Jonte Leung-Jones

My ex-flatmates started texting me in a flurry from Australia. First Lorraine's waters broke, then she was sent back from hospital, then, all of a sudden, in a mad flurry she was back in and then a couple of hours later, out popped Jonte Leung-Jones.

I immediately rang Paul. "Is that a boy or a girl?"

"Boy," huge sigh of relief from Paul, "And he's got the mum's nose."

This is a good thing. With their mix, there was some trepidation about what the beast would look like. Lorraine is almost five foot Australian Chinese. Paul is nearly seven foot, stringy and with a big nose. For some of the pregnancy, the lump was named "Anything but a girl".

Paul's promised to ring me up later with more details of the tearing. I really don't want to know.

London on £30 a day

Hmmph. It seemed easy to get by in London on £30 a day. After all - most days I spend a mere tenner at most. After less than a week of the experiment, I've spent £350.

I am gutted. That's just wrong. Part of it is the factor that is the NotBoyfriend. Even though he's working about seventy hours a week and been promoted four times... he's still not been paid (bastards), so is still borrowing money (fine), but is also still so poor he can't buy a round. Or a pack of fags. Or a travel card.

The NB's lack of money does put my worries into perspective (How do you survive in London with literally No Cash?), but he has blown my budget a bit. A cheap evening out is suddenly twice as pricy, and even a quiet evening in is suddenly complicated.

None of this is his fault, but I appear to be using it as an excuse to hide my normal crapness with money. Which isn't healthy.

Luckily the weekend is looming, which gives me a chance of spending lots of time at home. Not moving. Not spending anything.

After several weeks of patient DIY, I have now finished my wine rack. But it's rather large. And I now can't afford any wine for it. So it's cluttered with mostly empty bottles of Costcutter Vodka. Class.

Superqueeroes

So, the NB and I were walking home from a Robin Ince's Book Club when we saw a Man/Beggar confrontation going wrong.

You know the kind of thing.

BEGGAR: Got any money, bro?

MAN: uh, sorry, no.

BEGGAR: Sorry, bro? Got nothing have you? I am better than that!

MAN tries to hurry on, but BEGGAR isn't letting him.

At which point we swished into place between the two.

"Don't worry, sir!" we informed the man, "There are now two gays between you and that nasty man. We your fluffy pink shield and will escort you away."

The Beggar tried to shove us. Adam gave him a look and we walked calmly on.

"Your fears are over. He's going to have to get through us - and, while we're not that good at fighting, we assure you we're excellent screamers."

The man was terribly greatful as we saw him all the way to Euston Square. As he left us he turned, shook our hands, and beamed. "God bless Ken Livingston!" he said.

Call that snow? II

According to today's Metro, we should stay at home and only travel in an absolute emergency due to the blizzard-like conditions engulfing London.

Er. There's a slightly icy puddle, and a sad dusting of snow on the roof of White City Tube station.

Talking of snow.... was having a charming evening out with Andy and the NB in a Wetherspoons in Holborn. We were hid round a corner away from the room full of fat men in business suits shouting at the football.

The NB nipped off to the loo during half time and came back a couple of minutes later. Grinning. He sat down, and then sniffed happily.

We both stared at him aghast. "You scored free coke? In Wetherspoons?"

Call that snow?

Pah!

Saying No

The 30th Birthday party wasn't as dreadful as it could have been. I only flirted with one straight man, many of the people I was at school with have put on a pleasingly vast amount of weight, and only one person appeared to be horrifically successful.

I was adopted by three marvellous women, one of whom, Irma, clocked me at once. "You smoke, they're menthols, and you're wearing hair product. Are you gay?" she wailed happily.

Irma had grown up on the corner of the gay scene in Toronto, which meant that she'd been drinking with drag queens since she was 12. She'd briefly been out with the host of the party, "but then I left him for a photographer. What can I say? He was dumb and very pretty and lived in Paris."

Her friend Stella had an interesting job as chief pharmacist at a prison. She'd once arrived at work to find that convicts had broken in with bombs made out of Oxygen cylinders. She also admitted that she'd stolen a set of handcuffs from work.

Stella's other claim to fame was that she's once turned down Robbie Williams. He'd clocked her on the dance floor, sidled up and said, "Hi, I'm Robbie. Want to come back for a private party."

"I'm with friends."

"Bring em."

"There are eight of them."

"That's too many. It's just you I want."

"Oh, well. See ya, then," said Stella, and got on with dancing.

Chicken kebab

Daniel and I have agreed that shagging teenagers is rather like kebabs...

1) They seem like a really good idea at 3 in the morning.
2) They look good skewered.
3) They keep repeating all night.
4) Pretty much anything goes into them.
5) They come covered in sauce.
6) You spend the next day getting rid of them.

Dull dull week

It's been a week of nights in, working on a freelance project that seemed fun when I started it months ago. Nights of crawling into bed at eleven, eyes running, grabbing a pack of fags and falling asleep over a book. Nights when "a bit of a treat" means two muller-lite.

They've been cheap, but, oh!, they have been dreary.

Thank god I no longer have broadband, otherwise I wouldn't have resisted using the Gaydar to order in. Bad, bad me.

But tonight is going to be different. For tonight, I am off to the 30th Birthday party of someone who I *really liked* when we were at school, *quite liked* when we were at univesity, and *rarely tolerate* ever since.

I hate it when a friendship just... changes. When what you admired about them inflates beyond recognition. I hate being out for drinks and thinking "Why can't you be how you used to be?"

Last time I saw this friend, I was biking home, and he was rollerblading. "Can't stop!" he boomed, "In training for the International Student Olympics!"

Apparently, he's written a novel. Rumour has it that its hero is based broadly on him, and is about his quest to find a woman worthy of him.

I go to attend his birthday party with some trepidation - I'm dying to be charmed and disarmed by him once more.

PS: I'm going to a cheesy birthday. Darian is going to the launch of a sauna.

Seafood Sticks

Aren't they gorgeous? Remember when they were called Crab Sticks? Then Fish Sticks? And now, finally Seafood Sticks.

I'm addicted to them, but noticed that Tesco's claim theirs are made from "Surimi". Surimi? I thought. How nice - an exotic fish. I wonder what one looks like?

Chewing happily away on one, I googled "Surimi". And gagged.

Here's a brief description (sic):

Surimi in brief is a fish minced meat that has been leached by washing with water then mixed with sugar and other additives then frozen. It's widely used in Japan for the manufacturer of Fish jelly products...

The Surimi blocks is a by product for food processor company, in which the Surimi blocks will be process and shaped to look like imitates products such as the well known imitation crab meat, fish ball and so on. Either, you know what is Surimi.

Thanks Surimi AllInformationCentre. It was the word "leaching" that did it.

Night Mayor

Dear Ken

I know you love public transport, but have you taken a nightbus recently? Obviously not, 'cos you still haven't armed the police.

Trying to buy a ticket last night outside Tottenham Court Road was horrible. The touts have got worse - it's like a nasty version of Delhi. I put out an arm to try and prevent one from gripping my friend Samantha's shoulder - and was grabbed, shoved into a doorway, and had fists in my face.

Surely it's possible to buy a bus ticket without being physically attacked, screamed at and spat over?

PS: And no, I don't fancy the Olympics much.