Ambassador, You Are Spoiling Us

Never let it be said that I don't do my bit for international relations. We, the English, sometimes have a stuffy attitude towards our cousins on mainland Europe. We just don't always understand them. You know, what with the Germans being all... Germanic and shit. I mean, every German I've met has ended up calling me "Schwanzlutscher", whatever that means. I don't know why they can't just get my name right. Anyway, never let it be said that I don't open my barriers to accommodate international trade.

As you may recall, unless you have a memory as bad as mine, The Boyf and I went to France a couple of weeks back. We wanted to try a "local delicacy" but didn't spot any Frenchmen with Prada skis so came back home with our shirts resolutely unlifted. So it was our good fortune to meet, on Saturday night, a rather fine big, hairy Frenchman who made his country proud. And my bottom sore.

But it wasn't without some manoeuvring. Yet again, just as I'd managed to get his cock out on the middle of the Juicy dancefloor - hey, why wait til you get them home? - his boyfriend turned up. There was a heated exchange, in French, which I pretended I didn't understand a word of, but appeared to be about not knowing where Aunty's pen was, a monkey on a bicycle, and small investments in a wind-generated electricity project in the Scottish Highlands. Or I may have mis-translated. Whatever, to my disappointment the delicious Frenchman was dragged out of the club with only a frantic wave goodbye, never to be seen again, or so we thought.

But the very next evening who should walk into the RVT? No, not Sarah Jessica Parker. That's just silly. Yes, the big, hairy Frenchman, avec le boyfriend. The Boyf and I looked sheepishly at the smaller Frenchman, expecting a tirade of French expletives, but to his credit he came straight over and apologised for being in a bad mood, and gave us his blessing for getting off with his boyfriend. It would have been rude not to, so we dragged him home.

Vive la France!

In other news, we have a South African rugby player already booked in for tonight. And my admission that I've never been in a sling on Saturday night was greeted with glee by the Policeman Who Won't Stop Cumming and his boyfriend. So this Friday we've been invited to their house for a meal, "and then you can try our sling out". I hope it's going to be a light snack. And nothing oniony.

So, whoever posted back my mojo; thanks very much but I don't think this one's mine. It appears to belong to someone younger with alot more stamina. Possibly a Brazilian. You don't mind if I use it until the rightful owner claims it?

Bars/Clubs visited this weekend: 4 (XXL, Juicy, RVT, BarCodeV)
People snogged: 4
Faces sat on: 2
Crabs discovered: None. Yet.

The Boyf's Birthday

Sorry, the normal Tuesday Club/Sex review is closed today for a good scrub down and a check up at the clinic. It'll be back tomorrow once it's had a bit more sleep. The slag.

In the meantime you'll be pleased to know that it was The Boyf's birthday yesterday, and he was 39. As usual he was ridiculously popular and received loads of fun presents (plus a nasty "Bear" plaque made out of etched glass. Vile. The offender does live in Bermondsey so what can you expect?).

To celebrate I let him watch me get fucked by a Frenchman at the weekend, but more about that tomorrow. Trust me, he thought it was a great present. Last night we fancied something quick and made out of meat, but as the Frenchman had gone home we went out for food, cleaning Bodean's out of Burnt Ends, Pulled Pork and Ribs, after which the 10 of us went on to the Absolut IceBar, which is a bar made completely out of ice. Ta-dah! Yup, the walls, the bar itself, the tables and chairs. Even the glasses you drink from are big ice cubes with a hollow centre. But the best bit is the fur-lined cape you're given on the way in. You know how I like anything long that blows out behind me in a breeze. Plus I look totally hot in fur.

So, we got drunk, we licked the walls, we licked the ice sculptures, we licked each other and our friends. And some other random man that I mistook for someone I knew. On purpose. He was cute. He needed to lighten up. It SO wasn't happening. Shame.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - Your Horoscope

Whilst looking on the interweb for an on-line Chinese Fortune Cookie site (I was just bored, ok) I came across this little gem, which I thought I'd share:

Pessimystic Meg

My horoscope for today (I'm a Scorpio, just so you know) was "Always remember; laugh and the whole world laughs with you. Fart, and they run like hell". And my lucky river today is the Mississippi.

Well, it's something to look at when you should be working, isn't it?

All That Juicy And Hear

You must be getting a bit bored with my usual weekend tales of clubbing and sexual shenanigans. Especially recently when the sexual part has been noticably absent. So I'll short-hand this weekend's clubbing for you:

Went to Juicy's 1st birthday. Blagged our way into the VIP party, and free bar, by confusing the doormen with The Drag Queen's breasts. Lots of lovely, lovely men there, including just about all of our usual friends. Eight separate people came up to me and a new found friend to say how much we look alike, and considering he's a sexy fucking beast I was rather flattered. Got really angry in the toilet queue when a group of Angertwinks pushed to the front but managed to bite my tongue. Then on exiting the toilet I was pushed into a wall by another Angertwink wearing oversized white-rimmed sunglasses (I fucking hate people wearing sunglasses in a club) and a stupid assymetrical hair-don't, who apparently didn't believe a chunky, hairy guy in his early 30's - ok, mid 30's. Ok, ok, late 30's. Fuck off - should go up stairs before him. So I grabbed his arm and pulled him back and behind me. He shouted something at me about needing to be somewhere so I turned and growled "We all need to be somewhere, just have some fucking manners". I then walked as slowly up the stairs as I could whilst he repeatedly punched me in the back, jabbering in a high-pitched squeal that I couldn't hear over the top of the music. One word did spring out at me though - "security" - so I turned and said "What the fuck is your problem?". "I'm Security. I work here you fucking stupid arsehole, I've already radioed ahead, and you're just about to get thrown out". I let him pass me, noticing the word "Staff" written on his t-shirt - oops - and then, not wanting to get thrown out of a party I shouldn't be at anyway, I doubled back and took a convoluted route to the heaving main dancefloor where my bald head seemlessly blended in with my surroundings. Ah, urban gay camouflage.

"Most Cringe-Inducing Comment Of The Evening Award" goes to:
A friend of ours has recently discovered steroids and has blown up out of all proportion. I wouldn't do them myself, but I'm pro-choice about just about everything in life. Stuff like that is up to the individual. And he does look pretty great, I have to say. Anyway, whilst dancing next to him I was suddenly elbowed out of the way by what appeared to be a 5 feet 4 version of Arnold Schwarzenegger. He was wider than he was tall. He was closely followed by a 5 feet 8 bodybuilder who this time elbowed The Drag Queen in the stomach, and more closely resembled a rhino than a human. Apart from his colour, which was clearly from the new St. Tropez "Streaky Poo Brown" range. They both appraised my friend's new-found bigness, and then the short one delivered the immortal line: "Welcome to the over-200lb club. You're allowed to talk to us now". I laughed and was rewarded with a glare.

Apart from that nothing happened. Didn't even snog anyone again. I really have lost my mojo this year. If you find it could you return it to the usual address? Thanks.

And apparently that's my idea of short-hand.

The Monday Morning BlogBite - Onetwo

I'm so excited I think I might do a little wee in my pants. Again.

Today is the release of Onetwo's single "Cloud 9".

I know, I know. I'm all over it like a rash. Which reminds me that I need to book up at the clinic again for a check-up.

Anyway, as I was saying, Onetwo's single comes out today.

Their single.

"Cloud 9".

Out today.

Here it is. And here. And here (for those of you not in the UK).



Look...



Why are you looking so puzzled? Please tell me you know who Onetwo are.

*sigh*

Right. Ok. OneTwo are a duo comprising, like, my favourite female singer of all time. Don't tell me you don't know who that is? This is much harder work than I was envisaging you know. It's Claudia Brucken, formerly of Propaganda and Act (plus solo work, and dueting with various people, like Andy Bell on his solo album). The other member of Onetwo is Paul Humphreys, formerly of OMD, but I'm not quite as interested in him, as I was never into OMD. Let's face it, it's all about Claudia and always has been.

So, yeah, they have a single out this week, and wet-pant-inducingly it was written by Martin L Gore (who's, like, my favourite song-writer and shit), who also plays guitar on it.

Frankly, it's almost too much to take. Which isn't something you'd ever hear me say in The Hoist, but let's not talk about that right now.

Right, now you know who Onetwo are I expect you all to buy the single today. Because you love me.

I love you too. But only if you buy the single.

Ski Lessons

France was a ball, even though the weather was largely miserable. Hey, it's the French way! Not only had I not been skiing properly before, I'd also not been to France before. I mean, why would I? I used to almost be able to see France from where I lived, so why would I want to visit? Anyway, I learnt a lot about skiing, the "ski scene" (yawn), and the French, and here are some of my (hardly original) observations:

1. When skiiing you will be carrying alot of awkward equipment, you will be wearing gloves to lessen your grip on said equipment, and you will be in boots that are difficult to walk in. Hence ski resorts are designed to contain as many (concrete) stairs and narrow doorways as possible.

2. French drivers are utterly mental. Old news I know, but they really are complete nutters. Our 1 hour and 15 minute transfer from Geneva (yay, I got to visit Switzerland too, kinda) to our resort took a petrifying 55 minutes of sheer terror, mainly due to overtaking 5 cars at a time round blind bends along mountain roads, with a cliff face on one side and a sheer drop on the other. In the snow. Oh, and the sudden cross-country excusion because "We are not going fast enough, eh?", which resembled a James Bond chase scene albeit without the comedy knocking over of market stalls/chicken coops/men carrying panes of glass. I kept checking behind to see if we were being pursued by a man hanging out a Peugeot 504 with a machine gun.

3. All "extreme sports" fans look alike, be they snowboarders, base jumpers, skaters, surfers etc. They basically consist of teenagers with long hair and behavioural problems, plus the few grown-ups who haven't managed to kill themselves yet but are still clinging to the teenagers' idea of fashion. In fact, they all look like bicycle couriers. Does that classify as an "extreme sport" now? Oh, and they only listen to grungy rock music, although their girlfriends are allowed to listen to old MOR, like Genesis and Toto, which they sing along to in bars.

4. Skiers and snowboarders don't like each other. That's because snowboarders are stupid, arrogant tossers. Although they are very easy to knock over, which is a good thing.

5. If you've only ever skied once before, and that was a year ago, you really shouldn't sit in a bar all morning getting drunk prior to a ski lesson in the afternoon.

6. All French food seems to contain cheese, it all comes accompanied with cured meat, and most of it has an egg on top. I became accustomed to saying "No egg, merci" with every order.

7. The French don't really appreciate you having a go at their language when they can speak perfect English. When I say "having a go", I mean that in the same way that a pack of lions "has a go" at a lone, injured wildebeast i.e. by grabbing it by the throat and mauling it to death, which is precisely what I do to the French language.

8. French nightclubs still play "Loveshack".

9. Ski poles are used solely to injure you in a fall, or get in the way when trying to get on or off a chairlift. Or to trip small unsuspecting children so you can get into the food queue in front of them. Sorry about that whoever you were.

10. You must never say "Oh, this bolt looks a bit loose" when on a cable car with someone who is scared of heights.

11. Small French towns only have three types of shops; those selling meat, those selling cheese, and those trying to squeeze in everything else (mainly tobacco, things made out of wood, and, rather strangely, cuckoo clocks). In a ski resort you can also add in skiing equipment shops, which make up at least 50% of the town. We never found a single shop selling food that wasn't either meat or cheese. This was obviously the reason for Point 6 (above). Lord only knows where all the eggs come from.

12. The French smoke too much. They even smoke when they're working behind the bar. Or serving food, apparently.

13. If you're scared of flying you shouldn't ask the cabin crew whether it's going to be a rough flight if you're not prepared for a "Yes" answer. Cue The Drag Queen gripping both the seat in front and my hand until her knuckles were white for the entire flight, only for it to be completely smooth and uneventful. Women, honestly.

Of course, all of the above is based entirely on one skiing visit to one French town. But what's life unless you're prepared to make sweeping statements with very little to back them up?

Cunning Bilinguist

Bonjour everyone. C'est moi ici pour your delectation.

Yes, I've just come back from France, and I'm now talking in a strange mixture of French and English, and any other foreign word that suddenly springs into my tiny head.

A real example (I'm trying to order a mulled wine and hot chocolate in a mountain bar): "Er... erm... oh, bonjour! Er... une glass of hot vin rouge, er... et une cup of hot chocolat.... por favor. Thank you". Fortunately everyone spoke English.

Look, what can I say, I'm very good with my mouth - you can ask practically any gay man with a beard in London - but my head can only contain one language at a time.

You'd notice, if you could see me, that I still have all my limbs and they're still all pointing in the direction they were before. Some of them are heavily bruised however, but that's got nothing to do with skiing, haha.

I will, no doubt, tell you all about our little foray into rural France, but I just wanted to say "Hi" and let you know I didn't die. In case you were worried.

You were worried, right?

Just a little?

No?

Oh, balls!

Au Revoir For A Bit

Fed up with England's inability to produce snow that lasts more than a day, The Boyf and I, plus The Drag Queen and The Boyf's ex and his current partner, are heading to the French Alps this weekend in search of proper snow, the idea being that we each stand at the top of a mountain and throw ourselves down it attached to a couple of pieces of wood. Ok, I know skis aren't made of wood anymore, but it sounded more romantic that saying "pieces of fibreglass" or whatever it is that skis are made out of these days.

It's only going to be my second time skiing, but I'm of the gung-ho type who believes I have natural ability and don't really need to learn. So I'll just head up to a run and see what happens. It'll make it more interesting for me and for people watching as I career down the slopes.

Anyway, I wanted to say "Goodbye" until this time next week when we return, as I doubt I'll be in a position to post anything. (I mean, we're going to France. Do they even have the internet?). The position I'm hoping for involves my legs in the air and a moustachioed Italian ski instructor, but I'm guessing that any legs-in-the-air activity will be the result of a fall rather than something more porno. So, if you don't hear from me again you'll know that I accidentally broke my head or something.

See you all soon. Have fun!

So... Snow!

(Photo taken from the back of our flat this morning. Apparently it snowed)

So, it snowed in the night then. Like, a whole inch and everything.

That would be why out of a team of 16 people I'm the only one actually at work. Just me, sitting here all on my tod. (Does "tod" have two d's? Is it "todd"?). All I've done so far is answer a succession of phone calls from people unable to get to work. Fun day for me then. Damn me for living so close to work.

Update: I've only just noticed the juxtaposition of the photos on this post and the last one (I'm slow like that). T-shirt and jeans at the weekend, hat and gloves in the week. Who said the Earth's climate was fucked up?

The Tuesday Weekend Review

Now that spring has arrived in London, apparently, The Boyf and I decided to go for a walk on Saturday after visiting the gym. I say "visiting" the gym like we go there with a bottle of wine and expect dinner, but we do occasionally lift some weights rather than just hanging around the changing rooms. Anyway, after our work-out we hopped on a tube to Hampstead and had a wander around the town and then up to the infamous Heath (little piccy taken for your pleasure (above) with my phone).

Being Saturday afternoon there wasn't any cruising, or so I thought; there were still some shady characters wandering about in the trees. Unbelievably there were people sunbathing, and we were only in t-shirt and jeans.

We visited the aviary and quacked at the ducks, went to see the alpacas and pulled faces at them, and fell a little in love with a very handsome, majestic looking stag. Oh, and with a dad walking his son. The Boyf commented, "Hmmm, he's sexy. And with a kid; the spunk tastes better when you know it works". I pulled my 'Oh-My-God-I-Can't-Believe-You-Just-Said-That-But-Actually-I-Was-Thinking-It-Too' face that I do so well and we moved on to walk around the Orangery (er... spelling anyone?).

Which brings us neatly up to Saturday evening. Now I'm not really one for crowded dancefloors. I like them busy, but I have a habit of throwing my arms around, and I like to be able to do it without knocking teeth out or spilling beer. Yes, we endured Megawoof. And yes, it was rammed to the point of being very uncomfortable. For a good couple of hours I couldn't actually do anything on the main floor other than move my head from side to side. Arms were either pinned to my side or held straight up in the air, which just looks silly unless S-Club 7's "Reach" comes on, which at Megawoof never happens. I imagine even the RVT might stop playing that song after the Jo O'Meara debacle. I combated the heaving dancefloor by standing at the bar alot, which resulted in me getting very drunk.

We went with OBM#1 and 2, and just about everyone else we knew turned up; The God, Daddy, The Greek, and a few other friends who I've not mentioned yet but will no doubt turn up at some point. There was also an unusually large amount of men we wanted to sleep with, but for some reason it wasn't happening (possibly because it was too much effort to manoeuvre close to anyone), although I do recollect ending up in a toilet cubicle with someone for longer than was probably polite considering the queue.

Yesterday I asked The Boyf whether we'd enjoyed ourselves. I couldn't quite work it out for myself. It seems that all in all we did, although I have to say it was more effort than enjoyment in my book. Still, I bet we end up going back next month.

The Monday Morning Blogbite - American Football

Ok, Ok, I know it's not Monday morning, but "The Monday Afternoon Blogbite" just doesn't sound right. Just stop with the moaning already.

I just wanted to say "Boooo!" because the Chicago Bears didn't win the Super Bowl thingy in America. We in England have absolutely no clue about American Football. It appears to be like rugby but with helmets and not enough legs on show. Anyway, we kinda cheered the Bears on - obviously we weren't watching, we were too busy shopping, but I did send them a little "Good Luck" thought - but they let me down. They're nothing like most of the bears I know, who would simply have eaten the opposing team.

Oh well, so a begrudging "Congratulations!" to whoever the other team was. Oh, I've just looked it up and they appear to be The Colts. Hmmm, thinking about it I'd probably let a Colt grapple me to the ground too. Pete Kuzak or Bo Dixon in particular. Ta-dah! (Sorry, coldn't resist it).

Looking further it appears that this is the 41st Super Bowl "World championship", and every year it's been won by an American team. I'll say no more.