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.
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Sunday, 25 November 2007
Of gods and men
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.
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.
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