Even though I had every intention of getting back to Manchester today, after an afternoon of drinks in Soho with Clive, Robbie and our old friend Steve (he is 43 as it happens but when I say he's an old friend it's because we've known him since 1993), I'm still in London.
I went to meet Clive and Robbie at The Edge at 3pm and we downed several Bloody Mary's to get us going again. I made sure there was extra Tabasco and Wocestershire Sauce in there as well as a shot of sherry to make sure I was well and truly awake.
After a bit of boy watching we went down to Balan's (for a change) and had a really nice Christmas turkey dinner and a bottle of wine between us. The waiter from the other night when I was in with Ricardo was there and gave me a rye smile. There was also the stunning Eastern European waiter there who served me when I was in there with my actor friend Daon a few months back. He was so charming and is still such a good waiter - always where but never hanging around too much (though considering how good looking he is it was a bit of a shame he didn't hang around more).
Steve came in and joined us and then we went over to Ku Bar for a drink (there's a very cute new manager there - though he does look about 17). After that we all went over to Profile bar on Frith Street for another couple of drinks. Matt Joshua from QX Magazine was in there and it was great to see him. I've not seen him in ages so we had lots of catching up to do and remembering the old days of Thud Magazine back in the mid 90's.
There were some quite cute boys in there and Steve and I had great fun chatting to as many cute lads as we could find. Steve vanished for a bit with one nice lad and came back with a big smile on his face.
We were joined by one of Chris and Robbie's friends called Chris. He was VERY handsome and turned out to be actually really nice and very down to earth.
Suddenly, the excesses of last night caught up with us all. Matt started to wilt and Clive and Robbie said it was time to head home. I just started to feel VERY tired. Part of me didn't want to leave Chris on his own at the mercy of the men in the bar (he was getting a lot of attention) but even if I'd have got lucky with him I was too tired to have done him justice.
Steve, Clive, Robbie and myself left Matt and Chris to it and headed up to Oxford Street. Clive and Robbie headed home and Steve and I wandered down to Oxford Circus. We had a really funny chat all the way down Oxford Street before I got on the tube and he got the bus back to his place.
So then I got home and watched a bit of telly but there wasn't really anything good on so I stuck that Alan Carr DVD on again for a laugh and opened another bottle of wine.
I logged on here and found out that people out there are actually reading what I write and I've already got myself into trouble for being indiscreet... The whole point of this originally was to stick down the stuff I've been up to in an online diary and didn't expect anyone to really be at all interested or bother reading what I've written. It seems people are interested after all, and I think that even though I now realise I need to bear in mind other people's privacy in certain circumstances, I still don't want to feel like I have to edit what I write too much - otherwise it'll just be like writing another magazine article instead of an online diary. However, to the one person that I really like and should have been more discreet about I think I seriously need to apologise for anything I might have carelessly written and realise I need to be more careful in future.
So I'll catch up on Corrie and then head to bed and catch up on lost sleep.
I must get back to Manchester tomorrow. I can't leave it another day. It is New Year's Eve after all and Gerwyn is planning the party of all parties at his new flat and I'm sure that's not one to miss.
Sunday, 30 December 2007
Saturday, 29 December 2007
'Lovely Tim' turns up in London
Lovely Tim (the inspiration for my dream in my first blog "Why Aren't Sex Dreams So Simple Anymore") turned up in London. What are the chances of that?
After an evening at Clive and Robbie's house I went to G.A.Y. to see what I could find. Tim walked past me. He looks a bit like the guy in the video below. But with a cheekier smile and eyes you can get lost in. I said hello, he seemed surprised to see me and we got chatting.
It was very nice to see him.
Hangover from hell the next morning though. Thank god for Bloody Mary's.
After an evening at Clive and Robbie's house I went to G.A.Y. to see what I could find. Tim walked past me. He looks a bit like the guy in the video below. But with a cheekier smile and eyes you can get lost in. I said hello, he seemed surprised to see me and we got chatting.
It was very nice to see him.
Hangover from hell the next morning though. Thank god for Bloody Mary's.
Buying a bed and asking an old friend out
So when I said - what's the worst that can happen... this is it.
I got to my friend Clive's flat in Euston and pressed the buzzer.
"Hello?" I heard.
"So you are in you bitch. Why didn't you answer your phone?" I said.
"What?"
"Clive it's Matthew."
"I think you've got the wrong flat."
"Is that flat 5? No? Oh god I'm really sorry mate."
(noise of phone being slammed down).
So then I call Clive on his mobile. And he answers for a change. Turns out he's in Soho seeing two Italian friends of his boyfriend Robbie. We agreed to maybe see each other later but if not then we'd grab a late lunch tomorrow.
I wandered down Tottenham Court Road and popped into Boots for antacid remedies. Why is it that whenever I end up in Boots I always spend half an hour there, looking at everything from teeth whitening systems (like I don't have ten at home already), anti-aging creams and self tanning?
Then I found myself in Heals. God I love Heals. It's all about the cat on the stairs (seriously - there's a statue of the Heal's cat on the stairwell).
"Can I help you?" I hear from the middle-aged man in polyester.
"I need a new bed. Like yesterday." I replied.
"We have beds. Anything in particular?" he asked.
"That one will do. Though let me look over there as well." I demanded.
It came down to 2 types of bed and he was doing a good deal on both if I took the display model with the mattress and mattress protector thrown in at half price. I wanted the stylish one but the first one had wooden slats as the head board that could fit handcuffs to and enough wood at the bottom of the bed to put a cup of tea on. What more could a British gay man want in a bed? I paid and arranged delivery for 7 January. Fabulous. I'm now the proud owner of a Heal's solid wood bed (with room for handcuffs and cups of tea).
So from there I went to G.A.Y. Bar. I walked through the bar and felt quite good at the amount of attention I got considering all I really went in there for was a pee. So I had a pee and went up to the bar (after taking off my jacket and checking that my pecs looked good enough).
I got a pint of lager. Cute bar man. I wandered away from the bar with the mental note "try to pick up the barman".
I wander off to where I usually stand near the stairs.
"Hello you. I thought it was you." said Ricardo.
Damn, it was good to see him. I have known Ricardo since about 1994. He's so cute. He used to hang around the Village Soho when Clive worked there (after I got him a job there). We used to flirt like mad but he was going out with Jonno at the time (another bar man at Village Soho back then and now a good friend).
Ricardo and I never can keep our hands off each other whenever we meet up. He's been living away from London for a year as well and so we had a lot of catching up chat. The whole time I was with him I wanted to kiss him. Both of us had hands everywhere and in the end I just told him, "God I want to kiss you right now".
Once we started we couldn't stop. To be honest I was really, really happy. We were having so much fun. Kissing, touching, chatting and just being cute.
I bought him drinks and he bought me drinks. I bought lager. He bought shots.
He asked me when I'm finally going to ask him out - it's been 13 years after all. I told him that I can't ask him out until I get the new Heal's bed.
We laughed it off but the more I thought about it (and the more I drank) the more I thought "You know I could do worse". I asked him out 'provisionally', because I didn't want to ask him out standing by a cash point at the end of the bar. I took him to Balan's so I could buy him dinner and then ask him out.
Unfortunately, once at Balan's I realised that he was really drunk. I realised that after I had bought us a bottle of rose champagne. We ordered Fois Gras to start, Tuna for him and Swordfish for me as a main and then creme brulee as pudding for us both. But by the time we got to pudding he was so drunk the waiter couldn't understand his order and he was knocking things off the table. Each time he went to the gents it was an age before he came back and when he did it was embarrassing watching him stagger around the room.
Eventually, I went to the gents and when I came back he was on the phone to someone saying 'you know your problem is that you can't let anyone close to you' and generally being loud and obnoxious. In the end I just paid the bill and left. He didn't seem to understand why I would be leaving but I couldn't handle him any more.
I walked down Old Compton Street and got on the bus. I started to feel bad for leaving Ricardo in Balan's. After all, I've liked him for 13 years and he likes me too. Should I be so fussy? After all I've been drunk before. When we're together we really do act like a couple in love (when he's not drunk and I'm not being judgmental).
Of course I don't have his new number. I assume he doesn't have mine. So there's nothing we can do. I hope he was OK after I left - I'm sure he was.
I went over to my friend Simon's. I called ahead but he didn't answer. I text messaged him but he didn't answer. I went round anyway. His flatmate Patrick answered the door and we had a chat for a bit before Simon came storming down the corridor in his pajama bottoms telling us to keep the noise down as he and his boyfriend Aled were trying to sleep.
I left. I walked home cursing London and how unfriendly people I even consider to be my friends can be. You wouldn't get that kind of reaction in Manchester. I hate that my friends in London just don't bother picking up the phone when I try to call, or responding to the message I leave, or even bothering to text back when I send a text or leave a message - so therefore I don't know where I stand or what is going on. I'd rather people I consider my best friends on earth would just answer calls or send a text to say 'you know what I can't see you today/I'm in bed/I'm not up to it today' or something rather than just not being arsed. Surely my best friends should know me well enough to know that it's FINE that they're busy, but they should have enough respect for me to let me know so that I can plan what to do instead.
As I walked home I got more and more upset. Then it started to rain. By the time I got home I was soaked and so I just got in and went to bed.
When I woke up this morning I felt really rough. I woke up to a text message from Simon apologising for being rude. I arranged to meet Clive for lunch and headed out to Basuba in Soho.
Let's see what happens this time round.
I got to my friend Clive's flat in Euston and pressed the buzzer.
"Hello?" I heard.
"So you are in you bitch. Why didn't you answer your phone?" I said.
"What?"
"Clive it's Matthew."
"I think you've got the wrong flat."
"Is that flat 5? No? Oh god I'm really sorry mate."
(noise of phone being slammed down).
So then I call Clive on his mobile. And he answers for a change. Turns out he's in Soho seeing two Italian friends of his boyfriend Robbie. We agreed to maybe see each other later but if not then we'd grab a late lunch tomorrow.
I wandered down Tottenham Court Road and popped into Boots for antacid remedies. Why is it that whenever I end up in Boots I always spend half an hour there, looking at everything from teeth whitening systems (like I don't have ten at home already), anti-aging creams and self tanning?
Then I found myself in Heals. God I love Heals. It's all about the cat on the stairs (seriously - there's a statue of the Heal's cat on the stairwell).
"Can I help you?" I hear from the middle-aged man in polyester.
"I need a new bed. Like yesterday." I replied.
"We have beds. Anything in particular?" he asked.
"That one will do. Though let me look over there as well." I demanded.
It came down to 2 types of bed and he was doing a good deal on both if I took the display model with the mattress and mattress protector thrown in at half price. I wanted the stylish one but the first one had wooden slats as the head board that could fit handcuffs to and enough wood at the bottom of the bed to put a cup of tea on. What more could a British gay man want in a bed? I paid and arranged delivery for 7 January. Fabulous. I'm now the proud owner of a Heal's solid wood bed (with room for handcuffs and cups of tea).
So from there I went to G.A.Y. Bar. I walked through the bar and felt quite good at the amount of attention I got considering all I really went in there for was a pee. So I had a pee and went up to the bar (after taking off my jacket and checking that my pecs looked good enough).
I got a pint of lager. Cute bar man. I wandered away from the bar with the mental note "try to pick up the barman".
I wander off to where I usually stand near the stairs.
"Hello you. I thought it was you." said Ricardo.
Damn, it was good to see him. I have known Ricardo since about 1994. He's so cute. He used to hang around the Village Soho when Clive worked there (after I got him a job there). We used to flirt like mad but he was going out with Jonno at the time (another bar man at Village Soho back then and now a good friend).
Ricardo and I never can keep our hands off each other whenever we meet up. He's been living away from London for a year as well and so we had a lot of catching up chat. The whole time I was with him I wanted to kiss him. Both of us had hands everywhere and in the end I just told him, "God I want to kiss you right now".
Once we started we couldn't stop. To be honest I was really, really happy. We were having so much fun. Kissing, touching, chatting and just being cute.
I bought him drinks and he bought me drinks. I bought lager. He bought shots.
He asked me when I'm finally going to ask him out - it's been 13 years after all. I told him that I can't ask him out until I get the new Heal's bed.
We laughed it off but the more I thought about it (and the more I drank) the more I thought "You know I could do worse". I asked him out 'provisionally', because I didn't want to ask him out standing by a cash point at the end of the bar. I took him to Balan's so I could buy him dinner and then ask him out.
Unfortunately, once at Balan's I realised that he was really drunk. I realised that after I had bought us a bottle of rose champagne. We ordered Fois Gras to start, Tuna for him and Swordfish for me as a main and then creme brulee as pudding for us both. But by the time we got to pudding he was so drunk the waiter couldn't understand his order and he was knocking things off the table. Each time he went to the gents it was an age before he came back and when he did it was embarrassing watching him stagger around the room.
Eventually, I went to the gents and when I came back he was on the phone to someone saying 'you know your problem is that you can't let anyone close to you' and generally being loud and obnoxious. In the end I just paid the bill and left. He didn't seem to understand why I would be leaving but I couldn't handle him any more.
I walked down Old Compton Street and got on the bus. I started to feel bad for leaving Ricardo in Balan's. After all, I've liked him for 13 years and he likes me too. Should I be so fussy? After all I've been drunk before. When we're together we really do act like a couple in love (when he's not drunk and I'm not being judgmental).
Of course I don't have his new number. I assume he doesn't have mine. So there's nothing we can do. I hope he was OK after I left - I'm sure he was.
I went over to my friend Simon's. I called ahead but he didn't answer. I text messaged him but he didn't answer. I went round anyway. His flatmate Patrick answered the door and we had a chat for a bit before Simon came storming down the corridor in his pajama bottoms telling us to keep the noise down as he and his boyfriend Aled were trying to sleep.
I left. I walked home cursing London and how unfriendly people I even consider to be my friends can be. You wouldn't get that kind of reaction in Manchester. I hate that my friends in London just don't bother picking up the phone when I try to call, or responding to the message I leave, or even bothering to text back when I send a text or leave a message - so therefore I don't know where I stand or what is going on. I'd rather people I consider my best friends on earth would just answer calls or send a text to say 'you know what I can't see you today/I'm in bed/I'm not up to it today' or something rather than just not being arsed. Surely my best friends should know me well enough to know that it's FINE that they're busy, but they should have enough respect for me to let me know so that I can plan what to do instead.
As I walked home I got more and more upset. Then it started to rain. By the time I got home I was soaked and so I just got in and went to bed.
When I woke up this morning I felt really rough. I woke up to a text message from Simon apologising for being rude. I arranged to meet Clive for lunch and headed out to Basuba in Soho.
Let's see what happens this time round.
Friday, 28 December 2007
Being filmed for Channel 5
After a rotten night's sleep (it's amazing how noisy night time in London is compared to the peace of an evening in Manchester) I got up about 2 hours before the camera crew were turning up to film my intro for the Channel 5 show where Martin Lewis (the very sexy money expert from GMTV who I've fancied for ages) shows me how to get cut price gym membership thanks to Prudential Health Insurance.
I'd just got myself and the flat looking half decent when they arrived and they set up the camera and sound equipment to film my bit. I sat on the sofa (if they'd known the action that sofa has seen they might have wanted to put down a top sheet first) and got miked up.
Even though the self shooting P/D (Producer/Director) was asking the questions I had to respond the the AP (Assistant Producer) who was sitting by the camera to give me a good eye line. It helped that the AP was quite easy on the eye.
We ran through a couple of lines and I'm proud to say that they were really impressed with how well I did and it was pretty much one take per section. You'd have thought I'd done this kind of thing before.
Then we did a few cutaways of me typing, looking at the Prudential website as I looked up my quote and some shots of my face, eyes and fingers on the keyboard and mouse. Then we did some other cut aways of me flicking through Men's Health 'looking for tips on how to get a better body'.
It was all quite fun and I admit it was nice to be back in front of the camera again. The last time I did anything like that was my Optimax laser vision correction advert a few years back.
So off they went to their next bit of the shoot at a gym and I played some online scrabble with my friend Eric. I tried to get hold of Clive to see if he wanted to go to lunch but he wasn't answering his phone so I got a pizza from the freezer and went to the shop downstairs for a bottle of wine. The guy behind the counter asked how I was and when I was coming back to London full time so I said it might be soon. He said that he'd seen men with camera equipment going in the door earlier on and asked what that was all for. I told him but I'm sure he just thought I was filming porn from the look on his face.
Then after watching a bit of Will and Grace while having a couple of glasses of wine with my pizza I decided to head into town and see what trouble I can get into in Soho of a Friday night.
We'll see shall we?
I'd just got myself and the flat looking half decent when they arrived and they set up the camera and sound equipment to film my bit. I sat on the sofa (if they'd known the action that sofa has seen they might have wanted to put down a top sheet first) and got miked up.
Even though the self shooting P/D (Producer/Director) was asking the questions I had to respond the the AP (Assistant Producer) who was sitting by the camera to give me a good eye line. It helped that the AP was quite easy on the eye.
We ran through a couple of lines and I'm proud to say that they were really impressed with how well I did and it was pretty much one take per section. You'd have thought I'd done this kind of thing before.
Then we did a few cutaways of me typing, looking at the Prudential website as I looked up my quote and some shots of my face, eyes and fingers on the keyboard and mouse. Then we did some other cut aways of me flicking through Men's Health 'looking for tips on how to get a better body'.
It was all quite fun and I admit it was nice to be back in front of the camera again. The last time I did anything like that was my Optimax laser vision correction advert a few years back.
So off they went to their next bit of the shoot at a gym and I played some online scrabble with my friend Eric. I tried to get hold of Clive to see if he wanted to go to lunch but he wasn't answering his phone so I got a pizza from the freezer and went to the shop downstairs for a bottle of wine. The guy behind the counter asked how I was and when I was coming back to London full time so I said it might be soon. He said that he'd seen men with camera equipment going in the door earlier on and asked what that was all for. I told him but I'm sure he just thought I was filming porn from the look on his face.
Then after watching a bit of Will and Grace while having a couple of glasses of wine with my pizza I decided to head into town and see what trouble I can get into in Soho of a Friday night.
We'll see shall we?
Thursday, 27 December 2007
Back to London (eventually)
I woke up this morning determined to get to London as early as possible to beat the rush and deal with whatever intercity travel could throw at me.
However, it was raining and there was left-over trifle and champagne to be had. Is it wrong to be washing down Christmas trifle with champagne at 10am? It would only have gone flat before I got back anyway and who wants to drink flat champagne (doesn't that just turn into 'wine' if it's bubbly free?) so I was just being environmentally friendly. Or something.
So with one thing and another (cleaning the flat, doing the dishes, watching that Alan Carr DVD again and going to ASDA to get enough dried cat food to keep Spirit and Sable from eating the neighbours until Sunday at least), I ended up leaving the flat at around 3.30pm and getting to Manchester Piccadilly for just before 4pm. I bought my ticket at one of those 'fast track ticket machines' and climbed up to the main station.
Where was my train? Where was any train to London? I searched the departure board over and over again. Liverpool Lime Street and Llandudno were up there but no London. Had terrorists finally got the capital and wiped it off the map while I'd been scrubbing scrambled egg from the bottom of my pans in the sink?
I joined a queue. Well, I am British after all and it's what we do. After a while I saw a lady in a hi-viz jacket and a clip board who looked like she might be able to tell me what was going on. Being British and hating to leave a perfectly good queue I waited about ten minutes before being brave enough to go and speak to her. She told me what I'd been dreading. Due to over running rail works at Rugby there were no direct trains to London today. Or tomorrow. In fact there are no direct trains now until 2nd January - is that possible?
So I queued up (again) for the train to Sheffield. However, when it arrived there were only 2 carriages and about 200 people (most of them single mothers with 20 bags from Primark and pushchairs full of screaming kids) so I graciously backed away and went to find the next train to Sheffield that I could be at the front of a queue for. It was on platform 14 but that was changed randomly to platform 4 at the last minute. Fortunately that gave me the chance to explain circumstances to a rather Josh Hartnett looking boy and his chubby friend with a strange laugh (imagine 8 year old girl being squeezed through a mangle while being tickled with ostrich feathers and you get the idea).
Eventually we were on the train to Sheffield. It was a 'Transpennine Express' so I was thinking at least there'd be views of mountains and sheep. But no - it was dark now and pouring with rain so all I could see was black. It was like being on the Starship Enterprise and hoping to see a black hole out there that might just take me away from all this.
And to use the word 'Express' was a joke. In fact it's such a joke that as we neared Sheffield, we were informed that because the train was so slow we'd now missed the train to London and were advised to continue on to Doncaster where there'd be a London train in about another hour or so.
So I sat there. Trying to move about in my seat so I could get a view of the boy who looks like Josh Harnett but instead only getting the sight of his chubby friends with the laugh. And there was a girl a few seats down who was talking loudly on the phone. She had a very attractive boyfriend (in a scally kind of way) but she didn't seem to be able to start any sentence without prefixing it with the words 'Why don't you...' or 'Why can't you...' and I wanted to kill her for it.
For example:
"Why haven't you called me already? Well I'm on the train now"
"Why don't you come and meet me here then?"
"Why don't you watch a DVD while you're waiting?"
"Why don't you ask her over then?"
"Why don't you get a curry in?"
"Why don't I get a curry on the way then?"
"Why don't you have a pizza instead then?"
"Why don't you decide what you want and we'll get it when I get there?"
"Why hasn't she been put to bed already?"
"Why didn't you call him earlier about that?"
"Why don't you just tell me about it later then?"
I felt like saying "why don't you get off that phone you nasty little chav in hoop earrings and a bad nylon top and stare out of the window like the rest of us before I jam your head in that Primark bag till you stop breathing and then show your boyfriend what a real blow job feels like!"
But of course I didn't.
So eventually we got to Doncaster. The tannoy says there's a train to King's Cross in about 10 minutes so I scurried about the platform trying to get an idea of what Doncaster looks like (from what I can tell it's a building site with a car park and a bus station) before joining the rest of the scrum onto the train that turned up. I grabbed a seat and stared up into the eyes of a very handsome man with nice hair and amazing arms. He was sitting across from me and however hard I tried not to stare I couldn't help it. Unfortunately, we were soon surrounded by other passengers who got on the train at Doncaster as well.
Well all hell broke loose. It turns out that it's a first class only train and we're not welcome with our standard tickets. Eventually we were told we could travel but we're not allowed to sit down as that's for first class ticket holders only. I managed to talk nicely to the train manager and he allowed me to sit down in the next carriage if there's a seat free. I had to bid farewell to the handsome man with the arms and what a sad moment that was I must say.
I took my seat and looked around me. Directly across from me was a good looking young gay man on his lap top and to the side of me were two very handsome Yorkshire men on their way to London. One looked like he should be the dashing young love interest in a BBC Dickensian drama and the other looked like Danny Dyer. They were busy discussing whether or not you can get a 17 year old to go 'all the way' if it's on holiday instead of at home.
Happy with my lot, I enjoyed the rest of my journey to London in first class, surrounded by good looking men with nice hair and good skin. Once at King's Cross I got the tube back to Finsbury Park and climbed the stairs to my flat. After a brief inspection all seemed to be well and despite the mountain of post that I decided to go through tomorrow (probably unpaid bills, council tax and court orders), I settled down to watch Extras, Lara Croft and The Queen (all at the same time) with a bottle of Shiraz Rose.
I'd best get to bed as I've got this film crew arriving at 9.30am to film the first bit of the Channel 5 thing with Martin Lewis. I can't have bags under my eyes while on camera after all.
However, it was raining and there was left-over trifle and champagne to be had. Is it wrong to be washing down Christmas trifle with champagne at 10am? It would only have gone flat before I got back anyway and who wants to drink flat champagne (doesn't that just turn into 'wine' if it's bubbly free?) so I was just being environmentally friendly. Or something.
So with one thing and another (cleaning the flat, doing the dishes, watching that Alan Carr DVD again and going to ASDA to get enough dried cat food to keep Spirit and Sable from eating the neighbours until Sunday at least), I ended up leaving the flat at around 3.30pm and getting to Manchester Piccadilly for just before 4pm. I bought my ticket at one of those 'fast track ticket machines' and climbed up to the main station.
Where was my train? Where was any train to London? I searched the departure board over and over again. Liverpool Lime Street and Llandudno were up there but no London. Had terrorists finally got the capital and wiped it off the map while I'd been scrubbing scrambled egg from the bottom of my pans in the sink?
I joined a queue. Well, I am British after all and it's what we do. After a while I saw a lady in a hi-viz jacket and a clip board who looked like she might be able to tell me what was going on. Being British and hating to leave a perfectly good queue I waited about ten minutes before being brave enough to go and speak to her. She told me what I'd been dreading. Due to over running rail works at Rugby there were no direct trains to London today. Or tomorrow. In fact there are no direct trains now until 2nd January - is that possible?
So I queued up (again) for the train to Sheffield. However, when it arrived there were only 2 carriages and about 200 people (most of them single mothers with 20 bags from Primark and pushchairs full of screaming kids) so I graciously backed away and went to find the next train to Sheffield that I could be at the front of a queue for. It was on platform 14 but that was changed randomly to platform 4 at the last minute. Fortunately that gave me the chance to explain circumstances to a rather Josh Hartnett looking boy and his chubby friend with a strange laugh (imagine 8 year old girl being squeezed through a mangle while being tickled with ostrich feathers and you get the idea).
Eventually we were on the train to Sheffield. It was a 'Transpennine Express' so I was thinking at least there'd be views of mountains and sheep. But no - it was dark now and pouring with rain so all I could see was black. It was like being on the Starship Enterprise and hoping to see a black hole out there that might just take me away from all this.
And to use the word 'Express' was a joke. In fact it's such a joke that as we neared Sheffield, we were informed that because the train was so slow we'd now missed the train to London and were advised to continue on to Doncaster where there'd be a London train in about another hour or so.
So I sat there. Trying to move about in my seat so I could get a view of the boy who looks like Josh Harnett but instead only getting the sight of his chubby friends with the laugh. And there was a girl a few seats down who was talking loudly on the phone. She had a very attractive boyfriend (in a scally kind of way) but she didn't seem to be able to start any sentence without prefixing it with the words 'Why don't you...' or 'Why can't you...' and I wanted to kill her for it.
For example:
"Why haven't you called me already? Well I'm on the train now"
"Why don't you come and meet me here then?"
"Why don't you watch a DVD while you're waiting?"
"Why don't you ask her over then?"
"Why don't you get a curry in?"
"Why don't I get a curry on the way then?"
"Why don't you have a pizza instead then?"
"Why don't you decide what you want and we'll get it when I get there?"
"Why hasn't she been put to bed already?"
"Why didn't you call him earlier about that?"
"Why don't you just tell me about it later then?"
I felt like saying "why don't you get off that phone you nasty little chav in hoop earrings and a bad nylon top and stare out of the window like the rest of us before I jam your head in that Primark bag till you stop breathing and then show your boyfriend what a real blow job feels like!"
But of course I didn't.
So eventually we got to Doncaster. The tannoy says there's a train to King's Cross in about 10 minutes so I scurried about the platform trying to get an idea of what Doncaster looks like (from what I can tell it's a building site with a car park and a bus station) before joining the rest of the scrum onto the train that turned up. I grabbed a seat and stared up into the eyes of a very handsome man with nice hair and amazing arms. He was sitting across from me and however hard I tried not to stare I couldn't help it. Unfortunately, we were soon surrounded by other passengers who got on the train at Doncaster as well.
Well all hell broke loose. It turns out that it's a first class only train and we're not welcome with our standard tickets. Eventually we were told we could travel but we're not allowed to sit down as that's for first class ticket holders only. I managed to talk nicely to the train manager and he allowed me to sit down in the next carriage if there's a seat free. I had to bid farewell to the handsome man with the arms and what a sad moment that was I must say.
I took my seat and looked around me. Directly across from me was a good looking young gay man on his lap top and to the side of me were two very handsome Yorkshire men on their way to London. One looked like he should be the dashing young love interest in a BBC Dickensian drama and the other looked like Danny Dyer. They were busy discussing whether or not you can get a 17 year old to go 'all the way' if it's on holiday instead of at home.
Happy with my lot, I enjoyed the rest of my journey to London in first class, surrounded by good looking men with nice hair and good skin. Once at King's Cross I got the tube back to Finsbury Park and climbed the stairs to my flat. After a brief inspection all seemed to be well and despite the mountain of post that I decided to go through tomorrow (probably unpaid bills, council tax and court orders), I settled down to watch Extras, Lara Croft and The Queen (all at the same time) with a bottle of Shiraz Rose.
I'd best get to bed as I've got this film crew arriving at 9.30am to film the first bit of the Channel 5 thing with Martin Lewis. I can't have bags under my eyes while on camera after all.
Wednesday, 26 December 2007
Beating Boxing Day Boredom
What is it about Boxing Day? It's almost always dull as fuck and always feels like an anti-climax, no matter how bad Christmas was.
I've had flu for days and spent last night feeling ill. Considering it's Christmas that's not really how you want to spend the festive period now is it? Today I feel better but what is there to do? Do I 'go for a nice walk' or 'hit the sales' - two things I'd rather avoid if I'm honest.
Instead, here I am sitting in my living room with 'The Muppet Christmas Show' on TV (it's actually turning out to be quite entertaining - although it pains me to admit it) and wondering what to have for lunch - let's face it there's plenty of food left over from yesterday (in fact there's lots of stuff I never even opened and might go off if not dealt with soon).
Don't get me wrong - yesterday was a great Christmas Day. Quite unexpectedly.
Having opted for a Manchester Christmas instead of my usual London Christmas, I had been sure I'd be offered endless ways to spend the big day but it turned out most of my friends were off seeing family and even though I had an invite from a guy I've been seeing 'casually while he deals with his issues surrounding his ex', I wasn't sure that his friend who was hosting the dinner and is a friend of 'The Ex' would appreciate me turning up unannounced. And as I ended up catching a nasty cold from another friend last week, I was quite happy to sit at home and feel sorry for myself on Christmas Day.
Having spent Christmas Eve unable to sleep thanks to a block nose and painful sinuses, I nearly went to bed after spending the morning drinking glass after glass of Buck's Fizz - for medicinal purposes you understand - but thought I'd make the effort to pop a quick Christmas Card over to my friend's Gar and Alex before getting a little lie down.
To my surprise, they were in and cooking Christmas dinner for another friend, Jon. They asked if I'd like to stay and even though I'd already accepted my fate of being alone at home for Christmas, it was actually really lovely of them to ask and I gladly accepted. I rushed home and tarted myself up a bit and then went back round with some offerings of my own and settled in for a lovely meal and day's entertainment watching films that seemed to go on all day long and then Dr. Who (with Kylie guest starring fabulously).
After that I started to get aches and pains again so headed back across the car park to my flat to watch Eastenders and Corrie while slowly getting iller and iller. By the time To The Manor Born came on I was a shivering wreck and feeling as if I was about to die on Christmas Day.
However, after a sleeping pill and an extra blanket on the bed I've woken up feeling much better today and now I'm at a loss what to do with myself. If I were in London, then I'd be able to go to my friend Clive's Boxing Day party at his house - though I'm sure I'd end up with Colombian flu the following day after an evening of telling everyone how great they are and how much I appreciate them as friends. Or I could go and see Hairspray with my other friends Eric and Tom (if I could get a last minute extra ticket of course).
But no. I'm in Manchester under a weakly cloud covered sky watching The Muppet Christmas Show (which isn't now as good as it was when I said it was a minute ago).
At least tomorrow I have to get the train to London so that on Friday morning I can film the first bit of a Channel 5 programme I'm appearing in alongside Martin Lewis the money expert in January - so I can look forward to standing room only all the way to London and back again on Friday afternoon.
That still leaves me with the question - what the hell does a gay man in Manchester do with himself on Boxing Day? Well, if all else fails, once I've stopped watching The Muppets of course, there's always the rest of that bottle of port and some porn to keep me going I guess.
I've had flu for days and spent last night feeling ill. Considering it's Christmas that's not really how you want to spend the festive period now is it? Today I feel better but what is there to do? Do I 'go for a nice walk' or 'hit the sales' - two things I'd rather avoid if I'm honest.
Instead, here I am sitting in my living room with 'The Muppet Christmas Show' on TV (it's actually turning out to be quite entertaining - although it pains me to admit it) and wondering what to have for lunch - let's face it there's plenty of food left over from yesterday (in fact there's lots of stuff I never even opened and might go off if not dealt with soon).
Don't get me wrong - yesterday was a great Christmas Day. Quite unexpectedly.
Having opted for a Manchester Christmas instead of my usual London Christmas, I had been sure I'd be offered endless ways to spend the big day but it turned out most of my friends were off seeing family and even though I had an invite from a guy I've been seeing 'casually while he deals with his issues surrounding his ex', I wasn't sure that his friend who was hosting the dinner and is a friend of 'The Ex' would appreciate me turning up unannounced. And as I ended up catching a nasty cold from another friend last week, I was quite happy to sit at home and feel sorry for myself on Christmas Day.
Having spent Christmas Eve unable to sleep thanks to a block nose and painful sinuses, I nearly went to bed after spending the morning drinking glass after glass of Buck's Fizz - for medicinal purposes you understand - but thought I'd make the effort to pop a quick Christmas Card over to my friend's Gar and Alex before getting a little lie down.
To my surprise, they were in and cooking Christmas dinner for another friend, Jon. They asked if I'd like to stay and even though I'd already accepted my fate of being alone at home for Christmas, it was actually really lovely of them to ask and I gladly accepted. I rushed home and tarted myself up a bit and then went back round with some offerings of my own and settled in for a lovely meal and day's entertainment watching films that seemed to go on all day long and then Dr. Who (with Kylie guest starring fabulously).
After that I started to get aches and pains again so headed back across the car park to my flat to watch Eastenders and Corrie while slowly getting iller and iller. By the time To The Manor Born came on I was a shivering wreck and feeling as if I was about to die on Christmas Day.
However, after a sleeping pill and an extra blanket on the bed I've woken up feeling much better today and now I'm at a loss what to do with myself. If I were in London, then I'd be able to go to my friend Clive's Boxing Day party at his house - though I'm sure I'd end up with Colombian flu the following day after an evening of telling everyone how great they are and how much I appreciate them as friends. Or I could go and see Hairspray with my other friends Eric and Tom (if I could get a last minute extra ticket of course).
But no. I'm in Manchester under a weakly cloud covered sky watching The Muppet Christmas Show (which isn't now as good as it was when I said it was a minute ago).
At least tomorrow I have to get the train to London so that on Friday morning I can film the first bit of a Channel 5 programme I'm appearing in alongside Martin Lewis the money expert in January - so I can look forward to standing room only all the way to London and back again on Friday afternoon.
That still leaves me with the question - what the hell does a gay man in Manchester do with himself on Boxing Day? Well, if all else fails, once I've stopped watching The Muppets of course, there's always the rest of that bottle of port and some porn to keep me going I guess.
Why aren't sex dreams so simple anymore?
Do you ever have sex dreams? Dreams of wildly kissing someone you know, or some made up person you've never met, before ripping off clothes and throwing each other around in the height of passion?
I used to have sex dreams. These days I'm having 'romance dreams' instead.
I've just woken up and in the back of my mind there is a man with soft, dark hair and blue eyes called Andy. Or it could have been Gary. Or maybe Tim. No I'm pretty sure he was Andy. Unfortunately Andy is drifting off like a passing stranger's cigarette smoke - lingering and twisting into the air, but slowly vanishing and leaving you alone.
I think that in the dream, Andy and I met at a party or in a bar. It was an early summer's evening and while by the window, Andy and I were drawn together and flirted gently. I felt engulfed by him. His blue eyes, dark hair and kissable lips. He was taller than me, I remember that. And then for some reason we arranged to meet up later as we were torn apart by friends who wanted us both to meet other people. Then, in the dream and for no apparent reason, I started drawing a picture of him.
In the picture he was dressed as a war time post man wearing a dark blue jacket and a postman's hat, facing away from me but with his head turned so I could see his profile. Somehow, my fingers were flowing across the page with a pencil and all the colours were appearing in the right place. I was standing on some metal fire escape styled stairs while I did it and I knew I was late to meet him. Even though we hadn't arranged it, I felt sure that Andy was in the bar upstairs but I had to finish this picture of him. My friends commented over my shoulder what a great picture it was but other people's voices were telling me I was late. I knew I'd be a fool to miss seeing Andy again and so I started up the stairs towards the room above me.
However, as I got halfway up the stairs I heard Andy's voice behind me saying 'stop the clock' (too much Treasure Hunt as a child I fear) and I turned around to see that he'd been just one step down from where I'd been standing all along and I'd never known he was there. There was a smile and I think a feeling of joy in just seeing him again but that was where the dream ended and now I'm remembering less and less of him and the magic that we shared.
For some reason I feel as though I've lost something - a chance of another kiss from such a handsome man who could make my heart melt with just a smile.
I get this kind of dream all the time now. I'm no longer being thrown onto beds by men I've seen at some point in my day or having fictional handsome blond men with great bodies and perfect tans pushing me against my mother's bathroom wall. Those were the dream men of my 20s and now this is the 30-something replacement dream.
I think Andy was a mix of an actor called Tom Ellis who I'd seen in Doctor Who, another actor called Matthew Needham from Casualty and a man called Tim (or Lovely Tim as I called him in response to being called Handsome Matt) who I spoke to on Sunday night outside Via Fossa after an evening of furtive glances and gentle flirting from afar, despite him then having a row with his boyfriend over the whole thing as a result.
There's even now a part of me which resents Andy for having appeared in my dream and then leaving me like this. There'll be another Andy in another dream soon enough I'm sure and although he might disappear into thin air once I wake up, at least he'll never leave me for someone else, break my heart or think we're better off being 'just friends'.
I used to have sex dreams. These days I'm having 'romance dreams' instead.
I've just woken up and in the back of my mind there is a man with soft, dark hair and blue eyes called Andy. Or it could have been Gary. Or maybe Tim. No I'm pretty sure he was Andy. Unfortunately Andy is drifting off like a passing stranger's cigarette smoke - lingering and twisting into the air, but slowly vanishing and leaving you alone.
I think that in the dream, Andy and I met at a party or in a bar. It was an early summer's evening and while by the window, Andy and I were drawn together and flirted gently. I felt engulfed by him. His blue eyes, dark hair and kissable lips. He was taller than me, I remember that. And then for some reason we arranged to meet up later as we were torn apart by friends who wanted us both to meet other people. Then, in the dream and for no apparent reason, I started drawing a picture of him.
In the picture he was dressed as a war time post man wearing a dark blue jacket and a postman's hat, facing away from me but with his head turned so I could see his profile. Somehow, my fingers were flowing across the page with a pencil and all the colours were appearing in the right place. I was standing on some metal fire escape styled stairs while I did it and I knew I was late to meet him. Even though we hadn't arranged it, I felt sure that Andy was in the bar upstairs but I had to finish this picture of him. My friends commented over my shoulder what a great picture it was but other people's voices were telling me I was late. I knew I'd be a fool to miss seeing Andy again and so I started up the stairs towards the room above me.
However, as I got halfway up the stairs I heard Andy's voice behind me saying 'stop the clock' (too much Treasure Hunt as a child I fear) and I turned around to see that he'd been just one step down from where I'd been standing all along and I'd never known he was there. There was a smile and I think a feeling of joy in just seeing him again but that was where the dream ended and now I'm remembering less and less of him and the magic that we shared.
For some reason I feel as though I've lost something - a chance of another kiss from such a handsome man who could make my heart melt with just a smile.
I get this kind of dream all the time now. I'm no longer being thrown onto beds by men I've seen at some point in my day or having fictional handsome blond men with great bodies and perfect tans pushing me against my mother's bathroom wall. Those were the dream men of my 20s and now this is the 30-something replacement dream.
I think Andy was a mix of an actor called Tom Ellis who I'd seen in Doctor Who, another actor called Matthew Needham from Casualty and a man called Tim (or Lovely Tim as I called him in response to being called Handsome Matt) who I spoke to on Sunday night outside Via Fossa after an evening of furtive glances and gentle flirting from afar, despite him then having a row with his boyfriend over the whole thing as a result.
There's even now a part of me which resents Andy for having appeared in my dream and then leaving me like this. There'll be another Andy in another dream soon enough I'm sure and although he might disappear into thin air once I wake up, at least he'll never leave me for someone else, break my heart or think we're better off being 'just friends'.
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