Radix malorum est cupiditas

There's an investment banker in my bed. But I'm just as excited about finally joining the 21st Century. It's a Saturday morning, I've got a pot of coffee, Radio 4, and... wireless internet in the flat. How thrilling. But, when I get bored of that, there is still an investment banker in my bed.

For years I've sat at my club and watched the glamorous gays at other tables, eyes wide as a child at the zoo. Someday, I promised myself, I shall have one of those. And last night, I did.

My friends Kate and Rick have started stalking a celebrity. It's because we're doing an Edinburgh play together, and we've decided that we'd like Mr X to star in it. But getting hold of him is proving elusive. After an hour standing fruitlessly outside a theatre in the rain, Rick demanded a proper drink.

So, we ended up in my club. Anna the waitress is also doing an Edinburgh show. She already has a cast, a venue, accommodation, posters and a MySpace site. She's started greeting us with that quietly smug tact peculiar to people competing for exams.

Anyway, there are drinks. Over in the corner, I see some glamorous gays, drinking their glamorous wine and looking glamorous. One is particularly attractive (or, truthfully, particularly gay looking). We get chatting in the cloakroom - not about anything much, but he ends up back at our table.

Rick has spent years complaining that he never gets to meet my shags. I've tried explaining that my relationships have a half-life that can be measured in minutes, but he still acts hurt. Last night he got to meet the banker. And Rick wasn't impressed ("like a little gay Gollum..." I heard him mutter to Kate).

I walked the banker to his night bus. He was very drunk and it seemed the best thing to do. As we kissed good night in Trafalgar Square a voice rang out - "Fucking queer! You fucking shit! Fucking do that again and we'll fucking kill you!"

We turn, and smile. And there are three or four enormous black men in hoodies. They don't look amused. They are looming, rather. They're doing that cinema thing of punching fist into palm as they approach. Our smiles freeze slightly.

And then, suddenly, there's a group of tiny Eastern European girls in between us. All fingernails and filthy language, they scream at the men, shooing them off like pigeons.

Cowed, the posse melts muttering away.

We try and thank the girls, who are readjusting their jewellry and furs, but it turns out their English is pretty much limited to four letter words and the phrase "you poor little boys".

Friday pictures

These are nearly a year old, so it's probably safe to publish them. Phwoar, frankly.

The Lego that ate the living room

Okay. And I've not unpacked three more trains, Valley of the Kings, the Jade Pagoda, or even installed the monorail link to the airports. My flatmate gave me A Look this morning. "Worried pity", I think.

imp-ostor

A friend emails: "I search your name in MySpace, and up pops a picture of a semi-naked boy." No, it's not me - perhaps a future husband?

Senseless Waist

I knew it wasn't going well, when my dry cleaner recognised me. "Ooh, it's you! You off the telly! ooh, Hello Marlon!"

This isn't the first time that I've been mistaken for Marlon Dingle from Emmerdale. It's always an ominous sign.

Let's just look at Marlon shall we?

Last time this happened, I remarked sourly "I look like a z-list 'sleb, only fatter."

Oh, how true. You see, I'd taken an old suit in to be let out slightly (nothing major, I thought - it was originally a 30, and I wanted it to be 32, just to give me a bit of comfort). All went well until the tailor reached for his tape.

"38 inch waist, Marlon. You look smaller on TV."

I nearly reeled as much as when I woke up in hospital to learn I had no white blood cells. Oh my god! How did I get obese without noticing it? While fitting easily into normal size jeans...?

Naturally, I'm still in a state of denial. I think I'm a 32 at my porkiest, and his measuring tape lied. The numbers just slipped a little.

"Don't worry about it, Marlon. Me? I just keep losing weight - it has to go somewhere!" My dry cleaner chuckled fondly as I left.

School Disco

I went to my ex Adam's 30th birthday party. You know you're getting older when your twinks turn 30.

I still keep in touch with Adam. Despite his drug habit, and the time he tried to kill me, or when he assaulted me in a pole-dancing club. There's something about him that keeps me hanging around him. Maybe I still love him, just a little. Or maybe it's cos he owes me £200.

Anyway, Adam's 30th wasn't quite the party he was expecting. He had a big plan for a funeral theme - which got scrapped when, tragically, his flatmate died. So, it was became a strangely subdued affair - full of very young men. And me.

I'd forgotten quite how young Adam likes his men. I remember him once laughing about not going to a shag's 18th birthday party as he was no longer interesting... but this was something else. A room full of weird child-gays, old before their time. All gangly limbs and haughty expressions.

"Oh god," I thought. "I don't fancy any of you." Well, apart from the scowling Eastern-European looking one. He looked cruel. Hurrah!

I helped myself to some KP Skips, a party hat, and tried to think of something to say. I have a Myspace page somewhere. Perhaps we could talk about that. Or, um... no, hang on - this was a room of people who think that McFly are ancient.

I ended up talking to a visiting Irish chef. He looked as lost as I did, although he wasn't my type. We went and hid in the downstairs bar, until one of Adam's catamites ordered us upstairs.

Adam introduced me to one of them (not, sadly, the scowling one, who winked at me. In a scowly way).

"Hi, this is Mark," said Adam. "He's my boyfriend."

It's always a shame when you meet the boyfriend of someone you once went out with, no matter how disastrously. There's a slight "oh, what does he have that I don't?" In this case, the answer appeared to be buck teeth.

Mark mumbled, and hid his head behind his fringe.

"I know! Isn't he sweet?" roared Adam. "Guess what? We're engaged! Look at me settling down and doing commitment!"

I smiled like a fat friend in a sitcom.

I rang my friend Kate. "Meet me in a bar, any bar, in half an hour."

Scooch

Look, I've been too busy shagging and buying lego to care, but finally it hit me:

What. The. Fuck?

Two drag queens, a 100% pure mincer and Tony Blair's gay younger brother. "Would you like a complimentary drink?". Honestly.

It's quite something when you're so shit you aspire to look like the Vengaboys.

Deja screw

I suddenly realised I'd seen the train conductor somewhere before. And naked.

And, from the look he gave me, he knew me too.

But where? And when? And why?

Even more on the lego thing (but with sex)

Jamie the Scuba Diver sees my lego-filled living room for the first time. "Woah, man. I don't know if we're gonna shag or build a castle."

I was bound to meet someone nice just as I leave Cardiff. He even introduced me to his best friend Keith.

"We've met," I said.

Keith looked blank.

"Same night I met Jamie. You kept wandering up and kissing me on the dancefloor."

"Shit, man. So I did. Sorry. I was wasted."

"That's fine - it's nice when a good-looking man does that. Well, it was until I saw you snogging that fat guy."

"Oh. Him. Yeah, he's kind of my boyfriend. He's really fat, isn't he?"

"Yup. You're hot. You could do so much better."

Jamie is staring at us. "Um, do you want to bring Keith back with us?"

Dating rules I wish I'd known: When he offers to bring back his best friend for a threesome, say "no" and say it instantly. Do not appear to be considering it, even for a second. Even men from Newport have feelings.

Anyway, maybe next time.

More on the lego thing

Let's start with the lego thing. We'll get on to the sex in a minute. The idea with the Lego was that it would help me give up smoking. Instead, I've filled my Cardiff flat with it, and my London flat is now filling up with the £300's worth I've bought on ebay this week.

My flatmate is taking careful delivery of train tracks, airports, space ships, hospitals, castles and a monorail. Meanwhile, I'm shipping back tanks, diggers, fire engines, an Egyptian tomb and a jade pagoda.

But why? Two theories: Firstly, I'm at the age where I should be buying this for my kid. Secondly, my real world's gone to shit, so I'm building another one that I can control completely.

Either way, my weekend is pretty much based on filling my living room in Kings Cross with Lego. Lee and his boyfriend are coming over to help out. We're going to get very drunk, crash lego trains and send video messages to Richard Branson.

My new addiction

Whoops. I've just bid for £400 worth of Lego on ebay.

Accidentally short-listed

Someone emails to point out that the play I adapted as a favour at school is nominated as best adaptation at the LA Weekly's Theatre Awards. This is getting silly. Lovely silly.

Night errant

It's 3am. There's a man sobbing in my bathroom, and an angry woman pounding on my door. How did we get here?

[names have been changed. To protect... well, me, I hope]

Previously... there's a drinks party round at my house. Brad and Angelina are the last to go. They are not a couple, but both are very drunk. They have started dancing, but haven't noticed the stereo has been playing the same track for half an hour.

They are singing along. Or howling at the moon. It's hard to decide which, but I'm now tired and sober, and had just had to explain to a leaving guest that when Brad said "Goodbye then, you bitch, you whore, you c-" he was being funny.

Priggishly, I go to bed, taking a pillow from the sofa with me. "Oh," says Ange, "Is that for you to bite on?" She then roars with laughter.

***

A few minutes later I'm woken by a phone call. "Help me!" whispers Brad. "She wants to sleep with me. I'm very drunk and I don't know what to do."

"You've made your bed," I announce, "You're going to have to lie in it."

"She's in the loo. I'm scared what'll happen when she gets back. Please..."

"Come and hide in my bathroom. I'll tell her you're feeling ill. It should be fine."

"Cheers."

Minutes later, Ange is pounding on my bedroom door, demanding Brad. I explain the situation - that he is being sick in my bathroom, and from the sounds of it, he doesn't want company. Ange storms in, and rattles the bathroom door. Brad hasn't locked it - and it's thrown open to reveal Brad sat cross-legged on the floor, reading The Guardian and smoking, while making retching noises.

"eur... eurch... yeurch ... oh god, i wanna die... eur... oh. hello." he says.

Goodbye to all that

The wonderful Joe and Ann took me on a farewell tour of Cardiff's clubbing scene. Wednesday night is student night. £10 gets you into completely dreadful Club X, drinks are free, and your every move is watched by bouncers for signs of excessive tipsyness.

It was crowded, vile, but oddly lovely. I was very drunk, and a topless man kept wandering past and snogging me. This seemed V.Good until I noticed he was also snogging a fat man and a man with a wig.

I'm still baffled by The Music Of Today. Why is the R&B still played in gay clubs? We're not straight men clutching our bottles of beer and insecurities. We can dance. You can't dance to R&B, just nod.

Anyway, rant over. I offered a pretty man a light and asked him back for obscenity. Turns out he was a Scuba Diving Instructor. I was delighted.

Sadly, poor Joe was staying over in the spare room. When he got back, he realised he needed a lighter. Faced with the choice of knocking on my door or lighting a cigarette off of an electic hob, he went for the latter. "It was horrid, but I was drunk. I didn't want to learn new things."

Cuckold's Horns

I've developed two patches of extraordinarily dry skin on my forehead. Exactly where a cuckold's horns would go.

Curious. As I'm not going out with anyone, I can't be being cheated on. And yet, I can feel the skin hardening...

Pay as you blow

My new phone is rather marvellous. Waterbed Jason rang:

"Good afternoon, sir. This is Jason from [company name]. It's about your new mobile. It's waiting for you if you want to come and pick it up this afternoon. I can promise you a very easy payment plan. Remember - service terms and conditions apply, and you may want to check the small print... on your knees. Thank you for chosing [company name]."

So, I slide off early on Friday to the Valleys. I'm supposed to be bringing champagne, but the Treod-y-rhiw CostCutter only offers Cherry Lambrini.

Will & Grace (finally)

I've never really watched the show about the mad ginger bitch and her three careworkers before. But, in the last couple of weeks, I've become hooked.

I watched it in the early days, when it was about issues and sharing, and got a bit bored. What's the point of a sitcom about celibate gay people? Or is that dissing Father Ted?

And then, last week, I found some DVDs on sale for £2 at Paddington, and devoured them on the train journey home.

Suddenly, it's series 6, and Grace isn't in it. Karen's engaged to John Cleese and they're pimping out their daughter Minnie Driver, while Will has become such a hopeless Wendy that his cookery teacher is secretly buying him hookers. And suddenly, Jack is the sensible one with a job in nursing.

By the time I saw Karen trying to drive a car while shouting at it, I was in love.

Miss Communication

So, I try to sort things out with the Slave after I find him a bit... full on. He sent me a text asking for another chance. Well, the exact phrase was "I don't have to wear the hood."

So, I called him while pottering around the flat, tidying.

Me: "Hey!"

Him: "Hi."

Me: "Look, I just thought I'd say... well, what's wrong with normal sex? You know - just sex sex. Can we have that sometime, and go from there?"

Him: "Yeah. I guess."

Me: "I mean, I'll try and be a bit brutal. If that'd be-"

Him: "Sure. Great. I'll do lots of poppers while you pull on my tit clamps really hard."

Me: "Um. Okay. Look - I just think that we're after two different things here. But let's just see how it goes. And... are you okay?"

Him: "uh...huh...yeah... carry on... uh..."

Me: "It's just that you're sounding a bit-"

Him: "Yeah. I've just stuck my butt plug in. Now go on."

Me: "..."

Telephony Service

For ages, my mobile phone has been worryingly expensive - I've never bothered to upgrade it, or sort it out. So, today, I decide to shop around. I've got two offers

a) Brenda at my existing phone company. Given how faint the line is, I suspect Brenda is not her real name. Her manners are exquisite. Her deal is awful.

b) Waterbed Jason from the Valleys. He works for a mobile company. He offers me half price line rental for life. In return for a bottle of Moet and some sex.

Byeeee, Brenda!

Worryingly, my type

An ex rings up out of the blue. "Hey babes, can I borrow four thousand pounds? My boyfriend wants to buy a pub."

Whoops, conspiracy

I've not had that much time for 9/11 conspiracies. Although, since watching The Lone Gunmen the other week, it's been on my mind.

And then the following footage turns up on YouTube:


It apparently shows a BBC World reporter saying that the Salomon Brothers building has collapsed. Only she's reporting this 20 minutes before it happens - and the building is prominently in shot (just to the right of her head). Well, that's unfortunate, but who can say what it means?

Naturally, there's a churning conspiracy about it. And a BBC World response to it that just feeds the flames ("er, can't see it ourselves as we've lost the original tapes. Honestly a cock-up").

The video in question spent a while at the top of the YouTube charts. By an unfortunate coincidence, it got displaced when a major broadcaster launched their YouTube Channel. The name of the broadcaster? The BBC. The backlash of comments sprayed over a set of reasonably harmless EastEnders video diaries? Lethal.

But, this being the internet, that was yesterday's YouTube horror. Today's is a charming video war between the Greeks and the Turks as to who is gayer: Kemal GayTurk. Sigh.

Mewdunnit

Felidae is a murder mystery that's solved by a cat. And it is brilliant. It cleverly avoids the obvious ickywooness of a tiresome American series about cute cats solving crime capers.

This is Heart of Darkness with kittens. If James Ellroy was a cat, this would be the book he wrote. It's gritty, filthy, funny stuff. And has that reassuring air of "Don't worry, singleton. You are reading a Serious Novel about cats. Well done. PS: Awww. Cute!"

At the back, it also contains a series of fascinating cat facts (and, worryingly, recipes). But misses out my favourite fact: The Ancient Egyptians loved naming things onomatopoeically. So, the Egyptain for cat is "mew".

Emancipation

In the middle of a busy Saturday night, The Slave texts:

"Wanna hav fone sex? I bought rubber hood and gag, nipple clamps and poppers. And collar and lead :)"

Oh. They say that romance is dead.

I had two options:
a) Text back: "Hi. You're lovely, but this is a bit hard core for me."

b) Text back: "Cool. Put it all on and I'll phone you in 15 minutes." And then never call.

I'm pleased to say I took option a.

Words fail me...

Digital Spy: Billie Piper to marry Laurence Fox