Trilemma

So, last night, our options were:
1) Stay in the pub and experience lesbian improvised comedy.
2) Run out into the rainstorm and get pissed on.
3) Go downstairs and get pissed on. By old men.

We chose the dry option. It was not the correct decision.

I blame it all on Ed. He's a lovely friend from school, who's the straight equivalent of a gay man - slutty, wicked and mostly alcohol, he'd just broken up with one girlfriend (something to do with a Polish personal trainer), and was now dallying with a girl from the pony club (saddle in her bedroom).

Ed also happened to work round the corner from Central Station, and was dying to visit. He then refused to leave when he realised that it was Lesbian Comedy Night.

ED: It'll be like porn but funny.

ME: No.

ED: Oh, come on. Lesbians are hot and funny. Well, Sandi Toksvig is funny.

ME: She escaped.

The Lesbian Comedy Group began doing warm-up exercises by the pool table, much to the annoyance of the topless bears trying to finish off their game while ladies clad in black jumped up and down yelling "Go girl! Go girl!"

Ed stared at them, his heart sinking like a child at London Zoo - "Those are the lesbians?"

The lesbians to the stage and proceeded to be... worthy. Valiant. Honest. And not at all funny. It's been said that all comedy is at someone's expense, but this was free... unless you were in the audience.

About the only person interested was a very drunk truck driver called Brenda. And even she started heckling. At which point the leader of the troupe turnd to her and said, "Madam, I shall have to ask you to refrain from participating in the audience participation."

Ed turned to me and sighed. "I think I'd enjoy being pissed on more."

Mingling and Blogs

Yesterday was Mark's birthday party, and also the day that the Independent published a list of the 100 Most Influential Gays In The Country. Most of Mark's guests were rather cross that they weren't on it.

This did not include Jerome, still furious at his last appearance on this blog.

JEROME: Why you tell such lies? It's all wrong!

ME: I'm sorry. You're correct. The man you were with wasn't a Taxi Driver but a Tax Adviser. I misheard?

JEROME: Are you saying my English is shit, you liar? What about that Brazilian -

ME: No, you are correct. You didn't go to the toilet to look at his penis. I apologise.

JEROME: Quite. I am not like that. I looked at it on the dancefloor.

[ minutes later ]

JEROME: So, boys, did we go out much? Me, I don't. Not really. Why go to all that trouble when you can just go to a sauna and find them all undressed already? Of course, last time I went, there was just a man in the steam room wearing a baseball cap? Can you believe that? So I just farted in that steam room. As a protest. How dare they?

[ even later, Jerome was introduced to Mark's adorable boyfriend, a terribly polite Canadian called Paul ]

PAUL: So, how do you know Mark?

JEROME: Through sex.

I've decided to reclassify Jerome as just a fabulous force of nature. Rather marvellously, he found out about this blog entry from friends of his in Milan. Well, hello there!

A Fabulous Letter

Dear Coldplay

You can't even play Kylie in a post modern and ironic manner. Don't think we didn't notice that you thought you were too cool to "la la la".

We also noticed that you look like the boyfriends of girls who still drink in All Bar One. Change this.

Love,
The Gays
xx

PS: And stop dressing like waiters at Belgo's.

Till the Vag Lady Sings

Darian dragged me to Kashpoint, and I forgot to look up the theme before I went.

"It's 'Flesh'," said Darian, stirring his drink.

"Oh," I said. I was wearing a t-shirt with a kitten on. Hopefully.

"I'm off to change into my leather jockstrap," he announced, leaving me alone in Islington's The Green. At the bar five pretty waiters struggled to serve one customer.

***

Kashpoint was the normal fabulous mixture of people who'd spent A Lot of Time Dressing Up, women in ballgowns, and twinks who'd tried a little too hard to wear very little.

On stage, people in Burkhas were performing old English folk songs.

Then the Mad Vag Lady turned up.

Once upon a time there was a porn star called Aiden. Aiden had a lot of fun but didn't enjoy it much, so wrote books about it, and then some poems.

He's now decided to write some pop songs, and luckily, he's still miserable, so he's written lots of them. They were to be sung by the Mad Vag Lady, who took to the stage in a slit white smock covered with (fake?) menstrual fluid. She proceeded to sing the songs, grab her crotch, and cartwheel.

All the songs were about wanting to have a lot of unhappy sex, please. They were basically "Barbie Girl", but a bit slower, partly in French and sung by a female Marvin the Paranoid Android.

Pleasantly, Aiden had turned up to see his stuff performed, and, like a proud parent was stood at the front, filming the Mad Vag Lady, and even giving encouraging little nods and hand gestures (now twirl! now cartwheel! now grab your bits! well done, dear!).

Then the CD skipped and Aiden got very cross and went home to write some more unhappy things.

***

Then an American came on to perform rap while wearing a 12 foot strap-on penis, and Darian flitted about, irritatingly sober, explaining carefully to me about how he didn't dare try and chat up a man who'd turned up in only a thong, cricket pads and green paint as his boyfriend was also there, wearing only a tennis racket.

At three am the world started to tilt, slowly, and so I walked home giggling.

200 American

Plot: Aims to be "Gay Pygmalion". Doesn't even manage "My Fair Mary".

A New York "arty" gay film about a hustler rescued by a controlling client, this film actually turned out to be Emotion Porn.

This film is designed for bitter New York queens lurching between White Parties. It's purely about very pretty men who open up and share with each other in the most chaste way.

Within minutes of the hustler being hired, he's telling his client, "You're decent - you're a breath of fresh air."

The client, we learn, really admires the hustler's honesty and truthful nature.

Soon, everyone in the film is "connecting" and discussing whether things are "going too fast", or if "wires are crossed", or worse, saying "I don't know what to say, Mike"... at length.

The hustler complains that he's not felt able to emotionally level with a guy in over a year (despite, no doubt physically flattening hundreds of them), and is only hustling to pay for his green card wedding ("oh, honey," his beard says, "if I'd known, I wouldn't let you go through with it.").

On, and on they share, in a drivelling spew of meaningless mush. The audience (snippy gays of Shepherd's Bush) became increasingly more restless. Soon we were sniggering.

There was one moment when we all cheered happily. The hustler gets back and starts to share with his boss the lessons of the day. "Oh, just take your clothes off," the client replies. "I've not got time for your honesty."

PS: Worst music and sound since the last time I tried to watch porn. And the supposedly rich client had faux leopard print sheets.

Haunted

So. It's been three days now.

And the music to Anneka Rice's Treasue Hunt won't leave me alone.

The comments system

Doesn't work. It's just there for effect. Rather like Phixx.

The Chav Who Loved Me

Sadly, like Luis Vuitton, most chavs are fakes. They look right, they smoke right, and frequently, they smell right... but get talking to them and you're in for a surprise.

So it was with Saturday's chav. When I eventually got round to asking his name (sometime on the way home), he announced it was "Liam."

I smelled a rat. "What do you do for a living?"

"Yer moite, I'm uh - uh -" and then the accent dropped, "well, a librarian actually."

He even works in Highgate. His claims to live in Essex turned out to be "Essex Road, Islington".

But, he turned out to be terribly sweet, and quiet, and desperately keen that I visit him in the library. "Thursdays are good - we're open late, it's nice and quiet - but you'll need two proofs of address."

He was on the run from his boyfriend that night. Turns out they'd not had sex for three years. Which certainly puts all my problems into perspective. Hence him dressing up and going out for the evening with the boyfriend. The plan had been to make his boyfriend jealous. Instead of which, his boyfriend had met someone and buggered off, leaving Liam alone with half a pack of royals and a deflated expression.

Anyway, as dawn was breaking I walked him some of the way home. We held hands and talked whistfully about the fraily of human nature and the myriad ways of the heard. Then we had sex on a council estate patio.

Why I deserved a slap

Met up for a drink with Adam. Naturally, when people become exes, we expect to move on and for them to have the decency to become spinsters.

This has not, sadly, been the case with Adam. He's moved on from breaking hearts and bank balances to breaking... well, other parts. It appears he's been unusually, ah, active.

"He was Portuguese, but his English was really fluent... until we got to hospital, and then suddenly, I had to do all the explaining."

"What did you do to him?"

"Well, you see, he said he was a complete bottom and I just got carried away and..."

"What? You broke his bottom? With that little thing?"

And that's when he slapped me.

Lonely tonight

The City of Bath appears to have nothing to offer gay boys on a Saturday night.

Even 118 GAY drew a blank. And, frankly, who needs equality legislation when we have our own directory enquiries? Mind you, they did get a bit confused when I intially asked for info on "Gay Bath".

Turned out there were three options:

1) A "mixed" pub called The Kings Arms (frankly, hosting a folk band and not a moxy in sight).

2) Another pub called The Dark Horse. Oh, the humiliation when the hotel receptionist stared at me and said "Ah. That's shut down. It was on Monmouth Street. Next to the public toilets. Which were also closed down."

3) And finally, a nightclub called "The Tap". For lesbians.

My parents - the sex shop stalkers

My parents love to eat their lunch on a special bench whenever they're in Cardiff.

"Ooh, we love it here, dear," explains my mum, handing me a sandwich which is more cheese and tomato than bread. "It's got a lovely view of Ann Summers."

Dad nods in his mildly amused, mildly deaf way.

"We love it here watching the people go in and go out. All those dirty old men, fat women, and the parties of giggling girls. Oh! And those young couples - I feel I should give them a wave. Ooh - you've dropped some cheese. That'll make a pigeon happy."

Cat hair and cock shots

Went round to catch up with Adam, who's moved from being the "Not-Boyfriend" to "A Gay Who Owes Me Money".

He's now moved in with a good friend (actually, someone to whom Adam owes even more money), and, it's all rather jolly. The flat is filthy (touch the kitchen drawer and your hand comes away covered in grease and cat hair), but has a garden and three cats.

Adam is, sadly, allergic to cats. So allergic, he can barely leave the house. Which means he can't get away from the cats, which makes him even iller, which...

Anyway, he's quite content, going for odd job interviews ("I'm the fastest Excel temp on their books!"), and addicted to a special version of gaydar for Chavs and Chickens (which is, thinking about it, a great name for a wendy pub). Rather like the real Gaydar, it appears to have an Amazon style "rate and review" engine, which I find chilling.

Especially as Adam's got an 8.5 rating out of 10. "What picture are you using?" I asked.

"Oh. It's just a cock shot."

Really? Well, I'd give it a four.

Tequilalalala

The only blessing about waking up with a face for radio is if it's your own.

I wasn't feeling too clever after the Strictly Dance Fever wrap party. Normally at BBC parties there is beer or nasty wine, which leaves spirits drinkers like me a little lost.

Not so at this one. No. There was tequila. Lots of it. There were bottles on most tables, and even a Graham Norton Ice Sculpted Tequila Fountain that you could sup liquour out of by rimming his elbow.

What the hell, I figured. Tequila and diet coke can't be worse for you than vodka and diet coke.

*bang*

I spent some time noticing only two things - that everyone really liked Graham Norton, and that Graham had an astonishingly buff boyfriend.

Then there was some confusion with another buff man, who passed out on a bed next to me. Someone told me that he was Graham's other boyfriend, but that can't have been right, and by this point there was a rattling in my ears that failed to block out the disco, and I was aware that whatever I wanted to say came out as "wurble wurble shuzzle *giggle*". Which was wrong and unnecessary.

Somewhere, in the centre of my head, I was still sober, and just wanted to go home. Sadly, there isn't a simple switch on my mobile that will accomplish this. There should be. Instead you have to order a taxi verbally ("kigsshhhh crossssh") and then, after a wait of centuries, endure stilted conversation with a taxi driver who knows that You Are Drunk.

I lost Daniel at that point, but, by all accounts, he didn't miss me.

Conspiracy Theory

So. You have to build a website about hidden messages and conspiracy theories about something called "BadWolf".

You're in a hurry, you're not sure what to do, and you don't actually know what BadWolf is. But the brief is to speculate without making too much of it...

Well, step forward Google, the BBC Grams Library, and my friend Lee to do sudden design. Here's the result: "BadWolf".

Launch in a hurry, leave for a day, and then check the internet forums...

Hilariously, there's much speculation about the opening music. What is it? What are the hidden background sounds? Is that Billie Piper singing? Is that noise a wolf - a dalek, or the TARDIS? Ah. No. It's Barbra Streisand meeting Cool Edit's "Flying Saucer" filter.

Then there's similar agony over a hidden message on this musical track: "Big Bad Wolf - French Chansons". Why have the words to William Blake's poetry been changed? What is the sinister rattling noise?

I can reveal the answer, exclusively - but ssssh!: I couldn't remember the words properly when I stood in our stationery cupboard as a tube train went past.

But that hasn't stopped there being pages and pages of speculation. And someone's even cleaned me up for closer examination on the internet. Something that should have happened years ago.

Lawks, I'm chuffed.

Gary Warning

Bumped into Gary at the Black Cap last Saturday. Last time I met him, he was called Damien, and we never quite met up for drinks.

New facts I learned about him this time:
1) Managing an Angus Steak House isn't all fun.
2) His favourite drink is JD, Ginger Ale and two slices of lime.
3) He has a son called Isaac from a one-night stand 10 years ago.

He was as fun and reserved as ever. We drank, we danced... then, all of a sudden, he was all over me. And all over me in a most surprising way for a man so seemingly shy.

There's something blissful about dancing slowly to fast music with a very attractive man while the Men With Big Arms glance venomously across, their eyes saying "What are *you* doing with *him*?". It's blisss.

Then, he leaned back and looked fondly down at me. "Let me get you another drink," he said.

"But, it's my round," I protested.

"No," he said, "I insist." He tapped me fondly on the nose, and went off to get drinks.

He never came back.

Mr & Mrs Smith

Brought a whole new meaning to the phrase "Missed you."

I adored this film. It confirmed all my beliefs about relationships. And I keep on typing it as "Mr & Mrs Sith" which is a whole world of oh...