Thursday, March 15, 2007
Friday, March 09, 2007
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?
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?
Thursday, March 01, 2007
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.
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.
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