence. It is ice on glass.

Life from both sides...

Driving back through Hampton Court. The sun is setting and the sky looks pinky mauve. I feel content and although the gearbox is a bit clunky (I keep almost putting the car into reverse) the world seems good and full of infinite possibilities. And then this song comes on the radio. It’s Joni Mitchell, and she sings…

Rows and floes of angel hair
And ice cream castles in the air
And feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way

But now they only block the sun
They rain and snow on everyone
So many things I would have done
But clouds got in my way
I’ve looked at clouds from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s cloud illusions I recall
I really don’t know clouds at all

Moons and dunes and ferris wheels
The dizzy dancing way you feel
As every fairy tale comes real
I’ve looked at love that way

But now it’s just another show
You leave ’em laughing when you go
And if you care, don’t let them know
Don’t give yourself away

I’ve looked at love from both sides now
From give and take, and still somehow
It’s love’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know love at all

Tears and fears and feeling proud
To say I love you right out loud
Dreams and schemes and circus crowds
I’ve looked at life that way

But now old friends are acting strange
They shake their heads, they say I’ve changed
Well something’s lost, but something’s gained
In living every day

I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From win and lose and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all
I’ve looked at life from both sides now
From up and down, and still somehow
It’s life’s illusions I recall
I really don’t know life at all

Yeah, it sounds depressing. But somehow it wasn’t. It was a moment and I felt…well, I felt like a grown man.

Air Force One

This might be a really boring read for the rest of you, but to me, well, this kind of stuff brings out the straight boy geek in me…

I have just been reading an article in the newspaper about Air Force One. Did you know that it is one of the most technologically advanced and secure vessels in the air today?

The plane, also known as “Angel”, undergoes rigorous maintenance everyday whether the plane is flying or not. Every 154 days, the plane is completely taken apart and put back together again.

24 hours before wheels-up, the plane’s fuel is sealed in a tank truck guarded by sharpshooters. One hour before wheels-up, Air Force specialists analyze fuel for purity and the right levels of octane and water.

The wiring on the plane is shielded to protect it from a thermonuclear blast.

If you want to sabotage Air Force One you have to get past 48 armed members of the Airlift Security Unit or join the maintenance crew, which takes 12 years after a two year background check.

The plane takes off at an above normal velocity and altitude vector for a Boeing 747. This is to minimize the risk of the plane being hit by any ground to air weapons systems.

I once saw Air Force One on the tarmac at Kennedy in NYC. I got goosebumps!

Do Fern's Count Sheep?

Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night but in actuality you’re not really awake, but still in a dream like state? Where the dream feels so real that you’re stood in front of the bathroom washbasin thinking “I have to get back to my customers” or something like that? I have. I had it happen last night. I have no idea what time of the night it was and for right now what I was dreaming about is pretty inconsequential. But last night was like the third time it’s happened in the last week or so.

I’ve often wondered what sort of dreams people have who are born blind. Do they dream in touch, sound and temperature? Has anyone ever documented this?

On the whole I think that humans are the only animal to know the difference between sleeping and dreaming. It doesn’t matter if you are a lion cub, a jellyfish or a fern – I think that wakefulness and dreaming are the same thing to them all. I think that until recently, maybe a few thousand years ago, that was the case for humans too. But then there must have been someone out there who broke the cycle, who told people the difference between the two worlds. And so, for a few centuries, people became used to thinking of real life and dreaming as two different places.

And I thought about this more – maybe it was something to do with yesterday’s billboard. There must have also been someone who told us all about the past, present and future, that a day wasn’t just a day (isn’t this what Trekkies call “Temporal Mechanics”?)

And finally there had to be someone out there who came along and told people that on top of everything else, not only was there life and death, but there was also life after death? Perhaps I am being dumb here. I think that particular someone's name was Jesus.

I think I have too much time on my hands to think about things like this. It is amazing how much more you ponder on things when you don’t have imminent communications reviews to pen.

Three Words

I came out of the Tate Britain and the sun was shining really gently and the air was bracing, but not too cold. It was Autumn in the most beautiful way and going home on the tube would have been rude. So I started to walk.

Somewhere near Kennington I saw this huge billboard and all it said on it was “Watch this space.” Nothing else. And I thought that was so simple, brilliant and inspiring all at once and the fact that it was probably just a prelude to another advertisement for some new online banking service seemed kind of irrelevant. Maybe the overall theme of the afternoon had put me in a certain frame of mind, but I thought it was luminous and it stirred me enough to write the words down in my notebook.

I’m not one of those people who think, like in F.Scott Fitzgerald, that their best years were 20 years prior. No - I think the best day has got to be the next day. I’m not saying that today is irrelevant. But I think for me life is all about what’s next.

It’s like the billboard - before the actual ad went up they put in, in big block letters:

“Watch this space.”

Two Go Mad in Ikea

Vix and I are currently both ‘sans’ work, so we are making the best of our free days in the manner of lunches, treatments and spa sessions at my gym. Only yesterday’s particular spa treatment was cut short by the spa being closed due to essential maintenance. Apparently the filter in the pool needed changing. No doubt the fault of the really unattractive guy I saw there the other day with hair running all down his back. The kind of length with which you could plait.

So instead of curing our collective hangovers with a refreshing swim, steam and sauna, we decided that we would cleanse ourselves in an entirely different way – with Swedish designed disposable furniture.

I shop at Ikea out of necessity. That being I simply can’t afford to buy my shelving units from Heal’s. I probably visit Ikea about once a year and every visit is preceded with the kind of excitement you feel when you’re very young and your parents take you on a special pre-Christmas trip to Hamleys. It’s the promise of a trolley full of the kinds of things that you didn’t realize that you needed – sets of three matching sandblasted vases, miniature cactuses and the odd Ficus tree.

Yet whenever I actually arrive at Ikea and walk through the doors (it really bothers me, by the way, that every single Ikea I have ever been to, from London to New Jersey, has looked exactly the same) the excitement is washed from me and I am left with the feeling that I left anything resembling personal quirkiness in the carpark. There is nothing in Ikea to dislike. And you have this eerie feeling that you have in fact seen everything before. Which you probably have, in the homes of numerous friends and colleagues.

Anyway – I set myself a budget of thirty pounds and for that I managed to purchase a basic wooden four shelf unit (the kind found in every university student’s bedroom), a wooden box for a white orchid plant and a three photo picture frame. Pretty good going, nest pas?

Did you know that the actual price you pay for the absurdly cheap (68p) Ikea hotdog is that the hotdog itself is, well, gross? Until yesterday I hadn’t actually had one before, but Vix assured me that I really did want one, so I relented and she gleefully bounded off to the hotdog counter while I fumed in the obscenely long queue for the checkout.

So the colour of the hotdog is not the standardized red of the common hotdog, but rather more like a kind of beige. Which led me to think that maybe the hotdog was in fact chicken. Then there is the skin of the hotdog which is extremely thick - only god truly know's what it is made from. So thick was the skin that I was unable to bite through it. Ok, this has something to do with the fact that I currently can’t bite down fully on my front teeth. The effect of this dental misalignment was that whenever I took a bite I actually just squeezed the hotdog meat through end of the skin. I’ll leave you to imagine the overall effect. Vix thought that it was highly amusing. Which of course it wasn't.

I am going to the Tate this afternoon to reestablish my appreciation of aesthetics and design. I might decide to adorn my new Ikea shelving unit with a snazzy new Anish Kapoor bedside lamp.

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."