Tequilla Does Assertive

You know, I have signed up for some crazy things in my life from Speed Dating; becoming a Chat line operator; volunteering in a soup kitchen; taking part in a stopping smoking trial, to doing a charity run. These days I am all about trying different things and gaining new life experiences.

So when I saw an advert for a 5 day long Assertiveness course, I decided to sign up quicker than a bulimic could purge a peanut. I tried to kid myself that it would be really interesting and a great thing to do for growth and personal development. But I finally gave in to my nagging conscience and admitted I was going in the hope of finding some decent tail.

Now I am not a particularly confident person at all. Once I have had a drink I am Mr Confident, but we all know that there is a fine line between being confident, and being a cunt, and as I say, I am still yet to master the art of confidence………so signing up for this was a huge deal for me as I knew it would have to be done alcohol free.

After a sleepless night the day had arrived, and I did what I always do when I am anxious, terrified and about to crap myself- I go on auto pilot, and before I knew it I was taking a left off Tottenham Court Road en route to my certain humiliation, and death……

I walked in and there were two rows of chairs in the middle of the room. I spied the one I decided was at the back and sat down. A few followed suit but I gave them my best ‘talk to me and I’ll rip off your head and shit in your neck’ look, which seemed to work wonders.

To my horror one of the facilitators began rearranging the chairs to make a semi circle, which actually meant that I was sat at the front, as opposed to being at the back. We all know what that means. Yep, when it comes to the whole ‘introduce yourself to the group’ cuntistry, I’d be first up. The seat directly to my right was free so I spotted my salvation and made a jump floor it, but doing so I collided with a howdy–doody-looking mother-fella, sent his coffee flying across the room, and with it my last shred of dignity. Everyone looked at me while I looked at the floor and wondered why it wasn’t opening to absorb me. I had been in the room less than 2 minutes and I had already embarrassed myself, ruined someone’s outfit, broken crockery and made an enemy in ‘Philippe’.

Before I knew what was happening we had been split up in two groups and were told we had to come up with a ‘Group Agreement’. Once this had been completed we were all ‘bound’ and it would become a ‘Closed Group’. We had to come up with our own ‘terms & conditions’ or in other words, things we should and shouldn’t do, or things we expected our counterparts to do, or not do. The air was abuzz with words and phrases such as ‘Respect’ ‘ Boundaries’ ‘No judgement’ and ‘I have the right to sleep with who I want without having to justify it’….. However the main thing that everyone wanted to be clear on was how we would approach someone from the course if we met ‘outside the group’. I said “I wouldn’t have a problem if you come and say hello” to which this venomous queen started screaming at me ‘Well what if I am with someone? Will that put me in a difficult situation? What will they think? I don’t want anyone knowing about this, nobody knows I’m gay!!!!’ I said, “Hi there Angry, are you mad much? You really need to chill out here’ and reasoned that by the end of the course he would be assertive enough to say to the probing friend “it’s none of your business”. Now I thought this was a valid point, but the whole group then looked at me and then each other like they had just been caught in Bangkok with a couple of kilos of cocaine on them. To say it went down like a plate of sick is an understatement.

After we had compiled our ’ Group agreement’ it was time for the bit that I was dreading. The part where you have to introduce yourself to the room by giving your name and why you were there. I was first in line:

“Hello, my name is Tequila (adopting a slightly incredulous tone) and, um, I’m here because I’m not very assertive” .The whole room looked at me, some mouths open, staring in disbelief and a lengthy silence ensued. Russ, the facilitator, started gesturing for me to continue, but that was ALL I had to say. Why the fuck else would you be on an Assertiveness course? I then realised that everyone in the room was waiting for me to say something else. I can’t tell you how uncomfortable I felt with all those gay eyes on me. Judging me. Undressing me. Dressing me up again in different outfit.

I needed some damage control but by this point all my barriers had gone up so I simply said “Well I’m sorry but it’s why I’m here, what else do you want me to say?”

Russ, sensing a lynching was as quick as a cat. “Um, yep, great, thanks for that Tequila, OK moving on’ ………. Philippe, the guy who already hated me because of ‘coffee-gate’ piped up:

“Oh, hi guys, well, I am in a fantastic relationship, I have just had a big promotion and pay rise at work, my friends are fabulous, I have just got on the property ladder and life is perfect. I’m here because I thought it would be a fun and interesting thing to do”

I thought, ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise I had signed up for ‘My life is fabulous and you are all a bunch of losers’. I started to have serious doubts about the men that had signed up for this course and their lack of assertiveness. As we continued around the room everyone apart from my good self seemed confident, outgoing and assertive. It became clear that this was a group of people who were so in love with every aspect of their fantastic lives that they would use any opportunity to talk about it.

After introductions, Russ started talking about what the 5 day course would entail, what skills we could hope to learn and lots of other interesting information that he kept interjecting ‘Assertiveness-isms’ into such as:

Learning to have a ‘transaction’ with someone without feeling threatened

Disclosing information within the group

Taking the responsibility to ‘own’ what ever we were ‘disclosing’

Parking our issues

Understanding our ‘Bottom line’

What the Sarah Michelle Gellar had I let myself in for I thought? Transactions? Bottom lines? Parking my issues? Load of old bollocks much? Cuntistry much? Get me the hell out of here much?

This course was not for me, and I knew I had to leave. Lunch would be the perfect time to do a Houdini, so content with the fact that I would leave these cunts behind; I suddenly had a new found confidence. Knowing I was jumping ship made me feel well, superior, so I started talking to people, cracking jokes and generally being myself.

This backfired. This backfired BIG. Because when I was running for the door like a dog that hadn’t been out in a month, half of the guys followed me and asked where I was going for lunch. I couldn’t think of a lie quick enough to cover up the fact that I was out, way out, on my way home out, so instead I just said the park and by 2pm I was back at the course, apparently having a good time.

The second half was even more vomit inducing, with role plays involving us trying to take a jumper back for a refund and trying to get the second two weeks off in July but coming to a compromise with our boss and accepting the last week of July and the first week of August, as our ‘bottom line’. It was SO painful. None of this meant anything, it was ridiculous and I couldn’t believe these cunts were taking it so seriously.

Did I excuse myself to go to the bathroom and not go back in? Yes, I did. Did a cutie called Shaun ask for my number? Yes, he did. Did I go back for the other 4 days of the course? No, I did not.

And that my friends, is the true meaning of assertiveness.

UNSENT

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HOW TO GET WHAT YOU WANT

To celebrate the fact that I turned 29 on Sunday I decided to throw a little ‘soirgay’ at my place so my friends and I could all get ‘to-gay-ther’ and have lots of drinking and debauched fun, to a soundtrack consisting of Madonna albums, Madonna soundtracks, Madonna greatest hits, and Madonna 12” mixes, with the odd Madonna DVD thrown in, just to mix it up. It was also an opportunity to put a theory I have to the test. The theory involves a cooker, The Folks and their love of proving how fabulous they are in front of my friends, and is a mixture of complete cuntistry on my part and complete genius, also on my part.

I have been after a new cooker for a while now, as the one I have is older than me, is as temperamental as me and needs to be given lots of attention before it will even heat up a tin of soup. It is like that annoying vibrator you own that sometimes works after being charged all day and sometimes doesn’t. Or like sleeping with a male escort, you never know what you’re gonna get. The oven door hangs off, the grill doesn’t work, it is impossible to clean and halfway through meals it will randomly turn itself off, which is incredibly frustrating when you are trying to get something to rise……

Anyway, I have been dropping hints with The Folks for the last 4 months in the hope that they would buy me one. I’d say things like ‘I would have cooked you something but the oven is on the blink’ or ‘I’m living on breakfast cereal at the moment because the hob will not light up’ or ‘Sorry it’s so cold in here, I usually heat up the place with the stove, but as you know it’s not working’ and was sure I had done just enough to secure me a sparkling new cooker for the Christmas just gone. I was convinced that they would buy me one, so decided to spend the money I had put aside for it on even more Christmas presents. For myself. So you can imagine my utter disappointment when they arrived with my presents and the closest thing to a cooker I got was a candle lighter.

I cursed myself silently for spending my cooker fund, and the harsh realisation hit me that I would now be living on toasted cheese sandwiches until I could afford to save for another cooker. How COULD I have been so stupid I asked myself? And as soon as I thought the question in my head, the answer came to me even quicker than David Beckham does in my prison rape fantasy. As always, there was a major flaw to my plan.

The Folks are very generous and love nothing more than to lavish gifts upon me; in the last year they have bought me a state of the art tumble drier, a rather fabulous barbeque, fixtures and fittings, appliances and much more. However, all of these have been given to me in front of people. Now, as I was spending Christmas with friends, and they were spending it at home there was nobody to see the presents I had been given and therefore no need to buy something extravagant. What is the point of giving if you have no audience eh?

So, with my birthday, approaching and now growing sick of cold soup and toasted sandwiches I had an epiphany. To have a ren-gay-vous ON my birthday with lots of guests and invite The Folks. Surely if there is an audience there will be a cooker.

The Folks arrived at 2:30 and presented me with a card and a bottle of champagne and of course big birthday hugs. Mmm I thought handling the bottle, is this my cooker? By 4pm everyone had arrived there was no cooker in sight, and I had already had too much to drink. I began to think that all I was getting was said bottle of champagne. Not much cooking you can do with that I thought, so I opened it, downed it and started to feel somewhat hard done by. I went to the bathroom and sat in there wondering why The Folks hated me so much. What had I done to deserve this?

I was already starting to feel quite drunk as well as sorry for myself and decided not to leave the bathroom for the rest of the day. This shindig had been a complete waste of time and I wondered what the Sarah Jessica Parker I was thinking by putting this on? Just as I was about to take an overdose of the Vitamin C in my cabinet everyone outside started singing Happy Birthday, and I walked out to find The Folks, with the cooker I had been yearning for, and all of my friends gushing telling me what a lucky person I am and how fabulous The Folks were. And just like that, it went from a celebration of my birthday, to a celebration of The Folks.

So, I got what I wanted and they got what they wanted. I got the cooker and they got the adoration of being the world best Folks, just as I had predicted. If only I had thought about it logistically pre Christmas, who knows what I could of bagged myself for my birthday?

I now want a flat screen TV so, I guess I will be having another ‘soir-gay’ next year, and of course, The Folks are invited.

Is it cuntistry, or just pure genius?

DRAMA QUEENS, AND THE MEN THAT DUMP THEM

Just as I was about to leave the office Tuesday I got an email from Paul. It simply said ‘Clive dumped me last night I need someone to talk to’ and with those eleven words I knew that I had been summoned to be his shoulder to cry on, and before I knew it I was hoofing my way down Oxford Street to lend a supportive ear, even though all I really wanted to do was go home and watch the new Danny Dyer DVD I had just bought.

When I got there he was nowhere to be seen and I found myself in a predicament that I am most uncomfortable with. Being on my own in a gay bar, looking like a reject. I don’t go into bars on my own as I have a phobia about it. I think everyone is looking at me, judging me and laughing at me because they think I am some kind of friendless leper who hangs around bars reeking of desperation hoping that some charitable chappy will take pity and talk to me. Basically, exactly what I think when I see someone on their own in a bar……… (Yes I have added conceited and shallow to my list of ‘qualities’) so after dying when he sent a text to say he would be 20 minutes late, as I was already at the bar I reasoned that it would be even more humiliating to walk out, even though I desperately wanted to and OH MY GOD why is everyone looking at me, so I decided to buy a pint, chain smoke and make lots of imaginary phone calls, making sure to announce in every one of them ‘Well, I’m meeting Paul and he’s running late’ just to divert those judgemental eyes away from me….

By the time Paul arrived, 45 fucking minutes late I had smoked 10 Marlboro lights, drank 2 pints, made 4 imaginary phone calls (during one of which my phone actually started ringing, because obviously I wasn’t really on the phone which wasn’t embarrassing at all...) and was being eyed up by a cutie who clearly had none of the issues about being in a bar on his own that I have. In short, it was like a pressure cooker.

Straight away he handed his phone to me and showed me a text from Clive that said

‘I’m just on my way home from Wales. My eye looks really dodgy* and I’m tired. Listen, I don’t think I’m the guy ur looking for no matter how sexy u think I am, so it’s kind of the end of the road I’m afraid. Love C xx’

So Paul’s flame had been extinguished by a text message. He was beside himself, and all I could do was try to be supportive. He kept asking me where it had all gone wrong, what did he do, why after all they had been through did he get dumped by a text. It was almost as harsh as the lighting in the bar. I listened to him as he reminisced about their time together and the intimate moments they shared, the snuggles in bed, a particularly memorable dinner at Balans, when the waiter said how happy they looked together and he hoped to find what they had one day. He then told me of the plans they had made, and the holiday they were looking forward to in the summer and this is where he stared to become a little overwhelmed. Did I mention that Paul & Clive had met last week and had only shared two dates?

Yep, the memories that were pouring out of Paul had been accumulated over seven whole days. Anyone would think that a 27-year marriage was about to end in divorce. What the fuck does anybody owe you after such a non-specific amount of time? My view was that he was lucky to have got any form of communication at all, and most guys would have just stopped calling.

The thing that alarmed me about Paul’s overreaction, over what had merely been two dates a movie and dinner was that at his age of 44, he was still pinning his every last hope on any man he met, regardless of their compatibility. The only thing they had in common was their age. But as a 44-year-old man, Paul had decided that he had found the one and went in with his eyes closed and his heart wide open.

Had Clive acted wrongly? I couldn’t help but think that in some ways, he was a decent enough guy, and had removed any false hope and blind faith that Paul clearly had. By sending that message, (which in itself was a bit cuntish, I mean I had seen the bloke and I’m sorry, I don’t care which way you try to dress it up, he was ginger so the ‘sexy’ comment was a bit rich) he had basically said ‘Don’t sit around thinking I’m busy, or that I will get back to you. This is going nowhere, move on to new pastures and waste no more time on me’. If it were me I would have thought, fair enough you ginger cunt, and that would have been the end of that.

I always used to ask myself if the whole dating ritual got any easier with age? Do people stop playing games once they reach a certain age, and if so, can the younger ones among us look to our peers for inspiration and seek solace in the knowledge that eventually we will meet ‘the one’ and have the relationship, without the mixed messages, unknown quantities and general cuntistry of it all, that we so desire?

But after that my questions were answered, and suddenly I realised that age brings nothing with it but thinning hair, incontinence, more bad dates, and in Paul's case, an Oscar nomination for ‘most dramatic male in a leading role’


* I didn’t even bother to ask about the dodgy eye. The idea of a ginger cunt with Conjunctivitis killed any curiosity within me.

HOW TO MAKE A GOOD WORST IMPRESSION

As I am rapidly approaching the big Three O, in the last year I have been ticking off my things to do before I reach the aforementioned big Three O*. One of them was to try speed dating. Pink Speed dating to be precise, if you don’t mind.

This was all very odd because I hate going on dates; they are always like interviews, and I invariably end up not getting the job. Or wanting it for that matter. The idea of going on a date reduces me to a quivering, nervous wreck, so my therapist is still hypothesizing what possessed me to think that I could handle 25 first dates in one evening.

Obviously I couldn’t go through the mortification alone, and therefore enlisted the company of Telstar & Gaz to come along and die this painful death with me. They were very reluctant to join me on this adventure. I told them how much fun it would be and that we were just going along to laugh at these sad folk who go and we weren’t going to take it seriously. Eventually during one of those very rare moments where I actually get what I want I managed to persuade them to jump on board the Loser Express, and we were all bound for Pink Speeddatersville. But, in true Tequilla Mockingbird fashion, there would have to be a lay over in Alcoholville before hand…………….

What was to be just the one to calm the nerves actually turned into me downing a bottle and a half of wine. The reason I didn’t finish the second bottle is that they wouldn’t let me into the speed-dating event with it. Yes, I arrived with it in my hands. How classy. Not only was I showing what a third rate citizen I was by going speed dating, but also I was showing that I really had no concept of dignity.

So, instead of merely giving myself some Dutch courage, I had plunged myself into a drunken blabbering mess. Of course, as is always the case, I didn’t think I was drunk. I felt full of life, and remained blissfully oblivious to the cringing looks I was getting from those around me.

Everyone mingled at the bar before the humiliation begun. Telstar advised me to get some water to sober up but as we all know, when you have had too much to drink the last thing you want is water. I demanded some more wine, and against his better judgement he got it for me. Well, I say that, but I think I had started to be abusive towards him, and he realised that the only way to stop it was to comply with my demands. I’m sure we have all been there, but when I remember myself saying ‘Who the fuck are you to tell me I can’t have another drink, I’m FINE’ I want to die.

So drink in hand, everyone sat down to listen some oddly confident bespectacled 40-year-old lesbian tell us how the evening would operate. Sitting down I realised how drunk I was. I landed on the chair with a thump, knocked the table and spilled water over the guy that was sitting there. He was to be my first date. The Lesbian was waxing on about a card to fill out but by this stage I couldn’t hear anything above all the wine inside of me. The only thing I did pick up was that there would be an interval. Noted and downloaded I thought- a chance to get another drink. Why is speed dating so good to me I asked myself?

“Ok, your time starts now”

A who a huh and a wha’? I wasn’t ready for this, what would I say, could I actually just get up and run, what the fuck was this card in front of me, who the fuck are all these ugly bastards and how the Jennifer Love Hewitt did I get here?

They were the absolute dregs of society. Each and every one of them was a boil on the arse of humanity. It was like what I imagine a Star Trek convention to be like. My first ‘date looked like Jimmy Osmond, so it seemed perfectly natural for me to sing Long Haired Lover from Liverpool. Badly. And loudly. By the time I hit the chorus, the bell chimed and thankfully it was time to move on. The next guy had eyebrows that had been plucked within and inch of their lives, and he told me I had 3 minutes to impress him. Um, ME impress him? ‘Oh fuck off you pretentious cunt’ I said, and then sat there in silence for three minutes, trying not to fall of my chair, which I was swaying in. The next few dates completely haven’t registered, but I do remember the signal for the interval. I had just had seven dates, bad dates at that, and needed another drink. As I walked to greet Telstar & Gaz, I said ‘What a bunch of ugly cunts’. I thought I was talking quietly, however, the whole room turned around and gave me filthy looks so I decided not to use my usual ‘discretion is my middle name’ on any of my following dates. Not only had they heard me, but 14 of them still had the ‘pleasure’ of my company.

We started up again, and I have vague recollections of how the rest of the evening went. I remember running from a date and joining Telstar on one of his by throwing myself on the table and saying ‘They are such a bunch of cunts’ to the sheer horror of not only him, but his date. By the third round of dates I point blank refused to move from my table, and announced that if they wanted to date me, they would have to come to me. I was too drunk to move. In between this I was asking the organisers where they had managed to find so many unattractive and boring people. Well, I say asking like I was in a conversation with them; I was actually shouting it across the room.

At this stage though they were frantically running around trying to reorganise the system they had in place, that I’d shot to shit with my refusal to move, so were not about to dignify my inane ramblings with an answer.

That’s all I remember. The rest of the night is a blur. Thankfully. To this very day I have no idea what came over me. I am still mortified. Whenever I think of that night I cringe. I have turned myself into the Urban Legend of speed dating and not in a good way. I am convinced that in the gay underworld people regale each other with the tale of the drunken cunt that went speed dating and hurled abuse at everyone. If there were a list of what not to do, I would be the case study.

Walking into the office the next day, I looked at Telstar & Gaz, they looked at me, gave shakes of their heads and I knew. There were no words. If I had a self-destruct button, I think I would have pushed it.

Telstar summed it up best when he said ‘You know how when you go to a family function there is that random uncle that gets drunk, touches himself and others inappropriately, tells bad jokes and is really offensive? Well, that was you last night.’

Bizarrely, I got seven matches out of it. I couldn’t believe it. Seven potential dates. Were they mad? Based on my behaviour people still wanted to date me? I couldn’t believe it, and still wonder what sort of people go speed dating, and just how desperate to be with someone are they?

Did I go on any? Go on a date with a person who goes speed dating? Are you freaking kidding me?




* Although I sit here at 28 years of age, I have been telling myself and anyone that listens that I am nearly 30. Why? It’s my defence mechanism. I have been mentally preparing myself for reaching that age for many years now, in the hope that when I actually get there, it will be nowhere near as offensive as it sounds.

Artificial Intelligence

George Michael once sang the line “you look for your dreams in heaven, but what the hell are you supposed to do when they come true” and I am, starting to think he and I may be on the same page. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean we have a similar life, if only, I mean, my nights are spent indoors with friends having deep and meaningful’s; his are spent on Hampstead Heath knee deep in mud. He has amassed a fortune of millions eliminating the need of ever having to worry where his next meal is coming from, whilst I can get 5 meals out of a tin of beans and can stretch a fiver further than Tony Blair can stretch the truth. I simply mean that I get what he is talking about, and can relate it to my new job.

As I have said before I have always wanted to work for a charity, and got my chance late last year after being made redundant from my last job. I took a few months off to spend my redundancy money, and do the normal things that any man of the lavender persuasion does when he has got excess funds like, go see Madonna in Amsterdam, buy a new wardrobe and fill it with fabulous outfits, have a dirty little gay holiday in Gran Canaria and generally live like the other half.

Because of the money in the bank I was in a position to only apply for jobs that I wanted to, mainly within charities. However I still had to find work,and after a few months of looking I started to have this vision of me sitting behind a checkout at Tesco’s, the closest thing to charity work being me asking “are you collecting computers for schools vouchers Sir?”

Luckily it didn’t come to that, and I got my first full time job in charity*. Rather than being nervous about starting I couldn’t wait. The idea that I would be working for such a worthwhile cause really excited me, and I could only imagine what fantastic, hip cool and trendy people I would be working with. I imagined everyone sitting around feasting on mung beans, pulses and fresh air, washing it down with endless cups of chamomile tea. I pictured colleagues shouting at each other for not recycling their tea bags and going on protests where they would all tie themselves naked to trees and refuse to wash for days on end.

The reality of it all is very different. It is just an office job, like any other, the main difference being that most of the people that work here are clinically insane. It is a madhouse and I can’t shake the feeling that I am really working at some mental hospital, where everyone is convinced they work for a leading charity?

Firstly they suffer with BTBMS (back to back meeting syndrome). On my first day I had two and the other day I had four (one of them lasting for three hours in which NOTHING was achieved, except for, of course annoying the bejesus out of me). I really don’t want to sit around talking about what I have to do; I’d rather just do it. Call me crazy, but that is just the way I am. When I say I don’t have time for meetings it is frowned upon and they look at me like I have just turned up for work wearing a tutu and a Vivienne Westwood Basque.

And secondly is the language that is used. I don’t mean foul, or that we all sit around calling each other cunts all day. No, I mean the way they talk which all just sounds like a mass of consonants once they get going. My boss called me the other day and when I answered, she said “Oh bugger” and then hung up. By way of explanation she sent me the following email the next day

Dear Tequilla**

My scrambled phone call (John had disappeared for a few minutes but then he came back) was to let you know that it has now been decided that some members will not take part in our meeting!
Brain can’t compute exactly what that means but felt I should share this intelligence
Rgds

As soon as I read the email I was summoned into another meeting, with my boss, to discuss the aftermath of a conference we had recently successfully organised and brainstorm ideas of what we would do differently next time. During this meeting she decided to shorten her new favourite saying ‘share the intelligence’ when she went off on one of her long-winded tangents as follows:

“If I had a retrospectograph, giving me 20/20 hindsight, I would have shared the intel months ago'

The scariest thing is, having been here for a few months, the brainwashing is starting to work, because the above makes COMPLETE sense to me. So I looked for my dream job and this is what I got. How long before I am slipping these little sayings into my everyday life, resulting in my being sectioned and the key thrown away?

Maybe if I should just cut my losses and go back to publishing. At least class A drugs were readily available in that environment, and we did sit around calling each other cunts.

No, I have never been happier, and will continue to share the intel here, if you don't mind.

* I do other charity work, on a voluntary basis at weekends, where I stand for hours cooking meals for people with HIV & AIDS, which is the most fulfilling thing I think I have done in my life. I would urge anyone reading this to become involved in charity work, as volunteers really are the backbone of any organisation. Ok? Nuff said.


** She doesn't really call me Tequilla, she calls me.....

In Ashley Cole's boots

A few of you have sent me emails asking 101 questions about my foray into the land of being a chat-line operator so I thought I would give you an insight into just what it involves, and to warn you all about the very strange people that roam our telecommunication cables…….

I was drunk, very drunk the first time I logged on. In fact, being realistic, I was shit faced. It was the only way I could possibly go through with it. By 8pm on the night in question, all inhibitions had abandoned me and so merry was I, that I couldn’t wait for the first call to come through. I recorded my message and waited for a caller. As soon as the phone did ring, I sobered up, broke out in a sweat and almost crapped my pants. But, like a true professional I went ahead, got into character and answered the phone.

Dave from Liverpool was my first caller. ‘Do you do role plays mate’ he asked. The hairs stood up not only on the back of my neck but also on the carpet. I was terrified, but responded with ‘yeah, we can do that Dave’ And this is how the converstion continued.....

Dave: Do you like football mate

Me: Um, yeah (to self-I’m gay for fuck sake, I know nothing about it)

Dave: I want you to be Ashley Cole

Me (wondering where the hell this is going): Yeah, I’m um, Ashley Cole, how are ya doing Dave?

Dave: Can I call you Ash?

Me, but now Ash: Yep, you can call me Ash.

Dave: Tell me about your Chelsea kit Ash

Ash (racking my brain to find any sort of image of a football kit): Oh, it’s lovely, its red and white and I have a number on the back I’m number 1 and…..

Dave (cutting me off abruptly): No it’s not; your kit is blue and white and the number on your back is 3

Ash (backtracking to cover up this clearly titanic error) Oh, I thought I was playing away, yeah, that's my away kit (what the fuck am I talking about?)

Dave: Look, don’t spoil it, you’re wearing blue and white, I don’t want to talk about your away kit
Ash (removing foot, ankle and shin from mouth) Sorry, I’m in my blue and white kit, am I playing football?

Dave: Oh yeah, that’s good. OK Ash, your on the pitch, I want to hear you panting

Ash: (stifled laughter but like a good chat line operator, I compose and start to pant)

Dave (getting VERY animated): Ok Ash, Rooney is gonna give you a sly tackle on the left and you’re gonna hit the pitch.

Ash(getting carried away at this point):Fuck, that Rooney is a dirty player, he’s just fowled me

Dave (breathing heavily): Are you in pain Ash? I wanna hear you in pain. Say ‘Ow’ for me Ash

Ash (going for a BAFTA by howling like a banshee): My leg is fucked, I can’t play the rest of the match, they might have to stretcher me off. That cunt Rooney, I’m gonna ‘ave him (This isn’t so hard I think to myself)

Dave: Ok Ash mate, I’m gonna have to give you a little injection in your leg ok?

Ash (feeling slightly unnerved and reverting to being five years old, completely forgetting I am doing role-play): I’m not a fan of needles, in fact I hate them, they scare the life out of me, can you just rub some ointment on it? Oh please, Don’t inject me.

Dave (making a familiar sounding moan): Thanks mate, I’m sorted

That was it, Dave hung up, apparently a very happy customer. During my two week stint on the chat-line he became a ‘Regular’ and called back frequently. We would pretty much do the same scenario, except sometimes we would alternate and it would be ‘that prissy cunt’ Beckham that has given me a sly tackle, but consistent as Dave was, it was always ‘on me left’.

The funny thing about our conversations was that they were not actually sexual at all.^ I did once try to get my character off the pitch and into the shower but Dave was having none of it. The furthest we ever got to undressing ‘Ash’ was him taking one of ‘his’ boots off, while ‘he’ was ‘Laying down on his bed after the big match’ and poor old Dave didn’t even get the laces undone before saying ‘Thanks mate, I’m sorted’

I lasted about two weeks as a chat line operator, because I really do find the whole thing VERY unsavoury.* I just thought it would be a very funny thing to do (and to write a blog about) and really did think the pounds would be rolling in. But here is where it became a false economy:

I had to be pissed as a fart to go on line. Cost £10 for 2 bottle of wine per day, over a 2 week period £140.

Amount of revenue I made in a two week period, having a ‘talk time’++ total of 6 hours: £53.45

Out of pocket in two weeks by: £86.55

So, it turns out that what had initially seemed like a great money making scheme actually wasn’t and was also in danger of turning me into an alcoholic. So I knocked it on ‘the head’.

I just wonder if whoever Dave is speaking to know, comes close to filling my Chelsea boots.




^ Some calls we so perverse, that I would have a bucket by me just incase I needed to spew. And I did have to terminate a few, that even Pamela Anderson would have considered ‘too much’

*I would like to state for the record that I absolutely detest the whole chat-line world and it is all very bittersweet for me because an ex of mine, Mr Sewer, as well as being sociopath, a pathological liar, selfish, bad in bed and a sex addict (yeah, I’m leading with his nicer qualities here) he was also addicted to chat lines and would spend hours on them and would even call them from the toliets at his workplace. I would like to say that they were responsible for completely ruining our relationship, but clearly there were numerous other factors in the demise………


++ You only get paid for talking to a caller. If you are logged on to the system for 5 hours, but only talk for 20 minutes, you will only be paid for those 20 minutes. Tight cunts.