distressed

Been so miserable at work for the last two days i can't even type. Spent all of today lurching from one meeting to the next, until eventually, i fell asleep half way through a sentence.

The person i was talking to turned away, and when he turned back, I'd just muttered "jesus" and had my head in my hands.

Tell it to the marines

Am the only person to have heard the news about the video of naked marines beating each other up and thought "well, shocking and dreadful, but, you know, kind of hot..."

At lunch Daniel agreed: "A month before there's a theme night at Central Station."

Ooh Krums, it's Harry Hotter

Things to notice about the Harry Potter film:

1. Harry is now nearly grown up. In order to distract us from the horror of actually fancying him, the producers have flooded Hogwarts with hot young Bulgarian male porn stars.
   
2. But that doesn't stop them from throwing in a topless bathing scene. It's just wrong.
   
3. Lucius Malfoy now looks like H from Steps.
   
4. Michael Gambon is playing the world's first Swedish-Canadian wizard. Badly.
   
5. Hermione appears to be in a different film. Which she's also stealing.
   
6. Viktor Krum arrives all scrawny muscle from Bulgaria... and then hits the catering truck. Cue special Boreanaz lenses.
   
7. When Viktor and Cedric go off into the maze and are warned that they may lose themselves... well, I was hoping they would find each other.

Things NOT to notice about the new Harry Potter film:

1. It lasts forever.
   
2. Even though they've cut out loads of stuff, it still feels dull and padded.
   
3. More endings than Lord of the Rings.
   
4. It's not very good.
   

Teenage girls oust fatties from sad passion

At last... The first Doctor Who home video made by and starring Lovely, Young Teenage Girls.

You may not realise it, but this is history. Nearly every other Doctor Who fan film ever was written by, directed by, and starring Fat Preening Oafs In Velvet. Usually the same one.

Go on, it's Friday afternoon - embrace the darkness:

Apparently, the DVD release has three commentary tracks


Doctor Who meets The Prisoner cross over. Cellulite on the beach.



Doctor Who and the Holy Grail


Apparently, may contain violence.


We've made Cybermen! Out of Socks!


Pursuit of the Daleks: Can a man in an argyle sweater defeat the Daleks? Er.

Backpedalling

Cycling stops being a joy in winter.

This morning I got off my bike to discover quite a lot of mouse wrapped round the front wheel.

This afternoon I spent four minutes trying to pedal through a hail storm. Then realised that cycling with one hand thrown over my eyes was silly. Plus, I was squealing like a ninny.

Still, it washed the pureed vermin off my trousers.

Vote Kinky!

So, you're Kinky Friedman, the last Jewish Cowboy and cultural phenomenon. You smoke cigars, you write mystery novels starring yourself, and hey, one day, you decide to run for Governor of Texas.

He's got no money, but he may well win - partly thanks to a brilliant online campaign.

But also maybe because his slogan is "Why the hell not?"

Weakened

So, the only highlight of a miserable weekend was one act of amazing generosity, when Lee decided not to let two charming men escort him home, but instead helped me out when I lost my keys.

Other than that, a completely miserable time. Saturday was dull. Sunday involved a migraine of the retching-and-sobbing variety. It would not go away, the Special Magic Cancer Pain Pills not even touching it.

At one point I came to on the floor of the laundry room, face down in melting ice, and I thought "You're going to have to go to hospital. They'll think you've got meningitis again, and they'll give you another lumber puncture."

At which point, I panicked, and quickly wondered about ending it all. Of course, any elaborate suicide plans were a non starter - I was in so much pain it had just taken me three hours to change the batteries on my walkman.

I shifted around slightly on floor, and flipped open the door of the deep freeze, resting my head on the shelf. No, I thought, as my brow came to rest on some frozen samosas, no, I shall go with dignity.

Foulness

Hell is other people having fun.

Getting to Cardiff station at 8.02 - just as the 8pm pulls out of the station (why are all trains out of Cardiff delayed unless you want to them to be?). Cardiff is also the only station in the world to have their station clock set five minutes fast, like a daffy receptionist.

What to do in 90 minutes until the next train? I had too much baggage to go to a bar and get drunk, so I went for Pizza. Big mistake. I'm still trying to work out what exactly it is that gives me crippling indigestion (onions? cheese? carbs? or just stuffing my face like a pig?), but by the time I made it onto the train I wanted to pass out. Or explode. Instead, I sat in the corner, belching like an Australian tourist.

I worked out I'd be back in town for 11.20 - just time for a quick gay drink and then bed.

Then the train stopped for an hour.

Cardiff trains do this. Often just for the heck of it. But tonight was different. After 50 minutes we were told that, two young gentlemen had locked themselves in a train toilet and the police had been called.

I was about to phone Gaynesty International and protest when an update came through. They'd only locked themselves in the loo when confronted by a ticket inspector. They'd threatened him, been aggressive, and then retreated to the bog.

The ticket inspector, shaken, had called the Transport Police. Of which there didn't seem to be any at Bristol Temple Meads. Perhaps there was a suspicious bun at Bath Spa.

Now, I'm all very supportive, naturally of the poor ticket inspector. These young men just didn't seem nice. And train employees should never be shouted at. Not even on Cardiff trains.

However, as I eventually staggered off the train at oh-god-half-one something struck me... Train companies are terribly keen on charters for respecting their workers, but quite happy to abandon their passengers.

I remembered catching the 8.30pm from Swansea one night, and spending an hour to Cardiff on a train full of drunken, screaming men, all looking for a fight. Did the train staff do anything to sort out this bear pit? Or did they take one look and bolt themselves in the driver's carriage leaving the passengers at the mercy of Swansea Lads? Yup.

It's not acceptable that we should be stranded for an hour just because of a lack of Transport Police at a major station. Actuallty, it's not acceptable that we should be stranded for an hour at all.

Anyway, my point is that four hours on a train, struck with bugger all to read (well, apart from The Times, and that no longer counts), and indigestion left me in a foul mood which hasn't lifted. I've spent the day in, waiting for a call to go to the gym, or meet in town for tea. And I've suddenly realised, the planned highlight of my day....?

A trip to a bathroom design showroom. Oh dear me, no.

What does he see in him?

The homepage of Gaydar specialises in images which in theory shows the diversity of the gays. But in practice, it looks like auditions for The Odd Couple:

Gay Clement Freud:


Body-language of model on the left says "Get your hands off me, creepy motherfucker":


"Of course I'm in an open relationship - I'm with the Gay Fonz":


One of these gays would like a green card. Can you spot which one?


Gay on the left has just noticed the t-shirt and realised his boyfriend of six months is blind:

Unlikely look-a-likey

Why does Jonny Wilkinson look like Tony Blair?

From lust till dawn

Gaydar at 3am is an odd place. Like a party that no-one really planned on being at, where the guests are yelling strange things like:

"Much older sub guy for lad(s) do as he likes with me except fucking while spitting in my face - quirky but genuine;."

"ne1 want to shag in my car?"

"i want to fuck a nice tight, white latin arse. msg me"


Then Sean messaged me: "It's weird here. Read any Joe Orton? You're just around the corner from me."

So, bizarrely, we went for a walk. In the middle of the night. In ice cold Camden. Yeah. That didn't last long.

Anyway, Sean was lovely - he talked to me about musicals as we finally drifted off to sleep at dawn.

The only sour note was getting a message from him later. "Hey u! Did you accidentally walk off with my wallet?"

Oh no, I thought in the couple of minutes before he texted to say he'd found it. First shampoo, now wallets. I'm becoming my ex-boyfriend. After kleptomania, all that's left on the list is drug-dealing, prostitution, 14-year olds, and bad karaoke.

Hooray for Hollywood

And then, at the end of a really, really, terrible day at work, I discover the-play-wot-I-co-wrote is on in, uh, LA.

Tick. Good thing.

Boys 1999

I'm sorry. There hasn't really been much talk about boys on here recently. Have I discovered discretion?

Nope.

Sadly, what with living in caravans and Cardiff, there really haven't been any. For four whole weeks. This is some kind of weird, spooky record.

I might as well be celibate. Or straight. Or, what's the word? Oh, yes. "Choosy".

In which case, time for a memory from back when I did have sex. All the sensible boys are blogging about the death of club legend, Simon Hobart, founder of Popstarz.

My best time in Popstarz was, oddly, as I was leaving it. I was with a bunch of straight friends, and, as we sauntered out, "Beautiful Stranger" started to play (Yes, it was 1999).

I caught the eye of a very handsome man. He looked back, and we both laughed as we realised what the song was. Then we shrugged, and got off with each other in an ironic, we're-gay-and-it's-Madonna way.

This took less than a minute. I know that this is an eternity in gay years (time enough for a relationship or a cigratte. Take your pick). But my straight friends were amazed. They turned around to put their coats on, turned back, and discovered my marital status had changed. I extricated a hand, and waved. They left.

It turned out his name was Adam, and he was a reformed Tree Hugger. He'd spent most of the summer up an oak trying to stop a bypass. But he'd moved to London, got a hair cut and gone out clubbing.

The two of us had a magical evening, walking hand in hand down to the Embankment as dawn rose over the Thames. We dared each other, step by slimy step, to see who could get closest to the river. Adam did. And fell in.

Now, normally when the police go by and I'm semi-naked in a public place, there isn't an innocent explanation. But for once, as we explained to the motor launch, it was all fine - We were simply swapping some of my dry clothes for his damp ones.

We squelched back to my flat, wet, freezing, smelling of pollutants, and giggling. It was only when I opened my bedroom door that I remembered that at some point in the week, my flatmates and I had filled my room with balloons.

It was that kind of perfect night out. And why I'll always love Popstarz.

But what of Adam the Tree Hugger? Sadly, I fucked it all up. Always meant to find him and say sorry.

My father’s technology

I’ve spent the last five days in a storm-lashed caravan at the bottom of my parents’ garden. It’s given me time to think and read the papers (did you know one Indian village attacked another recently, believing them to have killed a cow for a feast? They were wrong, but three people died).

There have also been a few spells of mindless DIY (taking out double glazing – my mother prefers the potato sacks we’ve boarded up with). DIY is roughly how I communicate with my parents. If you drew a Venn Diagram around what we have in common, it would pretty much be DIY, gout and crisps.



For instance, I’ve realised my parents still don’t really know what it is I do. They know I make a website. They think it should be available on Ceefax (and therefore a Good Thing). They know the website is for a TV programme. But, sometimes, they seem to think I actually make the programme. “Why weren’t you on the National Television Awards last week?” demanded my mother.

Clearly, we have moved on from the days when merely working for the BBC was enough to make my parents proud.

I am not alone in the parental career confusion. A colleague, who edited the BBC’s Buffy website, was alarmed to discover his mother had assured the local hairdresser that her son produced the programme. The hairdresser was much impressed, and also hopeful that the end credits would soon include “Hair by Sparkles of Working”.

Of course, I kind of envy his relationship with his mother – she demanded to be taken to see the Firefly film recently. The only time I've ever been to the cinema with parents is when my dad took me to see my first ever film. Which was Condorman, if you're curious.

I guess parent-envy is part of growing older. Like flats, pets and jobs, I love what I have, but that doesn’t stop me from bouts of envy.

I envy mothers who ring up with saucy gossip from the Cistene Chapel where they’re sketching. I envy fathers who criticize their son-in-law’s joint-rolling. I envy a mother who starts offering relationship advice to gay pole dancers on nights out with their son. I even envy parents who leave their children hungover.

The set of parents I have though, are fantastic. Yes, I wish I could actually have a conversation with them. I yearn to be able to tell my mother that her fantastic cooking poisons me (I got busted with a bottle of PeptoBismol this time – fallout almost as bad as when I came out). I wish I could do something to win their approval beyond stripping the wallpaper in the downstairs loo.

But, it’s their grumpiness that I adore the most. Whenever the phrase “Push the red button” appears on TV my father repeats it, loudly and slowly. “Push. The. Red. Button.” It’s the same tone of disdain he uses for “Labour Government” and “Child Molester.”

Award Ceremony

I'm glad I never worked in advertising. I have friends in advertising. They look tired.

Last night was the, um, Interactive Marketing, uh, something awards. I don't really know, but braying Brians and strapless Sarahs were all delighted to receive a small metal brick for their labours in promoting expensive things to other rich Londoners.

You can tell we didn't win, can't you?

Anyway, it was interesting going to an awards ceremony. It was on a vast scale, where, at the other end of the hall, above a cloud of cigar smoke stood Andrew Marr, talking to himself.

He'd initially come along to present the prizes, but, drowned out by champagne corks and heartiness, he was reduced to a strange mumbling statue in a corner. Occasionally, his anecdotage would waft over: "... I tell you that dog controls England... Do you have any nails... And then Miss Caplan squats down naked over the entrails..."

We were sat next to a table of successful public schoolboys. Now, I'm a failed public schoolboy - you can tell. In quiet moments, I look miserable. One of the deep joys of my life is that rugby is no longer compulsory. But I'm never quite sure it won't be again. One reason I'll never vote Conservative. Just in case.

Anyway, the table next to me was awash with braces, swept-back hair and hearty hardi-har laughing. Wine was drunk, pushed over, or thrown aside in favour of bizarre brandy-Baileys combinations. Uxorious waiters smarmed over them with bread and biscuits, and endless boozeucopia.

Our wine waiter just refused to serve us. And kept demanding money for drinks we'd already paid for. Or, he'd come and take away our water jug.

That said, I had a magnificent evening. There was a live band, who insisted on performing Blues versions of Scissor Sisters tracks. There was merriment. And, of course, we set our tablecloth on fire.

Overheard

Woman in office: "Hmmn. People definitely get better looking as they get richer, don't they?"

Club update

My swishy London club has been in touch. Would I like to take part in a charity auction for "a limited edition chip fork by jeweller Gavin Turk"?

Well. Would I?