The curious student

Oddly, I forgot to write about Drogaz. He emerged a couple of months ago from the Orange Facebook and insisted we meet. There's something engaging about this as a notion. 22-year old Fashion Student with Eastern European Eyes and Effort Hair? What's not to love?

So we meet for tea in Marble Arch. And he approaches, and there's so much swish in his stride his hips are on ball-bearings.

"I am Drogaz," he intones, plucking off one pair of sunglasses and replacing them with another. He rearranges his hair and smiles. "We drink."

We walk to Starbucks and I think, "This is odd."

He asks me what I do for a living, nods, and then smirks. I ask him, and he pulls three phones out of his pocket. "Guess," he says.

"Oh," I say.

He nods. "Yes. I work three hours a night, party loads, and get given amazing clothes. I shock you, yes?"

Not really. It's just a bit...

"Don't worry," he pats me on the forearm, "I buy you coffee."

And we sit outside and he chainsmokes and laughs. And then one of his phones goes off. "Is friend Julian," he sighs, lifting his sunglasses so that I can see him rolling his eyes. "He is very dull but he is safe. If I do not like you I tell him and then he tells me I must feed my cat."

"You have a cat?" I say, "Well, I have one too and she-"

He waves away some smoke. "I am not interested in your cat. I am interested in you."

Crikey.

Julian arrives. He is very odd. He's from Hong Kong, is also, uh, a well-funded student, but behaves strangely like a geisha. I realise that sounds weird, but he sits there, giggling quietly from behind a FAN, and occasionally whispers something to Drogaz, glances in my direction, and then whispers again.

This is the point, I think, when I should just go. But Drogaz stills me with a glance. "You stay," he says. "Julian and I have private talk."

They go and stand round the corner. Chainsmoking while Julian giggles. He is somehow managing to smoke while fluttering his fan, creating an effect like a bellows.

They shuffle back.

And I look at Drogaz and he looks at me and I think "this really is One Of Those Dates."

"We have been talking about you," murmurs Drogaz, "We say good things."

"Right."

"Which is unusual, as we are such bitches." (Julian titters at this), "But no. You we like. But some - oh! - some! I have four friends, we are like mad crazy bitches.
You would not think, but we are unlucky in love. Julian is Samantha and I am Carrie. You know Sex and the City? Is the story of our lives! Is our favourite show! "

"I must use the bathroom," says Julian and goes inside.

Drogaz leans forward. "Of course is not. Is shit show. I would rather be watching Stargate: Atlantis, but do not tell him that. He is viper."

"Umm," I say, suddenly rather liking him. "Is Julian going?"

"Soon soon," says Drogaz. "Why? You hate him? He is very dull. If you wish, I tell him."

"No! No!" I protest, "It's just, this isn't what I thought..."

"I am not a slut!" A shrug, "Not in daytime. No. We meet. We have coffee. We have walk in park. Maybe we kiss. Is nice."

Is nice. Julian comes back from the bathroom. We get up to go round the park. Julian follows. So, we walk round the park. And I'm thinking I'd rather not be, and yet at the same time, finding it all enjoyably silly.

How does it end? Ah. We get talking about Romania, the beloved country where Drogaz comes from. I ask him why he came over here. And how long he's been here, and things like that. And also, you know, why a 22-year old would be...

"Haha!" he laughs, "Of course I am not 22! I say that to stop the foolish bitches! No! I am 17! Well, soon."

And that's when I announce it's time I went home and fed the cat.

Breaking the internet III

An oddly anonymous message arrives with my name as the subject heading.
"Seriously - don't give up smoking. Looking good the other day." Attached to it is, curiously, a picture of a nipple. It is not my nipple.

And I think "Well, either those Nigerian Bankers have changed tactics or that's kind of creepy stalky" but also "A stalker who pays compliments. Could be worse."

Breaking the internet II

"@stephenfry Ianto(from torchwood) is dead... comfort me stephen! COMFORT ME!"
auroraginga neatly puts the case for not bothering with Twitter.

Meanwhile, don't forget to slash BBC Wales's catering bill by sending them free coffee. The same site also offered you the chance to, ah, email someone who wasn't Russell T Davies or fax a Cardiff taxi firm. w00t.

Breaking the internet

DigitalSpy's GaySpy section has introduced fit reader of the week. I urge you to go to there. Not, naturally, for the topless picture of Danny from St Andrew's university. No. But for the comments, such as:

Pavel, Newham on July 7th, 2009
I am so love for this man, he chest has hair for kiss. He like my brother Piotr of Mockba. Perhaps he underpants can send me. I not live far!

Blessings upon you, Digital Spy.

Crude analogy

Reader Erskine-Davidson points out that my radio play made it into Pick of the Week. I am insanely excited by this.

I play the opening of the show to Lee. He looks at me. "Given how much you love Radio 4, this is your nirvana, yes?"

I nod. "It's like you starring in porn."
Lee smiles. "With Adam Baldwin."

Drinks went well

"Another one?" I ask Grinning Polish Man.
"We could," He shrugs and looks around the bar. "But I am... how you say?... slutty."

Radio! Torchwood!

You can listen to my Indian Torchwood play here

There's a lovely picture, and, to celebrate, the Delhi High Court have decriminalised gaying, which is probably a bit more important.

Meanwhile, I got to hear my name in between The Archers music and the Torchwood theme. That was bang.

Caught on tape

It's 30 years of the Walkman. To celebrate, BBC News got a 13 year-old to swap his ipod for a walkman:
"It took me three days to figure out that there was another side to the tape... Another notable feature that the iPod has and the Walkman doesn't is shuffle".

Coincidentally, this weekend I was suckered in by Maplin's £40 gadget for turning your tapes into mp3s. And am I having fun?

Oddly enough, nearly. I am rediscovering my love of The Older Woman (a comedy series starring Martin Clunes and Zoe Wanamaker which is as utterly brilliant as it is totally forgotten). I am quietly stunned that I own a Def Leppard album, but with hindsight not so surprised that I own Roxette.

But I'm also a bit baffled. The Maplin walkman-to-MP3 is actually rather fiddly. I've a suspicion that they've taken a few thousand old we'll-never-sell-these dictaphones and added a USB soundcard. For a start, the dictaphone is mono. And comes with some horrible software. What's needed is a clever thing that lets you play the tape and spits out an MP3 at the end. Not a complicated jumble of wires and things that requires endless fiddling to produce a sound file that i'm still not sure i've cleaned up. At the most, the software should have 1 button. Not more waveforms than a surfing beach and a manual about how to ride the equaliser - I just want to listen to the Duchess of Malfi without the hiss. And no, don't even get me started on trying to do it in Audacity.

I guess it's the tape's fault. They sounded fine back then, but now they're horrible. Especially stuff recorded off the radio which is like listening to distant music in a rainstorm.

And tapes are so random. Where is episode 5 of The Older Woman? Guttingly replaced by half an hour of 24 year-old me pottering around a room clearly not seizing the day but obliviously wiping comedy gold while doing the ironing you dull fuckwit.

I have even found an "audio diary" I kept while backpacking. Cos everyone likes listening to the sound of their own voice. Especially when it's squeaking "I can't stop throwing up and Ollie really hates me, I wish I was back home".

A sign of old age

Unearthed my beloved tape of "Power Themes 90" and, so joyed was I at the discovery that I'm currently whizzing it into MP3s. Bless you MC Parker, my Thunderbirds Are Go again.

And then I realised... You know you're ancient when your novelty dance albums are two decades old.

Heat...

It's so hot the cat is slumping from room to room, bleating sadly, or hiding under the covers, whimpering. This is a clear practical cat fail - if you're trying to cool down wrapping yourself in a duvet is surely a bad move?

On the other hand, the weather also means that Canary Wharf have a festival of dancing, which is mostly about men cavorting topless in fountains. Well, it's not all brilliant - what was advertised as an "open air rubik's cube" turns out to be bouncing irish dancers with large lego bricks - which you'd think would be my idea of nirvana, but it was just annoying. "Yeah! Throw it here! Woo! Yeah" etc for half an hour. "Come on everyone! Mexican Waves! All right!"

I was taken by old friend Darian. We spend the afternoon being reliably horrible to each other, with or without performance dance. All his friends are impossibly pretty. Some of them are even dancers. We get home before it rains, and I spend the evening drinking Pimms and reading about the rediscovery of tomb KV5.