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.