Happy Holidays!

Well, I guess this will be the last chance I get to wish you all a very Merry Christmas.

This afternoon we will start the mad dash to visit both mine and The Boyf's families. Who live in opposite directions from each other. So it's south first, then back past London and up north. Hopefully we'll be back sometime Christmas Eve and will finally be able to relax.

So Happy Holidays Dear Readers. I hope Santa brings you everything you want. I am assuming that you've all been well-behaved of course. I know I have...

Shhh! Let's Pretend It's Tuesday

Can we just pretend it's still Tuesday? That way I can tell you about my weekend without going "weird" on you because I'm a day late.

So yeah, lovely Tuesday isn't it? I've just made a record-breaking run to Oxford Street and back in my lunch hour to get The Boyf's main present. So that's pretty much all my shopping done. I just need to stop somewhere and buy him a pineapple and I'm finished. What, sorry? Oh, the pineapple. Long story and not very interesting. Perhaps some other time, eh.

So, about last weekend. Hmmm, well XXL was good fun. Loads of lovely men there for me to dribble all over but I restrained myself and didn't paw anyone for a change. Shame really. Apart from that everything was pretty quiet to be honest. We're trying to savour every quiet moment we get, as from now on in we're out every night until Christmas Day. Still, the actual day is going to be lovely. For the first time ever I won't be spending it with my family. Instead we're off round OBM#1 and #2's house for two days where we can all sit around and eat and not care about having to be on our best behaviour. I hope they realise that means I'll be laying about in just a pair of pants. Utter bliss and I can't wait.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - Now Fashionably Late

Frost!

Yes, Frost!

This morning!

Frost, I tells ya!

In London!


For the first time this winter (is it winter yet or still autumn?) we had to scrape frost off the car this morning.

Hurrah!

Question Number 2

Why do bike couriers always have odd facial hair?

The Office Christmas, er, "Party"

Last night's Office Christmas Party reminded me exactly why after last year's party I said I wouldn't go to another one. Unfortunately in the intervening 12 months I softened and allowed myself to be talked into going. That won't be happening again.

The reasons:

1. Drunk 20-year old straight guys talking about "flange" did not help me eat my starter, which was paté, which I abhor. Now, I'm no prude, but not in a posh restaurant over dinner guys, please!

2. A girl shouting "Oi! Garcon! Over here, NOW!" I consider to be rude behaviour, especially as she's one of the team leaders where we work. You know what they say about people who are rude to waiters. People who are rude to waiters who haven't done anything wrong deserve utmost contempt in my book.

3. A guy repeatedly standing up and shouting "I want my fucking dessert, and I'd better get it fucking soon you c**ts!" (I kid you not. In a very well-to-do restaurant!). Again, I don't count this as particularly decent behaviour. I think we'd all agree on that.

4. The girl sitting next to me - who just has a new boss; me! - vomited everywhere because she'd managed to drink, in the space of under 2 hours, at least 2 bottles of red wine (because it was free). This didn't make my dessert any more appetising.

5. The girl behind me really needed to keep her voice down when she was talking about which married man's cock she'd managed to fiddle with recently in the office.

These are all people who work within 20 feet of my desk and who I deal with on a day-to-day basis.

Maybe I'm getting old, but it wasn't my idea of a good night out. I don't understand people who feel the need to be abusive, and I don't understand people who feel the need to drink as much as possible in the shortest possible time, just because the booze is free. Don't get me wrong, I'm not getting all high-and-mighty, and I like to get squiffy as much as the next guy, but there are times and places for such behaviour.

So anyway, I left straight after the dessert course, jumped on the tube, and went home to The Boyf, where we cuddled up on the sofa and watched TV together. All's well that ends well.

Please remind me in 12 months not to go to next year's "do".

The Dash and The Rash

It's that time of the week where I tell you all about what a fab weekend I hadn't, isn't it? Also known as "Tuesday". Never let it be said that, as a high-functioning Asperger's Syndrome gay male, I don't like to form a habit and then go strangely quiet and sit in my room staring at the wall when that habit is broken somehow. That would just be weird.

(starts to frown)

So, my weekend then.

(smile reappears)

Well, we didn't get to see my Mum. We also didn't get to see Gary Numan in concert, or go to XXL on Saturday night, all of which were planned. We did however get to see my repeated dashes to the toilet for the duration of Saturday afternoon and much of the evening. Yes, Dear Readers, I had a stomach upset. And very upset it was too. I couldn't console it no matter how hard I tried.

I woke up Sunday morning to find everything had, well, dried up, which was a result. So The Boyf and I went to get this year's Christmas Tree and spent the afternoon decorating it, accompanied with a Doris Day Christmas CD and copious glasses of sherry. We like to let our hair down. In a gay way.

Now The Boyf tends to go a bit quiet and stare at a wall if his plans go wrong. That would be Asperger's Syndrome again then. So, because he'd not been out on Saturday by Sunday evening he was starting to go stir-crazy, hence we headed out to the RVT to meet some friends, including The Drag Queen (who's part of the furniture in that establishment). We had a dance and a beer, and then moved to BarCode to finish the night off. Unfortunately I kept getting in the way of the mirrors in the bar, which stopped a short well-built guy constantly checking himself out. (For the record anyone under my height, 5ft 8, is classed as short). Such was his annoyance that he actually came over and pushed a gap between The Boyf and I, looked himself up and down in the mirror, did a "Hmmm, you look good" face (a kind of pout accompanied with a nodding head), gave me the evils, and wandered back to where his friends were standing, hoping of course that the gap would remain for him keep checking himself out. So we left the gap just long enough until, mid-conversation with his friends, he actually turned slightly to check out his bum, at which point The Boyf and I quickly moved back together, eliciting a scowl from the pint-sized narcissist. How we laughed. Ah, good times!

At 2am I finally managed to drag The Boyf and The Drag Queen out of the bar and home (The DQ was sleeping on our couch), where The Drag Queen started demanding that we cook her something to eat. Oh, and examine a rash that she'd gained on her bum, which she then decided was a stab wound. Not that she revels in the drama or anything. Nothing like a rash and a bacon sandwich at 3am on a Monday morning knowing that you've got to be up for work at 7. The festive silly season begins!

The Monday Morning(ish) BlogBite - Santa's Here

I have just been chosen to be this year's Santa at the office Christmas lunch, this Friday. Which means that it's my job to have each member of staff on my knee so that I can give them a present. My mind is racing with the possibilities. In fact, I've already had to splash myself with cold water to calm myself down. One thing's for certain - I'll be popping a Viagra that morning.

Ho - Ho - Hehehehehehehehehehehe

(cue manic dirty laugh)

Just So You Know

The rather delicious Spanish tourist that ended up in my bed last night did indeed snore.

Hurrah!

Why My Friends Think I'm Weird: Pt.3

I have a funny fixation with vacuum cleaners. Now, before you jump to conclusions, only once did I ever try to see what would happen if I put my, er.... well, you know the rest. Oh, come on, we've all tried it. Haven't we? Oh. Anyway, my fixation is slightly different. I'll explain...

When I was a wee ickle OMO I always fell asleep on the stairs when my Mum was hoovering the house. For some reason the sound of a hoover relaxed me, ultimately sending me to sleep. And it still does, as does anything that makes a loud whirring sound (i.e. hair-dryers).

When I split up with my last boyfriend (we'd been together nearly 7 years), I couldn't sleep properly. I missed the sound of his snoring, his breathing. That was pretty much the only thing I did miss. I tried everything to help me, but in the end only one thing would do. So, Dear Reader, believe it or not I took to balancing a hair-dryer in a boot on my bedside table, turning it on, and falling asleep each night. At some point in the night I'd wake up enough to turn it off and drop straight back off to sleep.

I'll just let you think about that for a moment...



Now, purely from a electricity bill point of view, and the heat build up in the summer, this action seems a little, well, stupid. However, I then woke up one night to the smell of burning plastic and black smoke and realised that I was just about to have a very nasty accident.

So, instead of the hair-dryer I took to turning on the hoover every night.

Hmmmm.

And then finally I found another boyfriend. Who snores and, er, breathes. Personally I always prefer boyfriends who are actually alive. They're better at cooking, although I don't always get to watch the TV I want, so it's all swings and round-a-bouts.

So nowadays having the hoover on is strictly limited to when I'm doing the housework (although I struggle to stay awake whilst doing it), or when The Boyf is away for the night. Yup, when he's not there I still turn the thing on! For fuck's sake don't tell him; I've been blaming the high electricity bill on his internet porn habit.

I've also found that if I'm getting a bit stressed at work the hand-dryers in the toilet calm me down.

So there you go. Should you ever find yourself unlucky enough to be invited back to sleep with me make sure you snore. Or bring a hoover.

Saunas And Sore Knees

So, how was your weekend then? No, it's ok, you don't really have to tell me. I was just trying to be polite.

Let me tell you about mine.

The Boyf's Mum is currently ill and pretty much bed-ridden, so on Friday evening we battled the traffic - quite literally; I used a long broom to poke cars out of our way - and drove up to the Midlands to visit her.

Saturday was actually spent in a, ahem, Gentleman's Health Club, trying not to look like I'd fallen completely in love with a big hairy bodybuilder that - surprise! - I found myself next to in the jacuzzi. Apparently he was in the minority and had actually gone to the sauna to relax and not just have mindless sex, as he spurned the furtive glances I gave him from behind my fan, and "accidental" touching of his very thick hairy leg. At least, that's what I've told myself.

Late Saturday afternoon was spent in the company of The Boyf's Mother, who I must admit did seem to be really ill, rather than just being dramatic, and genuinely pleased to see us. As long as we didn't show any affection towards each other of course. Saturday evening meant a trip to a pub in Birmingham, and that's about all I can say about that really. Oh, some guy came over and asked if we were "stuck up Londoners", so with annoyance we said "Yes" and turned our backs on him.

On Sunday we got up early and drove back to London, and what followed was a whirlwind of drink, drugs, dancing and sex. BarCodeV gave way to the RVT, which in turn gave way to The Hoist. The final thing to give way were my knees at around 2 in the morning. However, I have to say that I was thwarted in every attempt to blag the men I really liked. It was just one of those evenings where everyone I wanted was unavailable in some way. Not that I was flirting of course. Oh no, I was far more brazen than that. Oh well, it seemed I sent two men home with smiles on their faces, and that meant a weekend well spent in my book, if you'll pardon the pun.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - It's Me!

Ta-dah! Yes, it's a photo of your very own OMO. Ok, I know it's not very clear but then I do write this anonymously, for reasons I'm actually not too sure about. I have a funny feeling that as time goes by my anonymity may well slip, but for the time being this is all you're getting.

Did Anyone Notice...

... whether the sun actually rose today? We seem to have been plunged into perpetual darkness, Finland-style. Makes me want to hibernate.

The Characters

I've only just realised that I've neglected to give you any real background information on the people who regularly pop up in my blog. Naughty OMO! So I thought I'd give you a little resume on each of the main characters...

OMO
Oh Mike Odd, it's me of course. I'm a 36 year old, baldy, beardy, hairy, horny gay man living in London with my partner, The Boyf. I don't need to tell you anymore - if you read this blog you'll find out far more about me than is good for you, frankly.

Interesting Fact: Dale Winton once asked me out on a date. I said no.
Most Likely To Say: "Good Lord, look at the size of that!"

The Boyf
Yes, it's my boyfriend. He's 39, 5ft 10, dark hair and beard and is the Assistant Head Teacher of a school here in London. A confirmed sexual predator who loves Dr Who and Twiglets. (Those three things aren't related)

Interesting Fact: once played a doctor in Emmerdale.
Most Likely To Say: "Can't we just go to one more club?"

The Drag Queen
Actually a girl, she's permanently covered in glitter, and is The Boyf's best friend (and backbone) over the last few years. She's VERY well known on the bear scene in London and manages to blag her way into every gay club imaginable. Also known as HMP (High maintenance Princess), she's known to be rather demanding, however she has a heart of gold and will go miles out of her way for anyone she feels is worth it.

Interesting Fact: once lent her car to a friend who used it to ram-raid an off-license, and then let her have the Champagne he stole.
Most Likely To Say: "I want/need..."

OBM#1
Our Big Mate #1 is a big, hairy, baseball cap wearing 39 year old Glaswegian now living in London with his boyfriend, OBM#2. He's a 6 ft tall, tattooed bodybuilder, and a "big soft bag of shite", in his own words. Unused to the London gay scene he constantly wanders around with a perplexed look on his face.

Interesting Fact: He used to be the lead singer and songwriter of a successful group back in the early 90's.
Most Likely To Say: "Have I told you about..?" to which we always say yes.

OBM#2
Our other Big Mate, and boyfriend of the above. He's another 6 foot bodybuilder with a lovely grey beard, cropped hair, and the most beautiful blue eyes. At 43 years old he's still a big kid, loves to crack up with the giggles, and we love him for it.

Interesting Fact: once appeared in a well known magazine looking big and butch, apart from the tiara on his head.
Most Likely To Say: "Oh, you LOVE it!"

Daddy
One of our newer friends, we've seen him around and said "Hi" to him over the last year or so but have only recently become firm friends. He's 40 years old, 6 ft tall, hairy, very very built and seemingly permanently covered in leather. Very aggressive to look at he's actually another big softie, and a complete gentleman.

Interesting Fact: He's a dentist, which makes him even more frightening.
Most Likely To Say: "Thank you for a lovely evening" (he's incredibly polite and always calls the next day to thank us for hanging out with him and having fun. Bless him)


So, these are the people that seem to regularly pop up in my blog. If anyone else seems to be making a regular appearance I'll update this accordingly.

Have a good weekend, Dear Readers.

Camp - Part 2

(Read Part 1 here)

The following evening Camp knocked on my door. "Come for a walk with me", he said.

We ended up walking to the local park, and then through the cemetary. Not much had been said about what had happened the night before. I was nervous and didn't know which way the conversation would turn. Instead, no sooner than we were in a quiet corner of the cemetary than Camp suddenly put his arms around me and pulled me into him. He pushed his crotch against me and I could feel him stiffening through his trousers. So was I. Things progressed, and that Ladies and Gentlemen is how I lost my virginity. In a cemetary, with a man who sneered if I suggested he was gay. I guess I'm not alone in that respect.

Over the course of the next few evenings we met up and had sex in his car, and each time he'd remind me that he wasn't like me. He wasn't a queer.

Then one day he told me the time had come to tell my friends, otherwise he was going to do it. He gave me until the next evening to start telling them, and he even told me which one I should tell first - we'll call him John - so the next day I called round to see John and another mate and I admitted who I was to them both. To their credit they were fine with it. They didn't seem to have a problem. But then John said, "Look, we don't have a problem with you being gay, but you shouldn't try to tell everyone that I am just to camouflage the fact that you are". I didn't know what he meant.

"Camp told us that you'd told him I was gay. I don't think that's on mate, cause I'm not gay and you shouldn't spread rumours just to try to cover up the fact that you're gay yourself"

"But I never said that"

"Well, we're just repeating what Camp said to us".

I left them feeling happy that I'd told them, but also confused about what else had been said. I'd never even mentioned that I knew Camp was gay, and I certainly wouldn't have said it about anyone else. I never have been a gossip like that, so I decided that there had probably been some sort of misunderstanding.

A week later Camp said that a couple of the guys had been calling me names when I wasn't around. He said, "You see, they might tell you it's ok to your face but behind your back they hate you for being a queer".

I asked a friend if things were being said about me, and he admitted that some things might well have been talked about, but that seriously no-one had a problem with who I was. However I started to doubt my friends, and I didn't know who I could trust anymore.

Camp and I were still having sex with each other almost every night, and I'd still not told a single soul. And at some point he'd very quietly split with his girlfriend, although I only found out from a third party.

Celebrity Abuse

Last night I was verbally abused by a celebrity.

It had all started off rather well. The Boyf and I, plus our friend The Drag Queen, went to see George Michael in concert at Earls Court. The Boyf and I aren't exactly huge fans, although we both like certain of his songs and have at least one of his albums each. The Drag Queen on the other hand is a bona fide GM nut. She's actually going to every show that he's doing in London i.e. Saturday, Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday and then twice in December, and has spent a couple of thousand pounds on tickets in total. Strange girl.

It was actually a very good show. The stage set is amazing, George's voice was on fine form (although we noticed he allowed the audience to sing all the high notes for him - how kind), and we got an ex-Sugababe (Mutya Buena) thrown in for free, eliciting much excitement from your very own OMO. A point to note however; she's looking scarily like Pete Burns these days, which I'm sure you'll agree isn't the best of looks to aspire to.

As for the celebrity abusing me, it was all a case of mistaken identity. After the concert we met OBM#1 and OBM#2 for a divorce party being thrown at the Soho Revue Bar by a celebrity one of us happens to have shared a limo with once. Said celebrity being perky-bottomed slaphead Gail Porter. She'd actually given OBM#1 a lift in her limo when he was on his way to London from Scotland to meet OBM#2 for the very first time, and of course during the journey he'd regaled her with stories of their internet dating and how this would be their first actual meeting. They've kept in touch since then and have become friends, although she'd never met OBM#2 before and was rather excited.

Anyway, Gail runs over to OBM#1 so that she can finally meet OBM#2, who happens to be busy at the bar, so instead OBM#1 introduces her to me. Now, I happen to have the same name as OBM#2 so Gail immediately thinks I'm OBM#1's boyfriend. She grabs me, pulls me to her, gives me a huge kiss, and says "Darling, I feel like I've known you forever. I've heard so much about you."

I (sheepishly) replied with, "Actually I'm not the right (insert name here). He's at the bar."

Gail, "Oh, in that case you can fuck off then", and pushing me aside wanders away to find the correct boyfriend.

So there you have it; shunned by a celebrity.

My Second Birthday

Well, I had a very surreal moment at the weekend. There's a guy we see around who we used to refer to as "Daddy", before we plucked up the courage to actually ask him his name and became friends. Frankly, he's kinda scary to look at. Very well built, hairy, bald with a goatee, he's constantly dressed in leather gear; waistcoat, chaps, cod-piece, arm-bands, cuffs, you name it. The full works. He stomps around like he owns the place, will quite happily grab anyone who takes his fancy (even if they try to resist), and scares the crap out of alot of people. And he's an absolute angel. I love the guy. He's a big softie wrapped in a fetish wet-dream body.

Anyway, there we were, The Boyf, OBM#1, OBM#2, The Drag Queen and Daddy all round OBM's flat whilst having a break from the clubbing extravaganza that was my second birthday weekend of celebrating (I'm 36 you know, dear). Daddy was very restless and had already shown everyone his nether regions by taking off his cod-piece. He then decided he wanted to sit on my lap. Now, I'm 5 ft 8 and weigh 188lbs. He's 6 ft and must weigh a good 230. He also had his arse hanging out of his chaps. So there I was, sitting on a chair with a huge leather daddy sat on my knee and I'm bouncing him up and down, and he's chuckling away quite contentedly. Like I say, totally surreal and not what I ever imagined would happen when I first met him.

As for the clubbing; well we were guest-listed for "Juicy" at Fire on Saturday night for reasons I can't explain in case I get someone in trouble with his boyfriend (but let's just say that it's all about who you blow), and we had a whale of a time. The music was uplifting, at least until 6.30am when it started going bleepy (or that could have been the Class-A's altering my hearing), and there were hotties in abundance (or that could have been the Class-A's altering my eyesight). At around 10am we decided to leave and have a break (we'd been there since 2am), and then after that we returned to Fire for "Later", which again was alot of fun, although we couldn't tell the difference from Juicy as they seemed to be playing the same songs as they were 12 hours before. Oh well, if they're good enough to dance to the first time. At about 4pm (now Sunday of course) we headed over to the RVT to watch the legend that is Edna and then dance to some camp classics. By 10pm I literally couldn't stand up anymore and The Boyf and I headed home to a long overdue cuddle and some sleep.

Oh, and guess what? I never snogged or groped anybody apart from The Boyf. How well-behaved was I???

All birthdays should be like this one, I've decided. I didn't even mind being a year older. Roll on next year.

My New View

I'll tell you a bit about my second birthday weekend celebration in another post (I have two birthday weekends you know, just like a proper Queen), but I thought I'd just mention that we had another bloody office move at the weekend, and guess where I've moved to? Yes, I'm through the little door in reception and I'm staring straight at The Cute Guy. And dribbling. And actually we do keep maintaining eye contact, although I'm not sure whether he likes me or is considering a restraining order. Oh well, he should be pleased; you're nobody until you've had a stalker. I've currently got one of my own who doesn't stop staring at me whenever we end up in the same club, and occassionally messages me on line to tell me how lovely I am. Which is understandable.

Happy Thanksgiving

So, it's a big Happy Thanksgiving today to our friends in the USA.

Now, dear Americans, over here we're not too sure what Thanksgiving actually is. We had a little discussion in the office and everyone agreed with me - they have to otherwise I sulk - that's it's probably something to do with saying thank you to those lovely Indians who let you live on their land and whose food you ate, shortly before you slaughtered them all.

It's a bit like at Christmas where we thank The Lord for giving us his son, Santa, who we could then duly murder (because he married the Easter Bunny, which is just wrong) and eat chocolate eggs in his memory come April, or possibly March, depending on when it happens to tie-in with a Pagan festival.

I did pose my assumptions to a friend of mine in New York, and he very kindly replied thus:

"You are, indeed correct. We Americans enjoy celebrating Massacres: The Indians, Jesus, Martin Luther King and the British (July 4th). What can you expect from a country where every man has a god-given right to a concealed weapon?"

So that's that cleared up then.

iPodlessness

I'm not sure exactly how I've managed to get by without an iPod for so long now. It's going on for 6 months since my car was broken into and my iPod stolen. The ironic thing of course was that for the 9 months that I lived at my old place, where my car stood in the road outside in what was considered a slightly "dodgy" area, it was never touched. In fact the locals rather liked it, what with it's big wheels, dumped suspension and bodykit. My car that is, not my iPod. The local kids would give me the thumbs up, or tell me that my car was "cool, man", and I guess because I lived in the neighbourhood they left it alone.

When I moved to go live with The Boyf my Mum expressed relief that I was moving out of somewhere "rough" and into a "nice part of town". Imagine her surprise when my car was broken into, in a secure garage area, only a short while after I'd moved. The glee I gained from telling her was strangely tempered by the bill for my car being repaired, however.

Anyway, the upshot is that I've been iPodless for a number of months, and my life just isn't the same. I loved having my every movement soundtracked. I loved matching my music to my mood and surroundings. And with a 60gb iPod half-full, and still being added to on a daily basis, I always had the right song for the right moment. And now it's gone.

I did wonder what the thief thought of my taste in music. I imagined him/her flicking through my playlists; Erasure - gay! Depeche Mode - gay! Pet Shop Boys - gay! Barbra Streisand - ubergay! Metallica - er! Meat Beat Manifesto - who? Autechre - wtf! I wonder if they sat down and listened to any of it. I'd like to think that some thieving little shit somewhere now has an appreciation of avant-garde electronica. Or suddenly likes Celine Dion. It would almost make my music-free world worthwhile.

Of course now I get to wander around singing to myself, which is a bonus for everyone I come into contact with, as I'm sure the passengers of today's Tube will attest having been serenaded with "Loving You" on the way to work this morning. Nearly even hit that high note. I'll give it another go on the way home tonight.

It's All About Me!

So, you want to know about my birthday weekend do you? Just agree with me, ok. It's alot easier in the long-run.

Well, on Saturday I was feeling rather perky, and actually capable of eating something, along as it was reasonably sloppy. No jokes please. So, The Boyf and I headed into town on the back of a boat with our friend The Drag Queen, and once there met OBM#1 and OBM#2 for a meal. We spent a rather lovely few hours in an Italian restaurant in Soho, then were spirited away to a local bar where my friends spoilt me with champagne. Afterwards The Boyf and I headed to the theatre to see "Blood Brothers", and very nice it was too. I have this little problem in that I can't suspend disbelief when I'm watching a stage production, hence remained resolutely straight-faced when all around me were sobbing, including The Boyf. Nevertheless I very much enjoyed it.

From there we headed back home where I finished opening my multitude of presents from The Boyf, including a book I wanted called "Bondi Work", where numerous lovelies pretend that they know which end of a spanner to use, or where the oil drains from the sump of a car, all in the name of art. There's one particular guy who has rather taken my fancy. I'd very much like him to come round and change my oil, but I have a feeling he wouldn't really know how to do it. Still, he'd look good fiddling around with my dip-stick.

On Sunday we went to The Natural History Museum. Yeah, I know. We're so very cultural and everything! Apart from that we just went for a walk in town and then went home for a quiet evening. Needless to say, that's quite enough culture for one month and we now need to go out, get drunk and dance on a podium somewhere. That's this coming weekend sorted then.

Camp - Part 1

I was 17, still in school, and had just passed my driving test. As with anyone this suddenly opened a world of opportunity, and I was out every night, driving around, finding my way about, discovering new places. I very quickly discovered that there was a place where everyone hung-out with their cars. Guys would drive there from miles around and park up and talk, or race each other round the one-way system, and I became one of them. Yes, I was a Boy Racer (rolls eyes)! I still have that gene in me now, as The Boyf will attest.

Anyway, I quickly became friends with a group of guys who, it transpired, lived in the same town as me. They were all in their early to mid 20's and had gone to a different school to me, hence our paths had never crossed before, but I quickly became friends with all of them and became part of their gang. As with any gang there are always a certain number of core members, plus a few people who drift in and out. And one of these drifters was a guy we'll refer to as "Camp", largely because he was. He took an instant shine to me, and when it transpired that he lived only 5 minutes walk from my home he suddenly took it upon himself to be my new best friend. I wasn't totally up for this, as I, along with the other guys in the gang, found him to be rather odd. He was fey, cracked the most awful jokes, and was generally the most uncool guy I'd met. And you know how important it is to be cool when you're 17!

It seemed like every evening I was out with Camp and the other guys, and much of the time Camp would pick me up, as he was closest, geographically. Over the course of a month or so the way Camp interracted with me became more outlandish, but only when we were alone, up to the point where he'd lay a hand on my knee and squeeze it when he was telling me something, or run a hand down my arm. Or he'd surreptiously pinch my ass as I walked past in a bar.

I knew he was gay of course. I knew the moment I met him. It was so obvious to all and sundry, and his girlfriend wasn't fooling anyone, not me or the other guys. But I couldn't relate to him. I couldn't relate to his flapping arms and high-pitched giggle. If this was what it was to be gay, then perhaps I wasn't. Maybe I was just something else. But I wanted to talk to him about it. I wanted to know whether he felt the same way about men as me. Strangely I saw him as completely non-sexual, and I guess this is true of many camp men - that's how heterosexual males can laugh at a men like John Inman or Larry Grayson without feeling threatened by their sexuality.

Then one night we were in his car and he suddenly pulled over. We were in the middle of nowhere. He turned to me and said "You're gay, aren't you?". I was stunned. Noone had ever said such a thing to me before. My mind raced. This is what I'd been waiting for, but to admit it to another person! He put a hand on my knee and asked me again. I couldn't look him in the eyes, so I dropped my gaze to my lap.

"It's ok, you can tell me. Come on, just tell me you're gay"

I started to cry. I don't know why I was so frightened, but I knew that once I said it I could never take it back. I didn't want to take it back, I wanted it to be out there, but how hard it was to utter those few words!

"I don't want to say it. We both know"

"No, you must say it. You HAVE to say it"

"I can't", I whispered.

"Of course you can. Come on, just say the words"

Gradually I composed myself somewhat, and looked up at him.

"That's it, go on, tell me you're gay", he said.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and stammered, "I'm gay"

He removed his hand from my knee and said "I knew you were".

I felt the relief wash over me.

"You're gay too", I didn't so much as ask as just state the obvious. Finally I was going to have someone to talk to about how I felt.

His face hardened into a sneer. "No, I'm not. I've got a girlfriend. I'm not a queer like you"

"But you're gay! I know you're gay"

"No, I'm not, and you need to stop saying that. It's time you went home. Oh, and you'd better be prepared to tell your friends otherwise I'm going to have to". And with that he drove me home in silence.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - "Casino Royale"

Went to see the new Bond film at the weekend, and very good it was too. I shudder at the very thought of using a word such as "re-imagining", but that's basically what it is; it's a back-to-basics Bond.

Daniel Craig is superb, as we hoped he would be. With the amount of crap that was thrown his way when he was cast we'd been waiting months to see if he could shut everyone up, and he certainly sticks his fingers up to the naysayers.

It's gritty, the stunts are so much better for their lack of CGI, and the interplay between Craig and Eva (as Vespa Lynd) is brilliantly written.

On the downside it's a good 20 minutes too long. The Boyf had even managed to run out of popcorn - he has a family sized bucket on his own and growls at me should I have the temerity of wanting any. Also, trying to work out who's the bad guy/girl and why made my head hurt, but then I was still getting over an illness. Oh, and try to ignore that bloody awful theme tune. Just sing "Goldfinger" very loudly over the top when it comes on like we did.

Altogether it certainly has the OMO Seal of Approval. Go see it.

What Happened?

Er, hello? What day is this? Where am I? Who the hell are you lot?

(coughs)

So, the last thing I remember was thinking "Oh good, The Boyf's starting to get better and wants to go out for a walk".

On Saturday we wandered along the South Bank and watched the firework display after the Lord Mayor's Show and then wandered around for a while, during which time I started to realise I wasn't feeling very well. The following 3 days were spent in bed with a very high temperature, which finally broke sometime Tuesday night. During this time I also developed an increasingly sore throat, which made any attempt at eating complete agony, and even liquids were a struggle. I ended up living purely on milk and water. Late Wednesday I managed to drag myself to the doctor to be told I had acute tonsillitis. I said "Well, I have a cute everything else, why should my tonsils be any different?". Hahahahahahahahahaha

Hahahahhaha

hahaha

haha

ha

hmmmm

So, today is the first day I've woken up and the world isn't swimming in front of my eyes, and it seems the penicillin has kicked in because it's now just painful to swallow rather than agonising.

And guess what; tomorrow is my birthday. Yup, I get to have a birthday on a Saturday, and already we've had to cancel the meal because I still won't be able to eat solid food, and no doubt I won't feel up to going out much either. Not that all that matters really. It's nice to know I'm obviously on the mend, and I know The Boyf will spoil me, and at the end of the day as long as I spend it with him I couldn't wish for anything more. Sorry, I'm making you ill now aren't I?

The Long View

It's been a quiet ol' week. The Boyf's still ill, although last night he did seem to be more like his old self, so I think over the weekend he should be pretty much back to normal. Looks like we're going to have a very quiet weekend though, and in typical fashion I'm feeling restless at the very thought of having to stay home. We'll see. Maybe I can cajole The Boyf out to a bar on Sunday evening.

So whilst things are quiet I've been thinking that I'd like to start to tell you some little stories about my past. There are three people I would like to tell you something about, and they have helped to shape the man you see before you today, along with my parents and The Boyf of course. Those three are:

1. Camp - my first gay experience, and a man I find it difficult to stop hating to this day.

2. Chippy - my first proper boyfriend, an angel, who I was with for 7 years.

3. The Mechanic - We also spent 7 years together, and I'll let you make your own minds up on this guy, but Lord knows I must have had patience to last that long. Or I was just plain stupid. You can decide in your own time.

So, over the next few weeks/months I'll relate a few little tales concerning these people...

In the meatime, have a good weekend.

A View, For You - From Lloyd's

In the absence of anything to write about (The Boyf's ill at home at the moment - you don't need to know the gory details - meaning we're staying in a watching TV alot), I thought I'd give you something to look at.

This is the view from the 11th (and top) floor of the Lloyd's Building, and looks east across London towards the tower blocks of Canary Wharf (One Canada Square being the tallest building in the distance). In the right-hand foreground you can just see the edge of new Willis building, still under construction. It's going to be quite a bit taller than the Lloyd's building at 29 floors, although still not the tallest in the Square Mile (the financial district within the City of London), that accolade going to Tower 42 (guess how many floors?). There are various planning regulations within the City, one of which is to protect the view of St Paul's Cathedral from various points across London, and these conspire to restrict the height of the buildings in this area. Hence, the tallest buildings are out at Canary Wharf in the old docklands in the east end of London. More about that area another day.

Still Not Flirting. Er...

Now I seem to recall, not so long ago, that I told you I'd made a promise to The Boyf that I would never, EVER flirt with anyone again. So with that in mind I would like to just state for record that I never flirted with those three guys in The Hoist (my knees hurt, as usual), the massive German daddy in Megawoof (my nipples are sore), the German's best mate the following day in the RVT (my reputation preceeds me), or that sexy little guy in Orange (my balls ache). Anyone who tells you I was flirting is utterly mistaken, as the definition of flirting is "attention without intention", and clearly I had certain intentions in mind.

Oh dear. It was one of THOSE weekends. Again.

I blame The Boyf of course. He encourages me. "Oh, you'd look lovely snogging that guy over there", or "Don't you think you should say thanks for the drink by sucking him off". Sometimes I feel like a cheap whore you know. And frankly, I like it.

The Monday Morning BlogBite

Morning everyone. I trust you all had good weekends.

I thought I'd share this little photo with you. It never fails to amuse me. Those of you not from England won't understand it of course. Sorry about that. I'll try to find something more global-friendly next time.

"Rudebox" by Robbie Williams

A quickie review of the new Robbie Williams album, "Rudebox".

It's crap.

The End.

Ok, ok, I'll give you some more details.

There are 2 songs on the album I really like, "She's Madonna" and "We're The Pet Shop Boys", both of which are produced by, well, The Pet Shop Boys of course. Both sound like decent PSB songs (the latter is actually a cover of a PSB B-side), and would benefit from Neil Tennant singing rather than the rather whiney Robbie.

Apart from that, "Kiss Me", a cover of the Stephen "Tin Tin" Duffy song, is as camp as tits. Yeah, we know it was produced by uber-house stalwart Dave Lee (or Joey Negro, if you prefer), but it's not "house", more "pink Barbie caravan". Still, the gays will love it, and it has chart appeal when all other singles fail.

Elsewhere Robbie treats us to the self-absorbed, not-as-clever-as-he-thinks "The 80's" and "The 90's", where he appears to be using his listeners as some form of counselling service so that he can tell us how hard done by he was during the Take That years.

Frankly, adding the talent vacuum that is Lily Allen to a couple of tracks isn't helping any. In fact, parts of the album sound like they could be songs she rejected, which isn't saying much. The rest of the album sounds like songs Justin Timberlake rejected.

And where did Robbie get the idea he can rap from? Somebody make him stop. Please!

So, there you have it. Sorry I'm not a bit more positive, but I was kinda looking forward to this album. My advice would be; go out and buy "Fundamental" by The Pet Shop Boys instead, and see how it's supposed to be done. Or if you just want something fun, may I recommend Girls Aloud's "The Sound of Girls Aloud"; no finer collection of well-crafted pop song will you hear all year, frankly. At least until the Sugababes "Overloaded: Singles Collection" gets released anyway.

Have a good weekend everyone!

Why My Friends Think I'm Weird: Pt.2

I can't quite believe I'm going to admit to this here.

(Takes deep breath)

I need to be naked to go to the toilet. And my clothes have to be folded.

When I say "toilet" I of course mean, er, well, you know, (whispers) Number 2's.

Yes, I know I'm odd but whenever I go I have to take all my clothes off otherwise I don't feel comfortable. This unfortunately then has a knock-on effect because I don't like taking clothes off without folding or hanging them properly.

Sorry, did someone at the back just mention Asperger's Syndrome? Whoever it was can kindly keep that to themselves, and also please could you put your books in piles, I don't like the disorder.

Anyway, getting back to the subject, all of this isn't a problem at home of course, hence why The Boyf has no idea about this little quirk. I come home from work, take my clothes off, hang them or put them in the laundry, go to the bathroom, toilet and have a shower. It all fits together rather nicely. The problem comes when I need to go and are not anywhere near home. On the rare occasions that I use the toilet at work I've been known to take a coat hanger with me. No, not to break the brown weasel's back! That's disgusting! It's so that I can hang my clothes up, thank you very much.

So there you go, another of my little quirks for your enjoyment. Please feel free to let me know if you do the same thing, so that I don't feel like a complete weirdo.

A View, For You - Lloyd's

It's a lovely, cool autumn day today and I've had to wander up to the Lloyd's building to try to blag my way in to the 11th Floor meeting room. I didn't succeed, partly because a third party gave the game away.

So, this is the Lloyd's building for your delectation...

Trade and Tribulations

We had the dubious honour of going to the opening of a garden centre's Christmas display, complete with mince pie and mulled wine reception. Yes, really. No film premieres, book launches or fashion shows for us. No lunches with the Beckhams, or wine and canapés with Elton and David. Oh no, we get the opening of a garden centre's grotto.

In the Midlands.

For those of you who aren't aware of England's geography - i.e. the Welsh - the Midlands are the bit in the middle. I spoil you with useful info' don't I? Basically, it's the part of England you have to go through to before you end up somewhere nice. And unfortunately The Boyf hails from that dull, grey part of the world, which means we have to visit now and again. I must admit though, that if you get off the motorway the countryside is rather nice, and I have even grown rather attached to Birmingham town centre. There's no hope for me.

We travelled back to London on Saturday, and the remainder of the weekend seems to have been spent trying to find my way out of my first Trade whilst not losing my friends. It was a bit like trying to herd cats through a labyrinth. In the dark. Drugged. Even a barman I asked had no idea how to get out. Still, we had fun. At least other people tell me I was grinning alot so I must have enjoyed it. I seem to recall stumbling, quite literally, across the main dance floor whilst looking for the toilets, having been dancing for four hours in a small backroom thinking it was the main floor. The only thing I clearly remember, apart from "Christ, they're playing Synth & Strings by Yomanda! In this day and age!", is falling flat on my face onto a knee-high podium, and then deciding it would be easiest to crawl the rest of the way. Actually, thinking about it, the reason they probably played "Synth & Strings" was because 1998 was the last time the DJ found their way out, and they've since had to play whatever records they took in with them all those years ago.

Can't wait for Trade's next birthday, which seems to be every two months or something. Never did quite work that one out.

A View, For You - The Thames

Now I've worked out how to add photos I'm afraid you might well be deluged. Oh well, adds a bit of colour if nothing else.

Part of my journey to and from work is a rather lovely little walk along the Thames, which I live next to. Our little apartment doesn't have a garden, or even a balcony, but we can just step outside and sit or stand by the river and watch the world go by, often with a glass of wine or two.
So today's photo is from just outside our apartment, which is on the south bank of the river in the east end of London. It was taken last Tuesday as I left for work in the morning, and is facing west towards The City (the financial area of London). You can't see much specifically, but The Gherkin is visible right in the centre if you look closely. I'll give you a decent photo of The Gherkin another day.

The Monday Morning BlogBite

Well, I'm back! Yes, I know, it felt like ages didn't it? It's ok. No, really. I know you're pleased to see me but I'd rather if you stopped humping my leg like that. There's a place for such things, and it's called The Hoist.

Whilst I'm in the process of writing something about the last few days I thought I'd share this little find with you. I was trawling the internal on-line phonebook at work and found a rather funny name. Yes, it's a real name, and he really works in my building. Can't wait to find him.

Bye For A Bit

I'm sad to say that I'm going to be leaving you for a few days. I know, it's upsetting isn't it? Please don't cry, it's only a few days I promise. Yes, I know I said that about the dog, but I told you he's gone to live on a farm where he can play with the other animals.

The Boyf and I are heading north for a couple of days to see his family and friends, and when we get back it's going to be a long weekend of clubbing. No doubt out of that there should be something interesting to tell you about. That's if I can remember any of it.

So, I'll see you all next week. In the meantime I'll leave you with a saying: one good turn gets most of the blankets.

Fresh, Like Morning Dew

I was stood at the bar in a well-reknowned club in London. A well-reknowned sex club in London, in fact. The Boyf has gone to the toilet, a new acquaintence of ours (in fact, it's The God. Dribble) has gone for a little walk round. We all know what that means, but he's told us not to go anywhere. Apparently he's not finished with us. The guy's insatiable, and frankly I'm not complaining.

So yeah, I'm at the bar, alone, drinking cider. The barman is leaving me be for a moment. Apparently he's had quite enough fun playing with my ears for a bit and has gone off to serve someone. (He has a thing about ears, took an immediate shine to mine, and then nearly wet himself when I revealed I can wiggle them).

So anyway, I'm at the bar, on my own. I think we all get that by now. I should add that it's very hot in The Hoist. Oops, named it. Oh well. Suddenly I can feel a very light shower hitting the top of my head and my bare shoulders. (No, I wasn't wearing that blue sequined halter-neck dress - I'd taken my t-shirt off). It feels like a very fine sprinkler system has been turned on, to cool the hot patrons at the bar. I close my eyes and tilt my head back to allow the mist to hit my face. I open my mouth and let out a very satisfied sigh.

At this moment The Boyf and The God both reappear (from opposite directions, I should add). They seem to be keeping a slight distance from me, and The Boyf is smirking. The God, looking vaguely disturbed, says to me, "You do know you're being pissed on, don't you?".

I back away from the bar and look up. On the mezzanine level lies a skinhead. Standing alongside is another skinhead, and he is pissing on the guy lying down, the spray from which I've just been standing under with my mouth open.

The Boyf and The God start to laugh, I complain that my pint tastes funny, and we all repair to a dark corner to give my poor knees another work-out.

Utterly Mortified

I'm standing outside a club with The Boyf, getting some air, when an acquaintance of his walks up to say hello. We've met on numerous occasions, and he's always been friendly, so I immediately greet him with a cheery "Hi".

He looks at me blankly.

I look at him, smiling, awaiting some sort of reaction.

He looks at me blankly.

I start to look puzzled.

The Boyf, realising that something odd is transpiring, says "You know my boyfriend, (insert name here)".

He looks at me blankly.

Then suddenly, "Oh yes, of course, sorry. You know, if you wasn't with The Boyf I'd never recognise you. You just don't stand out".

Farewell Schuey

I'm not ashamed to say I shed a tear at the end of the Grand Prix yesterday. I'd already started getting a bit emotional when Schuey set a fastest lap after his puncture, and had worked my way up from there.

It's very much the end of an era. As with most geniuses Schumacher was flawed, and his career has been tempered with controversy. But whether you like him or not you have to admit that he's going to leave a big hole in F1.



Personally I love the guy. I loved the way he could pull fastest lap after fastest lap out of the bag when he needed to, seemingly at will. I loved the way he always gave praise where it was due, and was always on the optimistic side of realistic. And I loved how he never gave up, as demonstrated again yesterday. He retires as the best driver currently in F1, the best of his generation, and arguably the best of all time.

I'm going to miss him, and now I have to find someone new to cheer for after all these years. Being a dedicated Ferrari fan since childhood I should start rooting for Kimi, but his complete lack of any discernible personality prohibits this, therefore I'm left with Massa to uphold my Ferrari allegiance. Other than that I guess I'm going to have to cheer for Button. If only Michael wasn't leaving.

An Experiment

For your delectation I will now endeavour to add a photo to one of my posts.

Drum roll please....

Et viola!

Oh, it's a bit small. Never mind, the thought was there.

Nice though, isn't it? I took it with my mobile phone (in panorama mode) whilst in Scotland this year. It's the Cairngorm mountain range taken from Loch Morlich.

Anyway, my experiment is a success, and I will now add random photos to my posts, most of which will probably bear no relation to what I'm writing about, just because I can.

Niqabs For Everyone!

I feel like I should jump on the "Muslim women shouldn't be allowed to wear veils" bandwagon. As usual I'm jumping on a bandwagon after it's already set off on its journey, and I'm likely to break the odd fingernail while I scramble aboard. I might graze a knee as well, which will give me a nice little scab to pick at later.

Anyway, I'd like to approach the argument from another direction. In fact, the opposite direction entirely. I think non-Muslim women should start wearing veils and full headscarves too. Why should non-Muslims be discriminated against by not being allowed to wear them? In this way we can bring some colour to them too. I know black's very slimming, and goes well with most colours (still not feeling black with brown no matter what anyone tells me, sorry), but it's a bit dull, especially in summer, and non-Muslims should be allowed to co-ordinate with their outfit. So, we should have veils in nice muted colours, nothing too bright cause they'll just look cheap. Maybe add a few sequins, or some nice slogans. You know, like "Motorhead" or something. And then designer labels can get in on the act, and sportswear brands too. We could have nice Nike veils with the big tick across where the mouth should be. Or Adidas veils with the stripes up the sides.

And why stop at women? Let men wear them too. The gays can start this one off. You just know they'll be tight-fitting and, as seems to be the current vogue, have some slogan emblazoned in rhinestones across the front. Maybe a risqué little rip to expose a bit of nose, or backless headscarves like a pair of chaps for the head. And the bear scene can have ones in plaid with stick-on beards on the front, and then the fetish scene can get into it... oh, they already have gimp masks, sorry.

Then, as in everything, the straight men can get in on the act, probably with a Burberry pattern, or perhaps they'll invent a kind of hoodie with a front panel, or something to hang off the brim of a baseball cap.

And of course the Muslim women will start wearing the coloured ones, perhaps starting with something conservative like a Laura Ashley floral print and working their way up. And then it'll become a fashion thing and at some point will go out of favour, as these things have want to do, and Muslim and non-Muslims alike will put their veils in the back of their wardrobes and forget all about them, in a flares kinda way. And the Muslims will forget why they wore them in the first place, i.e. because the males are insecure and feel the need to suppress women, and we'll all live happily ever after.

Keira Knightly and Lindsay Lohan Get It On!

Like two stick insects with strap-ons, I should imagine.

Come And Play With My Asp

I'm having a good day at work.

One of the maintenance men is quite sexy, and he's just has to come and fiddle with my cupboard doors (not a euphemism, unfortunately). So I was able to do comedy licking motions behind him when he was bending over in front of me. Strangely satisfying, you know.

I've also found out the name of the Cute Guy. It's Luke. And I've found out where he works in my building. There's a little plain door leading from reception, which looks like it could be a cupboard but is actually a big open-plan office. And he's in it. Everything suddenly falls into place.

I knew he couldn't escape from me for long. So, all I have to do now is find a reason to go through that little door. Perhaps I could pretend to be delivering something. Or maybe their plumbing is broken. I'll just borrow a typically ridiculous opening gambit from a porn film. "Excuse me mister, I'm here to have a look at your back door, and I've got some lube to try to free it up", or something equally preposterous. And then we can have filthy bum sex over a photocopier after everyone has left for the day.

Oh joy! All my dreams come true. Well, not all of them, but it's unlikely that I'll ever have those gold things in my hair like Elizabeth Taylor in "Cleopatra", so I'll settle for the office bum sex.

Parents, honestly!

Today I'm going to have a little rant about parents. I'm qualified to talk about parenting because my ex-boyf was the biggest, surliest kid imaginable. Mentally, I mean. Obviously I don't go out with children, unless they happen to be inhabiting the body of a 38 year old mechanic. At least he's fully prepared me should I ever need to adopt a teenage girl.

So yeah, parents these days are crap. At least, the ones near my abode are. The Boyf, as you may recall, should you be paying the proper attention, is a teacher. Last week he had to have two mothers physically removed from the school for fighting. He also had to physically restrain one of the fathers because he was trying to punch another mother in the face because she forgot to meet his wife in BHS for lunch!!! It's not the children that are the problem you see, it's the parents. Ok, so one of the kids bought in an aerosol and a lighter and used them like a blowtorch to set another kid alight. Weren't you up to such high japes when you were 8 years old?

On breakfast tv this morning, the last bastion of high-brow informative programming (rolls eyes), we were treated to a parent complaining that his son was banned from eating his packed lunch. The 8 year old's lunch comprised a sandwich, a bag of crisps, an iced cake, a yoghurt and a bottle of water. I'm guessing the water was a concession to make it all look healthy should Jamie Oliver pop up from behind a static display of Meg & Mog. Anyway, the lunch broke school rules because it included three snacks when rules stipulated only two were allowed. So what had the Dad done? Yes, gone on national tv to complain. With the kid. Who should be in school, no? Half-term's next week. The Dad was fully aware of school rules but stated that if the yoghurt was poured over the cake it only counted as one snack. Ew! Still, judging by the look of him it was only to be expected.

When parents take their kids to a school they're made fully aware of the school rules. If they have an issue they should speak to the Head, not go on national tv with their petty grievances. I, for one, don't really give a shit if someone's kid isn't allowed a yoghurt AND a cake. I've got better things to worry about over my breakfast, like how I can gets lips like Angelina Jolie, and whether Katie Holmes gets to sleep with whatever man she wants to in her arrangement with Tom Cruise. Or perhaps she prefers women, which is why she's been hanging around with Victoria Beckham wearing similar outfits. Cause lesbians do that don't they? Dress the same I mean, not hang around with Posh.

So, if any whiney parents should be reading this, please stop moaning and let your kid get on with it's education. It'll thank you in the long-run. Unless you're from Bermondsey, in which case at least it'll be able to write you beautifully punctuated letters from prison.

The Weekend Arrives

It was my Mum's birthday on Wednesday. Her 72nd, and the first one she's had since my Dad passed away. I took time off work and went to visit in the afternoon/evening, and my sister turned up shortly after. My niece had already been to visit first thing in the morning. It seemed like, without actually talking about it, we'd all conspired to arrange our time so that Mum wouldn't be left on her own throughout the day, and I'd never seen her receive so many cards.

As usual I spent alot of my time at Mum's trying not to cry; the place feels so empty without Dad. And as usual my Mum was more than happy to talk about him, in this case about birthdays that they'd had in the past, seemingly without getting upset. She hasn't cried about my Dad at all, which she finds as strange as I do. Oh well, I've cried enough for the pair of us. Still do.

Everyone says that the first year after a loved one dies is the hardest. It's hitting all those landmarks - birthdays, Christmas etc - and not having them around. But I'm not finding those landmark days any harder than any other. Both Father's Day and what would have been my Dad's birthday were too close after he died for me to differentiate the pain on that day to any other. I guess the test will be my own birthday and then Christmas, but to be honest I can't imagine they'll hurt any more than any other day I don't get to hear my Dad tell me he loves me.

Have a good weekend, dear readers. I know I intend to.

Ginger, We Salute You!

There is a new guy started in our office this week. He's BIG. As in 6 foot tall and plays rugby. But no, unusually he's not my type, which is a shame cause I've been looking forward to his first day for ages. I'd even douched especially. Sorry, TMI.

Anyway, all this brings to mind the guy he's replacing, who we'll simply refer to as "Ginger". (Look, he already had that nickname when I started. You know how unimaginative straight people are when dishing out nicknames).

Ginger had a habit of saying the most un-PC things imaginable to people he'd never met before, but I'll tell you just one of the snippets of joy to fall from his mouth.

Some of the lads went to Brighton for a stag "do". Yeah, Brighton, I know! There was much rolling of eyes by OMO when they announced it. I didn't go, thinking that at some point they'd make me take them to a gay bar and then something silly would happen. But even without me it transpired they tried to get into an establishment for those of us who like Kylie. The bouncer refused them, which is where Ginger pipes up with "I know I'm not gay but I do have ginger hair, so that makes me disabled too". Needless to say, they didn't get in.

So here's to you, Ginger, and your funny mouth. I'll forever miss being referred to as "the office faggot"...

The Weekend - Post-Credits

It's now about 3am. We're still in the dark club, the music is still pounding, people are still having sex (wasn't that a song?). OMO and TB are at the bar. They're having a quiet-ish drink, post-The God Incident. They've had their egos stroked, along with other things. Now, earlier in the day TB had come up with a game to try to get OMO involved a bit more (!), and suddenly starts to count down...

"10... 9... 8..."

OMO is clearly astonished that this is going to happen. The plan is that OMO has a count of 10 to disappear into the club and cop off with someone. Once the countdown is finished TB would come looking, hopefully to find OMO in a "compromising" position and join in.

"7... 6... 5... "

OMO dashes off into the gloom. He's looking for one of the other guys they both liked from before The God Incident.

"4... 3... 2..."

OMO has found one of them. He's really rather lovely. OMO can't afford to waste time so walks straight up to him and says "Follow me".

"1... Zero. Coming to get you!"

20 minutes later (it took him that long to find me, hee hee) TB finally discovers OMO locked in the disabled toilet (so classy!), bent over with his face pushed up against the mirror. You can guess what was going on, and although it might have looked like leap-frog to a casual observer, it most certainly wasn't. Cue another very shocked look from TB, who's idea of "compromising" apparently hadn't stretched quite that far.

THE END.

Act 5

On reaching The God OMO immediately drops to his knees in front of him. There is a moment which feels like eternity where OMO think The God will push past and walk off. What OMO doesn't know is that a big grin has spread across The God's face and he's tipped TB a wink. The God then unzips his flies, reaches in an pulls out an enormous cock. There is an audible gasp from assembled on-lookers. Someone twitters "Oh, that lucky bitch". OMO thinks that the warming-up exercises with the banana earlier in the evening aren't going to be enough. He wishes he'd used a marrow. He sets to anyway. It's a tough job but gurgle, mumble, gurgle. Other men start to flock around. They all want a piece, and frankly there's enough to go around, but OMO is a greedy bitch and growls at anyone who comes near. You don't give a dog a bone and then try to take it away again, do you?

Suddenly hands are pulling OMO to his feet. It's The God, so it's allowed. He growls "There are too many people here. Come with me. I want you two all to myself". Our two main characters swap a look of utter incredulity. OMO scans the area for cameras. He has decided this is clearly a set-up and they will shortly be appearing on "You've Been Framed". With much canned laughter. They follow The God to a back room, the door of which is locked behind them. There ensues lots of the sex. And there was much rejoicing!

ROLL CREDITS.


(There is actually a little after-credits scene here for those of you who haven't turned off in disgust)

Act 4

A couple of hours have passed. People have lost their inhibitions and have started having lots of the sex very randomly throughout the club. OMO and TB wander around for a bit then return to the bar. They're still trying to pluck up the courage to jump on someone. Then they see The God, standing on his own in a corner. Apparently people are too nervous to go near him. Those that do are turned quickly away. Apparently he also appears to be staring very intently at our two main characters. OMO says to TB "What do you think?". TB appears frozen. He's had an attack of the nerves, which is most unlike him, as he's normally a brazen hussy. In a loveable way, of course. OMO, who now clearly has had enough cider (told you I was classy) to stop worrying about being shot down in flames by someone WAY out of his league, suddenly strides towards The God. TB, with a look of surprise that will be repeated later in the evening, realises what's going to happen and follows. He wants to catch OMO's hopes when they're dashed against the rocks of despair. Or, more likely, he wants to see The God's cock.

(Act 5)

Act 3

It's later that night and we're in a dark club. Pounding music plays to a crowd largely dressed in leather. They're not interest in dancing. They're interested in only one thing, and tonight it's not "Kylie: The Showgirl Princess", for a change! OMO and TB are at the bar, surveying the scene. They're trying to decide on tonight's plaything(s). They're also trying to ignore the guy wandering around in only a rubber vest, his cock tucked up inside it so only his balls dangle out of the bottom, and the guy in a jock-strap who hasn't realised that one ball is poking out the side. Anywho, they have two, er, victims in mind already when suddenly the door opens and in walks... The God. He is dressed in jeans with chaps and a leather waistcoat. OMO has a spontaneous hot flush, TB starts to dribble (again). As The God strides past he does a slight double-take and growls "Hello". He clearly recognises OMO and TB from the slack-jawed staring. And the slightly too high-pitched giggling. TB manages a surprisingly butch "Hello" in return. OMO just stares. The God strides off. OMO runs off to the toilet to splash cold water on his face and regain his composure.

(Act 4)

Act 2

Our main characters have moved to the locker-room. They have showered but seem in no hurry to leave. They know that the gym closes in 10 minutes and a certain someone still needs to have a shower. The God walks in and starts to undress. OMO and TB lurk around in front of the mirrors, pretending to do their hair. This looks stupid as they both have shaved heads. They're gay, after all. OMO in particular seems to be spending far too much time looking at his beard, so TB decides to physically herd him out of the door. OMO protests, whispering that he wants to see what The God looks like wet, but TB is conscious that they're starting to look like perverts. And their dribbling is now forming puddles. They've had their little excitement for the day.

(Act 3)

Act 1

London. A strangely warm October afternoon. People are confused and dress seems to vary from shorts and t-shirts to full overcoats, gloves and scarves. One guy is particularly confused and is wearing shorts WITH an overcoat and scarf (I know, honestly! And it wasn't even co-ordinated properly).

We enter a gym. Only a handful of guys are working out, including our two main characters, OMO and The Boyf (who'll we'll refer to as TB from now on). The door opens and in walks a god. THE God. Six feet tall, huge hairy chest, thick arms, shaved head, stubble. Arse to die for, or possibly in. His face suggests not much going on upstairs (he has the Ug-Factor, as we call it). He is built to look good. And to have rampant sex. Nothing more. OMO and TB burst into spontaneous flirtatious giggling, and basically go very unnecessary. There is much whispering behind hands, and bending over to pick up weights that they don't need whilst wiggling their behinds in The God's general direction. The God appears able to bench-press weights that our two main characters normally struggle to heave out of the way as a team. Or more likely just step over on the way to something lighter. Much grunting issues forth from him, soliciting more giggling.

(Act 2)

The Weekend - Pre-Credits

Saturday night was one of those evenings that don't happen too often. You know, the ones where you NEED to tell someone afterwards. It's a bit of a long story, and please don't think that I'm bragging, but I need to tell someone who can't butt in and say "Oh HIM. Yeah, I've already had him". And who better than you, who are always here, and can't get away quickly enough. So I'm going to break it into easy-to-digest parts, so you can read a little chapter in bed every night. With your Horlicks. Shall I come and tuck you in? I won't take advantage, honest.

It was straight out of a film really. Something low-rent, but a film nonetheless. Think "You've Got Mail" crossed with "Anal Cum Farts 2". Or something. "You've Got Nailed" perhaps. Is that a real porn film? Anyway, picture the scene...

(cue wobbly memory effect)

(Act 1)

Last Night's Dinner

...was chicken in a honey and tomato sauce with fragrant jasmine rice (all made from scratch by The Boyf, as is his way). It included many ingredients which I won't bother telling you about, primarily because I have no idea what they were. Look, it's not my job to cook in our relationship. I just sit around looking foxy (stop sniggering) and The Boyf places a plate of food in front of me at some point during the evening. My job is then to eat it, compliment him on how wonderful it was (because it always is), and then DO THE WASHING UP! Urgh! I wish I could cook.

Anyway, shame you didn't pop in for dinner cause it was rather lovely. Maybe tonight then eh?

Bring some wine, there's a love.

Brou-Ha-Ha

Quote of last night was "I am colouring the rainbow of truth with the crayons of denial".

Oh, and "I walked into a disabled toilet the other day. You know, just because I can. To show off."

Brou-Ha-Ha last night was funny as fuck. Four of us went along; OMO, The Boyf, The Drag Queen, and Our Big Mate #2. OBM#2 was picked on by the compare, bless him, for looking like he was carved from solid oak. He does have a certain solidity about him. He also belies his looks (manly and vaguely unapproachable) by doubling over with the giggles at every available opportunity.

All three acts were good in their own right, although the middle one didn't quite fit between the other two. The style of humour was completely different, whilst the other two complemented each other rather well.

Compared with Comedy Camp, Brou-Ha-Ha has a lovely comfortable feel about it. It feels warm and inviting. So if you get the chance, try it.

I'll try not to write a review of anything tomorrow, which should be easy as The Boyf and I are planning at night at home. Unless you want a review of something that's on TV tonight. Let's see, what's on?

Er...

On reviewing the schedules I think I'll treat you to a review of my dinner instead. Not sure what we'll be having yet, so it'll be a nice surprise for me tonight, and for you tomorrow.

Wilkommen! Bienvenue! Welcome!

"Cabaret" was bloody excellent, I have to say.

I seem to be one of the only gays not to have seen the film (I know, it's shocking isn't it. I mean, Liza's in it and everything!), so I had no idea of what it was about really. The Boyf once played Clifford in a production of it somewhere up north (which apparently used the old sets from the last West End production, some years ago now), so I relied on him to tell me what's new etc. What was quite interesting was that we both agreed on who played their characters well, or not so well, considering he knew how the characters should be whilst I was watching for the first time. Anyway, enough of all this, let me share with you some thoughts about it...

Firstly, there is nudity. We were quite shocked at the sudden arrival of a naked, and kinda cute, guy on stage, penis happily flopping around. Later on there was a lot of bottoms (not wobbly), a rather muscular young man dressed as a sailor (dribble), breasts (yikes), more willies (hurrah!), some lady gardens (ew!), a gay snog (phwoar), and some vaguely sado-masochistic sexual writhings on a bed (makes notes for later). All very tasteful of course, but it was quite amusing to hear some older members of the audience complaining about it in the interval.

Secondly, Anna Maxwell Martin is surprisingly good, James Dreyfus surprisingly isn't. The latter, playing the Master of Ceremonies (Emcee), just didn't seem bold enough as a character. The former, playing Sally Bowles, won me over. She managed to pull off being silly without being annoying, and although not the best singer (she's obviously been picked for her BAFTA winning acting credentials), I still found myself utterly mesmerised by her rendition of the title song.

Thirdly, the dance routine with the chair isn't in it. We all know that routine, right? Even those of us who haven't seen the film. Liza's look from the film is very iconic, and they appear to have deliberately avoided trying to emulate it. Good for them I reckon.

Fourthly, Sheila Hancock (playing the landlady, Fraulein Schneider) is a goddess. More pineapples for her!

Fifthly, they've crammed ALL the songs in, both those from the film and the original stage production, which means they've had to shoe-horn some of them in as snippets. But all the main songs are present and correct.

Sixthly, I stood next to Simon Shepherd at the bar during the interval. He was alone and looked rather bored. We think perhaps he really IS James Dreyfus' boyfriend.

And finally, the ending is rather shocking, and left the audience in a stunned silence, wondering whether to clap. I won't give it away, but it's dark. And bold for a West End show.

So, all in all, go and see it, I say! I really enjoyed it, as did The Boyf, and the friend we took along. It's funny, it's moving, it's thought provoking. The gays are gonna love it!

Throbbing Heads

I think I might be allergic to my office you know. Everyday I gaily skip to work, swinging my umbrella and singing along to the birds which line the fences en route. As you do. But no sooner than I set foot in the building where I work than my nose fills up with mucus, my head starts to throb and I get a tickly cough.

So, am I allergic to the building, the work I do, or the people I'm surrounded with every day? Many of the latter wear far too many man-made fibres, so this could be the answer. Also, I do often have a funny reaction when I see someone wearing a floral-print blouse with a striped skirt, as happened yesterday. It's like a deep shudder, to the core of my very gayness. Yes, see, it's making you shudder too, isn't it?

Anyway, I shall have to perform some tests, and as with anything scientific I shall have to do it within a controlled environment, tackling each possible hazardous substance individually. I have already decided to find the cute guy and have him rub himself against me to see what the reaction could be, although I have a fair idea of how I will react already. I'll likely take an eye out. I guess the rest of the test will have to involve me running about naked in the office, rubbing myself up against the walls, windows and floors. Nothing I haven't done before if truth be told.

Oh, speaking of the Cute Guy (I think it's time we gave him those lovely capital letters that denotes a regular cast member); I only ever seem to see him in the reception area of our building. I think he must just walk in and out all day, making the place look attractive to us gays. That was up until yesterday afternoon, anyway. Oh yes! We had our AGM, the "A" of which apparently stands for "Arduous". Anyway, who should sit not 3 seats away from me? You don't need those 3 guesses do you? Yes, only 3 seats away. That's nearly throwing distance for us gays. In mean, in a hall of 500-odd people - sorry, that should be 500-odd odd people and he and I - he chose to sit near me, apparently nowhere near anyone else he works with. Although, if his sole employment is to wander around reception maybe he has no colleagues. Ah, it all clicks into place. He's been employed to make the place look better, and to specifically help with my morale (but apparently not my morals).

This place suddenly isn't so bad after all. In fact, I think my headache's gone.

OMO At The Movies: "Children Of Men"

I'm depressed now.

(Loved it though. What a great film!)

Tantrums and BJ's

So, another weekend has been and gone, and I'm feeling very alert today, which is a nice change for a Monday.

You don't need to know about the huge argument I had with The Boyf on Friday night, other than to say that alcohol is a very dangerous thing if you have something bothering you. Oh well, we woke up the next morning and apologised to each other for various things, talked it through in the way we should have the night before, and we now have a better understanding of how each other feels because of it. And we've made a strict agreement that we'll never have another argument like it. You can remind me of that some day.

You also don't need to know about what we got up to on Saturday night, especially as I can see you're still trying to recover from the weekend yourselves. We'll just say that my jaw aches and my knees are sore and we'll leave it at that. Concrete floors are a killer aren't they? The Hoist should supply knee pads.

Got a couple of fun things to do this week - "Cabaret" on Tuesday, "Brou-Ha-Ha" on Wednesday - so I guess I'll have plenty to tell you about this week.

Swivel And Snake

Good Lord, I've managed to get to Thursday without telling you about my weekend. Not that it was of particular interest, but I know how you like to hear all my sordid details. In fact there weren't any this weekend. We were terribly well behaved, which caused much furrowing of The Boyf's brow.

It was our 1st anniversary at the weekend, but it coincided with some friends of our coming over from New York, so we spent most of our time with them. Thus we didn't really get a chance just to have some time to ourselves to celebrate it. Hopefully we'll have a nice night out sometime this weekend; just some good food and a glass or two of wine.

Clubbing was good on Saturday, with good music and sexy guys in abundance. One guy was of particular interest, mainly due to him having an incredible swivelling hip. I've never seen someone walk or dance in quite such a fashion, or with quite such small steps. He walked like a geisha, or quite possibly an even more effeminate C3PO, and when dancing his top half seemed to be able to revolve independantly of his bottom half. And no, it wasn't because of the drugs I was on; a couple of other people remarked on it too. We coined him "The Incredible Articulated Queen". Not the most snappy of titles, but we'd been out all evening and barely knew our own names by then. Very handsome man though, and the swivelling did make me wonder what he'd be like in bed. Like trying to make love to a snake I reckon, which I wouldn't recommend. They're always too busy with their tongues. And they never call the next day.

OMO At The Movies: "The Night Listener"

So, I was going to say something about "The Night Listener" wasn't I?

Ok, "The Night Listener"; don't bother. I mean, it's an Ok film, but just felt rather flat. The whole 'twist' in the story felt very under-done, it wasn't thrilling, it wasn't creepy, and it wasn't a great character study. Toni Collette was pretty good, but on the whole the characters needed fleshing-out more. Robin Williams aimed for "confused and pertubed" but hit "plain bored looking". The Boyf has read the book and said it has far more atmosphere. I'd say if you want to see it then wait for the DVD; there's no reason to see it on the big screen.

'Curious Clive' Update

He's singing "Xanadu".

Nuff said.

I Shall Not Flirt!

Hoo, I just saw the cute guy at work again. We passed each other in reception and he smiled at me! Now, I would normally do one of two things in such a situation; a) go red and giggle behind my hand in a Dangerous-Liaisons-But-Without-A-Fan kinda way , or b) give a "What the fuck are you looking at" stare whilst internally going red and giggling. In this case I gave a friendly smile and carried on walking.

I'm on a self-imposed flirting ban you see. During the "little issue" I had with The Boyf a couple of weeks back I made the grandiose promise that "I Would Never Flirt Again, Ever!". He looked at me with a similar look of incredulity normally reserved for when I say I don't fancy a cake, and I must admit to rolling my eyes and doing my "We both know I can't keep this promise but let's run with it for a bit, eh?" face. So flirting I am not. Not even when faced with a rather lovely Spaniard last Saturday night with a big hairy chest. I managed to spend the entire evening not looking at him, and then not speaking to him even when he got chatting to The Boyf (which frankly always spells trouble). So imagine my surprise when he left the club and came home with us, as I'd been oblivious to what was going on due to my apparent aloofness.

This not flirting thing is working out rather well I fancy.

Bye Sam

The Boyf got a phone call early yesterday evening to say that his dog, Sam, needed to be put down. He'd had to leave him in the Midlands with family when he moved to London, but we still saw alot of him as we travel up quite regularly. Naturally The Boyf was really upset, and this morning he got up early and drove up to be with Sam when the vet arrived.

It's funny how little things can bring back memories, especially when you're already feeling a bit low. We were in Tesco's last night, after having seen "The Night Listener" at the cinema (more about that later). We'd had to skip dinner because of the early starting film and I hadn't managed to fill myself up with M&M's, so was feeling peckish and wanted something quick to warm up. I settled for a tin of ravioli (told you I was a bit common underneath, but hey! it was Heinz). The Boyf went for some grey looking soup, just so you know. Anyway, because the news about the dog had made me a little maudlin, as soon as I picked up the can of ravioli I suddenly found myself having to stifle back tears. When I was at junior school I lived just across the road from the school, and every lunchtime I'd go home to have something to eat. My Dad would always be there, as he used to do the same thing - pop home for lunch. My Mum at this time was working pretty much full-time so lunchtimes were just about me and my Dad. And almost every day I'd ask for the same thing - a tin of ravioli.

I'd not eaten tinned ravioli for quite some time. Being all grown-up and a little bit snobby I'd eschewed it in favour of the proper stuff. But last night, as I ate the tinned stuff I felt like a kid again, and I remembered how I'd sit with my Dad each lunchtime and how pleased he was to see me, and how we'd chat about this and that.

I've just had the call to say Sam's gone. So goodbye Sam. I hope that where you're going there are lots of fields to run in and cats to chase. And if you see my Dad (and somehow he understands barking) tell him I said thanks for those ravioli lunchtimes.

Question Number 1

Who IS Peggy Babcock anyway?

The Log Flume

So, the weekend was fun, once again. So much so that I couldn't type about it yesterday cause my hands were still shaking. I thought possibly Parkinson's but apparently it was just detox.

On Saturday we went to Brighton with a couple of friends of ours. One of them had some business to attend to down there so we went along to keep the other company for the day. One rather alarming discovery was made however; Waltzers make me scream. I mean REALLY scream. My voice went up by at least 3 octaves. On exiting the ride we found a stunned silence among the assembled on-lookers. They were obviously expecting a 6 year old girl on helium being chased by Gary Glitter, rather than a 13-odd stone hairy 35 year old male with a giggling fit. I blamed the sugar rush caused by a chocolate waffle.

All this brought back memories of the last time I was in Brighton, which caused it's own squeals for quite some other reason. Being a lovely summer's day, we'd travelled to Brighton to point and giggle at the people on the nudist beach, whilst keeping our clothes on (or so I thought). I should have known better as The Boyf rarely keeps his clothes on no matter where we find ourselves. So, after an afternoon of trying to be demure whilst The Boyf wandered about in the buff, I was ready for a drink, or three.

To cut a long story short we got drunk and missed our last train but were invited to an orgy, which actually turned out to be at a porn film-set in a warehouse. The Boyf was all pleading eyes and I was too drunk to care so off we went. Oh, I should have known better. On arriving we found the orgy consisted of the pair of us, one rather sexy older guy, and three guys who we really didn't want to imagine naked let alone actually see. But hey, in for a penny, in for a pounding. Again, I'll spare you some of the gory details and proceed straight to the money shot; the sexy older guy suddenly appeared with an enormous dildo, and an equally enormous grin. My initial reaction was to bolt for the door, but with a triumphant look on his face and the delicacy of a hippo on a bouncy castle the guy placed the dildo on the floor and sat on it. He then leant forward to be on all fours, ass facing towards me, and said "Fuck me with it, boy!". Well, if it shuts him up, thought I, and proceeded to do what he said, rather nonchalantly I might add. (I had actually seen a copy of "Hello" magazine on a coffee table and was trying to read the cover in the gloom). Anyway, I soon got bored with this and he looked like he'd had his fill (I'd say!), so I let him take a hold of it, and with that he pulled it out and...

(Those just eaten need to look away about..... now)

...promptly shit all over the floor. And without so much a By-Your-Leave. Oh, and the smell! Needless to say, I let out the aforementioned little squeal and The Boyf and I headed for the door, and oxygen.

And that, Ladies and Gentlemen, brings us right back to chocolate waffles.

So Campo

The conversation in the office today seemed to be referencing harnesses and ropes, but to my annoyance the place hasn't suddenly gone all S&M on me; they were talking about abseiling. They then went on to base-jumping, bungee-jumping, parachuting, and then - this is where I entered the conversation - why extreme sportsmen aren't very sexy. They always seem to have way too much blond hair, and not enough body fat. For some reason their (for some) beautifully honed bodies always remind me of freshly defrosted chicken breasts. After a spray tan.

I do so like to throw something girly into the middle of a macho conversation. The Girls In Hot Pink Blouses so love me for doing it. And it gives them the start of a conversation, for normally they can be found simply clucking and looking blankly into pages of Heat magazine. Or arranging stationery, strangely hypnotised by the pink fluffy things atop their pens.

Being Friday afternoon everyone's a leeetle bit drunk, and the conversation normally turns to which guy is going to which club looking for some bird with enormous dirty-pillows. And always, without fail, someone accidentally asks me what I'll be doing. And as soon as they do I see everyone hunker down, as if a particularly nasty stink-bomb has been thrown in to the middle of the office, whilst they wait, expecting me to say that I'll be bathing in semen, or playing "Hide the Salami". But I've become bored with seeing their shocked faces, and now it's so much funnier just to say "I can't really tell you, otherwise you'll be berating yourselves all weekend for leading such dull lives". Works every time.

Have a good weekend, y'all.

Great Fashion Disasters Of Our Time: Exhibit 1

There is a woman in our office today who appears to be wearing a skirt made out of the nylon normally reserved for hot air balloons. And it's in champagne and pink stripes, is very shiny, and nearly ripped the (cheap) fillings from my teeth with the static it's building up.

I'm off to see if she's carrying any sandbags, or whether the skirt comes equipped with basket, champagne and some council couples having a romantic flight over their home town (courtesy of a voucher bought in Argos).

Why I'm Not Kissing The Boyf Today

"Hmmm" he pondered thoughtfully, as he turned over in the bed to admire the masculine visage of his boyfriend. "How is it that I feel ok this morning, but The Boyf looks like shit?"

The Boyf normally manages to have this veneer of a healthy looking glow, even if he's been out for an entire weekend. I, on the other hand, sometimes look like crap after an early night and lots of deep sleep. Today the tables were turned. Well, not quite. I don't really have a healthy looking glow, but I look a darn sight better than The Boyf, who, I might add, threw up in some toilets last night, and then again in the road outside. Alot. He thinks he might have a tummy bug. I think it might be something to do with the 6 pints of Grolsch, 2 Malibu and cokes (!), and the joint he smoked. On a school night (for him, literally), I ask you!

He'd managed to smoke the joint in a bar thanks to the pervading stench of cigar, which frankly obliterated every other smell in the building, possibly in Greater London, although reports of aircraft getting lost in a odd fog over SE1 last night are still to be confirmed. The offending smoker was puffing away on the largest cigar I've ever seen, a good 12 inches long I reckon. I normally measure lengths by popping stuff in my mouth, which can be fun when trying to see if a sofa will fit in the lounge, but in this instance I decided to just hazard a guess. The upshot of his cigar smoking antics was a huge pile of ash, which he'd decided would look better on the floor rather than in the conveniently provided ashtrays. I hadn't spotted this ash pile until a friend of ours pointed it out, to which I exclaimed "Oh my God! It looks like my Dad!". Needless to say, The Boyf spat out a mouthful of lager, which was obviously a portent as to what would be happening with the rest of his intake later in the evening.

Fit For A Queen, Natch

I should tell you that the company that presently appears to be employing me solely to sit on the net all day chatting to friends is largely populated by ex-public schoolboys. And girls from Essex. What never ceases to surprise me is how sheep-like each group are in relation to their peers where is comes to appearance. All of the girls seem to consider wearing a hot pink blouse with a black skirt to be utterly acceptable. Have they not been paying attention to Trinny and Susannah; bold colours with black just make you look cheap. Well, cheaper. The guys on the other hand all have floppy hair, and take no chances with the choice of suit/shirt/tie. It's massive pinstripes (rolls eyes), with blue or white shirts and navy ties.

Hence today I am soliciting a large number of stares. No, dear reader, I haven't turned up in my hot pink blouse. It's in the cleaners. Instead I'm wearing a lemon yellow shirt, which I've teamed with... wait for it... a lime green tie. Yes, I know what you're thinking, but honestly it does seem to work, even if it was an accident. No really, it does. Stop that sniggering! Even "The Gay Who Is Terribly Good With Colours... etc" was stopped dead in his tracks this morning and had to begrudgingly say "Hmmm, ok, I'm getting it" before flouncing off looking perturbed. He's not used to the competition in the style stakes and rushed off to buy something floral to match with his striped shirt. Probably. He will of course turn up tomorrow wearing a hat at a jaunty angle and a ra-ra skirt, but I intend not to be outdone. There's an enormous mad woman down my road with an outrageous nipple-flashing Laura Ashley dress which I'm sure she'd lend me for the price of the walnut off my whip. Lord knows she tries to talk to me every morning when I walk past (for she's always careering about outside like an untethered inflatable art installation), and the look in her eye always suggests she's ready to drop the dress at the mearest hint of eye contact.

Things I Dislike: No.1

Now, I've already mentioned this before, but I really don't like people talking to me when I'm trying to have a pee.

I've just walked into the toilet at work - the mens, no less - to find a colleague stood at a urinal, of which there are two. I dilligently stood at the free one, only for him to pipe up "I'm going to be here a while you know. At my last medical the doctor said I had something wrong with my prostate, and it takes a while for the flow to start". I replied with a "Oh. That's nice", whilst simultaneously trying not to think about him having a rectal examination. He may have a dodgy prostate but I'm pee-shy, hence we ended up standing next to each other for rather longer than would seem comfortable, especially since I seem to have a reputation as "The Gay Who Likes To Try To Look At Your Willie In The Toilets" (well, you have to don't you?). There is another one of us at work but he's known as "The Gay Who's Terribly Good With Colours, And Doesn't He Have Lovely Hair". Anyway, finally the chanting of the lyrics to "Underwater Love" in my head does its job and I'm peeing, which appeared to help my colleague with his own dilemma.

So, if any of you stumble across me in a toilet please don't speak to me. Feel free to sing songs about the ocean, however. Oh, and please don't make me think about you with a hand up your ass unless you look like Ross Kemp. Or Orville.

Petula Clark

My Mum is such a flirt. She was taken to a Goose Fair yesterday by my sister and her new partner. My sister, I should add, has already managed to get through three husbands and is in no rush to add a fourth. The running order for the first three is divorced, dead, divorced, so I'm guessing the current beau doesn't want to marry her anyway in case a pattern is emerging.

Anyway, it was a lovely day so the Goose Fair seemed like a good idea, and The Boyf and I were invited to lunch after. I had no idea what a Goose Fair was, and it certainly didn't look like a range of tiny carousels and roller-coasters where you could take your fowl for a fun day out. It looked like an oversized village fete, pretentiously titled. My goose was most put-out, having been looking forward to a go on the Not Very Big Dipper since we mentioned it. We therefore never went in, simply sweeping past on the way to my nephew's pub to meet my Mum and sister for said lunch. Once we arrived I found my Mum at the bar perched atop lardy ex-footballer Neil "Razor" Ruddock's knee. Apparently my sister had left my Mum to have a sit down in what she thought was a quiet corner of the fair where she couldn't cause trouble, only to have my Mum phone her mobile minutes later to say that she'd bumped into Razor and family and had invited them to the pub for lunch.

So there we are after lunch in the pub garden; my Mum, my sister, her partner, me and The Boyf, Razor, Leah Newman (Page 3 model and currently heavy with a baby Razor), and Razor's Dad and partner. My Mum, still on Razor's lap, is actually flirting with his Dad, a two-way flirt which even managed to impress The Boyf (who did whisper into my ear "Ah, now I know where you get it from". I was so pleased). Leah, I have to add, was about as dumb as a chicken in stilettos, and thus utterly wonderful. She was quite surprised to find that The Boyf and I weren't brothers, but then I think she would have been surprised if someone had told her the sky was blue, or that the forth season of Six Feet Under wasn't really very good. When ordering lunch she said "I can't have pork cause it tastes like pig, dunnit. Do you have any sausages?". Bless!

Oh yeah, the title of this thread was actually part of the punchline to an anecdote Razor told us about Sean Connery, but I can't repeat it due to it probably being highly libellous. I can tell you however that my Mum, on hearing that Razor had met Sean recently, said "Aw, he's getting on now. Did he smell of piss?". I do hope my Mum gets to meet the Queen one day.