Hot Fuzz

Oh. There are a great 20 minutes near the end. But it takes forever to get there.

I was kept occupied by Waterbed Jason, who wants to see me on Thursday night. "Can't wait to see you. Can U bring drugs?" he asked.

Oh. Can I really only be consumed if you're off your tits? Luckily, I haven't the first clue how to go about buying drugs. I figure it involves chatting to one of those men who stand outside Camden Tube - but I've no idea beyond that.

Mac vs PC

The Daddy of gay blogs

Sometimes, Joe.My.God is unbeatable:
Worst Sex Ever

Cat food advert

There's an astonishing advert where A Desperate Single Woman gives up and gets a cat. "It was love at first sight," she gushes. "Frankie gave me a look of such love."

A cat? Love? Oh dear.

The advert finishes with the cat coming into her room in the morning, and Singleton announcing, "I don't know where I'd be without my furry alarm clock."

That Laurence Fox

Still can't make up my mind about Lewis's skull-faced side-kick. Is he attractive, or as sinister as the jaws of death?

To try and find more, I asked Aunt Google. Wikipedia, bogglingly, tells me "Fox is currently dating British actress Billie Piper". More helpfully, his RADA page features a picture of him taken seconds before he either:
a) Makes beautiful love to Billie Piper
b) Roasts a baby over the open fires of Hell.

The page also includes the following information:
"Special Skills: Tenor singing vice. Water sports."

That's not really helping.

Tagging my life

I've finally upgraded this blog. I've spent a merry couple of hours indexing posts by subjects. After a couple of hours, I've got:

• TV (11)
  
• Radio Four (3)
  
• Films (2)
  
• Books (4)
  
• Self-Pity (4)
  
• Sex (44)

That says it all really. But I wish it didn't.

Dreams at bargain prices (inc P&P)

It's true. You can now get everything from Play.com:

The Lone Gunmen

The short-lived X-Files spin-off turned up in yesterday's post.

I'd forgotten that the early 2001 Pilot Episode features them trying to stop a hijacked plane flying into the World Trade Centre. Really.

Thirty minutes in, we go from amiable spy comedy to truly uncomfortable viewing as we get to see a plane thundering towards the World Trade Centre. And then... at the last minute... the crisis is averted, complete with a comedy twang as the plane brushes an aerial on the WTC roof.

It's uncomfortably prescient. The commentary track falls silent at this point, with only occasional murmurs from the crew of "Jeez" and "We couldn't have known". They do explain that they sent a helicopter out to film the World Trade Center specially, and were constantly being harrassed by swarms of harbour police for getting too close.

"Here we were, coming up with this incredibly improbable, convoluted, hi-tech idea. And then, in reality, it turned out to be more lo-tech than you could imagine."

The second episode, mercifully, is about a blind football coach and puking in a golf bag.

Pleasingly bonkers conspiracy theory webpage

The Wrong Boy

So, there I was, putting together a proposal for a teenage audience. Naturally, I did a bit of searching for a suitably photogenic sample user to put in the proposal:


Yes, I thought. He'll do nicely. I glanced briefly at the surrounding text - yup, he's over 16. So it's also fine to think he's a bit pretty without worrying too much.

It was only later I re-read the text.

Ah. Callum McKinlay happens to be Britain's youngest child pornographer, having sent round mobile phone footage he'd taken of a friend having sex with a drunk 14 year old at a party.

Hmmn. Oh dear.

Now, since Callum would no doubt be appalled to discover he's popular with the older gays, perhaps that's a good thing, and some form of poetic justice.

On the other hand, have I just accidentally joined some deviant sect? People who fancy paedophiles? It's unlikely - after all, most of them are as photogenic as Fred & Rose West, but then, there is that friend of mine who stopped conversation with "Ian Huntley? Oh, I would."

Ticker suprise

It’s not every day that you get to be the subject of an inaccurate piece of gossip on an internet news site. Even if it is just for Doctor Who fans... Eye of Horus


Bless. But no.

[Oh. PS – Those who know me - Yes, I’m leaving at the end of March. There’ll be a least a party. Woo! ]

Tales from the Waterbed

So, my random building site encounter asks me over last Monday. It turns out he lives just outside Merthyr Tydfil. In a charmingly tiny village called Troed-y-rhiw.
Which involves my best journey on the toy trains here ever – especially as
a) I can’t pronounce the name of the village.
b) It’s completely dark.
c) I can’t see any station signs.

I end up asking a lady where we are. And then, if she wouldn’t mind spelling what she just said. I realise that this is my stop, get off and find Jason’s house. It involves walking through a graveyard in the pitch dark.

Considering our first encounter was as far from romantic as you can get, tonight is a distinct improvement. We order Chinese and watch Frasier.

He has a waterbed. He explains that it’s all to do with dust allergies and bed bugs, but I’m thinking “kinky fucker.”

Despite all the PR, it turns out to be nearly impossible to have sex in a waterbed. After all, every action has an equal and opposite reaction. Remember Newton’s Balls, the office toy where if you let one ball drop, another flies back, knocking the first ball out again? Well, kind of like that, really.

But it’s enormously entertaining – kind of like going on a bouncy castle with poppers.

He works for a mobile phone company, so our pillow talk involved him trying to sort out my awful phone package. Which is sweet – it’s not every shag who offers you half price line rental.

There are pictures of Jason’s ex dotted around the flat. Pleasingly, he looks like he’d steal your tyres. I ask how they got together. “I saw this rough bloke in Asda with his girlfriend, and couldn’t help cruising him. At the checkout I saw he was waiting by the door, and figured he was going to attack me, so I wouldn’t go out. In the end, he sent his sister back in to say he fancied me. We were together for three years.”

The Mrs Bradley Mysteries

Having exhausted Fake Marple, I ordered up this fantastic 1999 series, starring Diana Rigg as an ageing flapper who solves crimes with her chauffeur. A typical episode goes something like this:

CHAUFFEUR: Is it really wise going to this country house, my lady?

MRS B: Of course it is. Solid, cold and wintry - It reminds me of an ex-husband. Whereas I go like a tiger. And happily make inappropriately vulgar sexual remarks all the way through.

CHAUFFEUR: Nearly there now.

MRS B: I wish I had a cock.

THEY ARRIVE. MRS B HAS A GIN AND CHANGES OUTFITS BEFORE GETTING OUT OF THE CAR.

NICE YOUNG GIRL: I’m so glad you could come down.

MRS B: Yes, you’re terribly lucky.

NICE YOUNG GIRL IS PROMPTLY DROWNED

MRS B: Well, that puts a damper on things.

CHAUFFEUR: You used that pun last week.

MRS B: Oh. What a wet weekend – have we used that recently?

SOMEONE ELSE DIES. MRS B CHANGES OUTFITS.

MRS B: Of course, the unique thing about this show is that every now and then I turn to the camera and address you, the lucky viewer. It gives me an air of ironic aloofness. And you really should do something about that sofa.

CHAUFFEUR: There’s been another murder. Someone’s been strangled.

MRS B: Really? How breathtaking. I’ll be in the drawing room wearing my especially arched eyebrows.

PETER DAVISON: Hello! I’m playing Inspector Christmas.

MRS B: Fuck me. Only on Sunday night TV would you get this. You’re not going to die are you?

PETER: Good lord no, I’m in every episode.

MRS B: In that case get me a scotch. Is your first name Mary, Inspector Christmas?

PETER: No, that would be going too far. It’s Harry.

MRS B: Make it a double. Oh, and you at home? Your dog is widdling on the Radio Times. Stop it at once.

CHAUFFEUR: I’ve made your bedroom ready, my lady.

MRS B: Lovely. Of course, we’re like, totally shagging.

CHAUFFEUR: Yes, my lady.

MRS B CHANGES OUTFITS AGAIN. SOMEONE ELSE DIES.

MRS B: Oh, this is complete wank isn’t it?

Hangover cure

On Friday, I was so hungover, I ended up trying to look busy by searching Flickr for "cats". Mostly charming, although I learned that a lot of owners upload 20 near-identical photos of Moggie sleeping on their cheap sofa. And then there was the Brazilian animal sanctuary who had tagged all their pictures of dogs as "cats". Shudder.

Best picture however, was this charming shot which tells a complete story:

One Man Banned

R Cubed News

Every now and then, Google will throw you a Doomed Crusade. This time: A review of reviewers. This man reads reviews, and then reviews the reviewers, sending his pamphlets through to Fleet Street by... FAX!!!

I've been bemused by it since I found it. It's like popbitch for drama critics. But... why?

Seemingly, he'll like your reviews more if you're a pretty girl than if you're a gay boy.

Sample edition: A gay man reviews a musical, shocker!:
Apparently to enjoy musicals is a characteristic of gay men. So why was the press night of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang not crammed with shaven heads, moustaches, earrings, tattoos, skin-tight t-shirts and crotch-hugging leather jeans? It wasn't.

The latest edition doesn't even talk about theatre critics that much, instead using the london paper's printing of the word "bitch" as an excuse to talk about Rod Liddle's love life. Apparently, his girlfriend is very pretty.

I'm just baffled.

This morning...

I woke up on a waterbed in Troed-y-rhiw.

Bender

Sunday afternoon began simply enough. With charming birthday drinks in a nice quiet bar with lovely people.

I moved, gently, from not drinking to drinking, and felt none the worse. It was all terribly civilised.

Things perked up when a group of men came in. One of them was very pretty. It actually turned out to be the man from last night. Now, as I can't remember what the etiquette is when you bump into a shag in real life ("Hello! You probably don't remember me. I look taller when I'm not on my knees..."), I simply sent him a text message. He got it, grinned, and we politely ignored each other.

At some point, he and his party left, and our party quietly broke up (they started playing Oasis in the bar).

I went on for more drinking with the lovely straight Joe. People are always warning me about Joe's ability to drink, but I figured - what could be the harm in a couple more drinks in a gay bar doing Karaoke?

By the time I left (many, many hours later), we'd made new friends, Joe was refusing to leave, and we'd sung ourselves hoarse. But I had to go - a nice young hairdresser had come up to me at the bar, said "I like your jacket!" and snogged me. He refused to give me his phone number until I followed him to a club.

So, there I was, in Club X, trying to sober up, and get a phone number from a hairdresser. If you've ever tried dating a hairdresser, you'll know it's easier to get into their pants than it is to get a phone number out of them.

Gareth really seemed to like me. "That's such a great jacket," he repeated, "It's couture! You're so stylish!"

I blinked, and wished my London friends could hear him. I fancied I could hear a distant, disdainful cackling on the breeze.

"You're gorgeous, really classy, and I love how you dress," he breathed, "I really, really like you."

I wasn't really surprised to find out that he was on drugs.

I got chatting to his designated driver - an old school friend called Andy. Andy had left gone off for seven years in the army, Gareth had gone into hairdressing. Now Andy was back in Newport, and was coming to terms with "Gareth being a bit loud these days."

"I feel a bit like his dad," sighed Andy as we shared a cigarette and watched Gareth and another hairdresser dancing in a mad topless whirl.

"I know. I'm supposed to be trying to take him home and shag him senseless, but I do feel like making him some toast."

"I know," Andy nodded, "I wish I knew what they've taken, but they were quite normal earlier. He's actually rather nice when he's sober. Has he asked you back to Newport?"

"Yes. It sounds quite fun, you know, waking up in Newport."

"Trust me. It isn't. And I bet he's not told you he lives with his old auntie and uncle."

"No, he didn't."

"They're really charming, you know. Used to bring us peanut butter sandwiches in the tree house."

The hairdresser comes bounding up, grabs me by the hand and, a few minutes later, nearly gets us thrown out... After the bouncer has to come and bang on the toilet door. "Enjoy the night, lads," he says with the boredom of a man who's seen it all before and finds it tiresome.

"I think I'm going home." I tell the hairdresser. 12 hours of drinking mean that it's all getting a bit muddled.

"Stay for five minutes," begs the hairdresser, poised to return to the dancefloor. He leans in close, "Come back to Newport for romance."

I blink. And he's gone, wheeling across the floor.

I turn to his friend. "He's not leaving in five minutes, is he?"

Andy shakes his head sadly, "No. You got his phone number?"

"Yeah."

"Call him sometime. He's honestly a nice bloke."

"I know. He loves my dress sense."

Andy smiles. "Look after yourself."

Gay-duh

In London, Gaydar is pretty much a delivery service - admittedly, you're never quite sure what you're going to get, but at least it turns up promptly.

In Wales, Gaydar is rather more like Tamagotchi - you spend ages talking to blokes, but you very rarely actually meet. There's always some excuse.

For instance, there's this bloke from Merthyr Tydfil. He's rarely in Cardiff. I've never been to Merthyr, as I can't drive and the trains aren't frequent enough to justify hurtling through the valleys on the off-chance.

So, anyway, I walk out of a club on Saturday, and there he is, in the street. It being late at night, and both of us being drunk, it's only after we've snogged that we realise. "Hang on!" he says. "It's you isn't it?"

He in town with some Uni friends from Manchester. Who he has lost.

"Sod 'em." he says, "Shall we go somewhere?"

"Somewhere" turns out to be a building site, which has a pleasingly industrial feel -half-demolished iron fire escapes and stairs going nowhere. We can also hear people arguing in the queue at a nearby taxi rank, and the breaking of bottles.

He goes off to find his friends. I potter home. In the lift, I meet a grinning straight man.

"You've had a good evening, mate!" he says, smiling.

"Yeah. You?"

He sucks air ruefully. "House party. Newport. Okay, but not as good as you, I bet." He smiles again. "Where were you?"

"Club X."

"Yeah. That explains it." He gets out. "Well done, mate."

What a lovely thing, I thought. How like that scene in Heat where the antagonists share a sandwich. Two dignified soldiers swapping tales of battle. Although, why was he so sure I'd had a better time than him...?

It was then I glanced down at my shirt. Which looked like Monica Lewisnky's dress. Ah.

It's not fair!

Lovely London and the rest of the country gets crisp, deep, exciting snow.

And what do we get in Cardiff? For a change?

Rain.

Fucking Wales. No sense of fun.

[Thursday update: I take it back. Despite all the forecasts, we get snow too. And it's even on my balcony on the 11th floor. I'm so happy.]
[Friday update: A whole extra day of snow. And even a snowball fight at work. Wow]

This Life +10

I finally got to see it, and was glad of it, but it did go a bit like this…

“I love you/ No, I hate you/ I love having children/ No, I hate children/ Slam! / I’m leaving you / No, I’m coming back / I’m really successful / I’m really fucked up / You star, Anna! / You bitch, Anna! / Slam! Slam! / I’ve never felt more alive / I’m dead inside / I’m so rich / I’m so screwed / I’ll make this work / No, I can’t stand it any longer / Warren will you have my baby? / Miles, will you have my baby? / I’m a writing industry / There is no second book! / We’ve got nothing in common / We’ve always had each other / It’s all about us / It’s all about me / I’m spiritually rich / I’m broke / Slam! Slam! Slam! / I love you, babes!”

There’s a reason, I think, why Amy Jenkins hasn’t written much since the first series of This Life. But, *sniff* I enjoyed it enormously. And wish there was more.

Accounts Payable

Nice lady from Camden: yes, yes we have overcharged you by £350.

Me: Can I have it back please?

Nice Lady: Ah, well, it looks as though at some point in the next six months we'll issue you with a credit note.

Me: And then can I have it back?

Nice Lady: Maybe. All your accounts have to be in credit at that point. And I notice that your service charge account is still in arrears by 76p.

Me: oh.

Planning a holiday

The Fabulous Lee has suggested we go Get-Away-From-It-All together. Original plans were for somewhere exciting like LA. He's now decided, maliciously, on Gran Canaria. I predict it would go like this:

Enter James. He is running across the beach.

JAMES: Puff! Pant! Puff! Pant! You'll never guess!

LEE: (raising elaborate sunglasses to reveal more elaborate sunglasses beneath) yeeeees?

JAMES: Ooh! He was so exciting! It was! Ooh! And! Lovely Things!

LEE: You've sucked off another German in the dunes haven't you?

JAMES: (crestfallen) Oh.

LEE: And you now think he loves you.

JAMES: I... (bravely) He was called Rutger.

LEE: Obviously. As you're up, I'll have an ice cream with a flake. I wouldn't advise it for you, though.

JAMES: I'm not that lactose intolerant.

LEE: But you are that fat.

JAMES: Okay! Um. I'd better wash quickly. The sand gets everywhere, you know.

LEE: As do you, dear. Don't forget I'll be having magnificent sex with the surly surfing instructor later.

JAMES: Oh, he's dreamy! I do hope it's meaningful.

LEE: Well, it'll make you quietly jealous. That's meaning enough. Now, be off with you. (The sunglasses click back into place)

JAMES runs off, humming happily to himself.

LEE waits.

LEE: (quietly) Oh Rutger, you can come out now...

Of human bondage

A regular reader kindly reminded me about my Slave.

To be truthful, I'd been dodging calls from him during my slight January relationship, but figured I should get in touch.

"Oh, hi!" he texts back, "I'll be in London at half-term. We should meet."

By half-term, I hope this is a holiday from university, rather than Hogwarts.

I suggest he pops round to the flat.

"Cool," he replies, "I'll bring round all my equipment ;)"

Equipment? Goodness. I do hope there's an instruction manual. ("Insert Flange D into Slot A....")

Well, that was January

And it wasn't quite the month I was expecting

• Spent the month on the sofa and lost weight! - thanks to a fabulous array of illnesses. My book Cough your way to a six pack available soon.
  
• Nearly had a boyfriend - which was a bemusing diversion.
  
• Watched all of new "Marple" - So grippingly bad it gets ironic quotes.
  
• Didn't even give up smoking - Okay, so there were a couple of weeks when I didn't smoke, but that's only cos I couldn't breathe.
  
• Got into Corrie - But only for mad-eyed Tracey Barlow. So loony and scheming, if she was a gay man, I'd date her.
  
• Have rationalised my drink problem - After all, if it's only vodka, and I can remember getting home every night, it can't be that bad.
  
• Gone off Vanity Fair - Honestly, the last couple of issues have been really bland, something I never thought I'd accuse VF of. And the freebies have been dissappointing. I want a glow-in-the-dark Dominick Dunne. Or Scratch-n-Sniff Republicans.
  
• Gone off the Saturday Guardian - It's like they did a survey and removed all of the bits I liked. There are but three things left - and i'm not naming them in case something bad happens.
  
• Been to London once - Marvellous as my Cardiff friends are, there's something so familiar and nice about passing out in my London flat, with its slight smell of damp and bleach.