The cat is curled up on the corner of a naked matress in the now empty spare room. The lodger moved out two weeks ago in a flurry of rizlas, textbooks and dildos. Cat opens one eye, peering over his front paws which are curled around his head in a cutesy-poo manner. He's becoming increasingly fussy over his food, yet still pesters me frenetically every time I wake up or arrive home shattered from work.

Why do you keep feeding me this crap?
Why do you shout at me when I refuse to eat such unpalatable rubbish?
Why did the nice man with the cuddly tummy leave?
Why did the funny man who gave me fish leave?
Why do the ones I like leave, and you stay - you, the crazy one who is always either out or sleeping?
Why is it when I paddle my nice claws into your tummy (which is much less comfortable than the nice big man's tummy) you push me off?

My cat hates me, and I feel like a rabid divorcee parent, chill factor to the bone. Except 'he' won't be your big hero, because he'll never make it home. He won't shower you with presents, things I could never buy. He won't delight you with his stories about the great big world outside.

The reality of my latest redundancy is trying to worm itself into my head. My head is stubbornly keeping reality at bay, but the fact of the matter is I'm living on overdraft and I have to find another job in the next four weeks. As usual there's no time for lying around or lazing, I've got to hustle to keep in the game.

And I am so very tired.

posted at 3:18 PM •

To preface: I hate "What x are you?" quizzes. I've said it before. They are utterly silly and pointless. Which is why I love this one.

You're Madagascar! Lots of people don't really know anything about you, making you buried treasure of the rarest kind. You love nature, and could get lost in it whenever possible. You're remote and exotic, and the few people who know you value whatever they share with you a great deal. For some reason, you really like the word "lemur".

That and the fact that for some reason it appeals to my vanity. Hee hee - lemur.

posted at 10:31 AM •

God, my redundancy sensors are good.

Company is cutting back entire operations - that's four people - so I've got a month to find something else.

Bugger, my dreams were right.

posted at 5:31 PM •

Oh shit - I think I'm about to lose my job again.

posted at 5:10 PM •

With the latest scrotal developments, I gingerly biked my way to The Victoria Centre for Sexual Health this morning. The clap clinic if you like. I arrived bang on time for my appointment, which was a bit of a bugger, as I was meant to get there ten minutes early, being a new patient.

The checkup revealed nothing seriously wrong, and the nice friendly healthcare professional gave me lots of ultra-strength antibiotics - the same ones they give to people with Anthrax poisoning. She also recommended I have the rogue testicles checked over by ultrasound to make sure there was no torsion (twisted nuts) causing extra problems.

After a quick round of throat, urethra and anus swabs (I don't recommend the urethral swab, but the anus swab is rather pleasant) - I bombed over to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital.

After a brief lunch stop at Starbucks (and discovering t-mobile's HotSpot WiFi access charges - £5 a flippin' hour!) - I ended up on a hospital bed with my nuts being smeared with jelly.

The doctor in charge of the ultrasound scanner was really friendly and pleasant, we chatted and had a spot of banter as she ran the scanner over my bollocks, my trousers round my ankles. I mentioned that my sister had recently given birth (the ultrasound department obviously gets a lot of pregnant ladies, so I thought this apropos subject material for conversation) - and joked that I wouldn't be needing a photo of the scan to send home to the family.

"It's a boy!" she joked back.

"Yeah, a very big one." (Hopefully she didn't take this to be bragging about the size of my equipment).

Scan all done, I was relieved to get a clean bill of health. As I'm wiping jelly off my dangly bits and pulling up my trousers, the frozen image of my jewels taunted me from the ultrasound monitor.

Oh no - I couldn't - I shouldn't...



I'm sorry - I couldn't help myself.

posted at 4:29 PM •

It seems I'm the only person in the world absolutely riveted to Back to Reality. Well, you don't know what you're missing - it has been one nutty show.

Last night's show featured James Hewitt staying up all night in an "homage to Shattered" task, having to wake the other housemates and ask them random questions posed by Richard Bacon (who presumably had to stay up too). Now, I may have hallucinated this due to the fever, but I'm pretty sure that Jade (from Big Brother 3) answered her question "What are your middle names?" with the answer:

Keisha Lorraine

posted at 4:25 PM •

George Michael: "Heal the Pain" on rotation on iTunes. Rather apt in every possible way imaginable.

Received a letter yesterday from my financial advisor. Sounds all rather adult and responsible doesn't it? Except he's a bit of a wide boy (being careful here to avoid possible writs) with a tendancy to say 'libation' when he means booze. He sorted out my mortgage nearly three years ago, and I thought he did a good job - except I'm now saddled with an endowment mortgage that is of absolutely no use to me since half of the endowment did a runner six months ago and left me to pick up the pieces.

I got in touch with the financial advisor last year to tell him of the circumstances, and well, he was downright aggressive and actually ended up making me feel worse than I already did. Yes, I didn't have a job and no mortgage company would touch me, but I'd rather he hadn't told me that with the odd 'fucking' interjected at appropriate intervals. Professional was not a word I would have associated with him.

I'm just at the point where I have cleared the arrears on the mortgage and I can think about remortgaging - hopefully. The letter from the financial advisor is most apologetic that he was abrupt with me, and I'm in two minds as to whether to go near him again. One rather wonderful person in particular has made me realise that it's all entirely possible to sort this stuff out by yourself.

posted at 12:23 PM •

Argh.

Antibiotics are struggling to get rid of this infection - though it's probably all my own fault, as I had a couple of glasses of red wine with my sister and her friends on Saturday night. By Monday evening I was feeling feverish again, and it was apparent the infection had moved to my left testicle as well.

Tuesday morning I was feeling better, and I travelled back to London still taking the antibiotics, and making damn sure I avoided any alcohol. The anti-inflammatory drugs had run out, so I switched to ibuprofen.

Yesterday afternoon the fever returned. I struggled through the afternoon at work, went home and spent the evening curled up in my duvet on the sofa. Ordered a pizza while watching Grand Designs, but when it eventually arrived, I could only manage three bites before I felt nauseous.

I crawled into bed for a night of fever dreams and profuse sweating - making sure I took a bucket with me just in case.

Recurring fever dream that I'm going to lose this job didn't help my state of mind. It's at these times that I miss mum - and 'him' - the most. All I want is someone cooing over me, looking after me, but I just have to crack on and look after myself.

The fever had mostly broken this morning, but when I struggled out of bed at 8am I suffered intense pain. I necked some ibuprofen, antibiotics and crawled back into bed for half an hour. I should be off work, but I'm terrified I'm going to lose this job, and it's game over if I do.

posted at 10:38 AM •

Still mulling over the weekend in the Isle of Man - far too much happened on an emotional landscape to take in all at once. I'll try to tease apart some of the strands later.

In the meantime - does anyone want four tickets to the final of Back to Reality? I booked them a week ago hoping I'd be able to get the night off from the pub and I can't.

Anyone interested? Want to offer me something for them?

posted at 2:20 PM •

Dig deep.

posted at 10:15 PM •

Back on the Isle of Man, and I'm absolutely worn-out. Missing London smog-bound aerosol neutrients - you have to eat here for nourishment - bizarre. Baby is well, a baby. Still trying to decide about the little sprog - she's incredibly cute when she's asleep... apart from that there's just too much to take in.

posted at 2:21 PM •

Must start packing for Abu Dhabi the Isle of Man - a little water between myself and a certain someone's broomstick would be good right now. I just hope it can't cross water.

But oh lordy, I have no passport. OK, so you don't need a passport to get to the Isle of Man - a pitchfork wielding yokel just looks yer dead in the eyes, see, and if you'n be a goodun, they let you in. Still - a passport is on my list of Things I Need To Do To Sort My Life Out, and so I went and tarted myself up on Tuesday and got a new passport picture done. I'm pretty sure I have to get the pictures certified as me, as I've changed a wee bit since my first passport...



Now then... tap tap tap... occupation... Is evil underworld crimelord ok?

posted at 2:19 PM •

Some bloggers are fiercely protective of their identity, some aren't.

Over at Blue Witch, debate rages on her similarity to one Mrs Paul Daniels, Debbie McGee. I, being part of an exclusive set of bloggers who have met Mrs Witch can unequivocably state that she bears no resemblance whatsever to the aforementioned Ms McGee.

Blue Witch is certainly not peroxide blonde as one commentator incorrectly surmised. Neither does she posess Ms McGee's withered lips - oh no - huge voluptuous pillows of lips; dark, sultry eyes, festooned with lashes the like of which have not been seen since the golden age of Hollywood starlets. Gosh - I just can't do her justice in mere words- here's a picture.

(I am so dead).

posted at 10:24 AM •

Continuing on the medical theme from earlier...I've got this.

(Cross your legs before you click, Dave).

posted at 7:34 PM •

A random thought while on the loo.

When I was a kid I used to imagine that when you ate something, it went down your throat and ended up collected in little receptacles like those pin and marble games. Peas were the foodstuff that made me think of this - I imagined your stomach was a big sorting machine, making sure all similar foods ended up in the same receptacle.

Now I'm grown up, I know how primitive and silly this idea was. Your stomach is like a big Tetris machine. If you put your ear to someone's tummy, you hear russian folk music.

posted at 6:26 PM •

I've got a bad feeling about this.

Han Solo always did - and he was nearly always right. Except about the it-almost-happened incestuous relationship between Luke and Leia - why didn't his "I've got a bad feeling about this" sense hit the roof in that case, huh? Answer me that, George "Jar Jar Binks Raped My Childhood" Lucas.

*Ahem* Just like Han Solo, I too get a bad feeling about things - and the things I'm very good at getting bad feelings about are the employment things.

After two redundancies (and one dismissal that I just remembered I've never told you about), you start to get quite savvy at noticing when things are getting a bit stinky around you. Odd looks, lie-cues in body language, boxes of your stuff left by the front door - you know, subtle indicators that you might not be enjoying your salary come next monday.

One of the main reasons for concern though is that I had my probation period extended by two months. In hindsight, my employer's reasons for doing so have felt a little unfair, but of course it's their perogative, and in the gray margins of employment you have very little redress.

I'm beginning to believe that employment law is actually only applicable in cases where the employee has worked for their company for 50 years, donated both kidneys to the company glee club fund, offered any newborn children to the CEO in sacrifice and immolated any newcomers that looked like they might have posed a threat to their empire.

Back in the real world, employers do what they bloody well like. Fuck, they could build a three-ring circus around your desk and demand you put on a full show for them every time they ring a bell. You'd eventually get fired when the tightrope walker wouldn't go on due to having ricked his ankle - but of course on paper it would say that "Stephen didn't meet targets."

Luckily this time I have an escape route - they left a cannon on my desk unsupervised, and with just the right trajectory...

posted at 6:19 PM •

Another interruption to the storytelling.

Except, yes, wait... no, yes... I mean, at this rate I'll be here all week - I can never tell a story quickly - anyone who's met me in real life will know this. I blame, as everyone should, my mother. I mean for god's sake, I could turn "See Spot Run" into a three-fucking-act opera.

"Spot's chestnut and ivory fur glistened in the summer's spun-gold dusk, his yelps of excitement languidly audible over the distant hum of the A106."

So, an interruption - but not before the full story:

I had a sore testicle on Friday.
I went to Bournemouth to see M, a guy I am 'seeing'.
Two trains were cancelled, but I got there eventually.
We fucked, and I had blood in my spunk.
We went out and bumped into one of M's lecturers, who, as it turned out, I went to university with.
Sunday I was feverish and in more pain.
Got back to London, next-door neighbours took me to Whipp's Cross A&E.
I got large quantities of antibiotics for my 'problem' which was by now the size of an orange.
I had the last two days off work.

There, now - that wasn't so hard was it. So now - an interruption...oh, damn - I'm being interrupted...

posted at 2:09 PM •

Fever dreams...

Dido sings 'White Flag' in the dairy aisle of Bournemouth Asda, crooning into a ornamental clear resin tealight holder which turns into a silicone prosthetic tit for sale on her fetish stall surrounded by whips, latex dresses and kitten heels. Lizzy Beardsmore and an animatronic crater-faced youth ring through our purchases: a value tub of mini scones, witchety grubs and a special edition DVD of 'Through The K-hole' with Lloyd Grossman and Paddington Bear's best friend Mr Gruber. Mr Gruber turns sideways, and his flatland profile gets stuck in the grooves of the magical shopping-trolley moving walkway. His screams as he gets dragged to his death in the teeth at the end of the walkway vanish into the distance as our yellow taxi carry us to M's home.

As the sun rises on 'him', it sets on me.

The house is an hermetically sealed windowbox dwarfed by miniature daffodils and crocuses and snowdrops. My ejaculate rains down and creates a new type of flower, a valentines day bloom, pale red and white. Tracking shot to a tree with a glittering spiderweb where an audience is held with the Dame Edna Experience in the hermetically sealed front room in the hermetically sealed windowbox house. Dim Sum and duck pancakes whisk by, carried by miniature girls wearing Janet Jackon basques, nipple jewellery and shocked expressions. The Dame Edna Experience removes her wig and choker, her voice becomes his and he shits out jewel encrusted spidereggs. The gathered audience cheers and applauds and retires for a missed Asti Spumante drunk from glasses containing Edna's spideregg jewel faeces.

As the sun sets on 'him', it rises on me.

Ten billion trillion trillion carat rubyz fall from the sky, and M takes me to an underground nightclub with a drag queen that is secretly a woman with elasticated hips and a drag king who is secretly a man, and even more secretly is actually his lecturer from university. He introduces me to the secret drag-king-lecturer who turns out to be a friend I went to university with. Flatland Mr Gruber returns from his grave under the Asda moving walkway and chases us back to the windowbox house brandishing a fistful of my valentines ejaculate bloom.

But of course, it was all a dream... um... I think...

posted at 3:10 PM •

Necks another 100mg Doxycycline and 50mg Voltarol - ah, now - where was I?

Oh yes, Bournemouth. Well, if it's Bournemouth, it's about time I introduced a new character...enter M, standing on the platform wearing a sexy-smart leather blazer and jeans, hair freshly buzzed, goatee looking cute and trimmed, and little cox's pippins cheeks rosy and glowing.

Thoughts of infuriated bollocks and tortured journey are forgotten immediately. Ah - M - nervousness at coming down specifically to meet up with someone I've only seen twice is banished with a hug and a warm kiss.

Another interjection: can you keep a secret? 'Cos I bloody well can't. M is in all likelihood reading this right now (remember what I was saying about an audience, M? It's a terrible thing - they want to know all about you now - they want to know what style of hat to go and buy. Pack of vultures, the lot of them).

I told M about my blog - probably a very silly thing to do because I am now torn between having to censor my thoughts about him, write everything that comes into my silly fluff-addled head about him, or murder him.

Well, it's early days with me and M - we are at the 'spending time with each other' phase. He lives in Bournemouth and is a busy busy chap - I live in London and am also busy busy, so spending constant time together is not an option. But on the whole - that's a good thing. I don't even know if I want another 'thing' so soon after only just getting over the last 'thing'. But - but, but, but - if I do - there's definitely a reservation (space reserved, not hesitancy) in this case. This set-up suits - and I think the feeling is mutual. I just hope he knows what he's gotten himself involved with on the blog front.

Say hello to M - he won't remember any of your names, his memory is totally shot - but he can say "sweetie" in just the right tone and inflection that you won't really mind.

posted at 11:24 AM •

But you know you can't get on a train, Truman - not since your father was killed in that horrific rail accident. Remember?

*cue ripple dissolve to memory sequence*

So started my weekend in Bournemouth. Woke up late on Saturday morning, feeling rough as hell.

OK, I'm going to have to interject here - and warn you that parts of this story are pretty gruesome. If you're easily shocked or offended and for some bizarre reason you're still reading, go now.

I woke up late on Saturday morning, feeling rough as hell, with testicular pain. Well, testicular tenderness - and no, that's not a euphemism for something. I had half the weekend planned in Bournemouth, and I wasn't about to let this problem get in the way and so I got myself together, necked some nurofen and headed off.

Realising that this was probably going to be the first time I'd been outside zone three in almost a year, I started to get a bit paranoid when TfL and Southwest Trains put the weekend stops out to keep me firmly London bound. First the central line was out, and I had to negotiate a bus to Stratford, and then on arriving at Waterloo, watched as two trains to Bournemouth were cancelled.

Not about to be put off, I eventually got on a train three hours later than planned, and, acts of Christo allowing, escaped from the artifice of capitol city.

Apart from a gradual realisation that my trainers really really stank and the woman sat opposite me must have really regretted sitting there, ah - that's why everyone was giving my table seat a wide berth - I alighted in Bournemouth. Of course, it may have actually been a simulcra Bournemouth, built inside the confines of the M25... I never actually saw the sea or promised beaches, so I doubt I will ever know.

posted at 6:45 PM •

For reasons shrouded in secrecy and shame, I didn't get any sleep last night. It wasn't anything sexual per se - although I did get up to a little self-dating - but it is fairly shameful.

As a result, I feel like I'm a contestant on Shattered. The natural ebb and flow of toxins into my duvet has been interrupted, and I'm beginning to feel like a walking biohazard. Cigarettes are starting to taste like shit - hmm, maybe this is a great strategy for giving up.

I'm off to work in the pub in half an hour and hopefully I'm going to find a second wind - either that or I'm going to fall asleep on my bike.

I've got a couple of busy weekends coming up - starting with, um, this weekend - I'm off to Bournemouth! More details upon my return...

posted at 6:00 PM •

Gasp - a comment from La Diva.

I'm not worthy, I'm not worthy!

God bless you, Mike - but damn your eyes for getting to meet babydaddy. I should have met him you know - working in the King's Arms gives one access to a trés exclusif set. Bugger!

posted at 6:51 PM •

Full on media junkie crack whore mode here. My little brain aches to soak up infotainumentary juice. Writers block when it comes to vomiting it back for consumption here.

I think I was a little premature in announcing that I would not be mentioning 'him' again. I had the best of intentions you see, freed from not thinking about 'him' every day. There that wasn't so hard. But after my initial flush of freedom came a return to sadness and longing. A return to feeling my soul crumple in the vacuum of his absence, and there, blast, I've told everyone I'm better. And of course anyone who cares to analyse my scribblings would have probably thought that there was no way I could resolve to not write about 'him' ever again.

'He' will remain in single quotes and I will distance myself with punctuation and grammar.

Anyway - I'm being stalked by mawkish islington rock mum, Dido. I have decided to play 'Life for Rent' (the single mind, not the album) on constant repeat until she leaves me alone. A pox on your lesbian-oriented-rock (LOR*) anthems.

posted at 2:44 PM •

It's time for me to start my new life, to start exploring that new continent.

For some reason I know that the tornado special effect in the Wizard of Oz was done with a rolled-up pair of tights. Honestly, sometimes I frighten myself with the amount of trivia shit in my brain. Still, hmm - there's a bit of a link in there to something going on elsewhere in my life, so maybe neurons are connecting. I'm not saying what yet though - I don't want it jinxing, but the clues are there - classic gay films and special effects.

I will say, however, that my mood has been lifting steadily in the last couple of weeks. I'm off to visit my little sweetheart Ella at the end of the month (note to self: buy plane ticket to Isle of Man), and I'm steadily getting on top of the other problems in my life.

I've been discovering the joys of buying second-hand through Amazon lately, and I've picked up cheap copies of Charlotte Gray, Rushmore and the soundtrack for Moulin Rouge. I will have to mention it to Blue Witch, currently in antipodes, who is a demon for things of a bargain nature. I just wish I had more time to actually go to the cinema - I'm still busy busy busy, but I'd really like to see Girl with a Pearl Necklace (snigger) and Lost in Translation - if I don't make it to see them, can someone buy them from my wishlist when they're available? (Quick plug for wishlist)

Final note: falling dangerously in love with Babydaddy from Scissor Sisters.

posted at 5:53 PM •