Liver Betrayal

I still don't think I had more than five vodkas. And yet, yesterday, my body disagreed. And in a very sneaky way.

7am.
BODY: Your head hurts.
ME: It's seven o'clock. I'll take some pills. Go back to sleep.

7.30am.
BODY: Your head still hurts.
ME: We took pills.
BODY: No. You just dreamt you did. Pills, now, please. And a tiny glass of water.
ME:

8.30 am
ME: Can I get up and go to the gym now?
BODY: I'll get back to you on that one.

9 am.
ME: Oh, come on. I can't be hungover. No.
BODY: ...
ME: Are you still here?
BODY: ...
ME: Okay then. Let's go lie on the sofa. We'll watch TV. You can keep your eyes shut.

9.30 am
BODY: I'd like a yoghurt.
ME: Are you sure?
BODY: Yes please.

9.45 am
BODY: I didn't like that yogurt.
ME: Then why did you ask for it?
BODY: *strange giggling*

11 am
ME: What am I doing lying on the living room floor?
BODY: It's cold. I like cold.
ME: Am I better yet?
BODY: I think so.
ME: Shall we get up then.
BODY: One thing. Could you ask your flatmate to cook with less smells?
ME: What?
BODY: That. Toast. It. Smells. Horrible.
ME: What?
BODY: .... help me...

Noon
BODY: All better now. Another yoghurt please.
ME: Are you sure? You didn't like the last one.
BODY: Yoghurt! Yoghurt! Yoghurt!
ME: Okay.

12.15 pm
BODY: I didn't like that yoghurt either.
ME: Then why did you ask for it?
BODY: I lied.
ME: Well, what are we going to do about it?
BODY: ....
ME: Oh no. No. No. No.
BODY: Run.

Cartoons for Christian Youth

What happened to those nasty Sodomites


Why all Muslims are nasty liars

(And no, it's not a po-mo hoax)

Ebay

Ah well. How disappointingly levelling ebay is when you're a collector of tat. I decided to auction off a few of my more amusingly esoteric things (a Captain Scarlet annual from the 60s and a foolishly rare 1953 Giles book)... I figured a hundred quid or so would come in handy.

A quick glance at ebay reassured me that the most valuable was worth a fiver at most. So I may was well continue to treasure them myself.

America: What will they think of next?

The Hip-E: A PC targeted at teens, but with loads of parent-friendly features.

hate. hate. hate. hate. hate. hate. hate.

(pause)

But, ooh, you can hang it on the wall. or go blading with it. or, hey, probably do drugs off the screen. bonza. and, thanks to all that spyware, your parents will be able to hunt you down with a gun.

Watch that corporate video again. Maybe without laughing out loud at the bit where it stops trying to be all 'tude and street, and goes all calligraphy swirly when it tries to sell it to WASPy girls who still make outfits for their barbies.

The smell of burnt toast

So, you're a rising young porn star (in every sense). You're filming tomorrow, and you decide you need a healthy tan. Obviously, you pop into a tanning booth. After all, what could possibly go wrong?

Insomnia and Johnson

Oddly, ran out of things to do on Sunday, so went to bed at nine.

Woke up at 3, completely unable to sleep, so whiled away the hours reading Boswell's Life of Johnson.

Rapidly discovered that the famed English man of letters and father of the dictionary really was quite an arsehole.

He's one of those people who's so lazy that his friends are always having to make allowances for him (a mate dropping round begging him to finish a book is forced to take dictation while Johnson remains in bed). He seems rude, tiresome, and quite extraordinarily indolent.

Surprising fact: The only form of exercise Johnson enjoyed was being dragged across ice by a barefoot boy in harness. The man sounds like a depraved cardinal.

Unbearably, people are always coming up to Johnson and saying "You, sir, are the most intelligent man I've ever met." (Only in irritatingly verbose phrasing). He's even welcomed to Oxford by a Don wringing his hands at the prospect of teaching such perspicacious sagacity.

I was pleased to note that a much younger me had left a note in the margin at this point. "Creep". I felt proud.

Oh no....

Was GAY always this horrible?

Not the only orange fruit

Boots no longer sell home highlighter kits. I didn't let this stop me from getting fabby blond highlights. I grabbed a normal kit, a small paintbrush, and with a bit of artistic dexterity, let rip on my stylish locks.

After 20 minutes I understood why my hairline is receding. It's shrinking away from me in embarrassment.

I am now a strange, piebald ginger. I look like a cat doomed to spend the rest of its days in the sanctuary.

I decided to go to GAY. It's the only place where my locks would feel at home.

Question of the week....

q: Is crap 1960's Doctor Who any better on drugs?

a: Let's just say no.

Meanwhile, at the gym...

Personal trainer Sam just went down on bended knee.

Me: If you're proposing marriage, the answer's no.

Sam: Actually, I'd like you to do this. Good for the legs.

Me: The answer's still no.

(PS: It's hard to be aloof and dignified when you're on your knees.

*pause*

But I am working on it.)

Action Man Puppet Adventures

Most lovely, gayest, silliest thing of the week? Making your own photostories with Action Man figures:

Truly amazing Doctor Who adventure

Sapphire and Steel

Search for the albino bigfoot Sasquatch (includes outtakes)

And a sweater catalogue

It's that time of year...

Poor Annual Staff Survey

You do pick your timing. There we all are, dreading redundancies, outsourcing, or relocation to the Falkland islands... and you turn up.

At times of crisis, we're looking for words of comfort, of reassurance, of fuzzy warmth.

And what do we get on our desks instead, bleating like a sacrifical goat that's been to a good school?

You. We get you. And here's how you start...
- The purpose of my organisation is clear to me. [Agree] [Neither] [Disagree]
- The organisation shares its aims and objectives with staff.
- Communication here is open and honest...

*sigh*

What do I do, again?

Somedays, it's fun to keep a note of when it goes quiet and I can actually start my day's work.

Today, the screaming stopped at 4.30pm.

Kazaa too far

Kim on file-sharing insults

Text

... from a Sauna Shag:

"HI IT'S SIMON HERE. MY REAL NAME IS DAVID. BUT I SAY SIMON AS I AM SHY."

Actually, Simon is a fairly safe name to pick. Nearly all gay men seem to be called either Simon or Matt.

I suggest bringing it in as a classification. Perhaps Simons could all be the nice guys, and Matts could all be the slightly rough ones that you can't help but love.

Bloody Students

On a whim I went to the Black Cap for a drink last night. The sexy scoutmaster from last week was there (sigh), with his boyfriend (ugly, of course. they always are).

I also discovered that (hurrah) I'm back to having panic attacks in crowded gay clubs. When I'm on my own, the only thing that stops me fleeing is filling my legs with vodka. What a curious quirk.

Anyhoo - there was a drag queen, hula hoop contests, and a water pistol fight, so it was all great fun.

And then I got chatting to a Media Student called Matt. I've never really met a media student before (oddly, you don't meet many of them in the media. Try Tesco's). He was telling me about their gruelling coursework - this week's assignments include:

1) List the names of 10 TV Production Companies
2) Draw a TV timeline from the start of the BBC through to the launch of ITV3
3) Watch 28 Days Later and write an "interrogation of genre"

Apparently, last term they had to watch Coronation Street "for a whole week" looking for formula and signs.

Sudden flashback to my time at University, when I asked if I could write an essay on Dennis Potter (I was feeling Brave and Adult - I'd lost my virginity the night before). My tutor leaned out of the window, puffing on her tenth cigarette.

"Hmmn. Television. Yes. Why not? I saw a programme once...."

Back to Matt. What a curious beast he was. One of those shags whose charms rub off all too easily. By the morning phrases like "Basically, right, my maturity scares people, 'cos, well, anyway..." were wearing thin. He also had his own theory about zombies:

"Imagine if you met a real one. In the street. Like, people would try and help it, cos they'd think it was just an ill man. Or woman. So they'd try and nurse it. Or cure it. Or something. If they were real. But that would be wrong, as they'd just try and infect them. It's frightening, isn't it?"

I glared at him. "Oh, you're like my friend Becky. She sits behind me in class. She says I am a one, you know. But she thought the bloke in 28 Days Later was well fit too, so that's okay."

BlogExplosion

Lee's raving about BlogExplosion. It's apparently a great way of getting people reading your blog... but I'm just a bit put off by their website.

Somehow, it comes across as slightly like a pyramid-selling scheme. The PhotoDisc pictures of smiling men in plastic yellow hats and multi-cultured crowds don't help.

Anyway. Want to buy some Tupperware?

Odious

Remember all that fuss about the Odeon website? Where their lawyers duffed up a guy who'd made an accessible, text-only version of their hideously complicated site?

Well, lookee-do at the new Odeon homepage. The old site is still there (five clicks and a lot of agile mousing to find the time of a film - but don't even think about booking a ticket unless you're on beta blockers)... but they've now launched a text-only version. And it's fabulous. Two or three clicks, and there you go - not only the times of the film you want to see, but everything on at that cinema that week. All on one page. Genius.

How sad that all it took was a lot of lawyers, public humiliation, and the Disability Discrimination Act before they saw sense.

PS: They now have a third link on their homepage. It takes you to a page telling you all about how they like the disabled. They've got ramps and everything.

A (mean) but fabulous letter

Dear Hairdressers,

We're onto you. Don't think you can take a wonderful old barbers that used to charge seven quid and turn it into a salon simply by repainting and filling the window with bottles.

And don't think you can hike up your prices by thirty quid just by adding a cute Italian receptionist.

Well, okay. But he'd better be very flirty.

Love,
The Gays

Lack of personal space

Days off are great. You can unwind, relax, spend time with yourself and your own thoughts.

Yup. After four hours I was climbing the walls. After five I was down a sauna.

FACT: The accepted euphemism for this is "Going into SoHo to read the papers". This is the phrase that Simon's cheating ex used to use - and, although Michael is long gone, the phrase is too good to let go. Acceptable usage from yesterday follows:

Lee: So, how were the papers?

Me: Well, I flicked over some English titles, and then thumbed through a French one quickly.

Lee: Don't touch anything in the flat.

The singles section

Singles sections are back in HMV. Only they're now sections for desperate singletons.

It's true - look in the DVD section. Turn right, gently... gently.... and there you are ... a sudden fuck off wall of Sex and the City. Turn just slightly further right and *slap* Will & Grace box sets towering over you. Back away and *crash* you're up against the Justin Timberlake calendar.

Look down. Yes. That's right. All of a sudden you're wearing pink slippers, pyjamas, and holding a half-eaten slab of Dairy Milk covered in cat hair.

Fire in the Disco! Gay Bar! Gay Bar!

It was all going so well in the Black Cap. There was disco, there was vodka, and I was happily flirting with a gay scoutmaster.

Suddenly, Sandra the drag queen was cut off mid rant by a loud ringing of bells. "Christ!" she roared, "It's Matalan again - Tell 'em I was just seeing what it would look like outside the shop."

Then there was the smoke, the smell of burning and a quick exit. Half of us ended up out on the pavement, and the other half were bundled out of the fire exit to the M&S car park.

Out on the pavement, Lee and I cadged champagne from fag hags ("I broke me nose on me high heels," one claimed), and waited for the firmen.

They turned up, to tuts of disappointment.

Lee grabbed his phone. "Hello, 999? We asked for pretty firemen. Send more. With pizza."

I dragged Lee round to the fire exit at the back, so that I could find the scoutmaster in the crowd penned in in the M&S carpark. It was strangely like visiting him in prison. Yeah, he had a boyfriend, but it was kind of fun chatting to him through the bars. I checked my pockets, but didn't have a nail file or anything useful to pass him.

The prisoners were fairly calm. Most of the gay men were snogging and smoking. The lesbians were giving each other rides in shopping trolleys.

Captain Zep

Oh, goodness, this is marvellous.

If only they'd made K9&Co like this with cardboard cutout aliens, super-stylised CSO, and a gang of children clamouring for space badges and adenoid removal.

How can you not love a show that has:
1./ aliens with furrrrench aczents ("zer is nuzink zo demonstrative as a demonstration, non?"),

2./ a black man called "Brown" who's constantly being asked if his name is "White" (ho.ho.ho),

3./ the ability to re-cast Captain Zep between seasons, turning him from a serious detective to a tea-addled fool,

4./ sexy female professors with ice-cream cone haircuts,

5./ superb model shots. Both of them. And I could watch them over and over again. Which is a good thing, as they show them at least four times an episode.

6./ a planet of vegetable people who rather disturbingly say things like: "Come, my old friend, let us have some carrot wine together..."

7./ lines like: "I discovered the queen had a twin brother who was exiled ten years ago for his opposition to fish freedom..."

Shame/Bragging/Wine/Foolishness

I can't remember why we ended up dancing past Russell T Davies in a posh restaurant. But we did. Hollering and waving.

He looked up and waved, "Who is that gay in the window?" he apparently turned to his dinner companions and said, "I can spot 'em a mile away. In the dark. Through venetian blinds."