Hande hoch!

Last week, I went on a date with a visiting German. This is why I will be avoiding the inter-fiddles for a while. I'd forgotten that temporary cyber-husbands are weird.

For a start, he'd said he was athletic. By which he meant he needed a sports bra for his moobs. They were so low-slung I wondered if they were simply high-rise testicles.

We sat having a drink, making small talk, and sharing a bowl of cashews. He tells me what he's into. Turns out, he's into rubber and fisting. I decide I've had enough cashews.

I ask him why he's in England. He explains he's a scientist doing research into bacteria. "It is the bacteria in shit," he says, which just seems like turning your hobby into your day job.

So, I'm having a drink with a tubby rubber fisting fetishist scat scientist. Awkward. I've never been brilliant at making my excuses and leaving. So instead I talk about the cat. A lot. I chat about her incessantly. I even find some fluff on my shirt and show it to him. I offer to find him the pictures on my phone. I keep on and on about the cat until he checks his watch and says "ah, oh dear, I have an early start at 10 tomorrow. Must get some sleep."

And then he is gone. I go to pay the tab and discover it's only four quid. There's a minimum of a tenner if you're paying by card. The wonderful French barman shrugs gallicly. I smile, suddenly very happy. "Can I have six pounds worth of crisps please?" I ask.

I walk into the flat, arms full of crisps.

The cat eyes me, dryly. "Date not go well?" it asks.

Quornucopia

Brilliantly, Quorn have brought out loads and loads of new things, including Quorn Fish Fingers, Fake Stake, burgers, scotch eggs, sausage rolls, and even Bramley Apple Bangers

Being more than a little artificial I'm addicted to it all. The only problem is... well, I feel like a sheep that's been eating clover. It's brilliant - it's kind of like an anti-diet. It's kind of "Eat Yourself Straight". After dinner, I swell up to the size of a bouncy castle and spend the evening farting copiously while stumbling around in a vast black t-shirt and belching.

In other news, I've just discovered instant miso soup and pot noodles. Pot noodles are brilliant (kebab flavour! pork rib flavour!). The other day I was sitting eating a pot noodle while reading an article about White House Banquets in Vanity Fair. It might, just might, be classy. But I doubt it.

Meanwhile, I am trying to mend a broken heart with a lot of ballet. Well, a ballet dancer.

Eurovison Prong Contest

"So," I say to Lee, "Have I told you about the Brazilian Lawyer?"

Lee rolls his eyes. "You realise there's a formula, don't you?"

What do you mean?

"Nationality + Profession, then some random detail and giddy clapping."

I go very quiet.

"Honestly, go check the shag rolodex that is your blog and you'll see."

Hum. Brazilian Lawyer, Czechoslovakian Punk Baker, Portugese Programmer, Romanian Rentboy. I'm really not sure what this means. Maybe I should try and learn a few more names, or just not ask what they do for a living. Or settle down. Or write about the cat more.

I go home. Some time later I sleep with a Polish Barista.

The War On Lego

A while ago I found some War On Terror fego in Asda, but the range you could buy was quite limited. Not any more thanks to The Kids Arms Shop.

Before perving at their Lego options, let's just check out the name of the store again, shall we?



Everyone still feeling good about themselves? Great.

Question is, what do I buy? Do I go for the Panzer Tank Set (suitable for ages 5+)?



Or do I blow it all out on the World Peacekeeper's Gift Set?

It does have a lot of guns.

So many choices.

And we're back

Well, apparently things got a little hacky last night. While I was out and about in Glasgow, someone was fiddling with my gmail. Tsk.

So, if you tuned in and got a big advert for a sex bride or really white teeth, then I'm sorry. And, if I've sent you an email promising similar services, or even just announcing that I'm bored and would be happy to pleasure you by premium-rate phone number, then I'm equally sorry. Although I have got a six-hour train journey today and no special plans, so....

Two things.Firstly - Gmail's way of proving I'm real is, roughly...

1) Morning! Your gmail may have been hacked.
2) Send us your mobile number and we'll reactivate your account.
3) Don't forget to pick a new password!

Can you see the flaw there? I'm not Chloe from CTU but I can.

Anyway, Glasgow has been its usual lovely self. One highlight was staggering out of the Polo Lounge at "Too Old For This" o'clock and sitting down for a last cigarette by a police box. I think this is cool. Taxis think this is In The Way.

Two very pretty lesbians wander over. They are on their way home but one of them wants to make sure I'm okay. This is Glasgow. People do this.

"What's his name, sweetheart? Did he break your heart?"

No, I say. I am just sat here smoking before going back to the hotel. I am wary and from London. Why are they being nice to me? Do they want a free cigarette or some money or to sell me some of the drugs?

Pretty lesbian just shrugs. "Do you listen to Chris Moyles?" she asks. And then explains that he's shit. At quite some length. Then she and her girlfriend start yelling "Save 6music" a lot. I think I join in.

These are clearly my new best friends and wonderful people. Until one of them leans forward and says, "And I'm gay, but I would do that George Lamb in a heartbeat."

I go home.

Foreign

So, yes, I've been abroad. It was nice, although clearly these days I don't fly well. It was nowhere near last year's spiking horrors of having to spend 24 hours flying back from Australia, but flying to Turkey not pleasant.

It didn't help that we had two security alerts. One was due to a false passport and a lot of suspicious luggage. I find this reassuring. Nothing says "we're not taking off until we're absolutely sure there isn't a bomb on the plane" more than being told to collect all your luggage and assemble on the tarmac while they empty out the hold.

The other security alert was on an internal flight. It was caused by a little old lady trying to smuggle five tightly wrapped packs of goats cheese in her hand luggage. Clearly, she'd never heard of semtex. Once the security staff had stopped shouting and ringing bells, they started laughing and taking photos of the x-ray on the phones. Bless.

So how was Turkey? Much the same, really. My Turkish is the same as ever (good in restaurants, hopeless elsewhere, and if you're hoping for a verb in a sentence then you'll be waiting a long time). But hey - it's an unusual skill to have, so I'm very proud of it. Even if I'm not very good at it. It's like making a mediocre creme brulee.

Not much happened really. Istanbul was its dumpy rude self. Cappadocia is still the most beautiful place on the planet:

Odd to think I've been going there for nearly 20 years. Every time they say "oh, tourism's ruining it..." and yet, it's still there, as magical as ever. Although this time we found a whole new underground city and a monastery, which made up for them putting really overweight-American-friendly superwide steps in the more popular cave churches.

Two lovely new things. One was trying out a night train from Istanbul. The guidebooks are all sneery about the trains, but the amazing seat61.com assured me it was possible. And it was cheap and lovely.

The other nice thing was going to Safranbolu. It's an old Ottman town that they never really got around to knocking down in favour of something in peach concrete. It's charming and friendly, but the best thing of all was that they've turned a 14th Century caravanserai into a luxury hotel:

It was like staying in a museum. Amazing, but you'd occasionally find tourists in your bedroom. There was also the day when I stuck my trainers to dry on the roof and the Turkish government had hired the hotel to launch some kind of policy initiative. We hid in some caves while important looking people stood on our balcony chain-smoking and doing a deal.

We also went to the Black Sea Coast, which turned out to be very hot and not much else. A nice old man took us out in his boat so we could look at jelly fish and dolphins and watch him smack the brains out of several small fish with his shoe.

There were a lot of cats in Turkey, all trotting around with the quiet certainty that they run the place. It's like a benevolent dictatorship - they control the vermin and charm the tourists, and they also tell you how propserous a place is. Safranbolu and Cappadocia had plump sleek cats. Istanbul had bedraggled street mogs. We watched one eating bread. I was not allowed to pack any in my luggage.

Old boy

Somehow, my old school has my email address. This surprises me, but means that occasionally I receive utterly random missives like the below:

Speech Day welcomed a good number of Old Stoics this year, despite the rain, and included a remarkable display of Old Stoics’ Classic Cars on the North Front

We have further great events over the summer, at which we would be delighted to see you:

12th June
Do take part in the Old Stoic Open Golf Tournament for the Bill Edgerley Memorial Cup.

13th June
Foden’s Brass Band returns to Stowe with master classes in the morning and a lively concert in Chapel in the afternoon.

2nd July
The Summer of Love with Donovan & John Illsley of Dire Straits – tickets still available.

Perfect. If I played golf, owned a vintage car, and liked nothing more than tootling Money For Nothing on the tuba.

I am not the crossbow killer

I'm on holiday at the moment (more later, but it's lovely thanks) when I receive a spate of texts about The Crossbow Cannibal, a case being presided over by my more useful namesake.

Curious to find out more (and with a broken laptop), I rush out to buy an English language paper and end up with The Times International Edition. It features a curious article which is, at best, insensitively subbed (and strangely missing from the Times Online site). In it the reporter wanders the streets of Bradford talking to friends of the three victims, sex-workers who appear to have been chopped into tiny pieces and dumped.

Here are a few quotes which illustrate what might have gone a bit wrong with the article:

"I've been taking my punters there ever Friday, right where they found the body. I've been doing punters right under my friend's nose."


"Sue was soft. She was an angel but soft as shit. She'd do punters for £10."


"My friends always used to have a laugh with her and she'd give her right arm to anybody."


Another draft?

The best of times

I have been going to the gym for quite a lot of years now and in all that time, neither of the following things has happened:

1) I've never developed arms like squirrels in a sack
2) I've never had sex

Apparently there's a lot of nookie in gyms, but maybe I go to the wrong ones. I did once go to the notorious YMCA gym on Tottenham Court Road which looked like an secret underground base for a gay Bond villain. The changing rooms had quite a number of very naked men displaying their obvious excitement - but they also contained several young children getting changed. Frankly, there's a time and a place, fellas.

I have twice *nearly8 pulled at the gym. The first was at the BBC gym at Television Centre. It was all a bit embarrassing. I was being obviously cruised but was at a really funny bit of The News Quiz and perhaps my best look is not laughing on a Swiss Ball. Undeterred, he followed me into the changing rooms and then lost interest when he I changed into my beloved Marvin The Martian boxers (quite why novelty pants with a "surrender you strange life-form, you" slogan are a turn off I dunno). The next week we bumped into each other at the Filling Station salad bar. Turns out there's no etiquette for "Hi! I haven't seen you since you hated my comedy knickers". I never saw him again - I like to think he left.

The second time I nearly pulled at the gym was very embarassing. I was chatting to a friendly and very good looking man. We got on like a house on fire. We walked out of the changing rooms together and he went to the water fountain. Now, here's where social skills would have helped. I could either follow him to the water fountain (which would have looked stalky as I clearly had no reason to be there), or I could leave. So I left, so as not to seem rude.

At which point the good-looking man gave me a look of disappointed disgust and said "Oh, so it's like that, is it? Bye then." If only Nancy Mitford had addressed this topic we'd be celebrating our civil partnership this weekend.

Instead of which on Sunday I did what I normally do. I went to the gym, tiny bit hungover and wearing my pyjamas (old t-shirt and trousers so baggy you can call them pantaloons). Merrily, I plonked myself down on the rowing machine.

Which is when HE turned up. You know what they're like - people who are so muscly gravity bends around them. He strolled in, lifted some very heavy weights with a fingernail and then dangled from the pull-up bar without a care in the world.

I tried not to watch him and instead rowed (a trifle unsteadily) through to the end of The Archers Omnibus (oh, Lillian...). Then I went and showered.

While I was showering, Mr Muscle wandered into the changing room and glowered at me angrily. It was a look which said "I know your sort. Yes, these are the biggest arms you'll ever see in your life, but the gun show is over. Now fuck off." This seemed perfectly fair, frankly. To minimise contamination I stayed in the cubicle until he'd gone into another of the showers, and then slunk into the sauna.

At which point he came into the sauna. How utterly, hideously embarrassing. It's not a big gym and the sauna is the size of a microwave oven. There was barely enough space for one of his biceps and oh dear me, just look at those thighs. How was I going to try and comfortably share warm oxygen with an alpha male? Paging UN goodwill ambassador Geri Halliwell.

I was just contemplating making some weak small talk along the lines of "oh dear, the light bulb's gone in here again" when... it all went a bit porn.

The next few minutes were among the happiest and yet least satisfying I've ever had. Sadly for my univesity education, I discovered that men with very large arms can do pretty much what they like. Annoyingly, I'd like to say all I could think was "You've made me feel like a princess" but instead my brain just went:
- Why me?
- Never ever leave me
- Do watch out for those hot coals

He kept on muttering "Gotta go. Really gotta go" which made it all the more urgent, but also all the more transient. Clearly, men with big arms have busy lives opening fetes and saving the world, but all I could think was "Must you? This is possibly the most exciting thing to happen to me this year. If not ever."

Afterwards we got changed. It was awkward. We still hadn't actually had a conversation. Neither of us was looking at the other - he seemed suddenly shy (which was a bit like Optimus Prime playing peekaboo). And yet again, Nancy Mitford remains tight-lipped on what is the right thing to say to an anonymous stranger you've just had sex with.

In the end, I settled for a grisly attempt at a matey pat on the shoulder. "Thanks," I said.

And he made that half-grunt half-laugh sound that men make which means "Yeah, that was a laugh", "You too,", "Don't mention it", and "Don't Mention It".

The Odd Couple

So, I'm at a party. And there's a married gay couple. I keep talking to them as they're near the food.

The thing about them is that... they're ALL about the sex. I talk incessantly about my cat, but pretty much their only topic of conversation was their sex lives.

This was a fairly nice, ordinary, mingly house party. There were straight men, straight women, a few gays... But (let's call them) Eric and Ernie filtered everything through cock-tinted spectacles.

Eg 1:

NICE LADY: "So how do you know our host?"
ERIC AND ERNIE: "Oh we spit-roasted him years ago."
NICE LADY: "Are these bruschetta?"

Eg 2:

"Any plans for the weekend?"
"Yeah. We're sling-fucking a Norwegian."

Yes. Eric and Ernie own a sling. This naturally required some explanation. Apparently they'd turned the spare room into an office-slash-dungeon. With a sling. Apparently it was self-assembly and was operational in minutes. I have a ceiling-mounted laundry hanger. This is excitement enough for me.

Ikea don't make a sex sling (although if they did, it'd be called Shünt), so Eric and Ernie got theirs mail order (I am trying to imagine the "we tried to deliver" note from the Post Office right now). Not so their cage. "No, we had that custom-built and fitted."

I don't have a cage for several reasons. These include:

• I would lose the keys
  
• It would take up valuable space which could be used for shelving, lego and cat-toys
  
• I met one of my boyfriends in a cage. It would bring back unhappy memories. I avoid Nandos for a similar reason.
  
• My flat is already cluttered with unwise impulse buys which are now gathering dust. There's a rice cooker, a USB vacuum cleaner and 10 metres of gold-plated S-Video cable. I'm wary of adding a cast-iron cube to the list. I'm not that much of a Star Trek fan.

Naturally, Eric and Ernie also have an extensive range of sex toys. They couldn't tell us in enough detail about their electro-shock butt plugs.

"Where did you get those?" I asked, stirring celery in the guacamole. "I mean, is there a catalogue?"
"Oh yeah. We got them from ErosTek."

It turns out that ErosTek are real. They've got a blog. Here's a sample post:
"When plugged into the AC adapter, the battery level displayed is higher since it sees the charging voltage being delivered to the battery via the charging circuit.... Don’t forget about the ET312 for 6 months and then expect the battery to have any life left in it." 

I have *exactly* the same problem with my mobile phone. See? It always pays to read the manual. Mind you, I salute ErosTek. I'm sure many companies will have done the following equation:

Electricity + Bottoms = Very Bad Idea

but clearly they've pressed on regardless. And the best thing? It turns out the electro-bummer is remote
controlled. This is supposed to lead to a uniquely tangled web of pleasure-pain-domination-control around the house at all hours of the day and night, but all I'm thinking is "What happens if the neighbours get a clicker for their garage?".

My new plan? I'm buying a universal remote.