Unlike Vanessa Feltz's thighs, most of my the things I say do not retain water, and I am known for being like the weather, very changeable. My motto is that I used to be indecisive, now I’m just not so sure, so when I point blank refused to go and see We Will Rock You the musical because I considered it to be a dilution of some of the best music in the world, my friends knew it wouldn’t be long before I not only came around to the idea of going, but also buying the accompanying CD of the show.
We Will Rock You is set in the future on Planet Mall, a planet where real music is a thing of the past, and all that exists is computer generated junk, by Boy & Girl bands who have taken over the world. It is a very cloned society, with everyone thinking and doing the same thing. The main characters Galileo and Scaramouch do not fit in with this society, and words just ‘pop’ into their heads, usually taken from Queen songs. They are referred to as the ‘Ancient text’. This is forbidden on Planet Mall, and having a single original thought results in the secret police coming along and brainwashing you.
They flee camp in search of other like-minded individuals, and meet a suspicious looking fellow going by the name of Britney Spears. He seems familiar with the ancient text too and they believe him when he says he will be the one to free them, based on the ‘legend’. The legend states that there are musical instruments buried somewhere on Planet Mall. As musical instruments are banned, they set out to try and find them and to save the Planet and music.
Throughout, the musical Queen songs are very cleverly weaved into the story line with everything from Radio Ga Ga, Killer Queen, Flash, We are the Champions and of course the title track to mention just a few. However, In a way it is not just a celebration of Queens music, but music as a whole with a very poignant scene where The Bohemians pay tribute to all the great musical legends over the years that had died young leaving a their undeniable legacy to music behind.
One of the most amusing things throughout the show, is the references to the fact that good music lost it’s respect and appeal, being ultimately destroyed after all inhabitants were overdosed by a massive influx of reality TV ‘Talent’ finding shows such as Pop Idol, and Fame Academy. Watching the X Factor last Saturday, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was actually a premonition. Does Ben Elton (Writer) have a crystal ball??
The sets are lavish as is the lighting and it is obvious that no expense has been spared. The musicians are absolutely fantastic and the cast all have incredible voices. This is a very energetic and high tech show with lots going on to keep the audience captivated. I found it extremely entertaining and incredibly funny at points, which I was not expecting at all. However, as always, you take your sugar and then comes the medicine, and there were a few moments where it was heart wrenchingly emotional (I didn’t cry. Honest)
At this moment, I would put my hand on my heart and say it is one of the best Musicals I have seen, and would recommend it to anyone. But the thing is with me, you never know. It’s ‘any way the wind blows………’
Monday, December 18, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
Where for art thou Romeo?
No matter how many freaks I meet, I am an eternal optimist, and genuinely believe in love at first sight. I fall in love at least 25 times a day, and everytime I go out for a drink to a Homo haunt, I convince myself that I will meet the man of my dreams. Last Thursday was no exception.
Gaz and I met up in the Retro bar for a quick 'ketchup' and debrief to see how one another is getting on in our new jobs. We used to work together and were made redundant on the same day back in the summer, and as irony would have it, after 3 months of looking for work, we found our new jobs within days of each other. Gaz is doing extremely well and was full of new buzzwords he has picked up from his new place of employ such as 'Quota's' and 'Briefings'. I on the other hand am hating my new job and am sick of working for a charity that cannot seem to speak the Queens English and insist on using acronyms for everything. On my first day there I learned that I was working for CRUCK in the HICE directorate, which was part of POLD based at LIND. (If anyone out there knows what the hell that means, would you mind clarifying for me) This really is how they talk where I work, and in my 'Directorate' everything is about the 'Comms' (communications) It is our buzzword. As in "have we got the comms on that?" or "I'm just waiting to book the next HICE meeting but am waiting on the comms" or the most common one is, from the head of our team "can I get everyone to gather round for a quick comms". I find myself looking around at my fellow colleagues for signs of what the fuck they are actually talking about, but they are so sucked into the whole acronym language that they all sit there nodding, while I sit and back wondering whether it really isn't butter.........
Needless to say I am not very happy in my current job, and felt the need to let my hair down, rejoin the rest of the human race and have fun. My best friend Charles joined us at about 7:30 for one of his famous 'just the ones' and we were all quite merry by 8:45 so decided to whiz down to the Ku bar and watch the final Catherine Tate on the big screen. when we got there we wondered if we had just stepped into a after school club. There were Youths (and their fag slag's) in there that hadn't even had their BCG's yet, let alone reached puberty. We found the whole thing quite distasteful, so as soon as we had watched yet another disappointing episode of Catherine Tate, we decided to Schlep out of there and find a place with men. Or at least someone you wouldn't face arrest for by merely giving them a light for their Mayfair cigarette. Off to The Yard we go. Empty. Hardly a living soul in there, and most definitely nobody I would sleep with, so like a tribe of nomads off into the night we went again.
We decided the Admiral was the best option, it as its always busy, drinks are cheap, and if you are willing to spend £1.50 at a time, you can guarantee that every song you want to hear will be played on their fantastic 'Play mine first' jukebox. I can't end a night in town without hearing the 12" mix of Gambler by Madonna, so the overweight (and offensively under dressed) queen slouched against the jukebox was given the heave ho, my money was in, my song was on, and my scent was being reacted to by a rather suspicious looking fellow at the end of the bar.....
He had been checking me out since I had arrived, and I had been letting him. I kept making eye contact and giving him my cutest ‘come over and make the first move by asking me for a drink because I don't want to come over and be rejected by you’ smiles. I was sure he was the man of my dreams. This went on for a good 2 hours and I was getting quite frustrated with him and myself. With him for not being a man and just coming up to me and saying ‘Hello’, with myself for not being a man and just going up to him and saying ‘Hello’. I was about to call it a night when he eventually got up off his stool and started making his way over to me. I mentally gave myself a pat of the back for having not made the first move, leaving myself open to rejection and humiliation.He approached me and was about to either ask for my name, ask what the time was or kill me. I'm not sure which because he fell onto me, ricocheted off and promptly left the bar without saying a word.
Now one of two things has happened here. Either he was blind drunk and was embarrassed hence his hasty departure once he made the misdemeanour of falling into a perspective mate without establishing his name, or he wasn’t interested in me at all, and I had spent the whole night cruising a man that wasn’t cruising me back. I wish I knew which one it was. I think the most tragic thing about the whole event is that it was the closest I have been to having sex this year. This was a man who didn't even know my name, a man who was too drunk to stand up, a man that once seen up close I wouldn't have slept with anyway and yet he has still been the only man to have any form of contact with me in nearly 12 months.
They say that rejection is the greatest aphrodisiac, and they are right. Because I am horny as a bitch in season.
Gaz and I met up in the Retro bar for a quick 'ketchup' and debrief to see how one another is getting on in our new jobs. We used to work together and were made redundant on the same day back in the summer, and as irony would have it, after 3 months of looking for work, we found our new jobs within days of each other. Gaz is doing extremely well and was full of new buzzwords he has picked up from his new place of employ such as 'Quota's' and 'Briefings'. I on the other hand am hating my new job and am sick of working for a charity that cannot seem to speak the Queens English and insist on using acronyms for everything. On my first day there I learned that I was working for CRUCK in the HICE directorate, which was part of POLD based at LIND. (If anyone out there knows what the hell that means, would you mind clarifying for me) This really is how they talk where I work, and in my 'Directorate' everything is about the 'Comms' (communications) It is our buzzword. As in "have we got the comms on that?" or "I'm just waiting to book the next HICE meeting but am waiting on the comms" or the most common one is, from the head of our team "can I get everyone to gather round for a quick comms". I find myself looking around at my fellow colleagues for signs of what the fuck they are actually talking about, but they are so sucked into the whole acronym language that they all sit there nodding, while I sit and back wondering whether it really isn't butter.........
Needless to say I am not very happy in my current job, and felt the need to let my hair down, rejoin the rest of the human race and have fun. My best friend Charles joined us at about 7:30 for one of his famous 'just the ones' and we were all quite merry by 8:45 so decided to whiz down to the Ku bar and watch the final Catherine Tate on the big screen. when we got there we wondered if we had just stepped into a after school club. There were Youths (and their fag slag's) in there that hadn't even had their BCG's yet, let alone reached puberty. We found the whole thing quite distasteful, so as soon as we had watched yet another disappointing episode of Catherine Tate, we decided to Schlep out of there and find a place with men. Or at least someone you wouldn't face arrest for by merely giving them a light for their Mayfair cigarette. Off to The Yard we go. Empty. Hardly a living soul in there, and most definitely nobody I would sleep with, so like a tribe of nomads off into the night we went again.
We decided the Admiral was the best option, it as its always busy, drinks are cheap, and if you are willing to spend £1.50 at a time, you can guarantee that every song you want to hear will be played on their fantastic 'Play mine first' jukebox. I can't end a night in town without hearing the 12" mix of Gambler by Madonna, so the overweight (and offensively under dressed) queen slouched against the jukebox was given the heave ho, my money was in, my song was on, and my scent was being reacted to by a rather suspicious looking fellow at the end of the bar.....
He had been checking me out since I had arrived, and I had been letting him. I kept making eye contact and giving him my cutest ‘come over and make the first move by asking me for a drink because I don't want to come over and be rejected by you’ smiles. I was sure he was the man of my dreams. This went on for a good 2 hours and I was getting quite frustrated with him and myself. With him for not being a man and just coming up to me and saying ‘Hello’, with myself for not being a man and just going up to him and saying ‘Hello’. I was about to call it a night when he eventually got up off his stool and started making his way over to me. I mentally gave myself a pat of the back for having not made the first move, leaving myself open to rejection and humiliation.He approached me and was about to either ask for my name, ask what the time was or kill me. I'm not sure which because he fell onto me, ricocheted off and promptly left the bar without saying a word.
Now one of two things has happened here. Either he was blind drunk and was embarrassed hence his hasty departure once he made the misdemeanour of falling into a perspective mate without establishing his name, or he wasn’t interested in me at all, and I had spent the whole night cruising a man that wasn’t cruising me back. I wish I knew which one it was. I think the most tragic thing about the whole event is that it was the closest I have been to having sex this year. This was a man who didn't even know my name, a man who was too drunk to stand up, a man that once seen up close I wouldn't have slept with anyway and yet he has still been the only man to have any form of contact with me in nearly 12 months.
They say that rejection is the greatest aphrodisiac, and they are right. Because I am horny as a bitch in season.
Friday, December 01, 2006
Day old bread
When are you too old to go clubbing on a week night?
I ask this question because it seems for the most part the answer is twelve. last night I, at 28 years of age felt past it during an impromptu spontaneous moment when myself and Gaz decided to throw caution to the wind and hoof ourselves down to G.A.Y for a deliciously irresponsible night of drinking and dancing. As soon as we paid our £1 entry fee and headed off to the bar to purchase one of their 'all drinks for under £2' we knew something wasn't right. Looking around I saw faces younger than the pint of milk I have in my fridge at the moment and there was a smell of baby lotion in the air, which unfortunately was not lingering after a hot strippers routine. The place was packed with guys who I bet my Madonna CD collection on had not yet received their National Insurance number. And here they were, out on what was definitely for them school night making me and Gaz feel like we should be have been sentenced to spend the rest of our days at the Elephants Graveyard (The City of Quebec pub in Marble Arch, where gay folklore has it, all the old queens go to die).
They may have youth but I could still fuck all of them under the table.
I ask this question because it seems for the most part the answer is twelve. last night I, at 28 years of age felt past it during an impromptu spontaneous moment when myself and Gaz decided to throw caution to the wind and hoof ourselves down to G.A.Y for a deliciously irresponsible night of drinking and dancing. As soon as we paid our £1 entry fee and headed off to the bar to purchase one of their 'all drinks for under £2' we knew something wasn't right. Looking around I saw faces younger than the pint of milk I have in my fridge at the moment and there was a smell of baby lotion in the air, which unfortunately was not lingering after a hot strippers routine. The place was packed with guys who I bet my Madonna CD collection on had not yet received their National Insurance number. And here they were, out on what was definitely for them school night making me and Gaz feel like we should be have been sentenced to spend the rest of our days at the Elephants Graveyard (The City of Quebec pub in Marble Arch, where gay folklore has it, all the old queens go to die).
They may have youth but I could still fuck all of them under the table.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Just when you thought it was safe to install a BT line
A colleague of mine was just talking about what a nightmare she is having with getting a landline installed in her new place. BT have been mucking her about for nearly three weeks and it was outrageous she said. Have I ever heard of anything so shocking from a large corporation she asked? Yes, I have I thought........
I moved into my new fabulous riverside flat in March this year, on my birthday in fact. Whilst it costs more to run this two bedroom flat than it did to rent my previous three bedroom house with a garden, I am still immensely happy that I made the move. It is the perfect flat, and it is the nicest place I have ever lived. It seemed to have everything I could possibly need. Except for a telephone line. How on earth the previous tenants had managed to live for 15 years without a landline was beyond me, and I put it down to them being aliens from another planet that communicated via the toaster.
There is no way that I can live without my Sky TV so had to get a telephone line installed before that could be fitted. Three weeks I had to wait for an appointment for an engineer. I can't tell you how many episodes of Will & Grace I missed in that period. I know I have them all on DVD but still, I like turning Living on at 7pm and knowing that I have an hour of the last greatest sitcom to watch before I even consider feeding the cat or feeding myself. So these were three very tough weeks indeed. I decorated, cleaned out my wardrobe, filed papers, caught up on washing, put shelf's together, put curtains up organised pot cupboards, alphabetised my CD, DVD and book collection. Not as productive as sitting on the sofa in front of Sky I'm sure you will agree. Who wants to spend their time doing that? All I want out of life is escapism. I watch these shows and pretend they are my life. I don't want to have to deal with reality, so I absolve myself in sitcoms and hang my every last hope on a witty new one liner they produce that I can drop into conversations with my friends to have them laugh hysterically and think I am devastatingly funny.
The BT engineer arrive promptly at 1:30pm. I asked if he wanted a cup to tea, which I think is always nice thing to do even though you are secretly hoping they will decline. Thankfully he did, but asked if he could use my toilet So I left him to it, as he wasn't very attractive so I didn't feel the need to ask if he needed me to hold anything. He seemed to be taking an awfully long time, and I was about to knock on the door when he came out. "um, I just have to pop downstairs he said" Fine, I thought, he obviously has to install the line from outside and is off to get cracking on it. I was slightly confused when I watched him jump in his van and speed off. Maybe the connection box is around the corner I pondered? Nothing really mattered at this point except the fact that Sky TV was on the horizon. An engineer was due at the weekend to install that. Everything was going as planned, which is so unlike me.
An hour and a half later he still hadn't returned and at this stage I was starting to worry if he had been a BT engineer at all. maybe he had just come here to case the joint. All sorts of things were going through my head. I wondered if he was a sex maniac that enjoyed knocking on peoples doors, asking to use their toilet and then masturbating in them, whilst the tenant remains oblivious to what has happened, he has got his kicks thank you very much and off he goes. But no, he didn't do that. Nor had he place a bomb in my bathroom. He had dropped a bomb though. Looking into my toilet I saw the largest turd I have ever seen in my life. It was like an Anaconda. it was so big that it had it's very own postcode and website.
Turns out the BT engineer had blocked my toilet, felt so supremely embarrassed and mortified about the whole thing that he decided the only thing to do was run out of my flat never to be seen again. He didn't even have the decency to fold it up in some tissue and take it with him and dispose of it somewhere, anywhere but MY flat. But more to the point he hadn't fitted my land line which would enable me to watch Sky. I was livid. Not only did I have to call a plumber as he had shoved a years supply of paper down the toilet as well as leaving what had to be half of his spine in the loo, I also had to call BT and explain what had happened. Try explaining that to a call centre in New Delhi. "Sir, we are not plumbers we are British Telecom, we cannot help you with your enquiry" 'I know you're not plumbers, but I need to call one because of the reptile your colleague has left in my flat. Who is going to pay for this" I screamed . The response was the same monotonous robotic drivel I have come to expect from these larges corporate companies that outsource their call centres to far away places without minimum wages and pay their staff in grains of rice. "sir, what is the call regarding?"
It was infuriating. I was getting nowhere and really losing my temper. I had to speak to a person rather than a robot.
Me: Please can you put your manager on the line, I need to speak to somebody with a better grasp of the English language
Vikash: To my manager sir? And what is the call regarding
Me: The fact that you cannot help me with my problem
Vikash: What is the problem sir
Me: Your engineer has just blocked my toilet, I need to call a plumber and I expect you to pay for it. I also expect you to get someone around here to fit my land line
Vikash: Sir, we are not plumbers, we are BT
Me: Oh shove it up your arse
Vikash: I'm sorry Sir, but what is your call regarding
They really do NOT know how to deal with people and this guy at the end of the line clearly thought I was at home licking the light switches. I hung up and tackled the problem by sending an email the following day when I was back at work. My land line was installed three days later naturally by a different engineer. Titanic Turd obviously didn't want to return to the scene of the crime. The chap they sent was very nice indeed, He didn't use my toilet, and was very professional. Well, I say professional, after he installed my line he did call an hour later to ask if I fancied a drink some time. I declined. I decided that I'd had quite enough of all things BT by this stage. I promptly changed my number and service provider.
It has left me with a lingering question though. What does BT stand for? British Telecom or Blocked Toilet?
I moved into my new fabulous riverside flat in March this year, on my birthday in fact. Whilst it costs more to run this two bedroom flat than it did to rent my previous three bedroom house with a garden, I am still immensely happy that I made the move. It is the perfect flat, and it is the nicest place I have ever lived. It seemed to have everything I could possibly need. Except for a telephone line. How on earth the previous tenants had managed to live for 15 years without a landline was beyond me, and I put it down to them being aliens from another planet that communicated via the toaster.
There is no way that I can live without my Sky TV so had to get a telephone line installed before that could be fitted. Three weeks I had to wait for an appointment for an engineer. I can't tell you how many episodes of Will & Grace I missed in that period. I know I have them all on DVD but still, I like turning Living on at 7pm and knowing that I have an hour of the last greatest sitcom to watch before I even consider feeding the cat or feeding myself. So these were three very tough weeks indeed. I decorated, cleaned out my wardrobe, filed papers, caught up on washing, put shelf's together, put curtains up organised pot cupboards, alphabetised my CD, DVD and book collection. Not as productive as sitting on the sofa in front of Sky I'm sure you will agree. Who wants to spend their time doing that? All I want out of life is escapism. I watch these shows and pretend they are my life. I don't want to have to deal with reality, so I absolve myself in sitcoms and hang my every last hope on a witty new one liner they produce that I can drop into conversations with my friends to have them laugh hysterically and think I am devastatingly funny.
The BT engineer arrive promptly at 1:30pm. I asked if he wanted a cup to tea, which I think is always nice thing to do even though you are secretly hoping they will decline. Thankfully he did, but asked if he could use my toilet So I left him to it, as he wasn't very attractive so I didn't feel the need to ask if he needed me to hold anything. He seemed to be taking an awfully long time, and I was about to knock on the door when he came out. "um, I just have to pop downstairs he said" Fine, I thought, he obviously has to install the line from outside and is off to get cracking on it. I was slightly confused when I watched him jump in his van and speed off. Maybe the connection box is around the corner I pondered? Nothing really mattered at this point except the fact that Sky TV was on the horizon. An engineer was due at the weekend to install that. Everything was going as planned, which is so unlike me.
An hour and a half later he still hadn't returned and at this stage I was starting to worry if he had been a BT engineer at all. maybe he had just come here to case the joint. All sorts of things were going through my head. I wondered if he was a sex maniac that enjoyed knocking on peoples doors, asking to use their toilet and then masturbating in them, whilst the tenant remains oblivious to what has happened, he has got his kicks thank you very much and off he goes. But no, he didn't do that. Nor had he place a bomb in my bathroom. He had dropped a bomb though. Looking into my toilet I saw the largest turd I have ever seen in my life. It was like an Anaconda. it was so big that it had it's very own postcode and website.
Turns out the BT engineer had blocked my toilet, felt so supremely embarrassed and mortified about the whole thing that he decided the only thing to do was run out of my flat never to be seen again. He didn't even have the decency to fold it up in some tissue and take it with him and dispose of it somewhere, anywhere but MY flat. But more to the point he hadn't fitted my land line which would enable me to watch Sky. I was livid. Not only did I have to call a plumber as he had shoved a years supply of paper down the toilet as well as leaving what had to be half of his spine in the loo, I also had to call BT and explain what had happened. Try explaining that to a call centre in New Delhi. "Sir, we are not plumbers we are British Telecom, we cannot help you with your enquiry" 'I know you're not plumbers, but I need to call one because of the reptile your colleague has left in my flat. Who is going to pay for this" I screamed . The response was the same monotonous robotic drivel I have come to expect from these larges corporate companies that outsource their call centres to far away places without minimum wages and pay their staff in grains of rice. "sir, what is the call regarding?"
It was infuriating. I was getting nowhere and really losing my temper. I had to speak to a person rather than a robot.
Me: Please can you put your manager on the line, I need to speak to somebody with a better grasp of the English language
Vikash: To my manager sir? And what is the call regarding
Me: The fact that you cannot help me with my problem
Vikash: What is the problem sir
Me: Your engineer has just blocked my toilet, I need to call a plumber and I expect you to pay for it. I also expect you to get someone around here to fit my land line
Vikash: Sir, we are not plumbers, we are BT
Me: Oh shove it up your arse
Vikash: I'm sorry Sir, but what is your call regarding
They really do NOT know how to deal with people and this guy at the end of the line clearly thought I was at home licking the light switches. I hung up and tackled the problem by sending an email the following day when I was back at work. My land line was installed three days later naturally by a different engineer. Titanic Turd obviously didn't want to return to the scene of the crime. The chap they sent was very nice indeed, He didn't use my toilet, and was very professional. Well, I say professional, after he installed my line he did call an hour later to ask if I fancied a drink some time. I declined. I decided that I'd had quite enough of all things BT by this stage. I promptly changed my number and service provider.
It has left me with a lingering question though. What does BT stand for? British Telecom or Blocked Toilet?
Friday, November 24, 2006
Thursdays are the new black
When my alarm woke me this morning, I at first thought I had suffered a stroke. There was a funny taste in my mouth, I couldn't move and my head was extremely fuzzy. I had visions of myself laying there paralysed for weeks only to be discovered when neighbours complained of a funny smell coming from flat number 5............ However, slowly last nights antics came flooding back and I realised I had not had a stroke. I had just had Telstar over last night. The funny taste in my mouth was from the last fajita I had wolfed down at 2.52 am and the reason I couldn't move could probably be related to the 4 bottles of vino we had shared, and my head was most likely fuzzy because it was 7:30 am, and Telstar and I had been up drinking until 4:00 am.
I am of the opinion that Thursday is the new Friday. I have always preferred going out on a Thursday, because it is a school night and you are technically being naughty as there is work the next day, but you can justify staying up drinking like we did last night as you only have Friday to get through, just one day of hell. Put like that it just makes sense. For me there is something rather comforting and familiar about waking up the way I did today. It means the weekend is here.
Telstar and I had much to discuss last night, firstly his impending redundancy. I know exactly how he feels, because I suffered the same thing back in July from the same company. The funny thing is, at my leaving drinks I had jokingly said to Telstar- you'll be gone by December. I was a month out, his last day is 31st January. Neither of us are particularly happy about the situation, Telstar because he is out on his ear, and me because my psychic powers are not as finely tuned as they once were. So we spent some time planning our revenge and have decided the best way is to contact Watch Dog who will in turn expose them as the charlatans they are to the nation. We have both decided that our interviews for the showare to be filmed with us silhouetted..... We are clearly very bitter about the whole thing, but like mother always said, revenge is better than Christmas.
We then talked shop, making many new discoveries along the way, such as whilst Telstar is a staunch atheist, I am borderline agnostic. We are both currently having issues with our step parents and are considering cutting our real ones out of our lives altogether. We both have the new Jamiroquai cd on our wish list, and neither of us are any closer to realising our dream of sleeping with hot Brit actor Danny Dyer.
I then made us chicken fajitas, (with no offer of help to be had) while Telstar sank wine like prohibition was coming in, played with my cat and made a general nuisance of himself by dancing around my kitchen while I was trying to prepare a meal. To be honest I was quite glad he was where I could see him. usually when he comes over he is far too busy stealing my clothes and Will & Grace box sets to offer me any form of help in the kitchen....... the DVD's I completely understand, I mean, Will & Grace is the best sitcom ever made, but the clothes confuse me. I am 5' 5" and a little bit, shall we say rotund, and Telstar is over six foot and makes Nicole Ritchie look like she should be on the Zone. When we walk down the road together, we look like the number 10.
Things took a turn for the worse when I pulled out a joint that I had secured form Mr C the previous evening. Neither of us have smoked a joint in about 2 years, and it was like riding a bike, you never actually forget how to do it. What you do forget is the effect that it can have on your speech and coordination. We smoked it like we were a pair of Rastafarians swaying in hammocks, listening to Buju Banton, who were used to smoking the equivalent of their dreadlock weight in gunja a day. But we are in fact two light weight queens who bit off more than they could chew. Telstar was having trouble getting the contents of his fajita in his mouth, and I was having difficulty speaking in my mother tongue. The next thing I know, Telstar is rummaging in my fridge looking for double cream and a melting chocolate sponge pudding, whilst I am giggling so hard I drop my glass of wine onto the kitchen floor. This resutled in even more hysterics, and at one point only the cats and dogs in the neighbourhood could hear us. It was all getting a little bit too real for our liking so we decided the only way forward was to drink ourselves into stupor in a bid to cancel out the effects of the joint and to ease our paranoia.
All in all it was a good night, and I for one, can't wait to do it all over again
I am of the opinion that Thursday is the new Friday. I have always preferred going out on a Thursday, because it is a school night and you are technically being naughty as there is work the next day, but you can justify staying up drinking like we did last night as you only have Friday to get through, just one day of hell. Put like that it just makes sense. For me there is something rather comforting and familiar about waking up the way I did today. It means the weekend is here.
Telstar and I had much to discuss last night, firstly his impending redundancy. I know exactly how he feels, because I suffered the same thing back in July from the same company. The funny thing is, at my leaving drinks I had jokingly said to Telstar- you'll be gone by December. I was a month out, his last day is 31st January. Neither of us are particularly happy about the situation, Telstar because he is out on his ear, and me because my psychic powers are not as finely tuned as they once were. So we spent some time planning our revenge and have decided the best way is to contact Watch Dog who will in turn expose them as the charlatans they are to the nation. We have both decided that our interviews for the showare to be filmed with us silhouetted..... We are clearly very bitter about the whole thing, but like mother always said, revenge is better than Christmas.
We then talked shop, making many new discoveries along the way, such as whilst Telstar is a staunch atheist, I am borderline agnostic. We are both currently having issues with our step parents and are considering cutting our real ones out of our lives altogether. We both have the new Jamiroquai cd on our wish list, and neither of us are any closer to realising our dream of sleeping with hot Brit actor Danny Dyer.
I then made us chicken fajitas, (with no offer of help to be had) while Telstar sank wine like prohibition was coming in, played with my cat and made a general nuisance of himself by dancing around my kitchen while I was trying to prepare a meal. To be honest I was quite glad he was where I could see him. usually when he comes over he is far too busy stealing my clothes and Will & Grace box sets to offer me any form of help in the kitchen....... the DVD's I completely understand, I mean, Will & Grace is the best sitcom ever made, but the clothes confuse me. I am 5' 5" and a little bit, shall we say rotund, and Telstar is over six foot and makes Nicole Ritchie look like she should be on the Zone. When we walk down the road together, we look like the number 10.
Things took a turn for the worse when I pulled out a joint that I had secured form Mr C the previous evening. Neither of us have smoked a joint in about 2 years, and it was like riding a bike, you never actually forget how to do it. What you do forget is the effect that it can have on your speech and coordination. We smoked it like we were a pair of Rastafarians swaying in hammocks, listening to Buju Banton, who were used to smoking the equivalent of their dreadlock weight in gunja a day. But we are in fact two light weight queens who bit off more than they could chew. Telstar was having trouble getting the contents of his fajita in his mouth, and I was having difficulty speaking in my mother tongue. The next thing I know, Telstar is rummaging in my fridge looking for double cream and a melting chocolate sponge pudding, whilst I am giggling so hard I drop my glass of wine onto the kitchen floor. This resutled in even more hysterics, and at one point only the cats and dogs in the neighbourhood could hear us. It was all getting a little bit too real for our liking so we decided the only way forward was to drink ourselves into stupor in a bid to cancel out the effects of the joint and to ease our paranoia.
All in all it was a good night, and I for one, can't wait to do it all over again
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Me & Mr C
Can a man really change? I find myself asking myself this question today. Usually my gut reaction is to say no, absolutely not. You are more likely to have a a string quartet playing a symphony to sold out audiences in your rectum than that ever happening. But today I wonder if maybe just maybe a man can change, maybe he can stop playing games, treating you like a puppet on a string and finally let you into his life after years of letting you down?
Mr C and I go back about 4 years now. I met him in my local gay bar in Islington, exactly one week after my previous boyfriend had unceremoniously dumped me, by emptying out my flat and doing a runner while I was shopping. It had been a very turbulent relationship, and whilst I was absolutely crushed about the end of it, it was more the fact that I had put up with so much during my time with Tinker (a man who had repeatedly cheated on me, sunk me thousands of pounds into debt, manipulated me, preyed on my vulnerabilities) that I was REALLY devastated about. I should have been the one to end it not him. So I decided I would go out and find me a man. We all know that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else so, fuelled by a couple of cans of Strongbow cider (for Dutch courage of course) I went to the local Homo haunt. This was the night that I met Mr C. He was with a group of people and one of them invited me over. They were all your average local gays, all seemed to have have slept with the bar staff, they called each other 'Dear' and most of them were a good 30- 100 lbs over weight with bald heads and ill fitting jeans. But Mr C was a cut above the rest. He was very attractive, and very stylish for an older guy. I put his age at about 37. At my almost ripe 23 he was an older guy.
They welcomed me into their group, bought me drinks and showered me with attention. I was having a great time, and Tinker was the furthest thing from my mind. I was having such fun and found myself completely high on the feeling that everyone was interested in me. Each one of them was trying to get me into bed and I was really enjoying leading them on and making them think they were in with a chance. The only one who wasn't making a play for me was Mr C. I kept trying to engage in conversations with him but he was quite stand offish. Fortunately enough for me, I wasn't drunk enough to lose my inhibitions, so played it cool. However, I was so drawn to him, and the way he kept looking at me suggested he was attracted to me. I couldn't work it out. I went to the toilet and as I was coming out Mr C came in. He didn't go to use the toilet but instead pushed me against the wall and kissed me. It was the most passionate kiss I had ever had and it told me everything I needed to know. It was soft and hard all at the same time, and he pulled me closer to him by my head whilst we kissed. It is the closet to having a dry orgasm I had ever been. He asked for my number, which I gave him, and he said that maybe we could go for a drink sometime. 'Yes, I'd like that' I replied as seductively as I could.
We didn't sleep together that night but a few days later, Mr C called and arranged a date. I am embarrassed to say when I put the phone down I jumped for joy. I hadn't been able to get our kiss out of my mind, and I just had to find out what another one of them could lead to. He arrived on time and was even more devastating handsome then I had remembered. I wondered if he was out of my league. I had never been on a date with someone so sexy. He became even more desirable when I discovered he was a plumber. The idea of him in overalls immediately sprang to mind and it wasn't long before I had to go to the toilet and readjust myself.
The date was going well. Mr C was funny and charming, and I was becoming dangerously attracted to him. I had to have him. I feared if I didn't make a move I might lose my chance to sleep with the most attractive man I had ever been on a date with. I decided to be upfront and ask if he fancied coming back to mine to finish that kiss. The Gods, or should I say the Fairies must have been looking down because he said he thought I'd never ask.
I won't go in to detail, as I have never really been one to shag then shout, but lets just say, Mr C was amazing. The best sex I had ever had. I was convinced he must be a wonderful plumber by day, because he certainly knew his way around pipes in the bedroom. As I lay there, post the best orgasm of my life something odd happened. Mr C got up from my bed and began putting his clothes on, and started mumbling something about how he had to be up really early. I felt cheap. I had known that it would probably just be a sexual encounter, but I had never counted on just how awful I would feel once it happened. I was prepared for the fact that after any extreme high there is certain to be an extreme low. I just assumed it would be tomorrow morning when he left. Not twenty seconds after having sex. At this point, the only sexual experiences I'd had, were with boyfriends. I had never had a one night stand, but was pretty sure that a one night stand meant that both parties were obligated to stay for one night? It all happened so quickly and before I knew it, Mr C kissed me and said he's give me a call soon.
This is pretty much how our relationship, if you can call it that continued for the next 2 years. It turned out that Mr C was in a relationship which he claimed to be profusely unhappy in. He told me they were living separate lives, didn't communicate, never had sex and he wanted to get out to start a new life with me. The oldest story in the book. Unfortunately as has been an inherent problem my whole life, I believed him. I trusted him. I became 'the other woman' a role I had always promised myself I would never act. But suddenly I found myself in the lead part of An Affair to Remember.
Except there wasn't really anything to remember. We would meet up every few weeks, have some drinks, ocassionally dinner, go back to mine, have sex and then he would leave. He never invited to to his place, and I never even knew where he lived. But even this wasn't enough to make me see sense, I was in love, and Mr C assured me it wasn't unrequited. He led me to believe we would one day be together...............
Four years down the line, and after quite a lot of turbulence, we are just friends. It is definitely not sexual. I think that Mr C is actually destined to be in my life, and maybe we needed to go through what we did in order to come out the other end as friends. Sometimes people come into your life and we are far too quick to categorize then by putting them into the wrong box. Maybe I put Mr C into the "Boyfriend" box, when I should have put him into the "Friend" box?
But, it seems that he is changing. When we make an arrangement to meet, he never cancels, he hasn't stood me up and he is not in a relationship anymore. The biggest change of all is this. Tonight I am going over to his place in Crouch End for dinner. So, maybe a man can change?
Mr C and I go back about 4 years now. I met him in my local gay bar in Islington, exactly one week after my previous boyfriend had unceremoniously dumped me, by emptying out my flat and doing a runner while I was shopping. It had been a very turbulent relationship, and whilst I was absolutely crushed about the end of it, it was more the fact that I had put up with so much during my time with Tinker (a man who had repeatedly cheated on me, sunk me thousands of pounds into debt, manipulated me, preyed on my vulnerabilities) that I was REALLY devastated about. I should have been the one to end it not him. So I decided I would go out and find me a man. We all know that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else so, fuelled by a couple of cans of Strongbow cider (for Dutch courage of course) I went to the local Homo haunt. This was the night that I met Mr C. He was with a group of people and one of them invited me over. They were all your average local gays, all seemed to have have slept with the bar staff, they called each other 'Dear' and most of them were a good 30- 100 lbs over weight with bald heads and ill fitting jeans. But Mr C was a cut above the rest. He was very attractive, and very stylish for an older guy. I put his age at about 37. At my almost ripe 23 he was an older guy.
They welcomed me into their group, bought me drinks and showered me with attention. I was having a great time, and Tinker was the furthest thing from my mind. I was having such fun and found myself completely high on the feeling that everyone was interested in me. Each one of them was trying to get me into bed and I was really enjoying leading them on and making them think they were in with a chance. The only one who wasn't making a play for me was Mr C. I kept trying to engage in conversations with him but he was quite stand offish. Fortunately enough for me, I wasn't drunk enough to lose my inhibitions, so played it cool. However, I was so drawn to him, and the way he kept looking at me suggested he was attracted to me. I couldn't work it out. I went to the toilet and as I was coming out Mr C came in. He didn't go to use the toilet but instead pushed me against the wall and kissed me. It was the most passionate kiss I had ever had and it told me everything I needed to know. It was soft and hard all at the same time, and he pulled me closer to him by my head whilst we kissed. It is the closet to having a dry orgasm I had ever been. He asked for my number, which I gave him, and he said that maybe we could go for a drink sometime. 'Yes, I'd like that' I replied as seductively as I could.
We didn't sleep together that night but a few days later, Mr C called and arranged a date. I am embarrassed to say when I put the phone down I jumped for joy. I hadn't been able to get our kiss out of my mind, and I just had to find out what another one of them could lead to. He arrived on time and was even more devastating handsome then I had remembered. I wondered if he was out of my league. I had never been on a date with someone so sexy. He became even more desirable when I discovered he was a plumber. The idea of him in overalls immediately sprang to mind and it wasn't long before I had to go to the toilet and readjust myself.
The date was going well. Mr C was funny and charming, and I was becoming dangerously attracted to him. I had to have him. I feared if I didn't make a move I might lose my chance to sleep with the most attractive man I had ever been on a date with. I decided to be upfront and ask if he fancied coming back to mine to finish that kiss. The Gods, or should I say the Fairies must have been looking down because he said he thought I'd never ask.
I won't go in to detail, as I have never really been one to shag then shout, but lets just say, Mr C was amazing. The best sex I had ever had. I was convinced he must be a wonderful plumber by day, because he certainly knew his way around pipes in the bedroom. As I lay there, post the best orgasm of my life something odd happened. Mr C got up from my bed and began putting his clothes on, and started mumbling something about how he had to be up really early. I felt cheap. I had known that it would probably just be a sexual encounter, but I had never counted on just how awful I would feel once it happened. I was prepared for the fact that after any extreme high there is certain to be an extreme low. I just assumed it would be tomorrow morning when he left. Not twenty seconds after having sex. At this point, the only sexual experiences I'd had, were with boyfriends. I had never had a one night stand, but was pretty sure that a one night stand meant that both parties were obligated to stay for one night? It all happened so quickly and before I knew it, Mr C kissed me and said he's give me a call soon.
This is pretty much how our relationship, if you can call it that continued for the next 2 years. It turned out that Mr C was in a relationship which he claimed to be profusely unhappy in. He told me they were living separate lives, didn't communicate, never had sex and he wanted to get out to start a new life with me. The oldest story in the book. Unfortunately as has been an inherent problem my whole life, I believed him. I trusted him. I became 'the other woman' a role I had always promised myself I would never act. But suddenly I found myself in the lead part of An Affair to Remember.
Except there wasn't really anything to remember. We would meet up every few weeks, have some drinks, ocassionally dinner, go back to mine, have sex and then he would leave. He never invited to to his place, and I never even knew where he lived. But even this wasn't enough to make me see sense, I was in love, and Mr C assured me it wasn't unrequited. He led me to believe we would one day be together...............
Four years down the line, and after quite a lot of turbulence, we are just friends. It is definitely not sexual. I think that Mr C is actually destined to be in my life, and maybe we needed to go through what we did in order to come out the other end as friends. Sometimes people come into your life and we are far too quick to categorize then by putting them into the wrong box. Maybe I put Mr C into the "Boyfriend" box, when I should have put him into the "Friend" box?
But, it seems that he is changing. When we make an arrangement to meet, he never cancels, he hasn't stood me up and he is not in a relationship anymore. The biggest change of all is this. Tonight I am going over to his place in Crouch End for dinner. So, maybe a man can change?
Monday, November 20, 2006
A Question of Question
Being made redundant from a job is a funny old thing, because it quite literally is how you feel about yourself. Redundant. Not needed. Defunct. You can't help but feel like a failure, especially when a company is paying thousands of pounds for you NOT to work for them any longer. It feels like you must be so supremely awful that bankrupting a company is preferable to continuing a working relationship with you. It is very hard not to take it personally. Especially when you find out 3 months after having made you redundant, your post has been refilled......... but I'll cover that in another blog. For now I just want to relive what was Wank Wednesday. The day I got the boot. And also use it as an outlet to bitch about a former colleague.
It happened this July when I, along with the rest of the Customer Services team at a well known financial publishers were all notified we were being made redundant. It was all quite shocking because of the fact I had recently been promoted to the Customer Services Manager, having worked my way up the ladder for 4 years and things were going really well, our calls statistics had improved a great deal, we achieved our annual sales target, in fact we were meeting all of our targets.The department had never performed so well, and I liked to think that it was because of some changes I had made. I had also just finished staff appraisals, given pay rises and promotions. This is why is was out of the blue when we were all called into a meeting room by the Managing Director and told that we were being made redundant.
If I am completely honest, the first thing I felt was excitement. Adrenalin kicked in and my heart was pounding at the prospect of finding a new job. Maybe I could change my career path? I had always wanted to get into charity and this could be my chance? As I looked around the room, into the eyes of my colleagues who had befallen the same fate, I saw glimpses of terror, impending doom, confusion and shock. Then I looked at a girl we all called "Question" behind her back (who was possibly the most irritating person I have ever worked with, and on more than one occasion I think all of us fantasised about giving her a back hander, right across her grubby, bulbous, blackhead infested face), Questions lip was quivering and tears were streaming down her face. "um, what does this mean, am I out of a job? My god this is awful". Most people would feel empathy for the girl, but not me, nor any other of my colleagues. Not because we were mean and needed to be checked for heart beats but because we were all full time employees, and Question came into the office part time for 5 hours a week. And all she did in those 5 hours was irritate the hell out of us all by asking and answering her own questions in the same sentence so, I felt it was just a tad insensitive of her to be worrying about her pissy part time position when we were losing our full time positions. But that was Question all over. ANNOYING
She was one of those do gooders that ever office has. Always bright, upbeat, efficient and so irritatingly enthusiastic about her work she couldn't hold a conversation that didn't involve work, or answering her own work related questions. This displayed how was completely devoid of personality Question was. she put the 'ring' into boring. In fact, I think she put the 'bore' in there too. At 21 years of age, she had the figure of a 48 year old woman who had lived on microwave meals for the past decade. Her dress sense was ILLEGAL. If there were such things as fashion felony protesters, this girl would have been egged on a regular basis. Her hair was a disaster a D-I-saster. Just a mass of straw and hay. The whole thing was a car crash, and even her walking past my desk would make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and not in a good way. She drove everyone crazy, but was oblivious to this. Even just getting an email from her would drive most people to either commit murder or commit suicide. she was annoying on so many levels, but it was her questions that people took particular offence to I think. It drove us all to distraction, especially when she would hop toward your desk every time she wanted to ask an inane, self answered question. A prime example would be "Oh, can I just ask you a quick question? I have this customer who hasn't had his copy of this months magazine and wants another one. I think I should just send him another, what do you think?" So she would ask the question, then answer it JUST to show how clever she was. She needed reassurance about anything work related, but not her hair, dress sense or figure, which I could never understand or quite fathom out. No, she seemed completely confident and self assured with her pores the size of Mars, her white head ravaged nose and the nest of rabid pigeons that she called a haircut.
Even though she was only in the office for 5 hours a week (which she spread over 3 days) Question also thought that the whole company couldn't cope without her being there for the other 35+ hours because she took it upon herself to send an email around, not just the department, but the whole company saying "I will be out of the office now until Friday when I will be here from 11:00 and until 12:00pm, Have a great week everyone" every time she left the office. There were actually audible groans from around the office whenever she sent one of her of office emails.
So cut to me, in the office being told I am being made redundant, Question is crying and I can't help but smirk. I smirk because it's embarrassing. I smirk because it's awkward. I smirk because she is pathetic. How hard can it be to get 5 hours part time work I thought? Is it really THAT devastating? Considering we were located in central London and she lived in Surbiton most of her wages were surely spent on travel, which proved to me that she really was in the office just to annoy us all.
We were all told that there was not enough work for us all, and they had 8 full time workers but only 3 full time positions available. We could apply for them. They actually expected us to all apply for a job that we already had, and go up against not just colleagues, but friends. Some of us in that room had formed really good friendships. It was all very unethical, and I had already decided to take the money and run. The Managing Director asked to see me later, and explained that if I was to apply for one of the other jobs I would have to take a demotion and a pay cut as there were going to be no managerial positions. So basically my redundancy was compulsory (This has all proved to be an utter crock of shit and they filled my position within 3 months). I accepted the redundancy, and was told my last day would be the following Friday. This came as a shock because I thought when you were made redundant, you were not needed, and as you didn't have enough work to do, or so I was being told I assumed I would leave right away.....
Well, as they say, when you assume you make an ass out of you, because the MD had made his own assumption, that everyone else would be clamboring all over each other for the other 3 positions, when in fact they all opted for redundancy too. So they fucked themselves royally, much to our amusement. Apart from of course, Question, who is still hanging on for dear life.
I did go on to change my career, and I did get into charity.
It happened this July when I, along with the rest of the Customer Services team at a well known financial publishers were all notified we were being made redundant. It was all quite shocking because of the fact I had recently been promoted to the Customer Services Manager, having worked my way up the ladder for 4 years and things were going really well, our calls statistics had improved a great deal, we achieved our annual sales target, in fact we were meeting all of our targets.The department had never performed so well, and I liked to think that it was because of some changes I had made. I had also just finished staff appraisals, given pay rises and promotions. This is why is was out of the blue when we were all called into a meeting room by the Managing Director and told that we were being made redundant.
If I am completely honest, the first thing I felt was excitement. Adrenalin kicked in and my heart was pounding at the prospect of finding a new job. Maybe I could change my career path? I had always wanted to get into charity and this could be my chance? As I looked around the room, into the eyes of my colleagues who had befallen the same fate, I saw glimpses of terror, impending doom, confusion and shock. Then I looked at a girl we all called "Question" behind her back (who was possibly the most irritating person I have ever worked with, and on more than one occasion I think all of us fantasised about giving her a back hander, right across her grubby, bulbous, blackhead infested face), Questions lip was quivering and tears were streaming down her face. "um, what does this mean, am I out of a job? My god this is awful". Most people would feel empathy for the girl, but not me, nor any other of my colleagues. Not because we were mean and needed to be checked for heart beats but because we were all full time employees, and Question came into the office part time for 5 hours a week. And all she did in those 5 hours was irritate the hell out of us all by asking and answering her own questions in the same sentence so, I felt it was just a tad insensitive of her to be worrying about her pissy part time position when we were losing our full time positions. But that was Question all over. ANNOYING
She was one of those do gooders that ever office has. Always bright, upbeat, efficient and so irritatingly enthusiastic about her work she couldn't hold a conversation that didn't involve work, or answering her own work related questions. This displayed how was completely devoid of personality Question was. she put the 'ring' into boring. In fact, I think she put the 'bore' in there too. At 21 years of age, she had the figure of a 48 year old woman who had lived on microwave meals for the past decade. Her dress sense was ILLEGAL. If there were such things as fashion felony protesters, this girl would have been egged on a regular basis. Her hair was a disaster a D-I-saster. Just a mass of straw and hay. The whole thing was a car crash, and even her walking past my desk would make the hairs stand up on the back of my neck and not in a good way. She drove everyone crazy, but was oblivious to this. Even just getting an email from her would drive most people to either commit murder or commit suicide. she was annoying on so many levels, but it was her questions that people took particular offence to I think. It drove us all to distraction, especially when she would hop toward your desk every time she wanted to ask an inane, self answered question. A prime example would be "Oh, can I just ask you a quick question? I have this customer who hasn't had his copy of this months magazine and wants another one. I think I should just send him another, what do you think?" So she would ask the question, then answer it JUST to show how clever she was. She needed reassurance about anything work related, but not her hair, dress sense or figure, which I could never understand or quite fathom out. No, she seemed completely confident and self assured with her pores the size of Mars, her white head ravaged nose and the nest of rabid pigeons that she called a haircut.
Even though she was only in the office for 5 hours a week (which she spread over 3 days) Question also thought that the whole company couldn't cope without her being there for the other 35+ hours because she took it upon herself to send an email around, not just the department, but the whole company saying "I will be out of the office now until Friday when I will be here from 11:00 and until 12:00pm, Have a great week everyone" every time she left the office. There were actually audible groans from around the office whenever she sent one of her of office emails.
So cut to me, in the office being told I am being made redundant, Question is crying and I can't help but smirk. I smirk because it's embarrassing. I smirk because it's awkward. I smirk because she is pathetic. How hard can it be to get 5 hours part time work I thought? Is it really THAT devastating? Considering we were located in central London and she lived in Surbiton most of her wages were surely spent on travel, which proved to me that she really was in the office just to annoy us all.
We were all told that there was not enough work for us all, and they had 8 full time workers but only 3 full time positions available. We could apply for them. They actually expected us to all apply for a job that we already had, and go up against not just colleagues, but friends. Some of us in that room had formed really good friendships. It was all very unethical, and I had already decided to take the money and run. The Managing Director asked to see me later, and explained that if I was to apply for one of the other jobs I would have to take a demotion and a pay cut as there were going to be no managerial positions. So basically my redundancy was compulsory (This has all proved to be an utter crock of shit and they filled my position within 3 months). I accepted the redundancy, and was told my last day would be the following Friday. This came as a shock because I thought when you were made redundant, you were not needed, and as you didn't have enough work to do, or so I was being told I assumed I would leave right away.....
Well, as they say, when you assume you make an ass out of you, because the MD had made his own assumption, that everyone else would be clamboring all over each other for the other 3 positions, when in fact they all opted for redundancy too. So they fucked themselves royally, much to our amusement. Apart from of course, Question, who is still hanging on for dear life.
I did go on to change my career, and I did get into charity.
Friday, November 17, 2006
Baby, talk is cheap
The run up to Christmas always gets me worried. I worry that I am not going to have enough money to buy everyone the nice presents they have come to expect from me, which would result in me become disowned. I worry that I will not have enough money to pay my bills come the 1st of January, which will result in me being made homeless. I worry that I will not have enough money to top up my Oyster card to get to work, which would result in me being made unemployed, pretty much the same dilemas that face 99.9% of the population after overspending at this time of year. And like 99.9% of the population, I am always looking for news ways to earn myself a little cash to help buy those presents I know my friends and family will love, which is why I have jumped at the chance to be a Gay Chat Operator. The advert said you could earn up to £10 per hour from the comfort of your own home. How hard can it be? So I have decided to jump on board the chat operator express, next stop Sex Worker-ville.
I went straight to the website and downloaded a manual, and a contract. The manual was full of encouraging testimonials from other chat operators saying things like "I like the feeling of knowing the more effort I put in the more money I'll earn. It really gives me a sense of satisfaction when I get my money every two weeks" from Maria, but even more encouraging was Caroline who states "I have been working as a chat line operator for two months now and I love it! it's great fun and doesn't feel like work at all. the money is a bonus, I made £665.14 in two weeks"
Well, the contract was signed and posted along with a copy of my passport quicker than you could hum the first verse of Sade's Smooth Operator. The following day I received an email with my starter manual and had to call up the helpdesk for a log in code. In all honestly I was more terrified of calling up for my code than actually becoming an operator. These were going to be 'Real' people who probably thought that chat line operators were some sub standard species, I could picture them putting my call on loud speaker and humiliating me by saying it was all a prank and they just thought it would be funny to see if anyone out there was sad enough to do it. Well, there is, and I am.
My call to retrieve my log in was going quite smoothly I have to say. This wasn't so embarrassing I thought. Well, apart from when I asked the woman who was taking my details how long do the calls generally last and did they all tend to be very sexual."I wouldn't know I work in the office, no judgement" she bellowed. My face stung with shame and self hatred and my fear that I was on loud speaker seemed ever more real. I pictured rows of blondes, wearing tight sweaters with gargantuan nails and red lipstick typing away and laughing at me behind my back. I could not have hated myself harder than I did at that moment. But then Tasmin turned it around by saying that if I looked on page 33 of the manual it gave me more details and ideas about the sort of calls to expect.
The start up manual is very helpful, and is fully of lots of information, some of it is just pure common sense, but parts are just plain crazy. Like in the section on 'How to Get Started' it says 'To get you in the mood, think about some pleasant experiences you may have had such as: How you might talk intimately to your partner. Remember the best chat-up line you ever heard, and how you responded to it. Perhaps you went to a great party and want to talk about it.' No, my advice on how to get started is to knock back alcohol like prohibition is coming in to enable you to throw caution to the wind so that you can talk to these FREAKS. These incredibly odd people who get their kicks by somebody at the end of the line pretending that they're wearing French panties whilst preparing a three course meal and getting the kids ready for bed.
The manual also gives you a few ideas for the messages you can leave on the phone lines such as:
"Hi, my name is Steve. I'm a gay guy looking forward to talking to you and having fun. I just love hearing new voices"
or
"Hi, Transsexual Suzie here. I've got gorgeous dark glowing skin, long flowing hair and I just love talking on the phone."
I'm not sure that I will go with any of those, I was thinking more "Hi, I've had two bottles of wine, I'm likely to make no sense and be abusive, and may very well vomit during our chat. On line now waiting for your call."
Tonight will be the first time I try being a chat line operator. I feel after studying the manual for the last two days I have all the information I need to be a success. I also feel that with two bottles of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, I will have the courage to carry it off.
I went straight to the website and downloaded a manual, and a contract. The manual was full of encouraging testimonials from other chat operators saying things like "I like the feeling of knowing the more effort I put in the more money I'll earn. It really gives me a sense of satisfaction when I get my money every two weeks" from Maria, but even more encouraging was Caroline who states "I have been working as a chat line operator for two months now and I love it! it's great fun and doesn't feel like work at all. the money is a bonus, I made £665.14 in two weeks"
Well, the contract was signed and posted along with a copy of my passport quicker than you could hum the first verse of Sade's Smooth Operator. The following day I received an email with my starter manual and had to call up the helpdesk for a log in code. In all honestly I was more terrified of calling up for my code than actually becoming an operator. These were going to be 'Real' people who probably thought that chat line operators were some sub standard species, I could picture them putting my call on loud speaker and humiliating me by saying it was all a prank and they just thought it would be funny to see if anyone out there was sad enough to do it. Well, there is, and I am.
My call to retrieve my log in was going quite smoothly I have to say. This wasn't so embarrassing I thought. Well, apart from when I asked the woman who was taking my details how long do the calls generally last and did they all tend to be very sexual."I wouldn't know I work in the office, no judgement" she bellowed. My face stung with shame and self hatred and my fear that I was on loud speaker seemed ever more real. I pictured rows of blondes, wearing tight sweaters with gargantuan nails and red lipstick typing away and laughing at me behind my back. I could not have hated myself harder than I did at that moment. But then Tasmin turned it around by saying that if I looked on page 33 of the manual it gave me more details and ideas about the sort of calls to expect.
The start up manual is very helpful, and is fully of lots of information, some of it is just pure common sense, but parts are just plain crazy. Like in the section on 'How to Get Started' it says 'To get you in the mood, think about some pleasant experiences you may have had such as: How you might talk intimately to your partner. Remember the best chat-up line you ever heard, and how you responded to it. Perhaps you went to a great party and want to talk about it.' No, my advice on how to get started is to knock back alcohol like prohibition is coming in to enable you to throw caution to the wind so that you can talk to these FREAKS. These incredibly odd people who get their kicks by somebody at the end of the line pretending that they're wearing French panties whilst preparing a three course meal and getting the kids ready for bed.
The manual also gives you a few ideas for the messages you can leave on the phone lines such as:
"Hi, my name is Steve. I'm a gay guy looking forward to talking to you and having fun. I just love hearing new voices"
or
"Hi, Transsexual Suzie here. I've got gorgeous dark glowing skin, long flowing hair and I just love talking on the phone."
I'm not sure that I will go with any of those, I was thinking more "Hi, I've had two bottles of wine, I'm likely to make no sense and be abusive, and may very well vomit during our chat. On line now waiting for your call."
Tonight will be the first time I try being a chat line operator. I feel after studying the manual for the last two days I have all the information I need to be a success. I also feel that with two bottles of Pinot Grigio in the fridge, I will have the courage to carry it off.
Friday, November 10, 2006
"Everybody's gotta learn sometime"
Last night I was one bad date away from being bitter, today I am just bitter.
I am through with men. Oh yes indeedy. That’s it. Over. I will date men no more. This Homo is closing down for season. I am on the Celibacy Express. I am relocating to Baron Island. Alone. I used to think that I was genuinely unlucky with men, today I know it is the only thing I am certain of in this show called life.
I had met Dave whilst on holiday a few weeks back, on the island I have now renamed as Gross Canaria. We got chatting on a boat trip and he was definitely the type of guy I fantasize about. An ASBO. A scaly lad, very straight acting, with a real London accent decked out in tracksuit bottoms and trainers. The gay ideal. The dream. We were from very different worlds, He was a baggage handler at an airport, and I work in events for a charity. He shopped at Morrisons for his food, I wouldn’t be seen dead in anywhere but M&S. I wore a simple silver bracelet and he was dripping in the entire Argos jewellery collection. My spare time is spent going to galleries or exhibitions; his spare time was spent sitting in a mate’s studio flat above a kebab shop listening to drum and bass, getting stoned. He was what I would call Chav-tastic, I mean this guy should have been in a laboratory being studied. So when he asked for my number I practically tattooed it on to him for fear that he may forget it or lose it. I couldn’t believe my luck. We said that we would meet once back in London. He wrote down his number for me and signed it with his tag, a smiley face and also a message, to remember him by ‘Grrrr’. Perfect.
So he contacts me last week out of the blue to ask if I want to meet him for a drink. In fact his text message said ‘wana meet up wiv u soon m8. U up 4 a drink’ I hadn’t contacted him because I had thrown his number away when he had given it to me eliminating any chance I may start to stalk him. Although I didn’t recognise the number, I knew who it was, it had Dave all over it.
We arranged to meet last night and have been sharing a bit of banter via text for a few days. One of his messages said ‘I really wana sleep wiv ya 2nite m8’ I have never really understood the whole ‘text talk’ and hate it when anyone uses it, mainly because I am not an imbecile and have a good grasp of the English language but that was quite possibly the most perfect text message I have ever received. I sent one back saying ‘you are very forward. I like that’. The more text messages he sent the more excitement within me grew and I started to really look forward to this date. The possibility of one of my fantasies actually coming true was almost too much for me to bear. Having sex with a scaly boy has always been at the top of my list. I think for most Gay men it is up there. There is even a whole gay porn company that makes movies with scalys and nothing else and they have titles like Scaly Boy Orgy, Trackie Lads and Scaly Football Orgy. Those of us who are of the lavender persuasion really cannot get enough of dirty little scalys.
As I navigated my way along Oxford Street last night to go and meet Dave, I called my friend Telstar to rub in the fact that I had a date with a scaly. He quickly pointed out to me that not only was I living the dream, I was living his dream. The realisation that I could lose his friendship started to appear very real indeed. Telstar dreams of scalys. His entire porn collection is dedicated to them, so the fact that I had a date with an actual scaly was, in Telstar’s eyes, the ultimate betrayal, and completely unjust. I worried that he might even sabotage the date and ruin my chance to turn a fantasy into a reality by turning up and pretending to be a jilted lover, or tell Dave he was pregnant with my child…
Dave came straight up to me as I entered the bar, which I was thankful for because I had only met him once, about a month before, on a gay cruise during which I had drank twice my body weight in beer and tequila. So although I remembered that I was attracted to him, I couldn’t actually remember what he looked like. We got a drink and then sat down, and I had to stop myself form laughing at the sight of us. He was over six foot, wearing trainers & trackies, and me 5’ 5” wearing a suit. It was all so Pretty Woman and I felt like Richard Gere in the leading role. Dave was very talkative and kept saying things like “Ur ‘Orny” (he found me attractive) and “u look a lot branner than me” (I had more of a suntan) and "wanna novver one?" (was I thirsty) He also told me about his new car, he described it as bullet. As in: have you heard the new Madonna single? It’s bullet. It was all so deliciously scaly.
There were a few problems though, mainly his lack of diplomacy and tact. At one point he asked how old I was. When I told him I was 28 he said “nah mate, I thought you were about 35” and asked me to prove that I was in fact 28. He then said that he was really into bigger guys who didn't spend too much time taking care of themselves. A minute later he told me how much he fancied me and asked did I want to go to XXL with him? XXL is a well-known gay club for chubbys and their chasers. I weigh 76 kilos. Yes I could probably do with losing a stone but would hardly call myself fat. However in Dave’s eyes I was Richard SImmons before he found aerobics. Basically Dave was saying I looked old, overweight and had let myself go. I should have been insulted but I wasn’t. I actually found it highly amusing. He didn’t have the intelligence to see how offensive he had been, and for some reason this tickled me. I was not tickled though when he started showing me explicit text messages form some bloke he was having a fling with or when I came back from the toilet to find him setting up another date. I came back to find my date on another date. I hate it when that happens. I realised that if Dave couldn’t be faithful to me for 2 hours, he wasn’t really the sort of man I want in my life. So I made my excuses and left. My fantasy wasn’t about to come true this evening
On the way home I bought Scaly Boy Orgy and decided that scalys are best left as fantasies.
I am through with men. Oh yes indeedy. That’s it. Over. I will date men no more. This Homo is closing down for season. I am on the Celibacy Express. I am relocating to Baron Island. Alone. I used to think that I was genuinely unlucky with men, today I know it is the only thing I am certain of in this show called life.
I had met Dave whilst on holiday a few weeks back, on the island I have now renamed as Gross Canaria. We got chatting on a boat trip and he was definitely the type of guy I fantasize about. An ASBO. A scaly lad, very straight acting, with a real London accent decked out in tracksuit bottoms and trainers. The gay ideal. The dream. We were from very different worlds, He was a baggage handler at an airport, and I work in events for a charity. He shopped at Morrisons for his food, I wouldn’t be seen dead in anywhere but M&S. I wore a simple silver bracelet and he was dripping in the entire Argos jewellery collection. My spare time is spent going to galleries or exhibitions; his spare time was spent sitting in a mate’s studio flat above a kebab shop listening to drum and bass, getting stoned. He was what I would call Chav-tastic, I mean this guy should have been in a laboratory being studied. So when he asked for my number I practically tattooed it on to him for fear that he may forget it or lose it. I couldn’t believe my luck. We said that we would meet once back in London. He wrote down his number for me and signed it with his tag, a smiley face and also a message, to remember him by ‘Grrrr’. Perfect.
So he contacts me last week out of the blue to ask if I want to meet him for a drink. In fact his text message said ‘wana meet up wiv u soon m8. U up 4 a drink’ I hadn’t contacted him because I had thrown his number away when he had given it to me eliminating any chance I may start to stalk him. Although I didn’t recognise the number, I knew who it was, it had Dave all over it.
We arranged to meet last night and have been sharing a bit of banter via text for a few days. One of his messages said ‘I really wana sleep wiv ya 2nite m8’ I have never really understood the whole ‘text talk’ and hate it when anyone uses it, mainly because I am not an imbecile and have a good grasp of the English language but that was quite possibly the most perfect text message I have ever received. I sent one back saying ‘you are very forward. I like that’. The more text messages he sent the more excitement within me grew and I started to really look forward to this date. The possibility of one of my fantasies actually coming true was almost too much for me to bear. Having sex with a scaly boy has always been at the top of my list. I think for most Gay men it is up there. There is even a whole gay porn company that makes movies with scalys and nothing else and they have titles like Scaly Boy Orgy, Trackie Lads and Scaly Football Orgy. Those of us who are of the lavender persuasion really cannot get enough of dirty little scalys.
As I navigated my way along Oxford Street last night to go and meet Dave, I called my friend Telstar to rub in the fact that I had a date with a scaly. He quickly pointed out to me that not only was I living the dream, I was living his dream. The realisation that I could lose his friendship started to appear very real indeed. Telstar dreams of scalys. His entire porn collection is dedicated to them, so the fact that I had a date with an actual scaly was, in Telstar’s eyes, the ultimate betrayal, and completely unjust. I worried that he might even sabotage the date and ruin my chance to turn a fantasy into a reality by turning up and pretending to be a jilted lover, or tell Dave he was pregnant with my child…
Dave came straight up to me as I entered the bar, which I was thankful for because I had only met him once, about a month before, on a gay cruise during which I had drank twice my body weight in beer and tequila. So although I remembered that I was attracted to him, I couldn’t actually remember what he looked like. We got a drink and then sat down, and I had to stop myself form laughing at the sight of us. He was over six foot, wearing trainers & trackies, and me 5’ 5” wearing a suit. It was all so Pretty Woman and I felt like Richard Gere in the leading role. Dave was very talkative and kept saying things like “Ur ‘Orny” (he found me attractive) and “u look a lot branner than me” (I had more of a suntan) and "wanna novver one?" (was I thirsty) He also told me about his new car, he described it as bullet. As in: have you heard the new Madonna single? It’s bullet. It was all so deliciously scaly.
There were a few problems though, mainly his lack of diplomacy and tact. At one point he asked how old I was. When I told him I was 28 he said “nah mate, I thought you were about 35” and asked me to prove that I was in fact 28. He then said that he was really into bigger guys who didn't spend too much time taking care of themselves. A minute later he told me how much he fancied me and asked did I want to go to XXL with him? XXL is a well-known gay club for chubbys and their chasers. I weigh 76 kilos. Yes I could probably do with losing a stone but would hardly call myself fat. However in Dave’s eyes I was Richard SImmons before he found aerobics. Basically Dave was saying I looked old, overweight and had let myself go. I should have been insulted but I wasn’t. I actually found it highly amusing. He didn’t have the intelligence to see how offensive he had been, and for some reason this tickled me. I was not tickled though when he started showing me explicit text messages form some bloke he was having a fling with or when I came back from the toilet to find him setting up another date. I came back to find my date on another date. I hate it when that happens. I realised that if Dave couldn’t be faithful to me for 2 hours, he wasn’t really the sort of man I want in my life. So I made my excuses and left. My fantasy wasn’t about to come true this evening
On the way home I bought Scaly Boy Orgy and decided that scalys are best left as fantasies.
In the name of The Father
Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Tequila Mockingbird. I am a single gay man living in London, and I have decided to write a blog about my non existent sex life, and maybe give some laughs, and hope to some of my fellow Lavenders out there.". In fairness I've never really liked it a huge amount nor have I been lucky in the sex department. I always end up drawing the short straw and I think this is what has caused my lack of appetite in this area. I simply cannot be bothered to have sex anymore, because I always end up being disappointed. Lets give you an example. My last encounter was with a friend of a friend type set up.......... Why on earth I decided to go along with it I will never know, because historically these things tend to be disasters, especially in the World of Lavender (the gay world). This is because our heterosexual friends always automatically assume, if you're gay, and he's gay, you will of course want to screw each others brains out. They seriously think that you and this other gay man are the only two on the planet, and therefore MUST sleep together. Hold the phone? It is a sweeping generalisation but it happens the world over. Friends of Homo's please note- not ALL gay men are George Michael and will sleep with anything that resembles a human, a tree, or a bench on Hampstead Heath. Ipso facto, some of us have standards.
Against my better judgment, I went for drinks with an old friend known as Big Sis in a watering hole just off Brewer Street and down a dangerously steep staircase......... This was the place I was to meet my date, Jacques. I had told Big Sis the ONLY way I would consider meeting him was if she was present. At least that way if this guy was the cretin I had predicted, I would have someone to talk to.
I was fully expecting a monster, so I was more than pleased when he arrived and appeared to be tall, attractive, funny, articulate, and IN TO ME. Right from the start he was extremely forward, and I found his confidence intoxicating. At some point later the penny dropped and I saw that his confidence was actually arrogance, which of course just made him even more desirable.
He charmed the Calvin's off of me, and I broke my rule. My rule not to act like a common dog who eats the face off someone in a bar. I feasted on his face like a tramp on chips. After a good 4 hour's drinking, and realising poor Big Sis had made an exit, things between Jacques & I started heating up.
Before I know it I was in a cab on the way back to Clapham and Jacques is practically trying to have sex with me. Truth be told I'm just as bad. He kept asking what my fantasies were saying he would fulfill every one of them. Now my fantasies are MINE and MINE only. Fantasies are not spoken of. Fantasies never come true, so I like them left as fantasies. I told him so too. I tried to explain that we had just met and I wasn't really comfortable discussing my deepest darkest secrets, but was looking forward to some torrid sexual liaisons. I I was trying to stop this fantasy talk, as it was starting to make me feel raw and exposed. Like a Virgin Atlantic Air Steward without 3 inches of make up.
But if he asked it once he asked a million times. Alarms were ringing, but I couldn't hear them above the dangerous levels of wine I'd consumed. What is fantasy etiquette? Is it the same as the 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine' playground standard I wondered? I didn't want to ask him. Lets be brutally honest- asking someone what their fantasy is can be akin to having unprotected sex: you never know what you're going to get.
We get back to his hovel of an apartment and I manage to suppress my urge to run around with bleach and clean the place. So he makes me a drink. It was Advocat. ADVO-fucking-CAT. Had I been transported back to the 60's, landed in Fanny Craddocks living room and been left for dead? There was no way I could ingest a drink that looks like raw scrambled eggs and the smell of sink was starting to make me feel light headed, so I pounced.
Now Jack can kiss. And Jack is good with his hands.......... but he keeps yapping on about bloody fantasies. And that's when it all went wrong. Jack whispered in my ear 'now I can tell you what my fantasies are'. I went cold and came crashing back to earth. I may not have done this casual sex thing very often, but I have enough nous to know when someone whispers that in your ear, its likely going to end with a fan, and shit.
I quickly scanned the room, taking in as many mental images as I could, as I knew that when my half dead body was found washed up on Brighton beach wearing half an inner tube these memories might be useful when trying to trace my captor. "I want you to pretend that you are my father and rape me" Jacques says, quite loudly and with a look, you just know was the last thing Ted Bundy's victims saw. Whilst terrified and in fear for my life, I was also repulsed and couldn't stop my self asking him if this was some sick joke. This is when he became somewhat indignant and started chanting "my father is watching us, he wants you to fuck me". Without looking, Jacques pointed, causing my eyes to follow to what he was pointing which was a picture of a man above his bed, whom I am assuming was his father.........
"um, this isn't working for me" I said in what I intended to be a really assertive and almost threatening tone, but instead a shrill sound omitted from my mouth like Mrs maple on helium as I am tried to get the hell out. But now he is whimpering and waving his arse in my face saying "come on and rape me you f*cking f*cker" So engrossed was he in his role playing that he was oblivious to the fact that I was fully clothed and asking him for directions to the nearest cab office. I ran out of that house like a refugee running for the border and swore that I would never be set up on a date by a friend again. In fact to turn lesbian, to be celibate, to chop my gonads off and become a eunich. I sent Big Sis a text to say "honey you're fired" and then got a cab home. It was at this stage that I realised just how sober I had become, and what an utterly frightening experience it has been, and once again how typical it was of my life to end up with such a complete and utter freak.
I got a text from him the next day saying 'I was really drunk last night, can't really remember much. Hope I didn't do or say anything embarrassing. I'd really like to see you again'
I sent one back saying 'Who's your daddy?' He hasn't responded.
Against my better judgment, I went for drinks with an old friend known as Big Sis in a watering hole just off Brewer Street and down a dangerously steep staircase......... This was the place I was to meet my date, Jacques. I had told Big Sis the ONLY way I would consider meeting him was if she was present. At least that way if this guy was the cretin I had predicted, I would have someone to talk to.
I was fully expecting a monster, so I was more than pleased when he arrived and appeared to be tall, attractive, funny, articulate, and IN TO ME. Right from the start he was extremely forward, and I found his confidence intoxicating. At some point later the penny dropped and I saw that his confidence was actually arrogance, which of course just made him even more desirable.
He charmed the Calvin's off of me, and I broke my rule. My rule not to act like a common dog who eats the face off someone in a bar. I feasted on his face like a tramp on chips. After a good 4 hour's drinking, and realising poor Big Sis had made an exit, things between Jacques & I started heating up.
Before I know it I was in a cab on the way back to Clapham and Jacques is practically trying to have sex with me. Truth be told I'm just as bad. He kept asking what my fantasies were saying he would fulfill every one of them. Now my fantasies are MINE and MINE only. Fantasies are not spoken of. Fantasies never come true, so I like them left as fantasies. I told him so too. I tried to explain that we had just met and I wasn't really comfortable discussing my deepest darkest secrets, but was looking forward to some torrid sexual liaisons. I I was trying to stop this fantasy talk, as it was starting to make me feel raw and exposed. Like a Virgin Atlantic Air Steward without 3 inches of make up.
But if he asked it once he asked a million times. Alarms were ringing, but I couldn't hear them above the dangerous levels of wine I'd consumed. What is fantasy etiquette? Is it the same as the 'you show me yours and I'll show you mine' playground standard I wondered? I didn't want to ask him. Lets be brutally honest- asking someone what their fantasy is can be akin to having unprotected sex: you never know what you're going to get.
We get back to his hovel of an apartment and I manage to suppress my urge to run around with bleach and clean the place. So he makes me a drink. It was Advocat. ADVO-fucking-CAT. Had I been transported back to the 60's, landed in Fanny Craddocks living room and been left for dead? There was no way I could ingest a drink that looks like raw scrambled eggs and the smell of sink was starting to make me feel light headed, so I pounced.
Now Jack can kiss. And Jack is good with his hands.......... but he keeps yapping on about bloody fantasies. And that's when it all went wrong. Jack whispered in my ear 'now I can tell you what my fantasies are'. I went cold and came crashing back to earth. I may not have done this casual sex thing very often, but I have enough nous to know when someone whispers that in your ear, its likely going to end with a fan, and shit.
I quickly scanned the room, taking in as many mental images as I could, as I knew that when my half dead body was found washed up on Brighton beach wearing half an inner tube these memories might be useful when trying to trace my captor. "I want you to pretend that you are my father and rape me" Jacques says, quite loudly and with a look, you just know was the last thing Ted Bundy's victims saw. Whilst terrified and in fear for my life, I was also repulsed and couldn't stop my self asking him if this was some sick joke. This is when he became somewhat indignant and started chanting "my father is watching us, he wants you to fuck me". Without looking, Jacques pointed, causing my eyes to follow to what he was pointing which was a picture of a man above his bed, whom I am assuming was his father.........
"um, this isn't working for me" I said in what I intended to be a really assertive and almost threatening tone, but instead a shrill sound omitted from my mouth like Mrs maple on helium as I am tried to get the hell out. But now he is whimpering and waving his arse in my face saying "come on and rape me you f*cking f*cker" So engrossed was he in his role playing that he was oblivious to the fact that I was fully clothed and asking him for directions to the nearest cab office. I ran out of that house like a refugee running for the border and swore that I would never be set up on a date by a friend again. In fact to turn lesbian, to be celibate, to chop my gonads off and become a eunich. I sent Big Sis a text to say "honey you're fired" and then got a cab home. It was at this stage that I realised just how sober I had become, and what an utterly frightening experience it has been, and once again how typical it was of my life to end up with such a complete and utter freak.
I got a text from him the next day saying 'I was really drunk last night, can't really remember much. Hope I didn't do or say anything embarrassing. I'd really like to see you again'
I sent one back saying 'Who's your daddy?' He hasn't responded.
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