Unusual breakdancing on a Sunday

SoHo lunch started at 1 and finished at 10. I don't spend enough Sundays like this, pottering amiably around with pleasant company. We discovered that London's mintiest gay bar, The Box, now does table service, but in a dismissive "Wait in that corner. Someone will get you a drink - you're blocking the view of our beautiful bar staff."

We were in The Friendly Society when a young man in a wheelchair approached us and told us the story of his life. Whether we wanted to hear it or not. It says something about the times we live in that people in wheelchairs can now feel free to be a bit unpleasant.

"Are you single?" Tony demanded of my friend Tim.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm straight!" he snapped, dismissively. And then started to tell us again about the documentary film that was being made of his life. Tim went to the loo.

We were joined by a friend of Tony's, who was quite the most sexually available marine you could meet. "You have great eyes and teeth," he said to me, "What do you think of my arse?" and pulled down his trousers. "Do you want to touch it?"

"...er, my friend, Tim.... is..." I managed.

"Tim? I can't stand that name!" wailed the marine, "My ex was called Tim!"

"Isn't that funny! I'm a bit weird about Pauls," I giggled. "What about you, Tony? Are there any people's names you don't like?"

Tony looked up sullenly from his wheelchair. "They used to call me Bent-Back. I didn't like that."

"No! That's not what I meant! Are there any bad Sandras in your life?"

Tony thought about it "I hated it when they called me Peg Leg."

The marine pulled down his trousers again. "They call me Bubble Butt, cos of my great arse. Can you see why?"

Tony told us some more about his hard life, as being made into a documentary. On the one hand, I really envied his ability to come over, introduce himself, and have a conversation with two strangers. On the other hand, he was truly terrible company.

Tim came back. I got up to go to the loo. The marine showed me his arse again as I squeezed past. He was, I think, completely missing the point of marines. They are supposed to be hard to get into. That's their charm.

When I got back, Tim was being lectured by Tony about how the Hackney Gazette had featured his bravura display of wheelchair breakdancing. And the marine placed a hand on my loins and squeezed. It was nastily like having an unfamiliar cat settle in your lap.

"Er, haven't we got to...?" I said to Tim.

"Oh, yes... we're almost certainly late for..." He replied, and we headed to the door.

"Myspace me!" cried Tony. "I reply to as many messages as I can!"

PS: Things that make me realise I'm 33: After a hard day's drinking, I do not have one more and go clubbing. No, I return home and thoroughly enjoy a documentary about Channel 4.

Saturday

Went to see a play. After half an hour, the actor stood up and said, "Well, that's it. Shall we go to the pub?"

I have decided that this should happen more in theatre. It was a lovely evening, but meant that, by the time I reached the engagement party I was supposed to be at, I was a little drunk.

The engagement party was in a heaving Camden straight pub. It's ironic that North Londoners are against battery farming, but happy to drink in pubs so crowded a hen would faint. I eventually found the private party in a quiet area, with some rather lovely free food. "How long have you known Guy?" I asked a nice man called Darren. "Who's Guy?" he asked. It turned out I had gatecrashed his birthday party.

I never did find Guy. Every time I moved or turned, a bouncer would spin me around and back into the melee, like a dodgem attendant.

You, the reader

Things I've recently discovered about my readers. You are quite likely to be:

• High-powered and fabulous
• Quite attractive
• My plumber

Miss Jalpa saves the planet

I know a lovely woman who actually does something worthwhile. She's saving the planet. She's currently in the Sudan. She summarises her problems as this: "So, there's a flood. There's also a civil war. You kind of assume that the really bad flooding would stop the civil war. But no. There they are, up to their necks in water, shooting at each other. Tiresome."

We have an evening of cocktails in a rooftop bar. She insists on paying the ludicrous bill ("Darling, we only got Cappucino in the Sudan last month. How long do you think it'll be before we get a decent martini?").

There's gossip. About randy aid workers, lustful body guards, and corrupt UN officials. About almost hopeless challenges and terrible terrible things. She says how one night they found the woman in the next door tent trussed screaming to her bed by her three bodyguards. When asked what they thought they were doing the bodyguards calmly replied, "We're gonna have a little fun."

She tells me all this and I think "I couldn't do your job." And then she starts talking about the plumbing and I think "I really couldn't do your job."

Meanwhile, online..

No matter how hard your online dating persona, I can't take you seriously if you name yourself after a Doctor Who character:

"The Great Healer: I am a Master looking to gain a sport kitted slave."

Yeah, to come over, crap on my coffee table, and then we can cuddle while we watch the Tegan boxset together and bitch about the chromakey.

A little respect

Yesterday evening didn't quite go as planned. There were supposed to be fabulous drinks. Then I was going to see a Chinese Walking Play (sold out), a Numbers Play (sold out), a foreign film (only on on Wednesdays at 4pm. Clearly peak time for the sullen). Finally I decided - I was finally going to go and see a night of Gay Comedy at Barcode.

Instead, and rather marvellously, I ended up seeing Erasure in a private box at the Albert Hall (thank you Mr Morris). And I'm pleased to say I was a good boy on the bike ride home through Hyde Park. Although maybe that's because they've fenced off all the naughty bits. Who can say?

Job alert!

brand: Your Horse
job title : Head of Products
Your Horse Britain’s premier horse brand (magazine, website and show) is set to become the consumer champion of equestrian equipment...

I'm gonna have the Black Beauty theme in my head all day now.

New web addiction

Hunters and Gatherers - lifting unfortunate profiles from gay dating sites. Safe for work (on the top level). I'm laughing like Phil Spector at a gun show.

Ire...ish

In the supermarket, I get a text from my Irish ex. The preview says "Hi, how you doing"

I cycle home, thinking through the various possibilities, and mildly worried by how excited I am. Clearly, this means that I've never got over any bloke, ever. I mentally compose a witty, detached reply which proves that I am cool, calm, and in no way prepared to move back to Wales just to be with him if he'd just ask.

I open the message: "Hi, how you doing with the wedding?"

Wedding? Oh. He's texted the wrong bloke.

On the couch

The squaddie rings to say he's coming over, and would I mind if he brought a friend, who turns out to be a therapist.

I don't know whether to expect a threesome or an intervention.