P.S...

2006-12-21T18:39:00.000Z

2006-12-05T00:11:00.000Z

2006-11-09T22:25:00.000Z

P.S...Oh My Lord

2006-10-17T19:57:00.000+01:00

Whole new world of warbling The Daily Telegraph (Click on the link, people - trust me)

Right - two things to make clear from the start.

1. I personally am a fan of Jordan. Not because of the 'I'm gay - she's camp - we belong together' malarky. Rather because she is an admirable force. She has made a career based on her mammary glands. And it has been a very successful career. I know that I have certainly bought into it. I have gleefully watched her documentaries on cable t.v, and am very happy to see that America has taken her to it's (less substantial) bosom. Although - I don't quite understand what they love about her. She isn't a female Hugh Grant, so what her appeal to them is - is beyond me. I don't even mind Peter Andre (can't say any more about him - because my mind goes into shutdown whenever he appears on t.v/in print etc.)

However, what possessed them to think that they should release a duet is unfathomable. It is truly one of the worst things I have ever heard - and I sat through the Spice Girls concert in 1999 ('Two Become One' sung acapella will stay with me forever).

2. I have noticed that my recent blogs all seem to reverberate around the world of celebrities. While this is not such a bad thing, it doesn't really separate my blog from all the over celebrity-bashing sites that are out there (and to which I am seriously addicted). Therefore, I will do my best to keep this nasty, dirty little habit in check - and return to what I do best. Vomiting up my life to anyone who falls upon this blog.

But... you really, really have to hear this!

P.S...Enquiring minds need to know (part two)

2006-10-09T23:19:00.000+01:00

Truce Between Paris and Nicole

O.K... breaking news.

Anyone who read my Pulitzer prize winning article on my love of celebrity, will know that I am ever so slightly interested in the friendship between Paris and Nicole.

So - you can imagine my delight when I saw a video on TMZ.com, that showed the two ladies going out to a steakhouse together the other night.

What they were doing there is beyond me - pretending to eat by the looks of them. It doesn't really matter. All that matters is that they are friends again. And nothing right now could make me happier.

I am a very, very sad individual.

Please check out the above link (you know you want to)

oh, and p.p.s... Nicole looks like shit. Paris certainly won that evening, but I am sure the thought NEVER crossed her mind.

2006-10-05T08:05:00.001+01:00

P.S...She's funny. Who knew?

I just watched this SNL 'Sex and the City' skit on YouTube and found it most humourous.It features Christina Aguilera playing Samantha.

I have been a fan of Christina ever since Stripped (certainly not since Genie in a Bottle' which was a hideous introduction to the world of pop, and think her new album is very good (I am English so can not say things like 'awesome' or 'it rocks' or 'it's the bomb'without seeming very very silly.

She does a fantastic impression of Samantha and gets all the best lines.I kind of like the gals doing Miranda and Charlotte as well.However I am not impressed with the lass doing Carrie. Some things are too perfect to imitate - SJP being one of them.

Anyway - Enjoy

P.S...Enquiring minds need to know

2006-09-28T20:38:00.000+01:00

One of my favourite websites is PerezHilton.com. It feeds my daily need for information about my celebrity icons from across the pond. I also happen to love Dlisted, IDontLikeYouInThatWay, Go Fug Yourself and of course Pink is the new Blog. But its not an obsession. I just need to be kept informed on whether Lindsay Lohan has found true love and if Brandon Davis has found a diet plan that works.

So you can imagine my delight the other day, when these Town Criers for the millennium informed me that Nicole Richie and Paris Hilton were on their way to mending their fragile relationship. They even had video evidence of Nicole phoning Paris to wish her happy birthday. I almost squealed - but remembered in the nick of time that I am a man - so put a stop to that.

Unfortunately for me - my other favourite website - YouTube, had deleted this momentous video occasion. I was most put out. I believe I even hit the chair I was sitting on in abject despair. That was when I had one of my Man In The Mirror Moments. Now whenever I mention the M.I.T.M.M to my friends they think I have gone cock-a-hoop. Before you ask - it's not when I suddenly think I am an old Michael Jackson song. It refers to those rare occasions (that usually happen when I am drunk), when I look in the mirror and view me as if another person would.

It's almost as if I am not me for a moment, but am meeting this person for the first time. I usually at this point ask 'Who am I'? - when I get no response, I move on. My friends have never had this experience - but that is down to lack of imagination on their part. So - after hitting the chair I had a M.I.T.M.M. Why on earth (I asked myself) was I so inordinately interested in whether people (and when I say people I mean celebrities) that I do not know - like each other?

It's a sickness I tell ya.

Only the other day, whilst clothes shopping with my friend Foxy Brown - I overheard two Americans animatedly discussing the 'fact' that the designer Thom Brown had met Laura Bush. They seemed quite excited by the news.

'Why do they care that two people they never met, have met each other'? I asked Foxy.

'It's ludicrous' He replied 'And besides they haven't met'.

Foxy has the bug as well.

In fact more so than me, for whenever I run to him with the latest news it seems that Foxy has been there, seen it and customized the t-shirt. And though he may be the one that feeds my sickness, it is my dear friend Paula who is to blame for starting it all off. I remember many moons ago when it all started. Miss P had left London to move to New York so our long standing friendship was being re-routed via email and phone calls. On one such phone call, Ms P sounded down.

'You ok'? I enquired.

'Yes. It's just I am so upset about Tom and Nicole'

'Friends of yours'? I naively asked.

'Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman. I just don't see them ever getting back together.'

And thus the sickness began. In the early days we only deliberated Tom and Nicole's ruined relationship, but now we have turned our attention to all manner of celebrities. You name it, any Tom Dick and Suri has become our meat and gristle. It was Ms P who told me about Perez and friends in the first place.

The Darling Ms P.

And like Naomi Watts in The Ring - I too am forced to pass on this sickness. My most successful transfers have been to my friends Shona and Lori. You could say that with these two - I have turned the sickness into a Superbug. For these two gals have jobs that actually put them in the same Stratosphere as my treasured icons.

They both work in the heady world of marketing (fashion and film) - and in their time have notched up Julia Roberts, SJP, Tom Hanks, Jude Law and Kirsten Dunst to name but a paltry few. To them it was but part and parcel of the daily grind. To me it was nirvana. And after not too long I opened their eyes to the wonder that is celebrity. Now they can't wait to fill me in on what Ron Howard likes to have for elevenses, or what is Mariah Carey's puppy of choice.

We are trapped in a world made of tit-tape and diamante eyelashes. And we love it.

Celeb Stalkers - Shona and Lori with me

Though as I come to the end of this muse - I am aware of how vacuous all this sounds. I know I should have no truck with the going-ons of a bunch of people I do not know. I mean I see people I don't know all day long, and I don't care if they live or die.

I must try to resist the pull of the famous, and learn to devote my energies to something much more worthwhile - like sick animals or the poor, or something.

But before I do, can someone tell me what a Rachel Zoe is?

P.S...It's the best seat in the house

2006-09-27T14:54:00.000+01:00

Something really hacked me off yesterday.

Like most Londoners I travel to work on the Underground. It's never that pleasant, but you force yourself to endure its trials and tribulations in order to get from A to Z (though it generally halts somewhere around G because someone is leaning against the carriage doors).

And, like most Londoners I have to be in work for 9a.m. That means I am on the tube at 8a.m. This time of the morning is quaintly referred to as the 'rush hour' - therefore everyone who is on the train at this time is in a rush and not too happy about it. We have got up early, we are facing a day of work when we would rather be curled up with Phil and Fern, and everywhere we look are people with sleep in their eyes and George at Asda clothing on their backs.

Thus far we have established that people on trains at 8a.m are not happy bunnies, so do not need any more reasons to get our backs up. I am sure we all have different things that annoy us on the train - people playing their ipods too loudly, Essex girls talking on their mobiles about their sister's hysterectomy, people playing sudoku. My bete noir is quite specific.

The Priority Seat.

For those who have never traveled on the underground before, the priority seat is literally the best seat in the house. It is situated at the end of the row next to the doors, and has one side buffered by a pane of glass. This means that you only have the ignominy of just one person sitting next to you - as opposed to being sandwiched between two people you would never willingly touch. It also means that everyone wants this seat. I know it's the one I always go for - despite the fact that London Underground don't want me to. For this seat comes with it's very own sign.

PRIORITY SEAT

Please offer this seat to elderly or disabled people, or those carrying children.

O.K I have a problem with this.

Basically, why should I?

Before I continue and be thought of as a complete bastard, let me assure you that I will always offer my seat up to a disabled person. That's a given. But as for the other two groups - who the hell do they think they are?!

Let's take them in turn.

Children Carriers

I did not personally ask you to get up the duff. Yes - I can see it's for the good of the populace for you to keep procreating. Just don't force your bundles of joy on me when I haven't had my first iced mocha of the day.
Children are young. Very young. They don't need to sit down. Their little legs can take it.
It is possible you are taking your rug rat to their nursery - hence the early start. Maybe you should take a look at why the nurseries in your area wouldn't take your brood - thus forcing you to jump on the Central line of a morning. Bad parenting, that's all I am saying.
Pregnant women - see point one. I could not give two jots that you need to keep working until the baby is practically forcing it's way down the birth canal. So it will be financially difficult for you to stop working right now. Should have thought of that when you decided to keep the pack of three well and truly zipped.
Maybe you are continuing to work for the sheer love of it - and expect me to understand how stressful it is to your body if I don't give you my seat. Would you give your seat up to a fat person? No - you would bury your head in the Metro horoscope and hope they don't breathe too near you.

The Elderly

This group is my nemesis. Mainly because yesterday morning two of it's members shuffled onto my carriage just after I had sat down on the bloody priority seat. Normally in these situations I use my tried and tested method of not vacating my seat - closing my eyes and listening to my ipod. Basically, if I can't see or hear you - you don't exist. Unfortunately, I did not have a chance to do this before I was staring into the watery eyes of Gladys/Myrtle/Doris/Whatever. She looked at me and then looked at the sign. I swear the look she gave me was as if I had punched her in the stomach and stolen her fisherman's friends.

I managed a sort of smile and let her take MY SEAT. I was then forced to sit on the slanty/seat/thing at the end of the carriage by the interconnecting door. Anyone who has sat on this thing will know its less of a seat and more of an instrument of torture. I was not happy. More and more people poured onto the train. Then at the very next stop - the old dear gets off the train! My precious seat is then stolen by a fourteen year old in a Slipknot hoodie, and I am left to endure a painful journey to work. I swear if I ever find her - she's going to regret it.

So here are my thoughts on the elderly and trains:

What in sam hill are you doing traveling in the rush hour? It's not like you have a job to go to.
Maybe you are going to get some daily provisions. Bit of news for you - Supermarkets are open around the clock these days.
I know old people don't need much sleep so are up at three in the morning - but that is no excuse to put on their shapeless slacks and macs and interfere with my daily routine.
It is possible that they are just traveling on the underground to take full advantage of their government enforced free travel. It's a well known fact that the aged like a bargain - after all they remember rationing. Well they can go around the Circle Line in a loop all day long for all I care - just not at 8a.m.
Besides, just what is 'elderly' in the 21st Century? When I was a child, a person in their fifties was seen as an O.A.P. It's not the case any more. After all Elizabeth Taylor is swimming with the sharks at 74, and Betty Turpin is pulling pints at the Rovers Return at 86! Do these women want me to give my seat up to them? No way. It's time their clan took note. Stop mooching around expecting those younger than you to offer their seats to you - just because you were born when Chamberlain was in office. Enjoy your last hurrah.

Frankly, as far as I am concerned if you are not bent over, with your dentures falling out of your mouth, and tenalady's around your ankles - then you don't cut the mustard in the elderly stakes.

SO I AM NOT GIVING MY SEAT UP TO YOU.

O.K. Rant over.

P.S...Just How expensive can a brunch bar be?

2006-09-22T22:07:00.000+01:00

I was witness to a mildly interesting thing today. I thought it was best to warn you up front that it was mildly interesting. Don't want you leaving me nasty comments all over the shop - complaining that I bored you rigid.

Anyway, here goes.

This afternoon, I went with my friend Foxy Brown to our local Starbucks for a quick fag and an iced mocha (whatever gets you through the day, right?).

Foxy and I were sitting outside at a little table for two - musing on life (tearing people to shreds) and watching (judging) passers by. Now this Starbucks happens to be directly opposite a quaint little Waitrose. Being in Knightsbridge the usual clientele that stroll in and out of their doors are usually pretty high on the evolutionary and monetary scale. Therefore what transpired next came as somewhat of a surprise. Enough to get me to close my mouth for more than two seconds, and for Foxy to lower his usually raised eyebrow.

A rather ample woman, happily nestled in her mid forties came bursting out of Waitrose at almost break neck speed. Eyes bulging, and hands clamped firmly around her cheap purse - she looked like a woman on her mission. And a bit like Aretha Franklin.

'Oh' said Foxy 'Do you think she needs a cab'?

I don't know why he asked me this. I don't look like a hotel doorman so was in no position to hail her one.

Before I had a chance to answer, we saw a number of Waitrose employees race out right after her. The leader of the pack was dressed head to toe in Next suiting, and had a wire coming out of his ear. Since I know that Waitrose doesn't hold pop concerts I safely assumed that he was a security guard - and the wire was his connection to the Supermarket police. Behind him were seven (yes I counted) staff members. Two managers (they had the same Next suits and large badges tucked under their fixed grins), four check out lads and a twelve year old girl. I think she was twelve - except she sold me my fags earlier that day, so can't be sure on that one.

The security guard was obviously aware of the heavy responsibility that a wire in your ear bestows - so made a lunge for Aretha. He grabbed hold of her purse. She grabbed back.
Thus began a five minute game of tug-of-war.

"No No!" screamed Ms Franklin "Leave me alone - I want to be alone!"

"Is she Greta Garbo" I asked Foxy.

"No - she's a common thief"

"This is Knightsbridge - nobody is common".

We turned our attention back to the scene unfolding in front of us. By now, one of the managers had remembered their induction training and was trying to gain control of the situation.

"Hello Madam, my name is Caroline. Please come inside with us. We want to talk to you"

Aretha wasn't going anywhere. Her heels were dug firmly into the cobbled street, and she looked like she was heading for the earths core. By now the check out lads decided to muscle in. They did this by circling Aretha and giggling to each other. Sensing that the situation was not going their way, the twelve year old took hold of Aretha's hand and pulled her inside the store.

Annoyed that our view was now obscured by sliding doors and a kumquat display, Foxy and I craned our necks to see what Aretha would do next.

What Aretha did was make another bid for freedom. She snuck her size twenty personage under the arm of the security guard - dodged the check out lads and threw a kumquat at Caroline. Then she was out the door.

That's when a strange thing happened.

Aretha brushed herself down and started to calmly walk away. Caroline, the wire et al calmly followed. It was reminiscent of the beginning of Reservoir Dogs - I half expected 'Little Green Bag' to be pumped out of Waitrose's muzak system. Then Aretha opened the door of her nearby Range Rover - got in and drove away. Waitrose employees of the month watched as she drove away - there were no attempts to stop her, No shout-outs of 'Stop. Thief!'' Nothing.

Just before Aretha's car turned the corner - she opened her window and threw out a cereal brunch bar.

"Exhibit A" observed Foxy.

"They've got her now" I countered.

However, instead of running to pick up this vital piece of evidence - the red hand gang turned and walked back indoors. The twelve year old looked wistfully into the distance - certain that she could have kept hold of the culprit, if they had let her kick her in the groin as she had suggested. Upon noticing that the drama was over, she let her little shoulders sag and went back to her own prison - the Waitrose cigarette counter.

Foxy and I shared the brunch bar.

P.S...schmeck wieder heim

2006-08-29T16:38:00.000+01:00

Welcome to the world of commitment-phobes. Part Two.

Boris

A few months after Andrew decided the best way to end our 'relationship' was at a party in front of two of my closest friends - I was ready to be humiliated again.

It was February 14th - Valentines Day. A day designed for lovers or a crass commercial exercise - point of view dependent on your relationship status. I was young, free and definitely single. I was comfortable in the knowledge that there was no man that was the slightest bit interested in whether I was still breathing. Therefore, I was quite shocked to find a Valentines day card addressed to me, sitting on my departments cash desk when I got to work (at this point in my illustrious career I was languishing in the Casual Dining department of a big store).

I delicately opened the envelope (who knows what horrors could have been lurking inside). To my surprise I found a card. The picture was immediately arresting - 'Naked Young Man Sitting By The Sea' by Flandrin. Inside was even better. Pasted onto the card were the words 'I've got my eye on you'.I was impressed. Someone had taken the time to collate magazines - search for the letters to make up this charming (and a bit stalker-ish) message.

After reading it a couple of hundred times - I did what anyone would do. I confronted my work colleagues to find out who was perverse enough to send me a card. I refused to believe that anyone would be sending this for real, and was not going to give my tormenter the benefit of seeing me go all hearts and flowers at 9 in the morning. After some intense grilling I was slowly convinced that they had not sent it to. So who had?

It wasn't until later in the day, when my angry glares at all and sundry finally made one of them crack. The card had been sent to me by Boris - a stunning man of the German persuasion - who worked as a Personal Shopper. The person who had ratted on Boris begged me not to tell him I knew he was my admirer. It seemed that Boris had a big seduction plan, and this was but stage one. Apparently two days later I was to expect another card.

Two days is a long time.

Taking the bull by the horns I sent Boris a cowardly note via our internal mail system. It thanked him for the card, and asked him to visit me to make a date. To my glee, he did just that.

Our first date was perfect. Boris met me outside work. He had clear blue eyes, messy brown hair and cut a sexy dash in his Nicole Farhi suit. He was softly spoken and sweetly admonished me for ruining his plan to woo me. We decided to hit a favourite bar of ours - Freedom in Wardour Street. There, we downed vodka tonics and swapped tales of our lives. I learnt that Boris had moved to England the year before, and had been in one long term relationship back home. He said it had been a bad break up, but felt that he was ready to find love again. As he said this, his thigh touched mine (and that's as pornographic as I am willing to get on this blog).

His words were music to my ears. The actual music to my ears were 'Lovefool' by The Cardigans. As the chorus rang out. Boris whispered in my ear 'lieben Sie mich, lieben Sie mich, sagen Sie, dass Sie mich lieben' (check out a German-English translation on the net if you feel so inclined).

After another round of drinks at a club where Boris was a member - I walked him to his bus stop. We kissed, we smiled, we kissed again. We should have ended it there.

Not that the kissing was bad - it was good, very good. Every time we kissed Boris would whisper to me 'Schmeck wieder heim' which translated as 'Tastes like home'. He told me that it meant he was comfortable with me - that he knew it was right.

Boris and I dated for three months. Unlike Andrew, these were proper dates. Dinner, drinks, the Cinema. We met for lunch a couple of times a week. It was just what I wanted. Well, not quite. Apart from some furious make out sessions, we had not made it any further. I was living with my parents at the time, so my place was a no go area. Boris on the other hand shared a flat in Richmond. So why was I not staying (i.e having sex) there?

I asked Boris that very same question. He told me that he wanted to take things slowly. He wasn't ready to take our relationship into the sexual arena. My ardor was well and truly dampened. I took the news with good grace, and accepted it when he said it would happen - in time.

Unfortunately, I am an impatient person - and was even more so at 24. So I kept posing the question to Boris, again and again. Thus began the downward slide.

The lunches stopped. Boris was suddenly 'too busy' to take a lunch break. What followed was a series of cancelled dates. My impatience was not impressed, and told him so over the phone one cheerless Tuesday morning.

'If you don't want to be with me - just tell me' I whined.

'I do. I think I love you' He insisted.

'So why do you never invite me back to your flat?'

'Next date - I promise'

The next date took place on a Saturday afternoon. Boris asked me to help him find a glam outfit, for a Seventies themed party he was going to that night. It wasn't until we left our twelth second hand clothing shop that I realised - I hadn't been invited to the party. So, no 'up the stairs to Bedfordshire' for Boris and me that day.

The following week, I was off on holiday. Since I was staying in town I thought that my days would be filled with dates with Boris. He seemed to think the same thing, and promised to call me to make arrangements. My phone did not ring that week.

By chance, I bumped into Boris whilst shopping with my friend Lori in Covent Garden. I asked him why he had not called, and was told that he had been too caught up with work. I tried vainly to believe him, but could see that Lori did not. Still, my spirits were raised when Boris suggested we all had coffee together. He was attentive and endearing, and kept grabbing my hand as he spoke. I knew he still wanted me. I reminded him that my birthday was the Sunday coming.

'How are we celebrating?' He asked

'Drinks with friends at Freedom'

'I can't wait to meet them. If they are as lovely as Lori, I know I will adore them'

I smiled. Lori arched a plucked eyebrow.

We parted company, with Boris telling me he would call me on the Sunday afternoon to arrange what time we should meet.

'I want to get some time with you on our own, before your friends arrive'.

Sunday afternoon arrived, and Boris failed to make his fingers connect to his telephone. At 5p.m I called him. Boris then gave me a wonderful birthday present. He told me he would not be coming to my drinks. It seemed he had a head cold, and didn't want to leave his little flat where he was all cosy.

'I'm so sorry my love' He said

'No problem' I said

What was a problem was explaining to my friends why my drinks were being served minus sauerkraut. Still I managed to have a good time - mainly by swallowing a few too many shots for my own good.

The next day at work, a sheepish Boris came to see me with a birthday card. He kissed my cheek and apologised for his non appearance the night before. He promised to call me that night to make arrangements.

'I want to make it up to you'

He never did. Five days passed with no words from Boris. I didn't need a lighthouse to tell me that my relationship had hit the rocks. I vowed the next time I saw Boris he would be sorry for letting me go. And for once, lady luck decided to agree with me.

The brother of a work colleague of mine was a budding fashion designer. We had met a couple of times and had hit it off (not in that way - he was camp to the nth degree. You could hear his sybilances five minutes before he entered the room). Out of the blue, he asked me to wear his designs in a fashion show that was taking place on the South Bank. What's more, he also wanted me to take part in a fashion shoot for his Autumn Winter collection. I didn't need asking twice.

Word of mouth spread about my dabbling in the world of fashion - and the words soon hit Boris. He tracked me down two days before the fashion show to tell me how proud he was of me. He caressed my arm, and kissed me on the cheek.

'I can't wait to see the pictures. Will you give me one?' He asked.

'Why, you never did' I replied.

Crass, but true.

That was the end of Boris. The last time I saw him, he told me that he was on his way back to the Vaterland. It seemed that he had been unable to find love in good old Blighty. Luckily for me at that point I had. I was in the early stages of my very own long term relationship, so felt no malice to the little Brat-Wurst.

Looking back I wonder if the collapse of our fledgling relationship was my fault. If I hadn't kept pushing for sex like some dime store floozy, maybe we would have made it.

I'm glad we didn't.

P.S...Aint love grand?

2006-08-25T22:37:00.000+01:00

On Sunday my parents celebrate their 39th wedding anniversary. I am in awe of that fact, and a little grateful. For without this union there would be no me. And that doesn't bear thinking about.

I sat on the train home from work this evening, writing out an anniversary card for them. I found this quite difficult. Not because the train was rocking about in an unseemly fashion (it was the Central line - so as per usual it was stuck in a tunnel), and not because I was stuck for words (that has never been a problem for me). No - what kept interrupting my creative flow was the couple sitting opposite me. I use the term couple loosely - because by the looks of them this pair were heading straight for the municipal dump.

They were a nice looking pair - though as generic as you could get. Twentysomethings, not ugly - but not beautiful, resplendent in their TopShop clobber and cut price hair-do's. He kept trying to hold her hand, but she was not having a bar of it.

'Leave it' She said

'Why' He said

'You know why' She said.

'I don't - you won't tell me' He said.

'That's just your problem isn't it. I have to tell you everything' She said.

'I've had enough of this' He said.

'Well you know what you can do then don't you?' She said.

'Too right' He said.

And with that he put on his I-pod, whilst she retreated deep within the covers of Hello!

Doomed I tell you - Doomed!

I wasn't particularly bothered by the sad demise of their relationship (mainly because I don't know them, I mean if I did care then someone would need to pull me aside for a stern talking to). The thought that popped into my head was 'Not another one'. For this year has seen the end of Four of my close friends relationships - and I want to know why.

The quartet in question are all beautiful, sexy, intelligent women of the world. I am saying this not because they are my friends and are bound to read this - but because it is true. They are all in their twenties, have fantastic jobs (Stylist, Marketing, Fashion, PR) and I am sure are dynamite in bed.

So why are they alone?

Not one of them chose to end their respective relationships. Instead - each one was faced with the same situation. A man who could not commit.

Not a rare beast I grant you - but one who should be made extinct. These guys want everything these fantastic women offer them. Love, fun, attention and regular sex. However, give them enough rope and they want to hang the relationship. Each one of my friends told me the same story. It went as follows:

1. We were together for two years (give or take a month).

2. He said he couldn't love anyone as much as he loved me.

3. In the next breath he said he didn't know who he was (obviously lost his passport).

4. He was worried about committing to me because what if it went wrong? Then he would have to deal with something resembling an emotion.

5. He thought we needed time apart to see where we were heading, before we made a mistake.

6. He left me.

The man who could not commit - but needs to be committed.

I myself have had two such experiences of a similar nature, which I shall now recount for your pleasure.

ANDREW

I met Andrew through a mutual friend. She described him as witty, sexy yet flighty (the only time I have ever heard a man - gay or otherwise - described in this fashion). Andrew worked in advertising and was loved by all who came into contact with him. As I was soon to find out.

My first date with Andrew was at The Nag's Head in Covent Garden (not my choice). He bounded in ten minutes after I arrived, and hugged me hello. He was charming, smart and had beautiful straight brown hair that lovingly shaped his cherubic face. I was smitten. To my delight it seemed I was not the only one. My friend informed me the following day, that Andrew could not stop speaking about me.

'He thinks you are amazing - he can't wait to see you again'.

'Neither can I'

'O.k, now a warning'

'Excuse me?'

'Andrew has a habit of doing this'.

'Doing what?'

'Falling in love very quickly. The falling out of love just as quickly'.

'That won't happen with me'.

Hands up who knows what happens next?

Well first, we managed a full six weeks of togetherness. At the time I owed our 'longevity' to my sparkling personality and blue eyes. In hindsight it was more down to the fact that I agreed to sleep with him on our second date, and whenever he wanted afterwards. It's not that I didn't want it as well, it's just that very quickly we stopped dating, and I just ended up going to his flat after work to spend the night. This does not a relationship make.

What does make a relationship is a man asking you if he can call you his boyfriend, and saying that he could not believe how happy he was with you. These were his words, not mine. Can I be blamed for believing them? - probably. Oh by the way - I failed to mention that he said this to me following our first night of passion. Hmmm.

Fast forward six weeks to our final week as a couple.

Monday - Andrew cancels our first night out in a month, because he wanted to buy a cat (?)

Tuesday - I spend the night at Andrew's flat. He wakes me up to tell me not to be 'so available', as he found this a turn off. 'I like the chase' - I couldn't quite hear this because of the alarm bells ringing in my head.

Wednesday - Andrew goes to spend two days at his parents house in Somerset. He kisses me goodbye as I head to work and says 'it's ok if you don't have time to call me'.

Thursday - I do not call Andrew.

Friday - I do not call Andrew. I am trying not to be 'so available'.

Saturday Morning - I call Andrew. 'You really must stop calling me so much' He says. 'I was just following orders' I say. 'Exactly' He says. He then reminds me that we are supposed to be going to his flatmates birthday party at his favourite watering hole that night. I ask if I can bring a couple of friends. 'Whatever' he replies.

Saturday Evening - I meet Andrew at the party with my friends Lori and Claire in tow (remember girls?). Andrew is charm personified when he meets them. He then proceeds to ignore me the rest of the evening. Each time I approach him, he kisses me and says he simply has to talk to one of his friends.

Early Sunday Morning - Lori and Claire want to leave - but I insist they say goodbye to Andrew. We track him down as he is putting on his coat. 'Oh - you're still here' he says to me.

What follows was not pleasant.

In front of my friends Andrew informs me that 'it's just not working for him', that he 'is not good enough for me' and that 'it's maybe time we went on a break'. I managed to summoned up enough gumption to tell him to not fuck me around. He agreed, smiled at my friends and told me it was over - and that he was off to another party.

I never heard or saw him again. Until recently. Sitting at work with my friend Aurora, I recounted this sorry tale. We decided to see if we could find him on the internet. I wanted to see if his hair still lovingly framed his face. It certainly does - only the face is now several pounds heavier. The body is several hundred pounds heavier.

Sometimes time is on our sides.

Part two to follow...

P.S...I once did a bad thing.

2006-08-21T22:19:00.000+01:00

Many moons ago, when I was but a slip of a lad (18 to be in fact), I had a brush with an alternate future.

Growing up in a sleepy suburb in North London, it had become quite apparent to me that I was the only gay man within a country mile of my surroundings. This being the early 90's, it was not that easy to shout my sexual leanings to all and sundry (plus my father was the town Chiropodist - imagine the shame!). So I did what all sensible young gay men did - I shut myself in the nearest closet and firmly locked the key.

From the age of 12 onwards I had a series of pretty, safe girlfriends. They were usually blonde, went by then name of Sally or Stephanie - and were as bland as vanilla ice-cream.

In my minds eye my world was Grease, and they were the Sandy's to my Danny. We would go on sweet little dates, to the local cinema/shopping centre. Sometimes we would even share a milkshake. All very 'over the covers - PG certificate'.

This all changed when I hit 18. My gang of friends - who to my shame were 'Becks' (The North London Jews out there will get what horrors that word entails) had no clue that I was a fairy in the mist (did I mention I used to hang around with a bunch of congenital idiots?). What was worse - they were all pairing up and having lots of society approved heterosexual fumblings. After a while they wondered why I wasn't a keen participant. I was worried.

Enter Uber-Sandy.

Uber-Sandy was a sweet, bookish yet blonde and pretty virgin that was on the periphery of my group. I was barely aware of her presence, until one night when we shared a table at Sticky Fingers. She seemed inordinately interested in the fact that I was colour-blind. However, it took a word in my ear from my friend Ruth to make me see what was going on.

I was being set up.

Ruth informed me that the gang knew I was shy with girls - and since Uber-Sandy was so wishy-washy (her words, not mine) she was the perfect try-out for me - before I moved onto the hard stuff. I was informed that the gang were going to a local casino the following Saturday night (that alone makes me cringe with shame), and that it was the perfect opportunity for me and Uber-Sandy to get acquainted.

My face smiled, my head nodded - but my stomach kicked like a mother. I knew I was being tested by my 'friends'. They obviously could not understand why I wasn't sharing my fluids with the best of them - so were sending Uber-Sandy to be the lamb to my slaughter.

That Saturday the Peanuts gang went to the casino. The hideousness of this place will never escape me - all flock wallpaper and parquet flooring - and what's more you needed to pay to get in!

Uber-Sandy was inside dressed in a black velvet jacket and matching mini-skirt (did I mention this was the early Nineties?). We said hello by means of an awkward kiss on the cheek. I thought that would be enough - oh, how wrong was I. Uber-Sandy took this as a sign of intent and spent the rest of the evening stuck to my side like Octopus ink. I even seem to remember at one point her sitting on my lap. I honestly did not know where to put my hands, so gripped the back of my head in a vain attempt at hetero -nonchalance.

The hours passed. At 2a.m - the lovely Ruth asked me for a word in private.

'What's the deal with you and Uber-Sandy?'

'Oh yes - she's great. Really nice'

'We are leaving in ten minutes. If you don't tongue her the gang are going to start wondering about you'

I had my orders - and like a good little coward followed them through. I asked Uber-Sandy to accompany me on a moonlit stroll around the casino car park. Within five minutes, we were snogging to the faint sounds of 'More Than Words' by Extreme. I think Uber-Sandy enjoyed it. Either that or she was chewing gum at the same time. As for me, I kept wondering whether I should wait till the end of the song before I ripped her lips off mine. Being a gentleman I did.

Well, the next 30 minutes were wonderful. We returned to the gang arm in arm and beaming. I was so proud of myself - I was straight and had just stuck my tongue in a girls mouth to prove it. My joy was so short lived. It was yet again Ruth who was the harbinger of bad news.

'Daniel - you and Uber-Sandy are staying at mine tonight. My parents are way. You can sleep in my brother's room'.

I wonder if she heard me gulp.

A quick trip in Ruth's boyfriend's black Golf GTI (did I mention it was the early Nineties?), and we had reached judgement day towers. Ruth and beau made a hasty retreat to her bedroom, leaving us with directions to her brothers bedroom.

Uber-Sandy entered the bedroom, whilst I prepared myself in the adjacent bathroom. After a few deep breaths, I joined Uber-Sandy. She was sitting up in bed, in her bra and panties delicately playing with her long blonde tresses. I almost threw up.

I slowly made my word towards her, gingerly pulled back the covers, looked deep into her baby blue eyes....kissed her on the cheek, said goodnight and turned my back to her. The long sad sigh that left her mouth will live with me forever.

After a night of no sleep, and desperate attempts to ensure that my body went nowhere near hers I was clamoring to get home. No such luck. Ruth gleefully told us that we were off to her parents country home - for a gang barbecue and swim.

'Can't wait!' I exclaimed.

I was in a hell of my own making.

That day of barbecuing and swimming lasted so long it almost went backwards. The whole time I stayed as far away from Uber-Sandy as possible. I saw Ruth and pals drag her off to find out the gory details of her night of passion - only to return with quizzical looks pointed in my direction.

As Ruth drove me home, she asked why I hadn't slept with Uber-Sandy. I did not respond.

For those who are wondering, we haven't got to the bad thing yet.

The next day I fell ill with the flu. I was out of commission for ten days. The gang lovingly did not bother to call to enquire after my health - though oddly enough Uber-Sandy did. I did not take her call.

Once back to good health - I joined the gang for our weekly Sunday lunch in 'The Dome' in Hampstead (did I mention this was the early Nineties?). Uber-Sandy was not present, so the gang took the opportunity to ask me why I had not popped the cherry she had offered to me on a plate. I looked around at the nest of vipers boring holes into my skull. Was this the moment that I came clean. Took a stand and announced that I was a gay man - and then tuck into a chicken baguette afterwards?

No. What follows is how I responded - verbatim.

'I couldn't sleep with her. She made me sick - literally. She gave me an STD. That's why I have been ill'.

The gang ate this bit of information quicker than their Ceaser's Salads. Within minutes the news had reached anyone and everyone. I was a 'bit of a lad', and Uber-Sandy was a 'bit of a slag'. Whilst I bathed in the resultant glory - Uber-Sandy took this stain on her character quite badly. She didn't leave her house for two weeks. When she did, she slept with two guys in a matter of days to prove she had a clean bill of health. They happily informed her that they didn't care about that - they just wanted to screw a virgin.

Uber-Sandy did not then leave her house for two months. In fact, I am told that she was diagnosed with depression. My bad.

I never saw Uber-Sandy again - and my ties with the gang also proved to be not so binding. I still hold regrets for my moment of madness, and apologise to Uber-Sandy from the bottom of my heart. I am so sorry I said you were a disease ridden whore and that you ended up becoming the town bike and a bit mental.

As awful as that experience was, there is always a bright side. I won £5 at the casino that night.

2006-08-20T23:14:00.000+01:00

P.S...Don't you just love Eurovision

I am not a mad fan of the Eurovision Song Contest (barring Abba and of course the glorious Bucks Fizz).

However, when I saw Iceland's failed entry for this year's contest - I was transfixed.

Can someone please explain to me why it was not allowed entry?

My own little brush with the world of Eurovision happened when I was working in Personal Shopping. A female winner from yesteryear was a regular customer - and was loathed by all who came into contact with her. I remember once having to courier a birthday card and a single sheet of wrapping paper to her home address - only for her to phone insisting that it be refunded immeadiately. It seemed the wrapping paper was just the wrong shade of green.

So, a courier was duly despatched to collect the offending articles. They hadn't even reached us, when she was back on the phone asking when the £3.50 refund was to appear back on her account.

It seemed that Eurovision may bring glory - but obviously not the big bucks.

P.S... I haven't quite got the hang of this yet.

2006-08-20T19:21:00.000+01:00

Nixie and Me.
Margaret.
Not so lovely nurse.

I wanted to add some pics of Nixie, Margaret and the not-so-lovely nurse. This Blogger site seems to have it in for me, and won't let me add them to my original post.

Therefore, I am adding them here in the hope that they add local colour to the previous post, and make you grab your sides through all that laughing you are about to do.

Of course, they may not appear at all, and you just have this little piece of nothing to read. If so, please move along. There will be plenty more uproariously funny blogs to read in the coming days (and hopefully pictures too).

P.S...let me introduce you.

2006-08-18T18:57:00.000+01:00

I have thought long and hard as to what my 'blog' (don't you just HATE that word?) would be about. The questions I asked myself were as follows:

1. Should I regale my readers with a chronological history of my life so far?

2. Should I use it as an opportunity to foist my previously unpublished works of fiction onto the populace?

3. Should I pretend I was Virginia Woolf (minus comedy nose and depressive episodes), and go all 'stream of consciousness' on your ass?

4. Should I give up right now, and eat some malteasers?

The answers are all of the above. The malteasers were lovely, but failed in their plan to stop me blogging all over the place. So, I am going to start not at the beginning, but at some random day in my recent past. Not because it was particularly interesting, but because I know that one of my first readers will be the lady I am about to write about. If it helps her not inconsiderable ego to expand a little bit further, then all to the good I say.

O.k, here goes...

Not so long ago I worked in a Personal Shopping department of a well known department store in London's glitzy west end. I intend to wax lyrical about this time in my life on many an occasion. For never have I met such an eclectic mix of people, who are just ripe for exposing to the world. I shall on the whole change names. Not to protect the innocent - rather to protect myself in case any of them read this. They will know who they are, but they won't be able to sue.

However, there are some who I know will be desperate for their names to be mentioned. Such as my friend Nicola (or Nixie to her friends).

How does one describe Nixie? In one word - American. She has all the qualities that one loves in our cousins from across the pond, plus all the ones that grate on our senses. She is loud, proud, funny and adorable.

She joined the personal shopping team not on a wing and a prayer - rather on a lie. She told me in her interview that she had been a personal shopper in L.A to Cameron Diaz. She seemed so sure of this statement that I decided not to check its veracity. She later explained that she knew a 'dumb fag' such as myself, would be bowled over by a bit of shameless namedropping - and that the job was surely hers. She was right.

Two months into starting the job - Nixie and I had started on that long and arduous path to friendship. She was one of those who found me aloof, and went so far as to tell me on her second day that I needed to take the stick from out of my ass. Still she chipped away at my veneer, and I even let her eat her food near me on her lunch break.

The day in question was very exciting for me. For a rather attractive and famous gay male singer was coming into the department to get kitted out in the latest over priced bits of fabric we sold. I had left instructions with all staff that they were not to go near him - he was mine.

Nixie did her best to stay away - and only had to be turfed out of the department twice. She seemed a little peeved at not being able to join in the gay banter that I was hopelessly trying to engage Mr. Famous in. I felt almost bad about this, so decided to make it up to her once he had left the department with a smile on his face, and my phone number in his top pocket.

How did I make it up to her? by insisting that she accompany me down to the depth of the store, to drop off a Customer mail order with the mutants in our despatch department. Along the way I chatted happily about the witty comments I had made to Mr. Famous, and how he had listened intently to my sartorial advice. I then proceeded to give her a blow by blow account of a teen slasher flick I had unfortunately witnessed the night before.

Nixie was uncharacteristically quiet during my verbal outpouring, but it wasn't until she collapsed in a heap onto some cardboard boxes that I realized something was amiss. Not being too sure of what to do, I looked around the vast stock loading area for assistance. However, all I could see was a man with one eye on the floor and the other on his club foot, and a dead rat.

Remembering all my crisis management training I did what was expected, namely poking her prone body with my foot and shouting her name in a rather high pitched tone. Luckily for me Club Foot (or maybe it was the rat?) suggested I call for a first aider. Grabbing the nearest phone, I dialed furiously. Upon being informed that a highly trained first aider was on their way, I felt a zen like sense of calm.

That was until I met Margaret - the highly trained first aider.

I was first alerted to her presence, by the sound of heavy breathing and a shuffling of feet. Turning round, I saw the lovely Margaret. All 300 pounds of her. Having reached us, she plonked herself down next to Nixies inert form, and took a couple of puffs on her inhaler.

'First Aider?' I enquired.

'No, I'll be alright in a minute. Just need to get my breath back'.

My zen like calm evaporated in a puff of smoke.

Margaret slowly adjusted her ample frame, pushed her smudged glasses back up her pug nose and proceeded to tend to the patient.

'Are you alright dear?' she shouted to Nixie.

Nixie did not respond.

'I don't think she's very well' Margaret informed me.

'No shit. What should we do?' I asked.

'Not sure. I only know how to administer plasters'

'Should we get an ambulance?' I enquired, not a little hysterically.

'That sounds like a good idea. Call one for us would you love, I'm all puffed out'.

Thank you Margaret.

Twenty minutes later, and Nixie was being dragged out the staff entrance by Bill and Frank - paramedics with two plates of chips on their shoulders.

'We don't normally come out to calls like this' said Bill.

'Why?' I asked.

'Waste of time' said Frank 'She's just got women's problems'.

'She is unconscious and is dribbling on herself' I responded.

'Trust me mate. Time of the month. Still I suppose we should let the dog see the rabbit'

By that, Frank meant it was advisable to get Nixie into hospital, so she could be seen by a doctor. Thankfully, she regained some form of consciousness in the ambulance. Enough time for her to pass on some words of wisdom about my meeting with Mr.Famous.

'He wasn't interested in you. A blind Eskimo could see that' she informed me.

(I always meant to ask her who this blind Eskimo was, and why he was so interested in my relationships, but have never got round to it).

To cut what seems to be a very long blog short, Nixie was seen by a lovely doctor in a lovely white coat, who lovingly informed her that she had a 'dodgy stomach' and should watch what she ate. Oh the wonders of modern medicine.

Then a not so lovely nurse barged her way into Nixie's room to take some blood - just to make sure 'we haven't missed anything - like cancer'. Nixie took this all rather well, until she realized that the blood was not going to be taken by a survey, but rather by a bloody great big needle.

Nixie's screams could be heard all the way down to the mental ward (where they mixed in quite nicely).

'Come on now - stop being a baby' said not so lovely nurse.

'I hate needles' Nixie screamed.

'No one likes needles' spat not so lovely.

'I imagine heroin addicts are rather keen' I responded.

Not so lovely gave me a look that told me she knew someone who could remove my spleen minus anesthetic, and I duly shut up.

Luckily for me, Margaret, Club Foot, Dead Rat and mainly Nixie - the doctor was right. Her collapse was all due to a rather innocuous gastro condition. Nixie was ceremoniously kicked out of the hospital to rest up and not be a nuisance.

As I lovingly supported her feeble form as we left the hospital - Nixie looked at me with tears in her little eyes.

'You know this is all your fault'

'How so?'

'How else was I going to get you to shut up?'

Got to love that Nixie.

2006-08-18T18:28:00.000+01:00