Monday, 31 December 2012

Reasons To Stay Home Alone On New Years Eve.

New Year is traditionally the time when we say goodbye to the old, hello to the new and make the decisions and resolutions we aim to keep for the next twelve months.
Gym memberships are purchased, diets are started, alcohol is given up and new leaves are turned over.  New Year for many means it's the kick start that they need to try for a new career, to study, to travel or even to just sit back and reevaluate all that they have. Some make the decision to leave their partner, others make the decision to finally settle down and accept each other for what they are, and for others, it's time to give up on all things romantic and fall head over heels in love with themselves.
I've tried all of these things at New Year and to be truthful, none of them seem that new to me anymore.

It can be difficult to not succumb to the lure of the pub and the nightclub on New Year's Eve. The lull of those "in between" days from Christmas Eve to NYE can be hard to take, it's the awful anti climax after the tinsel, turkey and all it's trimmings which makes us want to have one last blow out before the chimes of Big Ben, but I have always found it a time of enforced hilarity and celebration. It's akin to turning up at your favorite store on the opening day of its sale only to find you've left your wallet on the kitchen table. You rush through the door, start elbowing people out of the way, tearing things from the rails and digging through piles of cashmere sweaters like a dog digging for a bone, only to find you never had the cash to pay for what you wanted in the first place. You find yourself getting hot and sweaty, chewing your tongue and gritting your teeth whilst in the company of people you normally wouldn't be seen dead with, and there you stand at the end of it all, wild eyed and fighting with a complete stranger over the same winter coat.
The only difference is in a nightclub on NYE you'll probably be fighting with the cloakroom attendant over a coat that is rightfully yours, but you've drunkenly lost the cloakroom ticket for.

I've realized that the start of a New Year is more a time for reflection rather than going out, downing shots, being sick on my favorite shoes and then trying desperately to find a cab home. Spending the newest day of the newest year with my head down a toilet bowl is hardly the best way to ring in the changes and embrace the more user friendly me, and the last thing I want to be doing when I embark on my mission to start a new life, is trying to find some loose change on the walk of shame home.

Also, New Years Eve was traditionally the time when complete strangers took the opportunity to kiss you on the lips and put their arms around you, nowadays it's the perfect time of year for complete strangers to kiss you on the lips, give you a cold sore or the Norovirus and then steal your handbag.
It's no fun when you look to your wrist on the stroke of midnight only to realize someone's made off with your Rolex, and that really handsome stranger who whispered "Happy New Year" to you after your sixth Champagne cocktail?
He's just stolen your earrings.
So it's "Happy New Year" to you and some lovely new ear candy for him.

I'm trying not to be jaded about New Years Eve and I truly believe it's healthy to let go of the old and be open to new experiences, new people and new beginnings but this year I don't think I'll find them in a bottle of tequila or on the edges of a dance floor. I'll probably find them sitting quietly at home, alone and reading a book. I'm not being wistful or enforcing some kind of solitary confinement upon myself, I just find that as I've got older that the beginning of a New Year is a time when I really do have to take the time to say goodbye to actions or feelings that have held me back, and to reevaluate what I need and where I want to be in the future.
Youth and ambition can make it easy to discard anything that has served it's purpose but age and experience have softened me, so now instead of being cut throat and cynical, I'm trying more and more to be soft tongued and lyrical. I'm not saying that every day is going to be like a Disney movie, I'm just going to try to live life a bit more like Snow White, rather than always pretending to be the big bad wolf.
After all, Snow White is a rather good role model for tolerance and acceptance isn't she?  She lived with seven tiny little men of questionable appearance, some with bad manners and suspect lifestyle choices and she was also very open to talking to the elderly and vulnerable.

I think what I'll do is spend this New Year alone, rereading the story of Snow White and trying to learn some life lessons from her tale. Although from what I remember she was hardly a paragon of upwardly mobile ambition was she? This girl was hardly a "Go-Getter".
In fact, she took advantage of every situation she was in and if anything she used her looks and charm to manipulate people to get what she wanted.

Which is exactly the type of person who'd steal your handbag and your earrings in a nightclub on New Years Eve . . .

Tuesday, 4 December 2012

If Bisexuals Are Revolting Can I Please Be Marie Antoinette?

Recently I wrote an article for The Huffington Post that seemed to infuriate, inflame and irritate a lot of bisexuals.
I have no idea what got inflamed and irritated because apparently, they don't sleep around and never have done.
That's just a horrible myth that everyone in the world believes about bisexuals, a myth and a stereotype that mean, bigoted, narrow- minded heterosexuals like me propagate. A terrible assumption and slur on every bisexual in the land that I helped circulate with my hateful words.
I seem to have upset a huge demographic of Dr Who fans, fat men with suspect facial hair and in dire need of a neck, some (I think) women who can't even put their face upon their twitter accounts but like to use cute or "kick ass" anime faces, others with seriously bad haircuts and someone with the ugliest breasts I have ever seen in my life. (The face was anime but the breasts were pure Godzilla).
I'm such a "nasty breeder pig?!" that these paragons of bisexuality have thrown all of their toys out of their pram (it also converts into a push chair, it's extremely versatile), picked them back up, took them home and refused to come out and play again.
Hell hath no fury like a bisexual who has read a blog post they didn't like.
Their anger and fury is far more rampant than their sex lives, I MUST make that clear. 
Bisexuals don't sleep around OK? 
Hopefully, in this blog I can go some ways to mending the broken bridges, highways and bi ways so that we can all be friends again. Let's be all encompassing and share the love shall we? I want to open my arms to every angry bisexual in the land who bothered to read my blog post and I want to focus only on them, nobody else, just the furious ones that bothered commenting and sending hilariously ridiculous messages to me via twitter.

Firstly, it's terribly bad form to ever describe a bisexual as fashionable:
I (allegedly) described bisexuality as being "trendy" and likened it to being a "fashion choice".
I need to clear this up, after reading some of the comments I received and then looking at the people who sent them & doing some background research ( such as looking at their twitter accounts, their likes / dislikes and profile pictures) I unreservedly take that back.
Bisexuals ARE NOT TRENDY. 
Lord no! Hell no! Black is definitely the new black and the bisexuals that got so riled up and nasty are so far from being fashion forward that they are still all getting dressed in the back of their closets, with the lights off and the door firmly shut.
I totally get it now:
Fashion is a choice, Bisexuality isn't and never the twain shall meet.

Stereotypes are bad! They do not exist in bisexuals:
Each bisexual is special and individual, no two are the same and they are like the human version of Moshi Monsters.
One of the funniest comments I had was from a straight guy who took umbrage at my blog post and said how would I like it if he described gay men as "creepy weirdos, incredibly fashionable and sex crazed hedonists"?
The more I've thought about it, the more I like it. 
I've probably wrote about / been or slept with all three. Incase you are wondering, I'm not the "bigoted heterosexual breeder pig" I was accused of being,
I'm a stereotypical gay man and what makes me a gay stereotype? I’d think it’s probably the fact that I sleep with other men?
Stereotypes are not a bad thing and the people that replied to my blog post need to give themselves and the general public more credit. No one seriously believes all gay men are well groomed, well dressed and are always having sex and nobody believes all straight people want 2.5 kids and dream of living in a semi detached house. Some of us are and some of us do, but ultimately, no one cares.
I have no idea what a stereotypical bisexual is? Isn't it someone that sleeps with someone or falls in love with someone without being gender specific? 
Although from reading the complaints and comments I received, I'd say they were a bunch of furious, middle aged Daily Mail readers, who need to get out more and put their bisexuality into action.
Yes, we get it, you DON'T sleep around!

Bisexuals have no support in the community:
First of all I thought, OK, maybe this is true, but it's not.
I had a lot of people complain that I had insulted the whole LGBT community with my ignorance and bigotry. Whenever I see someone describe themselves as part of the LGBT (lesbian / gay / bisexual /trans) community it makes me suspicious anyway.
Haven't we fought for equality? Why separate ourselves in the first place and when exactly does a bisexual stand up and identify themselves as being so? When do they make it a "political statement" or show they are proud of who they are? They are certainly not doing it by walking down the street hand in hand with their partner of the opposite sex unless they are wearing an "I'm a bisexual" sign around their neck. Again, from some of the more militant responses I got to my article, I'd say that you might think you're being a poor, misunderstood bisexual but to the rest of the world you're the same as anybody else. If a bisexual feels so slighted, misunderstood and ostracized then why don't they stand up and do something? Pride marches are all inclusive and there are phone lines and charities that are open to all but from reading the responses at The Huffington Post, I'd say bisexuals marginalize themselves by always wanting to stand apart. 
As a gay man I don't care what you are, just man up and get on with it.

Bisexuals are everywhere:
Apparently not. I said that in a freer thinking and more open, tolerant society bisexuality is being embraced and it's more than OK to make the choice to sleep with people from both genders.
I was wrong, and who told me? The angry bisexuals / straight pseudo intellectuals who say it isn't a choice. People are not allowed to give themselves the freedom to make choices because bisexuality is a terribly traumatic thing to deal with; it's never just as simple as fancying someone on a Saturday night or falling in love with someone on a second date.
There is so much more hurt, angst and soul searching that has to be done.
Once again, no one is deemed intelligent or emotionally strong enough to think they may want to sleep with a guy one night or a girl another night because having a sex life and making choices whilst being bisexual is so different from being a heterosexual or a homosexual.
It would seem bisexuals have such special needs that they view sex / love and emotion in a totally different way to every other person who's ever felt it.

Bisexuals suffer more "discrimination and violence" than straight or gay people:
Seriously? Is there a new term for this? Is it "Bisexual Bashing" because I am sure any thug who see's a same sex couple and is determined to abuse or threaten them with violence is not going to be able to differentiate your being bisexual from being gay. 
Discrimination against bisexuals and being "bi phobic" is endemic in society? I guess it is when everybody has to watch what is said and written in a politically correct age. When even saying "bisexuality is en vogue" and anything else is "limiting to your life experience " is deemed to be "mono sexist" and "bi phobic".

Bisexuals are incredibly open, forward thinking people:
I think some are. I know for sure a couple of my friends are and I did receive a couple of very eloquent messages and comments, some of them were intentionally funny too but for the most part the responses were self indulgent, narrow minded and patronizing.
I'm glad I rattled the cages of most of them and maybe I caused a revolt? The bisexuals are revolting and they are coming for me, which puts me in mind of another misquoted, misread and misunderstood old Queen and like her I only have this to say:

"Let them eat cake, c*ck or perform cunnilingus because I really don't care".

* There is no actual record of Marie Antoinette ever speaking the words "let them eat cake". It was a ridiculous assumption that grew out of control and ultimately defined her.
I can relate.

Wednesday, 14 November 2012

The Bonfire Of My Vanity or How to hit Forty (with a big stick).

Recently I've noticed changes in the way I look. A grey hair here, another chin there, a thickening at the waist and a thinning of the lips.
It's like I didn't take the phone call from middle age but it's left me a voicemail saying "I've reserved a place for you in your early forties, can you hurry up and confirm your coming only the demand is high and you'll be shoved back in economy if you don't claim your ticket soon".
Well I'm not coming. I want my (eye) bags removed from the hold, my passport unstamped and the contraband they took from me at security returned. I'm not prepared to swap the twinkle in my eye for a wrinkle around my eye just yet and although I'm the wrong side of teenage spots I know for sure I'm nowhere near the age for liver spots.I feel like I'm just hitting my prime physically (except for a few pounds) and emotionally. The skimpy arms and underdeveloped coping mechanisms of my teens and early twenties have been replaced with the big guns that every other day at the gym and years of experience have given me. I can now pack a punch both physically and emotionally, rather than just packing my lunch.

Reaching the age of 40 was not a big deal for me. 39 was the killer year, the year I began to question everything about myself and where my life was heading.Career,looks,relationships and money all came along to my 39th birthday party and screamed at me, they didn't even bring cards or gifts, they just turned up, blew out the candles on my cake and threw it out in the rain to melt. Luckily, I didn't like that cake anyway, it had been baked, shaped and moulded by others so as I watched it slowly wash away I thought "great, now I can bake a few small muffins, add my own ingredients and leave them in the deep freeze until I'm ready to share them. Let everybody else eat cake".

 I've learned to relax and give myself time to breath and the absolute need to prove myself to everybody all the time has got up, given up and left me. I'm like the hare from the "Hare & the Tortoise", except I've already ran the race, come back, popped a Valium, taken a nap and let the tortoise think he's won. I've removed myself from the rat, hare & tortoise race and I've quit the commute. Life just started to feel far to short to be spending an hour and a half every morning and every evening underground, and in the company of people I'd probably cross the road to avoid. A tube journey to a job you hate is your very own road to hell, so I jumped off before I jumped under.

What I'm saying is this, life gets easier as you get older. The insecurities and patterns of thought that hold you back fade away, the endless need to prove who you are recedes because you find out who you are. It's not easy but if you learn to take a step back and observe rather than always being in the thick of it your priorities will change. It's not about getting old or giving up, it's mostly about growing up and realising whats important. Financially I probably hit my peak about six years ago but as a friend pointed out to me, I'm nowhere near my peak creatively ( I don't know if he means my writing is truly awful?) and holding on to that is what motivates me and keeps me happy. I don't need to go and spend ridiculous amounts of money on possessions because I've finally become self possessed rather than self obsessed, and I don't need to numb any pain because I know how to handle it. I get my laptop out and I start to write rather than getting my cheque book out and starting to write.

Age, experience and life will not wither me, in fact they excite me. I look at them with the same enthusiasm I had in my youth, it's just I have to squint a bit now. There are still so many things I want to do, see and write about and I don't feel any older. I feel more confident and sure of what I'm doing and sure of where I want to be than I ever have. I'm learning to appreciate the grey hair and the few lines that I have rather than thinking they have to be denied, dyed, covered up and lied about. I like my older face, it's the only one I've got so what's the alternative? Looking healthy and happy at 41 is better than looking fifty and lifted at 40. They say at forty you get the face you deserve, well that's fine, I'd rather have that than the face I can afford and I read an article recently that middle age doesn't actually start until we're 55, so I'm still fresh faced and in my infant years anyway.

Becoming 40 is no big deal. If you're approaching it, scared of it, worried about it or dreading it, RELAX. You've already got the hardest part over and done with and although it sounds like a cliche, it really is the truth that life truly begins at 40 and I should know.
I'm hurtling towards 42, on a pair of roller skates and with a smile.

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Looking for Love in all the Wrong Places.

Recently I read a status update on Facebook that I found truly upsetting, in fact, it horrified me. I found the words and intention behind it demeaning, degrading and down right insane:
“Find a guy who calls you beautiful instead of hot, who calls you back when you hang up on him, who will lie under the stars and listen to your heartbeat, or will stay awake just to watch you sleep. Wait for the boy who kisses your forehead, who wants to show you off to the world when you are in sweats, who holds your hand in front of his friends. One who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares and how lucky he is to have you.... The one who turns to his friends and says "that's her / him.'” (Delete or read as appropriate).
 I think I may have gagged several times whilst reading it. Am I so jaded, cynical and bruised by life's experience that the guy who's being looked for would make me run a million miles or does this kind of all consuming "can't live without you" person actually exist? Is there a warrant out for him and a photo fit that needs to be put up on every street corner or broadcast on the early evening news?
To me he sounds like a nightmare in trousers or at the very least someone who is all mouth and no trousers. Does anyone really want to find a man who sounds as sappy as a Disney Movie? I thought women / men / gays / lesbians and sharks had got this whole love thing sorted.Surely independence is better than being emotionally dependant? Especially when the guy who's being looked for and dreamt about sounds like he's a heartbeat away from being a stalker:

Why does anyone want to be called "beautiful instead of hot"? Don't they both go hand in hand to the bedroom? Are they not as intrinsically linked as Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde? There is beauty and hotness in the coldest and the ugliest because as the cliche says "beauty is in the eye of the beholder". Ugly sex is good sex and good sex is ugly, right? Especially if  you're doing it properly.
Why on earth would you want someone to call you right back after you've slammed the phone down on them? "I've put the phone down on you because I think you're an utter **** (choose your four words carefully) so I don't want to talk to you. Leave me alone". Having a partner who calls you back more than a PPI salesman does not make a happy relationship, it just makes you want to disconnect, unplug and tune out. "Let's speak when I'm ready and you realise I'm right".

There is nothing quite so scary as waking up and finding someone a couple of inches away from your face and staring at you. I don't care if it's love, lust or murder in their eyes, in the middle of the night they all look the same. Our sleep time is our dream time, time for us to be alone, to have adventures, to sleep with imaginary partners and even have ugly sex with them if we wanted. Waking up in the middle of the night with someone fawning and panting over you like a love sick puppy is annoying, even when it's done by a lovesick puppy. "You want to put your head on my chest and listen to my heartbeat? Why don't you go and buy yourself a stethoscope and lay on the opposite side of the bed and do it?"

I find the kisses on the forehead thing a little creepy too. I have kissed things on the forehead, mostly babies, puppies and pensioners but it's hardly the kiss of an all consuming passion is it? I think if I had a partner who insisted on doing that I'd have to attach a post it note to my forehead saying "leave me alone" or "go away quickly". Foreheads are for fringes and Botox, not for kissing and licking.

"Wait for the guy who wants to show you off to the world?". Exactly how does this work? I'm confused. Is he in to wife swapping? Husband swapping? That's just what I need, I've falling in love with a porno director and he wants to "show me off". There is a time and place for public displays of affection and that's mostly when there are no public about. Holding hands is for children on school trips and adults on doctors appointments. I don't want to hold your hand unless you're passing me some cash.

Finally, and this is the sentiment that really made me want to get rid of my lunch "one who is constantly reminding you of how much he cares and how lucky he is to have you".
For the love of God, Disney, sweatpants, puppies and ugly sex, seriously?!! You want to hear this constantly? Did you not get enough love as a child? Are you not secure and confident enough to know that you're a good, loveable, worthwhile person without some clingy, wet blanket of a man telling you? It is lovely to be loved but to be told it all the time? You don't need a lover, you need a therapist and if he's constantly saying how lucky he is to have you? I'd say that's probably true so you must dump him and go and have some fun on your own.

Thursday, 4 October 2012

No such thing as a free lunch? In that case I'll have a 'Double Dip' recession with chocolate bits and strawberry sauce please.

I'm confused.
Are we in the double dip or have we come out the other side and are now going down for the third time? Am I supposed to be cutting back, giving some slack or just cutting corners on the luxury and only buying the necessary? Everywhere I look, shop windows shout "Buy Me' yet my bank account is screaming "Help Me", but who should I be listening to? It's hard when your heart is saying let's speculate to accumulate and your bank manager is saying "hand over the credit / debit and store cards or your credit rating gets it".

I've come to the realisation that recession's a bitch; she's like karma with a flick knife and a scowl, and I've had to learn very quickly that I need to cut back dramatically. I'm now swapping branded goods for generic and I've learned that when it comes to stocking my food cupboards, it pays to shop around. Much like the fashion crowd no longer frown upon designer mixed with high street, I've learned there is no sin in mixing Waitrose with Poundland, I just make sure I go to Poundland with a Waitrose bag. Just ask any fashionista with a pair of Prada shoes and a pair of Primark tights why 'keeping up appearances" has never come so cheap. When times are hard I have no time for being a food snob, so you can go ahead and grind your finest coffee beans as much as you want, I know that's a cut price biscuit you're having on the side and that exclusive truffle Parmesan white bean dip? I've seen you scooping that up with an out of date Dorito. "Organically Farmed" jumped on it's low emission tractor and sped off down the country lane as soon as I stepped foot into Iceland and all the "Finest" and "Taste the Difference" in the land comes in a poor third to a fish finger sandwich and a plate of oven chips.
 "Mum's gone to Iceland" I hear you snigger? Well,  'Yummy Mummys' gone too, only she's parked the 4x4 outside Marks & Spencer's.

This never ending recession has left me feeling like the Grand Duke of Dichotomy. What is a luxury and what is a necessity? What do I want and what do I really need? Do I drive the car or do I ride a bike and most perplexing of all? Do I shoot from the hip or bite the bullet and take the free lunch? Desperate times sometimes call for desperate measures and if that means smiling sweetly and not saying what I really want to say (because my mouth is full) at a free lunch then so be it. If it comes to lunch time and your pockets are empty just put on your best coat, your best smile and make for the Selfridges food hall. You can easily leave with a full stomach if you approach every person in a white coat and a hairnet and ask to sample their wares. "Try before you Buy" has never sounded so good when you're saving for the cab fare home, you just need to get your priorities straight. Will it be a free lunch and a cab home or a dull lunch and a bus ride home? My grandmother always told me "There is no shame in being poor, just behaving poor" so it's Selfridges and a full stomach for me.

The fight between want and need and luxury and necessity is a tough one and wine and flowers are probably the most difficult things to deem necessary when times are hard, even if you're buying them as a gift. Recently I was invited to a dinner and I seriously couldn't make my mind up what to take for the hostess, flowers felt too extravagant but I knew the wine would lead to her becoming increasingly volatile, so in the end, entertainment won over extravagance and I went for the wine. In this case it was the correct choice because for the price of a bottle I got a fabulous dinner, supremely drunk and I got to witness a cat fight between her and her sister in law. If you're broke and invited to dinner, ALWAYS take wine, flowers are boring and wine can instigate a whole world of entertainment. Flowers just sit there, then they wilt and die and where's the fun in that? Wine enlivens the conversation and can even lead to fisticuffs so always grab for the grape, even if you plucked it from the bargain bin. Remember, when you're poor, you need to take your entertainment anyway it comes, even if it means your host ends up with a black eye.

We all are feeling the pinch, only the super rich are immune and I'm learning to step away from a life of greed and gluttony. I'm learning to "mend and make -do, to save buying new' and although that's not great for the economy it feels good to me. So what If I balk at the price of Balsamic or I daren't trifle with the price of a truffle? I've had "Chateauneuf-du-Pape" and I can't stand that crap and I'm no fan of  Foie Gras either. If you're down on your luck I advise buying a Wok and selling the Aga because nobody needs a posh oven when they can only afford cheap food.  "A workman being only as good as his tools" holds no weight when all you have to your name is a pack of vegetables and a stir fry sauce.

In a double dip recession you need to take my advice because the only way to keep a straight head and a full stomach is to keep your tongue firmly in your cheek and get on with it.

Saturday, 15 September 2012

A Nuns Habit,Diana Ross,Global Warming,Gay Marriage & Kate Middleton's Breasts.

I grew up in a house where we were taught freedom of speech, freedom to scream and freedom to shout. There were no boundaries between what you could or couldn't say and if you had an opinion you were free to voice it. Which I always did, at the dinner table, at breakfast, in the kitchen, bathroom and bedroom, downstairs, upstairs and halfway up the stairs, there I'd be, answering back and "mouthing off". I was the same at school. I became head of the "debate team" and my religious education teacher became so enamoured of my ability to argue my point about anything and everything that I was given the "Religious Education Prize" at the fourth year prize giving.
"Religious Education" prize? What the hell is that?"
 My mother was terrified I'd turned to God and was heading for a Nuns Habit and a Hail Mary until I explained to her that R.E at my school basically meant a free for all and the classroom was a battle ground for teenage angst and opinions. She calmed down and I chose my prize wisely, a huge hardback pictorial biography of Diana Ross. The headmaster looked at me with utter disgust when he handed it to me because everybody else had chosen something educational whereas I'd chosen something with a huge weave and sequins. I loved that book and quickly took to cutting it up and putting pictures of the mid 80's (as in decade, not the bewigged ones age) incarnation of Miss Ross all over my bedroom walls. My father was impressed thinking I'd finally started to become excited by exotic, glamorous song birds, which I had, but not in the way he hoped.
He thought I was fantasising about being with her but I was only fantasising about being her. My cover was blown when my older brother caught me dancing around my bedroom to "The Boss" with a bath towel around my head and wearing my mothers fur coat.

"I'm Coming Out" never sounded the same to him again.

Anyway, I've gone off track. I was taught to always stand up for what I believed in and never be afraid to voice my opinion, and so I had an opinion on everything. Food, culture, politics, showbiz, music, how ugly your baby is and bad your haircut is, how lovely your grandmother is and what an utter fool your father is. If anyone at school needed something saying they knew I'd say it. I was like motor mouth in a school uniform and on steroids. Even my R.E teacher couldn't control me, the last time I ever saw him was when he jumped up from his deck and like Moses parting the red sea pointed a huge  stick (he kept one at his desk, I went to very rough school) at me and screamed "Warner, don't you ever defy me!" To which I very calmly replied "Alright Sir, who do you think you're talking to? You don't tell me what to do."I was never allowed back in his classroom again and I think he'd have even took my Diana Ross book back if I hadn't mutilated it with a pair of scissors and a pack of Blue Tack. I wasn't so much a "problem teenager", I was a teenager with a problem. I couldn't keep my mouth shut.

I've learned as I've got older that it's not in anyone's interest to have an opinion on everything and that sometimes the best way is the quiet way and that's why I can't have an opinion on swimming with sharks because I've never done it, but I'm sure it's very dangerous. I don't have an opinion on the Republican Party apart from what I've seen of their convention and they obviously can't dance and wear man made fibres. I don't have an opinion on Kate Middleton's breasts because I've seen the photographs and she obviously doesn't have any. I wouldn't dare venture an opinion on Simon Cowell except I hate the way the controls most of Britain's Saturday night and he's obviously stolen Kate Middleton's share of breasts. I'm not sure where I stand on gay marriage except for the love of god, if two people love each other let them do what they want. I have no opinion on Tulisa Constavocunnilingus blonde hair except she looks like a blow up doll in a wig. I have no opinion on Boris Johnson becoming leader of the Conservative Party except to say he looks like Tulisa Constavocunnilingus after a heavy night on the booze and on top of a failed Eastend "rapper". I don't know what to think of Cameron & Clegg except they'd look far more comfortable together dressed as Mickey & Minnie and I have no opinion on global warming except to say "boy, someone must have used a shed load of hairspray to f**k things up that bad". World debt? You should try looking at my bank account. The Arab Spring? Haven't they heard of global warming? Broken Britain? Buy yourself some Blue Tack.

So you see, I've learned to keep quiet and not always voice my opinion. I've mellowed out, calmed down and I've "took a chill pill". I'm relaxed and I don't need to get upset or angry about anything.
I'm just going to sit back, turn off, tune out and watch the world float on by, because sometimes you need to realise your opinion is just like your arsehole, and you should really keep it to yourself.

Monday, 10 September 2012

The End of the Olympics, Prince Harry, The Duchess of Cornwall and an horrific accident involving Gerri Halliwell.

So it's the end of the party.
No more Olympics, no more Jubilee, no more festivals and the end of the party season in Ibiza.
What's a girl, a gay or a geezer to do?
How can we be happy when the party is over and it's left our spirits lower than a pair of saggy breasts?
We're going to get happy that's what we'll do!
I for one am going to get my spirits a sports bra and I'm going to hoist those tired old titties up to the sky again ( you do know I'm using metaphors here don't you? I don't have a pair of moobs. I've got pecs and they are ROCK hard, seriously ROCK hard).
The summer of sport is supposed to have changed the way we think, the way we live and the way we exercise. Hopefully it's inspired most of us not to sit around thinking "maybe I'll empty an ashtray" but to actually get up out of that chair, put on some spandex and run like we've stolen something.
An excellent way to motivate yourself to get fit and keep running is to pretend the police are chasing you but if that doesn't work you could always pretend it's a pack of wild dogs.
If you live on a council estate you could try the police and the dogs but if you live in leafy Surrey pretend you're a fox and the Duchess of Cornwall is chasing you. She could be on horseback or just barefoot, depending on how fast you can run and how angry you make her.
If you're in an extremely leafy suburb and you're extremely imaginative pretend you're a Las Vegas showgirl and Prince Harry is chasing you, although that would never work because most of us would immediately lay down and roll over.

I love Prince Harry, he looks like (he's got) two great big hairy balls of ginger fun.

Exercise is good for you and it's free.
Unless, like me, you pay an extortionate monthly fee to a gym which you probably never attend and only go there on a Sunday to prop up the bar in a pair of leg warmers and a headband. I have a love hate membership with my gym, in as much as I love going there but I hate all the other members. I find it extremely annoying that every single man in the changing room has to wander around with his penis hanging out so I'm seriously trying to find another gym with a better class of penis. Tiddlywinks is a game I played as a child, it's not something I need to be confronted with every time I go for a work out.
If you've got it then flaunt it but if you've never had it then put your pants back on and put it away.

None of us really need to pay gym memberships as the opportunity to exercise is always there every single minute of the day. I used to spend my morning and evening commute by doing butt clenches and heel raises. A packed tube train is the perfect place to do this, especially if someone insists on rubbing up against you. A few butt clenches in the right direction is the perfect place for you to get off whilst getting on the tube and heel raises are perfect for stamping on other commuters feet. The pub can be a great place to do star jumps and forward lunges, especially if you're short and the bar staff can't see you and you won't ever have to join "GymBox" or enter a boxing ring again if you have a problem neighbour. The times I've spent sparring and bobbing and weaving with my neighbour from hell would last me 10 rounds with Muhammed Ali.
"It's a knockout?"
No, it's not because you can't knock someone out who's already been bashed around the head with the ugly stick and who's idea of a quiet night in is "Motorhead's Greatest Hits" and a crack pipe.

I exercise at every opportunity. My life is full of press ups, pull ups, sit ups and squats. Why would I walk when I can hop, skip and jump? Why pass the salt when I can throw it like a shot-put? It's important to keep active and work that body. Why bother opening your blinds when you can spend all day twitching curtains? Use your kitchen appliances as tummy toners and dumb bells. Put your washing machine on a spin cycle and sit astride it, fill your cocktail shaker with martini and lift it above your head twenty times. Not only will you have the perfect martini, you'll have stronger thighs and vaginal bruising. There are a million and one things that you use domestically that are good for your fitness:
Why vacuum when you can hoover in high heels?
Pretend the dust is cocaine and your dusters are your nostrils.
Scrub the bathroom floor and tiles like you're a serial killer after a very busy weekend.
Don't just make the bed, jump on it.
Fight with your neighbours.
Get chased by the police.
Antagonise the local drug dealers dog.

All of these things will add to your general fitness and lift your spirits in this post Olympic comedown. We all need to remember the good times, the gold medals, the opening and closing ceremonies. We need to get over the disappointment at the snuffing of the flame, the sadness of handing the torch to Brazil and the utter disgust and fury that Gerri Halliwell didn't fall off that black cab when it took that corner a bit too sharply.
As a nation we all need to hold our heads up high, pull up our socks and look with hope to the future.

So here's to all of us getting off our fat, lazy asses and getting down the gym.
Shall I see you there on Sunday?
I'll be the one propping up the bar, in a pair of leg warmers and a head band.

Saturday, 1 September 2012

Positive Affirmations, Dirty Underwear, Bottles of Gin & Kim Kardashian (with some Bieber thrown in).

September already?
Did somebody press the fast forward button on 2012 and I missed a few months?
The older I get the quicker time seems to pass.Sometimes the things I think I did yesterday were things I did a month ago and sometimes the things I could be doing tomorrow I should really be doing today. Sometimes the underwear I took off yesterday is the same underwear I'll be putting on tomorrow and that means I won't be wearing any underwear today.
You with me?
Neither am I.
What I'm trying to say is this, don't sit around wasting time when you should be wearing clean underwear.
Nobody likes a time waster in a pair of dirty drawers.

It's hard to keep motivated, especially when you don't really have a focus or a goal which is why I advise  everybody to get a chalkboard and a piece of chalk. It's important that you hang that chalkboard in the place you spend the most time or where it's in your direct eye line first thing every morning. I have mine above the sink in my kitchen and that's not because I spend all day hanging around my kitchen sink. Anyone who regularly reads this blog knows I only ever go in there to dry my underwear, mix cocktails and do a bit of roller skating but I do wander in there first thing every morning to recycle my empties and  defrost my Calvin's.
On the chalkboard you need to write a list of what you want to achieve. It doesn't have to be your life plan, it can be just for the week or the day or if you're really uptight and need micro managing do it by the hour (but if that is the case I suggest you don't get a chalk board you just go out and get a life). Here's an example of what you could write:
"Things to do today"
1. Remember what my name is.
2. Remember who I am.
3. Find out who that man is asleep in my bed.
4. Run to the bathroom.
5. Try not to cry.
This is just an example of what you could write on your chalkboard but If do you spend every night face down in your hallway and wake up with carpet burns and smudged mascara I suggest you forget the chalk board and stop going out. You'll probably only end up using the coloured chalks as eye shadow and lip liner anyway. It is important to have a goal in life but if your greatest achievement is managing to make it home on a Saturday morning without a huge gash in your tights then my guide to enlightenment isn't going to help you.

OK, so now I've managed to alienate half of my readers I'll start again with those of you who really want to live a happy and fulfilling life. Once you've got your chalk, chalk board and found yourself a kitchen you can begin. Think about what you want to achieve, it doesn't have to be anything huge, take baby steps to begin with. Nobody expects you to be an overnight success, in my experience the greater the struggle the more worthwhile the success.
Always remember this  "If at first you don't succeed, try, try and try a Gin".
Gin is an excellent way to get you through the day as long as it doesn't make you cry or bring out your latent violent tendencies. Nobody wants to listen to the problems of a violent, crying drunk.
Drunk and crying yes but violent no.
Just because you happen to believe one good fist is worth a thousand words doesn't mean its true (unless you visit nightclubs with names like "The Hoist" or "Butt Bangers Are Us").

OK, so now I've managed to alienate about a third of my remaining readers.
Are the rest of you with me? You've got your chalk in your hands and you're ready to start "Chalking and Changing" right? The important thing is to realise you have no limitations. You can be anything you want to be. The only thing stopping you is yourself. Think of yourself as a child and how you would  speak to yourself if you had the nine year old you standing in front of you. What did the nine year old you want to be? You wouldn't say bad things would you? You wouldn't tell yourself off or beat yourself down would you? You'd encourage your dreams and say "Go for it Danny"!
I'll show you how it works by having a little conversation with my nine year old self:

Me: "Wow! Danny, look at you! Don't you look cute!"
Nine year old me: "I know, it's my mums dress and lipstick I'm wearing, I hope I don't get caught".

OK, so maybe that doesn't work, let's skip that idea.

A healthy mind is an active mind and the only way to exercise your brain is to keep on learning. Have a thirst for knowledge, read good books and seek out new adventures. Step out of your comfort zone and do something you've never done before.
Run blindly across the road without looking!
Don't bother brushing your hair or doing your make up and wear a balaclava for the day!
Walk into a 24 hour convenience store late at night wearing the balaclava!
Get beaten with a big stick by the man behind the counter of the 24 hour convenience store!
Appear on "Crimewatch"!
Try that really sweet Turkish dessert called "Baklava"!
See your teeth rot and your tongue feel like fur!
See, your life is changed already!

Do you seriously think Donald Trump always looked like that?
I bet Kim Kardashian had to work really hard to get that great big arse (I'm talking about Kanye).
I'm thinking that female shot-putter from the Eastern Bloc will have had to have taken a shed load of drugs to look that butch.
I just know Justin Beiber will have to work really hard to grow a beard to stop looking like a lesbian.
I'm sure I'm going to have to work twice as hard as Beiber to win back all those readers I've offended.

We're all just big dreamers that started off small but we all have a common connection:
A kitchen, a chalk board and some dirty underwear (especially that Kim Kardashian, I can tell just by looking at her).
You must always remember that when the chips are down you can always bend over, dust them off and pick them back up. . . .

Just make sure you don't drop your kebab whilst you're doing it.

Friday, 24 August 2012

Crops & Bobbers, Nikki Minaj and why "White Guys Can't Wear Weave".

Dear Tanika,
It is with much regret and a badly burned scalp that I find myself writing this letter to you.
Last Wednesday I visited your salon "Crops & Bobbers" for my regular "Cut, Blow & Go" (£12.99 including tea and a French Fancy).
I arrived at your establishment well before my allotted 10am appointment time and was greeted by your "receptionist" Kylie (the one with the top knot and the lopsided scowl).
Except I wasn't exactly greeted because Kylie was more interested in applying neon green starfish to her hot pink nails and chewing gum than dealing with a paying customer; without so much as a "Hello! Who are you? Do you have an appointment and can I condition your split ends Sir?" she gestured with her finger (her middle one I should add) that I should sit down in the leatherette massage chair with "Tanika" etched into the back with gold studs.
(I should point out that your I and your A are missing).
I also noticed that your "massage chair" is actually the passenger seat from a Ford Ka. It may have a leopard print headrest but it has no massage capabilities what so ever.

I am most upset that I had to wait for half an hour until you finally decided to show up and without ceremony or an apology dumped an Iceland carrier bag at your station and told me to "stay in your seat, I've just got to go and wash me feet".
You know very well that I do not like being left in front of the mirror witnessing Trevor the Junior fiddling with his perming rods.
In hindsight it was at this point I should have just left the salon but I had a very important job interview that afternoon which I needed to look my best for.

I am now left one week later, both jobless and hairless and I hold you entirely responsible.

After washing your feet (for which you gave me no explanation except for a convoluted story involving a frozen chicken, a false accusation and your being chased by a store detective) you then proceeded to persuade me into having the "£50 Weave & Leave" deal.
Although mindful of my time constraints I finally agreed that yes, I could do a with a new look and enhanced body to my "feels and looks like candy floss" hair (those were your words, not mine).
Little did I know of the mockery and intense pain I have had to endure since.

Tanika, can you please explain to me how you thought you could bond a half head of hair extensions to my scalp with only a tube of crazy glue and a hot wand? Also, why, when we had agreed before Trevor even washed my hair that the colour I should go for was "Ebony Moon" and not "Nikki Minaj Pink" that you proceeded to make my fringe look more colourful than an explosion in a firework factory?
I now have to put up with daily renditions of "Super Bass" being screamed at me by people I don't know or even care to know.
I don't even know what a "Boom, Badoom, Boom Bass" is?
I also take great offence at having Trevor thrusting his crotch at me whilst he fingered my split ends. If I wanted to feel a piercing rubbing against me I'd have whispered in his ear.

As you well know, I didn't make it to my job interview as I was still bent over your back basin at 5.30pm whilst you tried to untangle the tangle teaser you'd managed to attach to my scalp. No matter what you say, a "Tangle Teaser" is meant to tease, not rip hair from it's roots. I found it most upsetting when Kylie invited the rest of the clients over to the basin to take photographs with their smart phones.
I like to look nice in photographs but I don't think the acrylic hair version of "Joseph & His Technicolour Hairdo" is really my best look.
I also did not appreciate your laughing and saying "white guys can't wear weave" whilst pointing at my inflamed scalp.
Not only was that hurtful and judgemental, it's also racially abusive.

Tanika, I am hoping we can come to some form of agreement and you will fulfil the "Hair Repair" promise you made to me when I left the salon. I agree the conditioner that Trevor used called "Coconut Moon" did smell delicious but I do not see why I was charged for the full 2 litre bottle upon my leaving? I know you said it will sooth the burns but I feel you should have at least given that to me for the inconvenience.
I hope once I have at least a half inch of regrowth you will see good your promise to have me back to your salon for a full day of luxury pampering.
I have a particular interest in your "Real Mud of the Thames" facial and the "Hairy Toe No More" pedicure that you offer as part of your "Sit Back & Spa Day".
I am sure that between yourself, Kylie and Trevor you will make the utmost effort to welcome me back as your most loyal and longstanding victim ( I mean customer).

Kind Regards,

P.S I appreciate you lending me your earmuffs as it was very cold outside and the plasters you'd attached to the weeping sores on my head did little to protect my scalp.

P.P.S I am owed a tea and a French Fancy.

Sunday, 12 August 2012

I'm really sorry for getting so drunk and ruining your party (which I'm coming to next week).

Dear Barbara and Colin (Babs & Col),
Thank you so much for inviting me to your housewarming last week.
Firstly, I'd like to once again, welcome you to the neighbourhood but also apologise for my terrible behaviour and offer some explanation as to how things got so out of hand.
I've tried calling your house but the phone either rings and rings or someone (who sounds an awful lot like you Barbara) picks it up and screams a barrage of obscenities at me.
I know it's you Babs because of the dropped vowels and the smokers cough.
I'm just surprised at some of the filthy words you use.
Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

I understand that you're both upset but all I want to do is apologise and offer some form of repayment for the terrible fire damage that happened to your curtains and also see if your pet rabbit is recovering OK?
I don't know how I got so out of control and why I took my clothes off but I'm hoping this letter will make some amends and you'll drop the court case against me.
It was very embarrassing for me to be dragged down your front pathway in a straight jacket, muzzle and shackles. Hopefully you will understand the damage this has done to my reputation within the community?
 I've managed to convince some of the neighbours that it was actually a fancy dress party and I was in character as Hannibal Lecter so I hope you will find it within yourself not to tell them the truth?
They also believe the fire engine, sniffer dogs and helicopter circling overhead were part of the party so please don't spoil their fun.

Although I know some of my behaviour was a little crazy, I  think you should take some responsibility for why the evening turned out the way it did.
Colin, you said to me "mi casa su casa" and because I'm fluent in Spanish I was only embracing that sentiment and Babs, you did encourage everybody to "eat, drink and be merry".
I was only following your instructions and guidelines.
I just forgot about the eating part. 
Too much drink on an empty stomach would make anyone want to vomit. 
I'm just sorry I happened to do it on your granddaughters beautiful blonde ringlets and new party dress. 
Also, I know you didn't appreciate me saying I was only reenacting my favourite scene from "The Exorcist" but I was just trying to stop her from crying.

I shouldn't have smacked her either, sorry about that.

I don't think you can really blame me for pushing Mrs Henderson out of her wheelchair so that I could have a seat because by that point I had exhausted myself dancing and she'd been sitting down all evening. I don't think she's as sick as she pretends to be anyway and yes, I know you hadn't provided any type of music but once I have a few Sambucas I start to hear music wherever I am.
I also know you didn't provide the Sambuca. 
It was actually my house gift to you and if you would only accept my apologies I will buy you another bottle and replace all the shot glasses I smashed.

Finally, please accept my sincere apologies for what happened to Bunty. I know it was very wrong of me to get so drunk that I actually thought your hallway mirror was a portal to another universe and try to smash my way through it. 
I know it was also very irresponsible of me to let Bunty loose out of his pen when there was so much smashed glass around but I was just trying to take your granddaughters mind off of the vomiting incident.
I do feel however, that there is an upside to every story and we should all be thankful for small mercies. A smashed mirror may bring you seven years of bad luck but at least you now have a lucky rabbits foot to carry around with you (and Bunty will learn to hop just as well with three legs).

By now, you're obviously both aware that I can't hand deliver this note because of the injunction you have against me. I think it stipulates that I must stay 500 ft away from you and not even go near a sniff of alcohol for a three month period.
This injunction makes it difficult for me to replace the two antique candelabras that I fashioned a Lady GaGa type headdress from.
I think you said they were family heirlooms? 
Well, now they are family hair ornaments.

Once again, please accept my sincerest apologies,
Your dearest neighbour & friend,

P.S Colin, I forgot to apologise for pulling off your toupee and throwing it across the room whilst screaming "watch out everybody, it's a flying cat".

P.P.S Babs, did you eat the Pavlova I made? It's delicious isn't it? It's my mothers recipe. 
If you've finished with the tupperware I'd like that rinsed out and returned.

Friday, 3 August 2012

A Sexual Drought, Rihanna, Viagra, The Shard and Mahatma Gandhi.

I've been experiencing a bit of a drought lately. I'm like a tourist destination that doesn't get any tourists anymore.
A bit like Margate or Iraq, only with a better frontage and a lot less dangerous.
It's not that I'm run down or war torn. I'm just feeling a bit "take it or leave it" when it comes to stroking it and feeling it. I'm hoping that sometimes we all need to step away from fornication to know what the fornication we should be doing with our lives.
Sex can be a bit of a distraction can't it?
Whether you doing it, watching it, planning it or screwing it, it takes time and effort and I've never been a Wham! Bam! Thank you man kind of guy.
I can't just drop my trousers at the drop of a hat.
I don't even wear a hat.
But I did used to really like Wham.

The odd thing is that I work so hard to make myself sexually attractive. I spend hours in the gym. I fret about every grey hair and then I fret about losing every grey hair. I wonder does my bulge look big in this when I know my bum looks big in that.
I cleanse, I tone and I moisturise. I exfoliate and I scrub and I've even been known to fake it and bake it.
But what's the use?
Who's it for?
Sometimes I'll look in the mirror and I'll think "mmm, not bad for an Oompa Loompa. Charlie & his Chocolate Factory would be proud" and then I go straight to the fridge and eat some chocolate.
Other times I'll stand in front of the mirror and I'll think "Umm, not bad if you were in a pub, under soft lighting and someone was as drunk as a teenager at a keg party" and then I'll go straight to the fridge and pour myself a gin and juice.
Then there are the times when I look at myself in the mirror and I think "wow, you actually look half decent. Someone is definitely going to want to undress and caress you".
And then I go straight to the fridge. I eat some chocolate, I pour myself a gin and a juice and I put on my pyjamas.
I literally cannot be arsed with going out and trying to get arsed.

I know sex is supposed to recreational but how I feel about it at the moment is exactly how I used to feel about the playing fields behind my mums house when I was growing up. They were called "recreational grounds" - but we used to call them "The Rec".
Mostly because they were overgrown, dangerous and full of burned out cars.
I'm not overgrown. I can be dangerous and I have been burned out but sexually?
I'm just a wreck.
The only person I'm prepared to take my clothes off in front of is my doctor and the strangest thing is, whenever I go to see him, he finds a reason for me to undress and lay on his couch.
I went to see him a couple of weeks ago because I had a sore throat and he asked me to undress so he could look at my chest?
"But doctor, I want you to look down my throat?"
Doctors are like mechanics, you should never question them. You have a problem with your engine but the mechanic wants to look in your boot (trunk for all my American readers)?
Let him.
You have a problem with your throat but your doctor insists on looking up your arse?
Report him.
My doctor is the furthest from my ideal of a "Dr Love" anyway. He looks like Mahatma Gandhi in a bri- nylon suit but it's worth the flirt and the feel up because I want him to stamp my prescription.
I'll do anything to up my meds.

I know I've strayed from original theme of the blog which was sexual expression, sexual repression and sexual transmission but that's my problem.
I can't keep my mind on sex, even when I'm doing it.
Something always gets in the way.
A household bill, a deadline, a ringing phone, a knock on the door, world peace, world debt, the ups and downs of life, did Chris Brown really hit Rihanna? Is Rihanna a lesbian? Why do lesbians like cats?
And there it is. . .
What was once so up, just came crashing down.

I've even tried recreational drugs for sex ( I know you're now thinking, the wreck has tried recreational drugs over the recreational ground behind his mums house) but nothing really works.
Viagra worked but it made me go bright red and gave me a headache. You can't imagine how frustrating it is to have to say "not tonight darling, I've got a headache" when you could pull down your pants and bash a thousand tent pegs into the ground.
Do not mix Viagra and booze either, you'll go to bed with a boner and a headache and wake up with just the headache.
If your partner's that desperate to see a mammoth erection, take them up The Shard.
I actually got spiked with rohypnol when I was about 19. It speaks volumes about the guy that did it but it says a lot more about me when he told me  "I put a roofie in your drink about an hour ago", and I was just about to start doing high kicks across the dance floor. I've always had the stamina to be up all night, just not when it comes to the bedroom.
Sex and drugs will never mix!
(and the same applies for sex & rugs, especially if they are animal hair and dry clean only).

Enjoying sex is all about freeing your mind and I guess I'm never really totally free.
I still have thoughts that it's dirty, it's wrong, it's not right and it's not OK and that troubles me . .  .
But then when I really think about it I realise it should be dirty, it should be wrong and if it's not right then it's definitely OK isn't it?
Maybe I need a little help?
Maybe I need a guiding hand?
Maybe I should go and see a sexual therapist?
I just don't know what I'd do if I arrived at his office and said "Doctor, I really need to talk to you about sex" only for him to reply:

"That's fine Mr Warner, now take off your clothes and lay down on that couch" . . . . . .

Saturday, 28 July 2012

First Dates, Dirty Old Men, Stun Guns and Fried Calamari.

Recently I got chatting to a Facebook friend of a friend. It's important for me to distinguish that she was an online acquaintance rather than a real life, fleshed out friend because the advice I gave her was not face to face. It was wall to wall, status update to status update.
The whole world's gone viral and I'm trying to catch up with the technical age.
Facebook and Twitter allow us to spill our guts, splash the cash and share our wares to an audience of unknowns. We have no idea who we are talking to. We could be being groomed or lampooned when all we really want is to be cocooned and spooned.

I was always warned to look out for dirty old men wearing rain macs; no one ever taught me to watch out for dirty old men using (Apple) Macs.

Anyway, back to the Facebook friend twice removed. I inadvertently joined the conversation by writing something flippant on my friends wall and she decided to ask me for relationship advice. I don't know why but I seem to have become some kind of love guru since I started this blog. It's odd really considering whenever I write about relationships I'm normally advocating gold digging, doing exactly as you please and buying microwave meals for one.
However, I was up for the challenge of answering her "Dear Dan" query because I'm nice like that.

The Facebook friend in need had been asked out on a date. Which is fine, there's nothing wrong with a date unless it's with your probation officer. What wasn't so good was her suitors choice of rendezvous. He'd asked if they could meet somewhere quiet and secluded, somewhere they may not be disturbed, somewhere there wouldn't be many people around. . . .
Already I had started to have visions of vans with no windows, gaffa tape and body bags and by the time she mentioned the word "PARK"?

I'd already recommended she wear a pair of running shoes and carry a stun gun.

Nobody in their right mind should go on a first date to a park. I don't care if it's the height of summer, if you've only known someones online presence do not go for a little picnic in the park. The least that will happen is that you'll get grass stains on your elbows but the worst thing that could happen is that you'll get taken up the grassy knoll.
Only to be found buried under it six months later.
Parks are a no go unless you're packing a weapon or planning on taking an attack dog with you. There's nothing romantic about getting to know someone in a bush or surrounded by greenery.
Unless of course you have a squirrel fetish or you're dressed as Miss Piggy at a Kermit convention.

Your first date needs to be somewhere well light and busy.
If you've never even laid eyes on them in the flesh then under the traffic lights at a busy t-junction will do. Ask them to wait at the crossing and you stay in your car. That way, if you don't like the look of them you can put pedal to metal as soon as the lights hit green; and if they look nothing like the profile picture they sent you?
Make sure you also give them the finger as you speed away.
You can never be too careful when all you've seen is a profile picture 1 inch square. What looked good pixelated will look even better in your rear view mirror.

I remember one of the very first dates I ever went on. I was 19 years old and it was with a "friend of a friend". The internet wasn't around then so we had to do really strange, time consuming things, like actually meet and spend time together to get to know one another.
At 19 I had a terrible habit of looking and behaving a lot more experienced than I actually was.  I was adept at making people think they were going to get ridden like Joey the War Horse. When in actual fact, I'd never even had my face in a nosebag full of hay (gay).

The date panned out like this:
7.15pm I stood in a phone box across the road from where we were supposed to meet and hid.
7.25pm I had a furious argument with someone who wanted to use the phone (it was before mobiles were invented and you could put 5p pieces into phone boxes).
7.30pm My date arrived looking very handsome but also looking around for me.
7.35pm I phoned my best friend and said "I'm in a phone box and I can see him" to which my friend replied "get off the phone, out of the phone box and across the road you fool".
7.45pm I finally managed to drag my sorry ass out of the phone box and over the road.
8.15pm We'd ordered food at his favourite Italian restaurant and I'd started gulping wine and swallowing pieces of whole calamari  (I was too nervous to chew).
8.45pm I'd started to think there were three of him and I'd also became obnoxiously loud.
9.30pm I got sick down his trouser leg . . .and laughed.
10.00pm I got him barred from his favourite restaurant.
8.30am I did the walk of shame home with raccoon eyes and stubble rash.

The lesson you should learn from my cautionary tale is this:
If you want to go on a first date and never see the person again behave exactly as I did above but if you want to go on a first date and never be seen again?

Arrange to meet somewhere "quite & secluded, somewhere there aren't many people around."

Somewhere like a park, maybe?

Friday, 20 July 2012

David Beckham, a Big Babooshka and a Butt like JLO.

The title of this weeks blog couldn't be more obvious could it?
If it isn't then it's actually about looking for the tell tale signs to see if you're married to, betrothed to, going out with or on the brink of fornicating with a gay man.
My easy to follow rules, tests and things to look out for should help you to get to the bottom of if the man you love is actually into (for want of a better term) bottoms . . . .

Personal Care:
This is your first hurdle and it may well be the most difficult one of all. The lines between what identifies a gay man and what identifies a straight man are as blurred as a builder in a dress' lip liner. The rules are, there no rules. Straight men have got camper and gay men have grown a whole lot butcher.
The tanning salon, the gym, the hairdressers and the skincare counter are no longer the domain of the upwardly mobile gay man and the gradual acceptance by straight men that in order to "pull" they need to pull out all the stops is made evident by the huge increase in the male grooming business. 
The need to "cleanse, tone and moisturise" isn't just a girls world anymore, you're more than likely to find your guy smoothing his face with serum than stuffing his face with pizza and who's to blame? 
Well it started with David Beckham and it's showing no sign of ending with the likes of  Joey Essex and his poofed up posse. Waxing, plucking, pouting and primping is the new macho sport and I bet for every hour spent in the gym, there's at least another hour spent in the changing room making sure the fringe falls just so and the skin is buffed and moisturised.
So for starters, I've not been much help but I will give you this as a dead cert. If your boyfriend is working behind the cosmetic counter rather than buying from it - he's a sure bet for being a nelly.

The Gym:
If you don't attend the gym with your partner then you need to take off the heels and put on your running shoes. An hour in the gym working out but secretly watching what your partner gets up to is telling. If he's wearing Abercrombie & Fitch, lifting weights, staring at his reflection in the mirror the whole time, pouting, grunting but delicately wiping the sweat from his brow - I'd say he's straight. Abercrombie is now strictly the uniform of the heterosexual, but if he's wearing a baseball cap, white socks slouched midway between the calf and the ankle and is covered in tattoos? I'd definitely say he's gay. 
Gay men are notorious for only working out their upper bodies so if your boyfriend has thighs like Beyonce and a butt like JLO then I'd say he only drinks from the furry cup. 
However, if he has a chest like Dolly Parton and legs as skimpy as a g string then he's a 100% vagina decliner.

The Wardrobe:
Cropped trousers, delicate pastels, fine gauge cashmere, inordinate number of accessories, more shoes than a centipede could need? = Straight as a (hair) dye.
High top trainers, check shirts, inordinate amount of denim, vintage belt and t shirts? = Gay as a gaggle of geese.
The man bag also no longer indicates your partner being another mans bag. It's only a certain group of gay men that now carry an over the shoulder boulder holder but I'd definitely say the bigger the bag the bigger the gay. If it's small, compact and looks like something you'd happily dance around then you're laughing all the way to the sperm bank. Your fella isn't a fairy.

Working Life:
The days when the only careers open to gay men were hairdresser and flight attendant are long gone. Just because your man is terrific with a pair of curling tongs doesn't mean he isn't as straight as a set of straightening irons. Hairdressing no longer means an hour long appointment with your best gay counsellor. More often than not it may end up with an hours worth of having a leather clad lotharios crotch pressed up against your elbows. 
If your partner is a hairdresser just insist that every female client he has treats the hairdressers chair like a roller coaster. They must keep their hands in their lap and on no account leave their mouth open.
There is however, one role in the beauty industry that would definitely point to your husband or boyfriend having a liking for the trouser snake.
If he's pursuing a career in hair removal but he likes you as plentiful as a Kate Bush Classic (Babooshka if you hadn't guessed) down below and insists you never wax your upper lip I'd say a hail Mary, because he's most certainly a mary. No straight man wants to spend his working day removing hair from a naked mans body and if his only clients are female? What the hell are you doing let him have that job in the first place?
Here's the ratio of gay / straight jobs (I made these up, they are not based on anything)
Black Cab Driver 90% straight
Flight Attendant  80% gay
Builder 60% Straight
Make Up Artist 100% gay
Door Man 70% Straight
Husband of Katie Holmes 50/50
Husband of Katie Price 100% stupid.

Behind Closed Doors:
I have no idea what you may get up to in the bedroom but if you're totally satisfied with his performance and he's caring, gentle, see's to all your needs and doesn't worry about his own? Run for the hills, he's going to ask you to dress up as a fireman.
If he will not kiss you, keeps his eyes closed and its all over before you've even lifted up your nightie? Run for the hills, he's going to ask you to dress up as a fireman.
If however, it's averaging once a week, sometimes you're impressed, sometimes you're undressed but mostly you end up sleeping in the mess then I'd say you've pulled the typical straight straw. 

Maybe you should be getting him to dress up like a fireman?

So there you have it!
We've worked our way through the G.A.Y list and I hope in some way my guide to finding out if your man is inclined to play Mandinka on the man pipes has given you some clarity?
But really at the end of the day, the only way you're definitely going to find out if your husband is gay and be 100% sure about it is if you're a man, gay marriage finally gets legalised and he takes you up the aisle in front of your nearest and dearest.
But that's another blog altogether . . . 

Sunday, 15 July 2012

69 Positions in a One Night Stand (or "Schtup in the Name of Love").

We live in an age where sexual boundaries are blurred.
Most of us are too young to remember the swinging 60's or the sexually liberated 70's and yet sexual expression is all around us. It's on the TV, in the music we listen to and in every magazine we pick up.

I awoke sexually ( and trust me, that was a long sleep) and started looking around for my mojo during the 1990's, a time when sexual repression was as bad as the Victorian age. The 80's had caused such disco damage that it left a climate of fear about transmittable diseases that made me think If I slept with the wrong person my right arm would fall off.
It was a tough time to start blossoming because the sexual horizon was as parched as any landscape Bob Geldof would have wanted to raise money for. Forget about Band Aid, most of us were in dire need of sex aid(s).
I was so scared to kiss anyone that I seriously considered carrying around a pair of those fake lips that you get in Christmas Crackers. However, with a mouth as big as mine I was in serious danger of swallowing them every time someone even looked like they were going to come up and talk to me.
Now,with the help of injectable fillers, we can all have a pair of lips that look like they came out of a Christmas cracker, and there is no danger of swallowing them at all.
You can inflate your lips and deflate your hips at will. You can make yourself look as sexually viable as you want because showing more nowadays costs a whole lot less.
You can even buy a whole new set of kahunas on credit! Who cares if you can't keep up the payments and they need to be repossessed?
If it all goes tits up?
Well, that's exactly what you asked for.
Lets all look like blow up dolls that have just learned to blow a whole lot harder.

Sexual freedom is on the rise and the fear of disease or of consequences nine months later are not really in our mindset anymore. Once again it's time for free love, sowing your wild oats and throwing your knickers to the wind, and the reason for this is?
Home Testing Kits.
In the comfort of your own home you can now test yourself for Chlamydia, pregnancy, HIV (coming soon) and most other things that you're liable to catch when your inhibitions are down and your bra straps are hanging from the lamp shade.
But is it really something you want to share with a one night stand or a potential new partner?
Imagine if you met someone, took them home and then said "right, now we're going to play Dr's & Nurses and I'm just going to take a few swabs".
I'd be out of the door with my trousers around my ankles at the first sign of a rubber glove.
I've always been terrible with exams so I'd hate to think I'd passed and then find out six months later that I've got to have my tubes tied and wear a "NO ENTRY" sign around my neck, and whatever you do, do not buy a pregnancy test from the pound shop - especially if they are on a "two for one" special offer.
You'll get a negative result and then nine months later wake up with twins.

My feelings about casual sex are largely up and down, much like the underwear of people who have casual sex. The thought of it is exciting but most times I have the dream I can't follow through with the drive. If it's available and the moment is right then I'll take it but mostly my timing is off.
I sometimes look at people on the street and imagine them with no clothes on but when I really start to think of the ins and outs of it, I can't be bothered. There are other times I look at people on the street and imagine them with no clothes on and I find myself pointing and laughing, sometimes I even throw stones at them . . . and that's probably why I'm single.
Casual sex for me means going on a date in a pair of chino's and a cardigan and not washing my hair.
S&M sex means stroppy and mental - you get stroppy and I'll go mental. The last place I'm going to be told what to do is in the bedroom.
Outdoor sex means leaving my back doors open.
Phone sex for me means changing providers every couple of months. You ever had sex with an Orange?
And safe sex?
Well, safe sex just means no sex at all. 
There's nothing safer than saying no, even when all you want to say is YES, YES, YES!!! 

I've come to the conclusion that in 2012 everyone is swapping fluids again and following their libido.
The old, the young, gay, straight and the bisexual. My teenage niece was showing me photographs of her school prom and there was one picture of two girls on a date because "being bisexual is fashionable, everybody at (names school) is doing it".
Really? Is it on the school curriculum? What's the school moto?
"No Muff's too Tough?".
Am I now a fashion accessory too?
"Uncle Dan, I don't want a Mulberry purse for Christmas this year, can I walk around with you on my arm instead?"
 It seems to me that as long as it moves, it's open to having moves made upon it.

Maybe I'm passed my sexual peak? Who knows?
Jane Fonda said recently that at the age of 74 her sex life is the most fulfilling it has ever been and I'm wondering if that's echoing all over the world? Not necessarily what she said, but the actual act, if that's echoing, echoing, echoing?
I believe old people should be having sex, it gives them something to do and a reason to take their teeth out.
I also believe teenagers should be encouraged to go fiddle with themselves, it keeps them from looting and setting fire to things. It's my belief that If we'd have provided the disaffected youth with a copy of "Loaded" and a box of tissues rather than a balaclava and a can of petrol we wouldn't have had the summer riots last year.
I have no problem with wife swapping, swinging, shagging or schtupping.
I don't care if you're dogging, dingeing or mingeing.
Sexual shenanigans are common place, and it seems everybody is at it (except for me).

Just remember, in matters of sex you always get what you pay for . . .
Especially if you're paying for it.

Saturday, 7 July 2012

50 Shades of Grey, Muslim Fundamentalists and shoplifting in Woolworth's (or I'd give you a piece of my mind if I hadn't lost it already).

I have a temper and I occasionally am known to have a tantrum. I'm never really on an even keel nor will I ever be found coasting along in the middle of the road - and I like it that way.
Things to me are mostly black or white, with shades of grey. Not "50 Shades of Grey" because that would mean I had a ball gag in my mouth and a feather duster up my ass.
I refuse to read that book.
I know every woman in the land who can string a sentence together is now reading it in order to string her sex toys together but for me it's a no go.
I don't need to learn about S&M because I'm far more interested in the food hall at M&S. The only time I've ever been in handcuffs was when I got caught shoplifting in Woolworth's (I was 13 years old) and it wasn't even by a man in uniform. I was tackled and then shackled by an overweight lesbian in a duffel coat.
I learned two valuable lessons that day.
I should have run faster or thrown her a doughnut.

I can sometimes be a little unhinged, not so much that my back doors are blowing in the wind with all the windows smashed but they are definitely creaking loudly, and the cat flap is flapping two to the dozen.
I don't want to look at things and just accept them. I want to question them. I want to now the ins and outs and roundabouts. I need my road to be long and winding, not straight down the middle. Even if I was Dorothy I'd have been following the yellow brick road but digging up a few bricks along the way and replacing them with red ones.
I think the answer to staying young and healthy is by being curious and trying new things. Never settling for the mundane or the easy route. We all have to take chances to really live, otherwise what are you doing? You're dying, that's what you're doing.
Dying of boredom, dying to get out of your mundane job, dying to tell that guy you see on the tube every morning to wear some deodorant, dying to tell your boss that you took a piss in his tea and dying to tell that person who's supposed to be your friend that actually, they are sucking the life out of you and you don't really like them at all. You need to shake things up to really live  - even if it's just dyeing your hair and shaking your tail (feathers).
None of us should wake up of a morning and dread the day ahead - if you do then you have three options:
Put your head under the covers and sleep your life away
Go to the doctors and get some pills to numb the pain away
Get up, put on your (emotional) shield. Pick up your (kick ass) sword and deal with whatever you have to deal with.
I've tried all three.
Sleeping? I love to sleep. My dreams are always in technicolour and normally have a cast of thousands. I have seriously epic dreams but I'd much rather be awake and doing something.
As for taking pills for your daily thrill? I went to the doctors once and when she said "Daniel, what's wrong?" I burst into tears and said I didn't know. She didn't know either because she put me on a course of tablets that would have stunned a cow, a boy band of elephants, a shoal of fanatical Muslim fundamentalists, a girl group of geese and a flock of wild goats ( I know that doesn't sound right  but I was on mood suppressants). I got tasered by 60mg of little white pills a day. It took me about a month before I realised I was walking around like one of the walking dead. No emotions, no light behind my eyes and no energy to do anything. So I went cold turkey ( I think it may have been a gaggle of cold turkeys).
It is much better to just deal with things. Just face them head on, say how you feel, and then move on.

There is an amazing quote by Helen Keller and it's something like "life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all". It's such an amazing quote that I can't really be bothered to google it to get it exact but you get my meaning don't you? Life should be about being brave, taking chances and risks. Helen Keller was as blind as a bat so just getting out of bed and walking to the fridge was probably a daring adventure for her. She also said "As the eagle was killed by the arrow winged with his own feather, so the hand of the world is wounded by it's own skill" and I think that means she downed a bottle of gin thinking it was Evian and started talking gibberish. The moral of this story? It's fine to be brave if you're blind, just don't go to the fridge unattended.

I like having a temper. I like saying what I feel and I like changing my mind. I can't stand anyone who plays the victim 24/7 and I can't be bothered with people who fall for that or are manipulated by it. Sometimes you just need to "man up" and get on with it. If you're crying at the drop of a hat then bend over, pick it up and let me kick you up the ass. We all have ups & downs and peaks and valleys, it's just some of us like meandering around in death valley waiting for someone to give them a leg up.
If you find yourself relating more and more  to "Boo Hoo" just remember it's probably going to lead to "Screw You".
But not in a good way.
Need a shoulder to cry on?
You can't have mine because I've just dry cleaned this jacket and you're like a tiny tears doll on steroids.
A problem halved is a problem shared?
That's fine but I'm on a problem diet. It's called the "Yucan Diet" as in "Yucan take your problems somewhere else, my plate is full".

Sometimes all you really need to do is give yourself a good shake, a couple of slaps and whip yourself back into shape (I told you, I haven't even read that filthy book) and always, always remember god helps those who help themselves.

Especially if you're a shoplifter.

Sunday, 1 July 2012

If I love you less do I hate you more?

One of my favourite movies is "The War of the Roses".
I'm not talking about an historical drama about medieval England or something you need to watch for your history thesis ( if you read this blog regulary you'll already know my tastes are a lot more eyebrow than highbrow) .
I'm talking about the 1989 movie about D. I .V. O. R .C. E
The reason I love this movie so much is for a line Kathleen Turner spits at Michael Douglas when he asks why she wants a divorce in the first place.
It's something I've always wanted to say and I've often thought, although I don't think anyone could say it in such a majestically evil way as she does:
"When I watch you eat, when I see you sleep, when I look at you lately, I just want to smash your face in".
Now I'm not advocating violence or spousal abuse in anyway, the only time I've ever raised a fist to a partner is if I'm about to throw glitter in their face but I can relate to the sentiment, and I absolutely love the way she delivers it.
I admire anyone (actually any two) who can hold a relationship together and keep it together without wanting to knock each other out or kneecap one another before breakfast.
The longest I've managed is three years and that's a record for me. I've been on first dates and imagined people tarred and feathered before they've even finished their entree.

It's hard to make things work and to stay in love, especially if you have to give up so much of yourself. I've seen so many people start off like Romeo & Juliet and end up like Bobby & Whitney.
Love hurts, love kills and love can be so all consuming that by the time you've come up for air and looked around your looks have gone, your friends are gone and the only person you've got left to talk to is the one you gave it all up for - and then what have you got to talk about?
I know all about loves young bloom and that feeling of excitement when you meet for the 2nd, 3rd and 4th time. It's wonderful! You fell alive! You feel loved! You have an odd sensation deep inside! You have butterflies in your tummy & fire in your loins!
It's exactly the same feeling that ecstasy used to give me (before they started mixing it with cat tranquilliser and industrial strength cleaning fluid).
But how long is it really going to last?
Do you really think you can drag that feeling out for 5, 10 or even 20 years?
If you took an ecstasy tablet every day for twenty years you'd find yourself without a mind of your own, deranged, probably not in control of your bodily functions, sweating profusely, unable to sleep and talking gibberish.
Love will do exactly the same thing.

What is love anyway?
Should it be endless? Should it be monogamous? Does it mean doing everything together and never being apart?
Is it all about compromise and bad breath? Is the secret to a marriage separate bank accounts or just separate bathrooms?
I seriously have no idea but I do remember being at my happiest when I went on holiday with the love of my life and we had one huge bathroom but separate sinks.
Maybe that's the answer? Separate sinks.
Although two days into our two sink holiday he was throwing bottles of shampoo at me in a threatening manner and I had to make a run for it down the corridor wearing only my underpants. It was only when the lift door opened and I realised I had to ride down 43 floors in my skimpys  (and with an elevator full of Japanese tourists ) that I decided to go back and try and fix the relationship (and scrub the shampoo from the carpet).
I've never told anyone that before because what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas . . . until now.
There is also an amazing photograph of us at the edge of the Grand Canyon. We have our backs to the camera and it looks like we are taking in the spectacular view and being at one with our surroundings, when actually we were arguing furiously and trying to suppress the desire to push each other off.
Most people give each other the silent treatment in a car ride to the supermarket, we did it on a helicopter ride over the Grand Canyon.

I believe love should be exciting and passionate. Maybe it should be about wanting to throw each other off of the Grand Canyon or smashing each others face in every now again? As long as you don't actually do it and end up on "America's Most Wanted" or " Crime Watch UK" a little friction can do wonders.
I don't think it's healthy to keep your emotions in or to hold back what you want to say, you just have to choose your moment. If you're at the dinner table and instead of saying "pass the salt" you find "I hate the very earth you walk on" comes tumbling from your lips then so be it.
If instead of "good morning" you accidentally let slip "die, bitch, die" then go with it.
If instead of "I love you" you accidentally blurt out "I'm sleeping with Derek from accounts" then shame on you:
1. For being a blabber mouth
2. For being a lying, cheating dirtbag
3. For sleeping with someone called Derek in the first place.

Who are our role models for staying in love and making it work nowadays anyway?
David & Victoria? Charles & Diana? Charles & Camilla? Charles and My Little Pony in a tiara and a pearl necklace? Liz & Dick? Elton & David? Tom & Katie??
The list is endless and the rules for mere mortals do not apply to the rich and famous. The rich and famous are too busy picking the petals off of one long endless daisy chain. They can get up to as many back door shenanigans as they want and they can dissolve marriages like we dissolve alka seltzer. I'm bored of that one now get me another. He loves me, he loves me not? Who cares whether he loves me? I need a bigger audience so I'll marry you and sell the rights to the wedding photographs.
To the rich & famous the sanctity of marriage smells as bad as a sanctuary of cats.

My grandparents stayed married until they died. They met when they were 14 outside the Elephant & Castle tube station - she offered him a sweet and he took it. He always used to say it was the most expensive sweet he had ever eaten but they also took their vows seriously and they did stay together "until death do us part".
I have two photographs of them on my desk, one must have been taken in the 1960's and the other about 9 years ago. Obviously, they have aged in the later picture but their pose is a mirror image of the one before. In both they are smiling, he has his arm protectively around her and she has her hand laid gently on his leg and every time I look at them it makes me smile.
It makes me wonder how did they make things work? How did they still look so happy?
And then sometimes I wonder if she's secretly pinching his leg and if he's poking her in the back?

People don't meet and fall in love outside tube stations anymore.
People meet outside tube stations because they've just hooked up on Grindr and that's the nearest landmark before they get home and rip each others clothes off.
The internet and the world wide web has left us with our hearts closed and our legs wide open.
It's left me asking "where is the love?"

Hopefully, it's outside your local tube/ railway / subway station and it's contained within a bag of sweets.

Too many sweets will rot your teeth but if you choose the right one then maybe it will last a lifetime?

Go ahead, suck it and see.....

Sunday, 24 June 2012

Flirting under the influence (or how to catch a man with two straws and a smile).

Last weeks guide to "Faking Yourself Beautiful" was so popular that I've decided to carry that theme through to this week.
I've been thinking that I've given you all the ammunition you need to find a mate but I haven't given you the gun to shoot it with.
You're all dressed up with no where to go.
I've left you with your pistols cocked and not a target in sight - so I'm going to put that right, tonight, all right?

Who? What? When? Why?
Below is an excellent tip to attract and keep the attention of anyone you might take a fancy to across a crowded bar and this really works, I promise.
If you see someone looking at you and they look like they might be fun for a night, a day, a week or a lifetime this is what you need to do.
Get your best mate, or any mate actually, if any of your mates are better looking than you then pick that one. The only rule is they can't be so tall that they block your eye view of the person you're thinking is looking fine.
Now get them to stand in front of you (with their back to the person you fancy) and pretend you are having a conversation. They can say absolutely anything to you because you're not going to be paying them any attention.
What you need to do is catch the eye of the guy you fancy and in your most flirtatious way, say "Who? What? When? Why?" and keep repeating it on a roll. You can say it in any way you like but just keep repeating it.
You can toss your hair, laugh, lick your lips but at all times you MUST say "Who, What, When, Why?"
Try thinking of Marilyn Monroe when you do it, that's just about the right amount of lip control you need.
You could be coy and girly or downright suggestive and slutty but keep saying "Who? What? When? Why?
If you go for the Victoria Beckham pouty way of speaking you'll look a bit too contrived and if you do it with any type of angry face at all the person you're directing your lips at will probably think you're about to bottle them.
You can pause between each word but don't say anything unless it begins with a "WH" (unless it's WH Smith's, that's just not sexy).
I swear it works, from the age of 19 - 29 my "who,what, when & whys" took me all the way around the world and back again - with god knows who and god knows why but I had tons of fun doing it.
It's harder for me to use that as a way to attract a potential mate nowadays, the danger being I'm getting a little older now and it could easily be mistaken for the early onset of Alzheimer's. The last thing I need is to be rushed out of The Dog & Duck on a gurney when all I was trying to do was get my leg over.

Now try it in front of the mirror and practice, practice, practice.

Two Straws = No Drawers:
By now the person you've been "Who, What, Where & Whying" should be on his way over. It's at this point you can tell your mate to stand at ease. If it's the mate who's really pretty tell her to go and hide or just push her over, not backwards though because the one you fancy might just catch her on his way over to you.
Whatever you are drinking either down it now or suck it straight down to the ice cubes. If you're drinking a pint of lager then you should never have started reading this blog in the first place. It's a sure bet that he is going to ask you if you want a drink and this is when you have to be clever.
Order something sophisticated, you don't want anything that you:
Down in one
Set fire to
Have a sparkler fizzing about in
Could accidentally swallow a small plastic fish or umbrella from
Pull a really ugly face at the first sip and end up spitting right back at him
Used to drink from the Slush Puppy machine

What you need to do is order something sophisticated, expensive and glamorous but also something you have to drink through TWO straws. The reason the drink needs to be all of those things is because your behaviour with the straws is going to be anything but sophisticated, expensive or glamorous.
You need to work those straws. You need to roll them around your glass with your fingers, your mouth, your tongue (never your nostrils) and you need to be as suggestive as you can be with two pieces of coloured plastic caught between your teeth.
There are no boundaries - if you can pull them apart and then flick them back together with your tongue you'll have him delirious with desire by the time you've licked the rim of the glass and he's finished fiddling with his peanuts.

Murder on the dance floor:
Hopefully the WWWW"s and the two straw trick have got his interest and he wants to get to know you a bit better. Now is the perfect time to not tell him anything with your mouth, it's been overworked already with the above - you need to get him on the dance floor and show him your personality through the medium of dance.
You need to make sure he knows how to "get into the groove" before you let him anywhere near yours.
Dancing is a great way to gauge someones background:
Posh people dance like windmills or bunny rabbits on ecstasy
Bullied people dance with their hands in their pockets and keep looking behind them (so do drug dealers)
Drunk straight girls dance like lunatics with elastic hips
Sober gay men dance like drunk straight girls

Taxi (for two?):

So now you've flirted, you've WWWW, you've two strawed and you've done some dirty dancing and this is the difficult bit where everything goes incredibly right or incredibly wrong. The only sure thing now is that someone is going to end up eating a kebab and the other person (if you've followed my rules) gets their kebab eaten. This is where it's always best if you've planned in advance or if you live really really close to where you've just seen all your plans come to fruition.
You must always book a cab in advance. Once the ugly light comes on in a nightclub you know it's like the last of the rats leaving the sinking Titanic and the mini cabs are the last remaining lifeboats. Hopefully, you've already got yourself together and you're out of there snuggled up together in the back of an unlicensed Mercedes being driven home by a man in a nylon suit and cheap jewellery, but if you're not then now is the time to make like Cinderella and get yourself home.
Mini cab offices are the ugliest places on earth.
The lighting in those places is enough to make Gisele look like one of the Addams Family.
No one looks pretty under a naked bulb or against wood chip walls.
Last call at a mini cab office is not like last call at a singles bar.
They are the kind of places only mini cab drivers like sitting in.
Have you ever seen a good looking mini cab driver?
I rest my case.

So, to recap, you need to work on your Who? What? When? & Whys? You need to practice getting gymnastic with your tongue and a couple of straws. You need to make sure he can dance - a man with two left feet is going to be awful between the sheets and lastly, you need to always, always have a safe ride home.

Who? What? When? Why?

Because I told you so, that's why.