Kashpoint - different clubbing

Kashpoint - Best night's clubbing in ages. Although, apparently, it's old hat (proves I wasted my twenties).

Most surprisingly, it was at Central Station. Yeah, I know. Only time I went there I mistook the backroom for the toilets. Only to discover I wasn't the first person to do that. *shudder*

This time was different - there was a giant pom-pom standing on the door selling tickets. Inside, everyone was dressed in a weird collision between punk and 1930s Berlin (without Lia Minelli). There were fluorescent flappers, gentlemen dressed for a weekend's hunting, battered bowler hats, and an Edwardian fellow with a pleasant, open face and a shock of curly hair.

It was like a sci-fi convention organised by the Scissor Sisters, with cocktails by Kate Bush. There was shouted, live music on the ground floor, seedy christmas carols by candlelight upstairs, and downstairs women dressed as undertakers danced to mashed-up Beatles tracks.

It was so amazing, I felt almost completely at ease. I only had a mini panic attack - and went and hid in the backroom, smoking a calming cigarette while surrounded by weirdly dressed random shaggers.

Met a geographer called Russell out in the club. He was vaguely puzzled "I only came here for a quick half," he muttered. He was lovely, if rather ironic. He gently swatted away a pass from me with the phrase, "Well, if it wasn't so weird in here, well, I would. But it is. Last time I came to play pool and ended up pissing on someone, so hey."

That somewhat took the shine off him. The varnish was completely removed when I left and discovered him with his hands down a fat man's pants on the pavement.

But what an amazing evening's clubbing.

Hangover Cure

Chocolate-covered pretzels. The combination of salt and fat is fantastic. So long as you can quell the gag reflex.

On Annism

Weird Office Christmas Party moment. Was explaining to Ann (the Angostura Bitters of our office) some of the antics of our marvellously corrupt IT guy.

ME: ... And then there was the time he brought a woman off in his office while showing her Battlestar Galactica.

ANN: Old or new series?

Dying Wishes

Every now and then, my work gets emailed by people with last wishes. They assume that, because we cover old TV and shows like Angel, we'll be able to help them with either a copy of/tickets for a programme for a frail relative.

So far, so sensible, and sometimes, we can point them in the right direction.

Slightly more disturbing are the occasional emails we get from America. They're always roughly the same: "My two year-old boy died recently. Angel was his favourite show. Can I have a signed picture from the entire cast to include in his coffin?"

When we got the first one, I remember feeling a bit moved by it - and sadly helpless. We're in the UK. We have nothing to do with making Angel. Which hasn't been made in a year. The cast have moved on to other projects...

And then my "hang-on-a-minute" kicked in. Angel's an adult show. Why would it be a big thing for a two year-old? Why bury a picture of the cast in the coffin? Hmmn. What does that mean?

(Dante Rossetti buried a book of poems to his wife with her corpse, as he felt they were too painful for the public. Now, that I can understand. Of course, his publisher couldn't, and dug them up.)

We've received about six of these requests now. Should I be taking them at face value, or am I right to suspect it's a manipulative scam to get merchandise by large ladies with black fingernails?

Damn my gayness!

It can strike at the most inappropriate times. I saw but fifteen seconds of "I'm A Celebrity..." and what was my one controlling thought?

"My, doesn't Paul Burrel have nice arms?"

*sigh* I give up.

Teaser Trailer

The teaser trailer for Doctor Who went up last week. And the fans immediately melted.

Some fans have decided, purely from the fact that a teaser exists, that Doctor Who will be going out on Xmas Day. Based on No Information at all.

This is despite the fact that:
1) No tx date has been announced
2) Beyond "Winter 2005"
3) Which is either Jan-Mar, or Sep-Dec next year.
4) Filming is still taking place with lots of CGI.
5) What's the point in burying something this big in the middle of christmas...
6) ... rather than giving it its own marketing campaign?
7) The HitchHiker's Film has a teaser out now. And that's still a year away.
8) Life is quite short, actually.
9) Time they're spending worrying about this could be spent having sex.
10) Perhaps with other people.

No, I'm not having a stroke...

... but our telephones have been sanitized with something that smells exactly like burnt toast.

The Sex Tutor

Last year I went on a terribly useful course about Picking Up Men. It was a great course, and, if nothing else, taught me loads about how to networking at dull events. The same tutors (GMFA), also run some apparently wonderful courses on Sauna Skills, Oral Sex, and an Arse Class.

I mention this, cos yesterday I got to shag the tutor off the course. Completely by accident, I suddenly found myself on top of, well, i guess "sex professional" is the best phrase.

And blimey. And oh my. And goodness me. And. Well. And, oh, he really knew his subject. From top to bottom. And *blushes again at the memory*.

Many nasty things were said about Wallace Simpson. That she was a man, that she'd worked in a Vietnamese Brothel. But by far the commonest rumour about here was that she was proficient in a piece of esoteric eroticism known as "The Spanish Trick". Thanks to yesterday's shag, I think I now know what the Spanish Trick is. And, oh my...

Anyway, his name was also James, and he's a thoroughly nice bloke, who's making a tidy living out of applying traditional training methods to unusual situations. Or, as he puts it: "If you can make a man to walk across hot coals, you can teach him to take it up the arse."

Secret Society

A charming weekend at my parents, spoiled only by their attempt to induct me into a secret society.

They tried to make me go to a carol concert. Not just any carol concert, mind. Only after I'd put up a fuss and politely explained that I'd be spending the evening in with a bottle of scotch and Rosemary & Thyme did I realise that it was yet another ploy by my parents to get me along to the local Masonic Lodge.

My dad is a mason, you see, and is terribly keen that I join in. I'd rather not. I'm fine with shirt-lifting, but trouser-lifting really isn't my thing. Plus you need a good head for both God and Algebra.

Getting me "in" has been a long-term ambition of my dad's. In the town where we used to live, the Grand Master ran the local fruit and veg shop. I popped in during a visit to buy cauliflowers, and by the time I got home, "a call" had already been placed to my dad, and he explained to me that I was summoned to the lodge.

Ever since, it's been a combination of polite refusals, and bizarre subterfuge. This time it was a carol concert. Last time I went home, they tried to tempt me along to a concert by The Wurzels.

Doctor Who porn

Proof that my sad childhood is now back in fashion. Lovers of nakedness and terrible puns can gasp at the adventures of Dr Louise Flangebatter as she grapples with Emperor Minge The Merciless and the deadly Phaleks.

There is a trailer. It looks bad and nasty. As in cheap and stupid. Not hot and horny.

Trailer (it's really *very explicit* and nowhere near as fun as you'd hope).

Play.Com listing (safer and funnier than the trailer)