Love In The Time Of Chlamydia

Ode on a Grubby Technology

2011-02-22T10:24:00.000Z

Dear reader, it has been too long,
You find my days of wand'ring gone,
I am return'd to lands Down Under
To live, for now, in rural splendour,
To work upon a dream I had
And spend some time with mum and dad.

The downside of this happy play
Is that I shan't e'er get laid,
For in this town it's best to check
'Fore winking at the wrong redneck,
For inspiration I did seek
Good friend K, and thus spake he:

“Where God provides technology
The Gays will use it to find thee,
Go online, you cannot fail
To find the queers in Armidale,
And tho' ye seekest near and far
There is no site to best 'Gaydar.'

Oh Gaydar! With its lovely racks
Of rounded buttocks and six-packs,
Of smould'ring snaps with iPhone apps
And gentlemen re-plumbing taps,
A flesh-toned smorgasbord for free,
Aye! Gaydar 'tis the one for thee.”

“But surely not!” I did protest,
“I look for love, and do suspect
That tho' they look like lots of fun,
Donkeydude and Bigboy1
Would not be into Keats and Chaucer
And watching sunsets o'er the water.”

“Sir!” quoth he, “'Tis to your shame
To so besmirch sweet Gaydar's name,
Yes, one-night stands are offered there
But so is love and cuddly bears,
You simply need to learn the trick
Of skipping o'er the torso pics.”

And so forewarned I did set forth
Upon my Quest, sans cyber horse,
I wove a web of shining words
That describ-ed me in glowing terms,
And set it 'mongst a gallery
Of photos free from nudity.

With hallow'd ping! and pop-up message
My membership it was accepted,
Thence in inner sanctum, cold and pale,
Lady Gaydar pulled back the veil...
T'were sixty homos in my town!
Hangin' out and bummin' round.

Three score gayer deviants?
In Armidale? The world did tilt,
Good God! The butcher's love of meat!
The baker sweats from more than heat!
And candlesticks made long and bent
Are suddenly advertisement!

Those sixty I did whittle down
To a shortlist of, well, ah, none,
For Our Dear Lord did not them bless
With gentle smile and golden tress
But rather took a bag of crabs
And smashed it up to make these lads.

Dispirited, I did abandon
My Quest for days, where upon
A gentleman from Sydney Town
Wrote to say were e'er I down
My acquaintance he would like to make,
To talk of Keats and postulate.

Wond'rous news! Ye, I did reply,
He spoke in turn of my sweet smile
And flowing locks of burnished gold
That he would like so much to hold
And stroke, and smell, and lick caresses
He was a follicle obsessive!

Out freaks! Out! Cast them out!
I knew they lurk-ed hereabouts,
Henceforth from Gaydar shall I flee
Lest I too a hairlicker be,
I will be strong, I shall not fail,
Oh! What's this? Another 'mail.

A missive from a simple farmer,
A soul of earth and good endeavour,
With photos too, so I might see
The calibre of man he be,
No snuffling hair from this fine spirit
Who tills the earth as Adam did.

The first portrait didst show him flinging
Straw from a ute with tackle swinging,
Then lying 'side a billabong
In birthday suit with trim too long,
But best of all was saved for last;
Full frontal of his captain's mast.

It filled the screen! 'Twas quite the shock
To be so overwhelm-ed by a cock,
It had an air of wrinkled prune
Found behind the 'fridge at noon,
Or hairless dormouse that you see
Emerging from a knotted tree.

Now 'tis a wisdom widely held
In village, meadow, glade and dell,
That 'tis not ideal to receive
A flaccid penis o'er morning tea,
So reader, pause awhile for me,
And think of cock with museli.

What does one do when so presented?
What rules of phallic etiquette?
As men of ladies do times request
“Show us your heaving lily breasts!”
Was I supposed to be impressed
And rush to the see it at its best?

What e'er the answer I did not stay
To be be-cocked another day,
But said goodbye to friend Gaydar
And resolved to follow yonder star,
To wait with patience here outback
For Colin Firth in Stetson hat.

A Gentle Reprieve

2010-09-03T17:17:00.012+01:00

First of all, a big thank you to my fans out there. After last week's disturbing revelations a number of concerned readers wrote in to offer emotional support, condolence and the services of their utterly-gorgeous-yet-strangely-single gay friends. Well, actually, that's a total lie. None of you bastards did anything of the sort, but I live in hope. The usual post box address please.

I can, however, offer some solace for those who felt a pang at my predicament. For although I've yet to reset the clock, this week I was able to dull its tick and kill its tock (self-congratulatory note to self; I love the subliminal spoonerisms HW. You are so wonderfully clever).

For this reprise I have to thank Pushy Yoga Lady. Every Wednesday she takes Straight Best Friend, The Midget Boy and I and yells at us until we have attained zen as Floating Didgeridoo, Kicking Lotus Cat and Unfortunate Curry Stain. Even better we pay her for the pleasure, the idea being that in return we will achieve wonderful posture and a lifetime free from muscular pain. The reality is quite different; all I seem to achieve is a pool of sweat so deep you boil potatoes in it.

This week Pushy Yoga Lady decided that we were going to do a group exercise which required us to pair up with people of similar height. Straight Best Friend and The Midget Boy teamed up instantly, abandoning me to the ruthless vagaries of heightism. None of the ladies wanted to couple up with the creepy guy who looked like he'd been for a swim in his yoga kit, so as the class paired up it became apparent that I was going to be left with Hot Rugby Thug. So annoying.

I paddled my way over to him, with a look of alarm crossing his Neanderthal features, as Pushy Yoga Lady began the exercise.

Pushy Yoga Lady: “Right, we're doing the same routine we did last week but this time we'll do it back-to-back with your partner. The idea is that as you bend and twist - reaching one hand to the ceiling and the other to the floor - you'll touch hands, legs and arse with your partner so that you know you're straight. If you're bent, you'll push your partner over and have to start again.”

HW: Bent as a butcher's hook and lovin' it. Ready when you are, big boy.

I assume the position and dutifully press my hands, legs and arse against his. I am, if nothing else, a thoroughly conscientious student.

Hot Rugby Thug (looking nervously towards the door to check no one is watching): “Oh man, this is so gay.”

HW: “Mmmm hmmm.” Oh sweetheart, you have no idea.

We stretch in tandem while bent over, making a kind of 'x' formation with our arms and legs. It's actually quite difficult, and to my distress I have to press my hips firmly against his to maintain my balance. Imagine, if we fall over we'll have to keep on doing this again and again and again and again and again until we get it right. The idea is thrilling.

Hot Rugby Thug: (Grunting) “Dude, this is quite hard isn't it?”

HW: “Mmmm.” It's not the only hard thing around here, honey. Oh, I crack me up.

Pushy Yoga Lady: “Right, now I want you to really stretch. Those of you with tight hamstrings, this is going to hurt.”

Hot Rugby Thug: (Wincing) “Great. Gay AND painful.”

HW: “Mmmm hmmm. Imagine that.”

By this stage I'm quite relieved that my excessive sweating is cleverly disguising the drooling, and that I can pass off my clammy palms as normal exertion, rather than the fevered excitement of a man who's recent sexual highlight was an amusingly shaped croissant at Sainsburys.

We master position A and then move on to a more complicated position B, which is similar but involves an alarming straddle technique. I am suddenly fearful my dignity may not survive the session intact, and resort to imagining Obama losing the 2008 presidential election to save the situation. It works every time.

A few minutes later we complete the exercises and go back to our singles work, accompanied by grins from Straight Best Friend and The Midget Boy. I am spiritually up-lifted, physically rejuvenated and feeling absolutely fucking filthy. It's about bloody time.

Of Droughts and Flooding Rains

2010-08-22T23:29:00.006+01:00

I love a sunburnt country,
A land of sweeping plains,
Of rugged mountain ranges,
Of droughts and flooding rains.

Dorothy MacKellar (1904)

A most dreadful thing happened this week. A truly horrifying, cover-your-mouth-to-contain-the-rising-bile event. It wasn't that a kitten died in my toilet, nor that I confused my hair product with my facial cream. No, much worse than these; I realised that it has been over a year since I last got laid.

That's right. Over. A. Year. 365 nights alone. 31536000 passionless seconds. One trip around the sun without so much as a fumble in the dark to pass the time.

Now many of you – ladies, I'm talking to you here – may not think that this is such a long time. How sweet, you gush, that he should wait with patience and quietude, savouring his celibacy like an overripe plum bursting with summer juices. Inco-fucking-rrect. Not only is this state of affairs messing with my similes, what you also fail to realise is that Time Without Sex for a gay man has the same multiplication factor as dog years. With this in mind I have actually been without rompy pompy for seven years, from the ages of 30 to 37. Or as The Sister once delicately put it, “I've been without a root for so long my viginity's grown back.” Noice.

To explain how this situation came about, we need a bit of Exposition. If I were to indulge my inner geek and write in sonata form I'd also need some Development and Recapitulation, preferably with the latter occurring into the toned arms of a nude hottie... mmm, naked Recapitulation....

Apologies. I digress.

Right. Exposition. I moved to the West Country 12 months ago to work on a product design business with The Midget Boy and Straight Best Friend. We got a house together in a village so small it only has one street, and there is a sign on the church noticeboard that says “Found in village – one horse. If owner please call number below.” I kid you not. We have three chickens, a brown labrador, an ancient black cat and a stream of elderly dependents who pop around bearing marrows when we are trying to work. Straight Best Friend hisses, throws tea in their faces and tells them to fuck off, but they giggle good-naturedly at the antics of youth and come back the next day with more oversized garden produce.

There are a variety of issues inherent in this situation.

Problem no. 1: Working from home. This provides no opportunities for meeting new people, such as through casual spillages on to the cute chap who sits next to the water cooler. Not now that The Midget Boy has started wearing an anorak indoors anyway.

Problem no. 2: Bath. My nearest city only has one gay bar. Apparently the only homos in town are wealthy retirees who sit at home counting their serfs, or 18 year old drama students. The gay bar caters to the latter, all of whom appear to all be auditioning for the title role in “Gollum: Queen of Mordor.” It is all most distressing.

Problem no. 3: I am returning to live in Australia at the end of this year. Like Ms MacKellar I too love a sunburnt country, and more to the point I miss my family. Knowing you are about to uproot your life and dump it on a big red rock on the other side of the globe kinda takes the sheen off the desire to go out and find Mr Right.

However, like any well-developed essay this neatly segues us to the true horror of my situation. For when I return to OZ I shall be working like a dog to get a little design project off the ground, and to finance this I shall be moving back in with my parents. For up to 18 months.

If we make the wild assumption that I won't be getting any while living in a rural town famed for its annual Wool Expo, while sleeping in a bedroom next to my parent's, then we arrive at the following numerical horrorshow:

Elapsed Time Without Shag: 12 months

Remaining Shag-Free Time In The UK Living In An Episode Of The Good Life: 6 months

Proposed Time Living Celibate Under Close Parental Scrutiny: 18 months

Total Time Without Shag: 3 years.

Take into account the Gay Man's Adjustment factor and I shall be celibate for the years from 30 to 51.

Truly this is the kind of drought Dorothy was writing about. I just hope the flooding rains come while the mountain ranges are still rugged, rather than sporting ear hair and a paunch.

You jeans like fit good sir?

2010-02-22T01:07:00.013Z

Today I tried to buy jeans. Fuck knows why I bothered, but I tried. It is no overstatement to say that jeans and I are a modern reinvention of the Capulets and Montagues ; the irreconcilable forces of human flesh and sweatshop denim trapped in an eternal war across the stars, yet destined to produce one breathless, harmonious union that winks out of existence almost as soon as it is born. Although with less hanging out around the fish tank with Leonardo.

This perfect union is still clinging on for dear life around my shapely buttocks. Purchased almost five years ago these jeans hug, flare, slip and ride my legs in a delightfully indecent manner. Such is their power that wearing them I feel I could conjugate the above verbs into any context with any man who takes my fancy, and I’m not just talking about Advanced Level Grammar classes here people. This is saucy stuff.

Sadly however, having seen me through thick and thin these jeans are now mostly just experiencing the thin. Predominantly around the sculpted derriere area. Indeed, the area classified as “completely fucking worn through– I can see your arse flapping out” by Straight Best Friend has spread in recent weeks from crotch to hip pocket, fuelling a fear that my Suppressed Homo is attempting to break free via the medium of home-made chaps. In an attempt to avoid this horror and in acknowledgement that my relationship with torn trousers is a little relaxed, I ventured out to buy a new pair.

I will not bore you with the details of my inability to find a suitable repurchase. Suffice to say it was a complete fucking car-crash of a day and the manager of GAP will require reconstructive surgery. Upon my return home Design Partner listened patiently to my woes, made a sad puppy-dog face, and announced that the solution was obvious; we needed to start an online custom-made jeans company! Of course! Sometimes I wonder how so much entrepreneurial genius fits into such a travel-ready package.

A quick internet search later and we had learned two things. 1) There were already plenty of companies like this catering for Americans who had passed beyond the “Elasticated Waistbands = Bad” threshold back when they ate the family dog in ‘98, and 2) there was only one company in the UK, a certain “Jean Machine”. With two denim-clad ladies trapped in a wind tunnel on their homepage we could see they had the custom-made jean business sewn up in contrasting stitch detailing, so we gave up on the business plan and settled in to order me my Perfect Jeans.

Step One: choose your style. No worries here, although Design Partner was slightly disconcerted that there were 11 styles on offer yet only eight images. Also one picture appeared to be of a Levi jean. Hmmm. Moving swiftly on.

Step Two: choose your material. Ah this we can do. Real-posh-looking-yet-remarkably-cheap-dark-denim please. We is on a budget here. Sadly that particular choice was not available so we went for not-quite-as-Eurovision-nasty-looking-as-the-others blue.

Step Three: take your measurements. We started with my waist, which I am pleased to say has been a gentlemanly 32 inches since puberty. The tape measure, however, seemed to indicate an actual size of 36 inches, which earned Design Partner a thorough beating for his clumsiness. 36 inches indeed. Astonishingly, repeat measurements confirmed that thirty-six was indeed correct. It seems the fashion industry doesn’t understand the use of units of distance as a measure of say, actual distance, but rather as a series of funny shapes to make that dull patch on the inside of the waistband look pretty. Genius. I tip my hat to them.

Next, Design Partner had to measure my ‘seat’, defined as the fattest part of your arse. It’s lucky he doesn’t resemble a woollen Adonis put through the hot cycle one too many times, or I might have found the whole whipping a tape around my buttocks in my pants a tad erotic. As it was there was a tense moment when he suggested that the measuring tape shouldn’t be cutting valleys into my derriere, and I snapped back that I most certainly did not have a 39-inch arse so some cutting was inevitable, but we worked through it.

I also had to specify whether I wanted a ‘custom’, ‘normal’, ‘low waist’ or ‘high waist’ design. This was to define where the jeans were to sit on my waist using the belly button as a convenient navigational aid. Thus ‘normal’ was defined as “when you wear your jeans on the belly button.” ‘Low waist’ was “two inches below the belly button.” Seriously? A quick check revealed that Design Partner’s jeans sat three inches below his umbilicus, and mine a heady five inches below. I was practically wearing them as socks. Most alarmingly of all, one could order the “high waist” design for those above-the-naval statement pieces. Ideal for incontinence pads and first dates.

Finally we had to measure something called the ‘front rise.’ Neither of us knew what this was so we clicked on the helpful illustrative jpeg. Up popped this beauty.

Design Partner suddenly looked a bit flushed. I worried whether our relationship could survive him holding the tape measure thusly. Both of us were glad the young lady had chosen to wear her jeans for the demonstration, for fear of losing her tape.

And then, just as suddenly as we had begun we were at the checkout! A few more clicks and denim paradise would be mine! While I warmed up the credit card Design Partner went off to find some online reviews from other satisfied “Jean Machine” customers. He soon found this gem:

I sent Jean Machine £127 and my favourite jeans to make me two new pairs. This was eight weeks ago, I haven’t heard from them since and they won’t reply to my emails! Help!

Ah. That’s a little unfortunate. Design Partner followed this up with a call to their helpline which was, ahem, disconnected. Dreams. Floor. Shattered.

So I’m back to square one. My favourite jeans are threatening to subdivide into cropped shorts and leg-warmers, and I have no backup solution. Things are looking bleak.

On the plus side however, what I do have from this little journey is a selection of photos sent in by satisfied customers of makeyourownjeans.com. When the Day Of Jean Death finally arrives I shall be able to look back at these and console myself with the knowledge that even in my denim, home-made chaps I have got it over this lot. Enjoy.

"Brian, wearing Makeyourownjeans.com's Jeans and Denim Shirt, Jeans with extra length was requested."

I bet it was, the saucy minx.

"Sonja is wearing low rise Jeans made by Makeyourownjeans.com, she has ordered a Brazilian Style Add-On #105."

"Sonja 2."

I do hope Sonja got a discount on her second purchase.

"David is wearing a Skinny Tight tapering fit Pussy Cat Dark Wash jeans with a 7-inch front rise and a heart-shaped back pocket with embroidery. He insisted on a very very skin tight fit."

Oh. Dear. God.

"Chase Metheney."

No Chase. No. Bad boy.

Pants, Trousers, and other cultural misunderstandings

2010-02-02T22:07:00.004Z

Ladies and Gentlemen, have I a treat in store for you today! Oooh, the excitement! It’s not very often that I introduce a new character to this blog but today we have a corker. Pull back the velvet curtain, swivel the gas lamps and let’s begin.

Today’s personality has always been lurking in the background. As husband to Straight Best Friend he was often to be found tut-tutting as I dragged her out on unseemly nights of drunken debauchery, yet this kind soul was always there to provide healing cups of tea the next day. It was in this capacity of Hot Beverage Deliverer that I knew him for many years, but now that I live near him in Bath he has become a mainstay of my social life. We have manly pints at local pubs, talk about physics and boobs, and go out on unseemly nights of drunken debauchery.

So when we were both abandoned by Best Friend/Wife on New Year’s Eve this year it was perfectly logical that Bearded Bromance and I should spend it together. There was to be no sitting at home alone, drinking vodka from a mug and watching the oven clock count down in a tin foil hat. No, not this year! Instead, we would drink the vodka in a public place using non-ceramic receptacles, and then do what we always did when the lights went down and we got a little tipsy... yes, we would dance! Dance like madmen!

Dancing is Bearded Bromance’s secret talent, his paranormal ability. The result of diabolical genetic experimentation on 8-tracks of The Supremes, he worked for many years for the British military, undermining totalitarian regimes and freeing the oppressed with the transformative power of disco. Now retired, he lives out his days behind the facade of doting father and school handyman, his memory erased and his powers reduced to humming “I Will Survive” while plunging u-bends blocked with the outpourings of seven year olds.

Still, every superhero has his weakness, and Bearded Bromance’s powers can be momentarily reactivated by the liberal application of pink cosmopolitans. Thus it was that New Year’s Eve found us in a rugby pub, dressed in our finest tuxedos, abandoning our mates to Auld Lang Syne downstairs while we pushed aside the buffet tables to create a makeshift dancefloor. The fever was on us, and there was no dance genre that did not quiver in anticipation of our unique interpretation.

Leaping, grooving, sliding, rocking, pirouetting, tangoing, strutting, stomping; we covered all the basics. Then, when these had been exhausted we moved on to wall climbing, table leaping, seafood-platter juggling and mantelpiece grinding. Dancing with Bearded Bromance gives reality to the platitude to “dance like no one is watching.” Unfortunately it also gives weight to the subsequent advise to “love like you’ve never been hurt” for - if you happen to be in the same sweat-pit as us on Halloween when we are dressed as pirates and the cosmopolitans are down - you are certain to get a plastic sword pommel in the eye.

On the occasion of New Year’s, at around 12.38am, I suddenly realised that “Time Warp” would be significantly improved by adding a dramatic straddling-of-the-chair move between jumping to the left and stepping to the right. Chair straddling is an old move from university - the artful curve of the lifted leg honed with years of practise - and one that I was sure would be met with approval. Unfortunately all it was met with was a loud ripping sound and guffaws of laughter from Bearded Bromance, as the fabric of my trousers parted under the strain of my exertions.

Closer inspection by Bromance between sets revealed a four inch rip along the seam of my crotch, and also the knowledge that I had been clever enough to wear black underpants. Praise be to my subconscious! Always helping out when my conscious forgets to bring safety pins! So it was that we continued to dance until 3am, each cartwheel or pole spin being accompanied by a further tearing noise, and each tearing noise by riotous laughter. Indeed, when we finally arrived home and a full examination was possible it became apparent that the steady separation of east and west buttocks had only been stopped by my zipper at the fore and my belt at aft. As I passed my grinning head through the tattered remains of my tuxedo trousers Bearded Bromance and I had to agree; truly this had been an excellent night out.

Yet as I lay in bed that night, waiting for the oblivion of drunken sleep, something nagged at the edges of memory. Some echo of an old life, a shadow struggling to rise to the surface, an oily stain spreading where it had been smothered. As I slipped from consciousness it came to me, spreading its dark wings and sending hope scuttling into the hidden places. Thus was I haunted by the Ghost Of Pant-Ripping Past.

Spring, 2001.

The jacarandas dripped their purple blossoms onto the streets of Sydney as I wielded a can of gold spray paint in the back yard. I was preparing for the University’s 50^th Anniversary Rowing Ball, and this automotive paint was my secret weapon. I had resolved that if one is to attend a Golden Anniversary with the specific intention of picking up a hot homo rower then one must 1) be noticed, 2) be identifiable as a gayer yourself, and 3) look splendid. The obvious solution? To arrive in a gold three-piece suit with gilded shoes and sparkly hair. Such a discreet, unassuming youth.

The ensemble I was now studiously gilding had been picked up from various charity shops across town; a gentleman’s waistcoast here, a silk ‘kerchief there. I had struggled to find an appropriate shirt however, until at the eleventh hour heaven had provided and I had stumbled upon a dazzling lady’s blouse. Unfortunately it was a little short and thus prone to reveal one’s midrift in an alarmingly provocative way, so The Sister had pinned it to my trousers to spare the boys. Thus prepared I stepped out to receive my adoring rowing fans.

The night was not, one might say, an immediate success. The only homo rower present was an ex, and although a loving, kind-hearted and generous man he also was also in possession of a ridiculous surname that “in physical chemistry defines the weak force that acts at a molecular level.” No relationship can survive that literary car crash.

As the night wore on it became clear that although the attractive power of my gilded accoutrements could not be disputed, they were insufficient to make lady-loving rowers throw off their clothes and form an orderly queue. Disappointing. Also the ex was getting increasingly keen, so it was necessary to take evasive action; we bundled into a cab and headed to the nearest club.

My relief was short-lived however. In the chaos of departure I had not only managed to leave my coterie behind but also had scooped up the Improbably Named Ex and his friend. At the club I tried to lose them amongst the dark, gyrating mass of sweaty bodies on the dancefloor but to no avail. The ex moved closer and closer, and in desperation I looked around for an escape. I was greeted by dozens of staring, glinting eyes.

Yikes! Here at least was my attire fully appreciated, if perhaps a little too well. Gulp. I glanced around and noticed a nice Italian fellow who looked like he knew how to al dente his penne properly, so I shimmied over like a string of tinsel.

Al Dente: “Hi.”

HW: “Hi.”

Al Dente [grinding into my personal space]: “I like your outfit, but you must be hot in that jacket. Let me help you out of it.” Oh yes. Those Italians are smooth.

HW: “Thanks.”

Al Dente [groping into my personal space]: “And your waistcoat. Let’s get rid of that.” The man was a veritable clothing tactician.

HW: “Ummm, sure.”

Al Dente [total destruction of personal space]: “And let’s see what’s under this shirt shall we?”

Al’s hands snaked around my waist and with a gentle tug he proceeded to lift my shirt, only to find it had snagged on my belt. He pulled again, a little harder this time, but the shirt stayed firmly in place. With a confused little grunt Al tried a third time, and it was only then that I remembered; my shirt was safety-pinned to my trousers. By my sister. Oh my fucking god, the utter horror of it all.

Rather than admit the hideous truth of the situation I took charge and pulled my shirt up with all my strength. With a tearing noise the blouse came free and safety pins went hurtling off into the darkness, blinding drag queens and exciting the masochists. Al misunderstood my sudden enthusiasm for disrobing and proceeded to get rather heavy-handed, so I backed away and created some space by dancing like a madman.

You see, even without the influence of Bearded Bromance I have always been a fervent dancer, and with the adrenalin of being semi-naked in a pit of snakes I mean gay club I was on fire. I did the cool shoulder groove, the funky foot-crossing thing, and for a grand finale did HW’s patented quick drop-squat move.

And with that my trousers ripped from sun-up to sundown.

Ah. Fuck.

In a heartbeat the reality of my situation came crashing down upon me. I was in a gay club, with no shirt on, in tight golden trousers with my white underpants flashing out. I might as well have worn a huge neon sign saying “Young Man-Flesh Available Here: Slightly Used, Going Cheap”. With the vultures circling I did what any respectable man in flesh and shredded lamé would do; I leaned into Al’s ear and whispered huskily “Do you want to get out of here?” He didn’t need to be asked twice.

Swimming back up through the darkness I returned panting to New Year’s Eve, 2010. The bed was drenched with sweat and the sheets knotted, but I was safe. The Ghost of Pant-Ripping Past had let me go, but not before ensuring I had learnt my lesson. No more for me the dangerous cocktail of buttock-hugging cottons and outrageous dancing. As a reformed man I promised to wear loose slacks or low-riding denim, and only shuffle around the dancefloor when Michael Buble was playing...

Well, until Bearded Bromance and I have our next cosmopolitan, that is.

Making Dead Cow Damn Cool

2009-12-23T00:41:00.001Z

Before we get underway with today’s narrative I need to bring you up to date on a few changes in my life. These have been profound, for - like a caterpillar emerging from its chrysalis into a new dawn of hope and forgiveness – I have been reborn through the love of God and his sacred Son Jesus Christ.

Oh, hang on. No, wait. So sorry, that was someone else. My mistake. I still love phalli, and crazy Latin plural nouns.

Please proceed.

In June of 2009 – after paying my taxes like a good boy for seven years and sitting a test to ensure I knew how to claim dentistry benefits when I became pregnant at 15 – the British Home Office gave me a shiny new visa. This innocuous little stamp meant that I was no longer tied to any particular employer but could now stay in the country as long as I wanted as an independent citizen. Hurrah! The fools! Now I could implement my plan to 1) become Intergalactic Saviour Of Humanity Through The Medium Of Design and 2) have a very cool nametag.

Step one; quit my life-sapping job! Pah! I laugh at your puny insignificance and irrelevance, Employer of the Past! Step two; leave London and its sordid distractions! Farewell, City of Costly Expenditure and Naughty Liaisons with Magical Barristers; I am on the path of righteousness now! Step three; well, ummm, fanny around a bit overseas and blow some cash. Ahem. Arriving swiftly at step four; move to the West Country with Intimately Proportioned Design Partner! Rent a house! Set up an office! Put a gold bath in the corner, ready to swim in all the money we make! Hazaar! Kazam! Whoopee!

This was the fulfilment of an old dream. Design Partner and I had long talked about setting up a business together, one that would allow us to design, manufacture and distribute our own products under our own brand. I met him through Straight Best Friend many years ago and admired his intelligence, drive and miniaturisation. For like a kinky Japanese sex toy he is a technological tour de force, providing long-lasting performance in a casing a little bit smaller than you’re used to. You don’t need to wash him as much though.

In order to get a house with space for an office Design Partner and I settled in a quaint little village in the West Country. While beautiful the downside of our new home was the impossibility of getting to or from it. Public transport in post-Thatcher England is about as reliable as a bus where Lassie does the steering and Skippy does the brakes, yet I was unwilling to increase my carbon footprint through the purchase of a car and there was no parking in the village for a dirigible.

Instead I settled for a very tiny, beautifully designed scooter. All sweeping lines and cappuccino colourings, he called out to me in his little Taiwanese voice and said “Bai mi! Bai mi mista an’ wi will hav soh mani adwenchaas togeva it will bee laik Audwii Hepburn in Woeman Howiday wen shi goes funni cwazi on a wespa an’ nearwi kills everwi-won! Oh yes bai mi bai mi mista!!.” And although living in the country had already turned me into a Daily Mail bigot I forgave this little asylum seeker and snaffled him up as my own.

Our first autumn together was a beautiful time. On those long, golden days we would zip around the back lanes of England together, my scarf trailing behind us in the breeze, my Italian boots gleaming in the sun. For safety reasons it was necessary for me to buy a baby-soft leather jacket from Liberty’s of London, a jacket so fitted that it pushed my intestinal tract into my chest cavity to create rippling, kidney-shaped pecs. Straight Best Friend said it made me look like The Fonz, but – never good with her 80s trivia - she was obviously thinking that The Fonz drove a sentient talking car and looked shit-hot in ripped denim. The poor dear never was very smart.

So the days slipped by, shortened and became winter. Crisp blue skies, the promise of Christmas and then finally snow! Yes, snow! Unbelievably the UK weather had decided it wouldn’t shit on us with a giant wind-and-rain ball-turd this year but would instead provide the stuff of Christmas cards. From my bedroom window the garden looked like a giant wedding cake, complete with marzipan compost bin and sugar-dusted dead bird.

“Be careful out there today,” cautioned Design Partner as I vaselined myself into my jacket. “It’ll be cold and slippery.” Well duh. Why do people always assume that Australians don’t know how to handle cold weather? We DO have refrigeration you know. I’ve SEEN the inside of a freezer. I’m not an idiot.

I threw open the back door and stepped into the glorious morning. Fuck! It really was cold. Double fuck! The path was ridiculously slippery. I reached the shed intact but my hands were shaking and my saliva was undergoing a change of state. Buggery fuck bollocks. I was going to need more clothes.

Three trips back to the house later I was ready to go. I was now wearing two pairs of gloves, a thermal top, a collared shirt, a woollen jumper, a waterproof and then finally my corseting leather jacket. Suddenly I was less John Travolta in Grease and more the Battlefield Earth years. I was a sausage in a stocking, jelly in a johnny, an old chesterfield bursting out of its seams. I had slipped from sex god to upholstery. Oh the ignominy.

I slithered down the lane to the village road, which – against all expectations – had not been gritted. Honestly, what the fuck do they spend my council taxes on? Books for disabled children from broken homes? Fuck the little shits; my road needs de-icing. I lined the Taiwanese workhorse up, gave the accelerator a confident twist, and … Well, nothing. No motion. Clearly, more power was required. I twisted the accelerator further; nothing. Then further, until finally the back wheel gripped and the pinko scum skidded sideways in something approximating a low-speed biking accident. The traitorous bastard.

Slightly shaken but undeterred, I moved from a perpendicular road position to the more conventional parallel arrangement, lowered my tapered Italian boots to the road surface and set off at 2 mph with a dainty set of outriggers. Hurrah! A triumphant union of engineering and fashion!

And yet… as the village traffic backed up behind me and I was overtaken by a man walking his dog I couldn’t help but feel a certain je ne sais quoi had been lost from my stylish transportation. I had this niggling feeling that if Mr Right looked out from the Rococo study in the west annex of his country seat and happened to see me gliding past that – rather than the love of his life – he might only see some twat with his feet down looking like the Marshmallow Man…

…in a very hot leather jacket.

Da American Boyz

2009-12-05T09:22:00.006Z

My dear, dear reader. Since you’ve been away so many exciting things have happened in my life. I won’t blame you – I’m sure it’s not selfishness on your part that kept you absent, just thoughtlessness – but I’ll forgive you and tell all about HW’s First Trip To America.

Stop one, New York! New York! Land of yellow cabs, little dogs and bagels. Little dogs in yellow cabs eating bagels! Yellow cabs running over little dogs sandwiched in bagels! How exciting! So many freakshows to see! So little time!

Little time indeed. For although my first trip to New York should have consisted to lazy days in Central Park and endless bereted coffees at MOMA, my boss had other ideas. Yes, I was actually in New York for work, setting up exhibitions to launch our lighting products across the pond. After a few days of this it rapidly became apparent that unless I took action the extent of my American experience was going to be the inside of a SOHO gallery, the morbidly obese man at the hardware store around the corner and a power-drill with a funny-shaped plug.

But hang on. “Staying in New York for work,” I hear you say. “That doesn’t sound too bad. Business class flights, a five-star hotel and all your food and travel expenses paid for.” Well, that was my boss’ experience. Me, I got to fly Economy while he sat up front, wasn’t allowed to claim receipts and got sleep on a variety of Aussie mates’ sofas while he stayed for a week in SOHO’s most exclusive hotel. That’s right; when he heard I had friends in town he asked if I could stay with them to save the company some money, because when you’ve just bought a multi-million pound house in central London you’ve got to watch the pennies. Well, watch someone else’s pennies anyway.

Armed with my indignation I negotiated two days of paid leave and resolved to get as far away as possible. That way when one of the exhibition lights caught fire and the gallery burned and south Manhattan was apocalyptically razed I could calmly answer the phone and say “Yes, hello? Oh, that sounds awful. Hmmm. I see. Look, I’d love to come back and help pick up charred bits of your completely irrelevant lighting product but the beach here is just lovely, and by the time I get back my martini will be warm, and Emmanuel says it’s a waste not to use up the whole bottle of massage oil now we’ve opened it. Oh, and you’re a cunt who’s too tight to pay my travel expenses. Bye now! Mwah.”

Fortunately I had a perfect getaway option in the form of my hot Yankee Banker. When not in London trawling the bars for innocent youths to debase he worked in Washington D.C. for a big bank, doing the kind of banking stuff that isn’t a teller and so I will never understand. We hadn’t seen each other for over a year but he was delighted at the idea of a visit, so I packed my bags and leapt on the first train out of town.

On the journey I consulted my copy of The Big Book of Gay Etiquette: Just Because It’s There Doesn’t Mean You Should Touch It for a few tips, and learnt that:

… when visiting or staying with an old flame timing is everything. If the invitation is for a hour or less it can be assumed that a cup of tea or coffee is expected, possibly with a side platter of freshly baked scones. If the invitation is for anything more than an hour – say, up to a week – then etiquette necessitates engaging in Unmentionable Activities on a scale appropriate to the quality of the accommodation provided. This timing distinction is critical. Adherence to it will avoid the embarrassment of arriving with a bottle of soymilk when prophylactics would have been more appropriate.

At the time I was still dating Coat Contents and Yankee Banker was loved up with a new fella, so I wasn’t sure The Big Book of Gay Etiquette’s advice of getting jolly with the lolly was appropriate. I skimmed through its section on relationship etiquette but since I didn’t need to know “How to keep his toy soldier at attention when the Major General has left” or “Riding Aladdin’s rug: Three wishes to get the magic back now the lamp is tarnished” it just confused me more. Eventually I fell back my mother's teachings and decided that arriving bearing leather chaps and a big grin would be indelicate. I settled for hydrangeas instead.

Arriving at Yankee Banker’s apartment late in the afternoon, I stood gazing fixedly at the jumble of numbers trying to remember which one I should buzz. Gazing fixedly only works if you allow your mouth to drop open too, and maximum cognition is only achieved if you scratch your nuts to get the brain working. I was thus engaged when a cheery voice called out “Hi! You must be HW!”

I turned to see a disarmingly handsome man grinning at me, decked out in the coolest glasses I have ever seen. I swallowed the fly I’d caught and turned my nut-scratching into a casual running of the hand through the hair while he introduced himself as Yankee Banker’s beau. The horror! I’d been replaced with someone better looking, with better glasses and – as it transpired – a better job. Oh look at me! I work for a senator in Obama’s administration, toiling to avert climate change and secure the future for our children and their pet dolphins. Yeah well, I bury hamsters in dirt and knock their heads off with golf clubs, you optically superior prat.

Yankee Banker came to the rescue with a large glass of something pink and cold, ducking my accusing glare. Honestly. How hard would it have been for him to pay a homeless man to bring his urine-stained, cardboard box hovel up to the apartment for two days, and then introduce him as his boyfriend? He could’ve even let the homeless man’s dog shit in the bathroom sink and left it there for authenticity. I wouldn’t have cared; I’d just have washed my hands around it. Anything would have been preferable to knowing I’d been upgraded, or even that such a thing was possible.

The next day things went from bad to worse. Captain Planet was so nice he made time in his busy schedule to give me a backstage tour of Capitol Hill, starting at the senate office where he worked. Ugh, hot and considerate; what a creep. I arrived to find a long queue of school brats blocking the entrance so I settled in to wait, only for Captain Planet to appear and VIP me in. Humph. Quite cool. Still a prat.

We whizzed through the marbled Senate offices and then downstairs to a reception area where a hapless maid greeted us. Captain Planet turned the charm onto full beam and explained to the bedazzled lass that although it wasn't protocol he had a meeting with Mr W in room 312 but had forgotten to book it and was there any chance it was free for us to use and my goodness, he liked her hair today. She wilted. I was impressed. Prat though. Focus on the prat.

Through a security pat-down and along a white shiny tunnel, and I was only now wondering where the fuck we were going. Why were we in the basement and not arriving by car convoy to a brass band? Where was Obama, and why hadn’t he bought me a puppy yet? Why was there a set of train tracks up ahead? And here, a small 8-car train up with no driver? What was this, some kind of fucking James Bond movie?

And actually yes, yes it was. We stepped off the miniature platform into the leading carriage, the doors automatically closed and we were off, whisked from the Senate administrative buildings into the heart of Capitol Hill on a secret underground train. I kid you not. It was the coolest fucking thing I have ever seen. Suddenly I was Dr Evil shuttling towards my underground lair, and Captain Planet my diabolical accomplice Mini Me. Although he resented me stroking his head in that fashion.

The rest of the Capitol Hill tour passed in a blur of history and dark corridors. As we left through the main entrance into the glorious sunshine Captain Planet pointed to the “Room 312” tag I had been wearing since the train. Whereas once it was white it was now navy blue, the numerals nearly impossible to read. “It self-destructed in the sunlight to prevent re-entry,” he explained.

I accepted defeat. This man was too brilliant not to love, with his spectacles and his secret spyware and his cute ass. The Yankee Banker was a fortunate man, and as I watched them over dinner that night I hoped they’d be together so long they'd have a chance to share dentures as well as Prada sunglasses. The lucky bastards.

A Fairy's Tale

2009-12-03T11:26:00.000Z

Hi kids. I’m back.

I had once thought that this would be my last entry. One final chapter to neatly wrap up my story of loveless questing for Mr Right, a happily-ever-after ending to validate all the drunken fumblings, public nudity and revealing the depths of my homosexual depravity to my immediate family. Uncle Robert, if you’re out there, this one’s for you.

No, there will be no fairytale endings in this blog. Prince Charming will not be galloping out of the sunset in a lacy shirt astride his bucking stallion, because quite frankly that is fucking dull. Unless it’s “Prince Charming Rides His Bucking Stallion III” in HD surround sound, which is anything by dull.

Instead I proffer a tale of a budding young romance set amidst the delicate blossoms of a London spring, a romance flush with hope for a new world of candlelit dinners and joint bank accounts, a romance that I fucked up by thinking “ooooh, if I can just make this work out it would make a brilliant ending to my blog.”

It all started one fine March morning as I stood in the Salad Man’s queue, waiting for my usual bucket of health for lunch. For £2.70 the Salad Man will give you a tub of olives, couscous, carrots, feta, sun-dried tomatoes and chickpeas so big it has developed sentient life. To put that in perspective, £2.70 in London will usually buy you a postcard of Lady Di and a punch in the face, so the Salad Man was always busy.

On this particular occasion none of my work colleagues had come with me so I was whiling away the queue time with my favourite hobby; Perving On The Unsuspecting. Pickings were slim that Friday, and after the horrorshow of mentally undressing a man who turned out to be seventy I settled for admiring the tailored coat of the man two ahead of me.

What a lovely subtle pattern. Such a clever collar trim. Selfridges? No, Liberty’s surely. A great cut. Fits perfectly over those broad shoulders. Excellent tailoring in the body too; the shape emphasises that toned, muscular chest and waist. Oh, he’s turning his head into profile, and I say! that ain’t bad either. Hmmmm, forget the salad; break off a chunk of the Coat Contents for daddy.

Such was the depth of my anorak admiration that I wasn’t even put off when he opened his mouth and addressed one of the Salad Girls in the dulcet tones of America. Rather, I waited until it was my turn to be served and – under the pretext of confirming that yes, I was having the same salad I have had every single day since 2006 – I nipped ahead and planted myself beside Coat Contents. I took a deep breath and prepared to deliver the best opening line since "if I could rearrange the alphabet I would put U and I together."

HW: “My god, are you having the LARGE salad box? That’s an epic eat. Respect.” Yes, I actually said ‘respect’. I am Tony Blair circa 2004.

Coat Contents: “Yep, I get it most days. I love this salad bar.” Amazingly, speaking back.

HW: “Me too, although I sometimes find it a bit repetitive so I like to spice mine up with some smoked haddock back at the office.” Oh yes, take notes dating underlings. There’s nothing like imagining someone with a smelly, oily North Sea fish stuffed into their gob to crank up the sexual frisson.

And so it continued. Coat Contents took his salad and waited for me to get mine, and then we stood around awkwardly while he established that yes, I worked locally and yes, I also ate salmon, skate, cod, trout, barramundi and perch. Strangely he seemed unwilling to end this most educational of marine conversations. I weighed this against an estimation of the damage his clenched homophobic fist could do to my pretty-boy face, steadied myself on the vat of potato salad and asked for his phone number.

Coat Content’s face broadened into a fantastic grin. He reached into his wallet and pullet out his business card. I did the same and we exchanged like some dreadful 20th century cliché. If only we’d done this 200 years earlier, we’d have had servants in wigs to carry our monogrammed cards to each other on silver trays and lend the moment an air of majesty. As it was I discretely wiped the humus off mine and hoped he wouldn’t notice.

Relief at having my teeth intact mingled with a sudden sense of achievement. I had just successfully hit on a cute man in a well-lit public place, without the assistance of alcohol, Straight Best Friend or Kylie! Truly I was a dating god.

A couple of risqué dates later and I had myself a bone fide boyfriend, and what a corker he was. While I nodded liked a labrador he’d describe Virginia Wolfe’s critical essays. While I gazed adoringly at his porno ‘tash he’d sketch arguments outlining Mozart’s compositional superiority. And while he read The Economist over breakfast I’d sit and think “when we get married this is what our breakfasts will be like every single day for the next seventy years until finally we die like Romeo and Juliet but horribly wasted and decrepit clutching each other in an embrace of enduring love.”

Sure there were difficulties. Sleeping together on those warm spring evenings, I’d lie awake and think “OK HW, just breath, it’s OK, don’t stress about this… It’s OK if he wants to sleep underneath a sub-arctic doona while the windows are closed in this heat. It’s OK that he has a fan running all night on high, it’s electric motor powered by coal-fired stations that are pumping out CO2 while the planet burns. No no, it’s OK because he LIKES THE SOOTHING WHIRR it makes. Breathe. Breathe the refreshing cooling air.”

But whatever issues I had with Coat Contents I always forgave him because knock me sideways to Christmas if the boy couldn’t actually kiss. Over the past seven years of having British men fondle my tonsils, plunge my tongue and suck out my oesophagus I’d forgotten how a real kiss is undertaken. Not with the express aim of eating your head, but with gentleness, passion and a tic tac.

Sadly, the good times were doomed not to last. After three months Coat Contents decided that things weren’t working out for him, and threw my heart into the trash alongside the articles on climate change I’d discretely cut out and left on his pillow. Yes, that’s right, imagine the horror; he couldn’t even be bothered to recycle. My heart went straight to landfill. That’s Americans for you.

Still, there are some pearls of wisdom in this cautionary tale. Number one, I learnt that years of internet dating, set-ups, one-night-stands, drunken touch-ups and dirty eye contacting had so reduced my self-respect that I could now happily hit on strangers in the glare of the noonday sun. Brilliant. Number two, I learnt that not all men who frequent salad bars are tofu-munching homosexuals, but if you’re lucky they might be. And thirdly I learnt that happily ever afters are the remit of dwarves, men in tights and stepmothers in drag, and thus have no place in any self-respecting gay man’s life.

Until the next time of course.

Adieu, adieu, to yeu and yeu and yeu

2008-12-10T12:41:00.000Z

Welcome, welcome one and all! We come together today to celebrate a great pillar of our community and to mourn their passing from my life. Never sought yet never failing to provide succour, never critical yet always a bastion of integrity, my life has been changed forever and for that I will always be grateful.

So please, take a seat. Sit back; relax. And enjoy the Big Guardian Newspaper Love-In.

Like all the best lovers, the Guardian didn’t force herself upon me but slipped into my life unnoticed (NB a contextual clarification from the author: while no female has ever managed to slip him anything unnoticed – that being gross and very yucky – the author feels that the personification of the Guardian lends itself to an intellectually ruthless and emotionally detached 40-something woman, who secretly wears a tie-dyed bra and likes to give big hugs when no one is watching). Our liaison started when a work colleague informed me that free copies of that day’s paper were available from the Guardian office foyer and – being a consummate tightarse – I couldn’t resist.

Before I realised it the Guardian had become part of my daily routine. Where once I would hiss and spit at my flatmates over breakfast, I now avoided the need for human interaction by reading yesterday’s edition. At the office I would put the coffee on before nipping out to get that day’s copy, a snatched moment of indulgence before the day began. And at lunch I would pore over the crossword with my workmate in the park, always desperate to finish it in a shorter time than That Smart Bitch H. I never did by the way. I swear she has the OED chipped into her head (as in ‘microchipped’, not a bit taken out with the OED shoved into the bloody pulp of a hole, which would be more personally satisfying).

Then there were the perks of living next to a building full of warm-and-fuzzies. Some mornings I’d chat to the lady with the baby seat who chained her bike outside our office, and her friendliness made me feel like London wasn’t such a seventh circle shithole of bubbling putrescence. When my boss refused to pay for paper recycling collection I first had a little cry for the Amazon, then asked the nice security guard at the Guardian if I could lob my paper into their bins. “Of course mate! Be my guest.” And whenever they’d run out of that day’s edition and I attempted to pay for a copy, the front desk personnel would wink and tell me to run along and spend my 80p on sugarpuffs and bonbons. Sigh. Save me 80p and I will love you till the end of days.

Of course, the primary reason I revelled in the Guardian’s proximity was because of all the Hot Homo Tottie it attracted. Better still, it was Hot Tertiary-Educated Disarmingly-Witty Spandex-Pants-On-The-Outside- Planet-Saving Homo Tottie. In the quiet hours of the day between plastic flow analyses I would sit back and daydream of chance meetings… collisions between single-speed bikes that would end in romantically entangled limbs… the amusing shenanigans of muddled gluten-free salad orders at the organic deli… the rush of wind at the recycling point that whips a pile of shredded documents into the air before it comes to rest on laughing eyelashes and tousled hair. All it lacked was a pottery wheel and an 80s soundtrack.

Sadly, all this must now come to an end. The Guardian is moving its offices to a swish new building near Kings Cross and I shall lose a) my free paper, b) my daily perve, and c) well, ummm, my free paper. I can’t blame them. Their current building is a converted carpark, and while I’m sure the convenience of note-changing machines on every level and the ability to urinate in office corners is not to be underestimated, working within those dotted white lines must eventually get you down.

Worst of all, I have only recently succeeded in infiltrating the Guardian’s wool-knit ranks with my cunning spy, Mrs H. She is moonlighting as a freelance writer for their online service, when in reality she is assembling a secret dossier on its male employees. I have charged her with the task of ranking them according to their:

1. Attractiveness, using my patented 383-step diagnosis.
2. Liquidity, using a traditional hacking-into-the-HR-database technique.
3. Moral fibre, using a small African orphan.
4. Degree of homosexuality, using her own oops-a-piece-of-my-lunch- has-fallen-into-my-cleavage trick.

Mrs H’s early reports were most promising. Apparently even some of the sports writers like batting for the other team, putting a few balls in the back of the net, rowing up the Thames on Tuesday or shooting hoops from the 3-point mark. A sports writer who likes to touchdown inside the baseline is something of a gay Mecca, but the move to Kings Cross has put paid to all these dreams.

So I shall put away my Arsenal T-shirt with matching pinafore, dig 80p out from my piggy bank and face 2009 with a brave smile. I have loved the Guardian, and for those brief two years that I worked in the stinking alley beside her, I think she loved me too. Adieu! Adieu!

And when the wind blows through your shining new offices, and you turn and cock your head to catch the lingering perfume of piss, then think of me, alone, in Farringdon.

The Emotionally Illuminating But Ultimately Dissatisfying Tale of One Sore Foot

2008-11-15T11:03:00.001Z

Today I feel like a bit of a dick. A dick with a sore foot, in fact (if that is anthropologically possible). I find that rattling around inside the shrunken, flaccid cartilage of my soul are the rather unpleasant emotions of a bruised pride, an undirected disappointment and something that might be self-criticism. Or maybe that last one is just indigestion... it's a new one to me.

Now, I am vaguely aware that most people relieve their feelings of dickdom through self-flagellating introspection or – worse – conversations with other humans. Pah! Fools. The clever man leaves his hairshirt in the dirty laundry and splashes his self-loathing in glorious CMYK 72pdi technicolour all over the internet. Cheaper, and there’s none of that annoying feedback.

So let me begin by introducing the characters in my saga. First and foremost; me! Et voila! I will be played by a dashing fellow with the body of Daniel Craig, the brains of da Vinci and – with a nod to my many Christian fundamentalist fans – the Faith of Our Brother Jesus. Mind you, I’ve been thinking about this and Our Brother Jesus probably didn’t need to have much Faith, seeing as the fellow who decided if He got into the Big Pink Palace in the Sky was in fact Himself. Or at least, one Trinital third of Himself. Probably the third with his appendix and gall bladder, seeing as they are so much more mysterious than the other organs.

But I digress.

We have two other protagonists in this narrative, who for legal purposes we will henceforth refer to as Identity Protected Obsession 1 (IPO1) and Identity Protected Obsession 2 (IPO2). IPO1 will be played by a Spanish pirate working undercover for the court of Isabella and Ferdinand V, while IPO2 will be played by a space alien extra escaped from the set of Doctor Who.

I have known IPO1 for many years, ever since we worked together at university making confectionery for the unappreciative masses. We lost touch when I moved to the UK and didn’t reconnect until last year when he came to London... and came out. In hindsight it should have been obvious; his penchant for fitted boots, eleventh-hour rescues and parrots that squawked “Oh darling you are too much!” were all put down to the strain of living for years amongst toughened men upon the high seas. Who’d have guessed that in reality he just fancied a bit of seaman on the side (oh come on; I bet you couldn’t have resisted that gag either).

Once I realised that IPO1 was a homo I was faced with the terrible decision of whether or not to stick my tongue down his throat. Given that said tongue was attached to Daniel Craig, powered by a Renaissance brain and guided by 2000 years of patriarchal myopia from the Catholic Church I felt sure its incursion would be welcome. However I was still plagued with doubts. Would I ruin a friendship? Did I truly feel that way about him? And could I keep a straight face if asked to walk his plank?

It will come as no surprise to my readership that I managed to maintain this level of indecision for almost a year. Every time I met IPO1 I would experience a resurgence of tongue-to-tonsil intent, only to have my resolve chipped away at by over-analysis inbetween. As per usual, Superego was shitting on poor old Id.

Then – completely out of the blue – IPO2 landed his Warp 9 Hyperspace UFO in the middle of a pub in Shoreditch, emerging into our gathering amid a blaze of dry ice and cheap laser effects. With his faux antimatter pistol swinging provocatively from his hips he swung into a chair at the end of the table, ordered a pint of Galactic-strength Zooton juice and smiled as only a man wearing aluminium foil underpants can. I was smitten.

While other conversations came and went we whiled away the evening discussing his travels to the moons of Jupiter, civil unrest in the planetary systems of Cassiopeia and the impossibility of buying real estate in London. I found myself gazing fondly into IPO2’s three lidless eyes, breathing deeply of the ammonia gas that rose from his skin and thinking how wonderful it was to meet a normal, non-fuckwit homo in England.

Sadly it seems IPO2 didn’t feel the same way. As we stood at the pimped-up, blue LED ramp of his UFO he opted for a traditional handshake over a Klingon mindmeld, and my confidence evaporated faster than sodium metal in atmosphere. I attempted communication over the coming months but eventually had to admit that this spaceman was not interested in Earth lovin’.

It was a galvanising experience. I resolved then and there to stop being such a fucking limp-wristed, yellow-bellied, procrastinating fly larvae of a man and settle things with IPO1 once and for all! The consequences be damned. Hoorah!

My first opportunity was at a farewell drinks held for a friend a few weeks later. As luck would have it I arrived to find a seat available next to IPO1 so I bought him a pint of rum, suggestively brushed his cutlass off my seat, and proceeded to regale him with stories of my nautical derring-do.

I was halfway through a winner about falling into a stagnant lock when a flash of green fluorescence indicated that IPO2 had landed. Egads! I thought. Here’s an unpredictable narrative twist! IPO2 hovered over and slipped into the chair on my other side, thereby causing a characteristic HW mental meltdown. I managed to stumble through to the dramatic end of my nautical narrative (it’s a good one; I narrowly avoid a fatal crushing in the wake of a slow-moving, Martha Stewart-inspired wedding cake of a canal barge) before scuttling away to the bathroom to consider my position.

What I decided to do is of no import. Upon my return I found that IPO1 and IPO2 had shuffled around to be seated beside each other and were now deep in conversation. Yes, in my stupidity I had forgotten the first rule of Homo Loco; the time taken for two gays to get in each other’s pants is inversely proportional to the square of the distance between them when they are first released from their cages. In disbelieving horror I watched from the other side of the table as the pirate stroked the alien’s antennae and the spaceman fingered the Spaniard’s moustache.

And worse was yet to come. Snow had begun to fall outside, and it was into this “Bridget Jones’ Diary” inspired finale that IPO1 decided to leave. As he slipped out through the revolving doors IPO2 dashed after him, returning ten minutes later for his coat. A romantic tryst in the gentle snow of a London winter? Why why why hadn’t HW thought of that? Too incapacitated by thought, as per usual.

As I walked home I considered how my inaction and vanity had ruined me once again; truly, the best laid plans of mice and men had been eaten by the rodents and used as bog-roll by the men. To vent a little I gave a passing lamppost a good kick and – pleased a little by my own masculine emotional impotence – hurried home to nurse my foot and my pride.

In memento memoriam

2008-10-19T03:30:00.006+01:00

My dear, dear readership.

Read on with trembling lips and a moistened eye, for your loving narrator could so easily be no longer of this world. Life is such a wondrous gift that it is simple to forget that slack-jawed Death lurks around every corner, waiting for us to plug in the toaster's frayed electrical cord or confuse the brake pedal with the accelerator. This week I survived, but I shudder to think how close I came to the Reaper's scythe.

It all started innocently enough. Our rental accommodation has had a few idiosyncracies in the past; the Leaking Bath, the Smell Of Rotting Flesh Under The Doormat and the Boiler That Spews Forth Noxious Gases While You Sleep. I never notice these things until The Sister delicately points them out to me, at which point testosterone roars through my bloodstream, I don a rough flannel shirt and wield an unidentified power-tool into battle. Or she calls the insurance company. Whatever.

So it was with the Buckling Tiles In The Bathroom and the associated Alarmingly Bubbled Wallpaper in the kitchen below. The cursory glance of my professional eye established that there was water leaking through the wall cavity, probably from the overflow pipe above the boiler. I twirled my moustache. The Sister was impressed. This was one I could handle on my own.

Step one was to get into the roof via the trapdoor in the hallway. The first time I ever did this – balanced atop a bucket on a stool upon a chair – it was, well, a bit embarrassing. There was a fair bit of floundering, some ungainly waggling of the legs and a general exposure of inadequacies in the bicep department. Since then I have gym-bunnied up and so swung into the roof with the graceful elegance of a greased-up leopard. It was so hot I wished I’d invited people round to watch.

Disappointingly once in the roof it became apparent that there was a brick wall between me and the suspected Origin Of Leakage. I of course knew that this was going to happen, but like all good investigative handymen thought it best to eliminate all possibilities. There was definitely no water in this completely unassociated part of the ceiling cavity. Excellent. Right. Next.

It turned out that we had a second roof access point, this one in the boiler cupboard in the bathroom. Yes, that’s right – the cupboard that is large enough to hold a centralised heating unit and approximately 2.5 gerbils, as long as once of them only eats ever second day and they all breath shallowly. Yes, the same cupboard I had to climb inside with my clutch of Small Space Phobias before slipping through a hatch originally designed for an employee recreation space in Charlie’s Chocolate Factory.

Still, nothing is beyond a hardened DIYer such as myself, so with a bit of contortion I bent myself into the ceiling cavity. Inside this section the roof angled down sharply, creating a cosy triangular space that necessitated crawling. Crawling quickly became wriggling became dragging-my-dead-carcass-forward as I approached the suspected leak zone and the space narrowed. After such an ordeal it was therefore with some disappointment that I arrived at the spot above the Buckling Tiles, shone my torch around and found no evidence of damage, water or otherwise.

What my torch did land upon, however, was a protuberance lurking in the shadows behind an old chimney. In the unwavering light it appeared a sickly grey-yellow colour, measured a foot in height and width, with an oddly contoured convex surface. It appeared to have oozed onto to the brickwork and had a curiously organic appearance. It was also next to my head.

Now, it is a little known fact that most gay men are also secretly sci-fi geeks; we just hide it well beneath a veneer of glamour and camp tunes. Think The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Russel T Davies’ new Doctor Who and those slimming lycra outfits in Star Trek. Yours truly is no stranger to sci-fi geekdom, so upon confrontation with the Thing In The Roof my subconscious chose this selection of tidbits for my viewing pleasure:

Beehive.

Hive.

Nest.

Pod.

The bit in Alien where the beslimed pod splits open and the juvenile spawn attaches itself to the unfortunate’s face, inserting a proboscis down his throat to implant a parasitic embryo.

Proboscis.

Down my throat.

Laying eggs.

Egg sack.

The bit in Arachnophobia where the unfortunate comes upon a huge, webbed egg sack in the roof of his barn that splits open and thousands of baby spiders spill out.

Splitting eggs.

Thousands of spiders running over my face.

Thousands of spiders crawling into my mouth.

Spiders all over my body in a confined space where I can’t move to brush them off.
Spiders biting my flesh in a confined space with a parasitic spawn sucking my face where I can’t get out.

Can’t get out.

Get out.

Get. Out.

Now.

I’d like to say that my exit from the ceiling cavity was calm and dignified, that there was no backwards slithering or wimpering. I’d also like to be able to say that when the rational part of my brain stated “I’m sure it’s just some kind of expandable polyfiller – you should poke it to find out” I didn’t laugh scornfully. There’s a lot of things I wish I could say. Sometimes we stare Death in the face and simply find ourselves lacking.

So I have decided that the Buckling Tiles In The Bathroom and the Alarmingly Bubbled Wallpaper are, after all, a job for the insurance company. They can send a disposable employee around to investigate the problem while I sit patiently beside the entrance to the roof, quietly waiting with a Lemsip and a blowtorch.

On the street where I live

2008-08-31T23:29:00.004+01:00

I like the street where I live. It’s a little piece of East London that survived the bombings of WWII, a row of honest brick terraces squeezed between council blocks and tenement housing. I love its authenticity. If you squint you can imagine Jack the Ripper disembowelling a prostitute next to the chippy, or perhaps Dick Van Dyke skipping along the rooftops with a penguin in tow. Or, best of all, Jack cutting off Dick’s head while Mary P and the children sigh with relief.

Our neighbours seemed to have survived from the same era too. Eighty-plus Julia lives next door and we share a low garden wall; she calls me “sweet’eart” and visits her brother in the next street. Jimmy and Joyce are on the other side so I talk to them about the garden, and their daughter Charmaine lives two doors down. Jimmy likes to pop across the street to have a chat with Bill most evenings, a boisterous fellow who shares a house with his wife and seventeen bikes. He repairs them and sells them on again. In fact, the people are so wonderful it sometimes feels too good to be true, like I’ve fallen asleep and woken up in 1952.

I was intrigued to see what would happen, therefore, when a clean cut gay couple moved into the house opposite ours. I first noticed them when – with my usual sense of foreboding – I pulled back the morning curtains to see what stinking turd of a day the English climate had dumped on us this time. Much to my simultaneous delight it was not only sunny but there was what can only be described as Quite The Hottie emerging from number 21.

Further surveillance from my bedroom window over the coming weeks established there were, in fact, two Hotties in residence. Well, one certifiable Hottie and one Fat-Or-Fit?; I would need to invest in a pair of binoculars to confirm the latter. They cycled to work separately - leaving at 0813 and 0840 respectively – had a penchant for Thai home delivery on Tuesdays and were fastidious about separating their recyclables from their household waste. All very interesting but it didn’t give me the information I needed; i.e. how to engender a casual, spontaneous meeting.

A chance reading of texts on the psychology of the criminal mind soon gave me the answer I needed; the hunted needed to become to hunter. The gazelle needed to run to the leopard. The mole to burrow to the garden fork. And the rabbit needed to pop by at the fox’s place, possibly for an afternoon carrot soup with celery scones on a Laura Ashley platter.

Well, obviously, nothing could be simpler. Gay men are like bloodhounds. We can sniff each other out at 60 feet across a gyrating dancefloor, drawn by the top note smell of crisp, ironed underpants blending with tones of hair wax and dirty thoughts. If I’d noticed the boys in No. 21 then it was certain that they’d noticed me.

I suddenly became very absent-minded. I’d come back from the gym, turn on the bedside light and change without drawing the curtains. Or I would realise my heinous error just as I reached my underpants, requiring me to stretch semi-nude for the curtains and causing everything to flex in an alarmingly attractive manner. On my worst days I would even be so silly as to drop my towel en route from the shower, flashing a sculpted buttock before it was whisked decorously from view.

Amazingly, my plan bore no fruits. I thus had to conclude that either 1) I’m not attractive enough to cause complete strangers to abandon the norms of social behaviour and break down my front door in a mad haze of passion, or 2) my neighbours are both afflicted with a terrible vision impairment. So sad, how disability can affect those so young.

Then, amazingly, salvation came uncalled for. I pulled back my curtains one morning to see the postman knocking on the door of No. 21, a brown box tucked under one arm. When he couldn’t raise anyone he rang the doorbells of numbers 19 and 23 but without success. It wasn’t until he began to write out a “we called but you weren’t in” note that I recognised my chance. I pulled on some trousers and a shirt and burst through the front door in the nick of time.

HW: [casually sauntering across the road] “I say, hello there. Are you trying to deliver that to number 21?”

Postman: “Yep, they’re not in. Just left ‘em a note.”

HW: “Oh, don’t worry about that my man. I can take it for you. Quite the little community we have here, always helping each other out, doing our bit wot. I take post for these chaps all the time.”

Postman: “Oh, ta. But I’ve left ‘em a note, about it being at the depot ‘n all.”

HW: [breezily] “Never mind, can’t be helped. I’ll leave them another explaining this silly misunderstanding. Just give me the…gnghh…package…let…it..go. Hrrrmph…there’s…a…good man.” [HW wrests the box free]. “Right, be off with you then. Toodle pip.”

I scurried back to my lair with the Precious intact, and scribbled a quick note laced with the faintest whiff of innuendo.

Dear lads at number 21,
The postman tried to deliver a large package to you this morning but you weren’t in to receive it. Drop by when you get a chance and I can deliver it to you instead.
Yours, HW, from number 20.

I pushed it through their postbox and then rushed off to work. Arriving home that afternoon in a lather of excitement I found that disaster had struck; the Precious was gone. It wasn’t in the living room, or the kitchen, or tucked away under the stairs. It seems the Hottie had knocked and The Sister had failed to pretend to not be home, but had instead blithely handed over his parcel without eliciting so much as a polaroid in return. Unbelievable. You’ll notice she is not nearly as community-spirited as me but thinks only of herself.

There is, however, a happy ending. Three more parcels turned up for number 11 and the clever postman handed them all over to me. Thus I did eventually get to meet The Hottie and his Annoying American Whiner Boyfriend, who is definitely punching above his weight and should check his bike brakes more carefully. Urban tragedy can strike when you least expect it.

I am also now officially The Guy Who Takes Parcels For His Street, which has allowed me to meet Henry and his delightful girlfriend Sally, Mitchell and his dogs, and Fiona and her purple rinse. It’s lovely, and so are they. Every time I hand over an oversized parcel, and they realise that someone has taken their goods and not tried to resell them on ebay, I get a little glow of contentment. Life is fine here on the street where I live.

Life In The Shadows [sniff]

2008-08-14T20:55:00.005+01:00

Hi kids, I’m back. I’d like to say I’ve been too busy to write because Mr Right and I have been gallivanting around Italy together, holding hands as the sun sets over the Mediterranean and picking olive rind from each other’s teeth. Or perhaps we’ve been in France, where Mr Right played his lute to me on the steps of the Musee d’Orsay and I sang of autumn sun on the Riviera. Or at the very least I could tell you I’ve been getting some.

Sadly, none of these things are true. Instead, I’ve been pouring all the energy I normally devote to the pursuit of random strangers into “Bettering My Career.” I know, I know; how desperately dull. Do not fear however; I have not strayed far from the dark path. Indeed, my ambition would be better described as “Bettering My Career With The Long-Term Aim Of Saving The Planet Making Shitloads Of Money And Thereby Ensnaring A Higher Grade Of Husband.” Everyone loves a stinking-rich altruist.

For those of you who express surprise that I aspire to be more than a drunken narcissist who lives for the next public toilet touch-up I say "I had no choice." I am surrounded by over-achievers, workaholics and manic-obsessives. And not the nice turn-the-lights-on-and-off-16-times-before-entering-a-room type either. No, I’ve got the ones that make you feel desperately inferior.

The problem started in childhood with The Sister. Hampered by a severe hearing disability from age three, she could have chosen the path of dribbling incontinence, rocking in the corner and talking like “Dark Side Of The Moon” played backwards. Once she’d been tarred with the Disability Stick she could’ve sat back in a pool of her own saliva and waited for life to roll on by, and no one would have judged her for it.

But no. Instead she rises above it all, learns to speak perfectly, gets three degrees, has her first book published by Penguin and by the end of the year will be Dr Sister. She even dresses better than me. What a bitch.

Then there’s The Best Friend. I’m not so clear on the exact details, but from what I recall she was born into a troupe of travelling gypsies who fed her brandy from a goat’s horn and lamed her to make it easier to beg for money. Or was it badgers who raised her? Whatever. She was definitely born in a caravan. On the linoleum table in the kitchen-cum-bedroom-cum-garage.

Yet despite this she has clawed her way from working class vulgarity to aspirational Lady of Bath. Give this woman and inch and she’ll steal your whole fucking ruler. Starting as a humble secretary she worked her way up through a series of marketing positions, was paid to retrain, moved into a completely unrelated field and is now making more in her quarterly bonus than I do in a year. She lives in a Georgian manor and when she speaks it’s like soft rain falling on Norwegian pine trees. No more badger grunting for this one. No siree.

But there’s more. My friend The PopStar recently arrived in London from Australia, having decided that he wants to play with the big boys in the UK. He already has 2 CDs under his belt, sings/dances/choreographs/composes everything himself and found an agent within the first week of landing. Just looking at him you know he’s going to make it. He reeks of determination and oozes success like I ooze the faint smell of old bananas. Bastard.

By far the worst, however, is James vacuum-cleaner-magnate Dyson. For us product designers he is a bit of a god, having proven that by putting design, innovation and engineering at the heart of a product - and sticking to your guns - you can effect incredible change (for more details see my other blog: “Embarrassing Gushings Of A Design Slut”).

I used to work for Mr Dyson, and at a party recently found myself standing next to him at the bar. I’d been studiously sober all night, thereby ensuring my inner dance demon wasn’t able to programme “Flail ‘n Rail” into my discometer and embarrass me in front of my idol. I reasoned that if I did cross paths with Mr Dyson I wanted to be prepared. I would open my mouth and out would flow such eloquence that he would not only become aware of the depth of my admiration, but simultaneously be touched by my deep intelligence and perception.

Sadly I had judged the risk of meeting him passed and was knee deep in free vodka tonics when he struck up a conversation.

JD: “Hello HW, good to see you again.”

HW: “Scchh, Dysun, yrrr fantashic. Yrrr jst… jst ‘mazing you are.” Oh. Shit. HW, what have you done?

JD [stepping slightly sideways to avoid the risk of physical contact]: “Umm, yes. Thank you.”

HW: “Ssslike, vacuums ‘n stuff. Y’know. Sss ‘mazing.” Fuck. Look at him. He’s terrified of you. Quick, get out of here before you do any more damage.

JD [reaching wildy for a distraction]: “Ah, HW, I don’t believe you’ve met my wife. Let me introduce you.”

HW: Oh, bloody brilliant. “Plesssure. Heard shumuch ‘boutcha. Plesssure.”

Oh god. Get. Us. Out. Of. Here. No, don’t touch her! Oh mercy, is there no end to the carnage?

HW: “Right, mush dash. Shum dancin’sin orderrr. Yep, I feel like dancin’. Ta ta.”

And with that I slipped away into the darkness of the dancefloor and gave them my best electrified monkey routine.

Which brings us full circle. Thus is the spirit of drunken revelry cast out and I am reborn full of the passionate desire to Design Great Things! I will reshape the world through graft and personal sacrifice, and in my twilight years the drunks will fawn on ME for my brilliance. Perfect. All the better to give their bums a quick pinch.

HW vs Fate: Part 2

2008-06-01T23:33:00.007+01:00

This narrative is a continuation of the last entry. To read it first, please click here.

Act 2: Scene One.
The curtain rises on a gilded hall in Mount Olympus. Several characters are clustered around a stone basin, peering into its depths. A fat man sits in the corner watching television, while an old bearded man dozes in the corner.

Enter Fate in lace gloves, layered black lingerie and lurid makeup.

Fate: “Ahhh, dahlinks, how are you? You missed Fatey-poo, no? Hmmm?”

All grunt noncommittally.

Fate: “Come, I see not vhy you need be so horrid. You like new outfit? Hmmm? Vat you think? Is not too hip and trendy, no?”

All continue to look into the stone basin.

Fate: “Vell, somezink is clear importantly comparing to poor Fatey-poo. Come, move your sack-of-bones butt Aphrodite. Vat you look at?”

Aphrodite: “Oh Fate, isn’t it wonderful?! We are watching the transcending power of Love as it draws two lost souls together into eternal bliss. Look, here on one hand we have the jaded and obsessive-compulsive HW, and on the other The Wonderhorse! See, already a silken cord of silvery light has formed between them and draws them to each other…”

Fate: “Pah! Is no silken cord, big-boobs-no-brain! Is London smog! You Greeks know nuthink! Is always swans bonking ze nymphs or getting up ze duff because god-as-golden-light come in prison window. Pah! Golden shower more like; you all bumsters and munchers I see you. Love? Pah! You lot see Love in monkey shit if hard look.”

Aphrodite: “But Destiny said it was foretold that this was the path for these two disenchanted souls.”

Fate: “Destiny schmestiny. Look him sleep there in corner, head on chest, snore like lazy pig. Back home ve leave in snow to die vhen get old like zis one. Eat eat eat and sleep. No use to anyvun.”

Aphrodite: “But if Destiny says…”

Fate (imitating Aphrodite in a singsong voice): “But if Destiny says… Pah! Vat he know about entertainment? Vis him is all Cary Grant and ze Kerr-witch; smoochy smoochy and oh! ve are kissink in ze rain and we loooove forever. Zis entertainment for dribbling fossils, not for MTV generation! Ve vant humpy humpy, tricksy vomen, bad men in ze Ferrari and Madonna! Zis not entertainment [indicates the stone basin]; zis laboskamy for already idiots.”

Aphrodite: “But Fate, what are you saying? We can’t intervene if Destiny has approved this life path. You of all people should know that.”

Fate: “Pah! You bleach ze brain with ze hair, Aphrodummy. Zere is goink on more here zan meets ze eye.” [Fate turns and addresses the fat man watching television]. “Karma! Oi! Fatty tub-tub! Be leviterating ze fat ass over here now! I vant be talkink to you.”

Karma: “Aw, c’mon Fate, Match Of The Day is about to start. Leave off will ya?”

Fate: “I vill NOT be ‘leavink it off’, like you cannot be leavink off ze pork scratchings and ze Asda specials, Mista Big-Belly Boombah. I need be checkink ze Karma Kredits, so be movink ze twin ass planetoids here now!”

[Karma reluctantly levitates – and with some difficulty – over to Fate].

Fate: “So. My old comrade HW. Vat his credit in ze Karma Bank, hmmm? Good, no?”

Karma: [sighs] “Well, to put it bluntly Fate, HW’s been a bit of a shit lately. He dicked around these two blokes a few days back – was a rude fucker to one, ripped into the self-confidence of the other – so he’s been drawing on his reserves heavily lately. Also deposits have dropped off since he moved to London. In fact, let me just check… [Karma pulls a dog-eared notebook from his robes]… Yep, his account’s in the red for once. It hasn’t been this bad since the 1986 fishtank-theft incident, and back then he had a Childhood Morality Dispensation Certificate. No such luck this time; he’s just being a rude fucker.”

Fate: “In ze red! Interestink. So, vat are you sayink Karma? Do ve be needink a talky talky to Mr C? He vould velcome giving HW a helpink hand.”

Karma: “Shit Fate, I dunno. I mean, Match Of The Day is starting; I’ll miss the highlights. Can’t we talk about this later?”

Fate: “No dahlink, I cannot be waitink until you reincarnate; I am needink ze answer now. Yes, or no?”

Karma: “Fuck. I mean, um, yes, I guess. I mean, it’s not clear…”

Fate: “Ah ha ha! Whoop-ze-dee! Danka Karma, you can be goink now.” [She turns to the wings]. “Chance! Mr C! I am be needink you. Chance!”

[A shadowy figure in a white and black cowl glides onstage. He speaks in a voice that resonates in the bones and dark places of the mind].

Chance: “Who dares call upon the ancient twin powers of Instability and Irrationality? Who claims to master the Realms of Chaos, to plunge into the depths of…”

Fate: “Ya ya Chance, be good to be seeink you too. Could ve skip the intro, no? Ve are beink in teeny hurry today. Good, good. Still runnink ze bingo game on Saturday? Good good. OK, down to business we go.” [Chance hovers over to where Fate is standing beside the stone basin].

Chance: “Be silent Fate. Your noise is as the bickering of harpies over the diseased souls of men. You seek to lecture me, foolish woman, when I already see the paths of infinite possibility stretching our before us. I know why you called me out of the darkness; we roll. We roll for HW… and for The Wonderhorse.”

Fate: “Ya dahlink. Roll ze dice for me. Ve don’t all be havink time to sit in ze darkness, being ze little bit creepy. Roll ze dice for Fatey-poo.”

[Chance indicates two die in his hand, closes his fist around them, a rolls in an extravagant gesture. Fate eagerly stares at the settling dice while Chance stares into the middle distance].

Fate: “A nine! Six and three! Is zat good or bad?! Chance? Chance! Stop vis the Uri Geller channel and be payink attently. A nine! Vat does it mean?”

Chance: “Nine. The Black Crow. It means… Pestilence.”

Fate: “Ha ha ha! Be eatink ze shit and dyink HW! Pestilence for you big boy! Whoopee!”

………………

To pick up the narrative where I left off, the Wonderhorse has agreed to have dinner with me the following Tuesday. I am, to say the least, a little excited. I have booked a very cool restaurant in a converted East London warehouse, had my hair cut, and changed my underwear twice. It is 9:14am. Only 9286 minutes to go.

On Thursday night the weather turns cool yet I sleep with the window open as per usual, only to wake up with a sore throat. I have always been a delicate flower, so this is nothing to be alarmed about. Cycling home on Friday I get caught in the rain (yes, I am a Jane Austen heroine), and by Saturday morning I’m coughing up oysters of phlegm. I resolve to spend the weekend sleeping and nibbling delicately at toast but to no avail; by Monday I can’t even get out of bed.

On Tuesday morning I ring The Best Friend in desperation. She advises me to stop moaning, take 6 Nyquil, a few vodka tonics and be the life of the party. The counter argument is that I can’t laugh without sounding like I’m going to cough up a seafood platter, so I ring up The Wonderhorse and cancel. He is most considerate and agrees to reconvene at the same time and place next week.

I can’t believe my bad luck. I have quite literally not been sick since 1996. What. Are. The. Chances?
……………

Act 2: Scene Two.
The same gilded hall in Mount Olympus. As the curtain rises Fate raises her head from the stone basin. Karma is slumped in front of the television. Chance has disappeared.

Fate: “Vat iz zis!? Vat goink on?! Karma, you fatty rump of pig-maggot belly, “in ze red” you say. “Karma credits are kaput” you be claimink. Yet HW still datink the love-bunny Wonderhorse. How iz zis happenink?”

Karma (without looking up from the TV): “You’re talking to the wrong geeza honey. HW’s low on karma alright, but Chance is far from reliable in these situations. Maybe you should’ve asked one of the lesser gods for help.”

Fate: “Hmmm, maybe you have finger on ze nail’s head for once. Chance no good. So who should I be askink? Lady Luck? Ugh, zat snotty bitch up ze ass so far she is like Greek fudge packer working in navvy submarine. I could be askink Chaos for help? Ugh, ze filthy freak may be touchink me, and ze smell is like grandpapa’s undies zat ve found in ze birthing pen. I guess zere is Ironee, but…”

A sudden rush of wind causes Fate’s hair and clothes to whip around wildly and disturbs books, magazines etc in the hall. When it settles a muscular man in a gold suit and red cape is standing proudly beside her.

Irony: “Ah ha! It is I; Irony! Ready to dispense rain on your wedding day and good advise. Please, don’t take it! Already late? Well, this green light won’t be much use to you but have it anyway! I say, are you feeling the pinch of this mortal coil? Well then take this winning lottery ticket that you can never hope to cash in!”

Fate: “Ummm…”

Irony: “So was it you who called missy? What unique service can I perform for you? Are you holding a soup-drinking competition for ten thousand people? Sounds like you need a lot of spoons. Oh no, all I have is a knife! Or how about…”

Karma: [without looking up from the television] "None of those things are ironic, dickhead. God I hate Canadians."

Fate: “Oi! Be shutink ze gabbing hole, Karma. Now Ironee, dahlink, stop wavink ze gilded meat and two vege in Fatey-poo’s face and be listenink. I am needink a teensy bit of help with ze problem called HW. At ze moment is life all Beverley Hills 90210; I need you to give Fatey-poo a bit more Melrose Place. Okey dokey? Karma has given ze big thumb up, so be not holdink back, okay?”

Irony: “Righty ho! Off to drop a black fly in HW’s chardonnay! Or slip in a ‘no smoking’ sign into his cigarette break! Ha ha! Quake in fear before my sparkling wit, mortal!”

With a flourish of his cape Irony flies out through an open window. Fate sighs and returns to gazing into the stone basin.

………………

In the week between the Abortive Date and the Start Of Something Beautiful I recover to full health. I spend a long weekend with friends in Devon, lazing around in a caravan playing board games and getting the sea air. I use this time to mentally prepare myself for the onslaught of Total Smug Blissdom. This mostly involves practising lines like “oh Wonderhorse? He simply adores me” and “we can’t decide between Eastnor Castle and Windsor for the reception; the catering is supposed to be ghastly at both.”

Upon my return to London I find a voicemail from The Wonderhorse that is a cause for some concern. It states that he can’t meet me for dinner the following evening, and begs leave to call me later to explain. When I get a chance to speak to him he is deeply apologetic and tells of how he was introduced to a friend-of-a-friend at the weekend and although he doesn’t normally do blind dates they really hit it off and now he only has tonight free to see him before he goes to New York and he felt sure I’d understand but now he can’t really meet me and hahahaha isn’t life funny and gosh is that the time he has to go .

Oh the gut-wrenching irony of it all.

HW vs Fate: Part 1

2008-05-10T19:45:00.009+01:00

Fate.

As a regular on this blog, Fate has always been welcome in my life and her opinions on finding Mr Right have been taken with the greatest respect. Her world experience and deep understanding of the human condition lend her wisdom beyond her years and besides, she makes a wicked vodka jelly.

However, over the course of 2008 my relationship with Fate has steadily deteriorated to the point where we are no longer on speaking terms. My counsellor has advised me to be specific about my anger, so my issues with Fate can be summarised thus:

1) She is inconsistent in her cosmic interference in my life.
2) She has the dress sense of a 1983 Eurovision transvestite version of Amy Winehouse.
3) She’s a fucking bitch, and when it comes to Romance she likes to get on top in her best faux-leather chaps and remind me who’s boss.

Well, she can fuck the fuck off. This is war.

Now, I know that the last conversation we had on the topic of Romance ended with an agreement that there was to be no Active Pursuing of Men this year. This meant an enforced ban on speed dating, internet dating, nights out alone and subconscious flirting with strangers in toilet cubicles. I stuck to my word rigorously on this, but unfortunately the lavender stain of ManHunt ’07 leeched into the early months of 2008.

It was therefore not entirely my fault that one week in March I found myself contacted by two men I had emailed last year on a dating website, and one man who was a reliable friend-of-a-friend setup. Coincidence? I think fucking not. Even single-cell primordial slime with the barest flicker of sentience, with vision impaired by a love of humanity and a comedy eye-patch could see which bitch’s gnarled claw was at play here.

Having to juggle three men at once caused me to experience something of a mental meltdown. The friend-of-a-friend (FOAF) got in first so I arranged for drinks the following week. The first online dater was an American chap who had recently changed his online profile photo to show off a bit of buff flesh, so clearly there was no way I could turn that down. Damn these weak homo genes.

Option three - the second online dater - was slow to respond, but after a bit of banter emailed me from his work address. Armed with the company name I discovered that he is the owner of a successful health food chain, is a keen musician, looks good in boardshorts and is as posh as the Queen. God bless the Internet. I emailed The Best Friend and she confirmed that yes, he was out of my league and that yes, this made a nice change (she may or may not have said this last bit, but she was definitely thinking it). In her bizarro logic she also christened him The Wonderhorse.

With The Wonderhorse established as the favourite I decided the only course of action was to cancel the other dates. An attempt to implement this plan was hampered by my being a yellow-bellied invertebrate, so I landed upon a better option; cowardly duplicity.

My cunning plan with The American was to make myself as unpleasant as possible so that there would be no risk of him wanting to date me subsequently. At dinner I steered the conversation onto the Arab-Israeli conflict, and we had a fight about American international interventionism. Then we had a fight about racism in America. And then I made him pay for dinner. It was bloody brilliant. He hated my guts.

The FOAF was more complicated as I don’t want to offend the common friend. My solution was to call him while he was in France and leave a voicemail message explaining that it’s all terribly embarrassing and I’m so very sorry but over the weekend I met an old flame I’ve always fancied from OZ and now he’s single and we hit it off and isn’t it wonderful but terrible at the same time and would you still fancy a drink ha ha despite the awkwardness ha ha yes yes right must be off bye now bye.

And that. Was. That. Brush off the hands, push open the saloon bar doors, and ride into the sunset to meet The Wonderhorse without a shred of guilt. Genius.

A sinister cackle echoes from the darkness as HW walks offstage. The curtain falls. Intermission.

Baguette Etiquette

2008-04-30T10:58:00.002+01:00

Day One: Arrival

Bonjour Diaree!
Ah France! Land of le baguette, le beret and le hotties. Our group of twelve has settled in nicely at le chalet – all of The Welshman’s friends are wonderful – and we are off to le pub to get pissed. Lady Welshman is helping me with my conversational skills so I will be using “Oo-ay le ‘omo-sexual, per favore” to order the beers. Am linguistic genius.

Day Two

Dear Diaree,
A most unusual night. Sharing a room with The Welshman’s investment banker mate who snores like there’s a shaved gerbil lodged in his trachea. Not a problem for this intrepid traveller! As usual came armed with selection of earplugs and eyemasks so felt very smug. Despite this awoke in wee hours to sound of frozen kittens forced through mincer. Turned out to be The Banker grinding his teeth. The poor bastard, it must be his job stress. I consoled myself with the knowledge he can buy himself new teeth with the money he makes in the time it takes me to take a dump. And as you know I am tres efficiendo.

Up on the slopes I discovered am snowboarding god. No surprise there. Lady Welshman and I wove amongst the little people like an alpine Torvill and Dean, though she refused to buy matching sequinned jackets. Bought two for me instead.

Day Three

Oh Diaree, how you shall laugh at this one, even with your my-father-beat-me-as-a-notepad cynicism.

After our winning day of skiing we all had a celebratory tipple and played Welsh drinking games into the wee hours. A Texan accent, a working knowledge of the numbers 1-21 in eight languages and a very silly hat and you’re away! I expect you would have scoffed and asked for a cup of camomile tea Diaree, but we were all a little bit crazy! Whoopee!

The Banker went home before me, and was happily grinding away in his sleep when I got in. I passed out in my bed, only to be awoken again in the middle of the night. The snoring again? No. The grinding you ask? No. A semi-naked man crawling between the sheets with me? Yes, that’s the one. I leapt out of bed like a steel-springed jackrabbit on speed and demanded a coherent explanation for this behaviour.

Snore. Grind. Contented mumble.

Yes, pity The Banker. The poor fellow can add sleepwalking to his list of nocturnal aptitudes. He must have gone for a midnight piss and felt the subconscious pull of my deep sexual attraction drawing him to me. Completely understandable. He’s just lucky I am not one of those predatory faggoti one reads about in le paper.

Day Four

Tragedy. After three days boarding my body is rejecting the obvious truth of my sporting talents. Awoke to crippling back pain, splitting headache and nasty chin zit. Apparently are related to my technique of falling over at high speeds and landing on a) coccyx, b) head or c) le hotties.

Pah! Pah! I replied to le Bodie. Too long have I indulged your demands for nine hours sleep, wrapping you in feathered doonas and lathering your surprisingly muscular contours in Neutrogena cocktails. Today I am in charge. You hear that Bodie?! Moi is Master! Quiver in le fear!

Back in bed by 3pm. Pain like childbirth in my kidneys. Consider may be birthing internally.

Day Five

Take notes Diaree. This is why mankind has evolved to become the dominant species on the planet; we use tools to solve our problems.

Problem: backpain. Solution: corset.

At the le pharmacie I mimed my way through old-man-escapes-from-nursing-home-at-mach-0.0003-due-to-debilitating-back-pain, and the nice salesgirl directed me in English to the sports bandage section. The discrete “abdominal support device” on the shelf unwrapped to resemble a gortex sarong but my god did it support my back. With my liver and intestinal tract in my chest cavity I was not only able to brave the slopes again but I looked like The Hoff doing so. Something for tonight on the town I think.

Day Six

Dear Diaree,
What a perfect way to end a perfect week! With a few more of The Welshman’s excellent boarding lessons under my (slimmer than usual) belt, Lady Welshman and I successfully navigated a black run! There was a slight hesitation when the run “ran out”, but once we’d realised that in fact the vertical cliff was the run there was no holding us back. I love love love skiing holidays.

One last night of carousing and drinking games followed, with all parties returning to their assigned beds. I’ve always thought there is a lovely symmetry in the number three so I was pleasantly surprised by another nocturnal interruption to my sleep. This one had nothing to do with snoring, grinding or inappropriate bodily contact, and everything to do with the gentle thud of liquid on imitation oak.

Yes, The Banker had gone for another wander and – as we all do from time to time – mistaken the wardrobe for a urinal. It’s perfectly understandable. One is porcelain, is mounted at waist height and has a sanitary drainage system leading to a sewerage treatment facility. The other is wood, has a door and leads to Narnia.

In the 32 seconds it took my brain to catch up with the situation the deed was nearly done. It took another 7 seconds to establish that The Banker was, in fact, sleepwalking and not just very lazy, and another 13 to decide that it was best for all parties if he stayed that way. You hear horror stories of people being woken from sleepwalking and frankly the man was armed. So I left him to shake himself off and calmly return to bed, and did the only adult thing possible; throw his towel on the floor to soak up the mess and run away to breakfast very, very early.

Day Seven: Departure

Ah, back to home sweet home Diaree. My bed, lots of normal cereal and a long hot bath. Still, as lovely as it is to be back I miss the Welsh crew already and suspect I am suffering from holiday withdrawal symptoms; I put on a beret and stuck my head in the freezer but it’s just not the same. I will just have to be strong and stick it out until next year’s season, and maybe ask the flatmate to piss in my wardrobe occasionally to soften the blow.

Au revoir! À l'année prochaine!

New Year, New Man

2008-02-10T00:00:00.004Z

For those who have been with me since the beginning you will recall that at the start of last year I stated that 2007 was “The Year When Things Will Happen.” Well, I was right, but after a year of solid dating and man-chasing I have decided that 2008’s resolution will be to Calmly Wait And See. Here’s why.

We pick up the frayed string of this narrative after my usual Wednesday night public lavatory grope. After such an auspicious start to a relationship I had no choice buy to accept the Guardian Date’s offer of a three-course dinner on his 80-foot boat that Saturday night.

Awash with images of 80-foot Mediterranean pleasure cruisers moored in the Thames Estuary I disembark from the train at Strood. As I walk through the Morrisons carpark to the marina flashes of tanned skin and helpful smiles from the onboard staff pass through my mind. Even as I step across the mud flats onto the renovated dutch barge I continue to hope for a semi-nude Italian butler, but there is only an old cat to wait on us. And the rather lovely Date of course.

Dinner is amazing. The man sure can cook, and is full of interesting conversation to boot. Sure he’s older, but that simply means he’s very influential in his government job, can hold a rational debate and has a beautiful house. Boat. Whatever.

Dessert arrives, and more wine from his cellar. It is like eating cute little babies. As we finish he leans back in his chair, fixes me with those clear blue eyes, and embarks.

GD: “So HW, I have this friend who has a theory about gay relationships.”

HW: “Hmmm?”

GD: “He thinks they can be broken down into five categories.”

HW: “How interesting.” Let’s see; The Broken Streetlamp, The Randy Morning, The Drunken Fumble, In Stationary Traffic and The Cold Food Section. Or how about…

GD: “Yes, I thought so. He thinks they are; 1) Random Hook-up, 2) Just Dating, 3) Boyfriend and boyfriend, 4) Long-term relationship, and 5) Civil Partnership.”

HW: God, how dull. “Gosh, how interesting.” I wonder if there’s any dessert left?

GD: “Yes, I thought so. Anyways, so clearly we are not relationship type 1…”

HW: “Yeeees…” A sinking feeling accompanied by the screech of fingernails digging into the table.

GD: “And clearly stage 2 has been reached.”

HW: “Yeeeeees…” Adrenalin causes the legs to spring in anticipation and beads of sweat to prick on the lip.

GD: “I just wondered if we were at stage 3 yet?”

HW: “[NO NO GOD NO] Well, I think after knowing each other for [FOUR FUCKING DAYS] such a short period of time it would be [TOTAL INSANITY] foolish to [LOCK ME IN A CELLAR AS YOUR PLAY THING] rush it.”

GD: “Yes, you’re right. Fine.”

You see, after a year of dating so many not-quite-righters I had come to the conclusion that I give up too easily, that I am too quick to find an excuse to break up. Breaking up means not having to change or accommodate the needs of others, and I can be a little selfish at times.

So the Guardian Date was the one I chose to stick with. What’s wrong with being keen and committed, I asked myself. Isn’t that what I was looking for? Champ down on the Flight reflex and go with Fight for a change; Fight for Truth, Fight for Honesty, Fight for Love.

And some more wine. I definitely need that.

The Next Day.

As fresh-faced Dawn throws her silvery veil across Albion I am woken by the singing of birds across still waters, and feel the warm arms of a strong man holding me close. It’s hideous. I want to retch. Wait, I AM retching; heaving as my body attempts to dislodge the dehydrated llama turd that has been deposited in my mouth overnight.

In an attempt to disguise my convulsions as the pangs of love I roll over to identify the owner of the Warm Embrace. I am welcomed by a too-close-for-this-hour grin and the glazed eyes of new love.

“Morning beautiful.” Oh god, the retching again. Will it never end? And also, what a big fat liar. Beautiful? I’ve seen this face in the morning and there is nothing beautiful about the unidentified eye leakage, the blotchy skin and the KFC-family-bucket hair. Oh, and what’s that? Ah yes, we also have Pillow Drool this morning; some still wet, some crystallised on my cheek for later.

Wait, he’s saying something again… Oh fuckit, I can’t concentrate at this hour. Let him waffle on. Besides, I have bigger problems. Let’s see…

Wednesday: first date
Thursday/Friday: flirtatious texting.
Saturday: fancy dinner at his house with a side order of sex.

Fuck. I slept with him.

I. Am. A. Slut.

Up until this point I had managed to maintain a sense of dignity and proportion in all my emotionally abortive liaisons. I had rules, structures. Only Kiss On The First Date. Never Order Cumquats For Gay Dessert. Don’t Mention Growing-Up-With-My-Nine-Cousins- And-Grandparents-In-An-Isolated-Outback-Community Until Drink Has Slurred Their Speech. The Lucky Pants Are Reserved For Will Young. What happened to the man of dignity who once coined these rules?

Hang on, he’s talking at me again. In some strange language. What, it rhymes? Pillow talk in rhyme? Huh, two can play at that game. How about...

Jump out of bed and get me a coffee,
I’ll rip off your head if it doesn’t come promptly,
Bring it to me on a platter of gold,
Now scurry along and do what you’re told.

Oh! How I amuse myself. Wait! Here comes another, bubbling up from the depths...

Thy hand, it moveth towards myne groin,
It creepeth and seeketh my most sacred loins,
Desist! I resist thy insidious approach,
And express with a hiss myne deepest reproach.

Oh the hilarity! If only I could date myself, life would be so much easier. And think how hot the sex would be. Sigh. God, he’s still talking. On and on and on. Hang on, that’s not speech. He’s not talking, he’s spouting fucking love poetry! In bed the morning after date numero duo! Oh my god quick abort abort find something heavy and blunt that won’t leave a mark no no no it’s too late for that go for something sharp between the eyes like a knitting needle or a Renaissance dagger or an oversized tent peg what the fucking use is that brain an oversized tent peg you say why I happen to have one here in my pyjamas oh no what are the chances I’m naked you fucking idiot…

Stop. Breath. Breath and count to ten. Remember, you always run away. Give him a chance.

But…

No, give him a chance. He’s just a bit keen.

I’ll remind you of that when we’re being hacked up and put through the boat’s “convenient sewerage grinder that empties straight into the Thames, permissible because we’re moored within its tidal pull.” When we’re a mixture of poo and brain protein floating paste the Thames Barrier I expect an apology.

Just breath for me.

Fine. We’ll stay for now.

Unsurprisingly it only lasts three weeks. I stick it out until after Christmas so as not to ruin his festive break at home… alone… with the cat. Not even I am that evil. But I couldn’t bear him carousing in the New Year with songs of new love and hope that springs eternal, so I dump him on the 27th.

May the Spirit of 2008 have pity on my blackened soul.

Do unto others

2007-12-09T01:04:00.000Z

It’s a Wednesday night. I’m on a date. Bloke. Met him on the Guardian’s dating website. Chose him because he has an 80-foot boat and blue eyes. First meeting.

Things are not going according to plan.

The Plan was to have a drink, determine if he’s a fuckwit or not, and then cut-and-run. Play it cool. Leave him slavering for more.

The reality is he has managed to get two Guinesses down my throat in 20 minutes, which means we have left the exponential curve linking HW’s mental judgement to alcohol units at the point where the line of tangency becomes vertical. If you were to crack open my head now you would see a series of severed cables dangling in the gulf between Rational Thought and Libido Control. And the ruddy Guiness toucan dancing around with a pair of wire cutters in his beak.

So drinks become dinner, which becomes a piano bar. I am now four Guinesses, a bottle of red wine and two vodka tonics down, and am officially In Trouble. The earpiece linking me to The Best Friend Help Desk fell into my seafood soup at dinner and had to be rapidly swallowed as an unconvincing prawn, and I am having trouble differentiating between the straw in my cocktail and the thin scary man at the bar. This is not good.

The Date comes back with more drinks, and as he does so the gentleman-of-darker-persuasion sitting opposite asks him if he knows where the loos are. “Fuck”, I think. “Pissing. Yes. Pissing. This would be good. Yes, yes. I too will now piss.”

I enter the Gents, noting with my Holmesian eye for detail that there are two closely-placed urinals and one cubicle. The gentleman who asked The Date for directions is already relieving himself into one urinal, and is laughing and singing away happily. He attempts to engage me in conversation but I’m more interested in freeing the 243 litres of piss that have suddenly materialised in my bladder than debating Schopenhauer’s notions of free will. Still, it costs nothing to be polite, so I so I mutter some inanities back and dash into the empty cubicle.

“Oh god oh god the buttons they’re stuck oh god why the fuck don’t they put zippers on jeans anymore I mean it must be easier for the little Chinese kids to sew on zippers for 14 hours than buttons but maybe they like the variety oh god I’m going to piss myself on a date the indignity the ignominity is that the right word or does it have fewer letters and yes yes yes the buttons are off and ahhhhhhhh…”

As 243 litres arc to freedom I notice that my friend has decided that the best way to get my attention is to stick his head around the cubicle door and continue his prattle while I piss. When I give his latest joke a polite chuckle he takes this as assent, takes a step closer and peers around my shoulder. Before I can say “excuse me young man may I enquire what you are doing invading my personal space in such an inappropriately intimate manner?” he has reached down and given Mr Dangle a good ol’ grope. While I’m still pissing.

Fuck I hate gay men.

Trapped as I am by the liquid rope that holds me in unholy communion with the lav, the best I can do is splutter “Whoa! Mate! You’ve really got the WRONG BLOODY IDEA!” With a nonchalant shrug and a giggle he departs, leaving me pondering when exactly when in the history of social development it became acceptable to hold a stranger’s genitalia in a public place.

I’m thinking never. And I’m also hoping that my mum has stopped reading my blog. Reaaaally hoping.

Of gods and men

2007-11-25T22:32:00.000Z

Dear mortals,

As I gaze down upon thee from the formidable heights of Mount Olympus, noting thy pathetic scratchings and scrapings from my throne of gilded buttocks, I place a wearied hand upon my brow and bid thee stop, pause thy pitiful scurrying, look to the heavens and…

Check. Out. My. Life. It’s fucking fantastic.

As you are all well aware, my life wasn’t always like this. No, up until last weekend I was one of You Lot, my days spent gazing at the Navel of Discontent and chewing the Fat of Melancholia (it tastes like liquorice if you want to know). But now? Well, now I neck beers with Dionysus, make little charm bracelets with Hephaestus and perve on Apollo’s buns with Hermes in the Pool of Nubile Youths (just don’t drop the soap).

How did this happen? My ascent up Mount Olympus began last Saturday night, at the 30-something birthday extravaganza of my good friend The Maggirister.

For those of you new to my world, The Maggirister is a freak of human nature: half barrister, half internationally-acclaimed card magician. He flies through the streets of London in a spandex suit emblazoned with diamonds and hearts, resolving commercial litigation with one flick of his mighty Delia Smith kitchen scales, and accepting the cheers of a grateful populous with a nod of his immaculately coiffured wig.

We dated once; briefly, tragically. It ended with moi throwing The Maggirister’s heart into oncoming traffic on the Portishead bypass, where it bounced off the bonnet of a 1972 Skoda before being eaten by pack of rabid Somerset inbreds. Fortunately he has since successfully grown a new one with the aid of a much more loving man and his rather beautiful 8-pack.

So. The Dinner Party. Not one to do things by halves, The Maggirister hosted a catered, four-course event for 16 people in the ‘Oak Room’ of his historic apartment building. You know the one. Next to the Ballroom. Underneath the 17th century fresco of dancing cherubs. I know, I know, not a patch on one’s usual vomit-on-the-half-eaten-kebab Saturday night out but one must struggle on as best one can.

Not surprisingly most of The Maggirister’s friends were from the ‘Magic Industry’. The first fellow I spoke to worked as a Hustler on American TV, which sadly proved not to be a career in the porn-rodeo business. Less pink-tasselled chaps, more ripping-off fat stupid yanks. Delightful conversation, but disappointingly he didn’t fall for my trick of hiding my wallet in my pants and challenging him to ‘hustle [that] out Big Boy.’

Magic guest number two worked as a consultant for film and stage. His last job had been to figure out how the lead in “Desperately Seeking Susan - The Musical” (oh so much material here) could sing the final number whilst being sawn in half. Ah yes, how often I have pondered the same question. Oh, and he’d helped Daniel with his magic tricks in Harry Potter 3. Ahem. Of course your faithful narrator took all this in his stride, snuck off to the bathroom and wrapped the hand that had touched the hand that had touched Harry in a plastic bag, never to be washed again.

And so to Guest 3. Ah, Guest 3. If Guest 3 was a drug, he’d go in your toes or up your nose. If he was real estate, you wouldn’t even be allowed to change the colour of the medieval finials. If he was your primary school maths exam, Mrs Woodley would have stuck a gold star to his forehead. Yes, ladies and gentlemen; Guest 3 was a bona fide, A-grade, Class I celebrity.

Fuck. Me.

Fortunately the initial shock of recognition carried me through the introductions, so that when G3 shook my hand and said “Ah, HW, I’ve heard a lot about you” he misinterpreted my stupefied silence as a cool why-the-fuck-should-I-care attitude to celebritydom. Because I don’t… care that is… well, not much… [must get plastic bag off hand before G3 notices fuck fuck double fuck].

As pre-dinner drinks came to an end G3 and I wended our way over the to dinner venue. En route there was an unfortunate accident with a fast-moving garden trowel which resulted in there being an empty seat next to G3 at the dinner table. The poor fellow was therefore required to talk to the person on his left all night who was, oh!, really?! ME?!

Oh how the honey of our conversation flowed! Politics, architecture, music, classical philosophy; nothing was beyond the scope of our most intimate imaginings. For whole minutes we grappled with the breadth of human experience and the dark imaginings of mankind’s flawed soul. And then we talked about boys. And cocks. And boys some more. Who have nice cocks.

Yes, it turns out G3 is a gayer [whoopee!]… with a boyfriend [boo, hiss]… who he loves deeply [fucking cunt fuck]. This point was in danger of derailing my Master Plan of wooing and winning a celebrity for my collection, when Lady Luck decided to help me out.

G3: “What are you up to for the rest of the weekend?”

HW: [with casual flick of his hair] “Oh, the choir I am in are singing one of Elgar’s lesser known works, The Dream Of Gerontius, at the Royal Albert Hall tomorrow. You probably don’t know it.”

G3: “No way! You’re kidding?! That’s my favourite piece of classical music! I sing it in the shower for god’s sake! HW, do you think, is there ANY chance you might be able to get me two tickets? Any chance at all?”

HW: “Weeeeell, I’m not sure. It’s pretty popular. I’ll try and pull a few strings, see what I can do.”

G3: “Wow, thank you so much. Look, here’s my number, call me tomorrow to let me know how you get on.”

HW: [YYYEEEEEEESSSSSSSSS!!!!] “OK. Like, whatever.”

After dinner, in desperate need of wing-woman advice I rang The Best Friend. Typically, she completely missed the point and asked “HW, do you actually fancy this man?” What on earth has that got to do with the anything? I mean, really. I needed advice on how to eliminate The Competition in a multiple paper-cut tragedy with a Royal Albert Hall program, not some moralistic mumbo jumbo about Right and Wrong.

The next day I got the tickets, sang my little heart out in the concert and afterwards met G3 and his beau outside. A small crowd had gathered around G3 and some chav was asking him to sign her Megabus ticket with an Asda eye-liner, so I chatted to The Competition for a bit. Disappointingly he turned out to be lovely. Intelligent, sincere, fucking lovely. Suddenly I couldn’t imagine pushing him under a bus or setting a host of genetically-engineered squirrels onto him, let alone slowly bleeding him to death with a musical programme. Fuck. The best laid plans of mice and fucking men.

As a consolation prize G3 and Lovely Beau gave me a lift, and after they’d been dropped off their driver took me home. As you do. I may not have ended up dating an A-class celebrity, but hanging out with him and his boyfriend was a nice second best. Drive, take a left here; we're going to Mount Olympus.

This blog is ruining my life

2007-11-11T23:05:00.000Z

You out there! Yes you, reader! I have a bone to pick with you. There you sit, slumped in front of your computer with your voyeuristic desires and your wilted pot-plants, casually dipping into my life to satisfy your pathetic need for Thrill. Do you ever stop to thing about me? Huh?! Poor old me, who has to carry the weight of your expectations on his rather shapely and finely formed shoulders? Do you ever think about the effect of your addiction on the Little People?

No, I should think you don’t. Well, here’s a sobering tale to make you think next time before you click.

My life started unravelling last Friday night when, after a gruelling week of mincing around the office designing pretty things I decided to reward myself by watching the DVD box-set of Queer As Folk. I’d been meaning to do this for a while, as being a gay man who has not seen Queer As Folk is a bit like being the only member of the 12 disciples still sporting a foreskin.

I settled myself into the sofa with a bottle of red and a cuddly toy, and delved headfirst into the lives of those three loveable lads from Manchester. I laughed when they laughed, held their hands when they were sad, and cheered when the Evil Homophobe Texan Robot King had his biblical energy core ripped out with the pulsing pink power of gay love. Heady stuff.

Unfortunately, I didn’t read the product safety guidelines that advised against watching this material alone, and so it was that my flatmate came home to find me sobbing into my claret, rocking Booboo the stuffed penguin in my arms, and blubbering about wanting to find a boyfriend.

Now, I have many charming personality traits, ranging from a need to pass judgment on other people’s morals through to an ability to drool my own body mass while sleeping on public transport. However, the most useful off all is the cold metal core of Practicality that our mother has given to all three of her children. Not for us the pathetic self-indulgent pity of the lower classes. No, if you’ve got a problem you make a list of potential solutions in your neatest handwriting, with a numerically weighted list of pros and cons beside each, and you eliminate the weakest options until you are left with a gilded, glittering path forwards.

Here was my list:

1. Stay at home and cry some more. PROS: inexpensive. CONS: no available homosexuals in house.

2. Lure homosexuals into house using a trail of sequins and pink candy. PROS: inexpensive. CONS: likely to attract camp man wearing grandma’s clothing and/or red hood.

3. Answer Guardian classifieds ad for 'Men Seeking Men. PROS: high-likelihood of meeting intelligent, witty tofu-muncher. CONS: see ‘pros’.

4. Go out to gay bars with friends. PROS: guaranteed great night as can poke fun at freakshow gays. CONS: wing-woman lives in Bath; technique tried on many previous occasions without success; high risk of going home with freakshow.

5. Go out to gay bars alone. PROS: social awkwardness guaranteed to force HW to talk to freakshows; no matter how bad it is will be able to write a blog about it.

And there it is. Point 5 sub-clause 2 pushed me over the edge. It’d been a slow week and I was feeling the pinch, so if I didn’t go out you’d all be hearing about the lint shaped like the face of Mother Teresa I'd found while clipping my toenails.

Saturday November 3rd. 8pm. I arrive at stop number one on my Night Of Gay Horrors. I order myself a vodka tonic, saunter casually around the bar to establish by sexually-charged presence, and come to rest nonchanlantly in a well-lit corner where there is plenty of space for a queue to form.

It takes me about 32 seconds to realise that maintaining a sense of cool approachability while drinking by yourself is about as easy as doing the Timewarp in a wheelchair. My desperation builds as I realise my drink is nearly done and I am looking less like a desirable catch and more like a lonely alcoholic. There’s only one thing for it; I receive an imaginary text.

Ha ha ha ha! I chortle. Oh! How amusing all my friends are who are not currently present! I smile knowingly. Oh look! One of said friends is ringing me. Yes, yes, I’m waiting for you all to join me. No! Not at all! Take your time! I’m having a ball here by myself. I LOVE being out alone! Really?! He did what!? Oh, what silliness, what crazy times we have! You guys! I hang up and put my phone away. But OH! No sooner have I done so than someone else is texting me. Gosh, so popular tonight despite the external appearances of a pathetic loser.

Time to move on.

Stop number two. En route I call the Aussie Hairdresser – who goes out by himself a lot – for tips. “Stand near the bar,” he advises. “If you’re in a corner men will think you unapproachable. And try to look like you’re having a good time.” Can do.

I prop myself up on the bar and cast my wicked eye about. It sees that the man in the thong and boots dancing on the bar top has a cold, so has to alternate rubbing his lathered groin up a pole with blowing into a Kleenex. It also sees that the dress code appears to be “your sister’s wardrobe” while I have in error gone for collar and skinny tie, and that the only people by themselves look like they are a few nucleotides short of a double-helix.

Time to move on.

Stop number three. Described by the Aussie Hairdresser as being ‘non-scene’. I wander up to the bar, and as I’m waiting for my v+t to arrive I feel the gentle pressure of a pair of hands on my shoulders and waist as someone squeezes past. Hooray! I think, turning slowly. The inappropriate touching of a gay introduction…

...only to find he is 55 years old. Wearing a hopeful leer. I retch on his hideousness and stumble away.

However, this encounter has galvanised me into action. Clearly the key is to approach, not be approached. In this way you ensure quality control. I identify my target as a gentleman wearing quirky spectacles at the bar, as 1) gay men are usually so vain as to not wear glasses, and 2) he looks like he’s having fun. Oh look! He’s checking his text messages.

He turns out to be an Yankee Banker over from D.C. for a holiday, sporting a refined sense of fashion and an interest in design and architecture. We chat, head outside for some air, and get accosted by a Hen Party for a photo of the bride hoisted between two burly gentlemen. The Old Compton Street usual.

Disturbingly, we have such a good time that we spend all day Sunday together as well, going to an exhibition at the Barbican and walking the city in autumnal sunshine. It’s disgusting; I feel like we’re living an ABBA song. We have dinner, enjoy some censored activities and a few drinks into the wee hours. Two days later he flies out to Barcelona. Cue ABBA track two.

So you, Reader, have completely fucked up my life. It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone interesting, funny, intelligent, and with a stomach to crack nuts on (yes, very funny). Thanks to you I now have, but he lives 3661 miles away. What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?

We are officially not talking.

Life lesson no. 2933

2007-10-27T16:46:00.000+01:00

I would like, if I may, to take you on a strange journey.

Those intrepid adventurers amongst you have already glimpsed this story’s beginning when they travelled with me last month to Brighton, Den Of Homosexual Sin And Lascivious Debauchery. At the time I forgot to mention the bit about the *NUDITY* so it’s time to correct that glaring oversight. Also, the bits about SEX and DOGGING… And DWARFS IN LATEX… with PARIS HILTON. Brilliant. That should get viewer numbers up.

I was in Brighton for the pirate-themed Hen Weekend of a very good friend, with a party that consisted of The Bride-To-Be, her Gay Best Man, and four penis-free individuals. I know, what are the chances. Only 28.6% of those present were men who liked men. In Brighton. I must be losing my allure.

After a day of drinking and dancing we stumbled out of [deleted in interest of author dignity] onto the 2am streets, moustaches as monobrows, eye-patches as crotch guards, and hooped earrings as inappropriate piercings. The Bride-To-Be took one look at her motley crew of mutineers and announced her desire to get naked in the ocean. Obviously I was appalled at the Health and Safety implications of swimming whilst inebriated, but decided the only responsible course of action was to take my kit off and splash around with the lasses. That way if there were an aquatic emergency I would be on hand to sweep the ladies into my arms, battle through the Death Surf to shore and breath new life into their mortal form. And hopefully a few Hotties might see me do it.

In the end only myself, The Bride-To-Be and Cameron Diaz’s Twin went in. My sexually charged strip-before-entry was somewhat marred by an inability to remove my red pirate’s sash, which had somehow managed to retie itself into an impossible knot between pre- and post-drinking timeframes. Still, it created a dashing flash of colour that framed both my rippling pirate’s torso and fine buccaneer thighs, so it came with me into the water…

….which was fucking cold, I might add. Stupid, British, fucking cold. My thin Aussie blood rushed from the extremities back to protect the vital organs, taking with it any loosely attached items of flesh. “Out! Get out!” cried the Primal Instincts. “Let the drunken wenches drown! Fuck them all and get warm!” Primal Instinct had a convincing case, and besides; no one likes to see a man in a sash squeal like a girl. I got out.

Back on dry land, I was faced with the difficult question of how one puts on trousers with a clammy piece of fabric snaking around one’s person. It turned out not to be possible at all, so I stood there for several minutes working away at the now-wet-and-full-of-sand knot until it came free. I had no fears for my contracted dignity however, as the beach was as dark as the inside of a subterranean cow.

Trousers now on, I sat down to watch the show as The Bride-To-Be emerged from the waves. Not exactly Aphrodite riding on an alabaster shell she rather crawled her way out, mewing for assistance from her Gay Best Man. It seemed she was incapable of hoisting her trousers up over her wet legs, so he grabbed her waistband from behind and proceeded to pull them up in a series of jerking movements. Unfortunately The Bride-To-Be’s balance was not what it should be, so she toppled forwards and placed two hands upon the sand to steady herself during this dressing process. It was all a bit arousing for your poor author.

Fast-forward now to last week and we find it is the occasion of the nuptials we were in Brighton to celebrate. It’s Friday night and I’ve just travelled by public transport to darkest Wiltshire, managing to haul my ass to the restaurant for The Bride-To-Be’s last dinner as a single woman. All her family and the pirates are there, and I find myself seated next to The Gay Best Man.

Gay Best Man: “Now HW, we need to talk about the length of your pubic hair.”

[pause]

HW: “I’m sorry?”

Pirates 1 and 2: “What’s this?”

Gay Best Man: “I was just saying to HW that he needed to seriously reconsider the length of his pubic hair.”

HW: [having unnerving flashbacks to Bridget Jones’ Diary] “What on earth is wrong with my public hair?”

Pirate 3 and Bride’s brother: “Yes, what IS wrong with it?”

Gay Best Man: “It’s faaaaar to long.”

HW: [indignantly] “I’m sorry, I’m very happy with the trimming standards of my pubes. And besides, how would you know anyway?”

Gay Best Man’s boyfriend: “Yes, how WOULD you know?”

Gay Best Man: “Why from Brighton of course. You may not have been able to see anything looking up the beach, but with the lights of Brighton behind us we could see eeeeeeverthing, couldn’t we ladies?”

Pirates 1-4: “Sure could.”

Pirate 3: “I rang my boyfriend immediately to tell him all about it. Like a bramble bush it was.”

Pirate 1: “More like a scouring pad I thought.”

Pirate 4: “Or a miniaturised sheep.”

HW: “Look. It was dark. I was very wet. There was some unavoidable shrinkage. I’ve seen lots of pubic hair in my time and there is nothing abnormal about mine.”

Grandma: “What’s everyone talking about?”

Mother-of-the-bride: “The length of HW’s public hair mum.”

Grandma: “Oooh, nothing worse than being a bit too long down there.”

Gay Best Man: “Gets caught in the teeth, doesn’t it?”

HW: “It is NOT too long.”

Gay Best Man’s boyfriend: “So how long IS it? If you were to pull a pube straight what length would it be? In millimetres.”

Pirate 2: “Or are we talking centimetres here?”

Pirate 4: “I’ll get the yardstick.”

HW: “Look. I’m not ashamed of my length. I’ll show you now if you…”

All: “Nooooo! Noooo! It’s OK, we believe you.”

Gay Best Man: “Freak.”

So readers, let this be a lesson to you all; keep it trim or keep it in. Or at the very least, if you find yourself dressed in your birthday suit avec sash, be sure to keep that sash slung low. You never know which perverts are looking.

Will be mine

2007-10-18T21:30:00.002+01:00

Thank you to all those concerned readers who contacted me after my last, emotional entry. You cards, bouquets of flowers and love-affirming prayers of faith to God Almighty have sustained me through this difficult time. Also, whoever sent me an inscribed dildo of chocolate that reads “My love waits for you in the dark places” I salute your instability.

I can, however, report that all your concerns are unnecessary. The pain of rejection cannot touch me as I have, for many years now, carried the talisman of a secret love. Also, I am a bitter bastard whose heart resembles the prune you lost behind the couch in ’87, but we’ll go with the glass-is-half-full for now.

I first met Secret Love back in the bitter winter of 2002. The frosts burnt the ground with fire that year, forging iron from the sweet soils of autumn. The winds ran their hungry fingers around the faces of babies, searching for death in thin scarves and hastily buttoned bonnets. And the cloak of night! Oh! How it sought out the hidden shames of the soul and scattered them like fetid meats upon the land for all to pick over.

With the rest of Great Britain I sought solace in the warm glow of television and the tragedy of other people’s lives. Nothing lifts the spirits like watching total strangers indulge their misguided fantasies on a national stage, and it was thus that we all discovered Pop Idol.

I wasn’t that taken with Secret Love at first. He looked like what you’d get if you bred your uncle with your cousin, then with your brother and finally with your uncle again for good measure. Like the kind of man who'd lock the Princes in the Tower.

But that was before he looked out of the telebox, straight into my eyes, and begin to sing;

“Eyes, like a sunrise…”
[Oh my god, MY eyes are looking a bit bloodshot tonight. What a coincidence!].

“…Like a rainfall down my soul.”
[Well I never! People often tell me I make their insides feel a bit moist.]

“And I wonder, I wonder why you look at me like that…”
[You can SEE me?! You really can, can’t you?!]

“What you're thinking…”
[I’m thinking that I… I…]

“What's behind…”
[Can’t you tell?]

“Don’t tell me but it feels…”
[Yes?]

“Like…”
[YES?!]

“Lo-o-ove.”
[Oh my god! I love you too! I love you Will Young!]

And that was that. He announced our love for each other on national television. Now THAT’S commitment.

Our relationship pottered along nicely until Christmas the following year when The Best Friend passed on a beautiful photo album that Will had made for me. Cleverly, not only did it contain 12 images of him at his sultry best, it also doubled as a calender! Like all the best home-made gifts it was personal AND practical.

In 2004 I took the photo album with me on an eight-month work posting to Malaysia. Malaysia was quite a difficult time for me. I felt overworked, socially isolated, and had a parasite living in my crotch.

Will was my rock at this time. I nailed him to the wall beside my bed and his hilarious stories about hi-jinks on tour provided a breath of fresh air in my life. “What do you want to hear about?” he’d ask as I came home at the end of the day. “Anything that doesn’t involve calculating air vortex velocities through fluted hosing“ I’d joke. Oh how we laughed and laughed until we cried. They were good times. Good times.

My return to the UK took us from strength to strength. Two more photo albums were delivered via The Best Friend in 2004 and 05. They were a bittersweet gift for me; whilst smiling on the outside Will’s receding hairline belied the stress he felt at keeping our love secret from an adoring fan-base. I never resented his secrecy, and was comforted to think I must be a wonderful muse for his Art.

And so to now. There were no personalised albums gifted last year, but they were unnecessary. I found the messages Will had hiddien in “Love is a Matter of Distance” and “Keep On”, cleverly only able to be heard when the songs are played backwards in an inverted audio wave-pattern. They tell me to wait for the No. 1 hit entitled “Engineer Of My Heart” which will be the signal that he is ready to declare our glorious union from the rooftops. I have my Special Underwear vacuum-sealed in anticipation.

ENGINEER OF MY HEART

Newton could never have calculated
The force of our attraction,
Nor could Edison have predicted
The wattage of our illumination.

The second law of thermodynamics
Proves our love will grow through time
While the conservation of momentum shows
Our trajectory’s sublime.

Build our love on foundations of reinforced bubble concrete,
Broadcast it on all electromagnetic frequencies through the street,
Write it in the stars using a planispherical chart,
So all may know you are the Engineer of my Heart.

Love and war

2007-09-30T22:30:00.000+01:00

There’s nothing that we Gays like better than a bit of melodrama, so you’re in for a treat tonight because your delightful narrator has just been Dumped. That’s right, cast adrift with the unwanted flotsam and jetsam of life. Ditched in the back alley with the rotting detritus of unrequited love. Flushed down the toilet with the discarded tampon of emotional dependency.

I know, I know, we’re missing a whole lot of background information here; you weren’t even aware that he existed. I restrain myself from writing about current beaus whilst dating them in the vain attempt to keep some things sacred. I don’t mind parading my other dirty linen before the beady eyes and scrabbling claws of the Online Masses, but some things should remain anonymous.

That said, you’ve actually already met him; he had a cameo in the last entry as The Hot Aussie. Tall, intelligent and bloody good at his job, he was quite the catch for little HW.

Now normally in relationships I don’t let them get close enough to do any damage. There are the peripheral defences to get through; trenches with wooden spikes, improvised pits with biblical serpents, and the odd mad lady wielding a cat-o-nine tails. Once through those you need to bridge the Moat of Doom and tiptoe through the Minefield of Broken Dreams before you’re even close enough to piss on the castle’s outer wall. I know I know; too much Sci-Fi as a kid.

Usually I date “Type A” (Mr Emotional Honesty). He’s great fun because I know I’m in charge. Brilliant. No one’s getting near the citadel here. The poor bastard doesn’t wear any armour, carries a bunch of dandelions in his quiver and treats me like a princess. I usually watch him flounder against the obsidian walls for a few months, wait until he is weak from exhaustion and then tip pitch on his head.

If I’m dating “Type B” (Mr Too-Cool-For-School) then it’s a whole different ballgame. Instead of an invading army attacking the defences we’ve now got two impenetrable fortresses with two blokes sitting in their towers looking at each other through binoculars. While pretending they’re not actually looking at each other. Or answering the phone. I mean carrier pigeon.

In the 7 years since I last had a decent relationship I have never dated a Type B. Well, actually there was one, but he was a weird mutant strain Type B237 whose castle had been under siege for so long it’s human inhabitants had eaten each other and then eventually died of starvation. The sex was fucking great.

The Hot Aussie was a Type B. Incredibly busy, in high demand socially, we managed to see each other about once a week. It was great fun for a while but eventually I got a bit sick of not know where I stood and decided to take action. I climbed down from my tower, asked my hunchbacked gatekeeper to drive me across town in the family cart, and knocked on The Hot Aussie’s portcullis. The result? A lavender-scented leaflet was dropped from the parapets with the immortal inscription “I’m sorry – you tick all the boxes but the magic’s not there”. I think I’d prefer the pitch.

Now I’m back safe in my citadel, nursing a nasty lavender paper-cut and knocking back the pink martinis. The great irony of this situation is that I used exactly the same line on The Maggirister back in June, and now Fate – the fat-arsed psycho that She is – has decided to teach me a lesson. I suspect that it’s something to do with relationships and warfare, or perhaps Glenn Close in the bathtub accompanying John Lennon at the piano, or about wearing stripes with dots. She’s a cryptic bitch.

Either way I refuse to learn anything, so it’s back to the little map with the flags and pewter soldiers in the War Room. Mr Right doesn’t stand a chance.

Schmooze with booze

2007-09-21T16:15:00.000+01:00

Warning: this blog entry contains gratuitous name-dropping and an obsession with celebrity. Tofu-munching anti-consumerist liberals are advised to look away now.

Strange things have been happening in my life since I moved to London. I appear to be slipping up the social ladder rather than down (as is my usual wont), moving out of my BBQ-in-fancy-dress comfort zone and into a world where people talk about the best places to get renal surgery.

The most recent example of this was an invitation for my Boss, his Lovely Fiance, The Sister and myself to attend the after-party of the GQ Men of the Year Awards. It’s held every year at the Royal Opera House and attracts some impressive names; last year Justin Timberlake and Paul McCartney attended. How we got an invite is unimportant. What is important is that God wanted us to be there.

The evening begins with the four of us have dinner beforehand to discuss tactics. I reassure the hearing-impaired sibling that I will be by her side all night to provide support and drinks… unless of course we see Will Young. At which point I will dump her in the nearest lav with the lines of discarded coke while I win over that freakishly-chinned pop millionaire. She understands the score.

Our invites give us entry after 10.30pm, so we leave it to a stylishly late 10.32pm before approaching the crowds of people milling around the main entrance. I take The Sister in arm, puff my chest out, and imagine how my arse will look on the cover of Heat. She totters along beautifully beside me, her dress sparkling like the sun on morning dew, her cleavage a cantilevered architectural triumph.

We follow The Boss and The Lovely Fiance up the red carpet, pausing to soak up the adoring cries of our fans and to let the paparazzi feel the full power of my three-quarter profile. As we approach the glass doors the big bouncer whips them open in anticipation. Ah yes, this is how life should be. I’ve made it.

Disappointingly, the moment is marred somewhat by some hussy coming out of my door at the same time. She looks at me like I am the shit on her shoe. I look at her like I just coughed her up in my East London toilet. The crowd goes wild; “Jamelia! Over here! Jamelia!” they cry. Like. Whatever. Just get out of my doorway bitch.

The Jamelia Slut moves on and I pass my gold-on-black ticket to the bouncer. It is accompanied by my best look of withering condescension, and I try not to touch him. These people are below me now.

Bouncer: “You're here for the after-party?” Apparently it can read.

HW: [sigh] “Clearly.”

Bouncer: “Well then, you need to join that queue over there.” Indicates a queue for a side entrance that snakes around the block.

HW: “I’m sorry, I think there’s been some mistake.”

Bouncer: “No mistake buddy, you’re with them. Now, you gonna get off my red carpet or what?”

HW: [whimper].

It takes us like a billion hours to get inside but when we do it’s all worth it; Lily Allen is there to greet us. Well, it’s more she’s there to glance over us blankly, but you can see behind the glaze she’s pleased that I’ve arrived. I put her attentions on ice while I go to the bar where – you’re shitting me! – all the booze is free?! I order 11 martinis and 8 sambuca shots and hide them in a corner behind Elle just in case the bar tab runs out, and go back to find the others.

They’re outside on the verandah overlooking Covent Garden. The Lovely Fiance has done the rounds and updates me on who’s who.

Jamie Cullum is standing directly behind me. I limbo back discretely and overhear him say to his mates “…and then I came on her tits! It was awesome!” I’m assuming that the other consenting adult in this debauchery was not Sophie Dahl, given the logistics of wee Jamie actually being able to reach her tits let alone project onto them. Still, illuminating.

Next we pass Orlando Bloom, who has some hideous caterpillar attached to his upper lip. The Sister is deeply obsessed with this man, and toys with the idea of smashing a beer bottle over his head and raping him in a corner. Ha ha! Such hi-jinks! Such hilarity! A sideways glance catches her calculating the distance to the bar and Orlando’s projected velocity through the throng, so I move her on.

And so it happens. The crowd parts, I glance through the suddenly electrified air and see Him standing there, His ocean-deep eyes looking to my very soul. He has an air of hot sexuality about Him, a charismatic glow that says “yes, you ARE the one I have been waiting for”. As a sub-text, He is also fucking fit.

“Oh my GOD! Did you see?! Did you see?!” It’s The Lovely Fiance. “Jude Law just looked right AT me!” Ummm, hello? Is she blind? Steamy heterosexual men in tuxedos do not look at women like that. “Actually, I think he was looking at me.” What! Is The Boss similarly mentally deficient? And now The Sister. “Really? I definitely made eye contact with him.”

A rather unpleasant scene follows, which we shan’t go into. Needless to say the surgery has done wonders, and I’m very pleased with my new nose and bionic arm.

Now the problem with fame and celebrity is that once you’ve had a taster, you want more. A few days after GQ I overheard the head of our PR Agency discussing the launch of London Design Week. Pinning him in a corner I used my Powers Of Gay Attraction (normally reserved for Good deeds, not Evil) to extract a +1 invite from about his person, guaranteeing me unfettered access to the crème-de-la-crème of London’s design society. As my companion for the evening I chose The Hot Aussie, an old friend who endows the wearer with the illusory glow of wealth and power on account of his being a Hottie. Perfect for a bit of schmoozing.

We arrive at the Royal Festival Hall bang on time and are instantly descended upon by minions carrying champagne. About 5127 litres of the stuff. A quick check establishes that none of the staff are famous ala Prince And The Pauper, so I take their dirty champagne and swan on.

There are no famous people next to the Swarovski crystal display, nor are there any on the balcony. There is, however, a boy with champagne. I relieve him of it. Next, I check around the stage – none there – and then in a Crocodile Hunter-esque moment of inspiration I check at the watering hole. Nope, no celebs here, just more fucking Laurent Perrier. To calm my mounting sense of panic I take one for me now, and one for later. And a spare for The Hot Aussie. And another for me. Just in case they run out.

By the time the official proceedings get underway I am near-hysterical with panic; it is only by grabbing on to The Hot Aussie's rather beautifully sculpted arm that I am able to keep from screaming “You fucking frauds! Where are you hiding all the fucking celebs, you pathetic wannabes!” The Hot Aussie politely points out that both Ken Livingstone and indeed internationally-recognised architect Zaha Hadid are pretty famous, but his argument is undone when I point out that ‘celeb’ does not include the old, ugly or intelligent. Does he know nothing?

Eventually I have to admit defeat, and we turn to leave. We begin the descent to the cloakroom, and as we do so pass a familiar white-bearded face rising past us on the stairs. I gasp in astonishment; could it really be?

HW: “Holy shit! It’s Ross Lovegrove! It’s fucking Ross Lovegrove. Look look look look look!!”

The Hot Aussie: “Who?”

What I want to impart to The Hot Aussie is that this man is my design pin-up boy, the person I had most aspired to be as a struggling product design student. That his work is both sensuously beautiful, environmentally focused and fundamentally human. That he represents a key shift in late twentieth century design dogma away from the designer-as-superstar to a celebration of the Work. What I manage is:

HW: “Ross Lovegrove; he designed the lava lamp in my room!”

It is at this point that Ross chooses to turn around to identify which hysterical 13-year-old girl has been proclaiming him to the room. Instead his eyes lock on mine as I announce that his greatest design achievement is a trippy light with molten wax inside. I am the shit on his shoe.

Again.

When Men Were Men

2007-09-02T18:59:00.000+01:00

Welcome back folks; hope you’ve enjoyed the break. Today we are going to explore the late twentieth century Metrosexual movement, discussing whether it liberated or destroyed the social mores of the time. We shall end with a case study that I hope illuminates some of the points of debate.

It may come as a surprise to you all, but there was a time when you knew who the straight men were. You could identify them by their over-sized Metallica t-shirts, uncontrolled facial hair and the unique smell you get when you follow a 4-day pattern of wearing underpants forwards/backwards/inside-out forwards/inside-out backwards before washing them.

In this world the gay male moved as a beacon of style, emotional intelligence, wit and charisma. Women wanted to date them and steal their skin products, straight men wanted their rakishly bouffanted hair, and the elderly thought that anyone who looks that good couldn’t possibly do those awful things to each other. They were golden times.

Then came the Metrosexual, and suddenly the gay man was nothing special any more. Thorpedo wore a white Valentino suit and designed his own pearl jewellery while telling the world he liked the ladies. Goldenballs grew his hair long and announced that all men were allowed to cry at small kittens and eat haloumi. The universe was undone overnight.

In its place a new world of social anarchy emerged where no one was ever quite sure of the rules. To illustrate this point I have brought along a video captured in the late-Noughties. You’ll find the transcript in your lecture notes.

The video shows a gay male out with friends on a Hen’s Night in Brighton. He is able to flout the traditional male-female Stag-Hen division thanks to Metrosexuality, and also to enter a predominantly heterosexual environment unchallenged. As the video begins the subject is approached by a large man with a shaven head; you can identify the gay male by his elaborately detailed pirate costume and ravishing good looks.

Start of video

Rugby Thug: “Hey mate! Wow, cool pirate costume!”

HW: [Oh god, is this how it ends? Beaten to a pulp and left to die in a Walkabout, my precious life-blood mixing with the sheen of spilt lager, vomit and discarded dreams that lacquer its foul floorboards? Fie on't, ah fie, fie!]. “Ummmm, thanks.”

RT: “Where did you get it?”

HW: [Recalling that – outside of London – conversations with strangers don’t necessarily precursor to a knife in the ribs]. “Ah, mostly I made it myself.”

RT: “Cool.” Pointing to the other clientele of the Walkabout dressed as pirates; “And are these your mates?”

HW: [No idiot, they’re my backing singers. What do you think?] “Yep.”

RT: “Nice. These are my mates here.” Indicates cast of Romper Stomper milling behind him.

HW: [Brilliant. GAY MAN DIES IN NAUTICAL HATE-CRIME. My mum is going to be so proud].

RT: “We’re out celebrating too. So, when’s your big day?”

HW: “Pardon?”

RT: “Mine’s in two weeks. I can’t wait. So, what’s the lucky lady up to while you’re out having one last go at it?”

End of video.

Yes, you’ll notice that the rugby thug thinks that the man dressed as a pirate, who is wearing a gold hooped earring, a pearl bracelet and mascara, who’s friends are 5 women and a gay man, and who’s pirate neighbour is wearing a 12-inch badge which says “Look out! Hen Night About”, is about to marry a WOMAN.

Social anarchy in its purest form.

And that’s all we’ve go time for. Leave your homework at the door on your way out, and tomorrow I want 500 words on Johnny Depp: how one man made seamen hot again.

Ask Uncle: August 2007

2007-08-06T23:16:00.000+01:00

Dear Readers,

Welcome to the inaugural edition of Ask Uncle! Since we first advertised Uncle's services he has been inundated with cries of help from girls with eating disorders, young men with emotionally-retarded boyfriends, and lots of oldies having really bad oral sex. We've scoured this goldmine of discomfort and social awkwardness and chosen two letters which we feel best reflect the wide views of our readership. Enjoy!

Dear Uncle,

I am fond of wondrous words and winsome witticisms, and so thought you would be a good person to help me with my problem, viz.: I am addicted to 19th Century novels, and for the most part they seem to indicate that reason, fortitude, honour and all manner of calmness make for a good marriage. They all say one should control one’s passion. But, dear Uncle, I confess to liking Heathcliff a great deal. I should quite like to marry a Heathcliff. I am not fond of his tendency to dig up dead Catherines, but he seems to be the sort who wouldn’t have scruples about tearing off one’s bodice on the moors, and I rather like that. So my question is: can one marry a Heathcliff, and be happy?

Yours sincerely,
Afflicted.

Dear Afflicted,

I once read that Bronte book, back in the War. Ripping good yarn I thought, took the mind off the rats and bombs, so a good choice for husband-obsession.

That said, it's not going to work with Heathcliff dear. Sure he's good at the bodice ripping, but who's going to sew the buttons back on later? And maybe he'll ravage you on the moors, but will he have a pack of lace tissues ready for afterwards?

I can talk about this with confidence because I am a man of passion myself; the wifey and I have a bit of slap and tickle every Wednesday before bed, even after 62 years of marriage. It was VE Day that we tied the knot, under a beautiful summer sky. We ate bananas for the first time in seven years and they tasted like heaven. Of course kids nowadays don't know how to appreciate the little things in life, least of all food. They just eat and eat and eat the fat bastards. Bloody Americans most of them too. Fat AND stupid.

So Uncle's secret to a happy marriage? Taking out the garbage. Metaphorically of course; that's the wifey's job, every Wednesday night. You need a husband who'll roger you sideways for hours so you can't walk straight and then make you a cup of tea. Who'll multitask by bending you over the kitchen bench while you prepare dinner. Forget Heathcliff and focus on Byron, Rhett and Darcy. They may have seemed like nanny-boys but I bet Darcy liked a good poke. Filthy bugger.

Dear Uncle,

If you look closely at this pic of me on holiday - I have issues. Where the fuck do I start, and where do I end?

Anonymous

Dear Anonymous,

We had a lad like you in our unit back in the War. Nice chap, we called him Fatty-Where's-my-Cock or just Fatty for short. Started him off in the airforce but too much ballast y'see, bad for maneouvering against the Jerries. Tried the parachuting regiment, nearly lost him there. Eventually settled in the cadets, provided great cover for our boys against machine gun fire.

Point is, everyone has a place in this world, especially if they enter it armed with a dual purpose twat-cock. Don't listen to those bastards who tell you you look like sausage skin pulled over God's scrotum, they're just jealous. You just need to find your place.

To answer your question, you must "start" by regaining your self-respect. The quickest way to do this is to get the respect of others. Send a photo of your amazing twat-cock to www.genitallove.com and they'll give you a job straight away. This is the beginning. You'll know you have reached the "end" when you can look in the mirror and see a beautiful man looking back.

Why exercise is bad for you

2007-08-02T20:25:00.000+01:00

OK folks, you're in for a treat because this week's entry is interactive. Push that plate of donuts aside, clench those buttocks and flex your mental biceps 'cos we're gonna get physical.

To start this blog you will need to clear a space about 3 feet by 3 feet, or a metre by a metre for the Aussie readership. Place yourself at one end of this space with your feet shoulder-width apart. See diagram A if this is all a bit much for you.

Diagram A

Next, kneel down as if you are about to receive the Holy Sacrament (diagram B).

Diagram B

Place your hands on the ground, palms down, about a foot and a half in front of your knees (45cm Aussies). You should now be 'on all fours' as if you are about to, errr, ummm, receive the Holy Sacrament (diagram C).

Diagram C

Right, this is the tricky part. You need to slide your right hand to the right by half a foot (15cm), and then do the same with your right foot. Now repeat this process with your left hand and foot but in the opposite direction, i.e. to the left. You should now be 'splayed', like Bambi trying to walk before mummy got a mouthful of lead.

Diagram D

Finally, straighten your arms and legs fully; this should cause your bum to ride up into the air at a sharp angle. Let your head hang vertically so you are looking backwards between your legs. You know you've got it right when you feel like an idiot. Hold this position for 15 seconds.

Diagram E

Now imagine you are male, 75 years of age, completely naked and holding this position in the communal showers at your local gym. Imagine also that a young male who looks a bit like, I dunno, ME!, walks in and finds you there.

Yes, I will never participate in any kind of communal gym activity again. The only saving grace is that I walked in on him from this angle...

... and not from this one.

Still, I have to throw it out there; what the fuck do you think he was doing? Cramps? Lost contact lens? Are we all destined to eventually think it is acceptable to get down on all fours, naked, in a public space?

Ying my Yang

2007-07-27T13:20:00.000+01:00

Yes, yes, yes, I know, I’m a terrible blogger. Three weeks since my last entry. Not that any of you bastards seem to care anyway – I haven’t exactly been overwhelmed with emails and comments checking that I’ve not been diced into little cubes by some hot sociopath, made into pickled heure d'oeuvres and fed to his chihuahua at a dolls’ tea party with fucking Barbie. What an indignity.

The thing is, it’s not actually my fault (it never is; just ask The Sister and The Best Friend). Y’see, for the past few weeks this ship has been steered by Dr “Homemaker” Jekyll, and Mr “Bender” Hyde only managed to seize back the reigns of command last night. Word has it he achieved this by beating Jekyll over the head with a bag of mixed metaphors, but that’s just an unsubstantiated rumour mill that catches the worm.

Homemaker began to get some leverage on my brain as early as April. He’s always been there, lurking in the back space I’ve given him between the cerebral aqueduct and the medulla oblongata. Last year he got inspired and decked it out like the fucking elephant from Moulin Rouge; red velvet curtains, shag carpets and a Louis XIV imitation bath-tub. We had a bit of a bust-up over that, with him complaining that the patterned wallpaper wouldn’t stick to the fatty tissue of the walls, and that as his landlord I needed to get someone in to fix the damp. I told him to fuck off and find another brain if he didn’t like this one, and he’s been lying low ever since.

So April trots around, and I start getting emails from mum about the holiday that she and dad are having in July. My parents both have green thumbs, and this year decided to have three weeks in sunny (ha!) England looking at beautiful and historic gardens. As mum explained, she just needed a little bit of help sorting out the finer details… like all of it.

Car hire, booking accommodation, route planning, journey times, visiting friends, train travel and buying a bloody thermos; they all require the use of the practical parts of the brain. These are the areas where Homemaker lives, and suddenly he found himself in demand again.

As July approached he used this new influence to garner support from the other brain residents. First he got Id on side, allowing him to infiltrate my dreams with visions of arcadian landscaped gardens lit by golden sunshine, where naked men wrestled in the box hedges (it seems that not even Homemaker could keep Id fully under control). Next he convinced Ego to get on board, and then in a stunning coup d'état won over Superego with promises of intellectual growth and moral betterment. Poor Bender Hyde was shackled up in the dungeons while Homemaker set himself up in a dictatorship, and as his first proclamation announced to the world “mum, I’d love to join you and dad for two weeks of middle-aged fun fun fun discussing the difference between ginger- and day-lilles in a small rental vehicle. Oh, and let’s bring The Sister along for a laugh.” Homemaker is one nasty piece of work.

The worst part is, I absolutely loved it. Every raspberry-picking, lavender-smelling, topiary-admiring moment of it. We meandered through the Lost Gardens of Heligan, St Michael’s Mount, The Eden Project and even Longleat, where Homemaker made a lot of fuss over the deer that ate from your hand. What a fucking loser; he can be like soooo embarrassing.

The whole experience was made all the better for having mum and dad there, whom I love to bits and who are very clever people. At the end of it all I returned to London feeling relaxed and bucolic; with grass growing on my head and a nasty cough apparently.

Ah London! The throbbing pulse of possibility, the pressing heat of humanity, the grinding pelvis of indecency. I was back! From his darkened cell Bender caught a whiff of a TFL announcement, and knew his time was nigh.

But Homemaker is a cunning weasel in a pink frilly apron, and had foreseen all of this. The first weekend back he directed the HW flesh-mobile to Dorset to stay with family friends and help organise a country fete. More wholesome air, warm bread in the morning and conversations about Kafka over sherry. In a further Machiavellian twist the return to London was organised to coincide with the release of the Potter Bible, guaranteeing the only interaction I had with other human beings was with the pervert whose room overlooks my bedroom window. No pervert, I’m reading a children’s fantasy novel, not “What Little Boys Do When TimTum Has Been Naughty”.

Then last night it finally happened. An Aussie friend – The Amusing Hairdresser – dragged me out to Old Compton Street last night and pickled me in vodka. At the first sighting of an overdeveloped bicep Id was won over, Ego came skulking back at the first sounding of “Umbrella” and Superego simply passed out behind the throne. Without their backing Homemaker was powerless to stop Bender Hyde returning to power in a glorious rainbow-bannered street parade.

The Thoughtful Epilogue

And yet, something is definitely different.

With the tragic inevitability of life The Amusing Hairdresser and I ended up dancing the night away at Moral Cesspits ‘R Us. In a pause between throwing some eggbeater shapes we sat down with a drink and he asked me who, out of everyone in the room, I fancied.

“The man in the suit.”

Sure it was pin-striped (we’ve been here before) but he sat there curled up with a glass of white wine, practically foetal with discomfort. You could see why – he was the only person not showing off the top seven-eighths of their underwear and alternately wearing/removing their tank top (I know boys, it’s so hard to decide; now I’m hot, now I’m cold, now I’m hot, oops cold again).

Choosing him was a 100% Homemaker decision, as he looked like the sort that would be able to carve up a Sunday roast while holding a conversation with my dad about dirty spark plugs. Unfortunately Pinnie replied (yes! I spoke to him) in a voice that only a mother could love, and only if she was deaf in both ears with a tolerance for high frequency vibrations. Imagine Ringo Starr making love to a chipmunk; their devil-spawn would sound like Pinnie.

Extricating myself from this situation required all of Bender’s skills. These mostly consisted of distracting Pinnie by pointing at the wall behind his head, then making a slicing movement across my neck as a signal to The Amusing Hairdresser to come save me. Later on it was Bender who decided that, actually, every single man in this club was a fucking Adonis (in fact, I suspect that if I popped out to the loos I would have found every single man fucking Adonis, the lucky bastard). Yet it was Homemaker who sensibly decided that this was the cue to go home. Amazing.

In the light of this evidence I now suspect that Homemaker and Bender are power-sharing my brain, and that this is the way it should be. Between the two of them they seem to know what they’re doing, and as long as they keep me out of it I'll remain a happy man.

Adventures in the underbelly

2007-07-04T23:19:00.000+01:00

As a clean-cut farm boy from outback OZ, I usually steer well clear of the seedy underbelly of gay life. The polished six-pack that is its public face quickly becomes an unwashed, vermin-ridden potbelly if you wander into the wrong bars, and frankly it’s a world that I find rather embarrassing. Unless of course that bar contains an Amateur Strip Night, and then my moral stance gets thrown out the porthole with my sailor’s cap. He doesn’t need it anyway.

For this little sojourn I gathered a veritable mince of gay friends, flatmates and sisters (literal, not metaphorical). Unfortunately we suffered our first casualties at the door; anyone wielding a clitoris was denied admittance, so we entered the pub a diminished party. This was probably fortunate as there are some things you don’t want your sister to see, especially when she has a tendency to de-knob any man who offends her feminine sensibilities.

Inside, murky figures loitered in the corners waiting for newcomers to wander too far from the pack. We made as much noise as possible to scare them off and gathered near the stage. After an hour or two a sizable crowd had gathered, and on the stroke of midnight - like some blow-up Fairy Godmother - a Drag Queen appeared to announce the beginning of festivities. Members of the audience were invited to participate in the public removal of their clothing for the enjoyment of others; just your usual Wednesday night down at the local.

Act One was pretty special, and I mean special as in Special. No one seemed to have explained to him that stripping is an Art, one that requires timing, enthusiasm and a basic level of personal hygiene. He didn’t so much tempt us with the sensual suggestion of hidden flesh and forbidden desires, as get up there and undress for bed.

Shirt off… then belt… trousers… hmmm, stained white undies next... bit baggy those, must go to Primark tomorrow… wait, I’m forgetting something… hang on… oh yes, my shoes… just bennnnnnnd over to unlace those… tum tee tum.

I was left with the distinctly unsettling impression that Act One entered every week in the desperate hope that he would be the only entrant, win by default, and thereby double his dole cheque. He certainly didn’t do it for a love of showbiz.

Act Two seemed more promising, despite the shadowed form of man-boobs lurking ominously beneath his white T-shirt. Fortunately these proved to be massively over-developed pecs instead, a slippery distinction that is best illustrated by photos of Arnie in consecutive issues of Hello! magazine. Next came the trousers, revealing a rather startling red jockstrap. And then... Oh my god my eye! Oww oww owww! What the fuck was that!? Fuck me! Get out of the fucking way, I need to wash the fucker out before go blind!

Yes, it seems that Act Two had had to grapple with a decision that had never even crossed my mind, but that shits all over Hamlet’s To Be Or Not malarkey for moral complexity; to go soft, or to go hard? The former lends a more Renaissance feel to the performance; think Adam in Cappella Brancacci’s Explusion From The Garden of Eden. However, if one is going for a more robust and virile performance, nothing says it better than a white-meat bratwurst standing at attention. As an additional bonus, every dance moved is emphasised with a nodding, metronomic beat, a kind of visual interpretation of Hard House. Very Hard House.

Now gentlemen, I can sense you all reaching for The Best of Kylie: 1993-94 in an attempt to try this at home, but first a word of warning. Firstly, Act Two was obviously a professional. He had prepared himself beforehand, and sealed the deal with a constrictive mechanical device. No attempt should be made to recreate these conditions at home with any form of rubberband, rusty wire from the garden shed, or dental floss. Stripping is not a game.

Secondly, once the act is completed there is the difficulty of deflation, or rather lack thereof. One finds it rather demanding to communicate the complex metaphysical inspiration of that Flashdance-esque backflip at the best of times, let alone when one’s boner keeps snagging on the interviewer’s cocktail dress. No really. Sequins are like velcro to cock.

A hard act to follow (as it were) but some gentle alcoholic persuasion convinced two fourteen-year olds to give it a go. Yes, Act Three was prepubescent and preputial, but sadly not prepared. As their performance crashed and burned, the Drag Queen intervened to suggest some romantic snogging may save the day. Instead it gave it the air of 3am at a Eurovision afterparty; not what one needs to see on a Wednesday night.

Despite a flagrant breach of Health and Safety regulations, Act Two achieved a comfortable victory. For his efforts in personal moral degradation he was awarded one hundred English pounds and a peck on the cheek from the Drag Queen. If you wish, you may play Hunt The Euphemism.

Sadly no Mr Right came forward that evening, but it was not an entirely fruitless adventure; I left with a useful list of everything I wasn’t looking for in a man, from Abnormal Areola to Zoonosis.

Or just grey Primark undies.

A helping hand

2007-07-02T22:49:00.000+01:00

The things I do for Love.

I’d not been having too much luck of late finding Mr Right. After trying the Singles Night, Speed Dating and writing “Will Do Anything To Form Meaningful Relationship With Man Preferably Resulting In Stable Family Unit Of Two Or Three Children Not Particularly Fussy” on my forehead in Soho, I was all out of ideas. (Yes, I have a big forehead. Let’s move on).

Fortunately, just when my need was greatest, I happened to bump into an Old Flame near work. This was obviously the Hand of God, and had nothing to do with the modified GPS prison microchip I sew under the skin of all my exes. Nothing at all.

Over lunch I mentioned where I now live, and he asked if I’d been to the “White Swan” yet. Turns out that this is the pub at the end of my street with the rainbow flag hanging limply out the front that is NEVER open. This didn’t ever particularly surprise me, as our part of east London has a preeeeetty strong Muslim community. Gay pub. Muslim community. Men holding hands. Men without hands. Men kissing men. Big burning hole where the pub was.

What did surprise me, however, is that it opens every night of the week. As The Old Flame explained, it opens at 9pm and closes at 3am, thereby cleverly avoiding any social unpleasantness and also ensuring the very highest calibre of clientele. And best of all [pause for dramatic effect], every Wednesday [hold eye contact], without fail [tremble with anticipation], they hold an Amateur Gay Strip Night.

The Hand of God had thrown me a lifeline. I knew where Mr Right was hiding.

My Favourite Things

2007-06-24T20:28:00.000+01:00

This week I met a rather strange fellow at a party. He was introduced to me by a friend who fell for Gay Misconception No.1; all gay people will get along swimmingly and instantly want to sleep with each other. While there may be some circumstantial evidence to support this point of view, it is most certainly not the case when one of them is a depressive psychotic with a habit of spitting his sibilants. Please note, not me.

For all his difficulties with bodily fluid retention, the Depressive was an interesting case study. There’s a reason we’re referred to as ‘gay’; it fits. “Ooh, did you know, our Kenny’s come out?! Y’know, the dramatic prancing one who wears the frilly pink panties? Yes, who’d’ve guessed; he’s a Morose!” Doesn't quite work does it?

By contrast, the Depressive was pretty pissed off about his lot. If he could’ve believed in some higher power without also being given a one-way taxi ride to Hell, I’m sure he would’ve given God an earful. Or Buddha. Or... And I’m stopping now.

The negative energy of the experience grated, so to redress the cosmic balance I’ve decided to spread some positive love. And you, my lucky readers, are the conduit through which my love flows. Savour that image, and then read on to learn why…

It’s Great To Be Gay

1. Relationships: With two men, these are a piece of piss. There's none of this ‘Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus’ bollocks. No sireeee, it's just two Martians getting down and jiggy with some green-slimed, one-eyed, E.T. lurvin'.

“You like sci-fi action movies where Hugh Grant is ripped to pieces by marauding zombies and then fed to the Giant Ant Queen? Hey! So do I!”
“You'd like to do some destructive DIY this weekend involving big drills, lots of noise and dust throughout the house? What, instead of shopping for strappy shoes? Awww, sweetheart.”
“You fall asleep 17 seconds after sex? Fourteen for me.”

2. Lifestyle: The genetic quirk that causes men to like men seems to lie next to the triggers for good fashion sense, conversational eloquence, intelligence and tight buns. Read ‘em and weep ladies.

3. Toilets: We’ve all been here. You’re out with your partner at a musical/play/concert/Star Trek Convention, it’s time to go home but it’s a long journey so you both decide to pop into the loo before you leave. Unfortunately, by the time the XX-chromosomers among us are done, the queue for the carpark has snaked its way to Helsinki and back and you’re truly fucked. Oh look! Guess who’s at the front of that queue? Go XY!

4. Male changing rooms: My favourite. At some point in the history of sexual repression, some ugly monk decided that it was indecent for men and women to see each other's nudey bits in public, and voila! the same-sex changing room was born.

This system works wonderfully for stopping dirty fat Victorians from leering at the exposed ankles of young ladies, but rather comes unstuck for gay men. In fact, it has rather the opposite effect, creating the kind of show one would normally pay good money for… ahem, theoretically. For the women out there, it's a bit like donning a fake beard and being allowed to run around hugging the English rugby team at full time. For the fellas, well, it's a bit like being let into the Ladies changing room.

And before I sign off, I just need to slag off Julie Andrews. All this talk of ‘My Favourite Things’ has reminded me of how disgustingly saccharine that song is. Bright copper kettles? Schnitzel with noodles? Please. The girl wasn’t aiming nearly high enough. If we’d had a bit more focus and a little less Goody Two-Shoes action she might’ve got the Captain’s money and ditched the kids at boarding school. Feel free to sing along.

Twenty-four billion in Microsoft assets,
Daniel Craig’s torso in glistening wet spandex,
Flying to New York for breakfast with Sting,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Cheating at poker and stealing from babies,
Imagining Paris in jail with the ladies,
Angolese diamonds and hip-hoppa bling,
These are a few of my favourite things.

Pool boys and firemen and Chippendale waiters,
Darcy and Heathcliff in nothing but gaiters,
Craig in brown paper all tied up with string,
These are a few of my favourite things.

When my hair’s flat,
When my bum’s fat,
When I’m feeling sad,
I simply remember my favourite things,
And then I don’t feel so bad.

Feeling the love

2007-06-08T13:18:00.001+01:00

Today I am angry. Angry angry HW. Specifically I am so sick of the assumption that as a gay man all you need to do to meet Mr Right is wander down to the nearest club, dip into the communal gene pool (watch out!; the edge is slippery) and drag him back to your cave. The reality is that gay clubs are freakish abominations where the best you can hope to take home is an obscure Amazonian rash.

Your Honour, I present the Prosecution's case.
.................................................................................

Exhibit A: a diminished sense of self-worth

One this occasion H – my ever-faithful wingwoman – has got so sick of me moaning about being single she has forcibly dragged me to ‘Bristol’s Premiere Gay Nightclub’, for which you may read ‘Bristol’s Only Gay Nightclub’. She is convinced that Mr Right is lurking in the stinking damp corners of its dancefloor, and that if we can’t find him we may at least thank ABBA for the music and show those dirty homos some moves. I’ve washed my jumpsuit and everything.

You find us soon after arrival, perched at the bar, knocking back a few G+Ts. I’m trying to build up some Dutch Courage, and I suspect H is trying to ignore the small crowd of women in bomber jackets that is sniffing around her. To get the ball rolling she asks:

H: “So, c’mon, who do you fancy?”
HW: “Ummmm, the barman?”
H: “Oh please, HW, he’ll be some Bristol University dropout who thinks George Eliot was a man. Try harder.”
HW: [George Eliot wasn’t a man? Fuck, what was he then; some kind of hermaphrodite?] “Ummm, the guy at the end of the bar?” I point at a chap wearing a pinstripe suit and loosened tie sitting calmly by himself.
H: “Well, off you go then.”
HW: [Poor bastard, those Victorians must have really given him a rough time] “Oh, I can’t. Please don’t make me”.
H: “Go ON!”
HW: “Please don’t…” [Am sure no one picked on poor George like this].

H makes me.

As I approach Mr Pinstripe I have the horrible realisation that I have never, ever, had to use a chat-up line in my life. This is not a nice feeling. A quick ransack of my brain confirms it is a hollow darkness with a few off-cuts from Woody Allen movies resting in the bottom. I’m fucked.

HW: “Soooo…… Ummmm……Ahemm, yes ah……Do you, ummm, mind… if I join you?”
Mr Pinstripe: [Looking at me like I’m shit on his shoe] “Yes.”
HW: [Momentarily stunned] “……Right. OK. I’ll, ummm, I’ll be off then.”

I skulk back to H, having to admire Mr Pinstripe’s total disregard for my feelings. He is aware of some greater Hierarchy Of Visual Compatibility which grades gay men into strata of beauty, the kind of thing that completely passes me by. I have ventured out of my stratum and been justly punished.

Fuck them all.
.................................................................................

Exhibit B: second degree burning to the lips and chin. Medical report confirms symptoms consistent with Pash Rash.

After that little experience you’d have though I’d have learnt my lesson, but no. On this occasion I have not only managed to enter a gay club by myself but have successfully initiated a conversation with a man. I can only assume I thought I was in a hardware store and that my request for plumbing services has been misinterpreted, but so be it. I’m going with the flow.

Things appear to be going well. He works for the BBC World Service writing political stories about Albania, and so far I’ve managed to avoid letting on that I have no fucking idea where Albania is, although I have a suspicion it may be a spoke on Dubya’s Axis of Evil. He also has a head, all his limbs and no outward signs of fuckwittism, so I’m doing better than the apode I got stuck with in the last bar.

Despite all this I’m bloody nervous, so cue Involuntary Fidgety Gesture No. 236; taking off my glasses and cleaning them with my shirt. Possibly because this causes a spooky resemblance to Clark Kent, or possibly because he’s looking for any excuse, The Albanian chooses this moment to stick his face onto mine. One minute we’re talking some rubbish about the privations of the poor in Algeria or Alberta or some place, the next he’s trying to chew off my epidermis.

Minutes pass, during which I mostly ponder whether it’s salmon or atlantic cod he had for lunch. Eventually the respiratory system comes to my aid and The Albanian has to surface for air. I use this opportunity to push him gently away and say, “I’m sorry, this isn’t really what I wanted.” To which he replies “No, it’s not really what I wanted either. I just thought it was kinda expected.”

I’m sorry? What? Expected? Expected? In the way that one expects the use of sugar tongs because fingers are vulgar? Or that you expect a gentleman to avoid the use of spirits, tobacco and onions in the presence of a lady? How about we try this one; I expect to be able to hold a conversation with another human being without my uvula being treated like a smurf-sized punching bag. Good god, gay etiquette is truly fucked.

The Prosecution rests. I don’t give a fuck about the Defence’s argument. It’ll just be some twat in a pin-striped suit anyway.

The winner takes it all

2007-06-03T18:44:00.000+01:00

I’m not a fan of loose ends, so it’s time to tie a big fat knot in the speed dating story. Here’s a summary of the situation as we left it.

Option 1: The Barrister: tall, funny, sexy, leaves me with a winning smile.
Option 2: The Speed Date Organiser: blonde, cute, hot, leaves me with his phone number.

It’s clear before the race has even begun that the Barrister has a heavy no-phone handicap, and as the gun goes off The Organiser leaves the stalls with a clear head start. Exploiting his advantage he texts me within half and hour of leaving the venue to tell me that I have a hot arse (ohhh, bless), thereby increasing his lead to a body-length.

A week of dinner and drinks follows, and I am completely smitten. On the bus I find myself wondering how The Organiser would look in lavender tails with a carmine trim, or if open shirts would better suit an April wedding. At work I take the down pantone swatches and try different colour combinations for the walls of the childrens’ nursery. And at night I get the big pot out from under the sink and warm some water for his pet rabbit.

Around this time I get an email from The Barrister, whose horse has stopped for a snooze in the clover near the starting line. His real name is actually Justice Hordinger*, and the email comes from jh@justicehordinger.com

“Wow!” I think. “Justice must be veeery important at his Barrister-thingy place to have his own name as an email address. Interesting. I’ll just see what google has to say about it”. Within seconds later I’m at www.justicehordinger.com. The website is dominated by a stylish black and white photo of a man in a tux whose suave expression says “Oh Moneypenny! Let’s do it now! Yes, on the exploding pens and the typewriter because you drive me mad with passion!”

“Odd,” I think, “he looks a bit like The Barrister.”

Digging a little further I discover that www.justicehordinger.com is a website for an internationally recognised magician who has done shows in Europe and Vegas. He has his own book and has appeared on an American TV programme called “The Greatest Magicians in the Universe”. And there are more photos.

“Fuck me,” I think, “it IS The Barrister!” Barrister. Magician. Magician. Barrister. He defends the rights of the Innocent while sawing beautiful women in half. He pursues Truth by day and makes you dance like a chicken by night. He steals your wallet, swallows your kitchen knives and pulls a rabbit from your trousers, all while wearing a powdered wig.

Suddenly this is a two-man race again.

The problem is, I am not a player. I’m a one-man kinda guy, and finding myself having to juggle two potential Mr Rights causes my brain to go into catatonic shock. Fortunately the thumb of my right hand is ready to take over the reins, and it sets about busily texting The Organiser with wilful abandon. With no SuperEgo in charge it soon breaks the three golden rules of 21st century dating; thou shalt not be the text initiator, thou shalt not text when thou hast nothing to say, and thou shalt not text ANYTHING at 3am.

Meanwhile, I'm going on dinner dates with The Magirrister and finding him deeply fascinating and infinitely kissable. He gets us into private clubs with hidden entrances, lives in an impeccable Bauhaus apartment, performs amazing léger de main (the dirty bastard) and is generally perfect. Abso-bloody-lutely perfect. But – oh, here it comes – I don’t feel the magic. Yes, Fate is fucking with me.

About 100 yards from the finish line The Organiser’s horse stumbles on a mound of unanswered texts, falls, and breaks its neck next to a very pink rabbit. The Magirrister’s horse struggles on valiantly for another month, but is eventually disqualified for being a ‘friend’ rather than a racehorse. Appropriately there are no winners, only some idiot holding a golden cup who thought that two was better than one, and that a race was better than a stroll.

Bugger. Back to square one.

* no, really.

Through a glass, darkly

2007-05-28T23:12:00.001+01:00

OK, time for some honesty.

In my previous entries I may have given the impression that all I am looking for in Mr Right is intellectual synchronicity, spiritual alignment and a planetary conjunction of humour. Or at the very least a whopping fat chequebook. While all these things are true, we need to flesh out this list because like all gay men I am, at heart, a dirty great pervert.

The difference with me lies in the manifestation of this vice. While most of my brethren have no qualms taking happy snaps of sweaty toned torsos as they writhe in serpentine ecstasy on the dancefloor (oh yes ladies, get thee to a gay club), the very sight of a toned ankle leaves me feeling faint. And dirty. HW is a dirty dirty boy.

Fortunately I work in a temptation-free environment. It’s a discreet product design company hidden behind mirrored windows in a back alley of Farringdon. You can find it if you search amongst the garbage bins and discarded electric cars that clutter up the rear entrance to the Guardian Newspaper; our loving neighbour who blocks out all our natural light. In such a location we get very few Dangerous Hotties passing by, and I can hide in the loo if any Fit Engineering Suppliers come to visit. What a tragic oxymoron.

So it is that you find me a few weeks past, working on some fascinating computer modelling of a bevelled-gear drive system, and generally being very non-purvey. There’d been a close shave that morning where I’d nearly looked at the Coffee Boy’s tight buns as he leaned down to get the milk (hey, I’ve always drunk lattes) but I’d made up for it by putting on my hairshirt once I got to the office.

Imagine my surprise then, when in the midst of a very tricky bit of structural analysis, I get some divine intervention. The Big Man In The Sky leans down and suddenly booms in my ear:

“Yo! HW! Enough with the hairshirt already! Chestnut is NOT your colour, and goat’s hair is sooooo last season. Give yourself a break, cash in some of your points from the Karma Bank, and induuuuulge your filthiness!” At which point He leans down and trips the Guardian’s fire alarm.

Right on queue a veritable mince of beautiful young things wafts from the Guardian’s doors. They congregate loosely in the alley; Swarthy Intellectuals here, Rugged Polemists there, Dashing Copyists sprinkled in between. Breathless I stagger to the window for a better look, my face pressed in wild abandon against those wonderful tinted and yes, one-way windows. I am in Perverts Paradise.

As these Lovely Lefties chatter innocently about who ate the last freetrade-soy-curd-vegan-nut-delight biscuit, my gaze lingers desperately on every pair of black spectacles and each typewriter-toned forearm. I am in a heady state of euphoric freedom, released from guilt by the knowledge that they have no idea that I am watching. I also realise there is nothing sexier than a man in a fitted floral shirt passionately espousing the combined evils of global warming and rampant capitalist consumption. Well, apart from the same man minus the floral shirt. Tied to a bedhead. With gaffa tape over his mouth.

But I digress.

Far too soon the all-clear is given and the crowd returns inside. However, I am not unchanged by the experience. I am left feeling strangely liberated, and at peace with my inner pervert (his name is Hornblower Jackson by the way). He and I ponder the fire drill procedure at the neighbouring art college, and I express a certain concern for the employment criteria at the Guardian. Surely the UK’s anti-discrimination laws require a certain percentage of mingers and freaks to be employed? But Hornblower has the answer; they must have been left inside to burn. How very right wing.

From (nowhere near) Russia with Love

2007-05-23T07:30:00.000+01:00

Time: 7pm
Place: Deep in the Gay Heartland of Soho
Agent: Federal Working Operative HW a.k.a. FWOHW
Mission: To seek, identify and capture Mr Right from amongst 51 decoy models
Window of Opportunity: 3 minutes

1856 hours: Enter the de-militarised zone between homo and hetero territories. Pink-shirt-with-chest-hair camouflage accepted by locals and queue successfully infiltrated. While awaiting entry potential Target A identified and analysed for suitability.

Darcy factor? [Check] 6’4” tall. Straight gay-man quotient? [Good] Sequin scan is clear. Mental stability? Uncertain at this point, but high borrowability of leather jacket a strong mediating factor. Request permission to engage with target. Granted.

1906 hours: Target A [Codename: The Barrister] leaves queue and moves into position at back of bar. Interrogation suggests close match. Target tagged for later tracking.

1907 hours: Arrive at front of queue and encounter first obstacle; The Gatekeeper. Mission Control has done its homework; The Gatekeeper identifies FWOHW from clipboard and sticks tag to chest. Lingering application of sticker and repetitive patting of shirt suggests Gatekeeper as Target B. Logical analysis overwhelmed by whoa!-helloooooo… effect. Unauthorised flirtation ensues.

1915 hours: Misson guidelines announced by The[yesplease!]Gatekeeper. Fifty-one targets are identified through a numerical tagging system. Odds sit, evens rotate every three minutes. Sexually-suggestive banter required between rotations. Targets must secretly classify each other on a scorecard as ‘Yes’, ‘No’ or ‘Friend’. Classifications may be annotated with helpful descriptions such as “Cute But Dumb”, “The Fat Bald One” and “Oh My God As IF” for later reference.

1921 hours: Speed dating begins in earnest.

1924 hours: “Hiya! I work in the Weights and Measures Department for the Government. We control Time by counting the vibrations of helium atoms. It’s fantastic!” Negative.

1927 hours: “So you’re walking into the ocean and you’re allowed to take one oversized inflatable with you. What’s it gonna be?” Logic suggests your head.

1930 hours: “So buddy [wink], you’ve got a minute. Impress me.” Mission Control, request authorisation to kill.

2043 hours: Scorecard reads: Irish [tick] big nose [x]. Pretty boy [tick] camptastic [x]. Funny funny [bonus points] one earlobe longer than other [x]. Banker [tick tick] dickhead twat toss-pot [x]. Kurdish [xx] dental PhD [xxx].

2045 hours: Interrogation break. Infiltrate bar area to consider options. Options include triple G+T and vodka cranberry shots.

2056 hours: Mission Control authorise deployment of Tactile Response Unit. Approach Target B with faulty numerical sticker. Target B concurs on unacceptability of bent corner. Removes sticker [brush of skin: tick] and replaces with handwritten version [leaning on chest: tick]. Unnecessary eye contact indicates a hit.

2120 hours: Speed dating resumes.

2233 hours:Scorecard reads: Welsh [tick] sewerage worker [tick]. Skinny arms [tick] ginger [yesplease]. Self-absorbed egotistical wanker [tick]. Stripes with spots [genius]. Romanian peasant hunny [tick tick]. Kurdish [fascinating] dental PhD [perfect match].

2250 hours: Mission Control recall FWOHW on suspicion of poisoning. Symptoms include loss of auxiliary control and diminished analytical reasoning.

2253 hours: Target A departs with a nod and a smile. Target B’s telephonic communicator digits captured.

2300 hours: Return to civilian territory. Scorecard microfilm safe. Mission reported as a success.

Welcome to my world

2007-05-13T19:41:00.000+01:00

As first seen on www.the-h.blogspot.com. Kind thanks to H for her support and instant access to her far-from-stable fan base.

Right, here are the rules. While I am in charge nothing of significance will be discussed. There will be no considering the Greatest Moments in Post-Colonial Australian Art. No debating the merits of Trotsky VS Rowling. No swapping recipes for eggnog. No, here we will be interested in one question, and one question only; how do you meet Mr Right when you're, well, a Mr Right too?

My particular problem is that I've been given a shining pewter set of 19th century morals by my parents, which doesn't sit well with the quick-handjob-in-a-public-toilet lifestyle you inherit when you come out. It leaves a bitter taste in one's mouth, as it were. No, rather than date someone who is attempting to channel Kylie I want to be with a man who is simple, honest, and has a jaw to cut rocks on. Think Darcy having a quick snog with Bingley out the back of the stables.

This poses a few problems. The options for meeting gay Mr Right are limited, and can be summarised as follows:

1. "Ooh, you're A Gay! I know a Gay! You'll be perfect for one another." Yes, and I know another hysterical horse-faced twat - happy to introduce you.
2. Having someone rip your shirt off on the dance floor: this is the homo equivalent of telling someone they have nice eyes.
3. The Internet, where one can meet lots of men who are 9-12 inches tall.
4. Gay Day at London Zoo: to be fair I didn't actually meet any men at this one but there was some very suggestive eye contact going on at the penguin enclosure.

Over the years I've exhausted items 1-4, so on New Year's Eve this year I decided that 2007 is The Year When Things Will Happen ("2006: The Year of Change" and "2005: The Time Is Now" don't count). I decided to seize life by the balls and throw myself into a room full of men looking for love, lifelong commitment and long walks on the beach. That's right, I decided to attend a Gay Singles Night.

I arrive at the bar a tasteful 15 mins late, and am met by a man so immaculate he looks like an animated Ken doll. I am vaguely attracted to him until I recall that a naked Ken is the anatomical equal of Barbie. No fun there. Ken escorts me in and introduces me to the first man we cross paths with, who, while no great beauty, is Visually Acceptable.

HW: "Sooo, tell me a bit about yourself." [HW that was pitiful. We should just leave now].
VA: "Well, I'm a Kurd." [Kurd. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. C'mon HW you know this. You read the bloody Guardian every day you liberal tosser. Where are Kurds from?]
HW: "Sooo, how long ago did you leave... ummm.... Kurd...ish...tan?"
VA: "I think you mean Iraq." [Fuck]. "When I was ten."
HW: "Oh. And what do you do now?".
VA: "I'm a dentist doing my doctorate in diseases of the mouth." [Wow. This guy really knows how to sell himself].
HW: "How fascinating. So what does that entail?" [Why why why do I even need to ask?]
VA: "Mostly the removal of rotten or decomposing tissue for analysis." [And I suddenly have no desire to kiss you. Abort. Abort].
HW: "Great. So I'm going to bar. Want anything? No? Okay."

Emboldened by a double G+T I return to the battlefield, determined this time to choose my own destiny. Ah, they look nice, I'll sit with them.

HW: "Mind if I join you?"
Annoying Fag Hag: "Sure." [Why are you talking to me? Why are you here? Shoo vile woman. I am clearly interested in your Hot Mediterranean friend].
HM: "Hi."
HW: "Hi. You've got a great shirt. Where'd you get it?" [Nice. Complimentary. Opens the conversation. Keep this up boy and you'll be getting some sweet lurvin' tonight].
HM: "My mother give to me before I leave Greece. Everything too expensive in London. Shirts too expensive. I work in bakery. I save money, come here tonight."
[Oh god, I've exposed the terrible shame of his extreme poverty. How awkward... and disappointing. No romantic weekend getaways to National Trust castles on the back of a few baguettes. Still, focus on the positive HW. Lovely eyes. Lovely arms. Move the topic on].
HW: "Sooo, what do like most about Greece?" [Am conversational god].
HM: "The Olympics."
Annoying Fag Hag: "Me too." [Be gone annoying fly].
HW: "That 's interesting. They're a great Greek achievement."
HM: "But better in old days, when men would run nude." [I'm sorry?] "I would like see you run nude. I bet you really swing, yes?" [Oh god, let the image go away].
HW: "So I'm going to the bar. Want anything? No? Okay."

After several more G+Ts and a conversation with a Polish labourer and an Albanian journalist, I am left wondering why I paid five English pounds to attend the AGM of the Eastern Bloc Nostalgia Club. Where the fuck are all the white, middle class wankers with foppish hair who I can talk to about Keats and Constable? What happened to Our Green and Pleasant Land? And how many G+Ts does it take to turn a gay lefty into a Daily Mail bigot?

I depart, and immediately call H for assistance. As always, she sees straight to the heart of the matter. Apparently my fatal flaw was in not paying enough money to meet other men. I explain that my mother would not approve of such behaviour, and besides, gross. But she clarifies: if I pay more it acts as a natural genetic filter, like cream rising to the top of milk. I need to go to a more expensive event. I like her logic.

One lonely internet session and £25 later I am booked in to go Speed Dating. Speed Dating, the love-divining tool of the time-poor-cash-rich, where I hope to meet another gay man who only thinks of Speed Dating when love tools are mentioned. Mark Darcy would understand.