Because of the "trouble" in London practically every company in the City are allowing staff to dress down for a couple of days, even so far as wearing jeans. It's so we can better blend in with the protesters and cause trouble without people realising we work for the institutions we're throwing rocks at.
Luckily my office wasn't in the thick of it yesterday, but feeling left out I cajoled a couple of my staff into wandering down to Bank at lunch-time with me to "get in on the action". As I said to one of the girls, "There might be a little bit of history happening just down the road - when people ask about it do you really want to say you stayed in at lunch with a jacket potato?".
The police at Bank wouldn't let us through into the demonstration area, but we stood just behind the police cordon and were thus only a few feet away from the action. As usual with these things it all looked mainly peaceful, with a minority out to cause trouble. And I doubt the minority really cared about the idea of the demo', they just wanted to cause trouble; it was just an excuse to throw things and make a scene. Apparently some people don't have anything else to do with their lives.
The police seemed to handle things very well, and were quite passive in the face of people screaming at them and calling them all sorts. I feel a strange camaraderie with the police force, and for a long time in my teens I really wanted to join them, but at the time there were height restrictions which I unfortunately didn't pass. A friend of mine joined the force in his mid-30's and loved it, so I guess I could still join, although the pay's awful and I'd have to take a big cut. Perhaps, when I'm feeling more grown-up, I could help out as a Special or something in my spare time. Obviously this is before I retire to help orphaned Orang-utans in Borneo, which is what I've always said I'll do if I win the lottery. I know, you didn't have me as the compassionate type, right?
Anyway, the main reason I wanted to go to the demo' was to see if there were any hot policemen, particularly those in riot gear, but I was sadly disappointed. Perhaps they kept all the good-looking ones back for later, as a surprise weapon. However, the very relaxed dress down at work has provided a little glimpse into what some of the men look like without full business attire. Wandering around our building is quite enlightening, and actually some of the men look kinda cute in normal clothing. In fact, some of the clothing seem to be revealing some of the men to be rather better built than their suits would imply. And it's always nice to see an open collar with some chest hair poking out.
So thank you demonstrators for giving me a couple of days of gratuitous chest hair in the office. All your hard "work" was worth it.
Thursday, April 02, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Shouldn't Be Complaining, But...
What is it with people giving me their phone number?
I don't mean guys in bars who I've been chatting to (ironically I'm NEVER given phone numbers by guys in bars). I mean guys on-line, who I've never spoken to before and who suddenly message me with their number. It's happened four times in the last week.
The first one wasn't so bad. We'd had a short mail exchange - just pleasantries - when he suddenly told me his number. Baring in mind that he lives at the other end of the country and told me to phone to arrange a meet, I was rather confused. So I just did a polite "thank you" and said I'd keep it handy in case I was ever in his area (not likely).
The second guy I hadn't even spoken to before. He simply messaged me with his number and told me to call so he could explain where he lived. The expectation seemed to be that I was going to jump straight in a cab, at close to midnight on a Thursday. Did he think I was a prostitute? I certainly wasn't going to be taking off my jim-jams and heading out - what would The Boyf say? - so I actually sent back a slightly sarcastic message saying it was getting rather late and I'd settled in for the night with a cup of cocoa and a Maeve Binchy. So he wrote back saying it was a shame cause he'd had a quick wash in expectation of my arrival!!! I restrained from asking him if he was mental. (Obviously he wasn't hot, otherwise I'd have booked a cab, jumped in the shower and told The Boyf I was popping out for milk).
Today I've been sent phone numbers by two guys. The first one was ok - I'd actually said Hi once in a club a few weeks back and he'd found me on-line to say he liked me. We'd exchanged pleasantries and then he said he was coming back to England (he's from Germany) in a few weeks and would I like a beer "or something" (which I assume doesn't mean knitting). My affirmative response was met with his number. I'm not sure I've ever actually slept with a German - must look in my diary. (I've just checked - there was a German, back in Feb 2007. He creeped me out actually, so hopefully this one will be better. Not sure why I'm giving you this information…)
Anyway, the second guy today, only 5 minutes ago, was someone randomly sending me his number and saying he'd like to hook up. And once again he lives hundreds of miles away. Do these people think a) I don't already have a boyfriend who might wonder why I've suddenly decided to have a night away in some random part of the country, and b) that I can't hook up, should I want to, closer to home? Or do you think they just send out their number to anyone, on the same basis as cold-calling i.e. if you blanket-bomb at some point you're bound to get a hit?
I shouldn't complain - I like the attention no matter what the guys look like (it's all flattery after all), but aren't guys jumping the gun a bit? Generally I like a bit of romance, or at least a "your hair looks nice tonight" before I drop my drawers.
And shouldn't people be more careful giving their numbers out? I could be anyone. Even if I'm not a perverted stalker (the jury's still out on that one) I could be the sort who passes their numbers to all sorts. When I was a wee lad I was incredibly careful who my number went to, and that was before Gaydar and the like made it easier to contact people. Do people not realise there are some complete nut-cases about? And I don't know about giving numbers to strangers - I even have some friends who I'd rather not have my number...
UPDATE: I've just been sent another phone number, although this one is welcome. Even so, we'd only swapped a couple of mesages when he sent his number and told me to call him. Why did I never get this amount of attention when I was single?
I don't mean guys in bars who I've been chatting to (ironically I'm NEVER given phone numbers by guys in bars). I mean guys on-line, who I've never spoken to before and who suddenly message me with their number. It's happened four times in the last week.
The first one wasn't so bad. We'd had a short mail exchange - just pleasantries - when he suddenly told me his number. Baring in mind that he lives at the other end of the country and told me to phone to arrange a meet, I was rather confused. So I just did a polite "thank you" and said I'd keep it handy in case I was ever in his area (not likely).
The second guy I hadn't even spoken to before. He simply messaged me with his number and told me to call so he could explain where he lived. The expectation seemed to be that I was going to jump straight in a cab, at close to midnight on a Thursday. Did he think I was a prostitute? I certainly wasn't going to be taking off my jim-jams and heading out - what would The Boyf say? - so I actually sent back a slightly sarcastic message saying it was getting rather late and I'd settled in for the night with a cup of cocoa and a Maeve Binchy. So he wrote back saying it was a shame cause he'd had a quick wash in expectation of my arrival!!! I restrained from asking him if he was mental. (Obviously he wasn't hot, otherwise I'd have booked a cab, jumped in the shower and told The Boyf I was popping out for milk).
Today I've been sent phone numbers by two guys. The first one was ok - I'd actually said Hi once in a club a few weeks back and he'd found me on-line to say he liked me. We'd exchanged pleasantries and then he said he was coming back to England (he's from Germany) in a few weeks and would I like a beer "or something" (which I assume doesn't mean knitting). My affirmative response was met with his number. I'm not sure I've ever actually slept with a German - must look in my diary. (I've just checked - there was a German, back in Feb 2007. He creeped me out actually, so hopefully this one will be better. Not sure why I'm giving you this information…)
Anyway, the second guy today, only 5 minutes ago, was someone randomly sending me his number and saying he'd like to hook up. And once again he lives hundreds of miles away. Do these people think a) I don't already have a boyfriend who might wonder why I've suddenly decided to have a night away in some random part of the country, and b) that I can't hook up, should I want to, closer to home? Or do you think they just send out their number to anyone, on the same basis as cold-calling i.e. if you blanket-bomb at some point you're bound to get a hit?
I shouldn't complain - I like the attention no matter what the guys look like (it's all flattery after all), but aren't guys jumping the gun a bit? Generally I like a bit of romance, or at least a "your hair looks nice tonight" before I drop my drawers.
And shouldn't people be more careful giving their numbers out? I could be anyone. Even if I'm not a perverted stalker (the jury's still out on that one) I could be the sort who passes their numbers to all sorts. When I was a wee lad I was incredibly careful who my number went to, and that was before Gaydar and the like made it easier to contact people. Do people not realise there are some complete nut-cases about? And I don't know about giving numbers to strangers - I even have some friends who I'd rather not have my number...
UPDATE: I've just been sent another phone number, although this one is welcome. Even so, we'd only swapped a couple of mesages when he sent his number and told me to call him. Why did I never get this amount of attention when I was single?
Monday, March 16, 2009
Wrong
I was born with the wrong sign
In the wrong house
With the wrong ascendancy
I took the wrong road
That led to the wrong tendencies
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time
For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme
On the wrong day of the wrong week
I used the wrong method with the wrong technique
Wrong
There's something wrong with me chemically
Something wrong with me inherently
The wrong mix in the wrong genes
I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means
It puts the wrong plan in the wrong hands
With the wrong theory for the wrong man
The wrong lies, on the wrong vibes
The wrong questions with the wrong replies
Wrong
I was marching to the wrong drum
With the wrong scum
Pissing out the wrong energy
Using all the wrong lines
And the wrong signs
With the wrong intensity
I was on the wrong page of the wrong book
With the wrong rendition of the wrong hook
Made the wrong move, every wrong night
With the wrong tune played till it sounded right
Wrong
In the wrong house
With the wrong ascendancy
I took the wrong road
That led to the wrong tendencies
I was in the wrong place at the wrong time
For the wrong reason and the wrong rhyme
On the wrong day of the wrong week
I used the wrong method with the wrong technique
Wrong
There's something wrong with me chemically
Something wrong with me inherently
The wrong mix in the wrong genes
I reached the wrong ends by the wrong means
It puts the wrong plan in the wrong hands
With the wrong theory for the wrong man
The wrong lies, on the wrong vibes
The wrong questions with the wrong replies
Wrong
I was marching to the wrong drum
With the wrong scum
Pissing out the wrong energy
Using all the wrong lines
And the wrong signs
With the wrong intensity
I was on the wrong page of the wrong book
With the wrong rendition of the wrong hook
Made the wrong move, every wrong night
With the wrong tune played till it sounded right
Wrong
Tuesday, March 03, 2009
A Night Out... Straight Clubbing
I've not been to a straight club in AGES! When I was a teenager, back in the late… er… 90's… ok, ok… back in the late 80's, I only did straight clubbing. Coming from a reasonably small town meant that I only had straight friends and thus did all the usual things a straight guy does - goes out for a few pints and a curry on a Friday night, and then down to the Ritzy to pull a bird on Saturday. Except that I never actually pulled a bird - all my mates knew I was gay (they were the first people I came out to), and for some reason this meant that I was some kind of group chaperone/driver, as I was the only one who wasn't going to wake up in some bird's bed in a strange town on Sunday morning. I thus saw myself as being above such things and far more adult than everyone else and there purely to look after my mates, like I'd sacrificed my own life to make sure my mates got ferried around and picked up. That was until I found truck-stops, but that's a whole other story…
Anyway, on the way back from our little sojourn in Wales last week our little group (2 gay couples and The Drag Queen) found ourselves out on the tiles in Royal Leamington Spa on a Saturday night. There's not much for the gays to do in RLS, so we "went straight" for the evening. Thus we decided to go for something to eat early and then move on to a bar/club.
The straights start their evening out so much earlier than the gays. We don't leave the house 'til 10pm on Fridays or Saturdays, and expect to be home from 4am onwards. The straights are in the bars at 7:30 and completely pissed up by 9, a fact not wasted on us as we walked into the first bar at 9:30 to find it full of inebriated youngsters, music blaring, drinks spilling, hips grinding, drunken leering.
We forced our way to the bar past the Sharons and Tracys, or more likely the Imogens and Jemimas - this is Royal Leamington Spa after all - all non-existent shirts, big belts and off-the-shoulder 80's tops. Long, red nails clutching tall glasses and taller straw. The men were in de rigeur untucked shirts, trouser and shoes, except for those going down the dishevelled route with scruffy jeans and trainers, but all had the same odd, asymmetrical hair, like Edward Scissorhands had been at them after suffering a stroke.
My feet were immediately run over by a guy in a wheelchair, drunk, who seemed to think it his right to get served before us but obviously couldn't be bothered with an "excuse me". Fortunately a girl caught his eye and he sped off, not without running over The Boyf's feet, to grapple her into his lap, kicking and giggling and spilling her drink all over her.
We got drinks (surprisingly expensive even after London prices) and stood by the area which seemed to serve as a dance-floor. Lads and Ladettes careered about, grabbing each other and generally upping the decibel level by shouting a lot (I got the impression they'd probably shout at each other even if the music was muted). Dancing seemed to be a way to grope other people rather than an outward manifestation of the joy of the rhythm. At least apart from those groups of girls who simply shuffled from side to side, clutching their drinks.
Girls nowadays (I'm very aware that makes me sound old) don't seem to know how to dress themselves. Inevitably they wear whatever is fashionable regardless of whether it suits their shape. So we had plump (trying to be polite) girls in pencil skirts, skinny girls in rib-cage revealing tops, and apparently very pretty, voluptuous girls in baggy jumpers, completely hiding their shape.
A girl near us seemed obsessed with looking at her reflection in the windows as she twirled around the floor. Perhaps she was trying to work out if her asymmetrical page-boy hair looked as ridiculous as we thought it did, considering she was rather fuller of the face than would suit such hair. Basically it looked like a cheap boy's bowl-cut wig had shrunk in the wash and then been put on at a wonky angle. Her eye make-up was also a joy to behold - she had quite big eyes and had decided to make them look even bigger with judicious use of black eye-liner and blue shadow, such that they seemed to be taking over her face. In effect she looked like a blue-tinged panda. A blue-tinged panda in an ill-fitting wig.
Anyway, Panda-Girl twirled about the floor, seemingly able to swivel her neck in any direction to allow her to look at her reflection, which was all going very well until she careened face-first into a wall. She looked slightly dazed for a second before carrying on with her dancing. I'd have run off and hid in shame but I guess if you're going to go out looking like a wig-wearing panda from the 80's then you're obviously pretty thick-skinned. I'd like to report that she left a panda-face mark on the wall, but sadly her make-up was obviously very well applied.
An older couple came in (in their 60's I'd say) and, seeing us, decided to stand next to us. Er, cheers! We're not THAT old. Admittedly we were probably twice the age of some of the people in the place but we're not bloody OAP's. Now it just looked like all the older people were huddling together!
Meanwhile Wheelchair Guy was careering about the place at dangerous velocities, clearly very drunk and being incredibly aggressive. Grabbing girls or just mowing them down so they ended up in his lap where he'd grope them. The bouncers looked on, passively.
We'd just decided we'd had enough for the night when there was an almighty crash. A (large) girl had slipped and decided to grab the nearest person, which was unfortunately a very skinny guy. In turn he'd grabbed another girl and then whole lot had collapsed to the floor, knocking over a large number of people around them. It looked like that scene in "King Kong" where the Brontosaurus' stampede and the one at the front falls over, with the following herd tripping and falling in a huge pile. The noise was similar too.
That was quite enough for us so we left, although The Drag Queen stayed behind as somehow (and completely off our radar) she'd managed to pull a guy. I don't know how she does it. Well, I do know how she does it - she walks up, bold as brass, gives them a big smile and, with a flick of the hair, tells them to buy her a drink, all the while ensuring her top is conveniently showing her ample bosom. Sometimes I wish I had her bosom, as it seems to work on gay men too. They're fascinated in an entirely different way, but fascinated nonetheless.
So off we trotted, past groups of girls holding each other's hair back as they took turns being sick, and past lairy groups of guys outside the Kebab house trying to chat up girls whilst simultaneously dripping chilli sauce down their now rather dishevelled "best going out" shirts. Ah, I miss being straight...
Anyway, on the way back from our little sojourn in Wales last week our little group (2 gay couples and The Drag Queen) found ourselves out on the tiles in Royal Leamington Spa on a Saturday night. There's not much for the gays to do in RLS, so we "went straight" for the evening. Thus we decided to go for something to eat early and then move on to a bar/club.
The straights start their evening out so much earlier than the gays. We don't leave the house 'til 10pm on Fridays or Saturdays, and expect to be home from 4am onwards. The straights are in the bars at 7:30 and completely pissed up by 9, a fact not wasted on us as we walked into the first bar at 9:30 to find it full of inebriated youngsters, music blaring, drinks spilling, hips grinding, drunken leering.
We forced our way to the bar past the Sharons and Tracys, or more likely the Imogens and Jemimas - this is Royal Leamington Spa after all - all non-existent shirts, big belts and off-the-shoulder 80's tops. Long, red nails clutching tall glasses and taller straw. The men were in de rigeur untucked shirts, trouser and shoes, except for those going down the dishevelled route with scruffy jeans and trainers, but all had the same odd, asymmetrical hair, like Edward Scissorhands had been at them after suffering a stroke.
My feet were immediately run over by a guy in a wheelchair, drunk, who seemed to think it his right to get served before us but obviously couldn't be bothered with an "excuse me". Fortunately a girl caught his eye and he sped off, not without running over The Boyf's feet, to grapple her into his lap, kicking and giggling and spilling her drink all over her.
We got drinks (surprisingly expensive even after London prices) and stood by the area which seemed to serve as a dance-floor. Lads and Ladettes careered about, grabbing each other and generally upping the decibel level by shouting a lot (I got the impression they'd probably shout at each other even if the music was muted). Dancing seemed to be a way to grope other people rather than an outward manifestation of the joy of the rhythm. At least apart from those groups of girls who simply shuffled from side to side, clutching their drinks.
Girls nowadays (I'm very aware that makes me sound old) don't seem to know how to dress themselves. Inevitably they wear whatever is fashionable regardless of whether it suits their shape. So we had plump (trying to be polite) girls in pencil skirts, skinny girls in rib-cage revealing tops, and apparently very pretty, voluptuous girls in baggy jumpers, completely hiding their shape.
A girl near us seemed obsessed with looking at her reflection in the windows as she twirled around the floor. Perhaps she was trying to work out if her asymmetrical page-boy hair looked as ridiculous as we thought it did, considering she was rather fuller of the face than would suit such hair. Basically it looked like a cheap boy's bowl-cut wig had shrunk in the wash and then been put on at a wonky angle. Her eye make-up was also a joy to behold - she had quite big eyes and had decided to make them look even bigger with judicious use of black eye-liner and blue shadow, such that they seemed to be taking over her face. In effect she looked like a blue-tinged panda. A blue-tinged panda in an ill-fitting wig.
Anyway, Panda-Girl twirled about the floor, seemingly able to swivel her neck in any direction to allow her to look at her reflection, which was all going very well until she careened face-first into a wall. She looked slightly dazed for a second before carrying on with her dancing. I'd have run off and hid in shame but I guess if you're going to go out looking like a wig-wearing panda from the 80's then you're obviously pretty thick-skinned. I'd like to report that she left a panda-face mark on the wall, but sadly her make-up was obviously very well applied.
An older couple came in (in their 60's I'd say) and, seeing us, decided to stand next to us. Er, cheers! We're not THAT old. Admittedly we were probably twice the age of some of the people in the place but we're not bloody OAP's. Now it just looked like all the older people were huddling together!
Meanwhile Wheelchair Guy was careering about the place at dangerous velocities, clearly very drunk and being incredibly aggressive. Grabbing girls or just mowing them down so they ended up in his lap where he'd grope them. The bouncers looked on, passively.
We'd just decided we'd had enough for the night when there was an almighty crash. A (large) girl had slipped and decided to grab the nearest person, which was unfortunately a very skinny guy. In turn he'd grabbed another girl and then whole lot had collapsed to the floor, knocking over a large number of people around them. It looked like that scene in "King Kong" where the Brontosaurus' stampede and the one at the front falls over, with the following herd tripping and falling in a huge pile. The noise was similar too.
That was quite enough for us so we left, although The Drag Queen stayed behind as somehow (and completely off our radar) she'd managed to pull a guy. I don't know how she does it. Well, I do know how she does it - she walks up, bold as brass, gives them a big smile and, with a flick of the hair, tells them to buy her a drink, all the while ensuring her top is conveniently showing her ample bosom. Sometimes I wish I had her bosom, as it seems to work on gay men too. They're fascinated in an entirely different way, but fascinated nonetheless.
So off we trotted, past groups of girls holding each other's hair back as they took turns being sick, and past lairy groups of guys outside the Kebab house trying to chat up girls whilst simultaneously dripping chilli sauce down their now rather dishevelled "best going out" shirts. Ah, I miss being straight...
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Wigs n Tings
We're two weeks away from Puppy D-Day, so at the weekend we decided to go out and get everything that we'd need, at least for the first few weeks, and prepare the house. Or, as our friends have put it, we've "prepared the nursery for baby's homecoming". Our kitchen now looks like some canine adventure playground, and you can barely move without standing on a squeaky toy. Trying to get up in the night is now even more of an assault course, with random squeaking added to my usual walking into doors. So we have one more week of quiet at home, and then we have a week away with friends before returning home and picking up the puppy. And then all hell breaks loose as we contend with random pooing and peeing on the floor. Even more so than normal. Er...
In other news we're still not talking to OBM's. It's been over 5 weeks since we last spoke and I'm as annoyed now as I was back then. Actually, I'm probably even more annoyed. I have to say that from what we've heard (or haven't heard) they've been unusually quiet about the whole thing and haven't spoken about it with anyone, which is rather unlike them. (They have previous form of falling out with people, and every time have been extremely vocal in public about their grievances).
It's got to the point where I'm not interested in having them as friends again, should they decide to get in contact, although of course I'd talk to them and be civil. The argument was so petty, and their reaction so out of proportion, that I can't be bothered to even try to talk to them about it. It's just not worth the effort, and I don't need people in my life who can blow up like this.
The one friend I've spoken to about it thinks I should be grown-up about it and just call them, but actually I think I am being grown-up about it. When I was younger I would have tried to placate and find a resolution; now I'm too old for bothering with people who would do this sort of thing. Like I say, they have previous form for this sort of thing anyway, and I don't want to patch things up only for it to happen again further down the line. We had a fun friendship for a while, but it had it's day. I've recognised that and I'm moving on. What's not grown-up about that?
If this all sounds a bit bitter then I can assure you it isn't. As with all things in life I'm very philosophical about it, if a little annoyed.
Elsewhere, we headed to XXL (again!) on Saturday night and had a gay old time with the beautiful Iraqi and his lovely husbear. For reasons known only to them (which I think involves the fact that they like bears) two drag queens turned up in the most mahoossive wigs I've ever seen. And of course I ended up drunk enough to ask one if I could try their wig on. Cue hilarious photos of each of us in the wigs, which weighed a ton! Lord only knows how the poor things walk about in such huge heels and with such a weight bearing down on them. I tells ya, being that fabulous is all, like, hard!
In other news we're still not talking to OBM's. It's been over 5 weeks since we last spoke and I'm as annoyed now as I was back then. Actually, I'm probably even more annoyed. I have to say that from what we've heard (or haven't heard) they've been unusually quiet about the whole thing and haven't spoken about it with anyone, which is rather unlike them. (They have previous form of falling out with people, and every time have been extremely vocal in public about their grievances).
It's got to the point where I'm not interested in having them as friends again, should they decide to get in contact, although of course I'd talk to them and be civil. The argument was so petty, and their reaction so out of proportion, that I can't be bothered to even try to talk to them about it. It's just not worth the effort, and I don't need people in my life who can blow up like this.
The one friend I've spoken to about it thinks I should be grown-up about it and just call them, but actually I think I am being grown-up about it. When I was younger I would have tried to placate and find a resolution; now I'm too old for bothering with people who would do this sort of thing. Like I say, they have previous form for this sort of thing anyway, and I don't want to patch things up only for it to happen again further down the line. We had a fun friendship for a while, but it had it's day. I've recognised that and I'm moving on. What's not grown-up about that?
If this all sounds a bit bitter then I can assure you it isn't. As with all things in life I'm very philosophical about it, if a little annoyed.
Elsewhere, we headed to XXL (again!) on Saturday night and had a gay old time with the beautiful Iraqi and his lovely husbear. For reasons known only to them (which I think involves the fact that they like bears) two drag queens turned up in the most mahoossive wigs I've ever seen. And of course I ended up drunk enough to ask one if I could try their wig on. Cue hilarious photos of each of us in the wigs, which weighed a ton! Lord only knows how the poor things walk about in such huge heels and with such a weight bearing down on them. I tells ya, being that fabulous is all, like, hard!
Thursday, January 29, 2009
And They Called It...
I never wanted to be one of those people who just talked about their cat all the time. Luckily there are two things which stop this happening.
1. You may have noticed that over the last 12 months my posting has become haphazard at best, so it's unlikely that I'd talk about anything a lot, no matter how "exciting".
2. Most helpfully I don't actually have a cat.
These two have combined to mean that I never have to be one of those cat posters.
Recently I've been trying to steer The Boyf towards us becoming a thruple. When I say "steer" I mean I've been saying things like "Can we keep him? We have the room and he's quite small" or "Don't you think a third person would be useful when we need to carry something with three sides?". I think The Boyf thinks I'm just joking, but in actual fact I'm being semi-serious. I just like the idea of there being more of us. I can see a time when there will be a large group of us, but perhaps that's just me being greedy.
The main reason I know this doesn't have any legs though is because The Boyf has previous form. He had a long-term relationship before ours in which a third person joined for a couple of years in the middle (quite literally most of the time, apparently). We've chatted about it a lot - I bring it up randomly over cocktails or in polite society, so he can see the idea interests me - and although nothing particularly went wrong with his last experience, The Boyf just doesn't want to re-visit.
To be truthful we don't really have the room for a third person to be knocking about. I need a reasonable amount of my own space as it is without someone else getting in the way. But at some point, when we've moved into something larger, if the right person comes along I think I'm going to be promoting this whole idea.
Where's this going, you may well be asking, rather pertinently?
The Boyf and I have just bought a dog. Rather obviously in my case it's a surrogate 'cause I can't have what I really want. I'm not sure of The Boyf's reasons. Perhaps he just wanted a dog. Hmmm.
Obviously, the temptation now is for me to tell you how utterly adorable it is, and then post random photos of it doing mundane things. Here's the puppy sitting down staring at the carpet. And here's the puppy sitting down and staring at the wall. You get the idea.
In actual fact we don't have him yet cause he's too young, so you have another month of me occasionally blogging about sex with strangers (chance would be a fine thing!) before the puppy photos kick in.
If I were you I'd make the most of the next month. I'm certainly going to.
1. You may have noticed that over the last 12 months my posting has become haphazard at best, so it's unlikely that I'd talk about anything a lot, no matter how "exciting".
2. Most helpfully I don't actually have a cat.
These two have combined to mean that I never have to be one of those cat posters.
Recently I've been trying to steer The Boyf towards us becoming a thruple. When I say "steer" I mean I've been saying things like "Can we keep him? We have the room and he's quite small" or "Don't you think a third person would be useful when we need to carry something with three sides?". I think The Boyf thinks I'm just joking, but in actual fact I'm being semi-serious. I just like the idea of there being more of us. I can see a time when there will be a large group of us, but perhaps that's just me being greedy.
The main reason I know this doesn't have any legs though is because The Boyf has previous form. He had a long-term relationship before ours in which a third person joined for a couple of years in the middle (quite literally most of the time, apparently). We've chatted about it a lot - I bring it up randomly over cocktails or in polite society, so he can see the idea interests me - and although nothing particularly went wrong with his last experience, The Boyf just doesn't want to re-visit.
To be truthful we don't really have the room for a third person to be knocking about. I need a reasonable amount of my own space as it is without someone else getting in the way. But at some point, when we've moved into something larger, if the right person comes along I think I'm going to be promoting this whole idea.
Where's this going, you may well be asking, rather pertinently?
The Boyf and I have just bought a dog. Rather obviously in my case it's a surrogate 'cause I can't have what I really want. I'm not sure of The Boyf's reasons. Perhaps he just wanted a dog. Hmmm.
Obviously, the temptation now is for me to tell you how utterly adorable it is, and then post random photos of it doing mundane things. Here's the puppy sitting down staring at the carpet. And here's the puppy sitting down and staring at the wall. You get the idea.
In actual fact we don't have him yet cause he's too young, so you have another month of me occasionally blogging about sex with strangers (chance would be a fine thing!) before the puppy photos kick in.
If I were you I'd make the most of the next month. I'm certainly going to.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Online Messaging Etiquette - The Sequel
Further to a previous post, last night I was chatting on line to a friend of mine - the lovely Italian I met last week in fact - when a message popped into my box. Now, one of my resolutions this year (more on those later, possibly) is to be polite and answer every message I get, rather than just deleting the weird or random ones I receive, and it's too early in the year to break that resolution so I decided to answer. As he wasn't particularly attractive (and that's being polite) I didn't want to encourage him. Here's how the conversation went...
Punter: Fuck?
OMO: No thanks, I've just eaten.
Punter: I can help you digest
OMO: Excellent! Do you have anything for heart-burn?
Punter: My cum
OMO: Oh, I've had enough of that already - that's why I have heart-burn
Punter: Don't swallow your own, have mine
OMO: It wasn't my own - there's loads of guys here.
Punter: I come round, fuck all
OMO: I think they're a bit tired - we've been at it all day - but I love your concise message.
Punter: My unlucky day. Sauna?
OMO: Well, not for me but I hope you have fun. Good luck.
Punter: Arsehole.
OMO: I'm sure I could say something funny but I think I'll just say "Goodnight".
Punter: Why don't you go and fuck yourself you arrogant, ignorant wanker.
OMO: Bit late to be eloquent, isn't it?
Punter: You c**t. I hope you get AIDS from all that fucking today.
OMO: I take it you don't want to come round and join in after all?
Punter: Yes, where do you live? I come round
OMO: Are you bi-polar?
Punter: Fuck off.
OMO: Goodnight.
I think I might be breaking that resolution in future.
Update: When I got home from work last night I logged on to get my messages. Within a couple of minutes a message poppped up. "Fuck?". Yup, he was back. I ignored it. Then a couple of minutes later The Boyf said to me "Some guy's just messaged me with "Fuck?". He's persistent, I'll give him that.
Punter: Fuck?
OMO: No thanks, I've just eaten.
Punter: I can help you digest
OMO: Excellent! Do you have anything for heart-burn?
Punter: My cum
OMO: Oh, I've had enough of that already - that's why I have heart-burn
Punter: Don't swallow your own, have mine
OMO: It wasn't my own - there's loads of guys here.
Punter: I come round, fuck all
OMO: I think they're a bit tired - we've been at it all day - but I love your concise message.
Punter: My unlucky day. Sauna?
OMO: Well, not for me but I hope you have fun. Good luck.
Punter: Arsehole.
OMO: I'm sure I could say something funny but I think I'll just say "Goodnight".
Punter: Why don't you go and fuck yourself you arrogant, ignorant wanker.
OMO: Bit late to be eloquent, isn't it?
Punter: You c**t. I hope you get AIDS from all that fucking today.
OMO: I take it you don't want to come round and join in after all?
Punter: Yes, where do you live? I come round
OMO: Are you bi-polar?
Punter: Fuck off.
OMO: Goodnight.
I think I might be breaking that resolution in future.
Update: When I got home from work last night I logged on to get my messages. Within a couple of minutes a message poppped up. "Fuck?". Yup, he was back. I ignored it. Then a couple of minutes later The Boyf said to me "Some guy's just messaged me with "Fuck?". He's persistent, I'll give him that.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Happy New Year! (Finally!)
Happy New Year!
What do you mean, I'm a week late? Some of us are busy you know. Yeah, yeah, so I've been sitting around a lot moping. It's that time of year.
So, shall I tell you about the Christmas/New Year shenanigans, or go for something completely unrelated and "left field"? I could do both of course, but that would involve me writing two posts in a short period of time, and we both know that's not going to happen.
Ok, I'll bullet-point some salient information.
1. On Christmas Eve The Boyf surprised me with matinee tickets for The Phantom Of The Opera, which got us very much into the swing of things. Unfortunately The Boyf does have a habit of creating ad-hoc show-tunes around rather mundane things (much like Andrew Lloyd-Webber in fact) and this hasn't helped matters.
2. We had an odd Christmas Day. The Boyf wasn't feeling very well and then managed to put his back out in the middle of the night. Then he had to cook the dinner in agony whilst I had a two hours drive to fetch my Mum, who, after eating the smallest amount of food imaginable, decided she'd like to go back home again. Thus I had another 2 hour drive before finally relaxing.
3. I got lots of great presents, including another iPod, books on marine biology and car design, and tickets to see Girls Aloud in concert, right at the front too. Nothing gay about that at all!
4. New Year's Eve was a bit of a let-down. We went to Juicy at The Astoria, and it was to be the final fling for that venue before it's pulled down to make way for Crossrail. The actual build-up to midnight was brilliant, but there was an odd anti-climax afterwards so I decided to leave everyone to it. I had a three mile walk through the centre of London, which, with all roads shut off, looked like a scene from 28 Days Later but with more zombies. And by 2:30am I was home in bed (alone).
5. I finally met an Italian internet friend of mine, who I've been speaking to on-line very regularly for two years. And he's totally gorgeous, and is a thoroughly lovely guy, just as I knew he would be. Needless to say we ended up probing each other with various parts of our anatomy, and now I'm a little sad to see him return home.
6. We've fallen out with OBM's, and it's rather obviously over the most stupid of things. Actually, The Boyf has fallen out with them and I'm being very loyal and taking his side of the argument even though I secretly agree with part of their side of the grievance. No-one knows this so keep it to yourself.
7. And now I'm back at work, and bored out of my tiny mind. Still, it stops me sitting at home in front of the tv watching endless re-runs of The Golden Girls and eating my own body weight in chocolate biscuits, which was pretty much all I did over Christmas.
8. I couldn't end on an odd, and 8's my lucky number.
What do you mean, I'm a week late? Some of us are busy you know. Yeah, yeah, so I've been sitting around a lot moping. It's that time of year.
So, shall I tell you about the Christmas/New Year shenanigans, or go for something completely unrelated and "left field"? I could do both of course, but that would involve me writing two posts in a short period of time, and we both know that's not going to happen.
Ok, I'll bullet-point some salient information.
1. On Christmas Eve The Boyf surprised me with matinee tickets for The Phantom Of The Opera, which got us very much into the swing of things. Unfortunately The Boyf does have a habit of creating ad-hoc show-tunes around rather mundane things (much like Andrew Lloyd-Webber in fact) and this hasn't helped matters.
2. We had an odd Christmas Day. The Boyf wasn't feeling very well and then managed to put his back out in the middle of the night. Then he had to cook the dinner in agony whilst I had a two hours drive to fetch my Mum, who, after eating the smallest amount of food imaginable, decided she'd like to go back home again. Thus I had another 2 hour drive before finally relaxing.
3. I got lots of great presents, including another iPod, books on marine biology and car design, and tickets to see Girls Aloud in concert, right at the front too. Nothing gay about that at all!
4. New Year's Eve was a bit of a let-down. We went to Juicy at The Astoria, and it was to be the final fling for that venue before it's pulled down to make way for Crossrail. The actual build-up to midnight was brilliant, but there was an odd anti-climax afterwards so I decided to leave everyone to it. I had a three mile walk through the centre of London, which, with all roads shut off, looked like a scene from 28 Days Later but with more zombies. And by 2:30am I was home in bed (alone).
5. I finally met an Italian internet friend of mine, who I've been speaking to on-line very regularly for two years. And he's totally gorgeous, and is a thoroughly lovely guy, just as I knew he would be. Needless to say we ended up probing each other with various parts of our anatomy, and now I'm a little sad to see him return home.
6. We've fallen out with OBM's, and it's rather obviously over the most stupid of things. Actually, The Boyf has fallen out with them and I'm being very loyal and taking his side of the argument even though I secretly agree with part of their side of the grievance. No-one knows this so keep it to yourself.
7. And now I'm back at work, and bored out of my tiny mind. Still, it stops me sitting at home in front of the tv watching endless re-runs of The Golden Girls and eating my own body weight in chocolate biscuits, which was pretty much all I did over Christmas.
8. I couldn't end on an odd, and 8's my lucky number.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
A Night-time Drama
The Boyf has fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, as usual, which inevitably means he's already snoring by the time I've cleaned my teeth and put on my best M&S nightie and hair-net.
I climb into bed, snuggle myself down under the duvet, pop my iPod on and open my book ("Dirty White Boy" by Clayton Littlewood, which a friend bought for my birthday. It's Clayton's diary of two years of owning the DWB clothes shop on Old Compton Street, and is a great read if you love Soho).
The Boyf's snoring takes on a harder edge as he slips further down into sub-consciousness, and in my ears the soundtrack to "The Dark Knight" is struggling to make itself heard. The quieter movements are drowned out completely, making me forget that I even have music on, and causing me to jump at a sudden crescendo.
I read for an hour, til 1am, as is my way. I'm not really tired but know I must turn off the light and try to sleep to be fit for work in the morning. The only light in the room is the table lamp on the other side of The Boyf, and he's clearly out for the count so I don't want to disturb him. So I decide to gently slip out of bed and walk round to turn it off.
All goes well until the light goes out, and I'm assaulted by the darkness. We'd bought especially well-lined curtains earlier in the year, to help us get to sleep when we troll in from a club at 8am on a bright summer Sunday morning, not realising that our days of doing that seemed to be numbered. The curtains, coupled with the fact that I've just had to stare straight at the lamp to find the switch, means I'm suddenly blind.
Ok, let's get back to bed. I retrace my steps, but misjudge where I am, and before I can stop myself I've caught my shin on the corner of the bed and I'm falling. On the way down I head-butt the chest of drawers and land in a heap, stifling a cry into a soft "Mumph". I lay there for a moment, whilst The Boyf stirs, but then his snoring returns to normal so I decide to get up. My leg hurts, and as I rub it I can feel something sticky, so I've obviously cut myself on the edge of the bed. Cheap bloody Ikea bed!
Back on my feet I still have to find my side of the bed, but have now lost all track of how far forward I fell. So once up I step boldly forward and "Crack!" face-first into the end of the door, which has been left ajar. I stifle another cry and listen for The Boyf, who's snoring doesn't miss a beat.
Bugger this! I turn in the direction of my side of the bed, stubbing my big toe on the other bottom corner of the bed and finally, softly, climb in on my side. I lay there breathing heavily for a few moments, trying to decide which part of me hurts more, and deciding that I really can't be bothered to find out how badly my leg is bleeding. I'll let nature take it's course with that one.
Finally I relax and move into my comfortable position ready for sleep.
Tomorrow I don't care whether he wakes or not - I'm leaning across The Boyf to turn out the light.
I climb into bed, snuggle myself down under the duvet, pop my iPod on and open my book ("Dirty White Boy" by Clayton Littlewood, which a friend bought for my birthday. It's Clayton's diary of two years of owning the DWB clothes shop on Old Compton Street, and is a great read if you love Soho).
The Boyf's snoring takes on a harder edge as he slips further down into sub-consciousness, and in my ears the soundtrack to "The Dark Knight" is struggling to make itself heard. The quieter movements are drowned out completely, making me forget that I even have music on, and causing me to jump at a sudden crescendo.
I read for an hour, til 1am, as is my way. I'm not really tired but know I must turn off the light and try to sleep to be fit for work in the morning. The only light in the room is the table lamp on the other side of The Boyf, and he's clearly out for the count so I don't want to disturb him. So I decide to gently slip out of bed and walk round to turn it off.
All goes well until the light goes out, and I'm assaulted by the darkness. We'd bought especially well-lined curtains earlier in the year, to help us get to sleep when we troll in from a club at 8am on a bright summer Sunday morning, not realising that our days of doing that seemed to be numbered. The curtains, coupled with the fact that I've just had to stare straight at the lamp to find the switch, means I'm suddenly blind.
Ok, let's get back to bed. I retrace my steps, but misjudge where I am, and before I can stop myself I've caught my shin on the corner of the bed and I'm falling. On the way down I head-butt the chest of drawers and land in a heap, stifling a cry into a soft "Mumph". I lay there for a moment, whilst The Boyf stirs, but then his snoring returns to normal so I decide to get up. My leg hurts, and as I rub it I can feel something sticky, so I've obviously cut myself on the edge of the bed. Cheap bloody Ikea bed!
Back on my feet I still have to find my side of the bed, but have now lost all track of how far forward I fell. So once up I step boldly forward and "Crack!" face-first into the end of the door, which has been left ajar. I stifle another cry and listen for The Boyf, who's snoring doesn't miss a beat.
Bugger this! I turn in the direction of my side of the bed, stubbing my big toe on the other bottom corner of the bed and finally, softly, climb in on my side. I lay there breathing heavily for a few moments, trying to decide which part of me hurts more, and deciding that I really can't be bothered to find out how badly my leg is bleeding. I'll let nature take it's course with that one.
Finally I relax and move into my comfortable position ready for sleep.
Tomorrow I don't care whether he wakes or not - I'm leaning across The Boyf to turn out the light.
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Oh, If I Must...
We've not been out much recently, and when we have I really don't seem to be in to it (and I'm aware that I've been saying that for some time now). So I'm in limbo at the moment, feeling odd if I stay in but not enjoying it when I'm out. Maybe this is part of growing up. A case in point was XXL on Saturday night, in which the intrepid/tepid (depending on your viewpoint) Freemasons took to the decks for a brisk/paltry set (90 mins) in which they seemed to only play their own productions. As I'd mentioned to a friend a couple of weeks before, a normal XXL night is a Freemasons production fest as it is, so how would we be able to tell the difference? The answer was, we couldn't. They might as well not have turned up, frankly, as most people didn't know what they looked like anyway and couldn't tell the difference in the music being played. Someone commented on how good they'd been at one point, and we had to inform him that the Freemasons hadn’t even started yet.
But it sure did bring in the crowds. XXL was rammed, with a 6 deep queue at the bars and no extra staff (as per usual). Quite how I managed to get enough drinks down me to end up plastered is quite beyond me, but I succeeded. And I had the mother of all hangovers on Sunday. She was an ugly, spiteful mother too, with a habit for foot-stamping.
And the tottie? Yup, there were hot men there, that's for sure, but the hottest guys would have gone to the simultaneously running Megawoof. But I just couldn't be bothered to make the effort with anyone. Yeah, I snogged a guy or two, but when 4 separate guys made it obvious they wanted to come home with us I made it pretty clear I wasn't interested (even though in all cases I really should have been, cause each was certainly do-able, and I'm kinda picky). I just couldn't be arsed (pardon the pun) with going through the motions of having to drag someone home and then spending a good couple of hours making like snakes on the carpet, and then having to kick them out afterwards. Perhaps The Boyf has got the better idea - he always ends up in a sauna, which is as quick and simple as you'd want.
So, I'm finding a general level of apathy for going out, and for picking up trade. In fact, my apathy seems to be spreading to other areas of my life, as you can probably tell with my incredibly lax blogging. I can't really be bothered to go to the gym (although The Boyf's ensuring that he forces me), and I'm eating badly. I think I know what's wrong, but the problem is too big for me to deal with at the moment, but it's not a revelation I want to be making here just yet. I know I can't let things go on forever though.
But it sure did bring in the crowds. XXL was rammed, with a 6 deep queue at the bars and no extra staff (as per usual). Quite how I managed to get enough drinks down me to end up plastered is quite beyond me, but I succeeded. And I had the mother of all hangovers on Sunday. She was an ugly, spiteful mother too, with a habit for foot-stamping.
And the tottie? Yup, there were hot men there, that's for sure, but the hottest guys would have gone to the simultaneously running Megawoof. But I just couldn't be bothered to make the effort with anyone. Yeah, I snogged a guy or two, but when 4 separate guys made it obvious they wanted to come home with us I made it pretty clear I wasn't interested (even though in all cases I really should have been, cause each was certainly do-able, and I'm kinda picky). I just couldn't be arsed (pardon the pun) with going through the motions of having to drag someone home and then spending a good couple of hours making like snakes on the carpet, and then having to kick them out afterwards. Perhaps The Boyf has got the better idea - he always ends up in a sauna, which is as quick and simple as you'd want.
So, I'm finding a general level of apathy for going out, and for picking up trade. In fact, my apathy seems to be spreading to other areas of my life, as you can probably tell with my incredibly lax blogging. I can't really be bothered to go to the gym (although The Boyf's ensuring that he forces me), and I'm eating badly. I think I know what's wrong, but the problem is too big for me to deal with at the moment, but it's not a revelation I want to be making here just yet. I know I can't let things go on forever though.
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Allsorts Really
Well, let's see what’s been going on since my last post…
Well, the USA elected a new President. Some guy called Obama.
Erm, the F1 World Championship went down to a nail-biting, down-to-the-wire last race of the season. Some guy called Hamilton won (not the deserving winner if you ask me, but that's a whole other story (which I could quite literally bore you senseless with if you so wish)).
Erm, Laura White got voted off X-Factor, for no reason that I could fathom. Once she got over pretending to be Amy Winehouse it turned out she had an amazing voice. What’s worrying is that I came close to crying whilst watching the results show - I was bitterly disappointed for her after what seems a complete travesty. The worrying part was that I didn't come anywhere near crying when I found out Obama was in, but then why should I? Ok, he'll be the President of (arguably) the most powerful nation on Earth, but to be honest the cynic in me (who I try to keep as locked up as possible) wonders just what he's going to be able to accomplish. I want him to succeed, and he'll be a brilliant President, of that there is no doubt, but can he really bring about such a sea change to the USA? I'd be very happy for him to prove me wrong.
Most importantly though, the Dartford Toll has gone up by 50p. A nightmare for all those in Kent who love Lakeside. Which would be no-one. After all, Kent has Bluewater, which is like Lakeside but with all the trash removed.
Oh, and I had a birthday. My own, as it happens. I'm now in my mid late 30's. Apart from having to work I had a great day. I got a new phone (for the techies out there it's a Sony Ericsson C905 with the 8 megapixel camera - still resisting the lure of an iPhone), and loads of really cool presents (clothes, books, films, music). And in the evening The Boyf and I, plus OMBs and The Drag Queen went to a Turkish restaurant (Kazan) for what turned out to be an incredible meal. At the owner's recommendation (he's a mate of ours) we went for the Ottoman Feast and were blown away by the quality and quantity of food. I can't recommend it enough.
Also, it looks like my job isn't as safe as I once thought. In fact, yesterday I was told that things were getting better, today I found out that my team is going to be disbanded and people will be made redundant. So it looks like I might have a lot of free time soon to write this blog. Clouds and silver linings and all that…
Well, the USA elected a new President. Some guy called Obama.
Erm, the F1 World Championship went down to a nail-biting, down-to-the-wire last race of the season. Some guy called Hamilton won (not the deserving winner if you ask me, but that's a whole other story (which I could quite literally bore you senseless with if you so wish)).
Erm, Laura White got voted off X-Factor, for no reason that I could fathom. Once she got over pretending to be Amy Winehouse it turned out she had an amazing voice. What’s worrying is that I came close to crying whilst watching the results show - I was bitterly disappointed for her after what seems a complete travesty. The worrying part was that I didn't come anywhere near crying when I found out Obama was in, but then why should I? Ok, he'll be the President of (arguably) the most powerful nation on Earth, but to be honest the cynic in me (who I try to keep as locked up as possible) wonders just what he's going to be able to accomplish. I want him to succeed, and he'll be a brilliant President, of that there is no doubt, but can he really bring about such a sea change to the USA? I'd be very happy for him to prove me wrong.
Most importantly though, the Dartford Toll has gone up by 50p. A nightmare for all those in Kent who love Lakeside. Which would be no-one. After all, Kent has Bluewater, which is like Lakeside but with all the trash removed.
Oh, and I had a birthday. My own, as it happens. I'm now in my mid late 30's. Apart from having to work I had a great day. I got a new phone (for the techies out there it's a Sony Ericsson C905 with the 8 megapixel camera - still resisting the lure of an iPhone), and loads of really cool presents (clothes, books, films, music). And in the evening The Boyf and I, plus OMBs and The Drag Queen went to a Turkish restaurant (Kazan) for what turned out to be an incredible meal. At the owner's recommendation (he's a mate of ours) we went for the Ottoman Feast and were blown away by the quality and quantity of food. I can't recommend it enough.
Also, it looks like my job isn't as safe as I once thought. In fact, yesterday I was told that things were getting better, today I found out that my team is going to be disbanded and people will be made redundant. So it looks like I might have a lot of free time soon to write this blog. Clouds and silver linings and all that…
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
My Move And Assorted Do-Dah's
Ok, I'm not happy at work anymore.
My little department has moved floors and now I'm… sitting with people. I don’t have a desk on my own anymore, and have to mix it with my minions. The first week was ok - it was quite a novelty having people to chat to about X-Factor.
I'm totally into X-Factor this year. That makes it sound like I'm not obsessed with it every year, which I am, it's just that this year it's been brilliant. The standard is so high, there are about 6 singers who deserve to do really well. The big fly still in the ointment - I'm not counting Daniel cause he's only there on a sympathy vote - is that nasty little melted plasticine faced Irish pixie-troll boy. Have you noticed that his name is actually spelled for the sound you make when you see him and are sick - Eoghan. Apparently it's pronounced Owen, but I'm having none of it. Frankly he unnerves me, and quite why people are voting for him is beyond me. Even the usually cynical Cowell (I still would, unfathomably) keeps telling him how great he is. I've come to expect such balderdash from Walsh, but not Cowell. Apart from Eoghan I'm not liking Rachel's rather typical 'tude, but that's about it. Even JLS managed not to annoy me this week.
Oh, Diana to win!
Now look what you've done? You've twisted my arm into talking about X-Factor. Naughty, naughty viewers.
So, I'm sitting with The Plebs at work, as I affectionately call them (not to their faces), and the novelty has worn off. I had one benefit; I found I had a clear line of sight to a hot guy (one of only about 3 in my building - considering there are 500 people working here that's not a good hottie quotient - this place is ugly), so at least when the chatter had turned to football or Gemma Arterton (as all the boys here seem obsessed with both, but not for the same reason I gather) I could stare at the hottie and have a little "moment" i.e. fiddle with myself under the desk. Except that this morning I walked into work to find someone's moved a cabinet directly across my line of sight. Bollocks!
Having said that I did go off the hottie a little last week. I popped to the loo and someone was in one of the cubicles… er… "making a noise". I think you know what I mean. Apparently he had a large number of kids to drop off at the pool and they didn't want to go quietly. I think you get me drift. Anyway, I was rapidly trying to leave the vicinity when the cubicle door open and out walked the hottie, looking rather flustered. I find it difficult looking at him in the same light now I've heard every bowel movement. I'd normally expect a nice meal and a snog before I get to that level of intimacy, so perhaps it's for the best that I can't see him anymore.
This post isn't very nice, sorry. You wait for weeks for something and I give you X-Factor and Number 2's. Hardly very high-brow. I do apologise.
My little department has moved floors and now I'm… sitting with people. I don’t have a desk on my own anymore, and have to mix it with my minions. The first week was ok - it was quite a novelty having people to chat to about X-Factor.
I'm totally into X-Factor this year. That makes it sound like I'm not obsessed with it every year, which I am, it's just that this year it's been brilliant. The standard is so high, there are about 6 singers who deserve to do really well. The big fly still in the ointment - I'm not counting Daniel cause he's only there on a sympathy vote - is that nasty little melted plasticine faced Irish pixie-troll boy. Have you noticed that his name is actually spelled for the sound you make when you see him and are sick - Eoghan. Apparently it's pronounced Owen, but I'm having none of it. Frankly he unnerves me, and quite why people are voting for him is beyond me. Even the usually cynical Cowell (I still would, unfathomably) keeps telling him how great he is. I've come to expect such balderdash from Walsh, but not Cowell. Apart from Eoghan I'm not liking Rachel's rather typical 'tude, but that's about it. Even JLS managed not to annoy me this week.
Oh, Diana to win!
Now look what you've done? You've twisted my arm into talking about X-Factor. Naughty, naughty viewers.
So, I'm sitting with The Plebs at work, as I affectionately call them (not to their faces), and the novelty has worn off. I had one benefit; I found I had a clear line of sight to a hot guy (one of only about 3 in my building - considering there are 500 people working here that's not a good hottie quotient - this place is ugly), so at least when the chatter had turned to football or Gemma Arterton (as all the boys here seem obsessed with both, but not for the same reason I gather) I could stare at the hottie and have a little "moment" i.e. fiddle with myself under the desk. Except that this morning I walked into work to find someone's moved a cabinet directly across my line of sight. Bollocks!
Having said that I did go off the hottie a little last week. I popped to the loo and someone was in one of the cubicles… er… "making a noise". I think you know what I mean. Apparently he had a large number of kids to drop off at the pool and they didn't want to go quietly. I think you get me drift. Anyway, I was rapidly trying to leave the vicinity when the cubicle door open and out walked the hottie, looking rather flustered. I find it difficult looking at him in the same light now I've heard every bowel movement. I'd normally expect a nice meal and a snog before I get to that level of intimacy, so perhaps it's for the best that I can't see him anymore.
This post isn't very nice, sorry. You wait for weeks for something and I give you X-Factor and Number 2's. Hardly very high-brow. I do apologise.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Un-Narcoleptic
The Boyf's away for a week, so what do you think I've been doing?
Well, I can tell you what I HAVEN'T been doing - sleeping. I just can’t seem to drop off. If you read this post a while ago you'd already be familiar with my odd sleeping problem; I find it impossible to sleep without someone else in the bed. Now, I could play this to my advantage and use it as an excuse to tramp a succession of men into my home whilst The Boyf's away, but in actual fact I'm behaving myself. Mostly.
I decided to go to XXL on Saturday night, on my own for the first time in 3 years, and a very odd experience it was too. I was hit on the very moment I stepped in the door, but managed to fend the guy off even though he was very very cute. It was just too early to be thinking of such things. Luckily I wandered through to the other bar to find The Policeman Who Won't Stop Cumming and his husband, R, holding court, so spent much of the evening with them (whilst trying not to paw at TPWWSC too much, which seems to have become a habit recently).
As the evening progressed I got drunk, but not ridiculously so, and the cute guy I'd fended off earlier kept making his presence felt, to the extent that I ended up snogging him. Oops! Well, he was really cute. We then spent the next couple of hours dancing and chatting and snogging, before I decided enough was enough and headed off home. Shattered I fell into bed and… didn't go to sleep.
After about 6 hours of tossing and turning (which even the ever-present vaccuum cleaner couldn't quell) I got back up, got changed and wandered down the road to find The Drag Queen and a new neighbour of ours in a pub, after which we took the most random cab ride ever and ended up in the RVT.
Now, our new neighbour is a rugby player, and build-wise is more in the vein of a proper professional player than a who-ate-all-the-pies amateur. He's seriously buff, and is ruggedly handsome. Actually, that doesn't quite do him justice. He's actually a very lovely mixture of chiselled and battered, if that makes sense. Yesterday, fresh from a game, he was covered in bruises and little scars, which obviously made him even more attractive. I cooed and aaah at him, delicately touching his bruised forehead, so much so that he asked whether I'd like to see the rest of his battle scars. Er… Hello! So there was I, in the middle of the RVT, being given a guided tour of his chest and abs. The Drag Queen rolled her eyes at me, and I had to go outside for a bit to calm down.
Apart from that absolutely nothing happened, but to be honest that was quite enough anyway. We had a good dance and a few drinks and then I jumped in a cab home to get some much needed sleep. Except that I stayed awake til about 1am and then woke up again at 2 and couldn't get back off to sleep til sometime after 4. Today I'm pretty zombie-like and I'm not sure in what state I'll be by the time The Boyf gets back. If anyone has any good ideas on ways to make me sleep please let me know at the usual address at OMO Towers.
Well, I can tell you what I HAVEN'T been doing - sleeping. I just can’t seem to drop off. If you read this post a while ago you'd already be familiar with my odd sleeping problem; I find it impossible to sleep without someone else in the bed. Now, I could play this to my advantage and use it as an excuse to tramp a succession of men into my home whilst The Boyf's away, but in actual fact I'm behaving myself. Mostly.
I decided to go to XXL on Saturday night, on my own for the first time in 3 years, and a very odd experience it was too. I was hit on the very moment I stepped in the door, but managed to fend the guy off even though he was very very cute. It was just too early to be thinking of such things. Luckily I wandered through to the other bar to find The Policeman Who Won't Stop Cumming and his husband, R, holding court, so spent much of the evening with them (whilst trying not to paw at TPWWSC too much, which seems to have become a habit recently).
As the evening progressed I got drunk, but not ridiculously so, and the cute guy I'd fended off earlier kept making his presence felt, to the extent that I ended up snogging him. Oops! Well, he was really cute. We then spent the next couple of hours dancing and chatting and snogging, before I decided enough was enough and headed off home. Shattered I fell into bed and… didn't go to sleep.
After about 6 hours of tossing and turning (which even the ever-present vaccuum cleaner couldn't quell) I got back up, got changed and wandered down the road to find The Drag Queen and a new neighbour of ours in a pub, after which we took the most random cab ride ever and ended up in the RVT.
Now, our new neighbour is a rugby player, and build-wise is more in the vein of a proper professional player than a who-ate-all-the-pies amateur. He's seriously buff, and is ruggedly handsome. Actually, that doesn't quite do him justice. He's actually a very lovely mixture of chiselled and battered, if that makes sense. Yesterday, fresh from a game, he was covered in bruises and little scars, which obviously made him even more attractive. I cooed and aaah at him, delicately touching his bruised forehead, so much so that he asked whether I'd like to see the rest of his battle scars. Er… Hello! So there was I, in the middle of the RVT, being given a guided tour of his chest and abs. The Drag Queen rolled her eyes at me, and I had to go outside for a bit to calm down.
Apart from that absolutely nothing happened, but to be honest that was quite enough anyway. We had a good dance and a few drinks and then I jumped in a cab home to get some much needed sleep. Except that I stayed awake til about 1am and then woke up again at 2 and couldn't get back off to sleep til sometime after 4. Today I'm pretty zombie-like and I'm not sure in what state I'll be by the time The Boyf gets back. If anyone has any good ideas on ways to make me sleep please let me know at the usual address at OMO Towers.
Friday, October 03, 2008
One Man's HardOn...
And on to HardOn's 5th birthday, quite literally for some.
Arriving just before 11 we were stunned to find an enormous queue stretching down the road outside of Hidden (the venue). How were all these people going to fit in this small club? What I was forgetting was that everyone will mysteriously end up covered in lube during the course of the night, thus making it possible to squeeze more people into the building. It doesn't make any difference if you don't go anywhere near the play-room either, somehow you will still get lube on you at some point. I swear that nothing in the universe spreads like lube at HardOn. They really should be testing it in the Large Hadron Collider rather than just blasting atoms about (or whatever nonsense it is they're doing).
Anyway, as we'd turned up with one of the DJ's and were on the guest list we simply marched up to the front of the queue and walked straight in, much to everyone's chagrin I should imagine. And thus, only 5 minutes after arriving we'd already checked our bags in and were at the bar (which already had lube on it). I love being a DJ groupie.
The place gradually filled up, although it never seemed to get uncomfortable, which seemed odd to us. We always spend almost the whole night in the first room (the bar area) cause the music's better, and this room didn't ever seem to be getting any more full. It puzzled, and dare I say it, vexed us, until we thought we'd have a look in the play-room to see what was going on. It was rammed, as were a lot of the people in there. In fact we could barely get in the door (even though it was covered in lube), and very quickly decided not to bother proceeding further, and so went up the stairs (where I slipped on lube) to the mezzanine, which unfortunately smelt like a rabbit hutch that was in dire need of a clean out. So back down the slippery stairs to the dancefloor it was.
Now, I seem to have said this a couple of times recently, and I hope it's not because I'm becoming some sort of snob (well, more of a snob), but the crowd at HardOn was plug ugly. Ok, that's a little unfair. In fact, it's very unfair, but then I like to generalise based on very little information. Certainly everyone seemed to be of a certain type, and not a type I find attractive I'm afraid. We stood outside for a bit to get some air and try to wipe some of the lube off, and all three of us (The Boyf and myself plus our DJ mate) noticed that everyone looked the same. Skinny or scrawnily muscular and hairless, and of course nearly everyone was in black leather or rubber (and lube). In fact, so many people looked like they needed food it looked a bit like a consignment of leather had been sent to famine-stricken Ethiopia, just with more erections. I commented to The Boyf that I was probably the fattest person there, which was met with a scowl, but I think I might have been right. I guess I'm just used to XXL and Megawoof and therefore need to readjust my size expectations.
As a result I didn't find one single person attractive, so remained chaste for the evening. I guess I just like my men a little bit better padded, or at least a bit hairy (and without quite so much lube on them). Having said that I did enjoy myself, and had a good dance, but felt unusually tired (ok, drunk) early so at 4am I grabbed a cab (oddly covered in lube) to head home to shower the lube off and get to bed, resolutely unsullied.
Actually, whilst I've been writing this I've been thinking about the whole unattractiveness thing, and I think it's simply because I'm not paying a lot of attention to anyone at the moment, looks wise. I'm just not noticing men, attractive or otherwise. The Boyf often points people out and I go "Nah", but then when I really look at them they're very attractive. I'm just not that bothered. Oh my God, perhaps, suddenly, I only have eyes for one man! Gosh, I wonder who it could be...
Arriving just before 11 we were stunned to find an enormous queue stretching down the road outside of Hidden (the venue). How were all these people going to fit in this small club? What I was forgetting was that everyone will mysteriously end up covered in lube during the course of the night, thus making it possible to squeeze more people into the building. It doesn't make any difference if you don't go anywhere near the play-room either, somehow you will still get lube on you at some point. I swear that nothing in the universe spreads like lube at HardOn. They really should be testing it in the Large Hadron Collider rather than just blasting atoms about (or whatever nonsense it is they're doing).
Anyway, as we'd turned up with one of the DJ's and were on the guest list we simply marched up to the front of the queue and walked straight in, much to everyone's chagrin I should imagine. And thus, only 5 minutes after arriving we'd already checked our bags in and were at the bar (which already had lube on it). I love being a DJ groupie.
The place gradually filled up, although it never seemed to get uncomfortable, which seemed odd to us. We always spend almost the whole night in the first room (the bar area) cause the music's better, and this room didn't ever seem to be getting any more full. It puzzled, and dare I say it, vexed us, until we thought we'd have a look in the play-room to see what was going on. It was rammed, as were a lot of the people in there. In fact we could barely get in the door (even though it was covered in lube), and very quickly decided not to bother proceeding further, and so went up the stairs (where I slipped on lube) to the mezzanine, which unfortunately smelt like a rabbit hutch that was in dire need of a clean out. So back down the slippery stairs to the dancefloor it was.
Now, I seem to have said this a couple of times recently, and I hope it's not because I'm becoming some sort of snob (well, more of a snob), but the crowd at HardOn was plug ugly. Ok, that's a little unfair. In fact, it's very unfair, but then I like to generalise based on very little information. Certainly everyone seemed to be of a certain type, and not a type I find attractive I'm afraid. We stood outside for a bit to get some air and try to wipe some of the lube off, and all three of us (The Boyf and myself plus our DJ mate) noticed that everyone looked the same. Skinny or scrawnily muscular and hairless, and of course nearly everyone was in black leather or rubber (and lube). In fact, so many people looked like they needed food it looked a bit like a consignment of leather had been sent to famine-stricken Ethiopia, just with more erections. I commented to The Boyf that I was probably the fattest person there, which was met with a scowl, but I think I might have been right. I guess I'm just used to XXL and Megawoof and therefore need to readjust my size expectations.
As a result I didn't find one single person attractive, so remained chaste for the evening. I guess I just like my men a little bit better padded, or at least a bit hairy (and without quite so much lube on them). Having said that I did enjoy myself, and had a good dance, but felt unusually tired (ok, drunk) early so at 4am I grabbed a cab (oddly covered in lube) to head home to shower the lube off and get to bed, resolutely unsullied.
Actually, whilst I've been writing this I've been thinking about the whole unattractiveness thing, and I think it's simply because I'm not paying a lot of attention to anyone at the moment, looks wise. I'm just not noticing men, attractive or otherwise. The Boyf often points people out and I go "Nah", but then when I really look at them they're very attractive. I'm just not that bothered. Oh my God, perhaps, suddenly, I only have eyes for one man! Gosh, I wonder who it could be...
Monday, September 29, 2008
Holiday Round-Up
I never did tell you what I thought of New York and Ft Lauderdale did I? And I know you're terribly interested.
So, New York; in a word "repressed". Or perhaps "depressed". There's still a definite "should we really be having fun?" vibe hanging over the city, like the entire population feels guilty about something. Where are the clubs? The really banging bars?
We had the opportunity to visit a bath-house whilst in town, believe it or not for the sole purpose of having a shower (we'd been on the beach all day and didn't fancy schlepping out to Westchester to change before heading back into the city). Anyway, it was a good job we weren't feeling frisky, as we would have been put off by the "No Oral, No Anal, No Vaginal, No more than one person to a room" speech we were given, along with the various posters put up to remind us. I know it's all to satisfy local laws, but it certainly puts a dampener on the experience.
Just entering the place was an odd affair, involving having to put valuables in a safe deposit box, then putting the key to it in an envelope and having to sign for everything, in many different places. I believe the safe deposit box was then put into a safe which was lowered into a vat of boiling oil, and the whole lot suspended over a pit of poison-tipped spikes. Once we finally made it inside it was drab and quiet, like The Admiral Duncan on a week-night (but with even less sex and no opportunity to at least get drunk to spice things up). I have a feeling there was an entire floor closed off because there didn't appear to be a steam room, just rooms and showers, so perhaps our visit wasn't a good indication of the facilities, but still, it just wasn't up to English saunas (and that's coming from someone who’s not into the whole sauna thing).
There was one very sexy guy in attendance, and he was very interested, but we just weren't in the mood, so we showered and left in a hurry to find somewhere with some atmosphere. Unfortunately we happened upon The Gym Bar. Oh well, you can't win them all - the place seems totally devoid of any discernible character.
Perhaps we just need to spend some more time with some locals "going native" to get the best out of New York. I certainly like the city, in fact I like it more each time I visit, but there's this odd sanitised feeling. It's like London's younger and similarly wayward brother has found God and renounced it's sinful ways. It's lacking spunk.
Whilst we were in America the Democrat Convention was on, and we sat through Hillary and Bill Clinton, and Michelle and Barrack Obama's speeches on tv with our hosts (who got very into it). It was certainly interesting to see how intent everyone is about it in the USA. I must admit to finding much of the content of the speeches rather dumb and overly sentimental, and dare I say it laughable in places, but it seems that this is the way to win over Middle America, who don't seem to be able to make up their minds on who to vote for purely on policy. I just couldn't imagine Sarah Brown making an impassioned speech about Gordon in such a way - it just wouldn't work over here in the UK - it would be met with derision. Still, the current US election is entirely fascinating for us, much more so than at any time in the past it seems. I guess the rest of the world is waiting with baited breath praying that America does the right thing this time.
At that will be the last missive from OMO Towers concerning politics.
On a lighter note, we had to queue to get into Abercombie & Fitch!!! (Ah, back to the usual vacuous gay chatter). Yes, queue, for a whole 15 minutes. The Boyf made the comment that this would be the one and only time he'll ever queue to get into a shop, but I found it all rather amusing. In fact I find the whole A&F experience rather amusing, hence my willingness to queue. Once inside the place was dark and the music was pumping. And it wasn't anywhere near full. Apparently they make people queue to build interest. The assistants were dancing, and I mean REALLY dancing, not just jiggling. Do they really get paid to stand by clothes and dance all day in a strange half-light? Do you think A&F employees will evolve with extra joints to allow for better dancing, and with translucent skin and large eyes? Perhaps some of those light-emitting cells like deep sea fish to attract us to the polo shirts.
We tried to take a photo of them dancing but they wouldn't let us, so we surreptitiously videod them instead. We basically just ran about the shop giggling, and weren't really all that interested in the clothes, partly because we'd forgotten to take a torch with us and thus couldn't see anything, but I did see a polo shirt I quite liked, which turned out to be a completely different colour once I got it outside in the light. A&F thinks it's being fun and cool, in a totally false way, like someone's shouting at you to have a good time, and thus is unintentionally hysterical in spite of itself. I think there's irony in there somewhere…
Ah, so what else? Oh yeah, Ft Lauderdale is a bit dumb, bless it, and felt a tad provincial. It's Brighton with better weather and a prettier population, and thus has the same charms as Brighton with the added bonus of not having to wear a coat, gloves and a scarf on the beach. To own the truth I found the place slightly bland and soulless, but this was compensated by the (overly) friendly people we met. Certainly I'm going to visit again soon, but it's not somewhere I could ever envisage living. At least not until I win a lot of money and have extensive surgery. Or become an aging Jewess, which seems unlikely.
I have a feeling that this entire post disses the US, and I don't want it to. I love going to America. It's so much like home, but with those little surprise-and-delight differences. Until next year...
So, New York; in a word "repressed". Or perhaps "depressed". There's still a definite "should we really be having fun?" vibe hanging over the city, like the entire population feels guilty about something. Where are the clubs? The really banging bars?
We had the opportunity to visit a bath-house whilst in town, believe it or not for the sole purpose of having a shower (we'd been on the beach all day and didn't fancy schlepping out to Westchester to change before heading back into the city). Anyway, it was a good job we weren't feeling frisky, as we would have been put off by the "No Oral, No Anal, No Vaginal, No more than one person to a room" speech we were given, along with the various posters put up to remind us. I know it's all to satisfy local laws, but it certainly puts a dampener on the experience.
Just entering the place was an odd affair, involving having to put valuables in a safe deposit box, then putting the key to it in an envelope and having to sign for everything, in many different places. I believe the safe deposit box was then put into a safe which was lowered into a vat of boiling oil, and the whole lot suspended over a pit of poison-tipped spikes. Once we finally made it inside it was drab and quiet, like The Admiral Duncan on a week-night (but with even less sex and no opportunity to at least get drunk to spice things up). I have a feeling there was an entire floor closed off because there didn't appear to be a steam room, just rooms and showers, so perhaps our visit wasn't a good indication of the facilities, but still, it just wasn't up to English saunas (and that's coming from someone who’s not into the whole sauna thing).
There was one very sexy guy in attendance, and he was very interested, but we just weren't in the mood, so we showered and left in a hurry to find somewhere with some atmosphere. Unfortunately we happened upon The Gym Bar. Oh well, you can't win them all - the place seems totally devoid of any discernible character.
Perhaps we just need to spend some more time with some locals "going native" to get the best out of New York. I certainly like the city, in fact I like it more each time I visit, but there's this odd sanitised feeling. It's like London's younger and similarly wayward brother has found God and renounced it's sinful ways. It's lacking spunk.
Whilst we were in America the Democrat Convention was on, and we sat through Hillary and Bill Clinton, and Michelle and Barrack Obama's speeches on tv with our hosts (who got very into it). It was certainly interesting to see how intent everyone is about it in the USA. I must admit to finding much of the content of the speeches rather dumb and overly sentimental, and dare I say it laughable in places, but it seems that this is the way to win over Middle America, who don't seem to be able to make up their minds on who to vote for purely on policy. I just couldn't imagine Sarah Brown making an impassioned speech about Gordon in such a way - it just wouldn't work over here in the UK - it would be met with derision. Still, the current US election is entirely fascinating for us, much more so than at any time in the past it seems. I guess the rest of the world is waiting with baited breath praying that America does the right thing this time.
At that will be the last missive from OMO Towers concerning politics.
On a lighter note, we had to queue to get into Abercombie & Fitch!!! (Ah, back to the usual vacuous gay chatter). Yes, queue, for a whole 15 minutes. The Boyf made the comment that this would be the one and only time he'll ever queue to get into a shop, but I found it all rather amusing. In fact I find the whole A&F experience rather amusing, hence my willingness to queue. Once inside the place was dark and the music was pumping. And it wasn't anywhere near full. Apparently they make people queue to build interest. The assistants were dancing, and I mean REALLY dancing, not just jiggling. Do they really get paid to stand by clothes and dance all day in a strange half-light? Do you think A&F employees will evolve with extra joints to allow for better dancing, and with translucent skin and large eyes? Perhaps some of those light-emitting cells like deep sea fish to attract us to the polo shirts.
We tried to take a photo of them dancing but they wouldn't let us, so we surreptitiously videod them instead. We basically just ran about the shop giggling, and weren't really all that interested in the clothes, partly because we'd forgotten to take a torch with us and thus couldn't see anything, but I did see a polo shirt I quite liked, which turned out to be a completely different colour once I got it outside in the light. A&F thinks it's being fun and cool, in a totally false way, like someone's shouting at you to have a good time, and thus is unintentionally hysterical in spite of itself. I think there's irony in there somewhere…
Ah, so what else? Oh yeah, Ft Lauderdale is a bit dumb, bless it, and felt a tad provincial. It's Brighton with better weather and a prettier population, and thus has the same charms as Brighton with the added bonus of not having to wear a coat, gloves and a scarf on the beach. To own the truth I found the place slightly bland and soulless, but this was compensated by the (overly) friendly people we met. Certainly I'm going to visit again soon, but it's not somewhere I could ever envisage living. At least not until I win a lot of money and have extensive surgery. Or become an aging Jewess, which seems unlikely.
I have a feeling that this entire post disses the US, and I don't want it to. I love going to America. It's so much like home, but with those little surprise-and-delight differences. Until next year...
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Getting A Head
I had the good fortune, quite by coincidence, to meet a guy in a bar last week who was very high up in a foreign office of a well known company in the industry in which I work. And I mean VERY high up. Although he works for a different company to me we're intrinsically linked, and in fact it makes him my superior in certain respects. So meeting him in a bar was a bit of a surprise. What was more of a surprise was that he looks nothing like his photo on the internet, and now comes complete with a beard and a rather fit body. In short, he was a sexy little fucker, contrary to what I was expecting. Needless to say we hit it off and he ended up back at our house. HeHeHe. And what a dirty little bugger he turned out to be too. I shall never be able to go to one of his presentations again without blushing. Likewise he's banned me from any front rows/wearing anything slutty.
In other news, The Boyf is going away on a business trip in three weeks time, to Tucson, Arizona of all places. He's not looking forward to it. I am. He's not all that keen on flying, although he'd never let it stop him going anywhere. And obviously he's going to miss me and pine. He'll probably stop eating and his fur will fall out. Conversely I'm planning all sorts of stuff for that week. I'm having dinner parties, big club nights out, movies, museums, shopping, all sorts. It's to keep myself busy of course, otherwise I'd just sit at home in the dark with some gin. If I'm going to drink myself til I can't remember I might as well do it somewhere fabulous surrounded by beautiful people. I don't know how I'm going to cope, truly...
In other news, The Boyf is going away on a business trip in three weeks time, to Tucson, Arizona of all places. He's not looking forward to it. I am. He's not all that keen on flying, although he'd never let it stop him going anywhere. And obviously he's going to miss me and pine. He'll probably stop eating and his fur will fall out. Conversely I'm planning all sorts of stuff for that week. I'm having dinner parties, big club nights out, movies, museums, shopping, all sorts. It's to keep myself busy of course, otherwise I'd just sit at home in the dark with some gin. If I'm going to drink myself til I can't remember I might as well do it somewhere fabulous surrounded by beautiful people. I don't know how I'm going to cope, truly...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Pink Flamingos
Sunday was "Gay Day" at London Zoo, an annual event where they force all the animals to bum each other for our enjoyment. I jest of course. It's actually an excuse to have some transvestites run about the zoo dressed as air stewardesses (no idea why) and have a gay brass band perform loads of cliched gay anthems (they were playing "Dancing Queen" as we wandered by). And of course you can't have lots of gays in one place without there being a ridiculous amount of cruising, this time in an unlikely environment such as in the reptile house or whilst watching the Pygmy Hippo have its lunch.
It turned out to be a lovely sunny day, so a little group of us (10 in all) descended on the zoo to gawp, stare and point, and to also have a look at the animals. Boom boom. It actually wasn't as gay as we thought it might be, and there was a definite lack of hotties to cruise. But who cares, the zoo gave good animal and we were thoroughly entertained by the meerkats, giant anteaters and the otters.
Afterwards, as ever, we ended up at the RVT for a dance where I was rapidly set upon by a hot Spanish tourist who was incredibly forward (which I like - but only when they're sexy, obviously) and seemed to have a thing for my fair hair and beard. I wasn't complaining. He was actually a real sweetheart and I wanted to keep him, but The Boyf wouldn't let me. He's such a kill-joy sometimes.
It turned out to be a lovely sunny day, so a little group of us (10 in all) descended on the zoo to gawp, stare and point, and to also have a look at the animals. Boom boom. It actually wasn't as gay as we thought it might be, and there was a definite lack of hotties to cruise. But who cares, the zoo gave good animal and we were thoroughly entertained by the meerkats, giant anteaters and the otters.
Afterwards, as ever, we ended up at the RVT for a dance where I was rapidly set upon by a hot Spanish tourist who was incredibly forward (which I like - but only when they're sexy, obviously) and seemed to have a thing for my fair hair and beard. I wasn't complaining. He was actually a real sweetheart and I wanted to keep him, but The Boyf wouldn't let me. He's such a kill-joy sometimes.
Friday, September 12, 2008
OMO's Gig Review - Madonna's "Sticky & Sweet" Tour
A great concert, spoilt only by the absolute shambles that was Wembley's Security and The London Underground. For a start, Security told the back of a very long queue that they could move to the gates before they bothered telling those of us that had waited for hours, thus allowing those who had literally been waiting only minutes to get to the front of the queue and thus causing a stampede from those who had been patiently waiting all day and who were now missing out.
Then London Underground saw fit to close Wembley Park Tube Station at 12:00am with at least half of the audience still trying to make their way home (after the concert had over-run). Result; tens of thousands of irate people causing a near riot to try to get to cabs and buses. And of course none of the buses actually go anywhere near Central London. We ended up walking in a completely random direction - having no idea which way was home but just wanting to get out of the crowds - and finally came across a stop for a bus which went to Oxford Circus. A 40 minute bus ride, then a £20 cab ride later and we were home - at 2:40am!
And I won't even begin to tell you about the girl in front of us at the concert who got drunk and decided to start a fight with everyone around her. She eventually got thrown out (just before Madonna took to the stage), much to our relief, but not before she'd kicked, spat and punched everyone around her - except me, who for some reason she kept away from. She even called The Boyf "fat arse", which I found rather amusing as he doesn't really have much of a backside at all. I always joke that it's been worn away but he doesn't find it funny.
Anyway, on with the show…
Madge was 35 minutes late to start, which we decided had something to do with her trying to get the last few drops of blood out of the sacrificial virgins. Either that or she was having trouble emptying her colostomy bag.
Finally a parcel trolley was wheeled onto the stage complete with Her Madgeness, hands secured behind her back to stop her clawing at the audience with her talons, and with a mask over her face to stop her biting us (and hopefully to stop her trying to sing).
OK, I made that bit up.
She actually appeared in the centre of the stage on a throne, dressed in some old bling, and over the course of 2 hours firmly made the point that at 50 she's certainly not past it.
Rather obviously she concentrated on the current album (I won't bore you here with a withering attack on it, suffice to say that I know it's already going to win my "Worst Album Of The Year" award), but actually some of the new songs worked better live than they do on record. Sprinkled in were a fair selection of older songs, all of which were re-interpreted in some way. So we had rockier versions of "Human Nature", "Into The Groove", "Hung Up" and "Borderline", and mash-ups of "Vogue/4 Minutes", "Music/Put Your Hands Up For Detroit" and "Like A Prayer/Feels Like Home", the latter by Meck, which itself blatently steals the riff from "Don't You Want My Love" by Felix. All worked very well I thought.
What also worked remarkably well was the Romanian Folk Music segment, which sounds like an abomination we could well do without but was actually one of the best parts of the show, being full of energy and excitement.
Her Madgeness ended the concert with "4 Minutes" (this time sans "Vogue") and then a seriously danced-up version of "Give It To Me", thankfully without the comedy production of the original. (I'm pretty sure Pharrell actually gave this song to a group of 5 year olds to produce in Music Class, and has been pissing himself every time he hears it since).
Ok, I need to get something off my chest about "4 Minutes". So, Timbaland and Madonna are in the studio writing this song and deciding on the concept (you just know Madonna has concepts for her songs). So the concept is "There's only 4 minutes left to save the world" and in the video there can be a timer counting down from 04:00. Brilliant! So the song's 4 minutes long? No, it's 4 minutes and 3 seconds. Er, couldn't someone just tell Justin Timberlake to shut up for 3 seconds and end the song on time? Apparently that would make too much sense.
Other points to note; Madonna can actually sing. Who knew? Whereas Kylie has a thin, whiney voice she can at least hit all her notes. With Madonna you're always perpetually nervous that she's going to go for a high note and miss, with disasterous, ear-shattering results. But not this time. Oddly, it was the low notes she was struggling with, which made "Ray Of Light" an unusual experience, with it's low drone and sudden piercing chorus. One can only assume that, clearly being a cyborg, she's had her voice synthesizer altered to help with her upper range.
There are only two negatives I can really throw at it. Firstly the sound in Wembley was awful. And I mean, REALLY awful. It's just not a good venue for concerts. Secondly, as with this type of artist we're left with an empty stage as they do a costume change, and as usual this saps the energy and kills any momentum. I thought Madonna's were worse than normal, as she rarely had much going on on stage, preferring to leave it to playing a video of her singing a song on the big screens (which apparently weren't big enough to be seen from the back of Wembley).
All in all though a great show (and I haven't even mentioned the sets, the dancers (one of whom was hot-Hot-HOT) and Britney Spears on the video screen). Madonna can rest easy in her coffin each day knowing she's thoroughly entertained us.
Update:
Apparently at last count 3,000 people had complained to Live Nation about the sound and the terrible organisation, particularly with the concert over-running and causing difficulty for people trying to get home. We've heard that some people had to sleep on the street until the Underground started up again in the morning. Shameful.
Then London Underground saw fit to close Wembley Park Tube Station at 12:00am with at least half of the audience still trying to make their way home (after the concert had over-run). Result; tens of thousands of irate people causing a near riot to try to get to cabs and buses. And of course none of the buses actually go anywhere near Central London. We ended up walking in a completely random direction - having no idea which way was home but just wanting to get out of the crowds - and finally came across a stop for a bus which went to Oxford Circus. A 40 minute bus ride, then a £20 cab ride later and we were home - at 2:40am!
And I won't even begin to tell you about the girl in front of us at the concert who got drunk and decided to start a fight with everyone around her. She eventually got thrown out (just before Madonna took to the stage), much to our relief, but not before she'd kicked, spat and punched everyone around her - except me, who for some reason she kept away from. She even called The Boyf "fat arse", which I found rather amusing as he doesn't really have much of a backside at all. I always joke that it's been worn away but he doesn't find it funny.
Anyway, on with the show…
Madge was 35 minutes late to start, which we decided had something to do with her trying to get the last few drops of blood out of the sacrificial virgins. Either that or she was having trouble emptying her colostomy bag.
Finally a parcel trolley was wheeled onto the stage complete with Her Madgeness, hands secured behind her back to stop her clawing at the audience with her talons, and with a mask over her face to stop her biting us (and hopefully to stop her trying to sing).
OK, I made that bit up.
She actually appeared in the centre of the stage on a throne, dressed in some old bling, and over the course of 2 hours firmly made the point that at 50 she's certainly not past it.
Rather obviously she concentrated on the current album (I won't bore you here with a withering attack on it, suffice to say that I know it's already going to win my "Worst Album Of The Year" award), but actually some of the new songs worked better live than they do on record. Sprinkled in were a fair selection of older songs, all of which were re-interpreted in some way. So we had rockier versions of "Human Nature", "Into The Groove", "Hung Up" and "Borderline", and mash-ups of "Vogue/4 Minutes", "Music/Put Your Hands Up For Detroit" and "Like A Prayer/Feels Like Home", the latter by Meck, which itself blatently steals the riff from "Don't You Want My Love" by Felix. All worked very well I thought.
What also worked remarkably well was the Romanian Folk Music segment, which sounds like an abomination we could well do without but was actually one of the best parts of the show, being full of energy and excitement.
Her Madgeness ended the concert with "4 Minutes" (this time sans "Vogue") and then a seriously danced-up version of "Give It To Me", thankfully without the comedy production of the original. (I'm pretty sure Pharrell actually gave this song to a group of 5 year olds to produce in Music Class, and has been pissing himself every time he hears it since).
Ok, I need to get something off my chest about "4 Minutes". So, Timbaland and Madonna are in the studio writing this song and deciding on the concept (you just know Madonna has concepts for her songs). So the concept is "There's only 4 minutes left to save the world" and in the video there can be a timer counting down from 04:00. Brilliant! So the song's 4 minutes long? No, it's 4 minutes and 3 seconds. Er, couldn't someone just tell Justin Timberlake to shut up for 3 seconds and end the song on time? Apparently that would make too much sense.
Other points to note; Madonna can actually sing. Who knew? Whereas Kylie has a thin, whiney voice she can at least hit all her notes. With Madonna you're always perpetually nervous that she's going to go for a high note and miss, with disasterous, ear-shattering results. But not this time. Oddly, it was the low notes she was struggling with, which made "Ray Of Light" an unusual experience, with it's low drone and sudden piercing chorus. One can only assume that, clearly being a cyborg, she's had her voice synthesizer altered to help with her upper range.
There are only two negatives I can really throw at it. Firstly the sound in Wembley was awful. And I mean, REALLY awful. It's just not a good venue for concerts. Secondly, as with this type of artist we're left with an empty stage as they do a costume change, and as usual this saps the energy and kills any momentum. I thought Madonna's were worse than normal, as she rarely had much going on on stage, preferring to leave it to playing a video of her singing a song on the big screens (which apparently weren't big enough to be seen from the back of Wembley).
All in all though a great show (and I haven't even mentioned the sets, the dancers (one of whom was hot-Hot-HOT) and Britney Spears on the video screen). Madonna can rest easy in her coffin each day knowing she's thoroughly entertained us.
Update:
Apparently at last count 3,000 people had complained to Live Nation about the sound and the terrible organisation, particularly with the concert over-running and causing difficulty for people trying to get home. We've heard that some people had to sleep on the street until the Underground started up again in the morning. Shameful.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
A Conversation With The Boss
3.53pm. 10th September 2008. The Office
The Boss: "Where did you get that shirt?"
OMO: "In the 21st Century, unlike that jacket you're wearing"
The Boss: "You know I wouldn't wear a fitted shirt if I were you"
OMO: "It's not a fitted shirt"
The Boss: "You mean it's supposed to be baggy but you're so fat it looks tight?"
OMO: "Dammit, you win this time. But well done on your first bit of catty gay banter. At this rate you'll be out by Christmas"
The Boss: "Where did you get that shirt?"
OMO: "In the 21st Century, unlike that jacket you're wearing"
The Boss: "You know I wouldn't wear a fitted shirt if I were you"
OMO: "It's not a fitted shirt"
The Boss: "You mean it's supposed to be baggy but you're so fat it looks tight?"
OMO: "Dammit, you win this time. But well done on your first bit of catty gay banter. At this rate you'll be out by Christmas"
Tuesday, September 09, 2008
Our Holiday Pt.2 - New York
We actually stayed outside of NYC itself, in Westchester with friends of ours, pretty much in the middle of nowhere. The nearest town was about 5 miles away and their house is surrounded by woods and fields. It made for a lovey, relaxing setting, and many days were spent in the hammock in the garden reading and listening to music, or wandering about trying to find wildlife/identify the different species of birds and butterflies. I know, civilised aren't we?
Obviously we ventured into the city on regular occasions, using the train into Grand Central, and did lots of the usual touristy stuff i.e. took a boat trip round Liberty Island and to see the waterfalls, walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, wandered around the Botanical Gardens, and took a trip out to Coney Island to go on the Cyclone (truly terrifying - has anyone actually checked any of it since it opened?)
We also had a day out at Sandy Hook, rather obviously a gay nudist beach, which involved a 40 minute boat ride and transfer to the beach by school bus (yay! I've been in an American school bus!). As lovely as it was (I'm still peeling, to prove how nice the weather was) the clientele left something to be desired. Where Haulover was "hottie" this was "grotty". However a couple of guys in their early 50's arrived and pitched up next to us, and were both quite lovely (and hairy), and The Boyf in particular took a shine to one of them. Unusually he came over all English and refused to start a conversation with them, and is now complaining that he'll never get to know who they were.
The English shyness stuck me too, but then it always does. On the Sunday we found ourselves in The Dugout watching the closing ceremony of the Beijing Olympics over the heads of Joe.My.God and The Farmboyz (both Father Tony and C). Now, I'm a big fan of both blogs, but obviously couldn't speak to any of the people involved because I'm terribly English and didn't want to interrupt them. Instead I was waiting until I'd had a few drinks so I could slur at them and tell them I loved them. But before it got to that stage we de-camped to the Eagle. Still I couldn't summon up the courage to speak to anyone (they'd moved to the Eagle too). And then they left and the chance was missed, although on the way out, as they passed me, C said "Yes, we're leaving", evidently knowing that I'd wanted to speak by my body language (and the fact that I was probably staring). Anyway, I can at least confirm that Joe, Tony and C do really exist and that I found at least two of them completely do-able. I'll leave you to make up your minds which two.
More about NY later.
Obviously we ventured into the city on regular occasions, using the train into Grand Central, and did lots of the usual touristy stuff i.e. took a boat trip round Liberty Island and to see the waterfalls, walked over the Brooklyn Bridge, wandered around the Botanical Gardens, and took a trip out to Coney Island to go on the Cyclone (truly terrifying - has anyone actually checked any of it since it opened?)
We also had a day out at Sandy Hook, rather obviously a gay nudist beach, which involved a 40 minute boat ride and transfer to the beach by school bus (yay! I've been in an American school bus!). As lovely as it was (I'm still peeling, to prove how nice the weather was) the clientele left something to be desired. Where Haulover was "hottie" this was "grotty". However a couple of guys in their early 50's arrived and pitched up next to us, and were both quite lovely (and hairy), and The Boyf in particular took a shine to one of them. Unusually he came over all English and refused to start a conversation with them, and is now complaining that he'll never get to know who they were.
The English shyness stuck me too, but then it always does. On the Sunday we found ourselves in The Dugout watching the closing ceremony of the Beijing Olympics over the heads of Joe.My.God and The Farmboyz (both Father Tony and C). Now, I'm a big fan of both blogs, but obviously couldn't speak to any of the people involved because I'm terribly English and didn't want to interrupt them. Instead I was waiting until I'd had a few drinks so I could slur at them and tell them I loved them. But before it got to that stage we de-camped to the Eagle. Still I couldn't summon up the courage to speak to anyone (they'd moved to the Eagle too). And then they left and the chance was missed, although on the way out, as they passed me, C said "Yes, we're leaving", evidently knowing that I'd wanted to speak by my body language (and the fact that I was probably staring). Anyway, I can at least confirm that Joe, Tony and C do really exist and that I found at least two of them completely do-able. I'll leave you to make up your minds which two.
More about NY later.
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