Someone posed a question the other day- What is my single most embarrassing moment? Immediately a plethora of images flickered through my mind as I recalled times when I have prayed for the ground to open up and ingest me whole, or have longed for spontaneous combustion. Such gems as the time I went Speed Dating and hurled abuse at all attendees, or the time that I got up at Karaoke night refused to get off stage and kept asking the DJ to ‘hit me’ with another track, or the time I thought it would be fun to hack into my works phone system and change everyone’s outgoing voicemails while drunk, or when I came onto a dashingly handsome fellow at a work function blissfully unaware that not only was he straight, he was the General Managers husband. And how could I ever forget the time that I applied fake tan for a blind date, which next morning had come off on the guys Egyptian cotton sheets. That was awkward enough, but the fact that when he’d commented on my colour the night before I'd embellished and said I was in fact of Greek decent was slightly more reprehensible now that my ‘heritage’ had stained his linens.
I responded saying ‘It’s difficult to pick just one as my life has been one embarrassing moment and I could literally write a book about some of the more thwarting things that have happened to me’. What’s funny is that I say ‘happened to me’ when in fact most things are caused by me, so in fact, I am merely living in the hell of my own making. My sheer existence at times it seems, is to publicly humiliate myself, which makes me wonder if that is why I have previously dated sociopaths.
I decided that as I am a self deprecating kind of guy, I would start blogging about some of my less than fabulous moments. Let’s begin with the night I met hot British actor Danny Dyer.
I have been a fan for ten years, and fell head over heels in love when he adorned my screen in the film Human Traffic. Since then I have seen every film he has been in, the good, the bad and the very very ugly. Even when his films are dreadful, they are first-rate, because it has him in it to salivate over. Yes he may play the same character in every single film, but my life has always been lacking consistency, and that dear readers I get through Danny. He is the one true constant in my inconsistent life.
So, you can imagine my delight when last April my friend Charles invited me to a party called Diamond Geezers, which his PR agency was arranging. It was Danny Dyer and Tamer Hassan's party ( they starred inThe Business together) that they were throwing ahead of their involvement in something called Gumball Rally, launching the next evening at the Trocadero which I also had tickets for.
I had promised myself that if I were ever to meet him I would be uber cool, incredibly unfazed and would win him over with my undeniable wit. I would praise him on his acting abilities, show what a fan I was by quoting obscure lines from lesser known films and ask if I would ever get the chance to see him at the theatre and possibly get into a heated debate about the film industry, he’d realise that I could stand my ground, which would result in me appearing even more alluring.
What essentially happened could not be further from the truth. Telstar and I rocked up at a jewellers on Bond Street where the party was being held- all very themed we deduced, holding a Diamond Geezers soiree in an actual shop that specialised in diamonds. It was very James Bond. Sadly, the diamante encrusted belt I was wearing was not forever. The night got off to a bad start when we hit the red carpet. Being the nobodies that we are, the paparazzi groaned, asked each other very audibly who ‘the queens’ on the carpet were, stopped taking pictures and then chatted amongst themselves until real Z-listers arrived.
‘Are you here to cover or to play?’ enquired the lady on the door. ‘Play’ we squealed in unison, whilst jumping up and down a little and clapping like seals. Surprisingly, after this display, we were still allowed in.
Two glasses of champagne in (we’d already necked a bottle of wine in approximately 10 minutes in a bar around the corner for medicinal purposes, naturellement) and we were starting to ignore the suspicious looks from the other guests. We were dressed like extras on Pimp My Ride, and everyone else had opted for their best designer attire. Not only did we not belong, but we looked like we didn’t belong and were sticking out like two sore gays.
All of a sudden the room became saturated in flash lights and the click of cameras. Danny was on his way in the door. In he walked with Tamer, down the stairs, and everyone followed him into what can only be described as a secret nightclub under the shop. There was a bar, a celebrity DJ, a dance floor, and Nintendo Wii consoles. This is not what you expect to find underneath a Jewellers on Bond Street. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, and I knew the first thing I wanted to take a bite out of.
Thankfully the bar was free so we ordered drinks and scuttled into a corner where we had a perfect view of our beloved. Sipping champagne and staring at Danny Dyer- what could be better? We continued to make full use of the free bar, hitting it with such frequency that the bar staff would simply lift two fingers and tilt their heads when we approached to enquire if we wanted yet more champagne, to which either one of us would simply nod and say ‘We’ll have another two’.
We persistently watched our man from afar while he played on the games console taking deep and sharp breaths every time he moved. He looked so delicious, I knew he had to be fattening. I’d never felt so star struck and love struck at the same time. After another nine glasses of champers, I was full of courage and ready to make my move. Telstar went to the toilet and I decided to pounce. When he came back, I was playing the Nintendo with Danny. To say I couldn’t concentrate is an understatement, my heart was pounding, my crotch was throbbing and I was feeling quite lightheaded. I crashed down to earth when Telstar hustled in between us and demanded to know what I was doing, and told my man not to talk to me.
I threw myself at him and said 'I love you, I’ve seen all your films, don’t talk to this one he’s a cunt’ and Telstar started saying ‘No Danny I’m the real fan, this one’s the cunt’. We then started fighting over Danny Dyer, in front of Danny Dyer, hurling quotes and insults at each other, which is not the best approach admittedly. Danny eventually said 'Listen boys, you’re mates, stop calling each other cunts’ which only made us vie for his attention even more. He subsequently gave us a hug, and said ‘you’re both cunts, I fuckin’ love you irons*’
Now I have been called a cunt by a man before, whilst in bed in fact, and I did not enjoy it one bit. He actually spat on me and then called me a cunt, which he thought was entirely customary, but I found truly disconcerting. However, being called it by Danny Dyer was a completely different and it was the most romantic thing I had ever heard. We started having a chat and he asked what our favourite films were, told us how much he loved his fans, had his picture taken with us and was the nicest, most humble man either of us has ever met. Instead of asking him all the things I always said I would, all I kept saying was ‘Seriously, I fucking love you. No, but you don’t understand Danny, I really love you’. I’m surprised that he didn’t give us both a wallop, or have us thrown out, but he acted like we were the only two in the room. To be fair, we WERE the only two homos in the room professing our undying love for a straight man. He must have been completely bemused when he realised that he didn’t know any queerlings and most definitely hadn’t invited any to his party yet here were Gay and Gayer doing the whole presenting of the butt ritual.
We spoke of his gay following and he asked if I had seen his Attitude Magazine front cover. ‘Seen it??! Danny I masturbate to it every day’ I screeched, which again, instead of taking offence, he laughed at. I then told him that my dream was to take a line of cocaine off of his cock, and enquired if it would be possible. ‘Uh, yeah, maybe later babe’ he said and then that was it, off he went. I don’t think he was particularly offended by what I had said, and to this day I still maintain that he left in pursuit of getting some of the old Columbian powder to make my dream a reality.
The rest of the night is pretty much a blur, I recall telling the DJ he was useless for not playing Prince, I threw myself at Tamer and told him I wanted to blow Danny and made a general fool of myself on the dancefloor. When Tamar addressed the room on a microphone to thank everyone for coming he said ‘I’m just gonna say a few words, but before I start I just wanna say I’ve got a couple of fucking Iron’s behind me and they’re in love with Danny Fucking Dyer and this one(pointing to me) wants to do a line of Charlie off his ol’ boy’ Now this was a room full of the underbelly of London’s gangster world, modern day Krays and people that you really wouldn’t want to be caught down a dark alley with, let alone in a secret room beneath a jewellers on Bond Street- I feared we were about to become next days front page news ‘Homo’s found beheaded and impaled on Blackfriars bridge’ but instead of trying to kill us, they all laughed and applauded, which neither of us were expecting. Realising that our 15 seconds of fame was nearly up, Telstar grabbed the microphone from Tamer and announced to the room ‘I am all about the Tamar Hassan’ to which there was another huge round of applause from our indulgent audience. We gave them a bow and let Tamer continue his speech, all the while interjecting and screaming ‘We love you’.
Danny, Tamer and most of their troupe left shortly after the speech, but Telstar, myself and the rest of the freeloaders continued to dance and drink the free bar. I fell over at some point and knocked myself unconscious on the dance floor. When I regained consciousness a few people were putting cold towels on my head and asking if I was ok. The first thing I said was 'What’s going on, where the fuck is Danny Dyer’ when to be perfectly honest I should have been thanking these people for looking after me. Next thing I know I was flying through the air. That is the very first time that I have actually been thrown out of anywhere and into the bins. I felt like Courtney Love. As Telstar was with me, he sadly befell the same fate, which did not amuse, because he was having a great time mixing with the Z list celebrities and was having a real bonding experience with Big Brovaz and Abs from 5ive.
The following night we had VIP tickets to the Gumball launch which Danny and Tamer would be at again. You would think, that based on my performance at the previous party that I wouldn’t have the temerity to turn up. But my motto has always been there’s nothing like regret to remind you that you’re alive, so I reasoned I had better get down there and behave even more regretfully.
Now, meeting Danny Dyer the night before was brilliant. Being recognised by him as I sauntered into the VIP section was priceless. As we walked in Tamer said ‘Have a look, it’s the irons again’ Danny bowled over, gave me a big hug and said ‘How’s it goin babes? I died a little bit and then told him all about my behaviour after he had left the party, which he found HIGHlarious. The whole time I was relaying the story to him, he was stroking my chest, which was the most erotic yet unnerving thing that I have experienced. We chatted for a while and then he asked ‘You still wanna do that line of Charlie off me cock?’ grabbed his crotch turned, walked away and said ‘get in there my son’ It was the most perfect moment of my life.
So, what I would say to anybody, when meeting a celebrity is to just be yourself. Turns out they not only appreciate it, but you’ll be remembered for it too. I’ve now met Danny a number of times and we have a bit of banter, and I always ask him if I can blow him. He declines my offer, but one day I know he is just going to unleash the monster and let me feed.
I do die of mortification when I call to mind just how disgraceful I was the first time we met, but then he knows me by name now, and that quite frankly, is worth the inner shame.
* Cockney Rhyming Slang- Iron Hoofs = Poofs
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
Situation difficile
You’d think being somebodies object d’art would make one feel uber fabulous, confident and vicariously sexual but in truth, it makes me feel unnerved, irritated and hounded, especially in the way that JT has tried to, for want of a better expression, get into my Jock Straps.
It started a while back when I came into the office one morning, to an email saying ‘Hi Tequilla, really great to meet you yesterday. You look familiar, have I seen you out somewhere?’ from someone called JT. Now while this in itself is inoffensive it did slightly unease me because I had no idea who JT was and certainly had no recollection of meeting him. I began perturbing that all the doctor’s warnings were legitimate; one day the years of drugs and alcohol worship really would result in memory loss and brain damage.
‘Do you know who this JT is?’ I asked the team and a little bit of research later I learned JT worked in our other building as the Head of Facilities and was at a Focus Group the previous day, which, yours truly was also at. In these kinds of situations, I keep myself to myself and pray that nobody will talk to me. As I mentioned previously I work in an organisation where it’s all very much about office-speak and management talk which is spoken in abundance at the best of times, but a Focus Group? Fuck. Me .Hard. It just drones on and on, so I zone out, daydreaming about working in a place where they all speak The Queens English only to zone back and hear the likes of ‘Not letting the grass grow too long on this one’ ‘what are the elephants in the room’ and ‘getting all of our ducks in a row’.
Thinking back on the previous day, I vaguely recalled getting myself a coffee and asking a guy if he would mind passing the milk. That was it. That was him. I’d asked someone to pass me a drop of milk for my coffee, and suddenly we ‘met’. And according to JT, ‘it was great’. If that is the case, then I’m better about meeting people than I think I am. Who knew it was so unproblematic?
Armed with this knowledge and still no clearer I emailed back saying ‘Hi, it’s possible you have seen me out, I am a permanent fixture in most pubs and bars in Central London’. I didn’t want to be rude by not emailing back, but didn’t want to say ‘great to meet you too’ so didn’t.
Literally a few seconds later he emailed back ‘so, which bars do you drink in matey’ and I realised, he was trying to figure out if I was of the lavender persuasion. If I was less of a moth to a flame and more of a moth to a flamer. In short, was I a pole smoker? Now, I’ve never considered myself to be the most mannish of guys, but I didn’t speak to anyone or move in that Focus Group, which is the only way I am able to conceal my Lavenderness. He was trying to work me out, which piqued me if I’m honest. Does he have any idea how much work has gone into being this gay?
‘The ones that serve alcohol’ I fired back. I was being very short and sharp hoping that he’d take the hint but no, within milliseconds he’s saying ‘LOL like a drink do we? Seriously, I think I’ve seen you out and about what’s your local?’
Was he freaking kidding me with this? The espèce de merde. He knew how totally inappropriate this was becoming, he could after all have been barking up the wrong tree, which is why he was so hesitant in asking me if I drank in a specific Homo Haunt.
‘ I don’t have a regular, I have been in most of the bars in the West End, including Soho wine bar, the Toucan, Café Boheme, The Wellington, The Marquis and The Yard.’ All the bars apart from The Yard are heterosexual places, and I have been in them all many times, so if he was trying to find out if I received swollen goods and took deliveries around the back based on where I drink, well, then he was barking up the wrong lavander bush quite frankly.
Again, quick as a cat he emailed back, ‘Ah, The Yard? That’s not the kind of place I’d expect a bear cub like you to hang out. LOL Listen, I think you’re cute, and it’d be nice to get to know each other a bit more, when are we going for a bevy? Maybe we could do it at the weekend and make a day of it LOL, go for lunch, then out on the razz LOL’
Ladies and Dobermans, I don’t mind telling you I almost fell off my chair when that came through. I don’t know what I was more offended by, the fact that he had LOL’d me three times in one email, which really is a pet hate of mine, had called me a bear cub, or had assumed that it was appropriate to hit on someone you worked with via work email? It was by far, one of the most unsavoury things that had ever popped in my box.
I felt a little bit of sick come up and decided to nip this in the bud. I replied ‘Considering the only words we have ever said to each other are ‘can you pass the milk’ I’m not sure we’d have much to talk about, so think I’ll give it a miss’
‘Calm down, I didn’t ask to marry you I just want to get to know other people in the charity. I’ve worked here for years and don’t really know anyone’
Yes, well, if this is how you behave then I’m not really surprised I thought to myself. And how you have the unmitigated crust to now make this about work is beyond me. You have called me cute, a bear cub, asked me to go on the razz, said how nice it was to meet me, badgered me into telling you I’m gay in a roundabout way and not ONCE have you asked what I do here. And the fact that you snapped about not asking to marry me, because I declined your offer in a humorous way, trying to make this less embarrassing for you than it already is suggests to me that I’ve been fucked over by you being a colleague, let alone someone who I’d go and socialise with. Jesus tonight.
So I ignored it, and the email he sent me the following day asking what I got up to the night before. What is he, a rejection junkie?
I never heard or thought about him again. I had completely forgotten about the episode when my boss told me that due to a restructuring, Facilities would fall under her umbrella. I knew it was coming, I could sense it, in the same way that animals know when an earthquake is about to hit and they begin acting oddly, make strange noises and start pacing. I was doing all of this.
‘So I need to you to get some time in the diary with someone called JT. Do you know him at all?’
***sweat pouring down forehead in manner of Iguaza Falls***
‘No, but I’m sure I’ll find him on the Intranet. I’ll get that set up for you, leave it with me.’
Do I know him? Lady are you serious, I am the object of his erection. I can’t believe this. I KNOW that as soon as I contact him even though it is for business related purposes he is going to be like a preying mantis all over again. There is no way that I can call him, and based on our previous contact, it’s probably a good idea to have electronic evidence, you know, for when the trial of my having been raped and murdered comes to court, so I’ll stick with the email.
Shall I just move jobs?
It started a while back when I came into the office one morning, to an email saying ‘Hi Tequilla, really great to meet you yesterday. You look familiar, have I seen you out somewhere?’ from someone called JT. Now while this in itself is inoffensive it did slightly unease me because I had no idea who JT was and certainly had no recollection of meeting him. I began perturbing that all the doctor’s warnings were legitimate; one day the years of drugs and alcohol worship really would result in memory loss and brain damage.
‘Do you know who this JT is?’ I asked the team and a little bit of research later I learned JT worked in our other building as the Head of Facilities and was at a Focus Group the previous day, which, yours truly was also at. In these kinds of situations, I keep myself to myself and pray that nobody will talk to me. As I mentioned previously I work in an organisation where it’s all very much about office-speak and management talk which is spoken in abundance at the best of times, but a Focus Group? Fuck. Me .Hard. It just drones on and on, so I zone out, daydreaming about working in a place where they all speak The Queens English only to zone back and hear the likes of ‘Not letting the grass grow too long on this one’ ‘what are the elephants in the room’ and ‘getting all of our ducks in a row’.
Thinking back on the previous day, I vaguely recalled getting myself a coffee and asking a guy if he would mind passing the milk. That was it. That was him. I’d asked someone to pass me a drop of milk for my coffee, and suddenly we ‘met’. And according to JT, ‘it was great’. If that is the case, then I’m better about meeting people than I think I am. Who knew it was so unproblematic?
Armed with this knowledge and still no clearer I emailed back saying ‘Hi, it’s possible you have seen me out, I am a permanent fixture in most pubs and bars in Central London’. I didn’t want to be rude by not emailing back, but didn’t want to say ‘great to meet you too’ so didn’t.
Literally a few seconds later he emailed back ‘so, which bars do you drink in matey’ and I realised, he was trying to figure out if I was of the lavender persuasion. If I was less of a moth to a flame and more of a moth to a flamer. In short, was I a pole smoker? Now, I’ve never considered myself to be the most mannish of guys, but I didn’t speak to anyone or move in that Focus Group, which is the only way I am able to conceal my Lavenderness. He was trying to work me out, which piqued me if I’m honest. Does he have any idea how much work has gone into being this gay?
‘The ones that serve alcohol’ I fired back. I was being very short and sharp hoping that he’d take the hint but no, within milliseconds he’s saying ‘LOL like a drink do we? Seriously, I think I’ve seen you out and about what’s your local?’
Was he freaking kidding me with this? The espèce de merde. He knew how totally inappropriate this was becoming, he could after all have been barking up the wrong tree, which is why he was so hesitant in asking me if I drank in a specific Homo Haunt.
‘ I don’t have a regular, I have been in most of the bars in the West End, including Soho wine bar, the Toucan, Café Boheme, The Wellington, The Marquis and The Yard.’ All the bars apart from The Yard are heterosexual places, and I have been in them all many times, so if he was trying to find out if I received swollen goods and took deliveries around the back based on where I drink, well, then he was barking up the wrong lavander bush quite frankly.
Again, quick as a cat he emailed back, ‘Ah, The Yard? That’s not the kind of place I’d expect a bear cub like you to hang out. LOL Listen, I think you’re cute, and it’d be nice to get to know each other a bit more, when are we going for a bevy? Maybe we could do it at the weekend and make a day of it LOL, go for lunch, then out on the razz LOL’
Ladies and Dobermans, I don’t mind telling you I almost fell off my chair when that came through. I don’t know what I was more offended by, the fact that he had LOL’d me three times in one email, which really is a pet hate of mine, had called me a bear cub, or had assumed that it was appropriate to hit on someone you worked with via work email? It was by far, one of the most unsavoury things that had ever popped in my box.
I felt a little bit of sick come up and decided to nip this in the bud. I replied ‘Considering the only words we have ever said to each other are ‘can you pass the milk’ I’m not sure we’d have much to talk about, so think I’ll give it a miss’
‘Calm down, I didn’t ask to marry you I just want to get to know other people in the charity. I’ve worked here for years and don’t really know anyone’
Yes, well, if this is how you behave then I’m not really surprised I thought to myself. And how you have the unmitigated crust to now make this about work is beyond me. You have called me cute, a bear cub, asked me to go on the razz, said how nice it was to meet me, badgered me into telling you I’m gay in a roundabout way and not ONCE have you asked what I do here. And the fact that you snapped about not asking to marry me, because I declined your offer in a humorous way, trying to make this less embarrassing for you than it already is suggests to me that I’ve been fucked over by you being a colleague, let alone someone who I’d go and socialise with. Jesus tonight.
So I ignored it, and the email he sent me the following day asking what I got up to the night before. What is he, a rejection junkie?
I never heard or thought about him again. I had completely forgotten about the episode when my boss told me that due to a restructuring, Facilities would fall under her umbrella. I knew it was coming, I could sense it, in the same way that animals know when an earthquake is about to hit and they begin acting oddly, make strange noises and start pacing. I was doing all of this.
‘So I need to you to get some time in the diary with someone called JT. Do you know him at all?’
***sweat pouring down forehead in manner of Iguaza Falls***
‘No, but I’m sure I’ll find him on the Intranet. I’ll get that set up for you, leave it with me.’
Do I know him? Lady are you serious, I am the object of his erection. I can’t believe this. I KNOW that as soon as I contact him even though it is for business related purposes he is going to be like a preying mantis all over again. There is no way that I can call him, and based on our previous contact, it’s probably a good idea to have electronic evidence, you know, for when the trial of my having been raped and murdered comes to court, so I’ll stick with the email.
Shall I just move jobs?
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Confessions On A Answerphone
First off thanks for all of your emails and the comments on my blog. Sometimes it kinda makes me feel bad for not blogging so often. But only for a little while. No seriously, I do appreciate them and I will get back to you all.
So, as is the norm, Tequilla finds himself in a little bit of a pickle. This time though, I really don’t know what to do.
My friend Jake hosted his annual ‘Madonna Night’ this weekend. Even though I may not be on board with her latest offering, she is still the mother of us all, and therefore I headed West to Ealing with disco ball and mirrored cross strapped to my back for my entrance. You should have seen the looks of surprise when I rose from the ground singing Live to Tell.
There was much drinking and frivolity with Madonna concerts being screened back to back, me repeatedly requesting Gambler and trying to teach everyone how to Vogue. Some people had really gone to town and had come dressed as Madonna throughout her career, every where you looked there were cowboy hats, wedding dresses and conical bras. It could not have been any gayer if Barbra Streisand was there draped over a piano singing the Way We Were.
Some of the Old Columbian powder was being passed around freely, but having given all that malarkey up about three years ago now, I stuck to my white wine spritzers. Seeing people off their heads had me positively cringing when thinking back to the amount of absolute drivel I must have come out with. Why do people on coke just not shut the fuck up, and give themselves a chance to breathe? And I’m saying this as someone who used to indulge VERY heavily. I’d come home and if everyone had gone to bed I’d talk to my reflection in the toaster for hours, just to have someone to talk to.
The party was great and at about 1am people started leaving, most to go on clubbing. I had brought my over night kit to sleep in Jake’s spare room, and all I wanted to do was sit there, keep drinking wine and watch the Confession’s concert without any interruptions. So it was me, Jake, his friend Ruth and some howdy doody looking Mother Fella called Christopher, a pint sized Irish Mo with a zest for life and a yearning to dance, who had been entertaining everyone with the full routine to the Don’t Tell Me video, which had me spitting feathers in the corner for having not mastered it myself.
Jake seemed delighted that Christopher was staying on to watch the DVD and I could see that he was hoping that he might be getting some tail. He had been shamelessly flirting with Christopher all night, which was quite embarrassing, especially when his advances were continually spurned. He must have thought that by this point Christopher’s Beer Goggles were firmly in place and he was ready to make musk rat love.
So the DVD is popped in and I sit down, on the sofa. Christopher sits next to me and the concert begins. Christopher say’s he was at the show that we were watching, then abruptly the DVD stops.
‘If you two are just going to sit there and flirt with each other I’d prefer it if you left. You’ve been all over each other all night’ slurred Jake, in a not so nice tone.
‘What are you talking about, we’re sitting next to each other’ I cried
To which Jake screeched ‘I’ve seen you, whispering sweet nothings in each others ears all night, and practically having sex, you’ve both totally ruined my Madonna Night and made it incredibly uncomfortable for everyone, that’s why they’ve all left’
What the Freddie Prinze Junior what this bi-otch going on about? I had probably said two words to Christopher all night. This was all so strange.
He then jumped up from his seat and went over to the TV, turned it off, looked at me and howled ‘And you BROKE my speakers! I think you should just fucking get out now, go on, go back to Christophers’ and drool all over each other, I don’t want to see this in my fucking house’
Christopher and I looked at each other like foreigners who had turned up at customs without visas. What was happening? I’d been invited to stay, then all of a sudden I’m being accused of virtually having sex with someone in full view of everyone, breaking speakers, which I had been nowhere near, but HAD seen Jake fall onto earlier on, and was being turfed out onto the streets at 2am. In fucking EALING. I live in Surrey Quays. Miles away.
I was not in the mood for this so I just said ‘Jake, if you can’t handle your alcohol then don’t drink it. I am leaving now and I look forward to you waking up tomorrow and remembering all of this, how you invited me to stay and then threw me out of you flat for no reason, all because you are jealous that this dude isn’t interested in you. Don’t project your bullshit onto me. And as for your speakers, you fell onto them you ignoramus and broke them yourself. And furthermore you're kind of on a nine at the moment when you really ought to be on a two- toodles' and span on my heels and left.
I left with poor Christopher behind me asking ‘what the fuck was all that about?' I had no idea, but that boy had just won himself an Oscar nomination. All I knew was I needed to get home, then Christopher chirps up with ‘You can spend the night at mine’ and proceeded to hit on me.
‘Are you crazy? I’ve just been chased out of a flat in the middle of Ealing at 2 in the morning by a queen on the verge of a nervous breakdown and you’re trying to get me in the sack? I need to get home, not get Homo.’
So, I made my excuses and left, found a cab place and saw their eyes light up when I said Surrey Quays. £48 later, I got home and fell into bed.
When I woke on Sunday, I had 18 missed calls from Jake who had been frantically trying to get hold of me, but I just couldn’t be bothered with dealing with what would no doubt have been a drunken blabbering, snivelling mess, so had put my phone on silent in the cab.
I clicked to listen to my voicemail, and had a new message. I put my phone on loud speaker and listened to what was the funniest message I had ever heard. He was desperately crying apologising and saying ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done, what did I do, please forgive me, you’re such a good friend’ and I could hear the snot falling from his nose and the tears from his eyes hitting the handset. But then something truly uncanny happened. The message continued after he had said goodbye. He hadn’t hung up. It was hard to make out at first as all I could hear was him crying and being comforted by Ruth. Then he said ‘What the fuck have I done? I’ve been in love with Tequila for over 4 years. I have never felt this way about anyone, and because of my fucking stupid jealousy, I’ve ruined any chances of ever being with him. And now I’ve sent him flying into Christopher’s arms. They’re fucking now, aren’t they? They are fucking, fucking each other and it’s my entire fault……….’
And on and on it went….I didn’t know where to look. He hasn’t a clue that he left that message, because he thought he’d hung up. I felt embarrassed, like I was eavesdropping, but I wasn’t. It was there on my answering machine. It was like a car crash, or the new Madonna video, you know you shouldn’t look, but you just can’t turn away. Hearing myself being referred to as someone’s soul mate was very odd, especially when I had NO idea how he felt for me.
I knew I had to contact him, because I was in no doubt that he’d be calling to apologise abundantly, but the thought of talking to him with my new found awareness had me sweating like a whore in church. I sent a text saying ‘No hard feelings don’t beat yourself up about it; we’ve all had mad moments when intoxicated. You did Madonna proud.’ He sent one apologising again, which I didn’t get back to. What could I say ‘Oh, don’t worry, I enjoyed you yelling fuck at me, and FYI, I now know you’re in love with me and no I did not end up fucking Christopher’.
We have planned to go away for the weekend next month, and I feel really uncomfortable about the whole thing. Do I tell him I know? What if when we go away he’s planning to make a move? Oh readers I am in a two and eight about this, and feel really nauseous. I just want to cut ties with him altogether. Can I do that?
You’d think hearing that someone is in love with you would be flattering, but in this case it feels anything but. I’m questioning our friendship and wondering if when I’ve had moments and been down and he’s comforted me if there was more in it. I think about us going to the gym together and him seeing me naked. I wonder if he fantasizes about me and it is making me want to tear off all my limbs and throw myself at a chilli plant. I mean, if I fancy someone, then I masturbate over them 20 times an hour. So if he’s in love with me, is he bashing the bishop over me?
This is not good. Will our friendship be able to survive? Aren’t they built on trust and having no secrets? He doesn’t know that I know, you know? But I can’t tell him, as it would humiliate him, and may make him far too embarrassed to ever talk to me. I will never feel the same around him again, and will be walking on eggshells wondering if he is about to pounce. We’re going to see George Michael in August which I have been so excited about but now I don’t even want to go. What if during I’m Your Man he decides to try and be my man? Fuck that fucking voicemail message.
Even my friendships are of unknown quantities. Who knew? If I was Jewish, I’d be oy-ing all over the place right now.
So, the question is, what would YOU do?
So, as is the norm, Tequilla finds himself in a little bit of a pickle. This time though, I really don’t know what to do.
My friend Jake hosted his annual ‘Madonna Night’ this weekend. Even though I may not be on board with her latest offering, she is still the mother of us all, and therefore I headed West to Ealing with disco ball and mirrored cross strapped to my back for my entrance. You should have seen the looks of surprise when I rose from the ground singing Live to Tell.
There was much drinking and frivolity with Madonna concerts being screened back to back, me repeatedly requesting Gambler and trying to teach everyone how to Vogue. Some people had really gone to town and had come dressed as Madonna throughout her career, every where you looked there were cowboy hats, wedding dresses and conical bras. It could not have been any gayer if Barbra Streisand was there draped over a piano singing the Way We Were.
Some of the Old Columbian powder was being passed around freely, but having given all that malarkey up about three years ago now, I stuck to my white wine spritzers. Seeing people off their heads had me positively cringing when thinking back to the amount of absolute drivel I must have come out with. Why do people on coke just not shut the fuck up, and give themselves a chance to breathe? And I’m saying this as someone who used to indulge VERY heavily. I’d come home and if everyone had gone to bed I’d talk to my reflection in the toaster for hours, just to have someone to talk to.
The party was great and at about 1am people started leaving, most to go on clubbing. I had brought my over night kit to sleep in Jake’s spare room, and all I wanted to do was sit there, keep drinking wine and watch the Confession’s concert without any interruptions. So it was me, Jake, his friend Ruth and some howdy doody looking Mother Fella called Christopher, a pint sized Irish Mo with a zest for life and a yearning to dance, who had been entertaining everyone with the full routine to the Don’t Tell Me video, which had me spitting feathers in the corner for having not mastered it myself.
Jake seemed delighted that Christopher was staying on to watch the DVD and I could see that he was hoping that he might be getting some tail. He had been shamelessly flirting with Christopher all night, which was quite embarrassing, especially when his advances were continually spurned. He must have thought that by this point Christopher’s Beer Goggles were firmly in place and he was ready to make musk rat love.
So the DVD is popped in and I sit down, on the sofa. Christopher sits next to me and the concert begins. Christopher say’s he was at the show that we were watching, then abruptly the DVD stops.
‘If you two are just going to sit there and flirt with each other I’d prefer it if you left. You’ve been all over each other all night’ slurred Jake, in a not so nice tone.
‘What are you talking about, we’re sitting next to each other’ I cried
To which Jake screeched ‘I’ve seen you, whispering sweet nothings in each others ears all night, and practically having sex, you’ve both totally ruined my Madonna Night and made it incredibly uncomfortable for everyone, that’s why they’ve all left’
What the Freddie Prinze Junior what this bi-otch going on about? I had probably said two words to Christopher all night. This was all so strange.
He then jumped up from his seat and went over to the TV, turned it off, looked at me and howled ‘And you BROKE my speakers! I think you should just fucking get out now, go on, go back to Christophers’ and drool all over each other, I don’t want to see this in my fucking house’
Christopher and I looked at each other like foreigners who had turned up at customs without visas. What was happening? I’d been invited to stay, then all of a sudden I’m being accused of virtually having sex with someone in full view of everyone, breaking speakers, which I had been nowhere near, but HAD seen Jake fall onto earlier on, and was being turfed out onto the streets at 2am. In fucking EALING. I live in Surrey Quays. Miles away.
I was not in the mood for this so I just said ‘Jake, if you can’t handle your alcohol then don’t drink it. I am leaving now and I look forward to you waking up tomorrow and remembering all of this, how you invited me to stay and then threw me out of you flat for no reason, all because you are jealous that this dude isn’t interested in you. Don’t project your bullshit onto me. And as for your speakers, you fell onto them you ignoramus and broke them yourself. And furthermore you're kind of on a nine at the moment when you really ought to be on a two- toodles' and span on my heels and left.
I left with poor Christopher behind me asking ‘what the fuck was all that about?' I had no idea, but that boy had just won himself an Oscar nomination. All I knew was I needed to get home, then Christopher chirps up with ‘You can spend the night at mine’ and proceeded to hit on me.
‘Are you crazy? I’ve just been chased out of a flat in the middle of Ealing at 2 in the morning by a queen on the verge of a nervous breakdown and you’re trying to get me in the sack? I need to get home, not get Homo.’
So, I made my excuses and left, found a cab place and saw their eyes light up when I said Surrey Quays. £48 later, I got home and fell into bed.
When I woke on Sunday, I had 18 missed calls from Jake who had been frantically trying to get hold of me, but I just couldn’t be bothered with dealing with what would no doubt have been a drunken blabbering, snivelling mess, so had put my phone on silent in the cab.
I clicked to listen to my voicemail, and had a new message. I put my phone on loud speaker and listened to what was the funniest message I had ever heard. He was desperately crying apologising and saying ‘I don’t know what the fuck I’ve done, what did I do, please forgive me, you’re such a good friend’ and I could hear the snot falling from his nose and the tears from his eyes hitting the handset. But then something truly uncanny happened. The message continued after he had said goodbye. He hadn’t hung up. It was hard to make out at first as all I could hear was him crying and being comforted by Ruth. Then he said ‘What the fuck have I done? I’ve been in love with Tequila for over 4 years. I have never felt this way about anyone, and because of my fucking stupid jealousy, I’ve ruined any chances of ever being with him. And now I’ve sent him flying into Christopher’s arms. They’re fucking now, aren’t they? They are fucking, fucking each other and it’s my entire fault……….’
And on and on it went….I didn’t know where to look. He hasn’t a clue that he left that message, because he thought he’d hung up. I felt embarrassed, like I was eavesdropping, but I wasn’t. It was there on my answering machine. It was like a car crash, or the new Madonna video, you know you shouldn’t look, but you just can’t turn away. Hearing myself being referred to as someone’s soul mate was very odd, especially when I had NO idea how he felt for me.
I knew I had to contact him, because I was in no doubt that he’d be calling to apologise abundantly, but the thought of talking to him with my new found awareness had me sweating like a whore in church. I sent a text saying ‘No hard feelings don’t beat yourself up about it; we’ve all had mad moments when intoxicated. You did Madonna proud.’ He sent one apologising again, which I didn’t get back to. What could I say ‘Oh, don’t worry, I enjoyed you yelling fuck at me, and FYI, I now know you’re in love with me and no I did not end up fucking Christopher’.
We have planned to go away for the weekend next month, and I feel really uncomfortable about the whole thing. Do I tell him I know? What if when we go away he’s planning to make a move? Oh readers I am in a two and eight about this, and feel really nauseous. I just want to cut ties with him altogether. Can I do that?
You’d think hearing that someone is in love with you would be flattering, but in this case it feels anything but. I’m questioning our friendship and wondering if when I’ve had moments and been down and he’s comforted me if there was more in it. I think about us going to the gym together and him seeing me naked. I wonder if he fantasizes about me and it is making me want to tear off all my limbs and throw myself at a chilli plant. I mean, if I fancy someone, then I masturbate over them 20 times an hour. So if he’s in love with me, is he bashing the bishop over me?
This is not good. Will our friendship be able to survive? Aren’t they built on trust and having no secrets? He doesn’t know that I know, you know? But I can’t tell him, as it would humiliate him, and may make him far too embarrassed to ever talk to me. I will never feel the same around him again, and will be walking on eggshells wondering if he is about to pounce. We’re going to see George Michael in August which I have been so excited about but now I don’t even want to go. What if during I’m Your Man he decides to try and be my man? Fuck that fucking voicemail message.
Even my friendships are of unknown quantities. Who knew? If I was Jewish, I’d be oy-ing all over the place right now.
So, the question is, what would YOU do?
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