Dave, Live in London

:: Saturday, March 13, 2004 ::

March, you say? 2004? Already? Yikes.

Quite understandably, you probably imagined I’d given up this particular ghost for good. As did I. Not intentionally, you understand, but it just, well, sorta happened.

For which I most humbly apologise – to those who’ve had to adjust their links page accordingly, and those who’ve been misguided kind enough to encourage me to continue (you fools).

So, here we are then. ‘Back’, by ‘popular’ ‘demand’! [inverted comma key explodes through over-use of sardonic tone...]

And what’s been happening, you may well wonder (should you have far too much time on your hands)?

A year, in months:

APRIL 2003

Where I left you, dearest reader/s, manfully manning the Quietest Reception Desk In The World. Manfully.

MAY 2003

Free of the switchboard! And back on the dole. Hmm. Well, maybe we’ll try the bar thing again. At least it’d get me out of the house. And considering I’ve nearly resorted to watching Des and Mel on at least three occasions, this can only be a good thing. Which is how, thanks to the lovely Phill and the lovely Neil, I find myself behind the bar at Comptons. And absolutely loving it. The difference between sleepy local pub and bustling Soho institution, well, makes all the difference. This is fun.

JUNE 2003

In which, as the mighty That once sang, everything changes but you. I’m loving the bar thing, and the tips have certainly improved, mainly thanks to the tourists. If you’re a Londoner you’ll doubtless have cursed tourists many a time, standing on the left of the escalators as they do, ambling down Oxford Street four abreast with their ludicrously-sized backpacks, perfecting the time-honoured art of Stopping For No Apparent Reason, right in front of you. But get behind a bar and suddenly your whole view changes. You especially love Americans.

But sadly, no amount of Americans are going to change the fact that this ain’t gonna pay the rent, kid. Or fund that holiday. Or keep you in the debauchery lifestyle to which you’ve become accustomed.

Then, out of nowhere, a phone call from a company I applied to way back last October. They’ve got a position I might be interested in. And I am. It’s not a million miles from my previous job, but you never know, it might be more interesting. It means selling my soul to office life again, but working most evenings and weekends as I am, I’m starting to see the appeal of having them free again.

And lord knows I need the money – life for the past four months has been, not depressing, not really what you’d call miserable, but decidedly ‘on hold’. You find yourself uttering the words ‘I can’t until I’ve got a job’ and ‘When I’ve got a job I’ll…’ and ‘I can’t afford to at the moment but hopefully once I’m working…’ to the point where if you hear them one more time you’re liable to start battering small children in the streets.

So the first interview goes well, and the second, and by the end of the month I can finally get those loathsome phrases out of my vocabulary. Things bode well when, on my first morning, my manager arrives late and barely able to function through her colossal Sunday-night-induced hangover. We’re going to get on.

Speaking of work, it calls. More after this short intermission.


:: posted by Dave at 6:13 PM contact
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…creeeaak! Shh. Only me. Just thought I’d pop my head round the door and have a look at the old place. Lotsa cobwebs. Dusty as hell. Assuming hell gets dusty, that is. You’d imagine ol’ Beelzebub would have a woman who pops round once a week to give it a once-over. And maybe do a spot of washing. Not much point being the Prince of Darkness if you’ve got to do your own smalls.

But yeah, dusty. Lots of old junk I’d forgotten about. It’s kinda nice being up here though. And not that many cobwebs. Maybe…just maybe…well, it’s a thought. And it was fun. Would it take that much to spruce it up again? Get a few new things, make it look lived-in? It’s a temptation. And I never was any good at resisting that.

Dammit, Janet! Get your marigolds on and pass me that duster. We’re going in…


:: posted by Dave at 5:38 PM contact
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And now, the end is near. And so I face the final phone call. My brief yet oh-so-glamorous career as a receptionist comes to an end tomorrow. Which is probably just as well, since my fingernails are now filed down to frankly dangerous levels, and there are really only so many copies of Marie Claire a boy can read.

It's been a whirlwind* of activity though. Not just upwards of five, sometimes six telephone calls a day, but a whole multitude of errands too - why, in the last week alone I've been out to buy milk, some shelves (v butch), flowers (not v butch) and have even travelled halfway across London to pick up some cakes, bearing icing inscriptions to 'Norma' and 'Betty' - which is either the MD being nice to elderly relatives or having some sort of rather disturbing double-octagenarian affair. And I've faxed some things.

Next week I shall be taking a well-earned rest in order to recover.

* In the sense of...actually, no, not a whirlwind at all.


:: posted by Dave at 10:40 AM contact
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I can't tell you how nice it was to be out drinking in the sunshine in Soho on Thursday evening. Or how Friday was spent lazing on the Heath with good friends and good food, how great Substation South was on Friday night, how much fun Saturday night's party was, and how extraordinarily good Sunday's LA3 extravaganza at the Electrowerks proved to be.

Nope, can't tell you, because I wouldn't know. I can, however, tell you the entire ingredients of Night Nurse, backwards, without looking at the bottle. Precision Flu, specially devised to wipe out all four days of the Easter holiday while causing no collateral damage to the working weeks either side of it. 'Annoyed' does not begin to cover it.

Attempts to make the best of it did not go entirely well. Sunday evening, for example. Switch on radio in hope of entertainment. It's Dance Anthems on Radio 1. In which the records are interspersed with an endless stream of limited-vocabulary halfwits desperate to tell the world about their 'blinding weekend mate' or how they're 'off to 'ave a large one at Lorraine's in Chester-le-Street' or some such other exotic destination. Normally, this is just irritating, but today, I'm actually envious. Retreat to the safety of Heart FM where at least the pinnacle of most callers' weekends will have been taking the mother-in-law to the garden centre.

TV, meanwhile, is not an option. Have you seen the Sunday night schedule? BBC1's 'highlight' is yet another cosy rural drama series called 'Born and Bred' for which even the trailers '..remember the good old times?...when entertainment was spending time with the family...and everyone had a sense of community...' are enough to bring back your Sunday lunch.

An exercise in cynical marketing so thinly veiled they might as well say:
'Stuck in the past? Over 90? Isn't everything dreadful these days? All that bad language! Then watch our utterly bland nostalgia-fest, cynically especially designed with you in mind. Look! It's set in a nice country village somewhere – in the north, if you like! - back when they used to have a village post office and everything. Really slow-moving plots so you can't get confused about what's happening (not that it will stop you). And look! It's got that nice one in it, you know, him, the one who used to be in that other thing that you liked - ooh, what was it called again? - that one about the vets - ooh, I've forgotten now, would you like a butterscotch dear? We've even put it on at the same time as Heartbeat on the other side because we're banking on you being so fucking stupid you won't realise you haven't switched over until near the end, and by then you'll want to find out if it really was Mr Perkins who let that sheep out of the gate, so you'll keep watching anyway, because that's how lame-brained and easily pleased we're relying on you being. Let's face it, we could put on Angela Rippon reading out a knitting pattern for three hours and you'd be happy so long as there was none of that awful swearing they do nowadays. So, just you put your feet up and wallow in some imaginary golden age, while we go and do some more charlie in the toilets. Love, the BBC.'

So, instead we settled for a meal, a video, and a sober (and therefore short-lived) visit to the RVT on Monday. Not quite the planned holiday then, but huge thanks to Kelvin for patiently suffering along with me and indulging my self-pity (often with the aid of chocolate) - of which there was rather a lot. As you may have noticed.

I hope your holidays were better, people.


:: posted by Dave at 12:50 PM contact
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Tarnation. You're looking forward to a long weekend, the sun's out, you've got four days of uninterrupted party time, picnics on the Heath, drinks, gatherings and clubs a-plenty lined up - it's going to be like a real holiday! So it is, of course, precisely at this point that you will go down with some mysterious cough/temperature/dizziness thing which, while by no means severe, is potentially enough to fuck up the whole thing.

Were I a sort of up-to-the-minute, latest-fashion sort of person, I'd be in no doubt I've come down with that newfangled Sars thing. As it is, with me there's more chance of getting that Hawaiian Flu that was going round in the eighties. Or was it cats that got that?

Going to home to sleep as soon as possible and if it doesn't bugger off sharpish, I'll!...I'll!...
...come back to work on Tuesday really, really miffed.

Still, Happy Easter one and all - and as my old gran used to say, may your eggs be plentiful and not melt in the sunlight, forming an unpleasant goo which may be difficult to explain away later. I think it was a nursing home thing.


:: posted by Dave at 4:07 PM contact
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I'm not sure I'm quite cut out for this bar work lark. Sure, I can pull a pint - even bloody Guinness (a drink surely invented as some sort of April Fool's gag on bar staff everywhere), given half an hour or so. But I'm not getting this whole tips and the '..and one for yourself' things right at all.

Twice on Saturday night I stupidly turned down kind offers of drinks, only to regret it minutes later when handing over yet another nice cold beer that wasn't mine.
'Are you new at this, by any chance?' came a conspiratorial whisper.
'Yes, just my third shift'.
'Thought so - even if you don't want the drink you can still take the money and have it later on, y'know.'
'Oh..right..thanks..'

Which I should have done, having made a grand total in tips of - drum roll - eighty pence. Granted, it's not the sort of place where anyone tips a great deal, and things might improve over time.

But even so, this is not good. I suspect I need to concentrate less on the job in hand and more on the banter with the punters. Of the flirtatious variety, ideally. Trouble is, I've barely mastered flirting with people I do find attractive, let alone faking it (which, with no offence intended to the residents of Hampstead, I might just occasionally have to do).

An offer of a slightly different kind at the end of Wednesday's shift, meanwhile. A smart-ish gentleman and large-ish lady of around forty appeared at the side of the bar.
'Excuse me...are you single?'
Now I'm not sure why, but for a fleeting and rather worrying moment I was convinced they were a long-wed couple, about to propose spicing up their marriage with a good old-fashioned game of bang the barman.
'...because our friend over there really likes you.'
A palpable sense of relief. Just the old 'my mate fancies you' routine after all, the school-disco saviour of the tongue-tied and terrified (like, er, me on at least two more occasions than I care to remember...)

Naturally, this also had to be declined. Still, time was when being offered two pints and cheap sex with a total stranger constituted a good night out. Now? Just bring on the eighty pence. I promise not to forget my friends just because I'm loaded.


:: posted by Dave at 9:00 AM contact
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It's not been all work, fortunately. Although there were no less than three Saturdays in March which involved nary a club among them. Unemployment's a bitch.

Those that were good, were good though. The month started, by way of a change, in Birmingham. Or more precisely, with our good friends Paul and Rob at their cosy country cottage in a sleepy hamlet somewhere in a remote corner of northern Worcestershire. Not, you might assume, the sort of place that would turn into a hotbed (and I use the word advisedly) of champagne-soaked excess, sex, drugs and shameless debauchery for the best part of four days. And yet, with a little help from the fourteen? fifteen? sixteen? people invited back from The Nightingale on Saturday night, it certainly did. I'll gloss over the finer details but suffice to say the Daily Mail would have been utterly apoplectic from start to finish. Which, I think, is always a sign of a good weekend.

Question, for no particular reason: does it qualify as a foursome if there are, for instance, two people, say, in the same bed as another two people, but not actually, like, 'involved' with them? Just wondering.

Club-wise, a big thumbs-up to the aforementioned Nightingale (which somewhat disturbingly elicited not the slightest spark of recognition from me, despite having been there only last June) and Sunday night at DV8, with which I was most impressed - great venue, big, contemporary, and with deeply funky music indeed. In fact, not a million miles from London's DTPM, one of my two very favourite late-Sunday-night venues, to which we managed to pay a visit the following week (unemployment, though a bitch, has its advantages - principally not having to get up on a Monday). As luck would have it, my other favourite post-RVT event returns next Sunday, one of the LA3's special nights at the Electrowerks in Islington, which remains one of the highlights of last year in my hung-over and befuddled memory.

Sometime after Birmingham came Action's Black Party, which reminded me why I never wear those heavy leather trousers on occasions when I will be dancing for six hours, but was much fun. And throbbing away up the rear - as they would no doubt say in one of their smut-laden ads - last Saturday's 'last ever' Love Muscle (until the next one).

Since my last visit the good ol' Fridge has had something of a makeover, with a much smarter bar, new floor, and quite astonishingly powerful sound and lights. Plus, somewhat amusingly, the 'backroom barracks', in which you find a row of military-style bunk beds, fully made with crisp, fresh sheets. In case you need a lie down after all the dancing, presumably. One can only pity whoever is responsible for laundry at the end of the night.

Full marks for effort though - all four DJ's came up trumps, the pyrotechnics and giant balloons entertained or terrified (depending on narcotic consumption at the time) and even portly hostess Yvette (in a figure-hugging black outfit that made every spare tyre resemble an actual spare tyre, off a large truck) didn't hog the stage for too long. I'd say it'll be missed, but I doubt there'll be time before the 'surprise one-offs' begin. July 26th anyone?

As for this weekend, I'm behind the bar tomorrow night, which means I'm just going to have to spend as much time this side of it as I can tonight. Damn...


:: posted by Dave at 3:34 PM contact
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You used to know where you were with Smarties. From the dawn of confectionery there were just the normal-sized tubes, and then those giant ones that you might get at Christmas. The tube lids had mysterious letters on, and they had the answer. Everything was simple, and everybody understood.

Now? Now, it's a brand extension bonanza! In the last few weeks alone, I have so far witnessed:

Smarties bars: bars of chocolate with broken up bits of Smartie in them. I cannot vouch for these having not yet partaken, but am assured by former colleagues of reputable taste that they are indeed a delicacy. We shall see.

Smarties biscuits: these are just disturbing. While the tradition of associating chocolate with biscuit is indeed a long and honourable one, the bright, garish Smartie colours and plain biscuit do not comfortable bedfellows make. Gastronomically acceptable, admittedly, but aesthetically terrifying.

Smarties desserts: in those twin pots with a bit of chocolate in one side and some mini Smarties in the other. Not bad, but the Cadbury's Buttons one laughs in its face.

Smarties Mini Eggs: like actual Mini Eggs but in Smartie colours. Or, like actual Smarties in the shape of Mini Eggs. Somewhat pointless, though this failed to prevent me scoffing a large tube of them when placed in near proximity yesterday.

Where will it all end? Smarties crisps? Smarties toothpaste? Smarties single-engine light aircraft?

It's a scary world, people.


:: posted by Dave at 8:36 AM contact
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The Hammersmith & City line is, officially, the worst tube line in London. Even when the Central Line was closed for weeks it was better than this, because at least you knew there wouldn't be any trains. On the Hammersmith & City you'll generally hang around on a cold platform for at least half an hour before finding that out. Or hearing an announcement that your next train 'should be departing Hammersmith shortly' (and therefore will probably be with you approximately a week on Thursday).

If you're a tourist, visiting London, or simply have any choice at all, avoid it at all costs. It's the wanky salmon pink one (see, even the colour is lame-a-rama), it doesn't go anywhere you'd actually want to go that isn't better served by another line*, and if you fall asleep there's every possibility of ending up in Barking. 'Nuff said.

* No, Portobello Road does not count. If you must spend your Saturdays amassing knocked-off antiques and overpriced New Age cack, remember why the good Lord gave you Camden.


:: posted by Dave at 3:29 PM contact
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Just an internal call that came through to me by mistake. Sigh. So that's job A. Meanwhile, new job B involves me being part-time barman at the King William IV, Hampstead's finest (nay, only) gay pub. Which is going fine so far and certainly a lot more fun than the office (though for, inevitably, a lot less money).

I'll be the first to admit I don't have a lot of experience in this particular role, though. Most of what I know about running a pub comes from watching the Queen Vic on EastEnders, which might explain the odd looks I'm getting when each request for a drink is met with a curt 'Stay out of it, this is faaamlee!' and a punch in the face. However I am positively trying to encourage all members of the local community that should they wish to reveal a partner's illicit affair, announce a pregnancy, or perhaps break some earth-shattering news to a loved one, that they should always do so by making a loud speech to the entire pub, preferably at about three minutes to eight on a Thursday. No takers so far, but I live in hope.

I suspect the job may be short-lived, though. The main shift they need me to cover every week? Sunday evening. Every Sunday evening. Which is of course Royal Vauxhall Tavern time, and as such, sacred. Particularly when, as now, my weekly RVT fix can often be the lone shining light in a week of otherwise unadulterated dullness. However, have been reasonably pleased with my drink-creating skills. Okay. despite appearances (ahem) I'm no Tom Cruise in Cocktail, but so far so good, and fortunately there doesn't seem to be much call for Screaming Orgasms in NW3.

Who's next?


:: posted by Dave at 3:11 PM contact
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Alrighty then, some long overdue updating. So what's been happening? Well not unlike the seminal (and yet, in a way, crap) Aussie soap Sons and Daughters, there's been love and laughter, tears and sadness and happiness. Mixed in with rather a lot of boredom and toast.

Right now, however, I'm coming to you live from the true arse-end of London, the hilariously inaccessible Ladbroke Grove. Be not ye fooled by the trendy W10 postcode - wherever you're from it'll take you hours to get here and you'll wish you hadn't bothered when you do.

Still, not being in a position to do otherwise, here I am, temping away with, in fairness, quite a nice design consultancy. I'm covering reception, which given there are approximately five phone calls a day, is not overly taxing. Hardest part is trying to not trip over the passing tumbleweeds while making tea.

Mind you, at least it's getting me away from daytime television. I knew things were getting bad when I finally did start getting into Crossroads, and I'd started watching Countdown every day 'to keep my brain active'. Not only watching, but feeling a real sense of achievement when getting anything above seven letters. If there's a job that specifically calls for the ability to rearrange random vowels and consonants into mid-length words, then I am now more than qualified.

I could of course apply to go on the show itself, but the thought of having to endure weeks of Richard Whiteley and those cringeworthy pre-commercial break anecdotes for the faint possibility of at some point winning a dictionary and some sort of useless glass artefact doesn't really appeal. Not when you can go on Wheel of Fortune and win thousands for being able to say your name, knowing three letters of the alphabet and clapping like a seal.

Ooh, a phone call! A phone call! Back in a minute...


:: posted by Dave at 2:17 PM contact
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Thanks to Guy for clearing up the mystery below. Not that it still entirely makes sense, mind you, but at least I can cross it off my list of Things I Do Not Understand.

Which just leaves us with: sports matches on the radio (what is the point?); how and why Emmerdale still exists; and those really wide rolls of tin foil (what, apart from your annual turkey and possibly a spot of Joe Wicks-style interior decorating, are they actually any good for?). Oh, and Chris De Burgh.

Meanwhile apologies for absence, updates on the way, honest.


:: posted by Dave at 5:55 PM contact
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Three words I've never entirely understood: No Purchase Necessary.

You know the sort of thing, it's all: 'Collect 30 tokens off these bars of chocolate and you could win a holiday to Hawaii!', and then, in smaller writing: 'No purchase necessary'. I mean, just what is that all about?

Frankly, if I've just bought and munched my way through umpteen hundred Snickers bars and bothered to save the wrappers, in the hope of winning said holiday, I'm going to be mightily brassed off if it goes to someone who's not even bothered to have so much as a peanut pass their lips, or diced with obesity in such a fearless manner.

There's presumably some sort of nonsense legal reason, but surely if the point of the competition is to get you to buy the product, then what's with opening it up to the non-purchasers? You wouldn't expect to win a raffle you hadn't bought a ticket for, now would you?

Oddest of all are the 'Is there a £50 note inside this packet?' ones on certain packets of crisps. And again, 'no purchase necessary'. Now correct me if I'm wrong, but I feel fairly certain that most shopkeepers would take a rather dim view of you opening up all their bags of crisps to see if they do indeed contain a £50 note, and then skipping off without purchasing any.

It's just crazy! It's political correctness gone mad! It's Carpet Madness! Oh no, that's something else.

Anyway, rant over. As you were, readers, as you were.


:: posted by Dave at 10:40 AM contact
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All this leisure time isn't entirely going to waste though. Oh no. Using my Fitness First membership, which entitles you to use any of their 40 London venues, I'm conducting something of a gym tour of the capital, using whichever one I happen to be nearest to that day. Should you ever need to know, here's how they compare. I've rated them on the following key factors:

Size. It matters. You don't want to be standing in the weights area while the people doing sit-ups have no choice but to look directly up your shorts. Or possibly you do. But, generally speaking, space is good.

Facilities. Given they're all the same chain, there is much consistency. However there are also variations in age and condition. Swanky new marble-tiled changing rooms or past-their-best wooden affairs? Some may offer sparkling orange drinks while at others you may have to content yourself with still. It's important to know.

Eye Candy. Let's face it, working out is deeply boring. Yes, you could put on those rather-too-lightweight little headphones and watch the televisions, but you'll be competing with the music coming over the sound system, and just how much is watching Fern Britton stuffing her face with cake on This Morning going to motivate you anyway? [Er...quite a lot actually - Ed.] However, having a liberal sprinkling of studmuffins (or muffettes, if you prefer) to hold your attention will always help to pass the time more quickly.

The verdicts, then:

Coram Street (Russell Square)
Somewhat unusual design, with the main gym area spread through three separate rooms - so considerably bigger than it first appears. All in good condition, and generally above average on the eye candy scale. Not at all bad.
Size: 7
Facilities: 9
Totty: 7

High Holborn
Ah, my happy home branch, sparklingly refurbished last summer, and I suspect one of the biggest. Loads of space - in comparison with some of the others you'd get plenty of exercise just walking from one machine to another - and seems to appear in TV news reports with alarmingly regularity. Why, only yesterday Olympic athlete Sally Gunnell was bobbing about in there for the BBC. It's also been on Watchdog, but we'll not go there. Eye candy more occasional than constant, but hence not too much to distract you from your routine. V. good.
Size: 10
Facilities: 10
Totty: 5

Albert Street, Camden
Hmm, must be an old one this, as it's looking a little past its best. Really quite small, with the running machines dominating, leaving everything else rather squashed into a corner. And eye candy? It's like being underneath the ugly tree during a violent autumnal storm. Sorry, but there it is. Large notice warning of the evils of Coca-Cola posted on, er, the Coke machine. That's Camden for you.
Size: 3
Facilities: 6
Totty: 0 (apologies if you're a member here, I probably just got there at a bad time. And you definitely weren't there that day)

Ramillies Street (off Oxford St)
Changing rooms not quite up to standard of rest of chain, also a bit on the small side overall - not a problem off-peak but probably best avoided at peak times. Otherwise not bad. Needle on the tottyometer was not swayed much in either direction.
Size: 4
Facilities: 7
Totty: 5

Kingly Street (Soho)
Ah, now this is a good 'un. Not quite as big as Holborn but very well laid out and user-friendly. Plus, it appears to be company policy that all the best-looking instructors must work at this branch. Which can in no way be bad.
Size: 8
Facilities: 9
Totty: 9.5 (for the staff, at least)

So there you have it. There may be more - I hear the Covent Garden branch scores highly on all three counts so may have to pay it a visit. Full report as and when. Probably.


:: posted by Dave at 6:46 PM contact
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Diary of a doleboy, part 1.

- Up relatively early, 9.30-ish, toast, tea, and Trisha. Woman accuses man of cheating on her. Man takes lie detector test, proving conclusively that he isn't. Woman storms off anyway, declaring him a bastard. Eh? This is why I am gay. It's easier.

- 12.00pm. Apparently, the 'Adults Only' swimming session does not involve naked bathing and porn videos. However, if I am never again trapped in so little water with so many possibly-incontinent pensioners, I will be a happy man.

- 3.00pm-ish. Adjourn to local shop, for newspaper and unusually, a lottery ticket. Who knows, one might contain my dream job and the other could make me a millionaire! Odds approximately 14 million to one against, in both cases.

- 5.00pm. Crossroads. It's hammy, silly, tacky, over-the-top, camp nonsense, and yet it still hasn't got me hooked. And I've even been trying!

Tomorrow, high-powered career summit with fellow destiny-seeker Peter, masquerading as a coffee and possibly a spot of lunch somewhere in Soho. Methinks must try harder next week...


:: posted by Dave at 6:57 PM contact
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Just over a year ago I posted a mock resignation letter here on the site, determined that I'd be writing it for real before long. And yet, despite various attempts and much job searching, as little as two posts ago, there I was, still hoping for an out.

Well, the good news is it finally arrived. The not-so-good news is it came in the form of redundancy rather than the discovery of some brilliant new career. Still, at least Objective A (known as 'I'm A Catatonically Bored Account Handler - Get Me Out Of Here!') has been achieved, one way or the other. And while the somewhat modest payout won't exactly finance a future of champagne-soaked excess, I'll take it over an amusing novelty leaving gift, if it's all the same.

Objective B ('find something to like, do with the rest of my life') could be rather more tricky. Health, fortune and impending wars permitting, I could have a good forty, fifty, even sixty years left kicking around this planet. And not the first idea of how I'm going to fill them.

Which is, by turns, exciting, disorienting, and downright terrifying.

On a good day I'm thrilled to be free of the nine-to-five drudgery, the tedious paperwork and more-tedious clients that I won't have to deal with again. The possibilities are, theroetically, endless. I don't have to go back into an office! I could run a bar! I could travel and work abroad! I could write a book! Or at least attempt to.

On a bad day, the realisation that I've still got to earn a living and have nearly reached 30 without anything even approaching a career (at least, not one that I want), nor, realistically, the means or experience to do the things I'd actually like to, is rather stronger.

Ever the optimist, I like to think it'll turn out alright somehow. Then again, it could all go more tits-up than a hooker in a hot-air balloon.

Ay, ay, ay, as Gloria Estefan once said (probably). And as another great thinker once said, 'I'm looking for a new direction, something that will stimulate my mind'.

Or was that the S Club Juniors?


:: posted by Dave at 12:04 AM contact
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Technically speaking, I should be writing this slightly hungover from some post-work birthday drinks last night in Covent Garden. But, unbeknown to me, the bar was of the ‘no-trainers’ variety, a policy which yours truly thought no longer existed outside of rough nightclubs in Essex. You know the sort, wall to wall button-down YSL shirts, black trousers, and shiny black shoes that will end the night connecting repeatedly with the head of some unfortunate who inadvertently looked at someone the wrong way.

‘Sorry, but not in those’, tutted the clipboard-wielding door nazis through their improbably thin lips.
In my mind’s eye I arched an eyebrow and sneered ‘Really? How very provincial.’ or possibly, ‘How very last century’, before turning on my Nike-cushioned heel and departing to somewhere infinitely more fashionable.

Sadly the reality was more like a shrug and an ‘Oh, alright then’, being not about to beg to get into somewhere I had suddenly gone right off the idea of anyway.

Fortunately I foresee no such problems at this weekend’s intended venues, Action and the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, where the only thing potentially frowned upon would be any kind of shirt.

Much more like it.


:: posted by Dave at 11:25 AM contact
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One of those brown envelopes just came around, collecting for someone’s leaving present.
‘Here,’ says Mat, passing it on. ‘It’s an opportunity to give to someone more fortunate than yourself.’

True, very true.


:: posted by Dave at 10:04 AM contact
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Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Nice to meet you
And hello to you, you, you, and everyone else who’s been kind enough to link in this general direction recently, possibly in the sadly misguided hope of finding entertainment on something approaching a semi-regular basis. Apologies for the delay as always. But you’re all great.

As was last week’s holiday to Gran Canaria, should you be wondering. Alright, it’s not the most chic of destinations, and the beach may boast the highest ratio of Fat Naked Germans Per Square Foot of anywhere in Europe (and, one would hope, the world), but frankly, when you’re lazing by the pool in the sun with a nice cold beer in early February, these are trifling concerns.

And any holiday spent at the Vista Bonita is pretty much guaranteed to be a good’un. Much the nicest complex in the resort in my humble opinion (and, ahem, I’ve seen quite a few), with apartments I’d quite happily live in on a full-time basis, and a thoroughly relaxed and sociable atmosphere, thanks in no small part to the ever-so-lovely bar staff.

Always an interesting crowd too (more like a cast of characters as the daily goings-on increasingly turn into soap opera), this time including the Cute Couple (our new pals Daniel and Martin), Rik, Paul, Rich and Jamie the Bar Boys, the Amazing Chainsmoking Lesbians (actually very sweet and lovely indeed), the Big Fat Liar (supposed ‘millionaire’ only slightly less tall than most of his tales), and many more.

Rather less fortuitously, Monday’s peace was interrupted by the arrival of the Inconsiderately Loud Council Fags and Hags (I don’t mean to be a snob - oh alright I do - but there were whole estates somewhere in the provinces where prams were having to push themselves around last week. And not a soul in the audience of Trisha). A mixture of horror and amusement followed as the fattest, campest one of all finally snared a man and demanded sole use of the bedroom, thus resulting in a glass-throwing fishwife fight with the two fag hags (not an expression I like, but here it’s more perfectly descriptive than anything I could conjure) who looked like they’d kill their grandmother for an extra 10p to spend down JD Sports.

Fortunately peace was soon restored by swift words from the staff (of the ‘any more of that and you’re out’ variety) and the rest of us got on with the business of having a damn good time. Which included soaking up the sunshine and sangria at the beach, on the boat, and needless to say, in the bars.

The Yumbo Centre will need no introduction if you’ve ever visited this corner of the world. If you haven’t, imagine your local shopping centre (or ‘mall’ if you prefer) after a severe but not-quite-catastrophic earthquake. Bits of concrete crumble down around the last few shop fronts left forlornly standing, here a souvenir shop bulging with T-shirts bearing palm trees and maps of the island, there a discount electrical shop selling cut-price camcorders to cut-price Coppolas.

Restaurants with plastic pictures of their plastic food compete for attention with the tacky wares strewn across the walkways, as people in gold slingbacks and/or lemon sweaters (this is, after all, an island on which the fashion police are on emergency callout, 24 hours a day) pick their way around gingerly and look somewhat bemused.

At around 10.30pm there’s a sea-change: the slingback and sweater people go home, the shops close, and twinkling among the debris you suddenly spot a gay bar at every turn, filled with leather, lace, and just about everything in between. Sing along to show tunes at Centre Stage, bop around to Europop at Mykonos, lose yourself in the high-quality-porn-and-low-level-lighting of Construction, witness the worst drag acts you’ve ever seen, or simply dance around on a bit of concrete outside XL. The choice, dear punter, is yours.

And yet, horrific as it may sound, it’s really very difficult not to have a whole lot of fun, especially once the more-than-generous vodkas have started to flow. Trashy ‘n’ cheesy, tacky ‘n’ sleazy, but really, you couldn’t have it any other way. And you get to sleep off the hangover on a palm tree-shaded sunlounger, which, for February, can in no way be bad.

I'd fill you in on the other highlights and lowlights, revels and revelations (and boy, were there some of those...), but then I'd have to kill you. But suffice to say, despite how I may have made it sound, a deeply fantastic time was had by all. Bring on the next trip, I say...


:: posted by Dave at 4:10 PM contact
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