Curing the Common Cold with Disco, Snickers and an Estonian

Fuck the germs! To the Black Cap on Monday night, for vodka and Laquisha Jonz's "Bling Blang Blung!" an interactive game show hosted by a Burberry drag queen.

How wonderful! I thought, when I was dragged up on stage. Please let it be the current affairs round, for I have read Heat this week. Or at a pinch, films...

No, it was not. I had to perform fellatio on a Snickers bar. Placed between the thrusting thighs of a DJ. The aim was to remove as much chocolate as possible in 30 seconds. Actually harder than you'd think. Especially as I was competing against a young Estonian, the European experts in head.

I am pleased to report that I won.

But only because the Estonian used his teeth and bit the end off. Nasty.

PS: Have you noticed that latin terms are always used for simulated sex? Curious.
PPS: The Estonian spoke no English. But was charming. And later on, I'm pleased to say, I let him win.

Gay Chatlines

I have invented only one of the following chat lines. Can you guess which one?

a) Law student gang banged in fetish club
b) Masseur shagged on building site
c) Model shagged by skinheads
d) Diary of pig boy Kevin.
e) I let dole officer shag me to get housing benefit.
f) Uncle Bob hard shags camp wimpy nephew Paul in correction room.
g) Tranny Lindsey gets it on with public schoolboys
h) Boyfriend punishes me after I bring home non-organic produce.
i) Muscleboy slippered in gym by Copper.
j) My first rimming.

Calls terminate in Kleenex.

Sofa & Snot

Punched out by a cold for two days - a real "drink as much as you like and you won't get pissed" zinger. For amusement, got The Interpreter and The Village from Blockbuster.

The Interpreter was bobbins - and it's not a surprise when you discover from the special features that the film was written as they went along. And that the original ending was laughable. Also features an unbelievably self-indulgent rant by director Sydney Pollack about the evils of pan-and-scan transfers - but Why? We're watching the movie on DVD. In widescreen. Why are you shouting at us you strange old man?

The Village was worse - Fabulously shot and realised, until The Twist starts to rear its ugly head. It would have been better not to have revealed it, and let film fans argue about it for years. Otherwise you're left wondering at so many stupid, stupid moments (like why keep A Costume under the floorboards in the village prison?). Again the Special Features don't make the film any more special. M Night Charlatan instead explains that the monsters only got red cloaks at the last minute when the original monster suits didn't look good on camera. Worse, the actress playing the blind girl turns out to have kept a diary, which she narrates over violins and pastel woods:

Oh! Ivy! Ivy! Ivy! Ivy! Ivy! *giggle* Ivy! Oh! I swear I shall know you better than I know myself... Cherish this moment... Love this stillness... Why, this film has been a dance... I am afraid to leave - you must always be ready... When it was over, Night did not yell "cut!" - he yelled, for everyone to hear "check the gate!" ... I have just seen the finished film, and I do not thing I will ever recover. It wounds me. Night has bestowed upon me another gift - the film has made Ivy Walker alive again.

Commitment to SparkleMotion

Had the deep joy of watching the Special Edition of Donnie Darko. The film's still brilliant, and it's great seeing the deleted scenes in their original context.

But isn't it strange how much of a film you forget after only a couple of years? Suddenly remembering that this film has so much in it - Patrick Swayze, SparkleMotion, Drew Barrymore... and it's all so brilliant.

Even nicer was discovering that this edition has a commentary by creator Richard Kelly and fab indy director Kevin Smith. Yup, the Kevin Smith of Clerks.

It's an enormously funny, bitchy commentary ("So, Richard, which of the cast did you try to bone?"), but also contains a slight taint of jealousy ("I've never made a film like this...") that's balanced neatly by the way Kevin Smith sucks air through his teeth every time Richard Kelly says "And this bit's just like a comic, isn't it?"

Best of all is when Kelly's explaining how the townspeople are all subconsciously helping Donnie achieve his quest, and Smith flips - "Oh, come on!"

There's also the joy of their mutual loathing of the original DVD packaging: "In the tradition of Stir of Echoes and Final Destination..."

Chitty Chitty

Davide was an Italian fan of English musicals ("oh yeah, i've worked in the opera, but I'd really love to work on something like Mary Poppins..."). He stopped by wanting to take mucky pictures, but we got distracted by the obvious far too quickly, and he had to run off to see Chicago.

A police suggestion

Dear the Police

Have you considered taking on my flatmate? She'd be ideal. She's always forgetting to video stuff, and great at wiping tapes of important things.

Mind you, judging by the hair in the bath, she doesn't have a problem with Brazilians.

Mike

23, an accent like thick coffee, and a brain sharpened by a politics degree and a summer job in a call centre.

We met in Cube, the only place to go in Glasgow that's open late, late, really late on a Monday. It was packed full of old friends all saying strange things to each other - such as the an old man shrugging sadly at a young man and saying, "But Douggie, there was a place on the bus for yuz. We waited..."

Anyway, there was Mike. Hurrah for him. I think I cheered him up. "Oh, man - I had the worst one night stand last week," he told me, "I let this bloke piss all over me - you know, like water sports. Woke up the next morning dying for a shower - and he didn't have a working bathroom. He just waved, put his clothes back on and went back out to work on a Virgin train. Man, I felt dirty - had to go to uni, buying new clothes on the way. I stank."

He paused. And smiled. "Do you have a working shower?"

"Yes." Hang on. "But-"

"Oh. No - none of that! Not again. Being sniffed at by old ladies on the bus cured me."

Friendly Society

Not only does Glasgow have the best gay bar in the world (The Polo Lounge), but also wonderfully friendly people. They may be after your body, or your cigarettes, but they do it in such a persuasive way, you can see why it's the home of the UK's call centres.

The other night, had a fabulous, moochy evening chatting away to complete strangers - including a female social worker dealing with alcoholism in the Highlands. "Oh, it's like a disease - some people can't drink sensibly. I mean, I'm able to call a halt to it tonight after five pints. Why can't they?"

See - marvellous new friends. There are limits, however. At one point, I was reading Vanity Fair (US recruitment policies: shocking), and a man came and sat next to me, leaned over with his elbows on the magazine and stared at me. He wasn't pretty.

HIM: Are you American?
ME: No.

An awkward pause. I start to break eye contact and return to my magazine.

HIM: So. Got any weird tattoos?
ME: I'm leaving.

Blondishment

Well, I decided I needed a few highlights to fit in in Scotland. All the scottish gays have them, and safe in the knowledge that No One Who Knows Me was around, off I went to try and find a barber's who do them in Glasgow.

Alas, no. Everything else in Glasgow is sickeningly cheap, but highlights appeared to cost £80. Even at a place called Deb's.

So, I went to Boots, bought a kit (one containing bleach, a swimming hat and a femidom) and went to work. The results weren't bad, if a little lopsided.

Not to worry, I figured - I'll just dab some of the spare gunk on the right side to even it up, leave it in at the cinema and nip to the gents after an hour to wash it out.

Everything went without a hitch - no one even commented that half of my hair was purple, slimy, and fizzing. But disaster struck at the interval - no mirrors in the gents. So, I figured I'd leave it till I went home. Hmmn. Hmmn. Not actually such a good plan.

I look like I'm wearing a run-over tabby. But let's not dwell, eh?

Rejection

Well, I guess as I enter my gay twilight (or, "Twiglet") I'd better get used to rejection... but, oh... the madness, and the sadness.

Randomly, I bumped into Simon, a top shag from last year.

Still as sexy as ever, but now a fully qualified Gay ("I've not looked back since you, mate.") and terribly huggy, I figured I could settle down for a couple of quick drinks and then vanish into the night with him.

It all went wrong. Dad always told me "Never go back" - and it's as true of restaurants as it is of top shags. Suddenly realised that Simon and I had nothing in common. Worse, it was really hard finding things to talk about: "So, the uh call centre. Is it, um, all right, then?" (pause) "Yeah. Kind of."

Even worse, I started getting on with his friends quite well. They were lovely, but Far Too Young and it was another world. There's a scene in Educating Rita where Julie Walters goes to the pub and her family and friends are all sat around singing along to an awful song. And it's at that moment she realises She Really Doesn't Belong.

Well, that night, I Was Rita. They were all sat around, singing along to the Steps medley and doing the motions, and it was kind of fun for a bit, but realising that they were going to be doing that All Evening. With Vodka Twistees and camera phones.

I suddenly felt really old. Even more so when Simon leant over and said, "Look, mate, you're a great mate, mate, but you're just a mate, mate. Is that Okay?"

"Yeah," I said. One of his friends fell over looking for her high heel and screamed with laughter.

Re: Bewitched

Dear Nicole

We're having words. Oh, don't worry - this isn't quite a gay intervention (or "gin-tervention"). No - we're not yet at the stage where we asked David Boreanaz to choose between Career or Carbs.

Look love, you have to stop picking films just cos you think it'll please the gays. We'll always love you. Moulin Rouge is so fabulous it's now included in the Gay Induction Pack along with a Fag Hag and some glitter.

And we adore the gossip - we've all heard the reports that "Nicole doesn't do food", and the legends of the string of pearls that you pulled out of Johnny Depp's arse. All lies, of course, but what fabulous ones!

No, the only problem is the films. Seriously, what's been up? I mean, we loved the trailer for Stepford Wives, but it's all been a bit wrong since. We're trying to forget the Chanel Incident, but it's going to be harder with Bewitched. What were you thinking? Second fiddle to Will Ferrell? In a remake of Anchorman? That was always going to be stolen by Shirley Maclaine and Michael Caine?

Ask to read the script first next time. Or at least check the film has one. And, above all don't worry about making us happy. For so many reasons, you're irrestible to homosexuals. Why, just look at Tom Cruise!

*pause*
He's a reason. Not a gay.

Jenny Eclair's menu

A woman sat down next to Jenny Eclair during the Kit and the Widow interval.

"Can I recommed something, Mrs Eclair?" she asked.

The sunglasses were lowered, and a dazzling smile emerged. "Of course you can dear. I always like to see one or two different things."

"Well, there are these Chinese Buffets. Amazing! All you can eat for only six pounds. And there's chips too..."

What the reviews really mean

"...Really broke down the generative distance between audience and narrative..."

"Oh, that." said Kate. "Only one person turned up last night."

Token Gay Play

Was actually rather good. Called "Minor Irritations" it was all about the insecurities of a not very successful actor playing his emotional turmoil off against his job in a call centre.

"oh...." sighed my friend Kate as the play started. She's having a tough time looking after the emotional insecurities of her cast, and this was like extra homework for her.

Five minutes in, some late arrivals edged in. They were all large ladies with frizzy hair and lots of bags. The play had the seal of approval of the International Association of Fag Hags.

The play's main problem was that the author starred in a play about his own life... and wasn't that good at playing himself. Worse, he couldn't actually write for himself convincingly.

But apart from that gaping hole in the middle, the play was jolly enough - every other character was deftly written and well played - it was just rather hard to believe that they'd fall in love with a borderline autistic emotional wreck given to lengthy monologues of self-doubt and sudden bursts of tears.

For the first time, i experienced the urge to heckle. "Leave him, he's not worth it!" I kept whispering, as yet another lovely waiter fell for Ben's whining charms.

But it did have one genius idea - that there's a secret American gay society that sleeps with visiting Englishmen to cheer them up and reinforce the myth that their accent is attractive. It's called the Out Of Your League League.

Poisoning Pigeons in the Park

Another sign that I'm now a middle-aged gay was spending Saturday afternoon seeing light musical comedy performed by Kit and the Widow. Especially when they were joined by Dillie Keane, aka the smoking ruins of Fascinating Aida.

The idea of the show was simple - three old hands, the Tom Lehrer songbook, a piano, and some bitching. To keep themselves entertained, they'd recruited a forth member, a rather attractive young man called Mark Wolfenden, who spent the entire two hours escaping their predatory clutches... as when Dillie Keane wandered past, patted his hair a little too long, and then walked off, licking her hand.

It was all rather wonderful, in its own subversive way, although the whole thing was stolen by Dillie Keane, who sailed around like a singing Lynda Bellingham. After her breath-taking Basic Instinct homeage, she vanished over the back of a chair and lay there panting. An alarmed Widow ran forward and felt for a pulse. "Quick," he yelled, "Call the national trust."

Edinburgh Festivalities

Arrived in a mad whirl. Within half an hour I was having coffee with Elvis impersonators, while my friend Kate explains how well her show's going.

There are lots of people, mostly actors wearing their hearts on their sleeves. I managed to see two comedy shows (Chris Addison and Robin Ince, both brilliant), get slightly drunk with the cast of a disastrous vaudeville show, and then spent the entire night being treated *very roughly* by a sexy radio producer with a voice like gravel and arms like steel.

Am in a gorgeous apartment above a gay knocking shop. Enjoyed it terribly last year, and this year it promises just as entertaining. My room's just been vacated by a drag queen (not a spare lipstick in sight). One alarming touch was when the manager said "There's the DVD player - we've got loads of porn down in reception. Just pop down if you feel like using any."

Er.

The deep joy is that my terribly straight friend Rick is turning up today to stay on my floor for a couple of nights. I haven't yet told him about my unique accomodation.

Magic Wednesday

Quite the best day off ever. Well, it began terribly well - I was ordered for lunch by a terribly nice young Polish executive called Bart.

He'd got bored of spending lunchtimes either nipping out for sandwiches or going to the gym and figured, well, now I've got my own office, I may as well put it to good use.

I tottered home giggling and picking paper clips out of my trousers.

Then, to the theatre to see Billie Piper's Spirit Trap. Surely it can't be an anti climax... Could it...?

Online shopping again

The internet was invented so that men could lie to get sex.

I've not ordered from gaydar since a man with a surprise combover turned up on my doorstep. However, I've reactivated my profile recently - now I'm moving to Wales, it may be the only way to avoid celibacy.

Oddly, gaydarwise, Cardiff is a little disappointing. We like rugby players. They're nice - but gaydar appears to just be offering men who stopped playing rugby years ago, but still eat as though they do.

Adam suggested I try out a different site "fitlads.co.uk". It's a different world. Whereas Gaydar is rebranding slightly as the McD of online shagging, fitlads appears to be run by a couple of blokes, and has a sign-up process that includes the immortal phrase: "Oi! Ladies, this site is only for blokes. Stop signing up to have a peek at chav cock."

Most of the profiles appear to have been written in a hurry on a mobile phone at a bus stop. They're remarkably blunt, full of promise, but lacking in punctuation.

Despite the different approach, it's fundamentally the same. It's one thing to look at men through a glass darkly, but face to face, it's all too easy to think; "You're really not 33, the only bit of you that's 'defined' is your pot belly, and, er, no way are you drinking my piss..."

Pop and the Human Soul

"Extraordinary how potent cheap music is," Noel Coward once remarked before slipping into a bellboy.

How right he was, I only realised as I jogged in to Ultim8 Pop Party, a free CD kindly thrown jeeringly given to me by the editor of the TOTP website. Looking at these songs through the lens of a couple of years, there are many lessons for us:

1) Baby One More Time by Britney.
At the time we wondered whether it was about spousal abuse or teenage alcoholism. Now we simply marvel that she's married someone called Kevin Federline, whose name is a homonymnic rhyme with the song title. Freaky, eh?

2) Year 3000 by Busted.
How I miss you. Except for the ugly ones. They deconstruct their own song on Popjustice

3) Sk8er Boi by Avril Lavigne.
Hmmn, thinking about this, what Avril doesn't realise is that the Sk8er Boi will gladly dump her for the girl who said See You Later. Men are like this. Even if they don't wash their hair.

4) Spirit in the Sky by Gareth Gates.
"I've got a friend named Jesus. Or Krishna." A brave attempt to reset Britain's multicultural agenda. But, sadly, too little, too late.

5) Cheeky Song by the Cheeky Girls.
"Touch my bum. This is life." Ah. Perhaps no one has ever understood a good Friday night quite so well.

6) Fast Food Song by the Fast Food Rockers.
Their website was last updated in December 2003. A weirdly ourobouric ditty about where one-hit wonders end up working. Pop, take note.

7) Tragedy by Steps.
"oh!my!god!" I thought, pulling short on Portobello Roard outside my ex's squat, "This song is my life! I really am going nowhere. I've lost my soul and am losing control. There is no-one beside me. The feeling *has* gone."
So profound is this song, perhaps if I rename it Le Tragedie d'Escalier, I'll be prouder of its message.

8) Who Let The Dogs Out by Some Wankers.
A mistake. This song has nothing to offer human society. Unless it's about Hen Nights. In which case, fair point, lads.

9) We're Going To Ibiza by the Vengaboys.
From a distance, this is actually a surprisingly poignant paean to the human urge to escape everyday mundanity for a metaphorical "Island". Why else the semi-mystic chant of "Eoha-Eoha-Yahweh!" - less Spanish, and more primal scream.

Meanwhile, a google search reveals the following puzzle: Did they change VengaSailor?

Ah, how well I remember (My VengaBus has, dear readers, gone on a VengaDetour), that merry evening at GAY when they were performing to a packed crowd and getting a great reception until VengaCowboy strutted forward and yelled, "Good Evening London! Some good lookin' women here tonight!" Even the twinks booed.

10) Mambo No 5 by Lou Vega.
I think, if you asked Angela, Pamela, Sandra and Rita, Monica, Erica, Tina, Mary, Jessica about it now, they'd tell you there are more effective forms of birth control than: "Jump up and down, move it all around, put your hands on the ground, clap your hands once, clap your hands twice."

11) Mickey by Lolly.
Why have I been dumped? wails Lolly. What have I done wrong? The answer, my dear, is simple and lies in your plea: "Any way you want to do it, I'll take it like a man."

As many gays could tell you dear, never play the sodomy card too early. It only makes you look cheap.

How I remember, sadly, deciding that I wouldn't see a Swedish man again after he offered too much too soon. Well, within the first ten minutes to be precise. Against a tree on the way home. Just too eager. Plus, somehow, my novelty Action Man watch got triggered. Nothing taints the mood quite like a tinny bark of "Alert! Action Man! Deep Sea Patrol! Dive! Dive! Dive!"

The Wager and the Pre-Order

Now, the Pre-Order is a shag that probably won't happen. It's like he's been announced on Play.Com, the packaging looks great, the special features impressive... but the delivery date keeps on slipping.

It now doesn't look as though I'll get the Pre-Order until early next year. Why?

THE GOOD NEWS: It's the subject of a bet. The Pre-Order has been bet money that he'll sleep with me this year. He's a man of principle. As am I. So we've agreed not to. And split the money.

How fantastic does that make me feel? I'm regarded as such a seductive swordsman that people bet on how long a man can elude my inevitable clutches... This is obviously marvellous.

THE BAD NEWS: The value of the bet? Er, 50p.

Oh. Craig.

Now he's out of the house, hmmn. He seems almost sweet, actually. Still as mad as a hedgehog shagging a spatula - "I see Anthony more as a friend, now, really I do, no really. No, that's absolutely really the truth. Really."

Bless St Davina, faced with the job of confronting Big Brother's first gay stalker contestant: "Anthony didn't want you to save him, he just wanted to sleep."

And then the show played out with to his hyena cackle.

What the Butler Saw

"Boys cannot be put in the club. That's half their charm."

Still my favourite play. Ever. Even in a mediocre, village hall production at the Hampstead Theatre.

Only Orton could destroy society using the Aristotelian unities of Time, Place and, uh, the other one, doing Euripides' Bacchae as written by Readers' Digest.

It's still the funniest, weirdest thing ever written, and it's still shocking. Samantha gasped out loud. "Does he have to use the word 'Rape' so much?" she demanded in the interval, "And does it have to be quite so funny?"

And grubby ex Adam would do well to remember the admonishment of Mrs Prentice to the naked blackmailing bellboy: "When I gave myself to you the contract didn't include cinematic rights."

Unspeakable trouble

Today, I'm in trouble for something I did because I was told to do it, even though it turns out that I wasn't supposed to do it or even know that it needed doing. I did it anyway. Or rather, I told other people to do it, but not to tell anyone that they were doing it. They did it, and didn't even tell me they did it, but they did it all the same. But someone who shouldn't have known about it checked just in case they had done it, discovered it was done, and then told everyone. And now I'm done for.

The three hour commute

A bit of my bike shattered this morning. I was surprised. I'd not known it was there until it came flying off in the middle of Regents Park.

What's that? I thought, staring at the grubby thing. An hour or so later, I was in a bike repair shop just off Oxford Street. It appears to have been staffed for a gay porn film that never happened. Some of the cast appear to have been waiting for quite a few years.

I stood patiently waiting for the tall dark-haired man at the counter to patronise me. I figured I could just about handle it from him. But instead, the owner (short, bald, pierced) decided to serve me.

"What's the problem?"

I held up the broken metal thing. "Well, I don't know what it is, but it's not happy. It used to have a spinny wheel."

"Humph. Deraillier."

"Is that really what it's called?"

He gave me a look. A look of cunning, weary appraisal. A look that said, "This fool knows nothing. I can exploit him. If I told him his bike needed new cheese, he would agree. But can I, oh can I, be bothered?"

He sighed, and produced an intricate device and tapped my chain with it. "Oh dear. This is loose. When did you last have this serviced?"

"By you. A month ago."

"And to think no one mentioned this. Dear me. A month? Are you sure? How remiss. Did you oil the carriage?"

"uh..."

"Thought not. Well, we'll have to replace that as well. Which means the rear gear will have to be removed. Otherwise we'll be loose and not biting. Won't we?"

I held up the broken metal thing. And stared at it sadly. Its tiny wheel didn't spin.

He took a phone call from a more important client. He was already on another call. I admired his multitasking. He could patronise three customers at once - and two of them weren't even in the same room. Even the more important one received a brief, "We used to do that in a single package. But now it's more of a bespoke service. Yes. Ha ha. Most amusing."

The tall, dark-haired sales assistant leaned over and tried to help me. "What needs doing?"

I held up the broken metal thing. "This is being replaced. And my chain. And some gears."

He arched an impossibly neat eyebrow. "Really? Normally we replace the carriage as well."

"That too! He said that too! I've only just learnt that this broken metal thing is a deraillier."

He snorted dismissively, and began to fill out a form for me. Slowly. He handed it to me, lightly taking the broken metal thing out of my hand as though disposing of a dead pet.

"Come back tomorrow after 5."

I left, thinking, Thank god I don't own a car.

Big Brother:Anthony and Craig

The great thing about Big Brother is that it's like a party that you can turn up to, as late as you like, and there's still stuff happening.

This year, it appears to be the unrequited lust between Craig (ghastly gay mooncalf) and Ant (oblivious straight fencepost).

ANT: Straight Vole. &  CRAIG: Gay Vulture

Last night's show closed with them in the hot tub:

CRAIG: Don't hold it against me. Don't hold it against me.

ANT: I won't hold it against you.

CRAIG: Good. Cos I don't want you to hold it against me.

(It is obvious that he'd really like Anthony to hold it against him, rather firmly)

ANT: Ok.

CRAIG falls forward into hot tub. ANT places his hands on his shoulders, holding him
under the water. And begins to count. Slowly.

END OF SHOW

Or was it?

The Crap Twink's party favours

Brighton Pride was horrible before I even got on the train. A friend of Darian's tottered over - the very definition of a Dirty Old Disco Mary (even his transparent crop trop was wrinkled).

"I know everyone!" he cackled, an arm round my shoulders, his hand sneaking towards Darian's pants.

"Even Adam?" I asked, naming my crap twink ex.

"Canadian Adam? Yes. He was a naked waiter at my party last week. Served all the guests on his knees. Heh heh heh."

Oh. There's something uniquely upsetting about discovering your ex is now some old codger's cocksucking canape wielder.

I guess it hurts because it suggests that, if he can be hired as an amuse bouche, he never was quite who I thought he was. And that he was sleeping with me for money as well. And no one likes to be proved an old fool. Especially not at thirty. By a man nearly twice my age.

The pippin came when the man whipped out his phone. "I've got a picture of him from his interview. Would you like to see it?"

No. No. Oh god no. Please no. Oh. All right then:

After that, I was in an odd mood all day. If you are going to have a small meltdown, I suggest you don't do it wandering around a big gay field with a man who appears to have either had, or be desired by, most of the good-looking men there. And who refuses to go on the helter skelter. Boringly, I don't do drugs, but yesterday I was terribly, terribly tempted.

Instead, I went home early, trying to cry quietly on a train packed with disco damaged muscle marys.

Text Stroke

My phone's dictionary has run out of space for new words and so has started overwriting old ones.

It's like it's had a stroke. I'm having to teach it how to swear again.

Now I am Not So Nice

Following on from Lee reminding me how, uh, naive I was when I was 27, he's suggested and updated version. It runs something like this....

How I'd like to be...

ME: *sigh* Well, that was very good. Pity. If it had been only a tiny bit better, then I would indeed have changed to your electricity supplier. But thanks for calling round. Now, be off with you. My boyfriend Viktor-Krum-From-The-Harry-Potter-Films is coming over and he's very jealous.

MAN: Until today, no one has ever understood me. And your arms are so large.

It's probably more like this, though...

ON A BAD DAY: IN BED WITH SO-CALLED-BOYFRIEND.

ME: Hmmn. You're not really in the mood are you?

CRAP TWINK: Got any more cigarettes?

ME: No. Sorry. Don't worry. I'll just nip off to the shops.

CRAP TWINK: Oh babe, let me. Just give me your switch card and your pin number. Back in ten minutes.

THREE WEEKS LATER

CRAP TWINK: Hi babes. Can you do my laundry for me? I've done too much Ketamin to tell the difference between detergent and fabric softener. Oh, and I've got crabs again.

ME: That's okay. I love you unconditionally.

CRAP TWINK: Great, cos this card's stopped working.

ME: I'm so sorry. Will this one do?

CRAP TWINK: Cheers. By the way, I got fired from my job for dealing drugs instead.

ME: We'll work through this together.

CRAP TWINK: Sure. See you later.

LATER STILL. SKIP IS IN BED WITH ANOTHER, REALLY NICE MAN.

ME: Of course, I don't love him, you know. But I feel guilty when I cheat on him, which I guess is love, but anyway...

BLOKE: Can I have some more lube?

ME: Sure.

BLOKE: No. For my ears. I'd just like a bit of peace.

ME: Oh. Sorry. Anyway. I'm always being told I don't look thirty, you know.

And here's how Lee sees me...

SKIP: Jog-jog-jog! Pant-pant-sweat! Oh no! The bushes are drawing me in like triffids! Whatever shall I do!

MAN #1: 'allo, young 'un.

SKIP: Oh no! I don't think so. You're far too... well. You.

MAN #2 wanders past.

SKIP: Well! Oh! Arms! Look at that!

MAN #2 keeps on wandering, picking up his pace.

SKIP: Well! I say! Sir! You've just... well!

MAN #2 disappears off with a NICE MAN.

SKIP: Oh. Well. I won't let this dent my natural, all encompassing exuberance! Well! Huff-huff-pant! I'll just jog over here... Well! Look at that!

MAN #1: Changed your mind, I see.

SKIP: Well! Yes. Maybe. You will be marvellous and swallow, won't you?

MAN #1: Whatever.

SKIP: Good! Marvellous! And don't forget to say something witty so I can blog it tomorrow! Oooh! Well!

Bender

Well. I've checked again and my plan for a detoxing, booze-free week doesn't appear to include last night's 11 hour post-work boozer. Surely a silly ommission on my part.

But how marvellous. An evening of delightful company, including cameo appearances from a TV executive trying to mix drugs and a relationship crisis, the controller of London's theaterland and a professional magician. I have dim memories of making quite serious plays for two exes and a straight man who turned out to be beautiful from a distance, but a drunk fool close-up.

But how marvellously random the evening was. Although I would appear to have smoked some cigarettes. Probably just to prove a point.

And today, I feel marvellous. Invincible. Dangerous. And just a little broken. I've got to be careful.

Caught myself beginnning a Very Important Work Email with, "Actually, I think the problem is that you're not a very nice person..."

Random Gayness

Bored, I clicked the "Queer Diaries" link on the left hand nav. It's always good for a laugh a vibrant way of touching base with the truly varied gay community.

This is what I found: http://pages.prodigy.net/maecooper/

When I was nice.

I've just been sent an email from three years ago. Reminding me of how I used to be:

WE JOIN JAMES AS HE IS HALFWAY THROUGH SHUNTING A MAN.

JAMES: I just want to know how special this is for me.

MAN: grunt.

JAMES: I really appreciate this. Is this okay? Let me know if it’s causing you any discomfort.

MAN: grunt.

JAMES: Okay. Is there any cramp in your legs? Are you sure? Only I read something in the Daily Mail about how sodomy can cause Deep Vein Thrombosis.

MAN: grunt.

JAMES CONTINUES TO SHUNT. HE KEEPS TIME BY HUMMING THE THEME TO "BUTTERFLIES"

JAMES PAUSES AGAIN

MAN: grunt?

JAMES: Oh, this is so lovely. You’re great. I’m going to buy some lovely plates and name them after you. Actually, I’d just like to scatter some rose petals on the bed now to mark this tender special moment.

MAN: grunt.

JAMES PROCEEDS TO SHUNT AWAY AGAIN. THERE IS THE SOUND OF A MOBILE PHONE RINGING.

MAN: grun - oh, sorry, gotta get this. hello?

JAMES: Hello, it’s me. I’m calling you already!

My Gay Shame

"What's this?" I asked in HMV as a particularly light, fun bit of hummable pop played. "It's rather good isn't it?"

The escalator shuddered to a stop.

"That," said Lee, "is Oasis."

Collision

I got run over by a little old lady last night, on the same day that police chief Ian Blair told us they were the only safe people in London.

There I was, pedalling off the Westway, and there, in front of me, crossing where she shouldn't have, was a little old lady, hobbling incredibly slowly across four (luckily empty) lanes of traffic.

"Fair enough," I thought. "I'm on the far end of the road. We're not going to collide. I'll be sure to miss you."

But no. Granny had other ideas. At the last second she suddenly bolted into an impressive run, and then, out lashed the stick and -

Hello pavement.

Batttered, bleeding and swearing I rolled over to discover Granny had reached the curb, and was shuffling away, genteel and oblivious.

Someone came and helped me to the curb and sat me down. "Don't worry about her, dear," she said, "That woman's mad and very ill."

Not ill enough.

Doing as the Romans Didn't

Best thing about Sunday: Barely back in the flat before being summoned for nookie by a Swedish man using only the imperative tense.

Worst thing about Sunday: Bizarrely ending up in a gentleman's steamnasium. I know Lee claims I'm in them so often I'm growing mould, but this really isn't true. It just happens. And this time it was dull.

So boring, I invented a brand new game - Saunalikes, where you see if you can find desperate strangers in a towel who look a bit like famous people. Naturally, I played the Doctor Who version, and scored a high strike rate for William Hartnells and Colin Bakers. Would be interested to know if anyone else plays this.

The only highlight was the truly bizarre porn playing throughout. In a bizarre crossover with my CSI obssession, one film was about a forensic scientist and (shock twist) a corpse (euw).

But the main feature was a porn retelling of Anthony and Cleopatra filmed in the living room of a Moneyed Mary of a certain age. All sofas, scatter cushions and classical statuary. So, more Richard And Judas, really.

Anyway, Cleopatra was played by a real lady (but - phew - no girl action). And Marc Anthony was played by, uh, Marc Anthony. This would appear to be the real porn name of a man with a lot of muscles, a transatlantic accent and no acting ability. He was, however, truly the biggest Roman of them all.

While age could not stale, nor custom wither, the infinite variety of toga'd totty he mumbled his way through, the highlight was... the Egyptian Mummy orgy.

I turned to the bloke next to me, who was also roaring with laughter.

"Whose idea was this?" he yelled, as lots of men in bandages tried to copulate without falling over.

Within minutes the set resembled an Andrex ad gone wrong, as writhing Romans grappled with tattered mummies whose costumes had dissolved to little more than surgical stockings and snoods. But still, gamely, pretending to be having Seriously, Sexy Fun. "Oh yeah Osiris," sighed Marc Anthony in a grim attempt at bliss.

Remember the childhood joy when an episode of Blue Peter went really, really wrong? Well, it was like that. Only with shagging.

It all ended when Cleopatra got bit in the asp, and Marc Anthony had a wibbly wobbly flashback to a time when something similar sounding happened to him.

"This," the man next to me giggled, "is not the weirdest porn i've seen. That honour goes to something like The Tightest Little Butthole In Texas where three guys from the South shag apple pie... and then, at the end, they eat the pie. Moaning, 'oh yeah, great pie.'"

"Unbelievable."

"Yeah, carbs, I know."