I really didn't mean to go dogging. I was simply chatting to three people outside a club, and two of them got in their car and went home, and I got chatting to the remaining one.
He got in his car, and shut the door, leaving me standing outside. Oh. Odd. Was that goodnight? I tapped on the window. It slid down.
"Get in then," he said, and in I got.
"Um," I said. We were sitting in a dark car. This felt naughty and yet odd. Plus, I had no idea what you actually do. I mean my only experience of reaching across in a car was to grab another sandwich from my mother's tupperware. This was... new.
I decided to risk a snog.
"Not yet," he hissed. "I'm waiting to make sure the others have gone."
"I think they have."
"Nah, I'm just checking - it's just that they're great to go back with, but Simon always makes like he's happy watching you shag Derek, but then all of a sudden he's on top of you. Kind of puts you off, you know."
"Right. Yeah. Um.
"Look, let's just park round the corner."
So, we park round the corner. And it's all very odd. I mean, I've kissed a boyfriend goodnight in a car. That seemed fine. But sex in a car? It's all rather Carry On. Especially when the chairs reclined automatically. That was hilarious.
So anyway, the chairs reclined, and so did we, and I learned many useful things about him, including where his tattoos were and what his name was.
All of a sudden, though, there was a light. One of those motion-sensitive security lights. Was that us?
"Fucking hell," said Carl, "They're pressed up against the windows." And he was right.
You know that bit in a horror movie when the noble young lovers are taking desperate
refuge in a car from the shuffling zombie hoardes?
Well, dear reader, I was that desperate.
Gays had surrounded the car, and were up against it like slugs on a milk bottle.
"What... do... we... do?" I whispered.
"Buckle up," grinned Carl.
Oooh! A daring bid to scatter them like cardboad boxes in Starsky and Hutch! I reached for my seatbelt.
"No," hissed Carl, "Pull up your pants. They'll get bored in a minute."
Oh.
So, we talked. About stacking shelves in Tesco, and how he had to leave in a few minutes to start baking bread.
And gradually, the zombies got bored and shuffled away.
And eventually, the security light winked off.
And, finally, he went and baked some bread.
Monday, September 11, 2006
September 11th
Dear The Met
Thank you for trying to reassure as at Paddington Station today. Clever move - deploy two policeman with sniffer dogs. If we didn't find the policemen reassuring, ooh, look at the puppy wuppy!
Thank you for trying to reassure as at Paddington Station today. Clever move - deploy two policeman with sniffer dogs. If we didn't find the policemen reassuring, ooh, look at the puppy wuppy!
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Hospital Visit
Of course, it's not funny visiting someone in hospital. Especially when they've had their jaw broken by a mindless thug.
But then again, we were three gays in a car, and Shakespeare's Sister were on the stereo. I defy you not to be doing impressions, even in a hospital car park.
When we found Matt (we'll call him Matt - all Cardiff Gays are called Matt), he looked surprisingly fine. I think we'd bet on him wearing a wire cage or something horrible. Instead he looked a bit lumpy. And overjoyed/terrified to see us.
You see, on the same day Matt had had his jaw dislocated, he'd very nearly dislocated something else entirely through enviable bedroom antics involving two bisexuals and probably quite a lot of pillows. Yes, Matt had taken two bottles into the shower.
As with most things gays describe as "fabulous", our reaction was a mixture of incomprehension, envy and wincing fear. Matt just looked bloody smug, and was the willing butt of cheap puns all evening (see?).
Unfortunately, little did he imagine that the next day he'd be laid up in a hospital bed, barely able to speak and confronted by a cackling hoard.
We'd honestly tried to be sombre, serious and grave. A hospital is after all, a terrible place.
But, as we entered the ward we saw the sign: "No more than two visitors to each bed."
[to be continued]
But then again, we were three gays in a car, and Shakespeare's Sister were on the stereo. I defy you not to be doing impressions, even in a hospital car park.
When we found Matt (we'll call him Matt - all Cardiff Gays are called Matt), he looked surprisingly fine. I think we'd bet on him wearing a wire cage or something horrible. Instead he looked a bit lumpy. And overjoyed/terrified to see us.
You see, on the same day Matt had had his jaw dislocated, he'd very nearly dislocated something else entirely through enviable bedroom antics involving two bisexuals and probably quite a lot of pillows. Yes, Matt had taken two bottles into the shower.
As with most things gays describe as "fabulous", our reaction was a mixture of incomprehension, envy and wincing fear. Matt just looked bloody smug, and was the willing butt of cheap puns all evening (see?).
Unfortunately, little did he imagine that the next day he'd be laid up in a hospital bed, barely able to speak and confronted by a cackling hoard.
We'd honestly tried to be sombre, serious and grave. A hospital is after all, a terrible place.
But, as we entered the ward we saw the sign: "No more than two visitors to each bed."
[to be continued]
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Hospitals and Heartbreak
The important thing to remember about Saturday night is that somebody I rather like ended up in hospital with a broken jaw. It's seemingly trendy in Cardiff to finished a night out with a kebab and some mindless violence.
The lesson to learn from this, fellas, is never leave a Cardiff nightclub alone.
The other thing about Saturday night is that the bloke I've been quietly dating for a couple of months went home with someone else.
So, ouch. I feel really, really terribly about it. In a most irrational way. I did have high hopes for the little fella. But never mind.
The good news is that this does mean that, since he was a regular reader, I can now write up all my slight accidents in two months of near celibacy.
Hoorah. Especially as one of them involved going dogging with a Tesco shelf stacker.
The lesson to learn from this, fellas, is never leave a Cardiff nightclub alone.
The other thing about Saturday night is that the bloke I've been quietly dating for a couple of months went home with someone else.
So, ouch. I feel really, really terribly about it. In a most irrational way. I did have high hopes for the little fella. But never mind.
The good news is that this does mean that, since he was a regular reader, I can now write up all my slight accidents in two months of near celibacy.
Hoorah. Especially as one of them involved going dogging with a Tesco shelf stacker.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
32
Older? Yes.
Wiser? No.
Avoided celebrating my birthday by going along to a work do in town. Lovely restaurant, and you could bring your own bottles and so on.
Except... they waited an hour before taking our orders, and another hour passed before any food turned up.
Getting smashed on Rose wine is neither dignified nor clever. Kind of fun, for the first six glasses, then just a blurry nightmare.
Wiser? No.
Avoided celebrating my birthday by going along to a work do in town. Lovely restaurant, and you could bring your own bottles and so on.
Except... they waited an hour before taking our orders, and another hour passed before any food turned up.
Getting smashed on Rose wine is neither dignified nor clever. Kind of fun, for the first six glasses, then just a blurry nightmare.
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Today's meeting
I had a meeting at 12.30 in London.
I was on time for the 8.55 from Cardiff.
Only the 8.55 wasn't planning on turning up to 9.56
The 9.25 was also due in at 9.56.
Before it was cancelled.
The 9.55 was still scheduled for 9.55
Then, at 9.40 a train turned up on the platform. "Get on!" yelled platform staff, "It's a surprise!"
And it was. For everyone, including the train driver, who'd been hoping to go to Taunton.
By the time I got to London, I was late for my meeting, which I *just* made by cycling furiously across town, cunningly disguising a hideous spot on my nose with concealer at some traffic lights, and rushing into the meeting, which turned out to be behind the prop store, up some stairs next to a broken microwave.
Shirt flapping out, trousers falling down, earphones scraping along the floor, dripping with sweat, I bumped into the Affair, who looked as smooth as a hunting cat. "Goodness," he said, "There's something on your nose."
Half a stick of spot concealer.
I was on time for the 8.55 from Cardiff.
Only the 8.55 wasn't planning on turning up to 9.56
The 9.25 was also due in at 9.56.
Before it was cancelled.
The 9.55 was still scheduled for 9.55
Then, at 9.40 a train turned up on the platform. "Get on!" yelled platform staff, "It's a surprise!"
And it was. For everyone, including the train driver, who'd been hoping to go to Taunton.
By the time I got to London, I was late for my meeting, which I *just* made by cycling furiously across town, cunningly disguising a hideous spot on my nose with concealer at some traffic lights, and rushing into the meeting, which turned out to be behind the prop store, up some stairs next to a broken microwave.
Shirt flapping out, trousers falling down, earphones scraping along the floor, dripping with sweat, I bumped into the Affair, who looked as smooth as a hunting cat. "Goodness," he said, "There's something on your nose."
Half a stick of spot concealer.
Saturday, September 02, 2006
Muddy Grass
Eskimos, we are always told wrongly, have 32 words for snow, as they've got so much of it. So why the fuck don't the Welsh have hundreds of words for rain?
Cardiff Mardi Gras was a dazzling display of diversity - every conceivable type of rain was there, from almost imperceptible drizzle through to heavy sheets that chased each other across the field. At one point it even appeared to be snowing, but this was simply the howling wind blowing fag ash from the dance tent.
In amongst all this were some damp gays. My memory of the afternoon is a little cloudy. I decided I needed a drink, and the only non-beer was a thing called Red, which was blue. The drink was as challenging metabolically as it was philosphically - the label on the side was a bit hesitant about what it contained beyond "alcoholic drink with mixed fruit flavours", but I was climbing the walls within seconds.
Over in the cabaret tent, a Welsh youth sang some "slow, romantic numbers" from Miss Saigon to a baffled crowd, and then a drag queen somehow managed to sing 9 to 5... *but to the wrong tune*. At first the crowd were stunned, then revolted, and finally murderous. I remember yelling "Stop! In the name of disco, stop!" And after that, perhaps some screaming, and a cloud of ostrich feathers.
Rugby Matt turned up late, having gone to a motor show by mistake ("I was thinking, this isn't that bad for Gay Pride, you know..."). When he finally turned up it was a heaving crowd of trainee goths, gay children (am I the only one reminded of the Mini Pops when I see a 14 year old twinked up?), wizened muscle Marys (I swear I saw one gay with a tatoo on his naked back of a naked back), and those girls with boobs merging into muffin tops. Matt sighed, "The Valleys are empty."
Over in a distant corner, near a stage on which four members of Blazin' Squad skipped, was the private members' area (Pink Plus), in which a dozen miserable people tried to shelter from the horizontal rain under a tiny pagoda. Nearby, two large old ladies had built themselves a shelter from empty crates and a tarpaulin. A dog cowered within, whimpering.
I went and had a dinner party, more to sober up than anything else, and then went to finish the evening off at the "Charles St Street Party". What someone had done is taken two enormous queues for two nightclubs, and added an outdoor bar and some speakers. The result? Instant carnival.
Mike, Sian, Darren and I sat on a step, drinking more alcopops and watching the world shuffle by. It had stopped raining, so I was out in only a t-shirt. In the subsequent downpour I achieved saturation.
Darren eyed me coolly, "I have a theory that gays are water soluble, you see. At any second, you're just going to wash away."
A tiny lesbian danced up to us. Sian gasped, "I saw her earlier. She was trying to stop traffic with her fists." The lesbian roared at us - "This is the most amazing tune ever. You guys remember that. I could dance to this tune for fucking ever. Have the most amazing lives! Hey, they changed the tune. Fuck them! Fuck you! Great beat."
Matt and the glamorous gays of Cardiff swanned past, in a strange array of Breton shirts and cloth caps. "We're queuing for the madness."
I went home for a shower.
Cardiff Mardi Gras was a dazzling display of diversity - every conceivable type of rain was there, from almost imperceptible drizzle through to heavy sheets that chased each other across the field. At one point it even appeared to be snowing, but this was simply the howling wind blowing fag ash from the dance tent.
In amongst all this were some damp gays. My memory of the afternoon is a little cloudy. I decided I needed a drink, and the only non-beer was a thing called Red, which was blue. The drink was as challenging metabolically as it was philosphically - the label on the side was a bit hesitant about what it contained beyond "alcoholic drink with mixed fruit flavours", but I was climbing the walls within seconds.
Over in the cabaret tent, a Welsh youth sang some "slow, romantic numbers" from Miss Saigon to a baffled crowd, and then a drag queen somehow managed to sing 9 to 5... *but to the wrong tune*. At first the crowd were stunned, then revolted, and finally murderous. I remember yelling "Stop! In the name of disco, stop!" And after that, perhaps some screaming, and a cloud of ostrich feathers.
Rugby Matt turned up late, having gone to a motor show by mistake ("I was thinking, this isn't that bad for Gay Pride, you know..."). When he finally turned up it was a heaving crowd of trainee goths, gay children (am I the only one reminded of the Mini Pops when I see a 14 year old twinked up?), wizened muscle Marys (I swear I saw one gay with a tatoo on his naked back of a naked back), and those girls with boobs merging into muffin tops. Matt sighed, "The Valleys are empty."
Over in a distant corner, near a stage on which four members of Blazin' Squad skipped, was the private members' area (Pink Plus), in which a dozen miserable people tried to shelter from the horizontal rain under a tiny pagoda. Nearby, two large old ladies had built themselves a shelter from empty crates and a tarpaulin. A dog cowered within, whimpering.
I went and had a dinner party, more to sober up than anything else, and then went to finish the evening off at the "Charles St Street Party". What someone had done is taken two enormous queues for two nightclubs, and added an outdoor bar and some speakers. The result? Instant carnival.
Mike, Sian, Darren and I sat on a step, drinking more alcopops and watching the world shuffle by. It had stopped raining, so I was out in only a t-shirt. In the subsequent downpour I achieved saturation.
Darren eyed me coolly, "I have a theory that gays are water soluble, you see. At any second, you're just going to wash away."
A tiny lesbian danced up to us. Sian gasped, "I saw her earlier. She was trying to stop traffic with her fists." The lesbian roared at us - "This is the most amazing tune ever. You guys remember that. I could dance to this tune for fucking ever. Have the most amazing lives! Hey, they changed the tune. Fuck them! Fuck you! Great beat."
Matt and the glamorous gays of Cardiff swanned past, in a strange array of Breton shirts and cloth caps. "We're queuing for the madness."
I went home for a shower.
WKD dreams
As a result of all the alcopops, I had the worst night of sleep imaginable.
Dream #1: The Spanish are so upset that a website I work on isn't translated into Spanish that they've sent someone to my flat to kill me. I can hear them going from room to room with a knife. I try and wake myself up before they kill me, but it's so hard, and I can't remember any Spanish. I finally wake up, and run to the door to get out of the flat when I realise "Oh. A dream. Shit."
Dream #2: I'm visiting my parents. Imaginary nieces and nephews are visiting. My dad's behaving very strangely. Immediately after supper, my Dad goes up to bed, and comes back, in his dressing gown with a mixing bowl. "I'm making them pancakes," he explains, stirring the bowl. I realise that my father is going senile, and burst into tears, hugging him in his dressing gown. He suddenly seems so small. My father starts to cry too. "But they might be hungry..."
Dream #1: The Spanish are so upset that a website I work on isn't translated into Spanish that they've sent someone to my flat to kill me. I can hear them going from room to room with a knife. I try and wake myself up before they kill me, but it's so hard, and I can't remember any Spanish. I finally wake up, and run to the door to get out of the flat when I realise "Oh. A dream. Shit."
Dream #2: I'm visiting my parents. Imaginary nieces and nephews are visiting. My dad's behaving very strangely. Immediately after supper, my Dad goes up to bed, and comes back, in his dressing gown with a mixing bowl. "I'm making them pancakes," he explains, stirring the bowl. I realise that my father is going senile, and burst into tears, hugging him in his dressing gown. He suddenly seems so small. My father starts to cry too. "But they might be hungry..."
Friday, September 01, 2006
Better than a boyfriend
"What's that?" I asked my personal trainer, gesturing at a new piece of gym equipment.
"We can have a go on it later, if you want," he said, smiling.
And, eventually, after lifting heavy things, and lunging and all those other silly things that boys do in a gym, we got around to the plate.
It just sits there, a treadmill crossed with a mushroom. There's a nice marketing poster of an older woman doing serene yoga on it, the faintest hint of a grin on her face as though the secrets of the universe were unfolding around her.
Lovely John made me stand on it, like I was skiing - it felt vaguely like squat thrusts or something - a bit stretchy, but basically, fine.
Then John switched it on. And the plate began to jiggle, causing my calf muscles to quiver in agony. I glared at the picture of the serene woman. She just smiled calmly back.
It was the same doing push ups on it - I thought my hands were going to fall off.
Finally, John made me lie on it, paused halfway through a sit up. "Now, tell me what you think of this one," he said. And switched the machine on.
For the first ten seconds, all I could think of was the burning pain in my abdominal muscles. And then the sensation changed direction. It moved down... and.... oh... reader, it was so good I told it my pin number there and then.
After a minute, John switched it off. "How do you feel?" he said, regarding me strangely. Slightly like the look my Dad gave me after I'd shaved for the first time.
I tried to say something, and instead giggled.
"Yeah," said John. "You can go and shower now."
As I walked out, I finally realised what the Old Lady's smug grin meant - "You'll be back."
"We can have a go on it later, if you want," he said, smiling.
And, eventually, after lifting heavy things, and lunging and all those other silly things that boys do in a gym, we got around to the plate.
It just sits there, a treadmill crossed with a mushroom. There's a nice marketing poster of an older woman doing serene yoga on it, the faintest hint of a grin on her face as though the secrets of the universe were unfolding around her.
Lovely John made me stand on it, like I was skiing - it felt vaguely like squat thrusts or something - a bit stretchy, but basically, fine.
Then John switched it on. And the plate began to jiggle, causing my calf muscles to quiver in agony. I glared at the picture of the serene woman. She just smiled calmly back.
It was the same doing push ups on it - I thought my hands were going to fall off.
Finally, John made me lie on it, paused halfway through a sit up. "Now, tell me what you think of this one," he said. And switched the machine on.
For the first ten seconds, all I could think of was the burning pain in my abdominal muscles. And then the sensation changed direction. It moved down... and.... oh... reader, it was so good I told it my pin number there and then.
After a minute, John switched it off. "How do you feel?" he said, regarding me strangely. Slightly like the look my Dad gave me after I'd shaved for the first time.
I tried to say something, and instead giggled.
"Yeah," said John. "You can go and shower now."
As I walked out, I finally realised what the Old Lady's smug grin meant - "You'll be back."
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