Strangers on a Train

So, we got on the train carriage.

"Look! Gays!" yelled a voice. Then a plastic bottle hit someone in a face.

Yes, this is South London. Where small children run riot on trains because Ritalin hasn't made it over the border.

There were three of them, the oldest barely twelve. There were eight of us. When they weren't bouncing up and down and smashing seats, they were screaming names at us. Which was quite unfair - our party actually included two straight men and a nicely dressed lady. Perhaps they thought we were gay simply because we weren't wearing tracksuits.

In a way, it was faintly harmless. It was doubtful they'd actually manage to tear a seat out of the floor and hurl it at us, so they stuck with names they'd picked up from that delightful Afro-Carribbean music I've heard to much about.

"Battyboys! Battyboys!" they screamed.

"We prefer gay!" we yelled back.

"Har! Har! You suck cock!" they shouted.

"Well, yes." We were a bit bored now.

"You fuck the arse too!" they roared.

"Yup."

"You got AIDS!"

"No. But we do have iPods."

That was about all they knew about the gays. So they just jeered "Battyboy" and threw empty cups in our direction.

Richard, who I believe was Mr Gay Muscle 2003, wanted to do something about it. But luckily, John was a lawyer. "You can't actually touch them."

But we could criticise their clothes.

"Oi! Battyboy!" they'd scream.

"Oi! Matalan!" we'd yell back.

Eventually they got off the train, trying to spit through the window.

"Write to us from prison!" we waved. Where no doubt they'll learn all sorts of jolly facts about anal sex. Hopefully at the end of a razor.

Weekend Highlight

Wrestling on a floor, dressed up as Joan Collins.

Physical Jerks

Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a woman doing squat thrusts at her desk. Whilst video editing.

UPDATE: She is now doing abdominal exercises, so I keep being distracted by a pair of legs flying through the air.

Accessible

The BBC has launched a new site about how accessible their site is for visual and hearing impaired people.

bbc.co.uk/accessibility

It's the only page on bbc.co.uk *without* a text only link.

Midweek: One week after the fall

Libby Purves trailed this week's show with: "Live Dangerously. Listen to Midweek"

Bless.

And, if you're wondering why I'm only really talking about Radio Four at the moment... Well, it's partly that not much else is happening, and partly because what's going on at work is complicated and not easily repeated. But I miss Cardiff.

Radio 4

Meanwhile, in the Archers, Clarry Grundy was quite literally crying over spilt milk.

And, on Broadcasting House, Fi Glover had a Plant Photographer on standby, just in case...

Headbangers

This morning I popped a note through my new neighbours' letter box.

"Morning! Would you mind moving the bed away from the wall a bit?"

Honestly, it was like listening to an angry lion trampolining.

Gomorrah with Libby Purves

Midweek is the most comforting programme, the radio equivalent of a cup of chicken soup and a lapful of kittens.

So, what were they thinking when they invited in both Joan Rivers and Darcus Howe?

Darcus had come on to mutter about his latest film, covering his complicated relationship with his son. He was complaining that the director kept on showing people who didn't understand him. Like his first wife. Who said he abandoned their children.

"No white person has ever understood me. Not even her. I say to her why don't you go join the BNP or something?"

At this point, Joan Rivers sighed, "I'm bored with race."

Darcus bristled. Unusually. "You're entitled to be bored with race. I am not."

Oddly, Joan "my parents fled Hitler and Stalin" Rivers just took that.

However, Darcus carried on. Big mistake. "Since 'black' offends Joan-"

*BANG!*

"How dare you! How dare you!" she began. "Son of a bitch!" she continued, explaining that perhaps Darcus's relationship with his children would be better if he'd not kept on abandoning their mothers.

Tables were banged. Microphones thudded. Would it be too much for Libby Purves, the glowing Mum of radio?

LIBBY: I really think you should- now... come on you too... Perhaps... Darcus, you'd like to say that you didn't call Joan a racist. And then...

JOAN: That's right. Go on. And then you can talk some more about your stupid film.

LIBBY: Yes, Darcus, let's talk some more about your stu- film.

DARCUS: I don't want to say any more.

JOAN: Quite right.

LIBBY: Then, Joan, let's talk about you.

JOAN: I'm too upset.

LIBBY: Then let's turn to Andrea, and talk about Plant Photography...

Oddly, the other guest on the programme was Jackie Collins, normally a bit spicy for radio. But not today.

Hang the DJ

Men in Dinner Jackets become strange at 2am. They roar, stampede and rampage through a hotel bar like randy cattle, with dangling cumerbunds, loose ties and wandering hands.

I had my bum pinched twice by strangers. I was invited to get into a fight. Someone offered to arm wrestle me for one of my cigarettes. Someone else kept on trying to force money into my hand.

The women meanwhile sailed through like nervous galleons, still looking amazing, but with hair gradually getting lower.

Anyway, I left the Holland House at 2am, before it sank into the ground. And, if I lingered any longer, I'd have had to help carry an orchid into a taxi.

Biking home drunk and wearing a DJ was going very well... until I passed a gay club. What, after all, could be the harm in a quick last drink when I looked so fine?

I left, 10 minutes later, having met Francis, a fashion stylist for Marie Claire, on a trip to find industrial wasteland to shoot shoes in. He was staying in the hotel I'd just left.

He was as mad as anyone who works in fashion. His room was a disaster of clothes, magazines, and expensive moisturiser. Although 29, he was addicted to botox, drinking and shopping.

His grasp of conversation was erratic. "So, you work for the media? Hmmn. What do you think of the Kate Moss thing? I love her, but she's dressing so severely now. Do you really think that tweed is coming back? They keep saying that about the 80s. I got my underwear on ebay - it's vintage 70s addidas, but I wear it over a sixty quid prada thong - isn't that just mad? Anyway, did you ever see Fashion TV? They used to have catwalk shows on a loop. I loved it, but it's gone now. This music is from a catwalk show from a Swedish designer. They say that that Swedes are the new Germans. But not for shoes. Anyway -"

He glanced at the bottle that room service had brought up - "oh, this isn't Veuve Cliquot - " and dropped his cigarette into it.

In the morning, I stole his shampoo.

I found my bike on the street where I'd left it, goodie bag still intact (Pudsey pencil, two TARDIS phone flashers and a book by Sarah Kennedy about toddlers).

The sun was shining, it was a glorious morning, and I was wearing a dinner jacket. I went to Iceland and bought pizza for breakfast.

Hear it for the boy

Out drinking in Club Exit on Student Night. A Wednesday meltdown where it's £10 to get in and drinks are free. Security roam the building, throwing out anyone too drunk or behaving strangely (one bloke was thrown out for trying to pay for a drink).

Anyway, met a lovely group of students, through Trey, who used to be a Doctor Who Monster and has held the title of Fourth Most Attractive Man in Wales for two years (for some they didn't hold the competition last year).

I liked the students - Trey, Darren, Will, Steve and Hugh - fun, silly drunken Welsh boys with floppy hair and secretary drinks. And I liked one of them especially after he asked me what I was studying. A few minutes later, we were standing by the dance floor.

"I like you," he said.

"Well, I like you too."

A pause.

"No. I like Hugh."

"Oh."