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.....