Post about posting

Strangely, something happened this weekend that I'd love to blog, and it would be diverting, but it's not really my business to.

But, on behalf of someone I really rather like, I guess I should apologise to two good friends, an actress, three cab drivers, four men outside Esso, a hooker, the police, my caretaker, and the bomb squad.

Mr Perfect

We met Mr Perfect in the corner of The Leinster. He was sat there, sipping away at his wine, and looking cultured. And very, very, very beautiful.

Eventually Adam and I got chatting to him. His name was Michael, and he'd been a professional dancer ("People still recognise me from the Gina G thing," he shuddered). He was 29 but looked 19.

[Side Bar. Just googled Gina G, and discovered a fish-trawler called The Schubschlepper Gina G]

Nowadays, he's stuff like Rachel Stevens' stylist. Amongst other things. A costume designer, stylist and actor, he lived in splendid luxury in his Notting Hill studio/studio apartment with his long-term partner and their not-too-small dog.

He's working with the reviving career of Noel from Popstarz (some kind of Manchester musical told in the style of Friends but with the music of the B52s. It's called Loveshack and sounds ghastly). He shrugs, "It's not as bad as being in Cats."

We both rather adored Michael. Especially when he revealed that he'd read for a major part in Doctor Who months ago (they were looking for someone from musical theatre with an American accent). His comment was, "I wasn't that fussed about acting again, but told them my mate Billie'd love to be in Doctor Who."

He even remained calm when an almighty fight broke out in the pub. As fists flew and people screamed "Go for the face, Gordon!" Michael just raised his glass of red to the light, admiring the alchohol dribble slowly down the bowl. "I like it here. It's like EastEnders."

Outclased, Adam and I slouched off to m'club, to flirt with our favourite waitress - a mad Greek sculpture student, she's writing a comic book about an East London superhero ("Shoreditch Girl!"), and was all too happy to flit around the club for us trying to find out who there was rich, pretty, and gay.

On the nightbus home, we discovered two teenage friends of Adam's. One was carrying a folder ("I've been conducting a survey in G-A-Y. Walking up to blokes and asking 'Are you straight acting?'"). The other one had a very high opinion of himself.

PIANI (yeah, his real name): I'm like that thing in the third Indiana Jones film.
ADAM: The Ark of the Covenant?
PIANI: No, the other one.
BEARDED FILM STUDENT ON NEXT SEAT: No, that's the first film. *tuts*
PAINI: Exactly sweetheart. I'm the true Holy Grail.
ME: What? A plain, simple thing a carpenter would use?

On the walk back to the flat Adam muttered, "I think we could have had them both, you know."

I didn't care. I was still thinking of perfect Michael. We're going to name our kids after S Club 7. Except for the dog. Which we'll call Paul.

Office Games: Water Cooler Jenga

The art of getting a cupfull of water without it emptying the bottle and having to replace it.

Two worlds collide

Oddly lovely, uh, date with Adam last night. Pretending to be Raddled Old Gays, we went to the theatre, and then to m'club.

Where we discovered that the Owners Of A Gay Gentleman's Dancing Club had hired the top floor for their company party.

It made going to the loos a strange experience. Instead of the normally tranquil aura of calm and nice towels, the toilets were crammed with Men Of Big Arms And Dismissive Natures queuing to do coke in the loos.

We were being classy, however. We were sat opposite Rich Straight Businessmen who were being braggy. So we ordered port and cigars.

Every now and then pretty things from the party would float past, distracting us. Unfortunately, they would insist on ruining everything by opening their mouths.

PRETTY THING 1: "So, anyway, I met Sir IanMcKellern the other day."
PRETTY THING 2: "Who is he?"
PRETTY THING 1: "I dunno. Old and rich, though."

Class

With Adam asleep in bed this morning, I left him a tenner on the bedside table.

"oh. you know how to make a girl feel special," he murmured.

Shameless

Blimey. That was a bit shocking wasn't it? Bloody good, though.

SPOILERS: So, right, now Steve's on the run after killing someone in a drugs deal, Helmet's gone mental (what does that ashtray mean?), and Fiona's left sobbing on the pavement. What the hell is going to happen? And I still wish that Lip was the gay brother.

Life without smoking

Goodness me, I thought while shaving, someone's ironed your face!

And it is true. A month after giving up smoking, my skin's looking great. Not only less spots, but less lines. I look youthful and skippy.

So does Ann, who I work opposite. Three months after smoking, she's three years younger.

And what did I do straight after realising how great I look after smoking?

Yeah. That's right. I went out and bought a pack of fags.

The worst is over

According to Darian, yesterday was the most miserable day of the year.

Thrillingly, today seems much better. My body woke up this morning ten minutes before the alarm went off to tell me that I'd had enough sleep, and was thrilled to be taken to the gym.

Yeah. After weeks of lying whimpering in the semi-dark refusing to move, all of a sudden it's glibly compliant. It managed the bike ride to the gym without a murmur, and thrilled to be happily struggling away with weights while listening to radio four.

Everything seemed blissful. Even the canteen's scrambled egg. The world couldn't be better.

Oh god. I'm about to get dumped, aren't I?

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.