So, his boyfriend had left the pub and he offered to walk me home. It was a warm summer's evening, and I was charmed.
He walked me home. He followed me up in the lift and into the flat. And then he pounced.
There was a brief, exciting tussle. And then something caught his eye, and he stopped. "Oh my god!" he gasped, "Is that really a script for what I think it is! Wow! I am like the world's biggest fan!"
I got rid of him within minutes. Sadly, I appear to have got good at saying "No" to attractive men. That's three times in a fortnight that roughly the same thing has happened. Virtue's comforting. But just a little dull.
Friday, July 28, 2006
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Sheeptacular
Spent a day at the Royal Welsh Show. Handing out leaflets, meeting children and parents, and generally soaking up the atmosphere.
I loved agricultural shows when I was young. Every year, we'd go to the East of England, and I'd eat a pork pie, look at cows and sheep and pigs and horses, and maybe pop into the BBC stand to pick up a piece of paper that was exciting just cos it said "BBC". Somewhere I've still got em.
Anyway, there I was, handing out leaflets and posters and stuff and feeling a bit rubbish for not speaking any Welsh (how I cringed when a five year-old said patiently "Diolch means thank you. There.").
Most of the people were deeply lovely, but it was amazing how the 0.001% of vile people can really leave you in a mood. The Dad who just pointed at me, snapped his fingers and then pointed at his two kids. The girl who asked me all sweetness for a poster, then threw it away over her shoulder, still smiling at me. The little boy with the milkshake... oh, but hang on, the twitching's started again.
Oh and then the grans. One came up to me, asking "Can I have a cool drink for the little kiddies?" I apologised, we didn't do drinks. "I see," she said, eyeing my cup of coffe, "You don't do drinks. No. That's right." And then sailed away, dripping dignified disdain.
I didn't really get to explore. Apparently the Sheeptacular was unmissable, but there just wasn't time to see performing pedigree pullovers.
I did get to see a jolly woman parading her horse and trap round the main ground, while giving off a commentary that sounded, as someone put it "just a shade too excited" - "Now, then Jasper's really breaking into it... oh good Jasper! Jasper! Oh a little faster! You too, Starlight! Really go for it! There we are! Yes!"
The real delight was, of course, Welsh farmers with their shirts off. Without a thought or a care in the world. Topless tractor totty just strolling around, or watching a display of dancing ducks, or whatever. Shyly oblivous to the world, yet beautiful and content. Like barely living Greek statuary. Only with cheap tattoos and a thousand acres.
I bought a pork pie. Sadly, not at the fair, but at Tesco Services.
I loved agricultural shows when I was young. Every year, we'd go to the East of England, and I'd eat a pork pie, look at cows and sheep and pigs and horses, and maybe pop into the BBC stand to pick up a piece of paper that was exciting just cos it said "BBC". Somewhere I've still got em.
Anyway, there I was, handing out leaflets and posters and stuff and feeling a bit rubbish for not speaking any Welsh (how I cringed when a five year-old said patiently "Diolch means thank you. There.").
Most of the people were deeply lovely, but it was amazing how the 0.001% of vile people can really leave you in a mood. The Dad who just pointed at me, snapped his fingers and then pointed at his two kids. The girl who asked me all sweetness for a poster, then threw it away over her shoulder, still smiling at me. The little boy with the milkshake... oh, but hang on, the twitching's started again.
Oh and then the grans. One came up to me, asking "Can I have a cool drink for the little kiddies?" I apologised, we didn't do drinks. "I see," she said, eyeing my cup of coffe, "You don't do drinks. No. That's right." And then sailed away, dripping dignified disdain.
I didn't really get to explore. Apparently the Sheeptacular was unmissable, but there just wasn't time to see performing pedigree pullovers.
I did get to see a jolly woman parading her horse and trap round the main ground, while giving off a commentary that sounded, as someone put it "just a shade too excited" - "Now, then Jasper's really breaking into it... oh good Jasper! Jasper! Oh a little faster! You too, Starlight! Really go for it! There we are! Yes!"
The real delight was, of course, Welsh farmers with their shirts off. Without a thought or a care in the world. Topless tractor totty just strolling around, or watching a display of dancing ducks, or whatever. Shyly oblivous to the world, yet beautiful and content. Like barely living Greek statuary. Only with cheap tattoos and a thousand acres.
I bought a pork pie. Sadly, not at the fair, but at Tesco Services.
Monday, July 24, 2006
The other me
Just checked my online bank. Over the weekend, I would appear to have developed a quite ruinous taste for online poker and the gee-gees.
Bless first direct though. "We spotted it at once, sir. It's a sure sign of fraud. Or divorce."
Bless first direct though. "We spotted it at once, sir. It's a sure sign of fraud. Or divorce."
24 update
Caught up with the latest series. In which Jack gets on board an airplane by disguising himself as luggage and Chloe gets a stun gun.87% of 24 is Made for Gays.
The other 13% (inane torture) is just there to reassure straight men that they're not watching something poofy.
Rebranding
Why we should all behave like the BBC: "I'd like you to call me Bradley instead of Daniel, please. I had a terrible time in Marseilles, and I'd like to put it all behind me." from GUM Clinic
Saturday, July 22, 2006
My Welshest yet
*hilarious* fake tan disaster. I look like a coal miner.
UPDATE: I've now got a real sunburnt nose. I'd like to think this makes the overall effect realistic. Sadly, if I was a cat I'd be called Patch, and if I was a puppet I'd be called Sooty.
UPDATE: I've now got a real sunburnt nose. I'd like to think this makes the overall effect realistic. Sadly, if I was a cat I'd be called Patch, and if I was a puppet I'd be called Sooty.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Post!
Completely forgot I'd gone a bit mental on Amazon during the summer heat. Got back to the flat to discover...
- a book of plays
- a book about whores
- Spiderman Lego Train. Complete with Lego Doctor Octopus.
Quiver.
- a book of plays
- a book about whores
- Spiderman Lego Train. Complete with Lego Doctor Octopus.
Quiver.
Who moved my cheese?
There's a revered management strategy called "Who moved my cheese?" - a simple parable about two mice who go to the same place in a maze every day for their cheese. One day, the cheese has moved. The clever mouse goes hunting for the cheese. The stupid mouse stays, waiting for the cheese to come back.
Yesterday, my cheese moved. Or my maze moved. Or something. And anyway, I'm lactose intolerant. But there was a restructuring work thing. With flow charts. And a complicated circular diagram thing like those Georgia O'Keefe drawings of lady bits.
After much hunting through these charts, I discovered what my new role might be: "Embedded Future Media Technologist".
I explained this to the people in Cardiff. They're now calling me "the inbred".
Yesterday, my cheese moved. Or my maze moved. Or something. And anyway, I'm lactose intolerant. But there was a restructuring work thing. With flow charts. And a complicated circular diagram thing like those Georgia O'Keefe drawings of lady bits.
After much hunting through these charts, I discovered what my new role might be: "Embedded Future Media Technologist".
I explained this to the people in Cardiff. They're now calling me "the inbred".
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Mind the gaps
Go see a dentist. Now. I'm going to.
I had drinks with two exes last week. Normally, I throw myself at them. Even the fat ones. But what saved me this time was that both of them had disgusting teeth.
Adam (the ex boyfriend) merely had a gaping hole in his stained teeth. A fascinating, jagged wedge that almost sparkled in the dim light. For Joe (the ex shag), however, it was worse. Years of doing his own dentistry with home filling kits had caught up with him. Instead of a normal row of gnashers, his teeth were like pebbles on a beach - layers upon layers of wedged fillings, each a different shade of fizzing decay.
The teeth were my salvation. Joe is astonishingly beautiful and terribly straightforward... but everytime he grinned his rockery smile my stomach lurched.
Adam hasn't really changed much since last I saw him. Still madly in pursuit of teenagers ("Was at an 18th birthday party last night. Shan't see him again."), and a career. He's now decided to become a lawyer. I begged him not to.
Finally, after a year, he gave me back some of my stuff. Or rather, a pile of books and a t-shirt that wasn't mine. "This isn't mine," I said.
Adam glanced at it. "No. Too small," and pocketed it.
Apart from vile teeth, both insisted on showing me their camera phones, full of pictures of their recent shags.
"It's because they're desperate to prove they're doing okay," I explained to Lee over lunch the next day.
"Yeees," Lee toyed idly with his salad, "That's absolutely it. Life's downhill after you. Carry on telling yourself that. Go you."
So anyway, two evenings of looking at bad teeth and pictures of my ex shags. Adam looked down at his phone sadly. "That's all of them. Howabout you? Any pics on your phone?"
Yes Adam. One of you sucking off an old man for money.
I had drinks with two exes last week. Normally, I throw myself at them. Even the fat ones. But what saved me this time was that both of them had disgusting teeth.
Adam (the ex boyfriend) merely had a gaping hole in his stained teeth. A fascinating, jagged wedge that almost sparkled in the dim light. For Joe (the ex shag), however, it was worse. Years of doing his own dentistry with home filling kits had caught up with him. Instead of a normal row of gnashers, his teeth were like pebbles on a beach - layers upon layers of wedged fillings, each a different shade of fizzing decay.
The teeth were my salvation. Joe is astonishingly beautiful and terribly straightforward... but everytime he grinned his rockery smile my stomach lurched.
Adam hasn't really changed much since last I saw him. Still madly in pursuit of teenagers ("Was at an 18th birthday party last night. Shan't see him again."), and a career. He's now decided to become a lawyer. I begged him not to.
Finally, after a year, he gave me back some of my stuff. Or rather, a pile of books and a t-shirt that wasn't mine. "This isn't mine," I said.
Adam glanced at it. "No. Too small," and pocketed it.
Apart from vile teeth, both insisted on showing me their camera phones, full of pictures of their recent shags.
"It's because they're desperate to prove they're doing okay," I explained to Lee over lunch the next day.
"Yeees," Lee toyed idly with his salad, "That's absolutely it. Life's downhill after you. Carry on telling yourself that. Go you."
So anyway, two evenings of looking at bad teeth and pictures of my ex shags. Adam looked down at his phone sadly. "That's all of them. Howabout you? Any pics on your phone?"
Yes Adam. One of you sucking off an old man for money.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
There was culture
Went to see a fabulous satire about Welsh politics. It summed up perfectly everything about why the Theatre's not like going to the Cinema - you could see the cast, the rest of the audience, and even, in a corner, the author, staring hard at a spot on the floor.
Shamefully, it's been six months since I've been to the theatre. My Cardiff flat's about 100 yards from a theatre, but it appears to rotate Festen with The Vagina Monologues and, currently, a Rod Stewart Musical.
Apparently, I missed the week when Kate O'Mara was in an Agatha Christie.
Shamefully, it's been six months since I've been to the theatre. My Cardiff flat's about 100 yards from a theatre, but it appears to rotate Festen with The Vagina Monologues and, currently, a Rod Stewart Musical.
Apparently, I missed the week when Kate O'Mara was in an Agatha Christie.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Job interview
A couple of weeks ago, in a moment of madness, I applied for a job. Simply because it was in Glasgow, and I like Glasgow.
Oddly, I got an interview. Which really surprised me, as it was way out of my league. And I hadn't a clue what the job was.
Don't get me wrong - the job ad didn't say "Earn $$$s from home!" - it was just that every time I read the job description it looked like a different job. Completely. But, it was with a brilliant bunch of people, and, as I said, in Glasgow. The only thing I could be certain of was that the job title was nice. And very long. Which had to be a good thing.
The train journey was fun. A 13 hour round trip from Cardiff to Glasgow was still easier than trying to catch the plane. And, you know, better for the, um, environment thingy.
I nearly pulled on the train journey up. Or, at least, I got glowered at several times by a man who looked like he used his knuckles for maths. How wonderful, I thought. What a good omen!
He passed me in a corridor, and loitered menacingly. I'm ashamed to say I went giddy as a nervous schoolgirl. Partly 'cos I've never done it in a Virgin Train bog. They're enormous, shiny and full of buttons. They even have something like a flip-down ironing board. Yay!
Anyway, there we were in a corridor, him lowering away like a summer storm. Just as I'm about to surrender my heart and my wallet, my phone rings. It's habitat. They wait three months to tell me the dark walnut mirror is back in stock... and then call just as I'm about to enjoy a furtive bog shag with a simmering gay so rough his kitten has an ASBO. Bastards.
Rough gay isn't impressed, and wanders off. I'm left with a broken heart and a half-finished presentation on something no-one knows anything about for a job I don't understand.
The job interview is predictably hilarious. I've not had one for years, and I alternated between breezy incompetence and cheery terror. I discovered from watching a recent tv appearance that, when stressed, I slow down and posh up. So, bless 'em, some lovely Scottish people end up interviewing Tim Nice-But-Dim.
At the "Now, is there anything you'd like to ask us?" stage I cracked. "Yes, the job description's terribly lovely, but sounds very, um, you know, broad. Would you mind telling me what the job actually involves?"
There's an awkward pause and a flinty glare. "It seems perfectly straightforward to us..." Reading glasses are popped on. And the job description is read to me.
"Oh," I say, still in the dark, but pressing on. "Now, if you were applying for the job, what bit of it most excites you?"
The flint sparks. "All of it." There's a pause. "But I guess, what's best is..." And then they describe the job to me. And it's a brilliant job. An amazing job. A job I've just completely failed an interview for.
On the long train back, the air conditioning jams at Crewe, and I spend the last four hours shivering, watching my breath freeze in the air. The ticket inspector's worse - she's stuck in her thin summer blouse and micro skirt. She canters through the train every hour, teeth chattering, lips blue.
"Rubbish job, sometimes," she says. I nod.
Oddly, I got an interview. Which really surprised me, as it was way out of my league. And I hadn't a clue what the job was.
Don't get me wrong - the job ad didn't say "Earn $$$s from home!" - it was just that every time I read the job description it looked like a different job. Completely. But, it was with a brilliant bunch of people, and, as I said, in Glasgow. The only thing I could be certain of was that the job title was nice. And very long. Which had to be a good thing.
The train journey was fun. A 13 hour round trip from Cardiff to Glasgow was still easier than trying to catch the plane. And, you know, better for the, um, environment thingy.
I nearly pulled on the train journey up. Or, at least, I got glowered at several times by a man who looked like he used his knuckles for maths. How wonderful, I thought. What a good omen!
He passed me in a corridor, and loitered menacingly. I'm ashamed to say I went giddy as a nervous schoolgirl. Partly 'cos I've never done it in a Virgin Train bog. They're enormous, shiny and full of buttons. They even have something like a flip-down ironing board. Yay!
Anyway, there we were in a corridor, him lowering away like a summer storm. Just as I'm about to surrender my heart and my wallet, my phone rings. It's habitat. They wait three months to tell me the dark walnut mirror is back in stock... and then call just as I'm about to enjoy a furtive bog shag with a simmering gay so rough his kitten has an ASBO. Bastards.
Rough gay isn't impressed, and wanders off. I'm left with a broken heart and a half-finished presentation on something no-one knows anything about for a job I don't understand.
The job interview is predictably hilarious. I've not had one for years, and I alternated between breezy incompetence and cheery terror. I discovered from watching a recent tv appearance that, when stressed, I slow down and posh up. So, bless 'em, some lovely Scottish people end up interviewing Tim Nice-But-Dim.
At the "Now, is there anything you'd like to ask us?" stage I cracked. "Yes, the job description's terribly lovely, but sounds very, um, you know, broad. Would you mind telling me what the job actually involves?"
There's an awkward pause and a flinty glare. "It seems perfectly straightforward to us..." Reading glasses are popped on. And the job description is read to me.
"Oh," I say, still in the dark, but pressing on. "Now, if you were applying for the job, what bit of it most excites you?"
The flint sparks. "All of it." There's a pause. "But I guess, what's best is..." And then they describe the job to me. And it's a brilliant job. An amazing job. A job I've just completely failed an interview for.
On the long train back, the air conditioning jams at Crewe, and I spend the last four hours shivering, watching my breath freeze in the air. The ticket inspector's worse - she's stuck in her thin summer blouse and micro skirt. She canters through the train every hour, teeth chattering, lips blue.
"Rubbish job, sometimes," she says. I nod.
The Lake House
Dear Keanu
I'm so lucky! Who'd have thought it? Living in the same house as you, but two years in the future. You can send me magic messages and everything. Coo.
PS: Those stains in the hall are really stubborn.
Love,
James
====
Dear Keanu
Thanks for your last note from two years ago, and for finding time to redecorate the downstairs bathroom (how lucky I am! suddenly, it's always been fuschia!). In answer to your question, yes, you're still famous in 2006. Well, a bit famous. I mean, they're aren't pictures of you in Heat often, but at least they've stopped printing those nasty bulimia rumours.
PS: Just lifted that loose floorboard. Your old porn! How thoughtful.
====
Dear Keanu
I've checked. Later on in 2004, your hair gets really long and greasy. Then there's a mullet in spring, then something flicky with highlights, then a buzzcut. Ooh, and it looks like you've started covering up the grey. With tar. The buzzcut was nicest - why not just go for that?
PS: Lifted another floorboard. Another stash of Keanu porn. Bless.
====
Dear Keanu
Nope. I checked. People don't think more of you for taking interesting roles in indy movies. And you don't get the lead in Capote. The bad news is, you do get the lead in Constantine.
PS: Another floorboard. More porn. Your gifts aren't diverse, but they are prolific.
====
Dear Keanu
Waited in the restaurant for three hours. You didn't show up. Just as they were closing, a lawyer with an NDA turned up. You cad.
PS: When I got home, I lifted every floorboard. Porn rammed under every one. They're not gifts - you're just filthy.
PPS: No, do do the Lake House with Sandra Bullock. She's forgiven you. Really.
Wuthering heights
So drunk when I got home last night. Ended up sleeping on the balcony in the rain.
Friday, July 07, 2006
Obligatory terror post
Really didn't want to be in London for the anniversary. Observed the two minute silence sat at my desk, listening to someone laughing through a personal phone call.
Radio 4 was brilliant all day. CBBC even joined in with a special drama about kids and the bombing. It tried to tackle really complex issues. Some of them very successfully. And then there was the scene where no one could get on the school bus because the bus driver objected to three ten year olds wearing veils.
"Keep your jihad off my bus! People have died today!" yelled the bus driver. Um.
Radio 4 was brilliant all day. CBBC even joined in with a special drama about kids and the bombing. It tried to tackle really complex issues. Some of them very successfully. And then there was the scene where no one could get on the school bus because the bus driver objected to three ten year olds wearing veils.
"Keep your jihad off my bus! People have died today!" yelled the bus driver. Um.
Thursday, July 06, 2006
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Knees
On a detour from the bike ride home last night, I met a Swedish man who looked like Action Man. Only the blue pants came off.When I got home, I had to pick the bracken out of my knees. There's scarring, but it was worth it.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Restaurant at the end of the Relationship
There was something odd about the couple next to us. As we waited for our table, She returned to the table, pint for him, bottle of wine for her.
HE: How much is this costing? Drag me away from the football all the way to nowhere and for what?
SHE: I'm trying to save this relationship. What do you say to that?
HE: mumble. mumble.
SHE: Oh yeah, once we're done, you can go back to that slut.
We started reading the menu aloud. Then we tried naming the Bond films in order. Anything to drown out the sound of heartbreak from the next table. Whenever we ran out of conversation, they'd be there.
SHE: Fine. You carry on banging her, if that's what you want to do. I don't deserve this treatment.
HE: This cod is burnt. Can you see? All along the side.
They weren't much to look at. She was wearing Nervous RE teacher. He was just a toad with a combover. I tried to imagine him having sex with anyone. It just didn't seem likely.
SHE: (screaming) What is it? Do you want me to wear stockings and suspenders?
Oddly, she didn't come across as that sympathetic. He was obviously a louse who didn't deserve her pity, but her approach was unnerving - furious grovelling.
SHE: (icy) I take then that I'm to leave Mr Potter alone.
HE: Are you paying for this?
SHE: Here's the money. I'm going to the toilet. You've done everything you can to ruin this evening.
She left for the toilet and never came back. He sat in silence for an hour, and then melted away.
I prayed they weren't sharing a B&B.
HE: How much is this costing? Drag me away from the football all the way to nowhere and for what?
SHE: I'm trying to save this relationship. What do you say to that?
HE: mumble. mumble.
SHE: Oh yeah, once we're done, you can go back to that slut.
We started reading the menu aloud. Then we tried naming the Bond films in order. Anything to drown out the sound of heartbreak from the next table. Whenever we ran out of conversation, they'd be there.
SHE: Fine. You carry on banging her, if that's what you want to do. I don't deserve this treatment.
HE: This cod is burnt. Can you see? All along the side.
They weren't much to look at. She was wearing Nervous RE teacher. He was just a toad with a combover. I tried to imagine him having sex with anyone. It just didn't seem likely.
SHE: (screaming) What is it? Do you want me to wear stockings and suspenders?
Oddly, she didn't come across as that sympathetic. He was obviously a louse who didn't deserve her pity, but her approach was unnerving - furious grovelling.
SHE: (icy) I take then that I'm to leave Mr Potter alone.
HE: Are you paying for this?
SHE: Here's the money. I'm going to the toilet. You've done everything you can to ruin this evening.
She left for the toilet and never came back. He sat in silence for an hour, and then melted away.
I prayed they weren't sharing a B&B.
Saturday, July 01, 2006
While David Cameron didn't...
People are still rumbling over David Cameron's emission admission - that he never pleasured himself to pictures of Lady Thatcher.
Strangely, this reminds me of an awful night at university, when, *very new* to all things gay, I met a member of Christ Church College Young Conservatives. He brought me a drink. Several drinks. "What an ugly man," I thought, "and why does my pint taste strange?"
Later, I woke up to discover I was losing my anal virginity underneath a picture of Maggie Thatcher.
Strangely, this reminds me of an awful night at university, when, *very new* to all things gay, I met a member of Christ Church College Young Conservatives. He brought me a drink. Several drinks. "What an ugly man," I thought, "and why does my pint taste strange?"
Later, I woke up to discover I was losing my anal virginity underneath a picture of Maggie Thatcher.
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