Tuesday, 27 December 2011

I went on a three day binge with Santa. . . .

Oh Jesus, son of Mary, Joseph and the almighty, I know it was your birthday and I totally forgot all about you but please, I've only just managed to kick Santa out and wave him good bye.

I went against everything I stand for and invited him in this year. Normally I like to leave a mince pie, a thank you note and a shot of brandy out for him but the neighbourhood has turned and unless it's tied down, locked up or wrapped in barbed wire you can't take your eyes off of anything, not even for a second.
I often hear my next door neighbour shuffling up and down after midnight, scratching about for loose change and cigarette butts so the last thing I wanted was her getting a sniff of alcohol and a taste for shortbread around my backdoor. This is the type of person who uses bin liners for curtains so I wasn't about to let that penny pinching old bint any where near to Santa's velvet sack.

I was a little nervous about inviting him in. You hear so many horror stories don't you? I am loathe to letting strange men into my house unless I've spoken to them for at least 10 minutes online or they are carrying some form of ID, but it's difficult to get anyone to verify Santa. There isn't a main switchboard or a helpline to call and even if there was I'd never trust an elf to tell me the truth anyway.
My rule of thumb is never trust anyone who's mouth is level to your genitals, you don't know where they've been.
In the end I decided to trust my instincts and just check the quality of the red suit. If it wasn't red velvet trimmed in ermine and if it didn't match the exact shade of Rudolph's nose then this Santa was an impostor and the only thing he would be getting from me would be a kick to the crotch and a tug on his beard.
It's a fail safe method to check his authenticity, if he hasn't got a Rudolph then you can bet he isn't Santa. Mr Clause will not be arriving in an unlicensed mini cab and expecting you to foot the bill, he's in a sleigh and he should be jingle belling all the way.
That's actually how I heard him arrive, by the sound of the bells. It made such a pleasant change to the wail of the police sirens that I was up and out of my bed quicker than a pensioner with a prostate problem. I saw him circle my flat a couple of times looking for a safe place to land so I decided to guide him down safely with a few shots of the pistol I keep in my bedside drawer.
Like I mentioned earlier, it's rough where I live. Rough enough that every time my next door neighbour hears a police siren she thinks it's a wolf whistle. I just knew the warning shots above her roof would lull her back to sleep and I'd have Santa all to myself.

Santa landed pretty quickly once I'd let off a few rounds and after I'd managed to get him inside and he'd stopped shaking we really hit it off. He let me check the authenticity of the suit. In fact he was very agreeable once I'd said he could put his hands down and he stopped screaming. I explained I didn't want to take everything he had and that I was sure Rudolph would still be able to fly once we'd fashioned a splint for his leg.
I question why the reindeer need legs when they are flying anyway? Okay, they may need them to land but I've seen a rancid pigeon land with a broken foot so Rudolph should just man up and stop being such a cry Bambi (or I'll shoot him in the other foot).

Santa's suit was beautiful, although a little ripe. I know the gun shots may have frightened him but my word, a diet of mince pies and brandy does not make for a happy ending. Let me just say that it will take more than a rinse through and a squirt of Febreeze to get them pantaloons fresh again. I offered to lend him a pair of old Abercrombie jogging bottoms but he could barely squeeze a thigh into them.
That man is so fat!! There is no excuse for any man to be that fat. He works one day a year and he can't manage to drag his fat ass to a gym the other 364? I checked his list to see if he delivers to Jenny Craig because I'm sure the two of them could work out some kind of deal.
It's no good those Reindeer's doing all the cardio and Santa just holding the reins - he should make like they are a resistance machine and rock that sleigh back and forth every now and again.
I wrote a note to Jenny asking for her help:

Dear Jenny Craig,
Seeing as you're the weight loss Queen, please help Santa lose some of his girth or you are not getting ANYTHING next year (and I'll make Mariah Carey balloon to twice her pregnancy weight and maybe even start "singing" again).
Love Rudolph.

I hope it works.

Once I got Santa indoors and I'd tied the Reindeer to a lamp post I managed to speak to old Father Clause about what was troubling me:
I asked him why he was such a tease and only turned up once a year?
I asked why every year he gets me to blow a whole wad of cash and get really drunk when the end result is I wake up alone anyway?

Why do I always have a huge amount of bows and ribbons left over? I am a grown man not a prepubescent drag queen.
Why did I buy a cheese board and five jars of pickled onions? I live alone . . .
Should I really mix the port, with the tequila, with the whiskey and the cough medicine again?
Why didn't he bring me a sack full of Valium like I'd requested?

What kind of moisturiser does he use?
How has he managed to look like he's in his late 50's for the last 100 years?
Why the hell doesn't he buy some "Just for men"?
What's his profile name for online dating sites?
Has he ever seen anything below his belly?
Doesn't he know nothing will ever grow in the shade?

Does he think Rudolph will be able to fly with only three legs?
Can he bring my neighbour some new curtains?

He answered all of my questions and he ate his mince pie ( I was still holding the gun at this point). He had a shot of Brandy and we bandaged Rudolph's foot, he even managed to fix some drapes up at my neighbours windows.

As he flew off this evening I saw her hanging out of her window, she was shaking her fist and screaming "I don't believe in you Santa, I asked for a 36" plasma TV and all I got was these crappy curtains". . . . .

But I believe in him all over again and I can't wait until next year when he comes calling, especially if he brings me that rifle I've asked for and Rudolph gets a new prosthetic. . . .

Friday, 16 December 2011

Christmas Crackers.

Tis the season, apparently . . .

I can tell it's almost Christmas because my family is at war and my mother has stopped talking to me. If you come from a family as dysfunctional as mine Santa isn't coming with a remedy and a whole bunch of sweetness and light within his Santa sack. It's more likely he's coming with a box full of guilt wrapped in a ribbon laced with tears and tied with a handful of fisticuffs.
A fat man in a red suit is not going to be able to fix the emotional turbulence and underlying hostility within my clan unless we're in a boxing ring and he's the referee. I'm sure poor Rudolph only got a red nose because my brother punched him.
Every year it's the same. I give my nearest and dearest expensive and thoughtful gifts when all they want to give me is a black eye. It's terribly hard to sit across a dinner table from someone when you are desperately fighting the urge to pick up a turkey leg and batter them with it. It gets to be embarrassing when instead of saying "pass the salt" you find "pass me a loaded gun" just tumbled from your mouth.
Christmas dinner chez Warner is like sitting the Corleone's and the Sopranos opposite one another and telling them to make merry.
The first time one of my best friends met my family she said "they are great fun but I think they are a little bit crazy". She then sang the theme tune to the Addams family and made it an ode to my family dysfunction "They do what they want to do, live how they want to live, Warner family".
I sometimes surprise myself when I realise I've been quietly humming or singing it. It's become my mantra and code to live by and also my way of excusing any insane behaviour (on behalf of my relatives - not me).
You should try it next time someone in your family upsets you "they do what they want to do, live how they want to live (insert name here) family". Trust me - it works.

In an attempt to bring the Christmas spirit back into my life I bought and trimmed a Christmas tree. It helped that I poured a bottle of Christmas spirit down my throat while doing it. The front of my tree looks like everything I love in a woman, gaudy, overdressed, swathed in tinsel and adorned with huge baubles. The back looks like everything I love in a man, broad, dark, dense and furry. The only thing that ties my love of trees, men and women together is that all three must be able to wear (and totally work) a rope of twinkling, coloured lights.
I never really pay as much attention to the back of my tree as I do the front so I guess my idea of tree decoration is rather shallow. If you can't see it, I'm not decorating it. It's purely about the frontage and kind of like having drapes at your windows but letting your back doors get smashed in. If you can't see it with your eyes then I'm not touching it with my fingers.
As a child I used to believe that news readers only had clothes on from the front and that if by chance the camera went behind whomever was breaking the latest news of famine, disease or strife then you would see the news readers hairy back and arse. I guess it was a way to take away from the awfulness of the world and bring some comedy into it (unless the news reader was a woman with a hairy back and arse, that would be wrong and more scary than famine, disease or strife).
 I had a real craving for black tinsel this year but I couldn't find any. When I asked for some in the Christmas shop at Liberty's of London the girl looked at me like I'd taken the manger from the nativity and pissed in it. I guess black isn't very festive but I knew exactly what I wanted, a huge boa of black tinsel. Thick like a well fed foxes tail but long enough to wrap around a 6ft Christmas tree.
Instead I had to make do with silver.
My tree looks like Cher, Diana Ross and Liberace got into a dressing up box full of dynamite which then exploded into a typhoon of mirror balls and glitter which could only be tempered by a Liza Minnelli impersonator blowing feathers at it. In other words, it's more tat than taste.

Christmas can be a little depressing if you're single. I normally bypass this because I have multiple personality disorder (self diagnosed). I never really know who I'm going to wake up as so if I hate the gifts I've bought myself then I can always blame someone else.
Last year I caused a terrible scene in the denim department in Selfridges because me, myself and I were all trying to fit into a size 30" vintage wash denim with pocket detail. We ended up leaving with nothing but a year long store ban and a tarnished reputation. The only good thing about my disorder is you always have someone else with you to help carry your bags and someone else can open the door when the store detectives come knocking.

If you really can't bear to be alone this Christmas then please don't buy a puppy or a kitten. I know they are cute and cuddly, fun to dress up and give shots of brandy to "oh look how cute the puppy is staggering around and vomiting, let's video it and upload it to youtube" but a pet is for life, not just for Christmas.
 The easiest way to get around this is to "borrow" someone else's.
You're not doing anything wrong because once the owners get their much loved pet back they'll think all of  their Christmas' have come at once (it's best to leave the pet on their doorstep in the middle of the night). Sometimes it's best to remove the reindeer antlers as well unless you've had to cut some of the animals fur off, in that case, it's best to buy the animal a little Santa hat. "Surprise! Muffy's half poodle, half Blitzen".

I think it's time I began wrapping gifts. I'm all for re-gifting but sometimes I get the labels mixed up. Last year I gave my great aunt a pair of knuckle dusters and my two year old nephew a pair of tights. My aunt is now a prize fighter and my nephew a bank robber so it all worked out in the end. This year I'm giving them  a tutu and a flick knife and I'm going to let them fight over who gets what. My money's on my nephew.

 I also need to seriously start thinking about how I'm going to get my mum to talk to me again. I think it's really sad that she's so angry. I honestly thought she'd like the surprise of the 70ft inflatable Santa and sleigh I'd fixed to her roof. It wasn't my fault it was so windy that Santa took flight with the chimney, guttering and supporting wall of her bedroom, she should think of all the joy it's brought to the children who suddenly saw him go whizzing by their windows.
It also wasn't my fault he crash landed fifty miles away in that field full of cows.

I guess next year I'll just surprise her with the inflatable Joseph, Mary & baby Jesus . . . .

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

You can keep your sex, drugs and booze, I'll have a marshmallow . . . .

I'm eating marshmallows. The ones that come in different shapes and different colours. There are white ones, pink ones and yellow ones. Some are intertwined and some are just the one colour. Some are ribbed and some are just long plain tubes.
I like marshmallows.
I think it may be the texture and the way they feel in my mouth. Whenever I eat a marshmallow I feel like I'm swallowing a Valium. The way the marshmallow feels in my mouth is exactly the way Valium used to make me feel.
Soft, squashy and a little bit foamy.
There are no rough edges to a marshmallow. Eating one is kind of like being in a huge bed with your favourite duvet wrapped around you. Sometimes it's like having a big pink cloud in your mouth and sometimes it's like being in a huge padded room and bouncing off the marshmallow walls.
I love Marshmallows. I think they should be available on prescription and given freely to the depressed, under privileged and mentally unstable.
For some unknown reason the ones that I am eating are called "Chamallows" and the picture on the bag is of a pink and yellow marshmallow with huge eyes, little arms and legs and a magic wand. He's making other marshmallows appear from a magicians hat and they all look really happy. He looks exactly like me when I used to take Valium.

How does love make you feel? All warm and soft? So does a marshmallow.
How does sex end up? All wet and squidgy? So does a marshmallow.
How does a three day drugs binge make you feel? Paranoid and cranky? That's not a marshmallow.
How does a bottle of tequila make you feel? Unable to walk and like your eyeballs are bleeding? That's not a marshmallow.

We all have a vice. If you don't then you are either dead or boring (or just dead boring) and any vice worth pursuing is going to bring you strife, poverty, body odour or disease. Sex, drugs, alcohol and gang banging will bring you all of these, you can't say that about a marshmallow.

Marshmallows are the way forward and the secret to a happy life. If you eat too many then you may get a headache but beyond that, as long as you brush and floss regularly they are pretty much danger free. They don't even have a high fat content so they are pretty much guilt free too.

Danger + guilt = a crime spree or a cult like religion.
Foamy shapes and ice cream colours = marsh mallows.

I take my marshmallows plain. I don't want them toasted, coated in chocolate or sprinkled with coconut. I want them pink, white and foamy. I want them so I can fit at least five in my mouth at a time and  I want to be be able to poke the pink ones out of my mouth and pretend they are my tongue. You cannot do that with an ounce of cocaine and you certainly won't manage it with a six pack of beer.

Give up your vices, your drugs, your booze and your religion. Say goodbye to the meaningless sex and empty nights, cut up your credit cards, put down your weapons and pick up a marshmallow.

What's pink, foamy and feels all warm inside?
You won't know until you try . . . .

Wednesday, 9 November 2011

Life styles of the poor and afflicted . . .

I was a very dramatic child and it's been said that I do still have flair for drama. Many times I've heard people mutter under their breath "he should be on the stage". When I hear this I normally turn around very slowly and smile a regal smile. If I'm feeling overly dramatic that day I may even remove my hat and take a deep, swooping bow. If I'm having a "down day" I normally just fall into a half curtsey and look up in a very shy, coquettish way but If I'm having a really awful day then I find I'm more inclined to just narrow my eyes and give the finger.
That's the thing with having a dramatic bent. I never really know how I'm going to feel. Sometimes I wake up and I want to throw open the curtains and flood the boudoir with sunlight, bird song and roses. Other days I just want to draw the blinds, play torch songs and strike dramatic poses. I'm very sensitive to what's going on in the world and when the world is crying then it's very unlikely you'll find me with a dry eye.

When you're as delicate and sensitive as I am you have to protect yourself from any ugliness. I have an unspoken rule that I mustn't be subjected to any horror or unrest before 10.00am on a weekday and 2.00pm at weekends. The slightest sniff of an uprising before this time will have me reaching for a box of Kleenex. I feel the only way to cope with an uprising is to become increasingly hard, and that upsets me no end.

 I need to finish my morning ablutions before I can even think about entertaining any darkness in the world.The last thing I need to know about is turmoil in the middle east when I'm standing stark naked in front of a mirror with an electric toothbrush in my hand. I've still not recovered from a bloodied Gaddafi being flashed across my screen ( I was still wearing last nights lenses) and don't even talk about the starving in Africa. It puts me right off my food. If I've caught as much as a fleeting glimpse of a distended belly and a little black face before 8.00am then I find it difficult to even nibble on a Danish. I truly believe news reports should come with the warning "hungry, crying, poor person ahead" just so that I have time to finish chewing or spit my food out into a piece of tupperware. I've lost count of the number of times I've lost a perfectly good breakfast all because Somalia's in the midst of a drought.

 If I have to watch television then I will usually have the sound down and watch behind a gloved hand. I have learned how to lip read and I'm now fluent in Sesame Street and re-runs of Dallas. I have perfected a language that is half Big Bird, a quarter Elmo and a quarter Sue Ellen lip tremble. It looks terrific and goes down a treat in Tesco's. I've found it's the only way I can order a pound of salami and get a smile from Gregor behind the cold meat counter. That's the about the only time I can manage seeing blood and torn flesh, when Gregor's got his meat in his hand and he's going at it with his chopper. He's Eastern European and I've found he's very good with a cleaver and a pound of flesh.

I worry about the youth of today and the rising unemployment. There isn't much hope for them really is there? The way I see it they have two choices, riot or enter a talent show. The message they get is if you can't hold a tune then you best get good at throwing bricks and handling stolen goods.
I was a nervous wreck during the riots. The sight of all those electrical stores being robbed and then going up in flames had me afraid to switch on the toaster. I didn't know what those thugs would think of next and I didn't want the only thing I have left to warm my muffins ending up on the black market. When I was a child the only people I saw dressed in black with their hoods up were nuns. The last time I approached what I thought was a nun and asked for forgiveness I had my watch stolen and got punched in the kidneys. Now If I want to ask for forgiveness I drunk dial the vicar and I don't hang up until he threatens to call the police.

The safest thing for me to do is stay indoors and order everything I need online but the internet has opened up a whole other world of filth, turmoil and horror to me and it's not good for my delicate disposition. I've tried putting parental controls on my internet but I live alone and I keep telling myself the passwords. I can't remember the amount of times I've ended up with a lump in the back of my throat because of something I've ordered on the internet. Also, the internet is a 24 hour hobby. I've found out ways to self diagnose illness, hot wire a car and order a black market baby. Any day now I could be dead from Malaria and no one will discover poor baby David strapped into the back seat of the brand new Lexus I've hidden in the garage.

My whole life is nothing but a drama and someone once said the whole word is a stage.
I just wish I was ready for my close up.

Friday, 21 October 2011

If you can't stand the heat,don't set fire to the kitchen.

I would describe myself as "domestically challenged" and I have no shame in being out and proud about it. Rather like I found it was no big thing for me to come dancing out of the closet, I find it just as easy to come running out of the kitchen.

If the kitchen hadn't come attached to the side of the flat I wouldn't even bother having one. I refer to it "as that place off the living room" and I only really ever go in there to chill wine or to wash my clothes. When I first viewed my flat it was the one room I casually popped my head around and then promptly turned my back on (which is exactly what I do to people I secretly hate  - but with a withering look and insults muttered under my breath).
I haven't really changed anything about the kitchen since I moved in. I've painted it a couple of times and I've thrown some red wine up the walls when I've been really drunk but much like the short, boring one in every boyband or the one with the really ratty weave in every girlband my kitchen is relegated to back up moves and silent harmonies while the bedroom, bathroom, living room and (walk in) wardrobe take centre stage and strut their stuff.

I don't know if my phobia of kitchens stems from my childhood.  The oven in our house was only switched on when my mother wanted to light a cigarette and if you wanted something to eat then it had better fit into a toaster. I've always maintained that my mother invented the "supermodel diet". She smoked cigarettes, only ever drank black tea (sometimes she would allow herself a slice of lemon) and she sometimes ate a slice of toast. Anything else was deemed "fattening". If there was a potato in the house it was only there for her to launch at the back of my fathers head.

I have been known to watch cookery shows but that's because I like to see Nigella Lawson sucking on her fingers and Jamie Oliver getting tongue tied over a root vegetable. Have you seen the size of Jamie Oliver's tongue? It's like a Parma ham on steroids. 
I saw him milking a cow once and I seriously couldn't tell where the teats began and the tongue ended.
I absolutely adore Nigella Lawson and her sluttish, suggestive ways. She looks as if it wasn't for the presence of a camera crew watching her every move she would be knocking back the cooking sherry, taking a nap on her granite work surfaces and burning the house down.
She's posh, she looks like she loves to drink and she's got money to burn. These are the kind of women who know how to cook but don't have the first clue how to tidy up afterwards. 

The main reason I go into my kitchen is because I have a chalk board attached to the wall and I like to write things on it to motivate me in the morning. Mostly really important stuff like "I will brush my teeth", "I will change my underwear" "I will pay my rent".
 I had to buy the chalk board because I had a habit of taking a pen to the walls. It was very upsetting for my ex partner when he walked into the kitchen and I'd daubed "RedRum, RedRum" in red marker over every flat surface. (If you haven't seen The Shining then you don't know what the hell I'm talking about).

Although I've never understood people who spend a lot of money on their kitchen I'm even more suspicious of people who have their bed in the same room as their cornflakes ( those who live in a "bedsit"). I know I sound a terrible snob but I think if I had to sleep in the same room as I boiled my beans and I washed my underwear I'd put my pillow directly onto the middle shelf and turn the oven up to gas mark six. 
My oven is handy for drying underwear, otherwise I wouldn't have one and as much as I ignore the room with the kettle in it I do like to use it to hide stuff. It's no use bringing someone home when you've got last Fridays takeaway fermenting under your duvet.
A kitchen is good for storage, but it's not attractive when you can lay flat out on the bed and turn the grill on with your toes, although if you can mix a cocktail without having to kick back the covers I'll be over like road runner.

My kitchen is really the most eclectic room in my flat. It's eclectic because it has things in there you should never find in a kitchen. I'm not talking about dismembered limbs or exotic animals. I'm talking about roller skates and violins. Stuff I pick up and think, "Ooo, I need that" "That will be really useful when I open my roller disco, kite flying emporium" "That stuffed penguin will look perfect on top of my washer/dryer".

I've actually bought some batons that I want to learn to juggle with. They are the type of batons that you set fire to and then throw high into the air. I'm thinking of putting on my roller skates, firing up the batons and doing a little routine.
I've wrote a little reminder on my chalk board to make sure I've switched the gas off first and removed all flammable objects because it's true, if you can't stand the heat, then don't set fire to your kitchen.

Wednesday, 5 October 2011

But you promised me you'd be dead by now . . . (adventures in gold digging)

The Duchess of Alba is recognised by the Guinness book of world records as having more noble titles than any other member of the aristocracy.
She is also recognised as being one of the worlds richest women with a fortune upwards of £3bn.
Every gigolo, Lothario and man for sale recognises her as a dead cert ticket to a life of luxury and excess.
I recognise her as being the mad old dame who occasionally pops up front row at fashion shows with a wig like Don King and a face like a camel.
The Duchess is 85 years old and has just married a "civil servant" 24 years her junior.
I've been doing my maths and 85 - 24 = 61.
To me 61 is a very late age to start gold digging (it's more akin to grave digging) but I'm guessing that the Duchess has mistook the title "civil servant" for "house boy" and her 61 year old toy boy has realised that if she doesn't drop dead soon at least she'll start forgetting to lock the safe and hide the car keys.

I've also realised that 61 can only go into 85 one and a bit times, which when you think of it, is more than enough for the old gal.

The world is full of "civil servants" ready to service the grand old dames of money and the billionaire old boys club will always be entertained by the Anna Nicole's of the world (god bless that cracked out cow) but in every relationship there is a trade off, from the council estates of Peckham to the Penthouse's of Manhattan to the Palace of Versailles, everyone has had to:
Put out to get ahead
Pay up to get some head
Or in the case of Versailles eat cake and then lose their head.

In a modern world, money talks and it's fluent in every language.

I have a theory that if you equate social climbing with rock climbing you get what every gold digger needs to learn = "Cock Climbing" (I've trade marked this so don't even think about stealing it).
It's pretty easy to learn if you use the same methods as rock climbing:
You start out practicing on the smaller peaks (career criminals)
You then move to the middle ground ( city boys and boy band members)
You find a safe plateau (minor royals and footballers)
You reach for your highest point ( Russian billionaires & hedge fund managers)
As with rock climbing your safety is of the utmost importance so always wear a safety helmet, carry a rape whistle and what ever you do, don't look down and don't let go.
Remember you maybe digging for gold but keep on looking at the stars.

When climbing up the social ladder it's very important not to leave any foot holds below you. Remember, anyone with a full head of hair and a full set of teeth is your competition and anyone with someone else's hair and a full set of false teeth is your quarry.
I know this is going to be controversial but it's important to try and stay within your ethnic group. The last thing you need is to bag yourself a billionaire only to find out that he's got 12 other wives back home. You really don't want to marry anyone who has a palace made of mud and straw, even if you flew in a private jet to get there.
The finest pork belly at The Ritz does not translate into being a pig on a spit and if you think you're "too posh to push" that won't go down well when you have to walk twelve miles to the nearest well (as in water).

It's important to learn your craft and stalk your prey, as I mentioned in one of my very first attempts at blogging, The Sunday Times Rich List should be daily reading material.
Start at those near the bottom and then work your way up. You need to speculate to accumulate so if you need to show the gash to get the cash, so be it.
No one got anywhere in this world by being a virgin except for the baby Jesus' mother (and that's never been proved beyond reasonable doubt) so throw your knickers to the wind and watch the cash start rolling in.

Once you've bagged your billionaire do not under any circumstances let him go but more importantly, do not under ANY circumstances let yourself go. You have now moved from the hunter to the hunted. Every waking moment needs to be spent primping, preening, tanning, toning, lotioning & potioning because I guarantee you, at the first sight of eye bags you'll be kissing goodbye to old money bags.  Always make sure you are the most attractive one in the relationship.
It pays much more if you have a million $ body when your billion $ husband only has a £10 face.
You are your own best bargaining tool, so if he asks for a kiss, you ask for a twenty.

Do romantic things like running his bath and leaving candles in the bedroom (always make sure he's wearing his flammable hair piece).
It's a really nice touch to leave petals on the stairs (they sure are slippery) and if all else fails, trade his cigars for firecrackers and offer to light them.

An element of surprise is great in a relationship so there is nothing wrong with waking him in the middle of the night while wearing a balaclava and brandishing a cattle prod.

If your billionaire is old a great way to keep him active is to insist on a strict exercise regime. Like a baby, he may want to sleep all the time but make sure he's up before sunrise doing laps in the pool (make sure it's unheated) and then when he gets out (cold & shivering) say if he catches you he can have sex (then get in your convertible Mercedes and put peddle to metal).

Remember, It's important to keep the romance alive by buying presents so treat yourself every goddamn single day.

You worked hard to get him now it's his turn to work hard to keep you.

So there you go, my guide for all the material guys and girls who are living in a material world is above and it's all you need to bag a billionaire or even dally with a Duchess.
Keep to these rules and I swear you'll have a ring on your finger and they'll be on their toes like a midget at a urinal.
Happy Hunting!

Contrary to popular belief, I've never gone drilling for OIL (old, ill & loaded) I've only ever gone digging for CRAP (creative, reliable, attentive & (full of) personality).

Tuesday, 20 September 2011

To Sir with Love . . . .

I started a script writing class this evening. I applied for it months ago and had almost forgotten about it. The months all kind of rolled into one and it wasn't until I looked at the calendar last week that I remembered I have aspirations to write a movie, with Natalie Portman playing me.
I get as excited about the first night of these classes as I used to about the first day of school. I love seeing what type of people I'm going to be sharing the classroom with and what the tutor is going to be like, but most of all, it's the idea of learning something new and trying my hardest to be good at it that makes me want to write "I love you" on my eye lids and turn up at class with an apple for my teacher.

I was never this excited about learning as a child. I just couldn't wait to show everyone my new shoes in the morning and play Charlie's Angels with the girls at lunch time.

The laws of the classroom don't seem to have changed that much. It doesn't matter how old we get there is always going to be the class geek, the shy one, the loud mouth, the pretty one and the one that no one wants to sit next to.
The only difference is, in a class full of adults, the one whom no one wants to sit next to shouldn't really  stink of piss. . . and they should always be able to afford their lunch.
I remember getting my legs slapped for refusing to hold the hand of a girl in my primary school because she had an incontinence problem. I had tucked my arm inside my sweater and instead gave her the sleeve to hold onto. I was only found out because it was a country dancing class and she had stretched my sleeve to twice it's length.

I can normally tell by the end of the first class who is going to drop out, who's going to have a classroom meltdown and who's going to last the distance.
I'm now a veteran of "adult education" so have learned that the initial class will have around 28 pupils, the second week I'll be sharing with around 20, the 3rd will only be about 12 (plus stragglers) and three months in it may as well be last call at a singles bar with the tutor behaving like he's got a fast car, a bag full of cocaine and a humongous dick.

I'm always early for class and it makes me furious when anyone turns up late. I hate lateness anyway but you best believe that if I'm paying to be taught a lesson, I'm going to damn well teach you one if you come loafing into my learning time and start disrupting it. You can't say you've over slept when the class starts at 7.30pm on a Monday evening. I don't care what your excuse is, I'm forty now and my brain cells are dying fast enough without having to wait for you to drag your tardy arse into the classroom. 

We had to do the oddest thing this evening as an "ice breaker". We had to introduce ourselves and say three fascinating things about ourselves but one had to be a lie. This is not the sort of thing you would want to teach a classroom full of children, how to be a convincing liar, but for adults, I'm all for it.
As usual, some people are so dull that their fascinating lie was " I have a cat called Monty" or "my husband has brown hair".
 I made all three of my things up.
"My real name is Brenda" "I am the plaything of the Libyan President" and "I've shit my pants". It turned out that I am so adept at lying they actually believed all three and no one wanted to hold my hand at break time.

My tutor has had "success" as a screen writer "allegedly". I've googled him and he wrote a couple of episodes of "The Bill" and something else that never made it to a terrestrial channel. I like him though. Every one of my tutors has been slightly eccentric. I absolutely loved my creative writing teacher, he had a shock of white hair and looked like he wore a nappy. I spent mostly every class slumped down in my chair and looking directly between his legs. I'd only sit up straight when it was my time to read.

I think this is why I love going back to school as well. I get to show off. I am always the first to volunteer to read, to start a group, to venture an opinion and to tell someone their story sounds like they copied it from a trashy magazine. I like to be helpful in class.

My homework this week is to watch something from my DVD collection and then write a scene from it as a script, whomever has their work identified correctly the most times gets a gold star.
Now it doesn't take a genius to work out a popular film so we have to make it as brief as possible:

It's dark
There's a big ship
There's a bit of ice
There's a big gash
Jack, Jack,
Glug, Glug, Glug

Cut to:

Some really withered feet with what look like clippity claws on them
"Oops, I've dropped it to the bottom of the ocean"

The End.

And the gold star is mine.

Tuesday, 13 September 2011

That ain't Road Kill, that's my boyfriend . . .

I found the most amazing shop last weekend.
It was amazing to me because it had a stuffed badger, a huge pheasant feathered fascinator (try saying that with a mouth full of marbles), a pair of Victorian artificial legs and a dentists spittoon in the window.
 It was a window with a message and it was screaming "Dorothy, I don't think we're in Argo's anymore".
The lady who owned it looked like a gorgeous cross between a 1930's pin up and a vampire rock chick, all tattoos, attitude and bright, devilish eyes.
 She had taken artefact's and curiosities, the discarded and the unwanted, the abandoned and the useless and she had made these things look beautiful again.
This was a woman who went looking for road kill, cared for it, brought it back to life and displayed it in a store full of our most beautiful nightmares. She's the most glamorous Dr Frankenstein you are ever going to see, and with nail polish.

I really wanted to buy the shearling hat with the real antler horns attached, not because I thought it looked good on me, just because I thought it would be nice for the antlers to be out in the fresh air again. If I'd have bought it I would have worn it one misty morning and gone roaming around Dartmoor or somewhere that things with antlers live. I would have had a sniff about, maybe ate some grass and chased a few tourists. Just for the fun of it.

There was a beautiful white fur coat that I instinctively touched and said how soft it felt "oh, that's rat fur" was the reply. Who the hell wants to wear a coat made of rats? I automatically started to question my thinking about how filthy, ugly and dirty rats are . . .and what beautiful coats they could be.

There was the most stunningly carved lamp that used to be a horses head, but I didn't see a dead horse. I just saw the most delicate craftsmanship and attention to detail and I thought how lovely it would look hanging on my wall, next to my elephant tusks & moose head (that is a joke, please don't call the RSPCA).

The store and it's macabre wares got me to thinking. How many things have I left behind? How many things have I discarded or thought of as road kill? How many things I thought were of no consequence before but would be of great beauty and treasure to someone else?

I then started to think of how many times I have been treated as road kill myself. Many times I've been dragged along at high speed, hit a few bumps in the road and flipped over the car bonnet but I've always managed to skip straight over the roof and land right back on my feet again, even if it was in oncoming traffic.
Not all of us manage that in life, some people just keep getting knocked down and never get made into anything beautiful, they just stay broken.
I'm not saying we should all go and get our ex boyfriends, forgotten friends and tainted lovers and make them into an ashtray. I'm just saying, sometimes the things that we think are useless, or ugly, or are of no use to us can still be beautiful and valid, if not to us then to someone else.

So next time you pass a dead fox in the road, go back and get it and in these austere times make sure you really do  "make do and mend" and next time someone really upsets you, breaks your heart or treads on your toe, don't be mean, just smile and say "I know a lady who could make you into a really beautiful lamp shade."

Tuesday, 6 September 2011

Return of the Baby Snatchers.

I've never wanted a baby, much like I've never wanted a pair of diamond earrings. I can admire babies and earrings but to me they would be utterly useless. I could have a pair of diamond earrings if I really wanted and I could have a baby if I wanted but neither would really suit me and if things got hard I truly believe I would end up selling both of them. (The twins, not the earrings).

I seem to get asked a lot by my 'girlfriends' why I don't want children. 
Firstly, I have no patience. If the child wasn't reading, making it's own bed and mixing cocktails by the age of five it would be out of the door with no allowance. 
I also couldn't put up with any screaming or crying. The older I get the more noise sensitive I get and unless it's the "ker- ching" of a cash register or someone saying "of course you can have that" I don't want to hear it. 
Tantrums? The baby best not even start because I would seriously walk away and leave it in the middle of the street. I'm all for confrontation but you cannot have a fist fight with a four year old.
I don't think I'd be very good at teaching a baby to walk either.  How do you do it? Drive the baby far far away from home, sit it down on the edge of a field and then put peddle to metal and hope it follows? I'd really hate to see it gaining on me in my rear view mirror.
What if it got dark and I hadn't strapped a bedside lamp to it's head?

I hear parents say that there is no such love as you have for a child but I don't believe that either. How can you love something that can't drive and eats food that looks the same coming out as it did going in?
Nappies (or diapers for the Americans amongst you) would not get changed in my house. If that baby wasn't probably toilet trained within a couple of days it would be on a liquid only diet.
Also, I would have no idea what to feed a baby, if it couldn't masticate I'm afraid it would have to wear dentures and watch the dog. 
I've seen people trying to coax a baby to eat and making ridiculous "Choo Choo" train noises or pretending the spoon is an aeroplane and it's coming into land??!  If I had to do that three times a day you best believe that baby better be clocking up some serious air miles...And not for some budget airline either.

Babies are just too much work, too much hassle and too much trouble. I don't want anyone in my house staggering around, drinking out of a bottle and then falling down unless it's me.
They are not the prettiest of creatures either. I know everyone thinks that their baby is the most beautiful but seriously?? No baby is pretty. It's just fat, bald and wrinkly. Do you really want to get woken up four times in the night by someone who looks like that? 
I think the only time I'd really like a baby is if I was on a sinking ship. Then I could reenact that scene in Titanic when Billy Zane cries "I'm all she's got in the world" and drags that little girl onto the boat (leaving Kate Winslet to float about on a bit of wood and Leonardo Di Caprio to sink to the bottom of the North Atlantic). If only Kate had dressed Leo up as a baby in a bonnet they could have both been saved.

 I know there will be mothers amongst you who are probably on the phone to social services right now or booking me an urgent appointment to get my tubes tied but do not fear. I am far too selfish to ever bring a child into this world. I've never even thought of the "who's going to love and look after me when I'm old" argument. 
If I do ever get old I'll love and look after myself .
Or I'll get my mum to do it.

Tuesday, 30 August 2011

The Portrait Of Dorian Gay....

The pressure to remain young, nubile and beautiful on a gay man is just as heavy as it would be on any Hollywood actress (especially as our life as a starlet on the red carpet isn't always as well paid).
Buff hairless bodies, immaculate hair and spray on tans are not just de rigueur for the ambitious Angelina, this is also the uniform you need to don if you want to transport yourself into the higher echelons of fairyland.
The morphing of the gay man from the extreme masculinity and sexuality of the 1970's clone into the Bionic woman of 2011 has been a long journey and it's gone from being a particularly hairy and bumpy ride into a totally smooth and talcum powdered one.
When did it become the law for a man to wax and pluck, shave and sculpt, clip and contour himself into androgynous oblivion? The hair on a male body used to define masculinity but now our epidermis is interchangeable with a dolphins. All sleek, smooth and shiny.
I can think of many gay men I'd like to see dive down to the bottom of the ocean and not return until they've had a mouthful of fish but I wouldn't really want to climb into bed with a porpoise.

The new face of a gay man ( which is used in conjunction with the usual two faces) has two noticeable characteristics. They are both called eyebrows. If they have not been tweezed into a reasonable homage to the M you see at at a McDonald's drive thru then they are most likely to be found laying stunned in the middle of the forehead. Much like I'd imagine a very skinny shoplifter would look after being tasered by a policeman, these furry little creatures have been paralysed into submission by huge quantities of botox and now lay useless. Occasionally they may twitch but mostly they just wait for some feeling to return.
The best way to notice them is to wait until a Sunday afternoon when the owner of said eyebrows is doing the walk of shame home after not sleeping for a day and a half. It's at this time that the rest of the face will have dropped down to his knees but the eyebrows will still be on high alert, much like the belt used to hike Simon Cowell's trousers up to his chin.

The tan of a gay man must never interfere with his social life. In other words, it must not drip off in a sweaty dance club and must be able to withstand the searing heat of a sauna or steam room at 4am on a Sunday morning. It is never a good look to be throwing your best shapes to an audience on a dance floor only to find you're flinging fake tan in their faces. Even worse if you rub up against someone and it looks like you are reenacting a scene from Carrie's prom night.

This leads us to the final frontier of the modern gay man and it's not Selfridges or that fat free yogurt shop in Soho, it's the gym. A gym is no longer just "gay friendly". It's here that the lunatics can really take over the asylum. Nothing gets a gay man worked up quite as much as working out.

The gym is where you will find the gay man at his absolute butchest (unless he's in the cardio section). This is were the testosterone is so heavy in the air you can actually smell it and if you can't smell it then you can easily go into the locker room, buy some and inject it.
Any gym in central London will be just as busy of a weeknight as the clubs will be of a weekend (all the same drug dealers are there too).The only difference between the club and the gym is people will be wearing more clothes for a work out. The cardinal sin on the gym floor is to use it as a dance floor. "Gettin' into the groove" takes on a whole different meaning when you're bouncing on a Swiss ball. It looks ridiculous when the only thing bouncing about are your pec implants.

The cardio section in any gym frequented by a gay man is mostly just used for looking in the mirror and catwalking on the treadmill. You won't really see anyone "going for the burn" as cardio makes you sweat (which is like, totally not nice).
Fat can be removed much more easily by: 
An injection.
Two fingers forced down the throat.
A really heavy weekend.
Drinking a pint of raw eggs and hoping you'll get lucky.

I am not being judgemental or bitter in this post. I have tried many of the above (except the McDonald's eyebrows, liposuction, pec implants and bouncing on a Swiss ball) and I know it's time to move over for the younger and almost as pretty to have their turn. I've realised I don't actually have to be the starlet anymore. I can now put myself forward for more character parts. I can let my hair grow grey, maybe eat a little more than I used to. I don't have to varnish myself like I've just spent a week in a terracotta oven and I don't have to lift my eyebrows up to the sky unless I'm really, really surprised. 
So to all the young up and comers, I say this . . . . .

 "Let 'em come and may their star shine bright".

Wednesday, 24 August 2011

"If I ever bore you, it'll be with a knife" . . .Louise Brooks.

I read a biography many years ago of a (criminally) forgotten 1920's film star called Louise Brooks. She was the quintessential flapper and a true benchmark of all the beauty, hedonism and glamour of that age.She was also willful, impetuous, self destructive and an alcoholic. She was adored and courted by the famous and the rich but she threw it all away and found herself destitute, homeless and reliant on the kindness of strangers.
I still have the book (it's now out of print) with it's missing pages and torn jacket but the picture on the front still amazes me - it's just her with her blunt cut hair and sexy but murderous eyes. It looks as current as any photograph you would see today, except there isn't any one actress or singer that matches up to that face.

The reason I'm writing about her and the book is that I can relate to her story - not the exquisite beauty (I wish) but the personality, the defiant spirit and the constant need to destroy and move on - that's what keeps me coming back to her. She once said "I never gave anything away without wishing I'd kept it nor kept anything without wishing I'd given it away" which is a mantra for a sad life if ever there was one.

Her life as a movie star lasted a few short years but burned brightly. She acknowledged that she had a "gift for enraging people but if I ever bore you it will be with a knife". Most other actresses hated her and everyone else wanted to sleep with her. She was never late on a film set even if she had to be pushed on in a wheel barrow because she was still drunk from the night before. She married a millionaire and left him soon after but she left with nothing. She was never the gold digging or subservient type, preferring to up and leave when she fancied and far too uninterested in cash, trinkets or jewellery to take anything with her. In life it was her who bored easily. When she grew tired of Hollywood and of her husband she turned her back on both and didn't bother saying goodbye or giving a reason as to why. Gay icon? Much?

As for the mercurial personality? She never tried to reign that in even after she had lost her looks, her wealth and her fame. When she was largely forgotten she took a job in a department store called Saks (it's a good store but not one for a movie star to be stacking shelves) but had a habit of intimidating every woman who came in because "I'd do funny things . . .After they put on the dress, I'd just stand and stare at them while they waited for me to zip them up or something" and she actually lasted in this job for two years?
After leaving (she quit, she wasn't fired) Saks in 1948 she was offered a chance of an income by writing her biography. She had kept a journal for her whole life so it would have been an amazing, enthralling read but after finishing it she threw the whole thing down the incinerator. The reason? She didn't want to name any of her so called friends, enemies or lovers who were still alive.

I don't want to fill up this post with facts and quotes about Louise Brooks, that would be lazy. I just love the story of her. I love the dichotomy of her life.She never wanted to be an actress, never wanted to be rich and never thought she was beautiful but she had all of these things thrust upon her and instead of just accepting them - she fought against them. Most sane people would of course embrace all of this but much like the time a suitor presented her with a bouquet of roses in a packed restaurant, she picked up the gift that was given to her and hit the giver about the face with it.

I'm not applauding this behaviour but I can relate to it. It was said that she had a personal vendetta against herself but in her later years she did finally find some happiness and redemption (and this is why I love her even more) as a writer. All the talent, torture and the beauty that she'd had all her life finally came to some good and she ended her days doing the two things that she loved most, writing . . . . and drinking gin.

If you haven't heard of her then google her image. You can see the influence she has even today but if you really want to know about her, read about her.

 Louise Brooks - "No one ever burned more bridges or left prettier little fires".

Sunday, 14 August 2011

Why I love my Chopsticks.

I love my chopsticks. Every time I go to Wagamama I steal a pair. Much like people steal the pencils from Ikea, I have a compulsion to take an extra set of chopsticks. I know it's morally wrong but I always leave a big tip for my waitress and it's hardly the crime of the century is it? It's just chopsticks. I didn't don a balaclava and ram raid a cut price electrical store, I just picked up an extra pair of little wooden sticks.

Why do I love them so? Well, it took me a while to learn how to use them. The knife, fork and spoon I took to straight away but the delicate dance of the chopsticks took a lot longer to master, so I never take them for granted. They were an absolute bitch of a utensil to control to begin with and like most things in my life, the more difficult something is to handle, the more it gets my attention.

I have a pair in my hands at this very moment and they are amazingly versatile. In fact I'm going to try typing with them right now: I LOVE MY CHOPSTIKS  (OK, maybe not so good for typing).

Here is a list of things they are truly amazing for:

A book mark - if you don't split them they can easily fit between two pages and if you get the wooden ones then they may even have come from the same tree as the pages of your book. If I was a tree I still think I'd rather be a page of a book than a chopstick but you get my meaning.

A back scratch - I often get my chopsticks out on the tube and have a good old scratch of my back, my head, my legs, behind my knees, ears, etc etc. It's much more hygienic than using your own filthy paws after hanging onto that hand rail and you can also give anyone who won't get out of your way a short sharp prod.

A tickle stick(s) - As above but also excellent if you're at home and feeling all sexy and sultry with a new lover. I cannot tell you the surprise on some peoples faces when I whop out my chopsticks.

A cheer leading baton - OK, this is a little more difficult because people are not really impressed if you just twirl around a pair of chopsticks but if you set fire to the ends of them, tie tons of colourful ribbon to them or manage to juggle a couple of new born kittens with them, trust me, you'll get an audience.

A weapon - no one will mess with you if have a pair of chopsticks to hand. As in most things in life, size does matter (it is all about the girth) but I promise you, a swift chopstick to the eye will have your assailant running (blindly) for cover.

A hair accessory - many a drag queen wouldn't be caught dead without her make up or her chop sticks.

A tune on the piano - how many times have you been blind drunk in a bar / pub / piano shop and seen a piano and said "I can play, I know a really good tune". What the hell do you think that song's called?.

A lock picker - I haven't tried this but I think I've seen it in an episode of "Murder She Wrote".

An eating utensil - You can also pick up bits of food with these.

A catapult - as above.

So there we go. I hope I've made a compelling case for my love of Chopsticks. I suggest you all put down your knives (especially if you're in a teenage gang) your forks (unless you're a gardener) and your spoons (especially if you're a heroin addict) and pick up your Chopsticks.

Wagamama & Asian restaurants the world over - I apologise if you experience a glut of chopstick thievery.

Wednesday, 10 August 2011

London's Burning . . . .

Just a very quick "post" this evening. I'm still trying to process everything that's been going on in London (especially where I live). I will be back to "normal" very soon (most probably tomorrow). This isn't an in depth look into the social reasons or why's as to what's been happening in London- it's just my stream of consciousness . .

I live in beautiful, historic Greenwich. Well, I live in Greenwich but not the beautiful historic part. It could be classed as within spitting distance - if everybody came out of their council houses and started spitting.
The area of Greenwich where I live is stuck between the Regency houses and greenery of the park and the modern wasteland that surrounds the 02 Arena. It's caught in a no mans land of asbo's and Hermes handbags. I guess it could be called "up & coming" or it could be called a breeding ground of unrest.
I call it home.

Of a weekend I am normally awoken by the sound of church bells which is comforting as I am sometimes lulled to sleep by the sound of broken bottles. I don't mind my surroundings. I like the juxtaposition of the "rich and the rough". Once I am indoors and the bolts and latches and locks have been secured I'm pretty content - but the last couple of nights have taken on an all together more sinister and lawless air.
It's no fun to be awake at 2am and watch shadowy figures in hoods running along the grass underneath your flat with arms full of stolen goods. It's a surreal thing to hear shopping carts being pushed along your street in the middle of the night and then see that it's gangs of youths with trolleys full of electrical goods they have just looted from the retail park near your home. I watched as my street was used as a convenient pick up and drop off zone. Cars pulled up and collected the goods and then the youths went back for more.

The thing I find most unnerving is that I am not a meek person and yet I watched this happen from my bedroom window and I did nothing. I would fiercely protect myself and my property from anyone who tried to take it from me but I felt utterly powerless. One lone voice against a group of hooded men / boys intent on taking whatever they please and doing as much damage as they can in the process is not going to have much effect. In the end I closed my windows and let them carry on and for the whole of today I have felt awful for it.

This morning began in the strangest way. I woke up at the sound of the alarm but had to actually talk myself out of bed. Everything took longer. The morning ritual of getting showered, dressed and eating breakfast felt strangely off, like nothing was going as planned. I had to go back to the flat for my wallet, the morning tube journey felt more claustrophobic than usual and people seemed to look at each other suspiciously or not at all. I know this is usual tube etiquette but to me everything seemed to be so much more intense. I looked at everybody like they were planning to steal my furs & jewellery or wait until I got off the tube and then go home and steal my flat screen.

I hate looking at people that way. I have never worried about or let the threat of terrorism stop me going about my daily business but the riots of the last couple of days have really unnerved me. This is a real threat from people who live on our street and it's from children who think they are above the law. The police were nowhere to be seen last night and I haven't seen one policeman in Greenwich this evening.What I have seen are empty streets and shops that have been boarded up.

 I could not wait to leave central London this evening and I cannot express how much I wanted to get home and lock my door behind me. I even took off my watch and jacket and put them in my bag as I walked from the station. I would normally be listening to my ipod or talking on the phone but I wanted to be as alert to my surroundings as I could be. It's an awful thing to be fearful but the walk home really set me thinking that if anything did happen would I "put up a fight or flee"?

 I'm glad to say that I still believe that I will always fight and I will not let the behaviour and mindset of many affect the way I live my life. I will still smile at people I don't know on the tube and I will still walk home listening to my ipod or chatting on my phone. I will still come home drunk late at night and I will still sleep soundly in my bed. I will wake up happy every morning. I will believe that the people I let into my life are good.
I am sure that I will still go home every night and bolt every door, click every latch and make sure every lock is locked behind me but more than anything I am sure that if anyone tries to take what's mine - I'm going to hit them, really, really hard and If they knock me down I'll just keep on getting back up.

As I write this there is a police helicopter hovering just above where I live and a police siren in the distance . . .
Sleep soundly everybody.

Friday, 29 July 2011

Fish & Chips Friday . . . .

I have a very pretty face for a fat girl. I saw and heard two middle aged women say that today, they made no secret of it or even tried to say it under their breath. I was waiting in the line for a McFlurry and they were in the line next to me. I almost turned around and walked out but it was really hot and I needed something other than a diet (never full fat) coke to cool me down. I looked at them to try and gauge if they thought it was a compliment and I would be pleased to hear it? As soon as I saw the one with the bleached, straw like hair and cheap gold jewellery shoot me a defiant stare I knew there wasn't any kindness in that comment. I looked down at my feet and my gorgeous blood red painted toe nails and said "I've got really pretty toe nails for a fat girl too".

God it's hot! I don't mind being out in the sun, it feels lovely on my hands, face and feet. I like to get my ice cream and some magazines and go and sit in the park. There is a kids boating lake there and I love to sit on the edge and dip my feet in the water to cool down. I roll my tracksuit bottoms up to above my knees (only when no ones around) and dream that I'm Cheryl Cole in those funny trousers she wore in the video when she was still fighting for Ashley's love. I really like Cheryl. I feel her beauty is attainable for anyone carrying a little extra weight like me. Sometimes I take dad's battery operated radio with me but that's only if he's still asleep when I leave for school in the morning. I love to listen to music, especially when I'm in the park or when I go up to my room after school. I can do the dance routine to mostly every song that has "love" in the title. That's my most favourite thing of all, to listen to songs with "Love" in the title.

I haven't been to school for weeks. I don't know if they've called dad? Mrs Burnett my maths tutor is the only one I have to worry about. She's always fussing and fretting, trying to make sure I'm OK and that I'm getting my homework done. She says I'm talented and "the best in the class" but it just makes things worse for me. I wish she wouldn't single me out like that. I'm trying to keep my head down and get through the day unnoticed and then she has to interfere with her meddling ways. I know I'm good at maths. I can add up every calorie there is in a microwave meal and I know exactly how much money I have to do the shopping when dad sends me out on a Saturday morning. Mrs Burnett wouldn't understand.I've seen her drive off in her little two door sports car with the roof off. She probably doesn't ever have to worry about what she spends or eats?

I put my hair up in a high pony tail today so that I can feel the sun on the back of my neck and when I put my head forward to look at my feet splashing about in the pond I like the way I look as the water swishes from side to side. I always like the way I look in my reflection of the pond because it's not really me. I can pretend I'm anyone. My face and body are really just a blur, there's no outline or shape and if I really kick the water about it's even better.

Sometimes I wish I had a mobile phone like everybody else has at school. Although I don't know what I'd use it for? I know dad wouldn't get me one I could take pictures with or play games on and there isn't anyone I know I could call anyway. I think it would be useful though just to keep the numbers of all the takeaways in. That would be amazing! I would phone the man in the fish & chip shop for a chat! I'd call him five times a day and put a different voice on each time and order really expensive stuff that I know he doesn't have!! When he picks the phone up and says "Fryer Tucks how can I help?" I'd put on my poshest voice and I'd say "I'd like lobster and chips and scallops and saveloy's please"! I could do so many accents he'd never guess it was me. Although maybe that wouldn't be such a good idea, dad would kill me for making crank calls and wasting money.

School will be finishing soon so I guess I should get my feet out of this pond and dry off. I need to be at the top of my road by 4.15pm because then I will have beaten everyone out of the school gates and onto the bus home. I can't get the later bus anymore because that's the one with the driver I don't like. The one with the greasy hair and dirty fingernails who always says he wants to borrow my school shirt for a parachute. Last time he said it I told him his "mum had asked me for it for his bedroom curtains because his Barbie ones needed washing" and even the kids that don't talk to me at school laughed. That was a good day.

I made it home and I managed to put the radio back without dad noticing, he didn't ask how school was so I must have got away with that too. Best of all it's Friday and that means "Fish & Chip Day"!! I've even asked dad if I can use the phone to call ahead and place our order and he's said yes! I cannot wait for the fish and chip man to pick up and say "Good evening, Fryer Tucks what would you like?" I'm going to take a really deep breath and try not to burst out laughing because I know exactly what I'm going to say. . . .

Monday, 25 July 2011

Delusions of Grandeur . . .

I had the most awkward moment today - someone actually looked at me!! I mean, totally caught my eye and kept it when everybody knows that when I enter a room, step out of a car or stand at a cash register they must avert their eyes. It was embarrassing because I then had to totally give them my most murderous stare until they looked away! This is why I don't leave the house, people have a tendency to just stare, stare, stare and sometimes from the corner of my eye I catch them pointing too. I always keep my head held high at these times because I've always believed if you look to the sky you'll see the stars whereas if you look at the ground you're only ever going to see shit.

It's not my fault that people are totally fascinated by me. I guess I've known I was special since I was a child and it was only jealousy that made those other children throw rocks at me and set fire to my book bag. Mother always told me that I had the bluest eyes and the blondest hair and that my skin was like that of a china doll and that's why at school she insisted I always wore a little cap and elbow length gloves. My skin is beyond delicate and the sun so ageing that I knew from a very young age that I must keep it covered at all times. I hated the rough and tumble of childhood games and every break time I could be found sitting under the willow tree at the edge of the playground engrossed in a monthly periodical. I loved to read the high fashion magazines of the day and pretend that it was me looking coquettishly up from my gelato in Milan or swinging playfully from a streetlamp on the Champs De Elysee. It was only the shrill ringing of the school bell or the pain of a football being kicked directly at my face that brought me back to that playground in dismal south east London. Still, I knew even then that my talent and fine looks would take me far, far away from this awful, common place . . at least someday anyway.

I've had another letter from the "Local Authority" demanding I pay my rent! I mean seriously, do they really think that I LIKE living in this piss stinking tower block?? I just cannot cope with these mean spirited people! I explained to the ethnic looking lady at the council offices that I wouldn't be paying my rent for the next couple of weeks as I had to invest all of this months money on Monty's vet bills. Monty is my darling Persian Blue and the only thing that keeps me sane. As I explained to the vet when I rushed him there last week. I'd only just opened the bottle of peroxide when Monty made a leap for it and spilled it everywhere. All over himself, all over me ( he absolutely ruined my antique silk kimono) and destroying the Marrimeko bath mat. The poor darling is now part Persian blue and part pigeon grey. The vet said unfortunately cat's fur doesn't respond to bleach in the same way my silky tresses have. Poor, poor Monty, I have a good mind to take him down to the council offices myself just to prove a point to those rent demanding Nazi's! He could have died and I was almost left with my hair half done.

I've decided the only way I can get Monty and I out of this pickle is to leave the flat and go back to mothers. I haven't spoken to her for almost five years, she didn't take kindly to the news that I had been having an affair with  Ranjit from the post office as she doesn't believe in ethnic mixing. I explained that Ranjit and I had been frantically clashing our cultures together since she started collecting her pension but she threw me out of the house and told me to take my perversion elsewhere. That's how I ended up in "local authority" housing. They do rehouse you quite quickly if you're 54 year old single white male with a silk cravat and a Persian blue. I don't think the neighbours will miss me. I've been playing my favourite aria's full blast night and day just to drown out the sound of the police helicopters and those awful barking pit bulls. I've always thought that it's possible to beautify your surroundings with some scatter cushions and a nice aria.

The taxi driver was furious with the amount of bags I told him to carry downstairs. I didn't care what he said, I wasn't having my drapes and lounge suits being put in that urine and vodka stinking lift! So what if he had to walk up and down eighteen flights of stairs, that's what I'm paying him for. I told him he's lucky we have stairs in this country. I said " I bet you haven't even seen a mud shack taller than two storeys where you come from" but I don't think he understood.

Anyway, everything is fine and beautiful again now. I'm safely ensconced in the room where I grew up. I've put mother to bed. I've tucked her in very tightly so she can't fall out the side, or even get out of the bed without calling for me.I've made sure I've locked her bedroom door just in case she thinks she's going to go wandering again. She made the local news a couple of weeks ago when she was found at half past three in the morning, barefoot and in her nightie around the back of "Uncle Jack's Chicken Shack".

I know she's glad I'm home really, even if she said she'll never forgive me for dallying with "Rancid Ranjit".

 It's all worked out well really, just me, Monty, my silk kimono, mother and my aria's.

Saturday, 23 July 2011

I've got a monkey mind and I'm going to use it . .

I think if I could vomit a whole tin of alphabet spaghetti it would make for more entertaining reading than what I've been writing lately. I cannot get inspired. I don't know if it's the weather or the fact that nothing interests me at the moment. I refuse to watch television. I refuse to buy a newspaper or a magazine. I refuse to gossip and I refuse to pick up the phone. It's like I've put my mind on a strict diet and it's not to be fed any information incase it starts bingeing. I don't even really want to open the door to anyone so all I have to amuse myself is myself. I'm the last guest at my own dinner party and I cannot wait for me to leave. I keep wanting to get my coat and show myself the door. If I could be bothered to pick up the phone I'd call myself a cab and ask them to drive me far far away and this all began because I thought it would be a good idea to try and reread a book I bought years ago on how to "Tame the Monkey Mind".

I have a huge monkey in my head. I'm not talking about some playful chimp in a pair of dungarees. I'm talking about some great rampaging, shit kicking town destroying beast like King Kong. He's in there, thundering around, ripping up trees and climbing to the top of the Empire State building and he's got me in his big hairy hand, although I'm not in a blonde wig and a silk dress. I think I'm only wearing some  generic but expensive underwear. He moves so fast and throws me about so violently it's hard to catch what I'm wearing. My hair looks nice though and I've still got my holiday tan so that's a couple of positives. The only time he seems to calm down is just before I go to sleep. I can picture him then because he's lying on his back and he throws me up and down or twirls me around between his fingers like I'm a baton and he's some great gay gorilla majorette. I know the monkey in my mind is gay because when he goes tearing through the town he always destroys the cheap shops first and everything he eats is fat free.

"Taming The Monkey Mind" is a buddhist inspired book on how it is so difficult for us humans to concentrate and focus. How we all have a "monkey mind" that never allows us to find calm or tranquility and how we are inclined to jump from one idea to the other. Like I said, I tried to read it many years ago and by the time I was ten pages in I found my mind awash like a child with ADHD who was screaming for a dose of Ritalin. It still has the same profound effect on me, as soon as I open the book the monkey knows I'm on his case and he starts acting up and destroying stuff.

He's currently having a wash in the Thames, using HMS Belfast as a back scrub and with his eye on Boris Johnson's office. I do hope Boris isn't working today because he looks a lot like a cotton bud and monkeys ears need cleaning. This is how the monkey gets me, worried and fretting about what he's going to do next? What havoc or destruction is going to be left in his wake. He's just rinsing off by Tower Bridge now, there are a few tourists taking pictures and pointing but he's not really taking any notice so maybe I'll give the book another go while he's relatively calm.

The book says to breathe deeply and empty my mind of thoughts and to find a quiet space but it talks in riddles. I get confused and lost trying to find the quiet space and then that's when the monkey comes thundering up behind me dragging his knuckles on the floor and making that awful screeching sound. Sometimes I'm almost there and then he breathes his monkey breath in my ear and I have to start all over again. Why do I always have to have the biggest everything? Why have I got "Gorillas in the Mist" wandering around in my head? Why couldn't I have a playful kitten or maybe a tortoise instead of something so hairy and destructive? Even a chimp on a bicycle would be less hassle. It's probably best that I've managed to calm him a little by putting my head under the covers and closing my eyes for a  while.

I've decided not to read the book anymore, I've searched online and there is a test you can take to see if you have ADHD. Monkey's currently sitting at my desk and answering a series of multiple choice questions and getting himself diagnosed and I have just ordered another book. I'm still going down the Buddhism route but I've chosen a gentler animal, it's called "Buddhism for Sheep".

 I really hope this one works? Although I'm already thinking is it better to walk around with a sheep on a lead or a monkey on your back? And what if monkey eats the sheep? And what if the sheep I count at night don't like this one? Monkey's just looked up from his test with a big grin on his face and I know this means trouble . . .

Tuesday, 12 July 2011

Well informed or just well endowed?

I used to think that I didn't really need to be well informed. All I needed to get through life was a smile and a tight pair of jeans and it's true, that did get me pretty far but there comes a time when you realise that shaking your money maker is only going to bring you spare change and you need to pull your head out of your pants and take a look around.

It's easy to get consumed by a lifestyle and be blinded by the disco lights and it's relatively easy to win friends and influence people when you're paying for their drinks. It's harder to actually stop the madness and go back to living a simpler life.There has been a real shift in how I've been thinking and feeling lately and the only way I can describe it is that I've had a feeling of calmness descend upon me. It's as if you could pinch me and a couple of days later I'd say "ouch, that hurt".

This has been such a year of change for me. I've shared a lot in this blog and mostly kept it light, fun and bitchy which is sometimes what I'm all about but the last 10 days I've really struggled with what I'm going to write on here. Every post I started seemed too flippant, like I was playing to the crowd and not talking about how I really feel. In an age of reality television, kiss & tell expose's and phone hacking I guess we are used to reading the most intimate secrets of anyone and everyone and I wanted to live up to the expectations of my audience of 29 (followers). I wish I had more but I do love each and every one of you personally.

I've been reading some of the posts on here and there are a couple of life changing and enhancing things that have happened since I started this blog:

I reached the grand old gay grandaddy age of 40 (which I'd already started to panic about on my 39th birthday). This was a huge issue for me. I was seriously thinking that I'd look in the mirror and there would not be a valid person staring back but at just over a month in I can truthfully say that it was no biggie. I didn't slip into some nowhere land where I roam around with all the other Dinosaurus Pecs. Nothing changed except I learned to embrace my fortieth year in the manner which i've always lived ( I got rolled down a huge hill in a plastic ball).

 I began to downsize my life and possessions. I'm not even a quarter of the way through but eBay is a marvellous thing, it can help you clear your house and mind while affording you a welcome income. In my case a cluttered wardrobe really did mean a cluttered mind. I also totally redecorated my flat and by doing so discovered that a fresh lick of paint on the walls can be far more fulfilling than a fresh lick anywhere else.

I also decided to stop seeing my therapist but the biggest surprise was that he stopped seeing me. The last time I saw him he said he thought I didn't need him anymore and he let me go before I could even break the news. Imagine that? It was like the perfect end to the perfect love affair. It was the most pain free, easy parting of ways I've ever had and it shows what an amazing therapist he is (either that or he read my post about my intention to stop our sessions and replace him with a bottle of champagne each week).

I realise this post is like a retrospective, let's treat it like a "Greatest Hits" of my last fifteen posts but I started a new writing course on Saturday and it's got me a little confused. It's called "creative non-fiction" and it's to teach me how to write about things that have happened to me in an engrossing way rather than an "entertaining way", to me, you can't have one without the other but I'm going to keep quiet and listen and if at the end of the course I don't agree, I'll set fire to the classroom, just to be "entertaining". I was absolutely transfixed by my tutor, couldn't take my eyes and ears off of her. I even have a new name for the posts on my blog, they are not "posts" they are "personal essays".

If this personal essay has not been as entertaining as it's predecessors it's because I'm trying on a new me and in the meantime I just wanted to keep you up to date with my progress. I'm sure I'll get back to being well endowed pretty soon but at the moment I'm happy just trying to keep well informed. Normal service will resume as soon as possible.

P.S To all my other "followers" on Facebook and Twitter - I love you too.

Thursday, 30 June 2011

House Sitter.

The great thing about being a freelance writer is that you can work anywhere you want. You can also take on any amount of small jobs to keep your supplies of gin and creme de la mer from being depleted while you're in between articles / columns / poison pen letters. Earlier today I was thinking of a nursery rhyme from my youth called Old Mother Hubbard (who never had any food in her cupboards). I bet that crazy old bitch was a freelance writer too, she just didn't realise she could have earned a crust doing some other work.

I, on the other hand, have found my calling, or my second choice career if the writing doesn't afford me all the luxuries I deserve. It's something so simple, yet so fun and something anyone can do if you know how to open a street door and switch off an intruder alarm. No, I haven't found a latent talent for breaking and entering, I'm house sitting.
I cannot believe I've never thought of this before. It's something I should have considered even when I was gainfully employed. I have taken possession of the keys to a lovely four bedroom property with two bathrooms, a well stocked fridge and booze cabinet, a huge garden and a rather crazy dog. I have it for a full week and it's literally five minutes drive from my own flat (which while I'm here I'll be using as a walk in wardrobe).

The owner has gone away on holiday and thought I would be the perfect candidate to keep an eye on things. I didn't have to think twice about taking ( actually, it was more of a snatch) the money he was offering, along with his car keys, alarm code and gym pass. All I need to do is feed & walk the dog and make sure the house doesn't burn to the ground.

What I'm not allowed to do is:
Have any wild parties
Wear any of his clothes
Try to break the code for the safe
Impersonate him if arrested

I'm trying my hardest to keep within these very restrictive and unfair rules so I've decided to use them as guidelines only. I'm certainly not going to have any wild parties, not on a week night anyway but I have organised a little get together. It's my nieces 18th birthday and I promised her months ago that I'd find her an amazing venue. It had totally slipped my mind but now fate has thrown this house into my lap I may as well make the most of it. My niece is crazy about social networking so I've said that the guest list is to be kept strictly to an open invite on Facebook and she's not to put it on twitter. I figure if I keep the rules of attendance to no ginger hair or tattoos for the girls and no missing teeth or facial scars for the boys it should be a relatively safe crowd. I'm currently training the dog to attack redheads by dressing the owners real goose feather pillows as orphan Annie and tying them to the back of his lawn mower. I'd say the garden has never looked better but it's currently covered in a sea of white. It looks like Donald Duck took residence in a hanging basket and had a severe attack of alopecia.

I've only worn a couple of items of his clothing. If truth be told he's a lot taller than me and it took me so long this morning to shorten the legs of his jeans that I gave up after the second pair. He has extra long arms too so I've taken the liberty of turning most of his sweaters into tank tops. Hopefully that will teach him to straighten his shoulders when he walks and will stop him dragging his knuckles on the floor. He looked furious when I shouted that he walked like a big, fat, constipated orangutan when the taxi arrived to take him and his family to the airport, even the taxi driver thought I was hilarious.  I've absolutely not even looked in his underwear drawer so I know for certain that's not where he keeps his stash of pornography and herbal cigarettes. If he asks why the dog had to be rushed to the vets and was asleep for two days I'll say she must have opened that drawer herself. The dog is really fussy about what she eats anyway, she didn't even go near next doors cat even after I went to all the trouble of catching it for her.

I've given up on trying to get into the safe. It's so ridiculous to have one built into the floorboards anyway. I had to rip up all the carpet in his youngest daughters bedroom just to find it. I didn't even bother trying to crack the code. I thought a few heavy blows with a sledgehammer and then a little experiment with some homemade explosives might do it. The whole bedroom is a mess! The collection of Barbies that were lining the walls look like they've just spent 12 days down a Chilean mine. Anyway, I have real suspicions his daughter is a secret smoker after I found a packet of twenty hidden in her pyjama case.

I don't understand why the police arrested me for misleading them. If it wasn't for his nosey neighbour taking offence at my reversing into her living room in his 4x4 they never would have guessed I wasn't the legal owner of that car anyway. How was I know to know the car was in reverse? I guess I shouldn't have just put pedal to metal but I totally forgot I'd left Muffy in the park until I was brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed. She looked so pleased to see me as I scaled the fence and untied her from that tree. I've even sewed a patch on the hole I ripped in that beautiful cashmere sweater when I eased her back through the mesh wire, her ear has stopped bleeding now too.

I am loving my second career as a house sitter. I've really had a fabulous time. It's been a well earned rest for me and has got me fired up and ready to start writing again. I'm thinking of advertising my services but I think word of mouth will probably get me all the work I deserve. It's a very close and exclusive neighbourhood and I know people are talking about me already. I'm just surprised that the owner of the house is cutting his holiday short and trying to come home on the "first available flight". Least I think that's what he said, it was hard to hear with all the screaming and shouting going on in the background. He happened to call the night I held my nieces party and a couple of ginger girls had taken offence at not being allowed in and started smashing the kitchen windows. I hope he doesn't think me rude or ill mannered but I had to put the phone down and deal with that and then those boys with no teeth arrived and well, let's just say Muffy hasn't been the same since.

Monday, 27 June 2011

Why we were all dying to get into Glastonbury this year . . .

I watched some of the Glastonbury festival on television last night. I really tried not to. I tried to remain aloof. I told the TV I was in no mood to turn it on and I shot it some awful, evil looks . . . but then I succumbed. My Glastonbury regret has been huge and this year, more than any other year, I wish I would have gone.

I've tried to kid myself there was not one band that I wanted to see, except there really were so many. I've argued that it's the playground of the unwashed and immoral but then reasoned that a pack of wet wipes and some antibacterial hand gel would have gone a long way. I've thought about the awful hangover, the absolute temptation there would be to succumb to handfuls of pharmaceuticals and the downward spiral that would induce. I've told myself the long journey home would never have been worth it and I even prayed for rain . . .but I still wish I would have gone.

I'm not a Glastonbury virgin. I have been, once, many years ago. I had such a good time that I can't remember if it was 1993 or 1995. I've researched who played there these years and I cannot remember seeing one band. I know for certain it wasn't 1994 because I've just read there were some crazy people shooting at each other and someone dropped dead from an overdose.These kind of things stick with you and I don't recall dodging bullets or giving anyone mouth to mouth.
The few things I remember from 93/95 are:
Laying down on the floor and almost crying because someone threw a Frisbee at me and I thought it was a UFO.
Dancing around a campfire while wearing a poncho I'd fashioned from a blanket and a pair of borrowed cowboy boots (preempting Kate Moss's fashion moment by at least 15 years)
Not going to the toilet for four days.
Other than that my mind keeps drawing a blank.

Glastonbury is said to be the greatest party on earth but I guess that's all relative to what you want from a party. I love the idea of it because it feeds into every one of my senses. You can be as hedonistic as you want to be ( at least you don't have to worry about taking that really dangerous last night bus home) and you can also become one with nature and embrace the land (or get found face down in a field like I did). It may be a cliche but you've got the sex the drugs and the rock and roll all on tap.You've got the being at one with nature and you've also got around 140,000 people all up for the same thing! That's a heady mix for fun and frolics.
The amazing thing is apart from people being shot at and dropping dead in toilets there haven't really been any reported acts of violence at Glastonbury for many years (apart from Amy Winehouse punching a fan in the face in 2008) so it's like the perfect rainbow village. If the Jehovah Witnesses could get rid of all the gays and sinners I bet their idea of heaven would be Glastonbury. I just don't think they'd get any major acts to headline there, although it would be frigging amazing if they did book Amy Winehouse.

The first step to getting to Glastonbury is actually managing to get yourself a ticket and this is getting more impossible each year. The year I went we didn't even have to bother with that. We decided we wanted to go on Wednesday evening. We bought the tent on Thursday morning, saw our dealer on Thursday afternoon, climbed the fence on the Thursday evening and left for home on the Monday morning. Have I mentioned I got the sack from my job on the Tuesday? This will happen if you spend four days out of your mind running frantically through fields and not brushing your teeth.
I wouldn't even think of trying to climb the fence now - apparently they've got attack dogs with taser guns at every entrance.

To try and placate my feelings of missing out this year I keep telling myself that Glastonbury would not really be how I don't remember it anyway. I've heard complaints that it's sold out, that it's more corporate and that it's now the playpen of those with an Aga and a Toyota Prius. After all, Coldplay were one of the headliners this year and I did manage to spot Gwyneth in the audience wearing that damn white blazer that's permanently stitched to her back and bopping gently from side to side but I still don't care!
Everything I saw on television looked amazing! It made me want to strip off my clothes, build a fire in the middle of the flat and go and piss through someones letter box ( not really the best way to endear myself to the neighbours).

I'm determined to go next year but there is just one major problem - I've just looked online and it's not happening. I'm so disappointed. I was already researching Winnebagos (I'm never sleeping in a tent again).
Everyone's had such an amazing time this year that the fields and the cows and the farms and all that other country stuff need a rest.
It's probably for the best, the tickets are so expensive anyway. I'll put the money towards something that I really need, like an Aga or a Toyota Prius.

Thursday, 16 June 2011

Why I've swapped therapy for champagne . . .

I see a therapist - I've never made any secret of it, in fact, I've worn it like a badge of pride and told anyone who'll listen that I went looking for a therapist to help me find myself. I began having therapy after living in America where therapy isn't a dirty word - it's a way of life. It helped that I had a job that financed my every whim. I actually had a mini entourage at one point. I used to think it was glamorous and humorous to tell people that I had a therapist, a personal trainer, a hairdresser and a spray tan man. I was living like a rock star, seeing the trainer three times a week, the tan man once a week and the therapist every other week. Now, in hindsight and with a depleted bank balance, If I'd have seen the therapist once a week and worked on my mind rather than my arse and tan I'd have been a lot richer and a lot more fulfilled.

My therapy sessions helped me deal with my addictive personality and my ridiculous relationship with shopping, sex, drugs & food. I'd tried, tasted, sniffed and snorted, filled my flat with clothes and possessions I never needed or wanted and ate & drank my way around the world - but nothing made me happy. I used to turn up at my therapy sessions and spend the best part of the hour in tears and I actually loved it. A friend once said that by talking to a therapist you get to star in your own mini movie. It's all about you and for a whole hour (or fifty minutes depending on the calibre of therapist) you can say, scream, cry, shout, sob or sit in stony silence. I'd never advise anyone to go to a therapy session and sit in stony silence, just find someone you really hate and go on a date with them once a week.

I used to think of my sessions as taking place in a panic room or a place in a safe house.Once I was in that room, anything could be said and I wouldn't be judged. I took to therapy like I'd taken to all my other loves and vices. I grabbed it by the throat, shook it, gave it a great big kiss and ripped it's clothes off. It ended up being my greatest love, more than Mulberry, more than cocaine and more than whomever I was dating at the time. So, in my usual manner, I gave up all the other addictions and became addicted to therapy.Way to go Danny boy - you just swapped tons of fun for an hours worth of tears.

My therapist advised me to leave my well paying, high pressured but shallow and ultimately unfulfilling job - so I did. What the therapist didn't realise was without the job, I couldn't afford the therapy so he actually ended up seeing me for free. Imagine having a therapist that either likes you so much or thinks that you need so much help that he tells you to leave your job so you have to stop paying him? Like the relationship between Clarice Starling and Hannibal Lecter, it became quid pro qou - the less I payed, the more of my guts I would spill. I began to think that I was actually a case study and would scour the Internet  to see if there was such a magazine as "Therapists Weekly" or "how to help the afflicted" because I was sure I'd be the centrefold, with the staples where my soul should be.

I've tried many things in the pursuit of happiness and in the last few years I've learned that you really have to give up many things to find true happiness. Letting go of the obvious stuff like material possessions has taken me the longest to deal with. I am only now getting rid of things that I have clung to for years. I've replaced my love of clothes, bags & coats with a love of eBay and the amount of stuff I have to sell is shocking. I've found things I don't ever remember buying.

I've also learned to let go of the spray tan man. My want and need for him is fading faster than my tan. Eight years of constant sunbed and spray tan has left enough residue to keep me going at least until Christmas and even then I'll still look like an overdone turkey.

The personal trainer has gone but the love of the gym remains. It's flame is not burning as bright as before but I do still need to stoke the fire at least twice a week. I've even let go of my beloved Dr Sebagh, if you're not familiar with him - google him. My therapist actually said to me a couple of weeks ago "you've come so far from "Botox Boy" who first came to see me". I didn't know whether to punch him or thank him.

There is just one more thing to let go of and it's going to be the hardest one of all. I actually do not know how to tell him but I've decided to stop having therapy. My next session will be my last and I'll then be in recovery from therapy. I don't think there are any groups or meetings to help you leave your therapist. I've googled the initials T.A (therapists anonymous) and all I found was the Territorial Army and I'm sorry, but fuck that for a game of soldiers. Camo trousers and a beret has never been my look. I want a simple, peaceful life not one where I get given a gun and a grenade.

I have already decided what I will do with the money I will save each week from not seeing my therapist. I have placed an order with Fortnum & Mason to have one bottle of their champagne delivered to my door each Friday. I feel after all the years of excess and then the years of retribution that I deserve this one small luxury, that is, of course, until I become addicted to champagne and end up back in therapy.