The Backroom Boys of the BBC

I guess it had to happen eventually. I've finally shagged someone I have something in common with. Unfortunately, it's the wrong thing.

Bad Things always happen when I try and give up smoking - my vodka monkey really comes alive. In this case, it was a mini pub crawl, which ended up, much to my surprise in Central Station. I spent some of the time chatting to a charming young barrister called Lee ("it seemed local, and sounded fun, and - oh god, what *is* the stripper doing?"), and then, when he left...

Well, there was this bloke, and he was handsome, and we were obviously both feeling a bit shy - so the obvious thing to do was bang each other senseless in the back room (please don't let this be my new bad habit). We were all over each other, laughing, fiddling, and swatting away the hands of fat strangers.

After a while we paused. To be exact, he turned round from the wall mid-shunt, and said, "Hmm, you're still there aren't you?"

"Yup."

"Thought so. In that case, someone's giving me a blow job, and it's not you."

"Well, that's ruined the magic of the evening."

"True. Fancy a drink?"

So we got talking. Found out each other's names, had a bit of a laugh, you know. Until the dreadful moment when we started talking about jobs.

Him: "I'm a kind of interactive strategist."

Me: "I edit websites."

Him: "Really? How funny. That's some of my job. Who do you work for?"

Me: "The BBC."

Him: "So do I."

And that's where it all went wrong. Suddenly work collided with harmless grubby fun, and we both stopped smiling. At work, I'd only come across him through an appointment with my boss's boss's boss and a stern warning to not put a foot wrong. Here, it just took a winning smile and a filthy mind. Isn't the real world funny?

It suddenly got sad. We went from "I want to take you home and bang your brains out" to "We really should meet up for coffee sometime. It would be nice."

Sherlock Holmes and the Silk Purse

The problem with national treasure Rupert Everett is that we’re running out of things for him to be bad in. The pampered prince of petulance needs a home, and he’s sulked through enough films, so now, alas, we must try and fit him into television.

Rupert Everett is a character (one shouldn’t say actor) of such pronounced distaste for the world that, when one sees him slouching though London’s gay soho, one doesn’t think “Is that Rupert Everett?” but, instead, “Who is that pissed-off man?”

It’s natural to see him as an ideal TV Sherlock Holmes – isolated, miserable, and as certain of his own brilliance as he is convinced of everyone else’s inadequacy. When I say “it’s natural”, I mean, it’s natural if you’re one of those TV casting types. It’s actually A Very Bad Idea.

The whole of Sherlock Holmes And The Silk Stocking was actually A Very Bad Idea. It is aptly summarised by Nancy Banks-Smith: “it was - just give me a minute to straighten my face – about a footman who has a foot fetish”.

But let’s talk about Rupert Everett – he was the most noticeable thing about it. An acquaintance claims to have sucked him off in Hyde Park: “He looked bored throughout, and came with a sigh.” Whether or not the story’s true, it perfectly describes him.

The art of television is capturing performances in a nicely-shaped bottle. Here, the bottle looked lovely (rolling fog, grand buildings and, as my mum said “lovely staircases”), but it was empty of any acting, bar a residue at the bottom from a couple of child actors who didn’t know better.

This was a prime example of good-looking bad television. No one ever sets out to make a bad programme, but it’s so easy to make a decision, a compromise, or a suggestion that tips it from being Something Good into A Thing Of Hopeful Desperation.

Here, so much effort had gone into nice staircases, plush gowns and lots and lots of smoke that one frequently forgot that there was something wrong with the script. There was music, lighting and atmosphere – proving that, if a script is flawed, everyone can turn up to work except for the poor people charged with delivering the lines.

This was wild, improbable Sexton Blake rather than rational Sherlock Holmes. The great detective should assemble available clues into a solution that startles a satisfied audience, able to tell itself “That makes wonderful sense!” The Silk Stocking did not make sense. Nor was it wonderful - its clues made revealed only as Sherlock Holmes solved them, like ducks in a fog-bound shooting gallery. Rupert would enter a room, Steadycam would wobble, fog would roll and then he’d leap off, eureka through a window.

The myriad historical inaccuracies didn’t help, being little details there for us to scratch irritably at. If we weren’t so bored we wouldn’t question an almost-possible world with phones, but no cars, 1910 clothes for Holmes but Victorian for everyone else. There were servantless houses, a practising female psychologist, widespread fingerprinting, men in lady’s bedrooms without social ruin, and exultant smoking of cigarettes without an ashtray in sight. Yeah – all possible, but not probable.

The biggest anachronism was the plot. Holmes vs a Motiveless Serial Killer just doesn’t work. That’s why Holmes meets Jack the Ripper is such a laughable cliché. The great brain can only solve great problems of logic – not the mystery of a cracked mind. Especially when, in this case, it turned out the villains were identical twins. Neither had a motive, other than that one of them got some form of gratification from touching lady’s tights. Don’t worry - you could tell from the look on Rupert’s face that he hated it too.

Darian's Party

It’s weird meeting people you feel you know but have never met. Last night I went to Darian’s birthday party in a friendly corner of Ghetto. I only know him through his blog, but he was marvellous, and excelled at having a circle of bright young things around him. His boyfriend is also very tall.

I liked Ghetto – it’s over six months since I last went. Ben and I stood in a corner, drips of sweat falling on us from the ceiling, trying to discuss the film we’d just seen. We stared at the sea of elbows around us, and realised that neither of us dared see the other dance. But now I’m falling in love with it again – it wasn’t too crowded, the men were pretty and flirty, and vodka was £2.

Chavtastic Croydon

Nothing much was going to happen today, so Lee suggested we travel to Croydon, and it was agreed that we should both go as chavs. We met at London Bridge – me top to toe in sports wear, with a cap. Lee was dressed, as usual in smart brown things. He shrugged. “I didn’t own anything hideous enough. I’m appalled that you do.”

Croydon was blissful – we went to TK Maxx, watched shoplifters, ate at Pizza Hut, bought bargain books, and fought to get into sports shops. Most amusingly, people there really were dressed like me, only with less layers. I was keeping warm thanks to a layer of ski thermals. What the hell was keeping these people alive?

Come Dancing Party

The Strictly Come Dancing party was a joy. When else can you say that you did the Timewarp with Esther, chatted with the lady who did the radio mikes (“hiding it in a strapless back gown is the worst”), and eyed up all the wrong people?

I encountered a whole new look last night. It’s the look that you get given after you’ve eyed up a pretty man. You look at him. He looks at you. And then his minor celebrity boyfriend glances at you with a look that says “Yes, yes, he is mine. Now bugger off.”

Top Tip on Dating

If you’re trying to impress a second date, it’s probably not a good idea to suck them off in the bogs at Barcode. I’ve a hunch it could be tacky.

Talent

A blaze of half-hearted Christmas shopping and leftover trifle. Met the adorable Gary in town for tea, then later caught up with him in a pub for a drink. He was surrounded by lovely, clever people – which made up for the pub. I hate the Fitzroy Tavern. It’s not that central – so why does it sometimes feel like “The only fucking pub in old London town”? If it was less popular, it would be lovely – there’d be space to sit and muse over peanuts and old scores.

There was a lovely young man there called Scott. It was his first time in London, and he’d taken instant exception to two things – the tube and my cheery demeanour. He kept ruffling my hair, damn him. I fear I like him.

Party

Had Christmas Drinks, which narrowly avoided turning into a wake. I love my friends – they’re so supportive, reassuring, and downright sexy. Along with the normal group of people I’d like around my deathbed, of all things, lovely Mark turned up, randomly on the way back from Christmas shopping with his new boyfriend.

Mark had been deeply in love with his old one, but Paul won him with admirable romantic cunning. For Mark’s birthday, Paul gave him a pair of Eurostar tickets and said “take who you want”. It obviously worked.

Sports Night

Aaron Sorkin is a genius of television, and I’ve been rewatching The Show He Did Before The West Wing: Sports Night.

It’s such an interesting dry run – shot on video, impossibly short episodes, and the first few episodes even have a laughter track. Of course, you’ve never heard a laughter track like it – it’s nervous, mild laughter from an audience frankly baffled by the sheer pace, intelligence and style of the show. It’s like asking people to guffaw at an ice sculpture in a microwave.

Only Sorkin could make me love a programme about sport. Of course, it’s as much about sport as the West Wing is about politics – his genius is clever people in crisis, and this show is a strangely comforting, melancholy tale of an under-funded, over-worked team of people making a brilliant show that the network just don’t understand.

Google it, and you’ll find out how closely the show parallels the struggle Sorkin had keeping it on air – a network that kept hoping it would dumb-down or die off, a constant battle for ratings, and a behind-the-scenes battle to keep an actor after they’d had a stroke (not only do they write it into the show, they keep nagging away at it).

Amazingly, the show lasted two fantastic seasons. And is so obviously a dry run for The West Wing, with a similar repertory company in front of and behind the scenes. There are sour bhuddas, recovering alcoholics, brilliant-but-needy women, and charmingly vulnerable men. Poignantly, it seems to have been set in the World Trade Centre.

The Day After

As far as I can remember went: Bugger, Bugger, Bugger. Hell, Damn, Why Me? Bugger, Bugger, Homebase, Christmas Tree, Fairy Lights, Bugger, Bugger, Bugger.

All good things

It’s now public, so I can write about it (Tuesday morning). On Friday, I was told my site was being shut down next year. No debate, or argument, just a “let’s go for coffee, there’s a press release coming out” from my new manager.

I was so stunned when he told me it was happening, I forgot to ask why. Still don’t really know, but like the end of a relationship, I guess it doesn’t really matter. The important thing is it’s over. And your life falls apart.

Actually, good analogy; You kind of hope it’s not really over, you don’t understand, and you hate yourself. When I have managed to sleep, I’ve woken up full of fear, shock and shame.

I’m upset, I’m stunned, and glad I’ve got lots of supportive friends, who say all the right things,along the lines of “oh, you were so good for each other”, and “did you see it coming?”.

Of course, when real relationships end, there’s normally some indication. I’ve had my suspicions, but only in the way that every time your lover leaves your bed, you’re afraid you’ll never see them again. And of course, I’m not used to seeing my shattering failures printed in the Guardian.

My friends are slipping me some fantastic sleeping pills. I’m still waiting for them to work. I’ve got bored of listening to Radio Four turn into the World Service and then back again. I’m tired of vodka breakfasts beginning with that strange military music medley they play just before Farming Today and ending with Woman’s Hour. I hate feeling this horrid. I feel so desperately alone and miserable. I wish I could cry, but sadly, these days, I only do that when watching Aaron Sorkin shows.

Others are better at it. My old boss rang me up from a wedding on Saturday night. He’d only just heard, and was so upset it sounded like he was in tears. Which was really sweet of him.

My team are all being fantastic. They know I’m a selfish old sock, and are letting me get on with my own Greek Tragedy grieving rather than looking to me for consolation and reassurance. I’m a broken man, so what can I say without sounding hollow? They’re all lovely, surprisingly strong people, and seem to be coping much better than me. If I was a better, stronger person, I’d be busy “being there for them” – but no. I’m at home, on holiday, and where there’s self-pity on tap.

PS: Hell of a day to try and give up smoking.

(By the way, BBC-types, please note: I’m talking about my reactions to the news, rather than discussing how it all came about. I really don’t know, I can’t speculate, and I’m sure these things, regrettable as they are, happen for sound and careful reasons. The last thing I want is to be hauled into a room and bollocked when I’m feeling this horrid. I’ve still got a job, and other great things to work on – just let me mourn this one.)

Oh, the foolishness of drink II

I lost half of today. I spent the morning slightly hungover. And then made the mistake of grabbing a sandwich from a corner shop in Stockwell. One of those shops where the sandwiches are on the counter, and there’s a mad man standing outside on the phone, shouting hands-free to Jesus.

Now, I’ve heard people say “It’s not a hangover, it’s food-poisoning”, and never believed them, but, oh dear god… All of a sudden, at two in the afternoon, my body started compulsively vomiting. In an explosive and rather boring way that went on for hours.

The worst bit was going to a recording of The Now Show, and having to run out into the street to throw up. I found an empty parking space to heave into, and had a merciful few seconds of peace, before someone started parking their BMW. I staggered out of the way, and thankfully passed out for a bit. Then brushed myself off, and trotted into the recording.

Now, I’m blaming the sandwich, but also admitting that, if I hadn’t been a bit hungover, I wouldn’t have brought it. It was “sausage and creamed chicken” – only a fool would have bought it..

Oh, the foolishness of drink

I’ve promised to seduce a barman at a top London hotel next time he’s on shift and bored.

I can’t even remember his name. It was 79 CXR. He was rather too good-looking to be in there. There was vodka. And then one of those rather squalid rooms that nice hotels seem to delight in giving the poor sods who work for them.

Top celebrity fact:

Hannah Gordon can split an apple using one hand. She once did this in front of Sean Connery, who was amazed, “How can you do that? There’s barely a pint of you”

Script or Sauna?

Well, I didn’t get to read much of the scripts I had. Instead, I got distracted by Paul, a rather nice man fron Hungary, who claimed to have come to the sauna “just for the detox”. If so, his detoxing regimen is unusual, demanding, and far-reaching.
Like nearly everyone in London, he’s a waiter. He’s fully-trained as a chemist, and would love to work as a lab technician – but waiters get paid more and the hours are better. When he moved over here, he split up with his boyfriend, who he’s still missing.

PAUL: His name is Martin.
ME: My old boss was called Martin.
PAUL: Sexy name. I cannot here it without thinking about him. Wild and passionate.
ME: I just think of a lovely cuddly bear of a man it was surprisingly easy to deceive.
PAUL: That too.

Weirdly, I’m seeing him again next Monday. He likes me. Or, as he put it. “Martin good name. James also good name.”

Stereotype?

We're moving office next year. Our business head just came and asked me if I'd like to look round the new office. "Yer know. To talk about paint colours, furnishings, wall hanging and... uh... fabrics and stuff. It's, ah, your area, isn't it?"

Oh. Right.

I'll turn up with a beret, a small dog and a quiche.

Foolish modern agony!

It's underwear night at the sauna. And I promised a friend I'd go...

...But, some really important scripts have turned up that I'm dying to read.

Do I change my plans...?

... Or do I try and combine the two?

It could be an ideal combination - after all, it beats reading Boyz on those sun lounger things...

... Or it could go disastrously wrong. After all, it's bad enough leaving scripts on a train...

Miss Marple Review

Miss Marple's best friend, Dolly Bantry, writes:

It's so charming - simply charming - to find oneself back onscreen. And how adorable that I'm now played by Joanna Lumley! Wonderful!

And what of my dear Jane Marple, now played by Geraldine McEwen? Oh, isn't she utterly marvellous? Mind like a hatchet, though her posture suggests that she's left the coat-hanger in her swishy cardie. And what an adventure! All that chasing around in splendid hats and drinking. There was even a special leather riding bonnet for Jane that was last seen on Wallace and Gromit - or was it left over from when that Rutherford gorgon was staying in St. Mary Mead? Who can say?

Well, it's hardly surprising as nowadays old-fashioned crime has to be quaint, sparkling and frothy like that ersatz champagne so adored by those lovely bachelor men Who Dance At The Other End of The Ballroom. Brilliant!

How lovely it is to be in a world that's always sunny, and the drinks are always flowing, and the men are just so, so... well, let me just say, one of the suspects was the adorable Jamie Theakston, and every one else was simply too, too famous to be there!

Even dear Simon Callow - d'you think it was piles or a St. Vitus Dance he was suffering from during filming? One just can't tell! But, how divine to see him literally hopping from foot to foot during his scenes, seemingly longing for the lavatory - which had been probably been stuffed with a fake body and burnt down. Probably by lesbians. Oh, simply divine!

And a marvel to see that old friend of ours, Day-For-Night Filming - who I hadn't seen since the Children's Film Foundation in the 70s. So nice to be getting work again - though one cad suggested that it was because we'd drunk away the budget! Cruel, cruel, cruel.

How marvellously talented and novel it all was. Especially when they changed the ending (and a murderer) by introducing thrillingly modern lesbianism! Well, my dears, none of us batted an eyelid (except for dear Mr Callow, who by that point was batting everything). But, honestly - how reassuring to see that all *that sort* are wickedly evil. I'd never have guessed. TV producers, my dears, minds like sinks.

Anyway, I really must attend to the garden. The begonias are divine at this time of year! But before I hurry off my dears, one little secret - yes, you were correct. Every time Jane and I were having a cup of tea, there was gin in it!

Marple, currently running on Sunday evenings on The Other Channel. As soothing as cocoa with a slight tang of almonds.

(PS: Wonder what the copyright is on reproducing stuff I write at work?)

Nicole Kidman: A fabulous letter

Dear Nicole,

Frankly, your latest attempt to pay off your Matalan store card is a little desperate.

Luv,
The Gays

PS: We remember when you dissed skivvy perfumes, and said you made your own out of vanilla. Bet you smelled like a candle. Now you look like one.

The way I walk

It's a two minute trot from Euston to my flat. I managed to pull on the walk home on Saturday night.

Can this really be the first time I've done this? But how marvellous - it was just like one of those Monty Python "do you want to come back to mine?" sketches.

He was Spanish, cute, courteous, and in bed within ten minutes. His sexual technique was disappointingly unlike the rest of him. Remember those fifties exercise belts that ladies used to wear, jiggling and grinning away madly? Yeah. Rather like that.

Strictly Come Dancing

Our fabulous security guards proved how this has now entered the nation's bosoms. They're two nice, burly blokes of a certain age, and on Saturday they were hotly debating who would win.

TED: Now Julian, now, he's not a dancer, but I'm glad he's in.

JON: Yeah, but I'm glad of a bit of light relief before Jill wins. It's good balance.

TED: Jill? You mean Denise.

JON: Denise? How can you say that? She's got the moves, yeah, but not the sparkle.

TED: Don't you start - She's got charisma. Don't you remember her doing the jive? Now, she came alive in the jive...

Kashpoint - different clubbing

Kashpoint - Best night's clubbing in ages. Although, apparently, it's old hat (proves I wasted my twenties).

Most surprisingly, it was at Central Station. Yeah, I know. Only time I went there I mistook the backroom for the toilets. Only to discover I wasn't the first person to do that. *shudder*

This time was different - there was a giant pom-pom standing on the door selling tickets. Inside, everyone was dressed in a weird collision between punk and 1930s Berlin (without Lia Minelli). There were fluorescent flappers, gentlemen dressed for a weekend's hunting, battered bowler hats, and an Edwardian fellow with a pleasant, open face and a shock of curly hair.

It was like a sci-fi convention organised by the Scissor Sisters, with cocktails by Kate Bush. There was shouted, live music on the ground floor, seedy christmas carols by candlelight upstairs, and downstairs women dressed as undertakers danced to mashed-up Beatles tracks.

It was so amazing, I felt almost completely at ease. I only had a mini panic attack - and went and hid in the backroom, smoking a calming cigarette while surrounded by weirdly dressed random shaggers.

Met a geographer called Russell out in the club. He was vaguely puzzled "I only came here for a quick half," he muttered. He was lovely, if rather ironic. He gently swatted away a pass from me with the phrase, "Well, if it wasn't so weird in here, well, I would. But it is. Last time I came to play pool and ended up pissing on someone, so hey."

That somewhat took the shine off him. The varnish was completely removed when I left and discovered him with his hands down a fat man's pants on the pavement.

But what an amazing evening's clubbing.

Hangover Cure

Chocolate-covered pretzels. The combination of salt and fat is fantastic. So long as you can quell the gag reflex.

On Annism

Weird Office Christmas Party moment. Was explaining to Ann (the Angostura Bitters of our office) some of the antics of our marvellously corrupt IT guy.

ME: ... And then there was the time he brought a woman off in his office while showing her Battlestar Galactica.

ANN: Old or new series?

Dying Wishes

Every now and then, my work gets emailed by people with last wishes. They assume that, because we cover old TV and shows like Angel, we'll be able to help them with either a copy of/tickets for a programme for a frail relative.

So far, so sensible, and sometimes, we can point them in the right direction.

Slightly more disturbing are the occasional emails we get from America. They're always roughly the same: "My two year-old boy died recently. Angel was his favourite show. Can I have a signed picture from the entire cast to include in his coffin?"

When we got the first one, I remember feeling a bit moved by it - and sadly helpless. We're in the UK. We have nothing to do with making Angel. Which hasn't been made in a year. The cast have moved on to other projects...

And then my "hang-on-a-minute" kicked in. Angel's an adult show. Why would it be a big thing for a two year-old? Why bury a picture of the cast in the coffin? Hmmn. What does that mean?

(Dante Rossetti buried a book of poems to his wife with her corpse, as he felt they were too painful for the public. Now, that I can understand. Of course, his publisher couldn't, and dug them up.)

We've received about six of these requests now. Should I be taking them at face value, or am I right to suspect it's a manipulative scam to get merchandise by large ladies with black fingernails?

Damn my gayness!

It can strike at the most inappropriate times. I saw but fifteen seconds of "I'm A Celebrity..." and what was my one controlling thought?

"My, doesn't Paul Burrel have nice arms?"

*sigh* I give up.

Teaser Trailer

The teaser trailer for Doctor Who went up last week. And the fans immediately melted.

Some fans have decided, purely from the fact that a teaser exists, that Doctor Who will be going out on Xmas Day. Based on No Information at all.

This is despite the fact that:
1) No tx date has been announced
2) Beyond "Winter 2005"
3) Which is either Jan-Mar, or Sep-Dec next year.
4) Filming is still taking place with lots of CGI.
5) What's the point in burying something this big in the middle of christmas...
6) ... rather than giving it its own marketing campaign?
7) The HitchHiker's Film has a teaser out now. And that's still a year away.
8) Life is quite short, actually.
9) Time they're spending worrying about this could be spent having sex.
10) Perhaps with other people.

No, I'm not having a stroke...

... but our telephones have been sanitized with something that smells exactly like burnt toast.

The Sex Tutor

Last year I went on a terribly useful course about Picking Up Men. It was a great course, and, if nothing else, taught me loads about how to networking at dull events. The same tutors (GMFA), also run some apparently wonderful courses on Sauna Skills, Oral Sex, and an Arse Class.

I mention this, cos yesterday I got to shag the tutor off the course. Completely by accident, I suddenly found myself on top of, well, i guess "sex professional" is the best phrase.

And blimey. And oh my. And goodness me. And. Well. And, oh, he really knew his subject. From top to bottom. And *blushes again at the memory*.

Many nasty things were said about Wallace Simpson. That she was a man, that she'd worked in a Vietnamese Brothel. But by far the commonest rumour about here was that she was proficient in a piece of esoteric eroticism known as "The Spanish Trick". Thanks to yesterday's shag, I think I now know what the Spanish Trick is. And, oh my...

Anyway, his name was also James, and he's a thoroughly nice bloke, who's making a tidy living out of applying traditional training methods to unusual situations. Or, as he puts it: "If you can make a man to walk across hot coals, you can teach him to take it up the arse."

Secret Society

A charming weekend at my parents, spoiled only by their attempt to induct me into a secret society.

They tried to make me go to a carol concert. Not just any carol concert, mind. Only after I'd put up a fuss and politely explained that I'd be spending the evening in with a bottle of scotch and Rosemary & Thyme did I realise that it was yet another ploy by my parents to get me along to the local Masonic Lodge.

My dad is a mason, you see, and is terribly keen that I join in. I'd rather not. I'm fine with shirt-lifting, but trouser-lifting really isn't my thing. Plus you need a good head for both God and Algebra.

Getting me "in" has been a long-term ambition of my dad's. In the town where we used to live, the Grand Master ran the local fruit and veg shop. I popped in during a visit to buy cauliflowers, and by the time I got home, "a call" had already been placed to my dad, and he explained to me that I was summoned to the lodge.

Ever since, it's been a combination of polite refusals, and bizarre subterfuge. This time it was a carol concert. Last time I went home, they tried to tempt me along to a concert by The Wurzels.

Doctor Who porn

Proof that my sad childhood is now back in fashion. Lovers of nakedness and terrible puns can gasp at the adventures of Dr Louise Flangebatter as she grapples with Emperor Minge The Merciless and the deadly Phaleks.

There is a trailer. It looks bad and nasty. As in cheap and stupid. Not hot and horny.

Trailer (it's really *very explicit* and nowhere near as fun as you'd hope).

Play.Com listing (safer and funnier than the trailer)