Post about posting

Strangely, something happened this weekend that I'd love to blog, and it would be diverting, but it's not really my business to.

But, on behalf of someone I really rather like, I guess I should apologise to two good friends, an actress, three cab drivers, four men outside Esso, a hooker, the police, my caretaker, and the bomb squad.

Mr Perfect

We met Mr Perfect in the corner of The Leinster. He was sat there, sipping away at his wine, and looking cultured. And very, very, very beautiful.

Eventually Adam and I got chatting to him. His name was Michael, and he'd been a professional dancer ("People still recognise me from the Gina G thing," he shuddered). He was 29 but looked 19.

[Side Bar. Just googled Gina G, and discovered a fish-trawler called The Schubschlepper Gina G]

Nowadays, he's stuff like Rachel Stevens' stylist. Amongst other things. A costume designer, stylist and actor, he lived in splendid luxury in his Notting Hill studio/studio apartment with his long-term partner and their not-too-small dog.

He's working with the reviving career of Noel from Popstarz (some kind of Manchester musical told in the style of Friends but with the music of the B52s. It's called Loveshack and sounds ghastly). He shrugs, "It's not as bad as being in Cats."

We both rather adored Michael. Especially when he revealed that he'd read for a major part in Doctor Who months ago (they were looking for someone from musical theatre with an American accent). His comment was, "I wasn't that fussed about acting again, but told them my mate Billie'd love to be in Doctor Who."

He even remained calm when an almighty fight broke out in the pub. As fists flew and people screamed "Go for the face, Gordon!" Michael just raised his glass of red to the light, admiring the alchohol dribble slowly down the bowl. "I like it here. It's like EastEnders."

Outclased, Adam and I slouched off to m'club, to flirt with our favourite waitress - a mad Greek sculpture student, she's writing a comic book about an East London superhero ("Shoreditch Girl!"), and was all too happy to flit around the club for us trying to find out who there was rich, pretty, and gay.

On the nightbus home, we discovered two teenage friends of Adam's. One was carrying a folder ("I've been conducting a survey in G-A-Y. Walking up to blokes and asking 'Are you straight acting?'"). The other one had a very high opinion of himself.

PIANI (yeah, his real name): I'm like that thing in the third Indiana Jones film.
ADAM: The Ark of the Covenant?
PIANI: No, the other one.
BEARDED FILM STUDENT ON NEXT SEAT: No, that's the first film. *tuts*
PAINI: Exactly sweetheart. I'm the true Holy Grail.
ME: What? A plain, simple thing a carpenter would use?

On the walk back to the flat Adam muttered, "I think we could have had them both, you know."

I didn't care. I was still thinking of perfect Michael. We're going to name our kids after S Club 7. Except for the dog. Which we'll call Paul.

Office Games: Water Cooler Jenga

The art of getting a cupfull of water without it emptying the bottle and having to replace it.

Two worlds collide

Oddly lovely, uh, date with Adam last night. Pretending to be Raddled Old Gays, we went to the theatre, and then to m'club.

Where we discovered that the Owners Of A Gay Gentleman's Dancing Club had hired the top floor for their company party.

It made going to the loos a strange experience. Instead of the normally tranquil aura of calm and nice towels, the toilets were crammed with Men Of Big Arms And Dismissive Natures queuing to do coke in the loos.

We were being classy, however. We were sat opposite Rich Straight Businessmen who were being braggy. So we ordered port and cigars.

Every now and then pretty things from the party would float past, distracting us. Unfortunately, they would insist on ruining everything by opening their mouths.

PRETTY THING 1: "So, anyway, I met Sir IanMcKellern the other day."
PRETTY THING 2: "Who is he?"
PRETTY THING 1: "I dunno. Old and rich, though."

Class

With Adam asleep in bed this morning, I left him a tenner on the bedside table.

"oh. you know how to make a girl feel special," he murmured.

Shameless

Blimey. That was a bit shocking wasn't it? Bloody good, though.

SPOILERS: So, right, now Steve's on the run after killing someone in a drugs deal, Helmet's gone mental (what does that ashtray mean?), and Fiona's left sobbing on the pavement. What the hell is going to happen? And I still wish that Lip was the gay brother.

Life without smoking

Goodness me, I thought while shaving, someone's ironed your face!

And it is true. A month after giving up smoking, my skin's looking great. Not only less spots, but less lines. I look youthful and skippy.

So does Ann, who I work opposite. Three months after smoking, she's three years younger.

And what did I do straight after realising how great I look after smoking?

Yeah. That's right. I went out and bought a pack of fags.

The worst is over

According to Darian, yesterday was the most miserable day of the year.

Thrillingly, today seems much better. My body woke up this morning ten minutes before the alarm went off to tell me that I'd had enough sleep, and was thrilled to be taken to the gym.

Yeah. After weeks of lying whimpering in the semi-dark refusing to move, all of a sudden it's glibly compliant. It managed the bike ride to the gym without a murmur, and thrilled to be happily struggling away with weights while listening to radio four.

Everything seemed blissful. Even the canteen's scrambled egg. The world couldn't be better.

Oh god. I'm about to get dumped, aren't I?

A well-prepared meal

I turned up at Ben's housewarming.

"Hullo! I've been to Fat Duck!" I said.

"Don't worry, I'll pop you a pizza on." said Ben.

***

Now, I like food. It's great. And, while I'll admit there's nothing sexier than the words "all you can eat" uttered by either man or menu, I'm not against small amounts of clever food.

Fat Duck was different. It was bloody expensive (about £100 a head), and not necessarily good. Their signature dish is "Egg and Bacon ice cream" - it's got a menu that you spend so much time giggling over, you forget to ask "But will it be nice?"

Apparently, it has three Michelin stars. Three courses of well-presented tidbits arrived - the bacon and egg ice cream was the size of a quail's egg with a solitary soldier. The service was excellent, and the fun things in between courses were a giggle (oysters in passion fruit jelly)... but we grabbed snickers bars on the way home.

Except for Kate - Kate went for the cheap menu, which meant that we got to watch hungrily as she was served a large bowl of wonderful soup, a hearty portion of pork roast ("best crackling ever"), and a pudding which she just couldn't finish.

The bread was nice. I stared down the waiters and took five helpings.

***

Ben's housewarming was great. Hurrah for his eclectic selection of erudite ex-shags, fabulous women, young German students, and a BBC Foreign Correspondent.

FC and I got on very well. Turns out he knows as many filthy stories about my friend Mark (the powerful TV commisioner) as I do. Including a time when he took Shaun (previous night's shag) to a party, only to disover that Mark done the same thing, with Shaun's boyfriend.

Mark took one look at the brewing fight, grabbed FC by the arm and said "Let's go to the other end of the bar."

FC and Mark once had a business meeting in a cruise maze, while being sucked off by the same guy.

***

Ben's new bloke and I didn't get on. He's very pretty. Well, he's a lot of very pretty hair. I was told his name was Alp. I figured this was a good conversational gambit - he looked rather bored and conversationally hard work, but I made the effort:

ME: So, your name's Alp?

ALP: Actually, it's Johnny. (He walks off)

I apologise to Ben for this later. Ben blinks. "His name really is Alp. He's just rude."

Shush!

Sadly, I can't talk about the nicest thing that happened this week.

But it took place in a dark room, lasted about an hour, and I started to cry after 30 seconds.

Perhaps I should get hit more often...

For the last couple of days, I've been in a mood best described as "vivacious". Not quite the reaction I was expecting.

Richard Martin: A tribute

Some people may consider him the worst ever director of Doctor Who. But I say the man was ahead of his time. He correctly predicted:

1) Widescreen TVs that crop the picture: Hence his inability to get the heads and feet of his cast in the same shot. Deliberate!

2) The Dogme Movement (aka Snappy Snaps): Out of focus, backs to the camera, heads left out! Every frame has the candid informality of a family outing. Bravura! Even Carole Ann Ford's double-exposed home movie of the set looks more professional. And that's wrong!

3) VidFire: Ignore half of what's going on? Separate the odd from the even, and leave just the odd? Combine all the information into a fuzzy mess? Flanges? Genius!

He dared to tamper with the forces of creation. Yes. He dared.

What have I done?

I'm going to get a warning letter from the Gay Council. And it's not going to be a nice one. I'm dreading getting a "Dear Sir or Miss Thing", and I suspect it won't be a Pink warning. It'll be a Burberry one.

I've brought out the fanboy in Adam. A quite charming one, but still a fanboy. We spent Saturday in the office, digitising Dr Who masters ("Don't you just think Lynda Barron's in a different story?" he'd ask). He decided to skip Heaven, choosing instead a date in the BBC canteen.

Admittedly he spent most of the day fielding calls that were roughly along the lines of "Yeah... hi... no, not tonight. Really? ... No, Jack's in prison for five years. Yes, not kidding... I see. Well, try the guy outside the VIP area, but be subtle... No, really not coming."

By Sunday evening, it was worse.

"Hi. No, it's true, I did stay in last night. Watching a film. Yeah. A film. No. I'm not ill. Uhhuh. Well, I won't see you as I'm staying in tonight. Yeah, having dinner, reading a book. No, everything's fine.... Where are you going? ... Sure - mention my name to Minty, and you'll get that. Sure."

Then he'd turn back to me. "You know, Terrance Dicks really didn't know what he was doing here. You can't set something in the middle of State of Decay."

Popstarz

Weird Friday of clubbing, courtesy of Adam. I had a long-standing arrangement with a group of nice North London ladies who fancied an evening of fag-haggery in Popstarz.

"Can I come?" asked Adam. "I can get you all on the guest list. Though I hardly know *anyone* there..."

It was an evening of brilliance, fun, queueing, lots of "oh, where's...?", more queueing, male models, occasional rent boys, and rescue missions by Adam.

The Music Promoter who got us in got into a fight, and was thrown out. Adam had to make peace between his friends, the bouncers, and the person who got hit.

There was also a score to settle with a rent boy who'd apparently been going round town telling people that Adam was positive, for a laugh.

There was also a large amount of flirting he had to do with some very important people. Plus some fallout from an ambiguous text message to a male model about a new sofa.

And then there were the eight teenagers with wings who all fell to their knees and worshipped Adam. Completely blocking a stairwell.

Meanwhile, I was upstairs, dancing like fools with my friends. Every now and then Adam would wander past, clear some space on the floor, smoke a cigarette, grab a drink, and then sail off.

The evening settled down in the bar. I was chatting to charming male model called James - he used to be in a boy band ("Well, I'm not saying I was a good singer, but I was in the school choir"), and his greatest joys were his dog and DIY. He was on the Atkins diet to *gain* weight, and had just done an advert for a skincare product he was allegic to.

Meanwhile, Adam was chatting to an American DJ and computer security expert who kept rubbing Adam's leg. Curious. I am suddenly the other man.

The evening ended very companionably, with the DJ sent off to an after-hours club in Vauxhall (don't buy drugs from the guy near the cigarette machine, apparently. There's a bouncer watching him), and Adam and I crawling into bed at 7.

Gay Bar Fight

It's a cliche that gay men don't brawl. They bitch. They may occasionally shove. But no - no fighting.

So, anyway, Adam (aka Not-Boyfriend) got into a fight with a Swedish dancer. Over who danced better.

Seriously. Adam cuts a mean rug, and proved it last night by performing a spectacular drunken number in the Leinster which included being lifted across the bar, ballet style, by a visiting South African boxer.

There was laughter and applause. And then this cute young Swede idled over. Adam raised an eyebrow, graciously ready to accept flattery and a blow job. Instead of which the Swede said "I've studied at the academy of performing arts, and you should just sit down."

The fur flew.

SWEDE: I'm sure you were pretty once.
ADAM: Your hair's receding faster than Will Young's.

SWEDE: You should moisturise better.
ADAM: You've got more attitude than the Cheeky Girls and less talent.

SWEDE: People with your skin shouldn't smoke.
ADAM: That tattoo looks better on other people.

SWEDE: Some people shouldn't dye their hair blonde.
ADAM: Those clothes are ugly.

Roughly at this point the Swede made a lunge for Adam, and missed, while Adam tapped fag ash on the Swede's hair... and then it was like something from Crouching Tiger, Screaming Poof.

I dragged Adam one way, while an internet tycoon held the Swede back.

Adam struggled through the door, screaming, "I'm waiting for you outside and you'll get more than a slap."

The Swede was yelling back, "I'm a VIP here! You can't treat me like this."

I dragged Adam as far as a laundrette, his arms Scrappy-Dooing away while he shouted "I'm waiting for you! One punch is all it'll take, you bald Swedish Mary!"

As I stuffed him into a cab, he turned back to the pub and roared, "You'll never guest list in this town again, bitch."

I like the gay scene. I could watch it for hours.

The gayest things ever

Blogger JoeMyGod asked people what are the gayest things they've ever done.

Clear winners? Spending a weekend sanding down glory holes, and riding through New York with a drag queen on an out-of-control elephant, only to be brought down by Leigh Bowery.

Space Applause.

Mobile dignity

Thank heavens for predictive text. According to my mobile "Last night Adam and I pianoed in the office."

Pianoed. Ah. Yes. I'm happy with that. Sounds dignified. Classy.

PS: Turns out that, when we tinkled the ivories.... we weren't alone in the office.

Insonya

Last weekend Gemma and Serge gave me some fab-sounding sleeping tablets, and I've been taking them religiously.

I've still be feeling like crap every night. They do work, kind of. In that they don't put you to sleep - they just trap you in bed for eight hours. It's like drinking an entire bottle of vodka, only you wake up without either a hangover or a drama student.

Eight hours of drifting in and out of sleep. Unable to bloody move, bored and irritated. It's like watching Lord of the Rings. Every night.

Sod that. Back to vodka and students.

Short and Sweet

James Naughtie on the Today programme, entering the Honey vs Marmalade debate:

"This reminds me of the bandleader staying at Claridge's. They brought him a small put of breakfast honey, and he said, 'Ah. I see you keep a bee.'"

Shameless

Poor Shameless. It must be terrible making a wonderful first series of TV which tells a perfect story with a beginning, a middle, and an end... and then getting commissioned to make more.

The Christmas Special was a marvellous bit of sideways bonkers, but the second series is a strange beast. It's funny, it's daring... but...

It's every so slightly *annoying*. I always hated Frank, and he now hangs around the series like a misty fart, joined in the corner of rooms by some Very Annoying Characters - namely the firestarter with Teret's and his mother.

It's still brilliant, and yet, last night, I found myself drifting out of the room and folding laundry.

Partly, I'm wondering if the second series is suffering from being Really Professionally Plotted. It's got that hum about it of something carefully worked out in meeting rooms. The first series probably was just as mechanical, but disguised it better.

Last night, for instance, I found I wasn't that grabbed by the adopted kid story. Fine - I knew I could nip off to the kitchen, as there'd be a fairly meaty subplot along about every second scene, and a nice little "C" story making an occasional appearance.

Plus, no Sheila. Please let her cameo in Desperate Housewives.

Why I don't really bother with OutintheUK

I've started getting lots of interest from men who claim to be "a youthful 47".

(yes, their profiles do include pictures of their nice, sensible cars)

Dating and relativity

I have always been rubbish at second dates with people I like. If it's just shagging, then fine, but I get Seriously Smitten about once a year, and The Annual Smiting is a weird combination of euphoria and despair that is, frankly, irritating.

I like to think I'm fairly intelligent, rational and functional. So it's appalling to discover that, at the age of 30, meeting a nice man reduces me to the mental equivalent of doodling the names of our kids on my Maths folder.

Not happy about a second date with A-Gay Adam. Spent the entire day in gibbering panic. Last time this happened was in Manchester station, waiting for a boy to get off the train, convinced his "sorry, a bit late" text message meant "fuck off, fatty". See? Mad.

My madness wasn't helped by Adam texting to rearrange at the last minute. With a perfectly good excuse... but still. My mood wasn't helped by going round to dinner with friends who nodded and smiled and made a show of pretending to believe Adam's excuse.

Guy took me outside for a forbidden cigarette. "Look, mate. You've got to pretend to be calm. When I was single and dating girls, I'd never let on how I felt. It was a smile, a cheery wink, and every indication that I didn't give a shit. Then I'd go home and cry."

I left, feeling somewhat perkier, and ended up watching Dave Lynn return to the Black Cap (he took the piss out of the appalling Kiss FM DJ blunder by dedicating Bridge Over Troubled Water to "those poor folk in Tsunami").

Idly, I started chatting to the prettiest man there. He was called Tony, he did make up for fashion shoots (would he name names? no), and he had the most amazing arms.

Within ten minutes, he was explaining how he never had one night stands, that he rather liked me, and all about the difference between a special and a unified theory of relativity.

I can't remember many details, as his hand was down my pants, but it was something to do with whether a spot of light is moving away from or towards you when you're travelling at the speed of light. Fascinating stuff, I'd imagine.

Under Seige

Standing outside our office is a crowd of fifty evangelists. They've been protesting about the BBC's plans to show Jerry Springer: The Opera. They're the second batch - the first batch were quieter and had nicer banners. But they went off for lunch, and the afternoon shift have arrived.

We don't like them. They're singing hymns. Not good old rousing ones, but modern huggy hymns. The kind you need a guitar for.

I've been suffering uncomfortable evangelist flashbacks all day.

A-Gay Adam

So, I met Sam for a drink. It was supposed to be supper, but his heavily pregnant wife had just called. In tears. From hospital. Her blood pressure was going through the roof, and the baby could be coming early.

"Victoria said I wasn't on any account to ruin my evening by rushing round to her lonely hospital bed. So, I reckon I've got half an hour before she's sending her brother after me with a hammer."

We had a quick drink in a quiet gay bar in Notting Hill. Unusually, there was also a table of Bright Young A-Gay Things, and the Mature Gentlemen Who Adore Them.

When Sam bolted off ("oh god! pelvic floor..."), I sauntered over and asked the prettiest one if I could join them.

They were lovely, friendly, and I soon forgot that I hadn't done my hair. Adam, the prettiest one, asked me what I did. When I told him I worked for the BBC website, he gasped, "Do you know the WhoSpy?"

Wonderfully, she works for me. And Adam, it turns out, was not only a complete tousle-haired scene queen of the first water, but also a gibbering Doctor Who fanboy.

At the back of my head, a small, nasty voice was saying "Offer to show him what the console room looks like if he sleeps with you." But, strangely, I resisted.

After all, Adam was quite, quite interesting. He'd just been fired from Gaydar (yes, apparently people work for it, rather than on it), and was wondering about heading back to Toronto, or going over on a friendly millionaire's private jet to follow the New York scene.

It all sounded bizarre - a whirlwind of VIP rooms, teenage groupies and free champagne. He'd been a marketing manager, DJ, and drugs dealer, and was now moving into Circuit Party promotion and Club night organising.

All of which sounds terribly exciting - but not really part of my life. I *like* going clubbing - in the same way as I like visiting thrilling Paris, but couldn't live there.

What I most admired about him (apart from his confidence) was his mastery of the instant bitchy comeback. He'd taken part in an early heat of GAY's Porn Idol, bullied into it by then boss, clubland's very own Jeremy "K-Fried Chicken" Joseph. And there he was, standing there, naked on stage when JJ walks up and says "Pity your cock's small, isn't it love?"

Quick as a flash, Adam turns round. "It's gonna seem small when you're standing next to the biggest dick in London."

PS: Off to try and find my bike. I left it in a pub. In the cellar where they deal drugs.

Arsenic and Old Ladies

Charming evening spent in a house on Regent's Park with two lovely octogenarians and cats. Nikki is my parents' paragliding, pilates-teaching neighbour, and Virginia is an artist who keeps cats and an extensive wine cellar.

Nice to enjoy an evening of sedate decorum for a change. Especially with people determined to get you pissed, and with them offering sage advice.

In a drunken moment I told them about a friend whose girlfriend we all loathe. "She ignores us, barely speaks a word of English, refuses to let him spend time with us, and won't let him do any of the things he used to like doing. Why are they still together?"

Virginia leant forward and patted my knee. "The sex, my dear. It's obviously fantastic."

Alcazar Update

It's been too long since an update from the Acazarworld website ("enter the castle of disco"). But hurrah! News. In English. Almost.

Recent updates include:

It rains gold over Alcazar!!
A hysteric year has almost come to an end. But... It has finally paid off! Several records has now moved up to gold status in Sweden

Xmas message from Alcazar!
Today we have recieved a message from Alcazar that they wanted us to pass on to you guys out there - and here it comes!

We hope you have a wonderful evening with your families and/or friends among you!

Tess is on her Paradise island Gotland with her son and boyfriend. Annika is with her family and her husband in Sweden and in Denmark. Magnus is at his parents place with his dogs. Andreas is the only one staying in the Stockholm parts of Sweden to be close to his relatives and brother.

We have had a really wonderful year... So therefore we have decided to take some time off... Well, not much though, but still some time to "land" on our feet again, to spend some time with family, boyfriends, dogs, children aso aso. We won´t be "at work" for almost the whole January.

But a month goes by quickly! Soon it is February!!!

Love with all our hearts,

Sure sign of an impending Beige Night of the Soul

Last night a shag started licking my boots.

Oh, for goodness' sake.

ChavPod

Bless you SuperDrug for the 25 quid MP3 player. I noticed that KwikSave were doing a iPod lookylikey for young council mums - but that was 99 quid for 2 gig, and well, do you really need 2,000 copies of "Dry Your Eyes, Mate"?

I'm adoring my SuperDrug ChavPod. I'd never really seen the point of iPods before (beyond that Dr Who fan urge to File Everything In Order), but I think I'm getting the message now. My ChavPod is about the size of a big keyring and contains 70 tracks and an FM radio.

It's perfect for jogging. I could even go and buy on for Classical, and one for Jazz. I doubt I'd need a separate one for my beloved Philip Glass operas - just one track on repeat.

Just going through my music collection to find the 70 things I've really loved jogging to has been a revelation. If I was transferring to an iPod I doubt I'd discriminate - whole albums would go over. But here, instead, is the sobering realisation that I didn't buy that Steps/Ricky Martin/Kylie album for the ballads, that I'm not interested in Chumbawumba's social commentary, that I own the Hamster Dance (as blessed by St John Peel), and that, after all these years, I'm still deeply in loved with Daphne and Celeste.

Surprisingly, this has set me thinking. If you can get already an MP3 player that will store 6 albums for less than the cost of six albums... how long will it be before player and packaging merge, and we'll be able to buy albums that play themselves?

Or will it be the quality of the data itself that becomes all important - will people carry on buying CDs and DVDs because the quality is somehow better than MPEG?

Or, will the packaging of legit albums and DVDs just become more and more excessive and lavish? My friends Gemma and Serge have thrown away all boxes and cases, reducing their extensive DVD and CD library to four plastic wallets sharing a tiny bit of shelf with the dope and catfood. Proof that you don't *need* the lovely packaging. On the other hand, Serge is refusing to get rid of all of his vinyl LPs, even though they take the wall of a room, and about a fraction of his iPod. So, perhaps the way forward for DVD is to become even more ludicrously lavish in packaging, with origmai, plasticised gatefolds which play a tune when you open them, and a built in, personalised, anatomically correct holographic Colin Farrell?

Anyway, the pure pop overload of compiling the ChavPod had an unfortunate side-effect. I went into HMV and blew 40 quid on classical music that I didn't need. Well, apart from the Jacqueline Du Pre Elgar Cello Concerto. That'd go on my classical ChavPod. But not her ballads. Or her duet with the Cheeky Girls.