Soho is a No-go

It seems every time I sit down to update my blog I am apologising for yet another long absence. These moratoriums are usually because I don’t have the time. I tend to update my blog during my lunch break at work and as lunch breaks can be rare around here, I have a legitimate excuse for not updating with the frequency with which I would like. And furthermore, I have the attention span of a fruit fly whereby I forget I even have a blog, with literally one’s of five’s of loyal readers, to update.

I update the blog at work as I refuse to go online at home. I feel there is something quite sacred about being the only Lady of The Lavender left on Planet Dearth who isn’t. It makes me feel kind of unique. Truth be told it was also far too confusing for me trying to install Broadband so I threw a hissy fit, cancelled my BT line and am now without connection. That was two years ago, and you know what- I’m still Without Connection At Home. If anything I want to prove that one can exist without 24 hour internet connection.

My friends question my sanity and in a bid to get me on-line, one of them even set up a profile a year back on mysinglefriend.com in the hope that it would have me sashaying into the nearest BT Broadband outlet and promising the blood of my first born to get me on line. It had the opposite effect and after three days, I pulled the plug.

They say things like ‘How can you possibly cope without a Gaydar profile?’ Um, quite fucking effectively actually. No Gaydar for this one. Not Moi. Uh-huh. Been there once about four or so years ago, and won’t do it again. I actually consider Gaydar the devils backyard and anyone logging on is headed straight to hell in a handbag. In my case it was once bitten- turn celibate.

Then there is the ‘But honey, what about the porn you’re missing?’ What the Blanket Michael Jackson are they talking about ‘missing’? It’s as if no self respecting Mo can exist without having a profile on a website that even by logging on you risk getting the clap, or having 24 hour access to online porn where guys are so allegedly ‘perfect’ that you end up feeling completely inadequate and believe that unless you can pull off things like ‘you like that big cock don’t ya’ & 'Yeah take it boy' in a Southern Drawl (and lets be honest here, in a Southern Squeal a lot of the time) you will have more chance of securing a million dollar record deal even though your throat has been cut and you are actually headless then you do of swinging on another Mo’s appendage.

Anyhoo, so I haven’t updated for quite a while I know, but to be honest, there isn’t a huge amount going on. I have been slowly but surely withdrawing from going out over the last year, for many reasons, firstly money (I recently forked out a huge amount on, let’s just say a ‘procedure’ and also, I now have a mortgage to pay), boredom with the gay scene (I have been going out in Soho for nigh on 14 years, and its getting tedious) and finally, Soho is also a walking graveyard of those failed relationships, and the thought of bumping into scary men from my past is all too much, a sentiment which was cemented a while back when I was approached in one night not once, not twice, but thrice by a man that I cut out of my life three years ago.

I don’t take the decision to cut someone out lightly, and you must push me to the edge to be a candidate for this most severe course of action, but when I do decide to, the decision is final and that person will be erased from my life, and any connections to them are severed. They no longer exist- it's simple. I had cut him out as I was going through a lot of personal changes, re-evaluating who I did and didn't want in my life having been recently uncerimoniously attacked and abused by some people I considered to be friends which has hurt and shocked me to my core. It was all very messy and traumatic and something I still can't write about as to this day I still can't quite beleive it actually happened.

Anyway, I digress. Prior to this (nasty) surprise encounter, I had been forced to change number years before after growing tired of his vile voicemails after I had politely suggested we had gone as far together as we could and thought it best if we no longer had any contact. Big mistake. Big. Huge. So he resorted to trying to contact me by email. All these attempts were ignored, and even when I moved, he went to my old address to get a forwarding address and one evening he appeared, bold as brass outside my window calling my name.

There were sooooooo many factors in him being cut out of my life* so I was astounded he had the temerity to even approach me that night particularly after how awfully he had treated me when I'd suggested we should go our seperate ways. Each time he approached I said firmly ‘I have nothing to say to you’ and whilst at first he was saying ‘Please, can I talk to you’in a nice tone it wasn’t long before he showed his true colours. I can’t remember word for word what was said but I think it was something along the lines of me being called bitter and twisted, a leech, a nasty little cunt, you know, real positive stuff, and how I think that everything was about me (um, it kind of is) and he generally yelled fuck at me on the street like I was a common dog for a few minutes. Nice. I can't believe my hesitence at speaking to him.

As he stormed off my friend and I looked at each other aghast, and decided to call it a night, as even though this was the first contact we’d had in years, he managed to put a dampener on the evening. Any doubts I had about whether I’d made a mistake were answered. No, I hadn’t. The funniest thing was that he had no idea who I was with, for all he knew, I was on a date, or with my new boyfriend so he just seemed intent on hurting me or potentially scaring the man I was with off by making me out to be some sort of sadistic bitter and twisted queen. But they do say that sociopaths pursue endless vendettas against those they perceive to have wronged them, so I shouldn’t be surprised. I learnt that in therapy- aren’t I clever? Let me tell you those were some intense sessions - the quack had me screaming at the plant in the corner, things like ‘WHY?!’ ‘how could you have done that to me’ and 'stop fucking with my mind’. It seemed insane at first, but soon I was doing it to any bush or piece of foliage I passed. For a while, Kew Gardens was off my list of places to go. Six months of yelling at a yukka plant to find out I inherently pick the wrong men and friends who will cause mass destruction because all I’ve ever known is drama. Fab. Yeah, cheers, great, thanks a lot.

So, when you factor in the cost, the boredom, and the potential of bumping into crazed ex’s who are unpredictable and seem to have it in for you, it’s easy to understand why spending my life in town is somewhat less appealing. Some might think that is letting him win, but I say, you can only win if you’re playing a game, and I most definitely am not. I think a respite from the gay scene will do me wonders, and I look forward to returning to it soon, with gusto, for some much needed debauched fun, and fingers crossed, an STI. Who knows? Tequila still goes out and is still very much the social butterfly, and there are always going to be stories to tell, but for now Soho is dead to me.**


*Just off the top of my head, some of the deciding factors about his removal:

Sociopathic behaviour, pathological liar, sex addict (even though this threatened to destroy the relationship he kept on regardless and turned it on me saying it was my fault ), infantile behaviour, at times it was like dealing with a 13year old rather than a 35 year old, constantly forcing me into situations that I was uncomfortable with, extreme jealously over a friendship and regularly trying to come between it, hostile voicemails, one in particular saying he couldn’t wait for my mother to die so he could come and dance on her grave, accusing me of murdering the love of my life, who very sadly committed suicide when I was 21 (the most devastating thing to have happened to me, which he saw perfectly fit to use to hurt me. It did, irreversibly), abusive texts promising to destroy certain friendships for ever........you know, as I'm writing this, I think he might be my ideal man.......

One day, I did snap and I hit him in the face. I’m not a particularly strong person, and believe me am no fighter, but still he had me arrested and thrown in the slammer for the night. If I’m listing his shortcomings, it’s only fair I list mine. When I was released I had 36 missed calls from him. Where the hell did he think I was, in a piano bar singing show tunes with Liza?

** The book is open on just how long it will remain dead to me. One week anyone?

The man with no shame

Do I just date sociopaths? You know, those that lack a sense of personal responsibility and morality, have a total lack of remorse for their actions, are impulsive, manipulative, reckless, quarrelsome and consistent liars? The reason I ask is because I recently got an email from Goodie, a knob end I dated way back in my early twenties. It was in response to a request I had sent him, about a year ago. The request was:

From: "Tequila Mockingbird"
To: “goodie”Subject:
RE: Goodie has Tagged you! :)
Date: Mon, 16 Jul 2007 14:11:32 +0000

Hi,

Please can you take my name off these things?

Regards,
Tequila

The ‘things’ I wanted to be taken off were the endless social networking sites and on line communities that he was signing up to which, because I was in his address book meant that I was bombarded with junk emails. Je déteste junk emails. All of these on line communities and IM services drive me insane and I just don’t get it. The whole thing is ridiculous, letting complete strangers have your phone number, email address and vital statistics? Letting your every last move be monitored by anyone and everyone, and those scary ex boyfriends that you really don’t want to know you are still alive, let alone getting on with your life without them thank you very much.*

However, more importantly, I didn’t want to accept his friend requests because this guy was an absolute cunt to me when we were together. The last contact we had was when I got home one day to find he had virtually emptied out my flat and set off into the sunset, after repeatedly cheating on me for nigh on eight months and sinking me literally thousands of pounds into debt. He was a pathological liar who really screwed my head up in a whole host of ways including manipulating me into thinking that his cheating was all in my head,regardless of the unquestionable evidence. He even went as far as to offer to go and see a shrink with me, you know, to sort out my 'trust' issues. Even when he gave me crabs, and insisted it was scabies, but still had me use the crabs lotion he had me thinking I was imagining it. He ran up HUGE phonebills ( which he left me to pay) on chat lines, that he was using to meet the men he was cheating on me with. We had not spoken since he'd done his midnight flit almost seven years ago and now he had the absolute unmitigated panooge to include me as a friend on the abundance of networking sites he was signing up for?? Clearly, not an ounce of shame.

His email said, and this is the actual text:

Mr!! im shocked !!! you dont know who i am do u ??? well you should seein as we spent nearly 2 years together natalie’s been telling me all about you glad your ok and doin better then me lol ive jus split up wid mine so livin in lpool now you will have to come visit its a rite good laugh nice to hear from ya even tho it was to say bugger off sent ya a pic as well love and kisses goodie **

I shall translate for those who speak English. This boil on the butt of humanity thought I had asked to be taken off his list, because I had forgotten who he was, and he was shocked. In his warped mind, the eight months we had spent together had now become two years, and he’d heard from someone we both knew that I was doing well. He had split up with his boyfriend, (I’m hazarding a guess there was infidelity on Goodies part) and he wanted me to go visit him in Liverpool. And he had sent me a picture. His email had outraged me, but when I clicked on the attachment, I nearly fell off my chair.

It was him, in his underwear. I presume to show me what I had been missing these seven years. Well, dear readers, all it did, was make me want to put hooks in my cheeks and fly myself off Canary Wharf. I have no idea what I ever saw in him. I used to think of him as sexy and incredibly handsome with a nice body. He was none of the things I thought he was. What the hell was I thinking? Love is not only blind; it’s for crazy people I tell you. You see that crazy bag lady on the street having an argument with herself and you’re seeing me. You hear that neighbour screaming at the voices in his head to all get along, and you’re hearing me. You watch Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane and you’re watching me.

The thing which really annoyed me about the whole thing, was that he was only contacting me now because he’d split up with another one of his victims, whose vulnerable heart he no doubt would have preyed and trampled on. No mention of all the shit he put me through, no apology for the lies, the infidelities and the money he owed me. Nada. This email seemed like we were long lost pals.

I cannot believe the sheer effrontery of it all. You just could not make this stuff up. What the hell did he expect me to do? Email him back and say how happy I was to hear from him and the picture had got me all aquiver? Well I did email back. I said:

Goodie,
I do know who you are. Please stop sending me these things.
T

He’ll respond to that in a year undoubtedly. Please God don’t let the email have a picture attached.


*I have a facebook account, I admit, but my account is set to private, and ONLY my friends & family and some colleagues are on my account.

**Now before my darling Big Sis flies over from the US to kill me for the bad spelling and complete lack of grammar, I would like to point out, that I have simply copied and pasted the email in question. Big sis my love, In a Word document, it was one WHOLE big red squiggly line. xx

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.

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.