Journey through space to the Planet Fabulous, where the Ruler of the Universe will see you shortly.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

The Land of Milk And Honey

Wondrous events of the Easter weekend meant that I was delightfully sated in the bedroom department, thank you very much for asking. Well, it's what Jesus would have wanted. You're going to have a holiday celebrating eggs, fertility and rising from the dead, and you're pretty much asking trouble, aren't you? I mean those last three sum up the whole Paul McCartney/Heather Mills debacle.

Before all this bedroom action, I was idly toying with the idea of visiting my old stomping ground, the Gentleman's Recreational Spa and Steamroom. I seem to recall that the Bank holidays mean they are usually rife, and so my rosy tinted glasses were firmly on the end of my nose as I reminisced at all the people who I was missing. Like there's always one Gentleman who's a little... 'gifted' in the lunchbox department and taking great pride in waggling his thing around like he was trying to pick up Channel 5 in a built up area. And lying on the bench above him, some wendy face-down intent on presenting to everyone who enters like some red-butted mandrill monkey. Face like an angel, arse like a cement mixer. You can practically hear him 'beep-beep-beep'-ing as he backs up on anyone like a reversing lorry.

Oh! And then there's wandering the darkened corridors, where you'll find the steroid junkies still coming down from their three days chomping K down 'Fire' or 'Shunt' or something. You have to pass through them, these enormous great slabs of beef leaning up against the walls. Having to trot between them was like being in Egypt, passing through the Valley of Kings. Well, queens. You know what I mean. I just consoled myself with the fact that the bigger they come... well, the more likely they are to be a bottom, in my experience.

And lets not forget that the best night's sleep I've ever had was in a sauna. Oh no, I can't get any kip unless I have the whiff of a jizzed over gym mat underneath me. That stuff's like Nytol.

What did I do instead? Well, to save myself £15, I just left the kettle overboiling in the bathroom, turned all the lights off and played some porn loudly in the next room. And for that authentic feel, I spread some hummus on the floor. And low and behold, 20 minutes later I thought it was a bad idea and was ready to leave. Hey - just like the real thing!

Thursday, March 20, 2008

All Sorts of Issues

So I think I have a problem.

Well, several, actually. I violently object to mushrooms and I do have one of the foulest mouths this side of Dame Angela Lansbury; while I was in work the other day I spilt some tomato soup right down my front. To which I happened to say that my t-shirt looked like "some triple-cunted hooker had had her 'Dolmio Day' all down the front", causing me to be dragged into a meeting room by a manager and firmly told off.

Anyway, the problem I'm going to talk about is work. My name's Lee and I'm a workaholic.

I've just come out of a major project I've been working on since October, taking up most my spare time. And in fact for the last month have been locked away in my office cutting out Daleks and Sontarans almost non-stop, only infrequently poking my head out to drag some poor unsuspecting victim into my boudoir like a Black Widow spider. This Sunday it was all finished, and I emerged, blinking, thinking 'I'm free! FREE!' rather like Mel C after the Spice Girls split up. Oh you should have seen me! I was like a whirlwind. I did everything - I had a bath! I went into town! I had a cup of tea! I met a friend! It was like I was in 'Sex And The City', only I wasn't wearing a tu-tu or had a face like an old boot. Much.

And so, I've had a week of freedom - infinite possibilities spreading out before me. London's such a wonderful city, one always feels you should make the most of it. What I have done instead is accept any new projects offered to me. The long weekend? Pfft. There's photoshopping to be done!

In a related matter, I've been re-reading Mark Haddon's 'The Curious Incident With The Dog In the Night Time', a super read about 'an emotionally detached boy' says the write-up. He can't relate to other people, likes making lists, finds the simplest of things offending to his beliefs and doesn't understand sex. Honestly, he could be writing about most the Doctor Who fans I know. But then, saying that, the more I delve into his behaviour, the more I see things that I do mirrored. I have a feeling this willingness to jump back into another large project that saps my life away like a 'Stargate Atlantis' marathon is because I like my time constrained, just like the lead in 'The Curious Incident'. In fact, I've been making a list (!) of all the mad things that I do each day, otherwise some huge and terrible disaster will befall us all:

* Not stepping on the paving cracks, and not walking under road signs.

* Reading my horoscope of a morning. BUT I can't search them out, they have to be left for me somewhere, like a discarded paper on the train.

*Having to clap at the same time as the Scissor Sisters in 'I Don't Feel Like Dancing' (ooh, gay OCD).

* Having to drink a bottle of water before getting on the train on the way into work.

* Thinking listening to the Windows start-up trumpet is 'unlucky' (although I may be on to something there).

* Having my money ready before I get to a till.

PLUS:

* If its the start of a new month, having to say 'White Rabbits' as its lucky.

* Not putting new shoes on the table.

* Not opening an umbrella indoors.


Tell me, dear viewers, I'm not alone in this sort of thing..?

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Giving Up

Well, seemingly overnight, all the gay men in London have turned into lesbians.

Now you know I'm not proud. I will stoop to 'Order In' from premiere dating website Gaydar now and again, braving its ghastly colours and gamut of elderly gentlemen in sportswear saying 'm8' a lot in order to sort a diamond from the rough. But correct me if I'm wrong - the primary function on that site is for Gentlemen Who Moisturise to meet up with similarly like-minded (and loose-moralled) wendys and get together for a bit of the ol' slap-and-tickle. And yet, almost all boys that I've been talking to have always suggested 'meeting up for a pint' or even more terrifying, 'a coffee'. New users beware! This then leads you into a sexually ambiguous area where the whole night is spent pondering on whether they're really interested, whether in fact you are that interested now they've opened their mouth (or more correctly, now they've opened their mouth to speak) while you have to trot out the same old small talk about jobs, careers, and what you're reading at the moment.

Over the last month alone, I have had the misfortune to meet:

* a tiresome fellow who was trying so hard to be cool, it took him a full 30 seconds to rev up to an answer. It was like having a satellite call to Reykjavik.

* a gentleman with such severe OCD that he would only drink red drinks

* innumerable people who have been using old photos on their profiles (and while I do look for giveaway signs like 90s hair and Levellers posters in the background, some still slip through the net). They're sent packing within the first two minutes, let me tell you

* a youngster who countered every question with '...well, what would you like to do..?' That got old very quickly.

Terrible evenings, all. You know, there's some little girl who had been missing for three weeks and turned up after being abducted by her step-uncle, and the BBC reported she spent her first night back in police company watching films and playing with a kitten. I thought she'd had it made! What a great way to spend a night. And she's probably had more cock than I have in the last fortnight, lucky cow.

Friday, March 14, 2008

First Date

Only a few days late.

So. Men. Dating. That's where we left off, didn't we? A little while ago, I went on a date with someone considerably younger than me, purely by accident because he looked a lot older on his... er, profile. Ahem. So as you can guess this date was doomed to disaster from the start. I'd never been under the full force of the ideals of youth before and it was utterly petrifying. "Oh I know I won't meet my future husband on something like this, but I do live in hope..." and a classic "Of course, if I had the chance, I'd abstain from sex til after I was married..." leaving me, almost fifteen years in the future thinking, good lord that'll soon get eroded to nothing, mate. There'll be a slow disintegration that'll leave you pointing your legs to Jesus as soon as a Gentleman Caller tips his hat in your direction.

The reason I say 'in the future' is I recall I used to have ideas like this. Where, in my head, I'd cook like Betty Crocker, and I look like Donna Reed. There'd be plastic on the furniture, to keep it neat and clean, in the Pine-Sol scented air somewhere that's green. I was always after my True Love every where I went until some kind lad took pity on me and walked me home one night, saying 'Look, men are usually cunts. Be careful. And don't look for Mr Right everywhere, he'll turn up when you need him'. Oh he was wise, that boy. Well, in all areas bar couture - his predilection for bolero jackets in the mid-nineties in somewhat backward Peterborough caused him to get a lot more aggro than he deserved.

Anyway, back to the date. "But I'm not all about staying in and reading Tolstoy and Proust," he said as I inwardly rolled my eyes. "I'm a demon on the dancefloor!"

More of a gargoyle I thought, and helped myself to more Goldslager. The only way that this was going to be any fun is if I got a little trollied and made a pass at him. What we charmingly called 'The Dance of the Seven Ales' back home - basically what you'd go through to get a gentleman before the Ugly Lights came on at the end of the night during the 2am bin scrape. Besides, it may be funny to try and bend his sensibilities to something a little more real before someone callous completely stamps all over his heart. I see it as community service. The dear thing needs to be armed in case some bastard tries to pretend they're ideal matrimonial material and then destroys him. Poor lamb.

Actually, I was a gentleman in the end, and packed him off onto the tube while he could still stand. Anyway, you see, as time goes on, I've discovered I like my Future Husband - who will turn up when I need him - to have a few miles on the clock. Indeed, I like my gentlemen like I like my cheese - mature.

What, you thought I was going to write something filthy in there? Like 'I like my men like I like my cheese - around my head of my nob'? I'm sorry but no, you keep your dirty ideals to yourself.

Thursday, March 06, 2008

Fallout

I'm not a saint. Never claimed to be.

What I'm going to tell you isn't funny. If you're after some mirth, go check out the links on the left hand side til I get my act in gear for Monday.

There was a man. A rebound shag. He was tall, he was wide. I insisted that he wasn't born, he was built by the Glasgow ship yards as there was that much of him. His personality was as large and he was mostly fun to be around. We had an understanding as I'd just come out of a relationship that there wasn't much to it, we'd just mess around and if either of us wanted out, we just had to say so and it would come to an end.

So we pootled on, dining out drunkenly in Pizza Express and hanging around coffee shops putting the world to rights. But quietly, this slow, creeping background madness that he carried with him started to come to the fore. His constrictive issues about this and that, that ultimately meant he was the most appalling kisser. The fact he was still married... frankly it all started to add up. Plus I wasn't really over my ex, so I needed a bit of space to sort myself out.

So I told him. I called him on the 'I want out' clause. And this is all where my fear of his madness is wholly justified.

He didn't accept it. Moved the goalposts. Huge screes of emails and threads on communal websites about reading here and Facebook updates for a hint of what he did wrong. He sent me a copy of 'Peter Pan' with passages underlined - something about kissing. Enclosed in the package was a thimble. A thimble! Where on God's green Earth do you get a thimble in this day and age? All this time ignoring the repeated 'I need space' pleas from me, and thus driving a further wedge between us with his needy ways.

I got the package around Feb 12th. When I didn't respond to this, he went and did the most heartless and cruel thing I've ever had the misfortune to witness: he went off and seduced my ex.

Not cruel and heartless for me; he has since admitted knowingly generating a relationship with the express wish of telling my ex all about us two. I shall repeat this diabolical fact: he deliberately went into a relationship with a callous need to expend information that would be harmful to his then-partner. I'm sorry, but that's not even humane. To start an affair to tear someone down just sends a chill down my spine. And with this added to the fact that he clearly wanted to do this to get back at us, trampling over both my and my ex's feelings just to fulfill some inner need for attention is horrific.

I am utterly livid about this. The old Lee would sit, grumble and then kick something silently. Oh no, not now. I am so angry that another person can do this to one of my friends really makes me doubt human nature. The irony is that he's training to improve people, when clearly he's so adept at tearing into other people, himself included.

There. I have unspooled, like an old fashioned reel-to-reel. If you got this far, thank you for listening and I hope my reactions aren't too extreme. For the rest of you, normal service will be resumed on Monday.


* * * *

UPDATE

The previous is amended slightly as yesterday I got threatened with legal action about the above entry. Bemused, I phoned my lawyer.

"Well, he hasn't really got a leg to stand on," he said. "You just got to ask yourself, is he the kind of person to push this through just on principle?"

We both reread the entry and there was an odd silence.

I thank you all for all your support, as ever (I really do think I have some of the nicest readers on the planet. You're all wonderful and completely unhinged. And thank you to that nice Italian grandmother who reads this. Benedicali madre, voi sono meraviglioso! But no, I don't want you to send your two strapping lads around to 'sort him out'. Well, not to him anyway. Grin). As one reader said 'He sounds completely, weirdly wrong. As in wrong and broken. He's all about feelings and ownership and so on. He spends his entire life being told to fuck himself, and clearly, if he could, he would.'

I asked the lawyer about that. Apparently we can't say any specifics about him, but saying that and calling him weird and tubby and opportunistic is fine. Viva justice, I say.

Displacement Activity

What's this? A pair of PVC trousers?

See this is the joy of working from home - you'll do anything to distract yourself when you're feeling creatively dry. And despite being on deadline, I've taken time out to clean the oven, resort my books and now go through my wardrobe. And look! These! I haven't seen these since... 1998, I think. What in heavens name was I thinking, wearing these on New Year's Eve? I seem to recall that a) you can't wear any underwear with them as you'll never get them on, and b) they offer no insulation whatsoever, so as it was colder than my stepmother's love out there that night, any genital 'area' to view that wasn't pushed up into my sternum by the overly-tight material was then shrunk down to the size of an acorn with dwarfism. Clearly all part of the 'post-op' look I was unintentionally going for.

I can't remember why I bought them. I think I was still going through my Michelle Pffiffffffffer 'catwoman' stage which all Gentlemen Who Can Cast On around my age seemingly went through. Don't deny it. To this day if you're handed a bull-whip, you pretend you're more Selina Kyle than Indiana Jones. I just know.

Hm. I wonder if they still fit? Vanity states they will, practicality states it would be like trying to get it up a drunk straight boy - which in my experience is akin to attempting to stick a marshmallow in a money box. I'll just give it a go.

Hnnn! Ooh! Ahh.

Oh.

Look. Stop laughing and pointing and get me some talcum powder. And two warm spoons.

And maybe a crowbar.