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!
Wednesday, 30 April 2008
Sunday, 10 February 2008
New Year, New Man
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.
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.
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