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.

Quotes From The Boss: No.1

I've been absolutely inundated with a single request for something more about my boss. So here's a little snippet of joy that fell from his lips a short while ago...

OMO: I can't work out why my tax code is slightly different to other peoples'. I seem to be getting a miniscule tax break.

Boss: Perhaps it's for the AIDS medication.

OMO (frowning): Er... I don't have AIDS.

Boss: Oh, I figured all your kind had AIDS.


Another deathly silence ensues in the office.

And The Winner Is...

Ah, we had the joy of the Mr Hoist 2007 contest to attend on Saturday, and we went along with The God (sigh!) and Daddy.

Unfortunately it's not an Oscar-style competition where awards are given out for "Best Blow-job" or "Most People Cum Over". Or even "Most Inappropriate Fart". "Most Piss Drunk In One Evening" would be an easy award, it going to the guy that sits under the urinals every week with a funnel. Every week! Doesn't he have a book to read or some hair to wash? Hope he's had his hepatitis jabs... anyway, as I say, it wasn't that kind of competition. I wish someone had told me BEFORE I turned up in a backless vintage Valentino gown. I knew white was a dodgy decision but I'm never going to get some of the stains out.

No, the Mr Hoist (NSFW) competition is a bit like a Butlins Wet T-shirt event. Some "Dolly Birds", or in this case "Leather Clad Men", get up on a podium and are ridiculed by the host, and made to perform pirouettes in their finery, to the whoops and applause of the baying audience. Or in fact, to the behind-the-hands comments like "Had him. Small willy", or "Arse like a ripped out fireplace". Fortunately for The Boyf and I we'd not "had" any of the contestants and therefore refrained from any comment other than "Shouldn't be wearing that", and "Ew! Blue rubber!".

There were two rounds, one of which wasn't "Swimwear". Shame. The only difference I could tell between the two rounds was that the contestants were actually allowed to speak the second time round, but only in answer to questions posed by the incredibly Germanic host. Answers didn't include anything to do with world peace or ending 3rd World famine, but did include "If I win I'll suck every cock in here" (as if he hadn't already), and "This used to be my Mum's wedding dress". Actually the second one is a lie.

Finally we got to vote. Of the nine contestants one was rather lovely and stood head and shoulders over everyone else. Unfortunately he knew it. Minimum effort given and very monosyllablic. That meant The Boyf didn't vote for him after all, as didn't anyone else apparently as he wasn't in the final three. I really rather liked No.2's chest so he got both our votes, and was placed second. The guy that won was the only one in the competition we actually knew, so we were rather pleased, as was he apparently. He was seen later the next day in another bar being fucked by almost everyone in the place as a way of celebrating. Added a new meaning to "Are you going to enter Mr Hoist this year?". (Actually, when we arrived at the Hoist The Boyf was asked by at least six different people whether he'd be entering the competition. Do you know how many people asked me? None. Nadda. Not one. Harumph).

After the competition everyone left. Oh! What happened to the sex? We left too, met up with The Drag Queen, and went to the opening of "Rise Up" at the Colosseum. We've missed the Colosseum since Beyond closed so it was nice to be back in the place after nearly a year, and the "Bear Square" rapidly reappeared (being an area of the dancefloor for the more hirsuite of us, where twinks get growled at, or occassionally eaten, if they accidentally step into it. We mark the boundary by peeing on the floor when we arrive, like real bears. (Kidding)). We rather enjoyed it all and will be going back for more methinks.

After that we walked (ok, stumbled) down the road to Fire for "Later" and had the usual good time, until my back started to ache and then seize up forcing an early exit home to bed. (We'd been out from 10pm Saturday til 2pm Sunday so I think we were due a rest anyway).

Another weekend well spent.

Ooops!

My (homophobic) boss is talking to the team about his birthday next week...

Boss: So, I'm inviting you all down the pub next Friday lunchtime for a drink or two. I've booked a space outside from 12.45.

Employee: Outside? Won't it be a bit cold?

Boss: They have those heater things. Just wrap up warm. I don't want people complaining - either come down for a beer or go home.

OMO (smirking): Go home? Are you telling us we can go home rather than join you at lunchtime?

Boss (annoyed): No! You know perfectly well what I meant; you can either come down the pub or stay at work. As an Associate I would expect you not ask such silly questions.

OMO: Well as a Partner I'd expect you to actually think about what you're saying before you open your mouth for a change.

A deathly silence ensues.

Oops.

No Rest For The Wicked

I had an awful nights sleep last night, Dear Reader.

I said, I HAD AN AWFUL NIGHTS SLEEP LAST NIGHT! Some sympathy wouldn't go amiss.

Oh, please yourselves.

I had one of those nights where I had one nightmare after another. The Boyf said I woke up with a shout on at least six occassions, plus once I woke up sobbing.

It was those bloody wolves again. I kept having these mini nightmares which seemed to comprise of nothing more than flashes of huge teeth and fur and eyes. Then there was one where a wolf was standing over my bed watching me, and then finally another where I was the wolf.

I think I've worked out what these are about since my spate of them some months ago. The wolves seem to be a symbol of my sexual side, and in particular my reluctance to truly let myself go sexually. Now, I know that's quite hard to believe, those of you who have actually been paying attention to my blog, but it's absolutely true. Going to The Hoist is a recent development, and most of the time I go there I'm a little stand-offish and don't participate (like last Saturday). The Boyf calls it being uptight, I call it being picky about who I have sex with.

But not all my dreams were about wolves. The one that made me sob was about my Mum being very old and frail and being in a care home. And her best friend had a major operation in America and came back in a box, with a small tv screen on the front which showed her face. Everyone in the dream apart from me was old and frail - all my friends and family - and I was the only one still young (and pretty. Ahem). And I ended up curling up into a ball and crying because I didn't want to see the people I cared about in this way, and because I was frightened it was going to happen to me.

Then I had a dream where I was a policeman chasing a serial killer who was draining the victims of their blood and making blood-bags. Charming.

And finally I had a dream about a locker room I couldn't find my way out of. It was like a labyrinth. This morning The Boyf said that it sounded more like Heaven than a nightmare, until I added that it was a girls locker room. Shudder!

So, the big question is; do I need counselling?


On an unrelated note, this happens to be my 100th post. Frankly I'm amazed I've made it this far, but I'm glad I have as I enjoy writing this blog. And I thank you, Dear Reader, for stopping by and having a look at my shoddily written ramblings.

The Drag Queen's Birthday Ensues

Ok, so it's The Drag Queen's birthday today, but she decided to start the celebrations last Friday, as is her way. So off we trotted to BarCodeV - myself, The Boyf, The DQ, and a straight male work colleague of theirs who we'll refer to as Mr X - where the Boyf and I found ourselves to be the subject of attention for a rather cute gentleman, who nevertheless refused to actually speak to us. After a couple of bacardi breezers, I mean pints of beer, we moved to Fire for "A:M" where we met up with OBM#1 and OBM#2, plus a handsome French friend of theirs, who everyone but me appeared to already know (he turned out to be one of the faces on the Megawoof poster, along with OBM#2). And much fun was had by all, especially after Mr X went missing for a while and, when we went to look for him, was found to be in the toilet being blown by a young lady. Then the rather cute gentleman from BarCodeV arrived and finally plucked up the courage to speak, in very fractured English, to reveal he was a German tourist. Unfortunately, just as The Boyf and I were about to "get stuck into him" his English boyfriend turned up and spoilt the party. So the only one of us to "cop off" was our straight friend. In a gay club, I ask you! What is the world coming to? We all finally left at around 7am, feeling much worse for wear, and The Boyf and I headed straight to bed and didn't bother getting up again til 7pm on Saturday to watch "Dancing On Ice" - sheesh - and comment on the various outfits/thighs/hair/whatever.

Saturday night was spent in The Hoist (probably NSFW), trying desperately to look interested but failing miserably. There just wasn't anyone around we liked, which is saying something for The Boyf, who isn't normally very fussy, the slut. It didn't help that the music was all wrong. "Funky Town" followed by "Dancing Queen" (I kid you not) does not make for a very sexually charged environment, I'm sure you'll agree. So we bid farewell to a friend of ours, who at the time was being fucked over the balcony railings in time with Madonna's "Jump", and made an early exit, only to come across (not literally, sadly) a very big, muscular and hairy fellow who was arriving as we were leaving. The three of us stopped and looked at each other, but he'd just paid to get in and we were already in possession of our coats, so there was a little stand-off and then The Boyf decided enough was enough and dragged me out. "He was totally up for it", I complained, "and I've wanted him for ages now". The Boyf countered that if he was up for it then we'd get another chance, and sure enough the next day the guy messaged me on-line to say he thought we were "a hot couple", so I have a feeling we'll be seeing him again.

Sunday was spent largely in bed, again, where The Boyf and I took our frustrations out on each other, and then went back out for Round 2 of The DQ's birthday, hosted at The Royal Vauxhall Tavern. As usual we bounced up and down alot, perved lasciviously over a policeman we know (but not well enough, yet), and finally left to go to BarCodeV for a quiet drink before home and bed again.

And that, Dear Readers, was our weekend. How was yours...?

Doris And Hot Men Day

It was "Hot Multi-Racial Mens Lunchtime" at the gym today. I've not done a lunchtime work-out since the summer but, in line with my new years resolutions, this week has been "Back To The Gym Week". And I can't believe how much better for it I feel already. Well, you know, apart from aching all over.

Anyway, in today's gym we have:

1. Short (5ft 4in), very muscular guy in his early 40's, with a nice dusting of chest hair. Cropped fair hair, very English looking, and looked great in a suit when he left.

2. Hispanic looking guy on the running machine next to mine, who apparently could only walk, with a chiselled, brooding face only managed by Latin men, and that 5 o'clock shadow which appears immediately after they shave.

3. A slightly cross-eyed Turkish guy who was strangely wearing combats and what appeared to be a tie-dye t-shirt. With massive arms covered in thick dark hair I could forgive him the fashion faux-pas. After all, most clothes look the same when they're piled on the floor.

4. An Eastern European with the most incredible chest, and very slightly flirty eye contact, in a shy way. I could have died and gone to heaven on that chest, but couldn't quite pluck up the courage for anything other than a faint "Hi", as is usually the case when confronted by a hot guy.

So there was I, surrounded by a veritable cornucopia of beautiful man-flesh, trying my hardest not to get a boner on the cross-trainer, when I looked up to see what was playing on the tv's. It was a Doris Day movie. Apparently I'd arrived in Gay Heaven.

I'm not sure what the movie was, and the sound was off, but it appeared that Doris went to a laboratory wearing a white summer dress with a very bold red print, with matching headband and lots of very pale eye shadow, where she seemed to be shown "before and after" images which seemed to have something to do with surgery. She pulled lots of faces which all come labelled as "aghast". She then left and spied - by looking over the top of her big sunglasses - on a woman getting undressed and swimming in her pool. I could only assume therefore that it was about Doris being a transsexual Female to Male who was awaiting her op', after which she would lure the swimming woman into her bed and shag her senseless with her freshly constructed phallus. I can't seem to find a Doris Day movie on the internet with this synopsis so would be most grateful if anyone could tell me.

Have a good weekend, Dear Readers.

Let Me In-A-Your Window-oh-oh-oh!

Bloody hell. It's Friday already.

So, Jade Goody anyone?

No, I think I'll pass. I really can't be bothered to join the debate. She's not worth the effort, stupid cow.

It's been a quiet week here at OMO Towers, apart from being blown about yesterday. Two of the girls at work were injured in their lunch break by a falling "To Let" sign and ended up in A&E.

Personally I quite like it windy. It makes my big coat blow out behind me like a cape, and I run along feeling very "Heathcliffe". Oh, ok, "Cathy". I did try to get The Boyf to go out and get lost on the moors last night, returning some days later and dying of consumption, but he refused. For one, there aren't alot of moors in central London, and secondly he didn't want to pander to my gothic romanticism. Having me standing outside the bedroom window, banging on it and wailing all night was quite enough for him. It was quite enough for me too; I got quite a chill up my bustle. We've decided to sleep with a Moor this weekend tho, to make up it. If we can find one anyway. They seem quite thin on the ground these days.

Tonight starts the month long celebration that is The Drag Queen's birthday. I won't tell you how old she'll be, not because it's rude to say a lady's age - frankly, she ain't no lady - but simply because I can't remember. Her birthday is next Tuesday, but this weekend we'll be joining her in various bars and clubs, starting with BarCodeV and then A:M at Fire tonight. So if you happen to see a girl covered in glitter, a guy singing "Wuthering Heights" in white chiffon, and two big, hairy tattooed bodybuilders that'll be us. And if you look vaguely Moorish and some guy's trying to hump your leg, that'll be The Boyf. Say hi and we'll buy you a beer. Perhaps you could be Heathcliffe to my Cathy, who knows...

Showing My Age?

Oh shit, it's Tuesday and I'm completely unprepared to tell you about my weekend. I'm actually very busy at work, don'tcha know. It does happen occassionally.

So, my weekend then...

I SO wasn't in the mood for going out on Friday night, so I went straight home after work and crawled into bed for a bit. I'd had a hard week at work, and I deal with stress by sitting in the dark listening to music and drinking wine, or going to sleep. Unfortunately The Boyf deals with stress (he'd had a hard week too) by going out and partying as hard as he can. So I was suddenly beseiged by him, The Drag Queen and a work colleague of theirs who had been out drinking champagne since school kicked out, for no good reason that I could fathom. They'd come back to ours to freshen up before going to another bar and actually managed to cajole me into going with them, if only for a couple of hours. So, come midnight I bid my farewell to BarCodeV (after giggling unnecessarily at the hot doorman, who decided to have a good grope at my nether region) and drove home, leaving The Boyf to make his own way home later (which actually entailed him ringing me at 4.30 in the morning and begging me to come and get him cause he was stuck and didn't want an hours walk home). Harumph!

We took the unusual step of staying in on Saturday night and watching Kylie on tv, mercilessly mocking her outfits (what the fuck was that gold thing she had on?) and strangely wooden dance routines. We did wonder whether she'd simply been nailed to a skatebord and was just being wheeled around the stage, wiggling her hips occassionally. There was an early report of a sign being held in the audience which read "Show Us Your Tit", but we didn't see any evidence of it.

Sunday was a lovely spring day in the city. Which seemed odd, it still being mid-January an' all. So OBM's came over to our place and then the four of us walked along the South Bank, stopping at various Starbucks, Nando's, and anywhere that sold sweet foodstuffs (OBM#2 wasn't feeling well and decided to eat as many cakes as possible. I thought I'd join in so as not to feel left out). After a trawl around The Tate we decided we'd had quite enough culture and went to an amusement arcade to play air hockey and see how long we could last on the electric chair. Unsurprisingly I managed to take full power, eliciting much commenting along the lines of "Ah, now we know what you're into". Ahem.

And that was our weekend. Quiet, and rather lovely. It must be my age that I'd rather go for a walk with my friends than be stuck in a bar getting drunk somewhere. Well, if that's what growing up is all about then bring it on.

The Monday Morning(ish) BlogBite

Is it just me, or does anyone have a little shiver go down their spine whenever they say something very intelligent and professional at work?

Just me then.

It doesn't happen very often.