Dave, Live in London

Susan Boyle: Back in London

2009-06-09T19:41:00.002Z

Just saw this in the news: Susan Boyle is back. She's had round-the-clock support and care from a doctor at the Priory Clinic, and now she is back to prepare for the Britain's Got Talent tour. Good luck, Susan.

2004-03-13T18:13:00.000Z

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.

2004-03-11T17:38:00.000Z

…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…

2003-04-24T10:40:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-22T12:50:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-17T16:07:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-15T09:00:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-11T15:34:00.000Z

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...

2003-04-11T08:36:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-10T15:29:00.000Z

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.

2003-04-10T15:11:00.000Z

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?

2003-04-10T14:17:00.000Z

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...

2003-03-20T17:55:00.000Z

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.

2003-02-28T10:40:00.000Z

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.

2003-02-27T18:46:00.000Z

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.

2003-02-26T18:57:00.000Z

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...

2003-02-26T00:04:00.000Z

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?

2003-02-14T11:25:00.000Z

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.

2003-02-14T10:04:00.000Z

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.

2003-02-13T16:10:00.000Z

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...

2003-01-31T15:05:00.000Z

Apologies for absence, I’ve been trapped in the house by Pink fans camped outside, threatening my imminent demise and being generally rebellious with their mad hair. Fortunately once the snow melts Mummy and Daddy should be along to pick them up in the Range Rover, and then they can spend the journey trying to split them up so that they too can have a fashionably dysfunctional childhood.

Alright, not really, I’m a lazy fucker and that’s that. And about to be even more so. Am doing what any self-respecting homosexual whose budget doesn’t quite stretch to Sydney or Miami would do in the face of continued sub-zero temperatures and defunct public transport, and that’s buggering off to Gran ~~Estata Councila~~ Canaria for a week in the sun. Provided that a) we can get to Gatwick Airport, and b) it isn’t closed when/if we do.

All being well, back next Sunday. Be good now.

2003-01-24T16:30:00.000Z

Tesco invent credit card that won't work when you're drunk.

Nice idea.

Will never work in a million years...

2003-01-24T15:54:00.000Z

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on mittens, brown paper packages tied up with kittens. Or something. On the grounds that it’s that time of year, and everyone else is doing it so why can’t I, it’s time to review My Favourite Things of 2002.

I use the word ‘favourite’ advisedly – ‘best’ implying some sort of objective judgment involving cultural significance, value and lots of other things that sound like far too much effort. Nope, simply the stuff I liked.

Favourite Album of 2002
Ah, there’s a problem with this category. On looking through my CD collection, I discover that, excluding one or two compilations, I didn’t actually buy so much as one album released in 2002. Largely because there weren’t any that I wanted. The main reason I don’t have an Amazon wish list is quite simply that I can’t think of anything to put on it. Which is probably a subject for another post, but for now, by default, the winner is (hastily opening envelope)...

Will Young – From Now On
..by virtue of being the only 2002 album I actually possess. It was a gift, although a welcome one, as although I wasn’t quite prepared to fork out for it I was curious to hear it, at least. And it isn’t bad. Best in small doses though – after a while the endless succession of string-heavy ballads starts to grate, and it’s desperately in need of one or two upbeat, funkier tracks to break through the syrup.

Some good bits though, like the Burt Bacharach-written ‘What’s In Goodbye?’, and somehow I suspect the second album (should there be one), given more time and space, will be considerably better. For now though, I suspect this one is destined for a life as background music to suburban dinner parties, where it would pass the time inoffensively enough between the prawn cocktail and the passing-round of the Elizabeth Shaw mints. Apart from that god-awful duet with Gareth Gates, for which all concerned want a good hefty slap with a wet kipper or similarly unpleasant fish-based item.

Least Favourite Album of 2002
Admittedly I’m judging only by the singles, but in the merciful absence of much from Nelly Furtado or Dido this year, I’m going for the third member of that particular Axis of Evil, Pink. Did you see the European Music Awards? Just how out of tune is it possible to be? And then there’s ‘Family Portrait’ in which she whinges on about her parents splitting up: ‘I don’t want to split the holidays, I don’t want two addresses’ and so on (and on), as if it’s something even remotely unusual. All over the sort of lifeless, pedestrian beat that simply shouldn’t be possible on a drum machine in this day and age. Humourless, talentless, toss. In my humble opinion.

Favourite Film of 2002
Okay, so I’m not big on films either, but unquestionably Mulholland Drive. I suspect David Lynch is rather like Marmite to most people – you either love it or you hate it – but I’m firmly in the first camp so this was a dark, delicious treat (again, not unlike Marmite, should you be so inclined). My first impressions in January ‘..everything you'd hope for from a David Lynch movie: beautiful, intriguing, stylish, eerie, cryptic, sultry actresses, red curtains, black coffee, the dwarf guy - the works. And, as ever, deliciously confusing..’ still stand. Must see again.

Least Favourite Film of 2002
The only other film I saw last year was Gosford Park, which can’t receive this award on the grounds of being really very good – so we’ll have to fall back on my least favourite film of any year: The Piano. Good god, even the thought of it and my hackles (wherever they are) are starting to rise. I remember being forced to sit through this at the behest of my then girlfriend, and whilst I’ve no aversion to girlie films (I’ll take ‘Mystic Pizza’ over ‘Lethal Weapon’ any day, thank you very much), this really was just too much. Was it just me who wanted to shout ‘Oh just cheer up you miserable cow!’ all the way through (at Holly Hunter’s character, not said girlfriend)? Lost patience about half an hour in, and when she and the piano finally sunk to the bottom of the ocean I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cheer. I’ve had rashes less irritating than this.

Favourite Single of 2002
Ah, now singles I can do. Much more up my street. Ten, in fact. Soon. Ish.

Least Favourite Blog Posting of 2003
This one. It's taking me far, far too long. Will attempt to continue, but first there must be biscuits. There must always be biscuits.

2003-01-17T12:10:00.000Z

Rooster, monkey, goat and donkey form pyramid.

Er, that's it really.

Next week: kitten, orang-utan, cow and nine penguins form dodecahedron.

2003-01-16T16:57:00.000Z

I’m not even going to start on how monumentally bored I am this week, because that would be, well, boring.

But suffice to say that earlier, a new magazine called ‘PQ’ (‘for Part-Qualified Accountants’) landed on my desk. And I’ve actually read it. Highlight has got to be where they’ve asked some accountants what they tell people they do at parties. And it’s not all dull y’know. One wild and ker-razy woman, we’re told: ‘admitted that she once described herself – wait for it – as a hairdresser!’

Oh, the hilarity.

Christ.

2003-01-13T22:31:00.000Z

Apparently, if you come down with a particularly hefty cold and start sneezing your head off at 5pm on a Friday, then take Beechams Flu-Plus tablets, mix in some Benylin 4-Flu ones (the daddy of all known cold remedies in my book - so long as you don't mind being unable to see straight for two days) add some Contac capsules (potential new daddy) the following day, proceed to have a party at which you drink approximately nineteen bottles of red wine, mix in very little sleep, a little beer, vodka, and sundry mild narcotics, you'll end up outside the RVT feeling really fucking awful. Who knew?

Not to mention the three hours spent in casualty - not for me, but Walter, who right now, thanks to the aforementioned wine and a slippery bathroom floor, is probably the only person in Britain with multiple head injuries caused by an Ikea print. It's a long story. Fortunately he's okay, although I can't say the same for the Matisse.

Meanwhile you'll have to excuse me tomorrow, I'll be in ~~Birmingham~~ New York at a ~~meeting~~ glamorous premiere!

Sort of, like, via Birmingham.

2003-01-09T14:51:00.000Z

From the Land of Unlikely Headlines:

Groom Killed By Stripper's Boobs

2003-01-09T14:37:00.000Z

Much joy in our household last night at the long-awaited return of Footballers’ Wives, on ITV1.

If you’re outside the UK, think Dynasty – fantastically far-fetched plots, power-dressing bitches, glamorous-yet-tacky settings, kidnappings, multiple affairs, the old been-in-a-coma-and-lost-memory device, parents passing off a baby as their own (who will apparently turn out to be a hermaphrodite, by all accounts – quite how they can not yet know this I am not entirely sure), a forthcoming lesbian fling and any number of secrets and double-crossings, just for starters. If I tell you that last night’s series-opener was introduced by principal bitch Tanya, floating round her private swimming pool on an inflatable chair, cigarette in hand, huskily recounting the story so far, you’ll get the idea.

Sensibly there is no football whatsoever, but there will always be at least one gratuitous scene per episode set in the men’s showers, post-match. You really can’t ask for much more from television.

All this and you get Jason Turner (Cristian Solimeno), easily walking away with the title of Sexiest Man On Television.
‘But he’s just a meat-headed, neanderthal bastard!’ protested Greg when Kirsty and I first expressed this opinion.
‘Yeah…’ we drooled in unison, with a dreamy expression.
Plus he always gets the best lines, as last night on discovering Jackie had given birth to his illegitimate child after all:
‘Yer baps were leakin’ milk, Jacks, I ain’t stupid!’ Brilliant.

Yes indeed, Wednesday nights have suddenly got a whole lot better.

Meanwhile, find out if you’re footballing wife material with this simple (and blatantly transparent) quiz.

2003-01-08T15:02:00.000Z

And a very merry Christmas it was too. Helped enormously by not trekking home to spend three days marooned in some god-forsaken rural backwater with only occasional text messages for entertainment (generally of the ‘Arrghh! Get me out of here! Oh god, now they’re watching Heartbeat…’ variety) but for the first time, staying right here in the mothership.

Which I highly recommend, with the following provisos:

 Do, if you ever have the opportunity, go ice-skating at Somerset House. Opened in 2000 as a festive attraction, (and having returned each year since) the rink is set in the courtyard of the beautifully-lit building, there’s a huge Christmas tree, mulled wine, music and if you peer through the rain in the direction of a white floodlight, you can almost imagine it’s snowing. It’s like every film set in New York at Christmas ever, you get to fall over in a comedy manner, and if you don’t feel thoroughly festive by the end of it you’re really not trying.

 Don’t, however, attempt to go out for a meal in the West End on Christmas Eve. There you are, picturing yourselves and a few good friends, holed up perhaps in some cosy, jovial, over-decorated Italian restaurant enjoying a hearty meal and plenty of red wine, and it’ll all be warm, jolly and seasonal.

But no. They, and almost every other restaurant in central London will be closed. With the result that you may, like us, end up in the basement of a minimal, strip-lit Chinese restaurant picking at some distinctly unseasonal prawn thing that nobody really wants, to the accompaniment of what can only be described as Chinese Speed Techno. Seriously, you have to hear this stuff. It’s like someone has taken the fastest techno you’ve heard, played it at double speed, and got Alvin and the Chipmunks to do the vocals. Makes you eat really, really fast as well. On the plus side, it isn’t Slade.

 Do spend Christmas day with friends. It’s amazing how much better being stuck in the house is, when you’re with people you’d actually choose to be stuck in a house with. Huge thanks to Stevie P and co for a great dinner, great company, and a damn fine day.

 Don’t, however, having had far too many of those little chipolata thingies and far too much wine, find the nearest sofa or bed and think ‘I’ll just have a little lie down for ten minutes to sleep it off’. You will wake, five hours later, to not only discover you’ve slept through the entire thing, but the horrifying realisation that you have finally become your Dad.

 Do go out on Boxing Day. Most people will have finally escaped their family ties and will be determined to party. The sense of relief at it all being over will have everyone smiling, and you’ve still got another week before you have to even consider the word ‘moderation’. Not a word you’re ever likely to hear in the RVT mind you, which was a treat, as ever.

 Don’t, for heaven’s sake, get up at some ridiculous hour on the 27th to go and queue up for the sales. Outside Next. There will be a report on it on every TV news bulletin throughout the day, because there’s nothing else happening. You will be seen, because they always film the queue outside Next at 6am. And up and down the country, people will be shouting at the screen: ‘What’s wrong with you people? Can’t you get enough bland in the rest of the year?! How desperate can you be for a badly-fitting beige sweater?!’, and the like. Just say no.

2003-01-08T09:59:00.000Z

I am a 29 year old man, and I'm really excited that it's snowing. In Central London! And settling and everything!! Exclamation marks!!!

2003-01-07T23:00:00.000Z

Whilst we're on the subject, there I was thinking 'Live in London' in a sort of rock-concert publicity, shamelessly self-aggrandising sort of way, but it's 'where to live in London' that folk want to know about, judging from the number of times it pops up in my search requests. Even more often than Shakira or Travis Fimmel naked. Neither of which I can oblige with, I'm sorry to say.

But on the London thing, happy to help. So if you've surfed on in here from Google with that very query, or you want to know about a particular area, fire away, and I shall attempt to offer or solicit some sort of useful advice, in a public service kinda way.

Although I'm sure there are, like, y'know, books and stuff.

2003-01-07T22:17:00.000Z

..and a Happy (belated) New Year!

(Not so much 'Live in London', as 'Considerably After The Event In London' as usual, but then I'm sure you've come to expect nothing less...)

2002-12-24T11:39:00.000Z

Merry Christmas! Off to start my shopping now. Yes, really.

2002-12-19T12:28:00.000Z

And slowly, quietly, the office stirs into life. It’s the morning after the Christmas party and all the traditional rituals are being faithfully observed:

 By 9.30am there shall be no more than four people present. Three who either didn’t attend the party or don’t drink, and me. Every year.

 By 10.00am the numbers shall have risen to about eight. Each new arrival shall be clutching a McDonald’s bag, their hangover having led them into the belief that a McMuffin is the answer to their problems. Too late, they will realise that the McMuffin is the answer to no-one’s problems.

 10.30am, and the ‘god, I was so drunk!’ stories have been mingling with the ‘what was she wearing?’s for some time, tales of ill-advised tequilas and even less-advised lycra. And everyone’s whispering about That Girl From Accounts.

 Sadly however, That Girl From Accounts has got every day off from now until the New Year, by which time it won’t be half as funny. Spoilsport.

 Nobody’s arse will have been photocopied. This is an office party myth. You have never attended, and hopefully never will attend, a party of any sort at which there is any form of arse-duplication. Or indeed one at which there even is a photocopier (although if you do find yourself at such a gathering, simply leave. Trust me. There’s a whole world out there.)

 Ditto secretaries and bosses in stationery cupboards. Will not have happened. Although my view here may be skewed by our not having any secretaries, therefore rendering this scenario almost entirely unlikely. Haven’t got a stationery cupboard either, come to think of it. No wonder there’s so little scandal around here these days.

 Many things shall have been lost, and there shall be emails pleading for their return. Our list so far: ‘Moses’-style kaftan (one), glasses, blonde wigs (two), pair of comedy plastic breasts (one), dignity (lots).

 12.00pm. Having spent the morning in the self-satisfied belief that you got through the evening embarrassment-free, you will suddenly have a hideous, juddering recollection. Yes, you did do that. Everyone did see you, and that was your tongue. Sorry.

Actually, the last one has yet to hit me. I think we’re safe. Until someone comes in with the photographs at least, of which at least one is guaranteed to be of you doing something embarrassing that you don’t remember doing. It’s the law. I'm off for a long lunch before anything incriminating can surface...

2002-12-18T15:10:00.000Z

Ah, it appears to be Wednesday already. Just about recovered sufficiently from the weekend to look at the screen again, and if I remember rightly, a fine weekend it was too. I’m fairly sure K & I cooked dinner on Friday night for friends, followed by Chris and Dave’s party on Saturday night, before heading to Crash, and Beyond, the RVT and the LA3, but it’s all a bit of a blur. I heartily support Luca’s endorsement of the Big Gay Disco Bus that runs between the latter two venues, though. Most useful, and one of those ‘only in London’ experiences I suspect.

More when I regain the ability to string a sentence together in less than half an hour, which, given it’s our Christmas party tonight (themed ‘Popstars: The Rejects’ – don’t ask…), may be some time…

2002-12-12T10:48:00.000Z

Good things that happened at the weekend:

 Spent Friday night devouring something big, hot and South African. Yes indeed, my first ever meal in Nando’s, South Africa’s finest chicken emporium. Have worked on some of their advertising before, but never actually eaten in any of their restaurants. Most impressed. Very reasonable and very good – just like going for a meal in their native country in fact.

 In another moment of middle-aged-ness, there was, for once, no clubbing on Saturday. Instead, standing in at last-minute for absent friends, a most civilised visit to the theatre in Hampstead (Stephen Fry’s somewhat controversial ‘Latin!’ – more of which another time perhaps), followed by an Italian meal, and relaxing in front of a Kylie documentary. Possibly the gayest night in history, admittedly.

Bad things that happened at the weekend:

 Aforementioned car thing. Still working (just) but have now discovered that driving around in freezing weather with the windows open and attempting not to breathe lest it steam the screen up, is not particularly easy. And you can’t sing along to your car radio without getting funny looks from passers-by. Apparently the good burghers of Southgate don’t appreciate ‘This Time I Know It’s For Real’ quite like I do. Boo.

 Record of the Year 2002? Gareth bloody Gates? And not even ‘Anyone of Us’ which at least had the benefit of a tune, but Unchained-flippin-Travesty, the most unimaginative, turgid, soulless, poorly-written and over-rated ballad in the history of pop? Were the other voting lines not working?

[Curiously, a search on the above item turns up barely any relevant links - perhaps the web is trying to eradicate this travesty from history as quickly as possible. Google is not just clever, but has taste too.]

2002-12-09T18:57:00.000Z

It looks like it’s the end of the road for Mike. Not our beleaguered balladeer but Mike, my trusty VW Golf. Whilst I’d normally lump people who name their vehicles in with the sort of twisted sickos who send 'Forever Friends' cards with teddy bears on, I confess he’s always had the name.

It started with my friend Emily, in Maths class at school, who had a small bright yellow plastic motorbike out of a Christmas cracker, named Mike the Bike. Entertained us through many a tedious trigonometry moment, he did – quite how, at that age, I have absolutely no idea. Maybe anything is entertaining when your only other option is an algebra textbook.

A year or so later I got my very first motorised transport: a small bright yellow plastic moped, with a habit of falling over embarrassingly in front of the school bus. The resemblance was uncanny. Although I would probably have travelled faster on the one out of the cracker. Hence, also named Mike.

Since which time, through a mixture of tradition, comfortable familiarity and well, sheer lack of imagination, every vehicle I’ve ever owned has been Mike. Sorry.

He’s in a bad way though. I got in on Saturday morning to discover that Lake Windermere had decided on an impromptu relocation to what I can only describe as my passenger footwell. Small groups of fishermen had gathered on the western shores and one enterprising soul was organising boat trips. Well, okay the last bit’s not entirely true.

No problem with the roof, but seems there is a gutter below the windscreen, which, should it become clogged with seasonal leaf-fall, will instead divert all the rainwater directly into the car. Marvellous.

So now I have a minor ocean to my left, while those bits of carpet not under flood are growing some sort of fluffy white fungus which I’m quite sure can’t be good. Decide water has to be soaked up somehow, but there’s a lot of it. Drive to nearest steep hill (Muswell) and park, such that the water will at least run into one place. Boating trip temporarily disrupted by unexpected tsunami. Place enormously large cloth dustsheet into water, in vain attempt to soak up as much as possible. Only moderately successful, and operation hindered by it raining and being approximately minus ten degrees. Cold and wet, decide to abort mission and return to warm flat for coffee.

As it stands, most of the water’s soaked up but it’s a long way from dry. A couple days on a driveway in the sunshine with all the doors open would sort it out but it’s early December and sunshine is a good six months away (and by no means certain even then). I’d run it round for a couple of hours with the heater on full, except in the process of unclogging the gutter I appear to have rendered the air blower thingy unworkable. A prolonged blast with some sort of enormous industrial hairdryer would probably work, but short of Peter Stringfellow I can’t think of anyone who might possess such an item.

So, along with his many other injuries, batterings and bruises (he’s been on his last wheels for several years now), I fear this could be the last straw for Mike. Considering all he’s survived it seems entirely unjust that he should be defeated by a bit of water, but unless I can invent some brilliant way of drying out a car in a cold, wet December it’s going to be me versus the fungi and I’m no match for mushrooms.

Any suggestions?

(*Sigh* I remember when all this was sex, drugs and ~~rock and roll~~ hi-NRG pop nonsense. Now I'm rambling on about my car problems. Hello middle age, yes, I see you there. Next week, What's Wrong With My Oven? and Oh! That Terrible Trouble We Had With The Gas Meter).

2002-12-06T17:14:00.000Z

Kylie calendar update: now no right foot, hair, face, or right breast. Left arm history by Monday. Butt still intact.

Much more adventy goodness over at the new and improved Popjustice blog, and we are loving the Newby's of Molford advert calendar.

Joy be with you all.

2002-12-06T11:27:00.000Z

This here blog isn’t the only thing of Major Cultural Significance I haven’t been keeping up with lately. For example:

Celebrity Big Brother
Came, went, almost completely passed me by. Saw some of the final night, solely by virtue of the law of my generation that states, should you be unfortunate enough to find yourself in on a Friday night, you will be watching Channel 4. It’s the law.

Seemed largely uneventful – the only real mystery being how at no point did Mark Owen go:
‘Christ. There’s my old mate Robbie signing eighty-million-pound record deals and having yet another No.1 album, and here I am, stuck in a house in Hertfordshire with Les Dennis and Anne fucking Diamond.’, before proceeding to lose the plot entirely and bite the heads off all the chickens.

Popstars: The Rivals
Nope, missed this too, all bar about half an hour which consisted entirely of funny uncles Pete and Louis visiting identikit teenagers’ homes to inform them whether or not they’d got through to the next stage. At which point they burst into identikit sobbing/gasps of joy, which all got rather dull after the first ten minutes. Large amounts of stone-cladding, UPVC windows and Laura Ashley curtains were seen during the filming of these segments. Which, frankly, should have disqualified the contestants immediately but sometimes there’s no justice. No idea if the winners are any good, but we do rather like…

The Cheeky Girls
…who nearly passed me by until yesterday, when I had the pleasure of both hearing the record and seeing the video. Genius. Christmas wouldn’t be the same without a crap novelty record. Okay we’ve still got Las Ketchup but you can’t sing along to that unless you’re really, really drunk. This, however combines the sort of brilliantly inane lyrics that only Oasis can match, with the beat of another crap novelty classic, Whigfield’s ‘Saturday Night’, and as such cannot fail to be really quite marvellous. Plus, any song which contains the line: ‘Touch my bum, this is life!’ (surely one of the greatest pop lyrics ever) has got to be good news. And at least it’s supposed to be laughably bad – what’s your excuse, Lopez?

2002-12-04T15:45:00.000Z

Oh good. The dog from the Churchill Insurance ads is releasing a single next week. It's a cover of 2 Unlimited's 'No Limit'. Like I say, oh good...

2002-12-03T21:53:00.000Z

Can we just talk about advent calendars for a moment? My boss has kindly bought them for all of our team - mine is of the chocolate filled variety, and somewhat non-festively, features a big picture of Kylie. Whilst in no way ungrateful for said item, I feel I really must take issue with some of its finer details.

1. It's got thirty-two windows. That's thirty-two. Now, I'm possibly not the most avidly religious person you'll ever encounter, but even I know that the entire advent calendar concept hinges on counting down until, well, Christmas. Twenty-four windows max (not twenty-five, although admittedly I've never quite grasped that one). And when exactly is the 32nd December anyway? Presumably the final window is for New Year's Day but frankly if you can face chocolate on the morning of January 1st you really haven't been trying.

2. 'A milk chocolate surprise behind every window!' it gushingly claims. I'm not so sure. Having opened the first three windows to find a small, star-shaped piece of milk chocolate, I think I can just about guess what lies behind the remaining twenty-nine.

3. Not only a calendar, but flip it over and you can 'Impress your family and friends with this great cut-out Kylie necklace and microphone!' which even comes with handy instructions: 'Place necklace over your head and clasp the microphone in your right or left hand' (as opposed to what, it fails to divulge). Potentially, if your family haven't left the house since 1974 and have spent the subsequent decades with only a piece of string for entertainment they might, just might, be impressed by this. Try it over Christmas lunch. Second thoughts, perhaps Mr German Leather would like it.

Incidentally, due to the arrangement of the windows you may be interested to know that her face has already been removed, while her ass will remain intact until December 27th.

2002-12-03T21:26:00.000Z

You know when you run into someone you haven’t seen for ages, and they ask the inevitable:

‘So, what have you been up to then?’

And there’s an entirely inverse relationship between the time elapsed since you last saw them and the amount of information you feel worth imparting. Two days and you’ll fill them in on everything. Two years and despite those six relationships, four changes of jobs, two house moves, winning that Oscar, the Booker Prize and the Turner Prize whilst simultaneously bringing about world peace - not forgetting that embarrassing incident with those nuns and that watermelon - your reply will, without fail, come out as: ‘Oh, y’know, the usual, nothing much – you?’

Drives me mad every time I do it. For which reason I’m not even going to attempt to fill in the last two months. Twelve days or so, however, might just be ok.

Thursday 21st November
To Grand Central for Kelvin’s birthday drinks. A good bar that we happened across due to its proximity to Expectations where we’d been shopping for Phil and Nigel’s ‘Naughty at Forty’ party (it was, they were). On paper – funky design, Shoreditch location, New York-style menu, Nathan something double-barrelled or other spinning electropop – it sounds like something out of TvGoHome’s worst nightmares, but in fact manages to be really rather nice, neither pretentious nor overpriced and a welcome addition to the list of Bars I Like. I should point out that my opinion is in no way influenced by the barmaid buying us pints on our first visit. At all.

Friday 22nd November – Mon 25th November
On to the Eurostar, and off to Paris for a long weekend – just slightly later, and somewhat wetter, than last year. But thoroughly lovely, much eating, drinking, shopping, clubbing – come to think of it not entirely unlike a weekend in London but y’know, like, French.

With the honourable exception of Sundays at the sadly-defunct (or indeed, de-funked) Palace, I’d never really ventured into Paris clubs that much, but this time we found some good ‘uns, of which I recommend (should you be visiting any time soon):

Butch @ Le Club, Friday
Which was, relatively. Like a lot of Paris venues, largely underground in cave-type rooms, small-ish and atmospheric, and good music, not unlike Substation South in London.

T Dance @ La Scala, Sunday
Much bigger venue on the Rue de Rivoli, and packed by 8pm. Decidedly 80s (think red walls, mirrors and chrome ahoy), more commercial music, extortionate bar prices and improbably built gogo boys – it’s Love Muscle does Paris, but with shirts.

B4 Lounge @ Cabaret, Sunday
As recommended to us by the locals and very, very nice indeed. In the basement of a hotel near the Louvre, very plush, lots of big white curtains, bedouin tent-style chillout area with lots of white mattresses to lounge on, and very friendly despite being, by all accounts, one of the most fashionable places to go in Paris at the moment. Not that the two things have to be mutually exclusive you understand, but speaking as more of a spit-and-sawdust sorta person, nevertheless something of a surprise. Speaking of spit-and-sawdust...

Le Depot
..of which I’ve written before. Still good fun. No garden-furniture-porn this time but they do now have probably the world’s only vending machine to sell crisps, chocolate and poppers. Press those buttons carefully or you’ll spend half an hour with a Kit Kat wedged under your nose wondering why nothing’s happening. I imagine.

Worth missing, on the other hand:
Le Queen
Paris’ biggest and most famous gay club, halfway down the Champs Elysees – but known as much for its draconian door policy and general pretentiousness as anything else. We waited as the entire queue in front of us were summarily dismissed for being too mixed (two guys, three girls), too large a group (six), too small a group (one), and not being gay (although they clearly were). Which makes it slightly worrying that we were ushered in without so much as a question – I suspect flashing my regulation gay white vest may have helped – it has its uses.

As a result, once inside it was all but empty, as tends to happen when you turn all your would-be punters away. I’d been here once before, in 1995, and vaguely remembered there being a large (and strictly policed) VIP seating area taking up half the dancefloor. It still does – more than half in fact, and whilst one look at any Paris café, all chairs facing the street, will tell you that the Parisians love to sit and people-watch, it’s gotta be hard work for the DJs to generate any sort of atmosphere when half the crowd are sat sedately at a table supping champagne.

That aside, an excellent dinner at L’Equinox in the Marais, walking along the Seine at night, and a great Sunday brunch in the sunshine, all added to a gorgeous weekend.

Tuesday 26th-Friday 29th November
Truly, utterly, and quite spectacularly uneventful. Moving swiftly on...

Saturday 30th November - Monday 2nd December
..to a 30th birthday party, a flatwarming, the Fridge, more visits to Compton's than I've had in the last three years (I'm not entirely sure why), another party in Soho, the RVT, and finally the Red Ribbon Ball for World Aids Day at Crash. Which was both thoroughly enjoyable and full of utterly surreal moments. The minute's silence at midnight was particularly powerful due to its sheer incongruity on a crowded dancefloor, followed by the procession of Edna and the rest of the Regal Court, and later, a performance by Mr German Leather 2002. I'm not sure what I'd expected this to entail, but I think it's safe to say that his taking to the stage and growling through Kylie's 'In Your Eyes' came as something of a surprise to us all. Most importantly though, a successful night which I'd guess raised a decent sum - and all without being forced to endure a minor-celebrity-packed telethon and/or novelty single of any kind. Which can only be a good thing.

And brings me up to date. Speaking of dates...

2002-11-29T16:32:00.000Z

…and we’re back. No big change of circumstances but work’s quietened down, I have learned many techniques of furtive posting, and dammit it’s about time. So, a few design tweaks, no more ads, photos, comments that work (hopefully), permalinks (coming soon to a post near you…) – bring it on!

More, much more, next week once I have code, links and mind all in working order - I’m anticipating greatest difficulty with the last one – meanwhile, oh hang on, the beer’s arrived. Excuse me…

2002-10-25T12:31:00.000Z

Apologies for this here extended break. You wouldn't believe how many times I've started to post and been unceremoniously thwarted halfway through - loads to report, loads to say, just none of that slippery little time thing. Looks like it just ain't gonna happen until there's some major change in circumstances (or at least, a new desk). Plus, in the course of writing just the last fifty words or so, I've been interrupted by no less than five phone calls and three visitors. Oh hang on, make that six phone calls.

So, Live in London is officially, for the time being, on a break. I'll leave everything up - let's just consider it an extended intermission - so meanwhile go and read some of my lovely linkees, trawl through the archives, or hey, get out there, spread the word, love your fellow man, embrace the planet with your heart and soul and make the world a better place. Or, y'know, have another coffee and click on some buttons.

But I WILL be back - bigger, better and brighter (well, maybe with some new colours or something) as soon as circumstances allow and you (yes, you) will be the first to know about it.

D x

2002-09-27T10:49:00.000Z

So there you are, happily beavering away (‘to beaver’ I feel, is right up there with ‘to plump’ in the league of under-rated verbs), skilfully filling your space with everything and nothing (especially the latter), not a care in the world and then, then, it strikes. You never see it coming. It gives no warning. It ambushes you while you are quietly going about your business and leaves you stranded. It is the Unexpected Hiatus, and it is not your friend.

This particular UH (as it shall henceforth be known) may be unexpected but shall not go unexplained. As regular readers (you lovely, patient people) will know, my recent desk move - to a position where my screen is visible to the entire sodding office - has not been entirely conducive to regular blogging. Surreptitious surfing has been the order of the day – but not surreptitious enough it seems.

A couple of weeks ago I had an email – too informal to be a warning, more like friendly concern, but from the MD and therefore to be taken seriously – that I would be well advised to keep my internet usage to a minimum during working hours, ‘in light of the positioning of my screen’. Goddammit I want my corner desk back!

Hence minimal activity – I’m writing this in Word as we speak, with the intention of uploading swfitly at lunchtime, but I can’t help feeling that trying to maintain a web page with such limited access to said medium is rather like trying to create a long-running TV epic when you’ve only ever seen ten minutes of Ready, Steady, Cook! and an ad for washing-up liquid.

I’d update from home but you could translate War And Peace into seven languages in the time it takes my PC to post sometimes. So, for the time being, expect updates to be sporadic and even shoddier than usual (yes, it is possible). I have my eye on a better desk. Normal service may yet be resumed. Watch this space. Just not too often, or you’ll be disappointed.

So what’s been happening? What’d I miss?

2002-09-10T16:29:00.000Z

Alright then, Italian breads. Friend or foe?

Y’see, I’m a big bread fan. Fresh warm loaves, bagels, baps and baguettes – all fantastic inventions, not to mention the incomparable perfection of a soft, fresh, processed-beyond-all-recognition loaf of thick white sliced.

But see these here fancy Italian types? Not so sure. Let’s examine the evidence, shall we?

Exhibit A: the ciabatta

Ah, there it is, proudly lining the shelves of that deli you get your lunchtime sandwich from. It says ‘Look at me! I’m so modern and continental! How fashionable you will be if you buy me instead of that tired old bap they’ve got hiding behind me!’

And granted, yes, it’s pleasing to the eye. Big, chunky, white and wholesome – you’re hungry, and it looks like it’s up to the job. But don’t be fooled. Its qualities are almost entirely aesthetic. No matter how fresh it may be, it’ll seem dry and stale already, and no matter how well-filled it may be, there’ll be just far, far too much bread for the filling. You’ll give up halfway through the sandwich once the excessive chewing has re-shaped your jaw, eat the remaining filling, and throw the rest away. Over-rated.

Exhibit B: the breadstick

Are these Italian? Who knows. About as appealing as the combination of ‘bread’ and ‘stick’ implies, though. Possibly the most rubbish bread invention after France’s ‘Biscottes’ - items which in any other country would simply be known for what they are: cold bits of toast. Bring back the bread roll.

Exhibit C: the focaccia

A real offender in the bakery stakes, mostly due to the fascination it holds for people who run ‘gastropubs’ or similar such establishments. There you are, looking forward to a nice, chunky, traditional home-made burger and – lo and behold! – it’s on flippin’ focaccia. This is in the belief that it will bestow upon the humble burger some newfound gourmet status. It won’t. It will just bestow about three kilos of unnecessary bulk, resulting in your being unable to get the damn thing in your mouth, and a filling-to-bread ratio that almost rivals that of the aforementioned ciabatta in its unsatisfactoriness.

Burgers go with sesame seed buns. It’s the law. Salt and pepper. Rock and roll. Terry and June. Burgers and buns, dammit. Leave it.

Exhibit D: the panini

Ah, now, all is not lost after all. The panini is possibly the best thing since, er, sliced bread. Hot, toasted, flattened into a size that’s satisfying to hold and easier still to eat, filled with cheese, ham, tomato or any number of options, it’s the perfect post-pub snack. None of the mess and concerns-about-its-origin of the kebab, I plan to make my fortune opening a chain of panini stalls on every street corner in the country – it’s a snack whose time has come.

Not to be confused with makers of sticker albums. Almost unlimited potential for amusing ‘punani’ gags. What more can you want?

So there you have it. 3-1 against. Next week: ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!’ – rated or slated?

Or some other poorly-researched and entirely pointless article. Ye gods, I need something to do.

2002-09-10T10:41:00.000Z

I got the job! I got the job!

I didn't take the job. I didn't take the job.

You know when you think you want something, it seems like a great idea, and then you get it, and realise that you didn't really want it in the first place? Well, that.

Sheesh.

2002-09-10T10:23:00.000Z

Love and hate on the tube. On Sunday’s journey south, a rather over-amorous young couple. Him, covered, everywhere visible at least, in love-bites. Her, vacant grin, dazed expression, and glazed-over eyes; the sort of look that can only say ‘I’ve been shagged continuously for the last three days’ and says it loud. Sweet, really.

On Saturday’s journey however, two large, gold (and not a little cheap and tacky – I’m guessing the owner/s got out at Wood Green) rings on the seat opposite. Too big to have simply fallen from a pocket unnoticed, these were definitely hurled during some very public tiff (‘And you can keep your f**kin’ rings Darren!! I don’t want none of it, you bastard!’).

It’s like Trisha down there at times.

2002-09-09T16:09:00.000Z

Monday afternoon, and all is well with the world. Well, y’know, apart from that impending war thing. But hey, didn’t we have a lovely weekend dancing to lots of lovely music with lots of lovely friends? Yes indeed.

Friday night’s ‘one or two pints’ at The Yard turned, as is traditional, into three or four, five or six, and an impromptu dinner for seven, from which I have learned that if you get Ken, Barry, Peter, Mike, Greg, Kelvin and myself around a table, there will be flirting. Good god, there will be flirting. There you are, popping out for a simple pizza and suddenly you’re embroiled in a hotbed of barely concealed lust. You don’t get that in McDonalds.

Saturday night, more Soho-based drunkenness, prior to Crash. A little on the quiet side for once, more than likely due to Action taking place just around the corner and competing for the same crowd. But excellent as ever, and while I’ve never really been much of a DJ-groupie, Tom Stephan’s superb three-hour set was more than worthy of all the hype he’s currently receiving. Funky, chunky, and very, very good indeed.

At one point I’m tapped on the shoulder by a masked drag queen:
‘Remember me?’
He lifts the mask, and I do, being a young Brazilian friend-of-friend, now resplendent in small blue cocktail dress and stilettos.
‘Any particular reason?’ I enquire.
‘Oh no, you know, I just felt like it.’
At least I think that happened. Either that or the drugs really do work, after all.

Woke up on Sunday morning to find that aliens had stolen my legs and replaced them with two large lead weights. I’m not entirely sure why – much dancing of course, but there is always much dancing. Good god, is this what happens when you are finally Getting Too Old For All This?

Later, the RVT of course, and a year since Kelvin and I officially became what I believe they term ‘an item’. Technically the anniversary’s today – I confess though that my initial response (‘We’re not having it on a bloody Monday!’) was less than romantic. Well, y’know, hangovers and all that.

Halfway through Dame Edna’s show though, a note is produced from her cleavage, and Kelvin’s only gone and got her to do us a dedication. I am simultaneously surprised, delighted, and just slightly horrified – but fortunately escape too much embarrassment on the grounds she can’t see my somewhat reluctantly raised hand (I may well add this to my list of reasons Why It’s Good To Be Short(ish), along with being able to sleep across the back seat of cars, legroom in aeroplanes, and others too rude to mention here). Jonathan’s impression of our first meeting on the Vauxhall railings, ‘like two rhinos on valium’ was uncannily accurate though. Now I remember what I said…

2002-09-03T13:06:00.000Z

Back, back, back, Sitges was wonderful as ever, more of which later no doubt, but first a confession: I’m in love with another man. Aside from Kelvin, that is. And it’s not the first time either: I fell in love with him fifteen years ago too, back when I was still struggling into my unsightly school blazer. Not for his looks, but for the way a single line from him could simply melt your heart. That, and some damn fine pop tunes.

I refer of course to Mr Rick Astley. Jonathan kindly alerts us to the release of his Greatest Hits album this week in the UK, meanwhile since Saturday I have been the proud owner of his most recent album, Keep It Turned On, released in December 2001, and purchased via the wonder of the interwebnet.

These days it seems Rick’s only big in Germany, where the album was released. Having heard nothing from him for nigh on ten years, and given we’re talking about the country which made musical superstars of David Hasselhoff and Scooter, I’ll admit I had reservations. But, with an Amazon gift certificate nagging to be spent and about to expire (there having been nothing, but nothing, that I actually wanted to buy in the last 12 months), I thought I’d give it a whirl.

And I was not disappointed. His first post Stock/Aitken/Waterman album (‘Free’) suffered from trying too hard to prove his credibility as a ‘serious artist’ and ended up just being, well, a bit dull. Perhaps not surprising given his eagerness to distance himself from the bubblegum pop – brilliant bubblegum pop, mind you, but bubblegum nonetheless – that made his name.

The new album though, like Kylie’s Light Years, is the sound of someone who’s got over all that, realises what they do best, and proceeds to do it, but with far more confidence, maturity and style than they ever had before. Here’s what HMV had to say on the album’s release:

HMV - December 2001
Oh irony of ironies. Just as TV show 'Pop Idol' reaches its climax, onetime pop superstar Rick Astley decides to make his comeback. Tea boy-turned millionaire, Astley sold more than fifteen million albums worldwide in the eighties - before packing in pop due to the 'pressures' of fame. Back with his first album in over eight years, 'Keep It Turned On' once again showcases his rich, deep voice, mixing it with lots of up-to-date electronic vocal effects and digital sounds. Replete with dreamy harmonies and heart stopping melodies, 'Keep It...' is a fantastic mix of up-tempo dance tunes and tearstained ballads that simply oozes panache from every groove. It's gorgeous, it's pop - what more can we say? Like he's never been away...

Very true. And then there is That Voice. Fifteen years ago, it was impressive, powerful, and instantly recognisable. Now, even stronger, richer, deeper and smoother, it’s better than ever. You listen, safe in the knowledge that every last note is going to be handled perfectly, with no unneccessary histrionics, just simple, honest emotion in a huge, warm baritone. It’s like being wrapped in the biggest, strongest arms imaginable and gently rocked to sleep, while someone rubs you all over with mink cushions. Gorgeous. You’d almost forgotten talent like this existed.

Of course, with That Voice, Rick could sing the phone book and it wouldn’t be half bad, but the material, all self-written or co-written, is more than up to the job. First track (and single in some places) ‘Sleeping’ is a smooth, Todd-Terry style dance track (a little reminiscent of his work with Everything But The Girl), overlayed with guitars and a great tune which deserves to be a huge hit. It won’t be of course, given the suffocatingly programmed playlists of most radio stations (why play Rick when they can play Jennifer Lopez another 15 times an hour?) but it should be. Meanwhile I confess there are lines in ‘Don’t Ask’ that bring on a Tearful Tuesday early, every time. Not because the lyrics are sad, they aren’t, but because the combination of Rick’s voice with the most gorgeous melody is so achingly beautiful it actually hurts. Straight after which, in bursts the title track, a joyous, uplifting, summery jangling-guitars-and-pianos anthem of the kind that Ronan Keating and writer Gregg Alexander would give their collective right limbs for. In anyone else’s hands this would still be a great song; in Rick’s it’s magnificent. And, a slightly ropy second track aside, the rest is just as good.

Don’t get me wrong, this is still at the end of the day a straightforward, adult, pop album. It’s not going to break any boundaries or take music anywhere it hasn’t been before. Neither is a Banoffi Pie going to revolutionise modern cuisine, but it doesn’t stop you revelling in the deliciousness of it – and when it’s done well, there’s nothing better. When it’s done this well, it’s incredible.

Welcome back, Rick. I had no idea how much I missed you.

2002-08-23T16:48:00.000Z

Is there a finer pleasure known to 21st century man than putting the ‘Out of Office’ auto-reply message on your email?

You write: ‘Thanks for your mail – I’m now out of the office until 2nd September but you can reach any other member of the team on…’

You mean: ‘Bad luck, loser! I’m not here to deal with your tiresome enquiry or listen to your miserable whining. You’ll just have to try and direct that pile of tedious work you were about to dump on me to someone who might actually give a fuck – I’ll be too busy lying on a beach, surrounded by nubile young Spaniards, and sipping cocktails in the sun. Muahahaha! Oh, and get a haircut.’

With which, I’m off to Sitges. Back in September!

2002-08-20T16:24:00.000Z

To anyone who may have found themselves unexpectedly welded to the floor of my local tube station on Sunday afternoon. I’m sorry; that was my superglue, I was trying to stick my knackered trainers back together, it went everywhere, I was running late, and the train arrived before I could clean it up.

I hope you were rescued before too long.

2002-08-20T14:32:00.000Z

Why simply regurgitating the press release isn't always the best idea. From HMV's singles page:

'H & Claire return with a brilliant second single...'Half A Heart' is a no-nonsense, no-holds-barred mid-tempo pop ballad that shows how well both these vocalists have matured.

A no-nonsense, no-holds-barred mid-tempo pop ballad? To be listened to while indulging in kick-ass, in-yer-face, extreme macrame, perhaps...

2002-08-20T14:21:00.000Z

Job-hunt update: seems my interview at the estate agency last Tuesday went better than I thought, as the Extremely Tall Interviewer has invited me back for a second meeting. Which is encouraging, being the first application that's progressed anywhere beyond the first stages, but does beg the question: what if I actually get offered the job? Do I even want it? Then again, I've got to do something. But is it wise to jump at the first opportunity when I'm not even certain it would be an improvement? Is a change really as good as a rest?

Gah. I'm going to go and look at some kittens. [via chachacha]

2002-08-20T13:26:00.000Z

Brighton? Twice in a fortnight? Yes, indeed. Along with what seemed like half of London, Kelvin, Phil, Nigel, Jonathan and I took advantage of a rare sunny Saturday, and headed for the beach.

Nature did a pretty good job of designing Brighton beach. Pebbles on the beach so that you don’t get sand everywhere, but soft sand under your feet as soon as you get in the water – which is clean, clear, and, for the UK, relatively warm. Plus, at no point are you ever much more than a hundred yards from the nearest bar or somewhere that will serve you fish and chips in a polystyrene tray. Fantastic.

A perfect, lazy day, after which we headed home for a friend’s party in south London.

We could have stuck around and gone clubbing at Creation, but apparently the birds are a bit uptight…

2002-08-14T16:07:00.000Z

In what could well become a regular feature, it’s time for: Bitching with Hear’say!

Scan the pop news on any given week, and you’re sure to find the Popstars-created band slating at least somebody in the music business. We don’t know if it’s a chip on the shoulder about that ‘difficult second album’ barely troubling the top 30, but there it is. Liberty X, Simon Cowell, Oasis, George Michael – they’ve all been on the receiving end of the biting ‘Say tongues, and they’re just the tip of the iceberg. So who’s next?

This week: Geri Halliwell, ex-bandmate Kym Marsh, and Darius!

Noel ‘AteAllThePies’ Hear’say on Geri judging Pop Rivals: ‘It's very ironic that somone who instigated the split in the Spice Girls is now acting as a judge and guide for pop wannabes. It confuses me. She's the one who left and now she's helping to put a band together.'

Myleene ‘Boobs’ Hear’say on Kym Marsh’s wedding to Eastenders’ Jack Ryder: 'I don't need to marry a celebrity to think that my life's complete.'

And Danny ‘Shrek’ Hear’say on Darius: 'Just because Darius has had a haircut it doesn't change his personality’.

Meow. Easy now, kids! (We still like the new single, though).

More next week, no doubt…

2002-08-14T14:43:00.000Z

Seven days...

Thursday

En masse, to Bonjour Vietnam in Fulham, to say au revoir to Peter and Jason (you see what I did there, huh? huh? Oh, never mind…), who are bravely heading back to a life of bingo and Bolly, entertaining troops of overweight fiftysomethings aboard a luxury cruise for the next five months.

Lots of fun, and lots of food, being an all-you-can-eat thing. Not of the congealed buffet that’s been sitting there all day variety, but where you simply keep ordering the (very good) food until the last person explodes in a giant mushroom cloud of monosodium glutamate. At which point you realise that seventeenth crispy duck pancake possibly wasn’t the best idea.

Friday

An unfortunate combination of being locked out by an absent-minded landlord, a basement flat, wet, slippery grass, and maybe one or two glasses of wine left my much beloved with a broken window and a knee injury, so a night of TV and big, stodgy comfort food. He’s on the mend now.

Saturday

Which brought (yay!) Brighton & Hove Pride. K couldn’t go, but wouldn’t hear of me staying, so it was up early and down to Brighton (slightly later than expected having failed to allow the requisite half-hour it takes to buy a ticket at Victoria station) but there nonetheless by midday, in something approaching sunshine. Ian has a great account of events away from the park, Luca reports from the after-party, and for my part, the day went something like this:

12.30pm: Arrive at Damon & Graham’s house where the gang are gathered for drinks
12.45pm: Champagne on patio area, high on hill overlooking Brighton. Very nice indeed.
1.00pm: Is that rain? Oh, yes it is. Entire party retreats to kitchen.
1.30pm: Hmm, still raining. More champagne, anyone?
2.00pm: Rain now resembles tropical monsoon. Patio transformed into outdoor pool.
2.10pm: Hurrah! The rain’s stopped. Let’s go to the park, quickly.
2.11pm: Oh.
2.12pm: Thunder, lightning, average annual rainfall for particularly wet country falling by the minute.
2.45pm: Still raining. This is going to go down as The Year We Spent Brighton Pride In The Kitchen, isn’t it?
3.00pm: Yup. Apparently so. Oh well, more wine?
3.10pm: It’s stopping! No, it really is this time, look! Right, shoes on everyone, we’re off.
3.15pm: Five minutes down the street, and more rain.
3.20pm: Majority of the party abandon the park idea and head, sensibly, for a nice dry pub in town, while Jonathan, Damon and I gamely (stupidly?) continue the walk to Preston Park.
3.22pm: Okay, walking bad idea. Taxi!
3.30pm: Make our way into the park, undeterred by the hordes of people in plastic pac-a-macs runnning hurriedly in the opposite direction.
3.35pm: Queue to get into dance tent which is, understandably, extremely full.
3.40pm: Hmm, these trainers really aren’t waterproof, are they?
3.42pm: Or mud-proof, apparently.
3.45pm: Perhaps if I just get really drunk I’ll cease to notice the mud swishing around between my toes.
3.55pm: Or maybe not.
4.00pm: Find army surplus stall (there had to be one somewhere) and purchase pair of old, but sturdy, boots. Deposit mud-logged trainers in cloakroom. Am wolf-whistled at by girl with the exact voice of Karen from Will and Grace.
4.05pm: Hurrah, dry feet! And the sun’s out! Back to Wild Fruit tent to find Phil, Nigel, Dave and co, in what little remains of their gold Egyptian costumes from the parade. Not for the first time this summer I find myself dancing with friends in small gold pants.
5.00pm or thereabouts (from this point it all gets a bit vague): Manage to find Nathan and friends over at the main stage. Dusty O and Massive Ego are doing their cover of Dead or Alive’s ‘My Heart Goes Bang’ which is almost as delightfully bonkers as the original. Then there’s a Village People-style cop on stage brandishing his truncheon all over the place. Except – oh, it’s a she, and she’s stripping. Five minutes later and it’s tits akimbo. You don’t get that at Mardi Gras. And now, Limahl!
5.30pm-ish: We leave the strains of ‘Too Shy’ for a brief wander round the park. Despite the earlier downpours, there’s a real celebratory atmosphere. People are smiling, laughing and genuinely enjoying themselves. Lesbians are throwing each other to the ground and mud-wrestling. Everyone’s happy.
6.00pm-ish: Back to the Wild Fruit tent for the last couple of hours’ dancing, and finally, sometime around eight, I stagger wide-eyed, muddy-footed but happy, back to the station, and back to London. It had been, as ever, a great day.

Sunday

A rare, nay, almost unique combination of having not been out on Saturday night, having the flat to myself and being in reasonably good voice, meant that I finally managed to get some recording done. Just one song, written some considerable time ago, but one of my better efforts, and I’m almost pleased with the results. I might even let other people hear it. Well, maybe. Apart from that high note at the end.

No shortage of high notes (hmm, nice link…) in the Dame Edna Experience’s phenomenal show at the RVT though, in exceptional form on an exceptionally good night all round. Marvellous.

Monday

Not marvellous. Entirely unremarkable. That’s what Mondays are for.

Tuesday

Job interview with a well-known firm of estate agents. The problem with which is that I really have no idea if I want to be an estate agent. I just want to do something, anything, that isn’t this. And pays a wage you can live on. So, on the grounds that it fits both of those criteria, and in the complete absence of any better ideas, I guess it’s an option. Throughout the interview though, I couldn’t shake the overwhelming sense of being a square peg trying to talk myself into a round hole. I don’t really think it’s what I want – but what is? What the fuck is?

Not strictly relevant, but I should add that the interviewer was (and I’m barely exaggerating here) about seven feet tall. Hands the size of tennis rackets. Most disconcerting.

Wednesday

Which brings me up to date. And, rather too obviously I suspect, writing, not working. Excuse me one moment while I pretend to make some phone calls...

2002-08-07T08:39:00.000Z

In Passing: a site devoted entirely to logging bits of overheard conversations.

2002-08-07T08:26:00.000Z

Oh go on then. See bandwagon, will jump. My blogtree thingy.

Of course, you might expect the offspring of my blog parents to be a highly literate, beer-swilling social adventurer with a vast pop trivia knowledge and a fondness for football shorts. Instead you got this. Children can be such a disappointment sometimes…

2002-08-06T11:01:00.000Z

Things I’ve been enjoying over the last week or so, that I really probably shouldn’t.

1. Topranko!
On the surface, another cheap Channel 5 game show. But one that actually works. Like all the best ideas, it’s simple. Contestants have to guess the top ten answers in a given category – like the highest-grossing Tom Cruise films, or most popular flavours of soup, scoring more points for the more obscure answers lower down the list. And like the best quiz shows, you can’t help trying to answer the questions yourself – before you know it, you’re shouting ‘Oxtail!’ and ‘Cream of Mushroom!’ at the screen like your life depended on it. The rather impersonal hosting and abrupt, Weakest Link style departures need to go, but apart from that, fun for trivia bores everywhere. Just coincidence that the title is almost an anagram of ‘Top Anorak’?

2. Late Night Love Songs with Nigel Williams, on Heart 106.2 FM.
Heart is unashamedly cheesy at the best of times, and Late Night Love Songs, from 10pm-1am every weeknight, is like a whole camembert festival. The music itself is a guilty pleasure: ballad upon ballad from the likes of Celine Dion, LeAnn Rimes and Luther Vandross that you’d normally run screaming from, yet at this time of night, are a perfect oasis of calm after a stressful day. Then there are the ‘Love Letters’ – tales of heartbreak, woe and improbable coincidence blatantly ripped off from Simon Bates’ Our Tune in the '80s, while the whole thing is perfectly held together by Nigel Williams’ soft, reassuring voice: the aural equivalent of someone gently massaging your shoulders and making you a nice cup of cocoa. I have shamefully been known to have difficulty switching this off and going to bed.

3. Around The World (La La La La La) by ATC.
Coming on like the bastard lovechild of Eiffel 65 and Aqua, this is trashy Europop to the max, complete with nonsense lyrics and lots of xylophones. I suspect I’m liking it purely because it reminds me of our holiday to San Francisco, San Diego, and Las Vegas last year, when it followed us around (not least because a certain flatmate of mine bought the album). Look out for the near-identical follow up, My Heart Beats Like A Drum (Dum Dum Dum), which is, well, every bit as good as it sounds.

Going now before I embarrass myself further.

2002-08-06T09:05:00.000Z

It's funny and it's got biscuits. No wonder I am enjoying a NiceCupOfTeaAndASitDown.

2002-08-06T09:02:00.000Z

Auditions for ITV's forthcoming 'Popstars: The Rivals' began yesterday, with the panel of judges including Pete Waterman, Westlife manager Louis Walsh, and Geri Halliwell. Of course, there may be those who say that having Geri Halliwell judge your singing talents is rather like asking Hitler to assess your race relations policy. I couldn't possibly comment.

2002-08-05T20:44:00.000Z

And I thought I'd had a great weekend...

Blimey. For the record though, I second the opinion that Saturday's night's Crash was indeed awesome - good to see somebody having such a good time - and a downright wonderful night at the RVT last night, for all the usual reasons, as well as apparently being the night for all manner of gossip, intrigue, and revelations. I'd tell you just some of the things I heard from some of the people, but then I'd have to kill you.

Along with which, three very different parties. The first being of the dinner variety, kindly hosted by good friends in Richmond and with something of a global flavour: Greek starter, Asian main course and, ahem, Colombian style dessert. Whatever happened to After Eights? Saturday night, meanwhile, began with a house party in Maida Vale, and Sunday afternoon, Phil and Nigel's gathering, entitled 'Before They Were Gorgeous' - involving all manner of suitably embarrassing photo and video evidence from our chequered pasts. I'm seeing Kelvin in a whole new light after seeing him on the back of that camel...

2002-08-02T13:30:00.000Z

Speaking of crap TV, and indeed some very good TV, there's plenty over at Jump The Shark. It’s a site dedicated to long-running TV shows, which asks you to pinpoint exactly when, and if, said shows lost the plot, went downhill, or indeed ‘jumped the shark’ (a Happy Days reference, apparently).

Not exactly sure why you would want to bother, but great if you fancy spending an afternoon arguing about who was the better Fallon in Dynasty, and why Maddie and David should never have got together in Moonlighting.

Or of course, you might have something worthwhile to do.

2002-08-02T13:18:00.000Z

...and then, the final indignity. Whilst waiting for the repair man to turn up and replace your car window, you find yourself watching 'Open House' with Gloria Hunniford, because it's either that or Commonwealth Ping-Pong (for fuck's sake...) on the other side. Horrific.

2002-08-02T13:05:00.000Z

[self-pity] You know when you realise you've got virtually no money to get you to the end of the month and loads of bills to pay? And you make a determined effort to cut down, staying in every weeknight when your friends are out because you can't afford to go, studiously avoiding all shops so that you can't buy anything (not that you can ever afford to, anyway), wearing the same old clothes you don't like any more but can't replace, and existing on the most basic foodstuffs, in the hope that maybe, the next month, you might just about be okay? And then, then some b*stard kid decides to smash your car window, to steal your stereo (which is worthless anyway, being older than God), costing you everything you've saved and then some? Yeah. So far, August sucks. [/self-pity]

2002-08-02T12:55:00.000Z

Apologies for absence. Too much work. Not enough time. Entirely missed my one year anniversary. Typical. Reminds me of my 18th birthday party, of which I missed all but the first half hour, before having to be carried home. Except at least there was vodka involved. Now it's just paperwork. Curses.

2002-07-30T16:12:00.000Z

Tomorrow, this site will be exactly one year old. So how will I be marking said bloggiversary? A radical new design? A witty, yet poignant, retrospective of the last year? A groovy, hitherto unthought-of interactive element?

Nope, looks like it’s messing about with the colours a bit and a slightly better sidebar. Oh well, there’s always Christmas. Still some tweaks to be made though – you’ll be amazed when it's finished.

Which will make two of us.

2002-07-30T13:54:00.000Z

A Scandinavian guide to the word 'fuck'.

Very comprehensive, perhaps unsurprisingly...

2002-07-29T15:17:00.000Z

You might not expect the chatroom of Watford football club to be a hive of entertainment. But this thread, which runs, and runs, and runs, is most amusing.

'Bimbo83' is outraged that her boyfriend Brian has gone on holiday to Greece with his mates, and in visiting the opposition's penalty box has brought back, and kindly given to her, a nice dose of hepatitis. And she's not happy...

Brian himself makes an appearance part way through, but it's Emma from Boots I feel sorry for. You'll see what I mean...

2002-07-24T17:45:00.000Z

Right, that's it from me for today, just time to say a quick happy birthday to Walt, who turns the big 3-0 tomorrow.

And wonder when, exactly, I turned into a local radio DJ.

2002-07-24T14:33:00.000Z

Like a lot of people, I’m off to Manchester tomorrow. Not to the opening ceremony of the Commonwealth Games, but for lunch. Gratuitous, yes (and I’m still surprised the company’s agreed to it), but one of those nice freebies there haven’t been nearly enough of lately.

It’s an advertising awards ceremony and I’ve got to collect three, for a campaign for Selfridges. I’d love to claim credit for writing and designing the ads, but I’m officially in a managing, making-everything-happen capacity (although I seem to end up doing both increasingly often). It’s not an especially big or prestigious thing, but hey, it’s a day out.

Crossing my fingers for there to be no acceptance speeches required...

2002-07-24T13:49:00.000Z

I’m entirely hopeless at starting conversations with strangers. And as for chatting someone up, forget it. But just occasionally, it happens. Sunday marked a year to the day that I first set eyes on Kelvin, across a crowded South London pavement outside (where else?) the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. How, given our regular attendance, I’d never seen him before I don’t know, but I hadn’t.

I remember standing with with Greg, Rick and Jonathan, chatting but not really taking part in the conversation – I’d been transfixed by the guy with the deep brown eyes and the incredible smile, who I could see over Greg’s shoulder. There was definite eye contact (that much I can do, just) but that was all so far, until a few hours and more than a few beers later, I saw him again, sitting outside on the railings, and decided I had to take the plunge and say something. Anything. Just a few words to break the ice.

And for the life of me, I still have absolutely no idea what they were. Too much to drink, too many drugs. But, a year on, one thing’s definitely clear. Wherever the words came from, I’ve never been more grateful for them.

2002-07-24T13:06:00.000Z

Nice to know that Central Line drivers always know exactly where they're going. Heading west on the Tube at lunchtime, the following announcement:

'Sorry about this ladies and gentlemen, Oxford Circus is currently closed due to a security alert. The next stop for this train will be, um, er, the next station.'

How informative.

2002-07-23T13:38:00.000Z

Let’s talk about sex. Specifically, how much does your sex drive get to sit in the driving seat? How many decisions have you made, and how many things do you do on a regular basis, that, in the end, come down to the pursuit of sex? And what other things get sacrificed along the way?

I don’t know about you, but in my case, the answers are too much, and too many. Granted, I’m a man, I’m supposed to think with my dick (and as a gay man that’s supposed to go at least double) – but it’s a stereotype I’d rather not fulfil quite so automatically.

I chose to move to London because, as a media graduate, and keen actor/singer/performer, it made sense to go where the opportunities in those fields were greater. But was it actually about making something of my life, or was it about the nightlife, the size of the gay scene, and by extension, the opportunities for sex? In six years, I’ve got virtually nowhere with the former, and virtually everywhere with the latter. Which leads me to wonder where I’d be if I’d channelled my energies the other way around.

If I can find the dedication to keep going to the gym week in week out (which, like a lot of people, is at least as much about looking good as ‘feeling healthy’ or ‘getting fit’) why can’t I seem to demonstrate the same commitment to getting my songs recorded, writing more, and pursuing my ambitions?

Lotsa questions at the moment.

2002-07-23T10:52:00.000Z

Bit of a heavy weekend. For once, I don’t mean just in the clubbing/drinking/partying sense (although that too), but yeah, a tough weekend.

There were good bits though: on Saturday evening we went to one of the open air concerts that run at Kenwood House, on Hampstead Heath, throughout the summer. It’s something of a London tradition, and extremely popular, judging by how early we had to arrive to secure a suitable spot on the grass – on which to sprawl, picnic, and imbibe yet more champagne. The concert itself was ‘A Tribute To The Rat Pack’, with good soundalikes of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr, among others. I think it’s a fairly safe bet that the real Sinatra never appeared under a giant ‘Sponsored by Waitrose’ logo, but you never know. A great setting though, with the audience on a hill facing across a lake to the stage, and as darkness fell during the last few numbers, fireworks for the big finish.

At the other end of the spectrum, circumstances which I’m not about to go into here have forced me to re-evaluate a lot of things - my life, my past, work, relationships, sex, self-esteem – y’know, the little things – a veritable soap opera’s worth of issues I suspect I’ve been guilty of pushing to the background lest they stand in the way of Having A Good Time, but now, for whatever reason, demand to be dealt with.

Some of them I might write about. It might help. Blog-as-therapy, and all that. Fear not though, we’ll be back to pop nonsense and yogurt before you know it...

2002-07-19T09:43:00.000Z

On Earth, as it is in lego...

The Bible, as told through coloured plastic bricks. Extraordinary.

2002-07-19T09:13:00.000Z

So there I was last Friday night, in an Earl's Court escort agency, choosing between boys.

Not for me, you understand, and not for, well, the usual purpose. But by way of moral support to a good friend who was after a hunky-waiter-in-skimpy-shorts to dish out the champagne at his housewarming and birthday bash the following night, just as a suitably decadent touch.

Kelvin and I were there purely to calm Steven's considerable nerves (and maybe just a little out of curiosity), and it was certainly an odd experience. Having been ushered from the street into the main living room of this perfectly ordinary-looking house ('Do you think it'll be all candles and soft music?' asked Steven. 'I doubt it - more likely techno and amyl' I replied - although in the event it was somewhere between the two), we were wondering exactly what was going to happen when our host drew back a large green curtain to reveal a glass door. Behind which, six shirtless guys lined up for our perusal, for all the world like you were choosing which puppy you wanted from the kennels. We could be seen just as clearly, resulting in much awkwardness on our side, not knowing quite where to look, but having to look all the same, that being the point of the exercise.

We attempted to come to a decision without too much huddling, conferring and pointing which would have felt just downright rude. I guess some people might enjoy the power in that situation, but to us it felt decidedly uncomfortable. After some discussion, Steven most liked the sound of one of the guys who wasn’t there that evening (a friendly 23-year-old Brazilian who did a great job on the night). So the curtain was briskly replaced, arrangements were made and we left, leaving the two ‘proper’ clients who’d just arrived to take their turn.

Definitely an odd experience, and having seen some of the real clients, I have a newfound admiration for the boys behind the curtain. Let’s just say it wouldn’t have been an easy night’s work...

2002-07-17T14:46:00.000Z

Posts now brought to you via Molly's suggestion of writing in Word and then uploading, by the way. Still frustrating, but almost bearable.

2002-07-17T14:36:00.000Z

You may have read much about this year’s London Mardi Gras by now. Most of it not very complimentary, and with good reason. For my part, I had an alright kinda time, if only because, ply me with enough drink, and surround me with enough people dancing to suitably thumping music in a great big tent, I probably will. But a huge success it was not.

Prior to the event, there was much hullabaloo from most quarters about the choice of location, Hackney Marshes, in East London. I didn’t subscribe to this; having lived in the northern reaches of (whisper it) Zone 3 for six years, I’m well used to those central-dwellers who believe it takes three hours and a passport get anywhere further out than King’s Cross. Which is nonsense, it just takes a bit of nerve and some body armour.

Mis-advertising seemed to be the name of the game. ‘Just a short walk from Stratford station..’ read the publicity. Rubbish, as even the most cursory glance at the A-Z revealed, hence our trip aboard a packed train to the much-nearer Homerton station. ‘No more of those bar tokens that everyone hated last year’, promised an earlier ad. Which will be why the huge yellow banner in front of the gates read, er, ‘Bar Tokens’. ‘Gates open at 1.30pm’ (try 3pm once the necessary health and safety checks have actually been done), and so on.

Once inside, it was time to play ‘find the bar that actually sells beer’. Vodka jellies, alcopops and dubious-looking Red Bull wannabes all abounded, but could I find a nice, cold, honest-to-God can of beer to enjoy in the semi-sunshine? Not before I’d hiked approximately six miles round the site, anyway.

One of the reasons for the move to Hackney Marsh was supposedly that the venue could be ‘three times bigger than previous years!’, which it quite possibly was, although hands up anyone who thought, even fleetingly, that the Finsbury Park festivals were ‘too small’. No, thought not. The result was that, with the lower numbers more sparsely spread, the whole thing felt a little empty, and almost as flat as the Marsh itself. Not a great venue, and it's fair to say that going to ‘celebrate your sexuality’ in a hidden away corner of London where nobody can see you rather misses the point.

Purely in partying terms though, Radio 1’s stage and the Trade tent just about saved the day, so several hours and a fair few drinks later things had improved, and there were smiles all round, but next year it’s the March and Soho for me (and, I think, probably most people) unless there are some major changes.

From there it was back to the comforting familiarity of Soho, a bit of Bar Code, and then on down to Action for their post-Mardi Gras party. Which was good, but somehow didn’t quite live up to last month’s outing, I can’t put my finger on why, but somehow the requisite party atmosphere just wasn’t there. So we headed to Love Muscle, where it was in abundance, and it proved to be the highlight of the whole weekend. Actually, scrub that, Dame Edna’s show at the RVT the following day blew the whole thing out of the water of course, one of her finest and funniest for months.

So, not a complete loss, but I don’t think 2002 will be remembered as anybody’s favourite Mardi Gras. Still, roll on Brighton & Hove Pride in a few weeks' time, which will no doubt more than compensate.

2002-07-16T22:11:00.000Z

Now where was I? Oh yeah, Torquay, about a fortnight ago now. The 'English Riviera' as it would have it, and in fairness, rightly so. Okay, it isn't St Tropez, but there's an undeniable charm about the palm-lined promenade, and a certain sophistication among the faded glamour. It's also, on the couple of occasions I've visited in the last few years, a hell of a lot of fun.

This time was no exception, courtesy of our irrepressible hosts Paul and Rob. The five-and-a-half hour drive down to the South West wasn't a great start (note to the motorists of the Bristol area: the accelerator is the one on your right), but was swiftly forgotten amid much champagne on the balcony of their holiday apartment while the sun set over the bay (not to be seen again until Monday, this being Britain). Dinner at the Orange Tree, run by friends of our hosts, was genuinely superb, while later on at Rocky's, Torquay's gay 'nitespot' was genuinely scary for those unused to its, ahem, unique charms. Let's just say it's not likely to lose its Friday night clientele to the pages of GQ any time soon. Science, maybe. Why yes, that is my saucer of semi-skimmed, thank you.

But a lot of fun, four floors, a real mix of people, and much improved on Saturday night, when the club is at its busiest and the music is actually very good indeed. I'd tell you what happened afterwards, but you might be reading this at work. That, and the fact I'm still trying to blot some of the images from my mind...

Saturday also saw the local delicatessen raided for our picnic aboard a typically champagne-soaked speedboat trip around to some nearby coves - god, it's a hard life they lead down here - while the regular Sunday afternoon gathering at Ocean House, with a cocktail or two by the pool, rounded things off perfectly despite the lack of sunshine.

Hell, I was even happy to stay put rather than race back to London for the RVT. And you don't get much more of an accolade than that. Yep, I heart Torquay.

2002-07-16T20:45:00.000Z

Finally, a few spare moments at home to catch up on some posting. Because it's official, I just can't write from work any more. It's irrational I'm sure, but with my screen in full view of those sitting near me and anyone who happens to walk past, I just can't, like, create. Granted, we're talking a few pithy comments and the odd tale here and there, not major works of art, but it's still a little like having people able to listen to music that you haven't finished composing, people looking at your painting when you can't even tell what it is yet. Rolf Harris might have been able to work that one, but not me.

Factor in the rumour currently circulating the office that our internet use is being monitored - how long we're spending online and on which sites - and you get, well, not a lot from this corner. Damned job - first it stole my hope, then it killed my soul, and now it's got its hands on my blog.

Did I mention I'm not entirely happy at work?

2002-07-03T16:33:00.000Z

A whole week goes by and what do you get? Yogurt reviews.

Coming up, er, sometime: a wild weekend in Torquay, Dave gets on television, Mardi Gras, and how the political ramifications of the Nepalese government's latest economic policies may affect future growth on the stock markets of the Far East.

That last one might be a while coming, though.

2002-07-03T16:23:00.000Z

Muller Lite Chocolate Yogurt. 99.7% fat free, it proclaims. Yes, because it's 99.7% chocolate free as well. Tastes a bit like yogurt. Doesn't taste at all like chocolate. Rubbish.

2002-07-03T16:21:00.000Z

As feared, new desk arrangement is severely limiting blogging ability, on the grounds of the entire office, Chairman included, being able to see when I am Manifestly Not Working. I'm currently doing that trying-to-look-as-if-I'm-typing-an-important-pitch-document thing but I'm quite sure it's fooling no-one.

2002-07-03T16:13:00.000Z

Still here. Just job-hunting. A lot.

Meanwhile, looks like I need a new picture-hosting facility, judging by the scary message below. I would upgrade but finances extremely tight at present - hence the job-hunting. Any suggestions?

2002-06-26T15:22:00.000Z

A fantastic weekend though. Friday night's fundraiser at the RVT was a big success which you can read about here. Drag queens with water cannons, naked straight boys doing the hula, a surprise (and reluctant) appearance from Graham Norton, and plenty of money raised.

Saturday night's party meanwhile, wasn't a charity event but all the proceeds were ploughed into the decorations and entertainment, making for one of the most spectacularly lavish events I'm ever likely to attend. Held in the listed 19th Century ballroom of the Grand Hotel in Birmingham, with 300 guests, dinner, steel band, jugglers, cabaret, disco, and no end of wonderfully extravagant costumes (we felt downright plain in our cyber-silver get-up, in comparison), it almost made Moulin Rouge look like two bits of rag and a paper hat. The kind of party Elton John would have been proud of, methinks, and a truly spectacular night.

Quite how we got from there to Nightingale's, dressed only in the last remains of our costumes (leather shorts for myself and Kelvin, decidedly skimpy gold pants for Paul and Rob) remains a mystery. Apparently, getting taxis, getting into a club (being whisked past a long queue), getting drinks and getting home when you have absolutely no money on you and are wearing only your pants, is not as impossible as you might think.

Some pics, with mucho thanks to Kelvin for doing the laborious scanning. Must. Get. A. Digital. Camera.

2002-06-25T16:10:00.000Z

Curses. I wrote back last September or so how much I love my corner desk. It's a window seat and facing into the office (so free of people loitering behind me), and quite frankly, is the last thing keeping my job remotely bearable.

As of tomorrow though, an entirely unnecessary office re-shuffle (in the interests of 'fairness', apparently. Pah.) will find me plonked unceremoniously in the middle of things, with all and sundry able to see my screen. This means I will actually have to, like, work, which may drastically reduce my blog surfing and writing time even further.

Curses, I say.

2002-06-25T16:02:00.000Z

Headline of the day: Danniella's boob explodes. Ouch.

2002-06-21T15:12:00.000Z

Warning: rambling post with absolutely no direction coming up. It's Friday afternoon, deal with it.

So, Big Brother then. I've made no mention of it yet, on the grounds that I've really only had three words to say on the subject, which, in no particular order, are: 'Lee', 'arms' and 'woof!' (I'm with Chig on this one...)

But tonight's Spencer/Alex eviction could actually be very interesting. I'm for Alex staying in, if only because watching him skip girlishly around the house in flip-flops has been easily the most amusing thing so far.

Like the other big event of the day though, I shall miss it altogether, although not for a dull client meeting this time. The King's Cross Steelers, London's gay rugby team, are shortly off to San Francisco to play in the Bingham Cup, held in honour of rugby player Mark Bingham and his heroic efforts aboard United Flight 93 on September 11th. Tonight's a fund-raising event and send-off party held at some little place called the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, and knowing at least some of them, should be quite a party.

Meanwhile, belated reports from last weekend. In the unlikely event that anyone comes here looking for clubbing tips in London (and not, say, things such as the aforementioned search request) then I highly recommend Action. We rolled along to their second outing last Saturday and were most impressed. Great venue - I'm not sure what The Mayfair Works used to be, but it would have made a great school assembly hall, warehouse, or hangar for a small-ish aircraft with not very big wings. Much better than that sounds though, big, big dancefloor, plenty of bars, nice upstairs chill-out area, even an outdoor area for when it all got a bit too much. Very nice indeed, good music, and although we'd had fears of it being full of the sort of people who wear sunglasses indoors (you know the sort I mean), a very friendly crowd. Big thumbs-up all round.

So there you have it: Big Brother, Gay Rugby, Action. Actually I think I like that better without the commas...

2002-06-21T14:02:00.000Z

Search request in my referrer logs, reproduced without comment:

fist+fuck+london+band

2002-06-21T11:18:00.000Z

So it's 9am this morning. 30 million people across the UK, and countless more across the world are gathered in homes, pubs and offices, glued to their TVs. The build-up has been inescapable, the excitement overwhelming - it's THE match everyone wants to see, and everyone is watching. The first game in four years I actually want to see (since England's last match of the previous World Cup, which for some reason I found myself watching in a certain London gay sauna. Don't ask...)

And where am I? On a sodding tube to sodding Paddington for a sodding 9.30 meeting with a two-bit pointless client (who finds the suggestion of postponing said meeting 'ridiculous') to discuss some rubbish campaign that will probably never happen, thus rendering the whole thing a complete and utter fucking waste of time. Grrr.

Still, that was that I guess. Strange how the same England flags that looked so jublilant and patriotic hanging everywhere a few hours ago now just look rather sad and forlorn.

That's the football then. Next on Live in London: girls, cars, beer and shagging.

2002-06-19T10:08:00.000Z

Yay! New Framley Examiner pages. Ridiculously funny.

That's my day sorted, then.

2002-06-18T13:32:00.000Z

A new mum loves Ikea furniture so much she has named her new-born daughter after it.

"I remember thinking it was nice furniture and would make a nice name for the baby.", said mum-of-four Linda, 26.

Ikea will be a lovely sister for twins Homebase and Do-It-All, 2, and brother Carpet Warehouse, 3.

Okay, so I made the last bit up.

2002-06-18T13:23:00.000Z

What would you sell your soul for? Apparently you can get £11.61 for it on ebay.

Me, I'd settle for some more sleep right now...

2002-06-14T16:19:00.000Z

Camp cabaret news now, and American drag artiste Varla Jean Merman makes a welcome return to the Soho Theatre in her one-woman show. As they might say on 'London Tonight'.

Saw her last time around, but this review is spot on and probably tells you more than mine did. Good fun if you like that sorta thing.

2002-06-14T13:47:00.000Z

Ah, weekend. Just about in sight, at last. There is a law that states that your first week back at work after a holiday will seem only marginally shorter than the average Ice Age - and this week's certainly been no exception.

Things I'm looking forward to this weekend: more Yard-based drunkenness this evening, the joys of Camden Market tomorrow, a barbecue at Jonathan's, possibly giving new club Action a whirl tomorrow night, and finally, on Sunday (after four whole weeks off - the withdrawal symptoms have not been pretty) - Return To The RVT! Hurrah.

Meanwhile, should you be in need of somewhere to overindulge this weekend, why not try the automatic Pub Crawl Generator? There's no quality control so who knows where you might end up.

Which could, of course, be half the fun.

2002-06-14T13:34:00.000Z

I'm being pursued by Mick Hucknall.

Well, not in person, but Simply Red's 'Stars' has been following me everywhere I go today. On the radio this morning, in a shop at lunchtime, and on yet another radio station now. There's no escape.
'And I-I-I-I wanna fall from the stars...'

Oh if only, Mick, if only.

2002-06-13T10:39:00.000Z

I wondered why there was a group of about 30 excitable fans congregated yesterday outside the Chancery Court Hotel, close to my office in Holborn. Mostly too old to be screaming boyband fans, but simply not enough of them to have been anyone mega-famous.
'Michael! Michael!' they shouted (surely Michael Owen's in Japan? I thought. Apparently there's some football thing on.)

But thanks to Popbitch I now know - we have a certain M. Jackson in residence. Anyone want an autograph? (trust me, there's not much of a queue...)

2002-06-12T10:28:00.000Z

You know you're getting old when...
A newsletter arrives from lastminute.com with their Top 40 gift suggestions for Father's Day, which falls on Sunday here in the UK. You're not sure what your dad would like, but there are things on it you'd like yourself. Lots of them.

When did I suddenly get middle-aged?! Hmph.

[trundles off in pipe and slippers in search of mislaid golfing magazine]