And a footnote to the post below...

I phoned John, which left me feeling happysad. Really the first time I've been able to speak to him as 'friend' - as 'ex' - as someone I don't hate. Whenever I spoke to him before the 'Big Closure', in my mind I pictured us happy together. I heard him breaking down and begging for forgiveness, begging to come back. This time I heard my friend. I heard the voice of a man who sacrificed a year to stand by a man he once loved as he went through hell.

We talked about little things and about my saturday night/sunday evening. It was good to talk to him, distanced as we are now, but with an understanding of what the other has been through.

This pain will pass.

posted at 9:49 PM •

I keep feeling like things are getting back on track. I keep feeling I'm getting better, and then something happens to set me back. I've been working non-stop for the last two weeks - and it's getting increasingly clear I can't keep doing this. I've been doing it for nearly a year now - worrying and struggling.

One of the things that came out during the last ten months of trying to learn why John split up with me was that he saw me drifting away from him. He was losing me - to drugs and partying, to a lifestyle he had no interest in. Of course, I've learned that by the time that was happening he was already having doubts about the two of us.

It all started when we bought the flat together. He started having doubts, but he never told me about them. Pretty much straight after that event, another event happened which turned everything upside down - Mum died. John had a choice by this point - either finish with me there and then, or stay with me, maybe find what he loved about me or just support me as best he could and leave me when the time was right. He chose to stay with me, and learning that has been a great comfort to me and has really helped me to come to terms with losing him.

But it doesn't change the fact that I was clinging on to him - I wanted his calm strength to tie myself to when I was in danger of falling too far. I suppose I knew we were drifting apart, but I had hopes. I had hopes I would get out of the difficulties I was going through, I had hopes we would find each other again. I didn't know I had already lost him.

I keep returning to how much I have lost. I have lost too much in my life, at too early an age. I realised in my diatribe against the 'ex-gay' movement that I've never really said much about my Dad. Dad died of a massive heart attack at the age of 41. He left for work one morning, and never came home. He left for work, and I never saw him again. I never said goodbye to him, I never went to his funeral - I was 11 years old and was given the choice - both me and my sister didn't go.

17 years later, Mum died.

19 years later, John left me.

I'm rambling, get to the point Steve... On Saturday night/Sunday morning I lost about 6 hours. I remember leaving one club and moving on to the next - already high on a mixture of vodka and ecstacy. My memory gets patchy from there. The next thing I remember is waking up on a train in Royston, Cambridgeshire.

Some of the gaps have been filled in - I went to a third club with my mate Stuart from the pub - I have a vague recollection of buying a ticket for the underground, but then nothing. I wasn't unconscious, because somehow I managed to get on a train - and it seems the train for Royston leaves from Kings Cross, so I somehow managed to get there and change onto a train. I don't know, I have no memory of anything.

I don't know how to feel. I know this is not healthy. I know I probably need to leave the pub, as it's a flashpoint for my habits. I should probably leave London, but I - I just don't know what to do anymore.

I want someone to come and rescue me, but I loathe myself for being so needy. I push people away from me - is it because I'm scared they will eventually leave me? As everyone else that meant something has?

posted at 5:48 PM •

OK, I've had a little fun baiting the Christians. Once I worked out that you can't argue with them (it's like arguing with 6 year olds), I stopped trying to and just had a bit of a laugh at their expense anyway.

So, why am I obsessed with this blog? Why not just leave him/her/them to get on with it?

Why? I'll give you three fucking good reasons: Truth, Hypocrisy and Complacency.

Whether intentional or through ignorance, the blog in question is peddling lies. Lies which are posed as universal truths, lies such as:


The veracity (posed or otherwise) of the claims is the most troubling thing. "I am gay - I feel less masculine - All gay men are less masculine" says the author. But there's the problem; it's like a cat saying "I am a cat - I am black - All cats are black".

Masculinity or lack of is an entirely separate issue to being gay, yet the author has a very stereotyped view of gay men, begging the question how many gay men has he actually met? The reality is that many men both straight and gay feel inadequacies with their gender role. I have met gay men, so "masculine" that no-one would ever guess that they were gay - and straight men so "effeminate" that they are constantly taken for gay men. The two issues have nothing to do with each other, but this blog (and, it seems, $elf-help books on the subject) - persists in propagating these outmoded signifiers:

Gay=Effeminate
Straight=Masculine

Anyone who wants to see how far that is from the truth should come and spend an evening in the pub I work in.

The basis of the whole 'conversion' issue is the most deeply troubling. Is that because I'm not as secure in my gender-preference identity as I thought? If one person can convert, does that not mean that I could too? Here is the biggest fallacy - to ask these questions of ones self you must first accept that your homosexual attractions are "wrong". You must accept that God does not approve of homosexuality, much in the same way as an elderly female relative wouldn't.

Luckily for me (as I've pointed out already) I grew up in a secular household, have been free to make my own choices in life. I feel a very vague sense of some kind of spiritualy - having one parent just leave one day and never come back and the other die in front of you kind of does that to you - but never in those vague feelings have I ever felt that an act of love is something to be ashamed of.

There's an interesting sideline here to do with nature/transcendancy. One of the arguments goes that homosexuality is not natural - you point to a pair of male Bonobo, going at it like the clappers - the counter is that man should try to transcend their urges - so why are should some urges be disallowed and others not? In this respect at least you have to respect the Catholic Church - all non-procreational sex is forbidden. I have no problems with that - well, not until you start to look into the sexual activities of the priesthood.

Most if not all of the religious arguments hold little water, and ultimately you get to a point where the Christian will just say "God doesn't give us all the answers". At which point you realise you've been arguing with a brick wall for the last ten hours which is what they wanted anyway.

They claim they aren't trying to convert anyone, all the time ranting at the 'gay agenda' - trying to make out that there's some organised lobby that wants to steal children - all the time doing the same thing themselves. Churches have always been about money, no matter how you package them - and just because the little guys on the front line aren't getting or giving doesn't mean that someone isn't profiting out of all of this.

So why object? Why not let someone have a little profit? So what if they're a little hypocritical?

Because they want to take my liberty from me.

Because people die over this fucking struggle, and while it's easy to forget that when you're sipping your cappucino in your gay cafe, don't think they've forgotten.

Because this isn't about a 22 year old, turning away from homosexuality and toward God - this is about propagating the lie that being gay is wrong.

And I will not stand idly by and let this lie prosper when I have a voice...

posted at 5:58 PM •

Memo to self

Buy muzzle.

posted at 3:52 PM •

I like girls with beards. I don't know why. I noticed that at work yesterday -- and it caught me completely off guard. Perhaps maybe I'm not as gay as I once thought, because I like girls with beards. Golly gosh, wouldn't it be great if I had a girlfirend called Susan who had a beard and a lovely ripe penis. She would look after the house and look after the kids and all the womanly things in life that girls do so well, but she'd have a beard and a penis. She wouldn't do the manly things in life, because that would be my job, to do the manly things in life. I would do things like hammering nails - I could even buy a leather tool-belt, and hang out with other men, manly men with names like Chuck and Matt. We'd admire each others tools and tool-belts. "That's a great chisel you've got there, Chuck," I'd say. Chuck would slap me on the back, and Susan, my girlfriend with a beard and a penis, who would be my wife by this point would come out onto the stoop with a couple of Buds and we'd laugh...

posted at 11:37 AM •

This is a true story.

In the future, everyone will look like Jennifer Aniston. Celebrity will become the dominant force in human evolution and gradually, through generations of 'idol'atry we will become a planet of lookalikes. Survival of the glamourous. Planet of The Famous.

posted at 10:21 AM •

This is a true story.

Of course it's not though - truth and stories are something I have limitless fascination for, and 'truth' is very rarely what it seems. Stories shape reality - or at least, they shape our subjective realities, and well isn't that pretty much the same thing? Discuss.

I caught five minutes of the start of this Derren Brown chappy's programme. 'Derren' is the UK's answer to the question "David Blaine, man or marine algae?", and describes himself thusly:


He mentions all of this in the opening credits, so you can be sure he's not some kind of real wizard - heavens no, real wizards don't exist. His first (and I switched off after this point, so as far as I'm concerned, only) trick was to get an ordinary member of the public to read another ordinary member of the public's mind. Which they did - and crikey they were impressed. "I duurn't know hoo aah did tha'... it just caaame inta me mind."

It did look quite amazing, and my mind started to wonder how on earth it was done, started to look for the little man behind the green curtain. The answer is pretty much all in the opening titles. Psychology, misdirection and showmanship.

Why did I believe they were ordinary members of the public? Because I was told they were ordinary members of the public. I believed something even though I had been told five minutes earlier not to believe anything I was told by this man.

By that point my mind had wandered onto something else and I switched off the drivel, but I was left with the realisation that misdirection is a powerful thing. Which is funny really - considering the lively discussions that I've been involved in this week.

Do you believe everything you're told?

posted at 9:37 AM •

Memo to elsie

Get me a breakfast spot with Kaplinsky for tomorrow - NOT Murnaghan - if that waxen-skinned queen comes within a hundred yards of me, you're fired. Tell Kaplinsky to wear her fuscia Chanel number, and get that rats nest of a barnet sorted. Are you getting this Neous? Jesus H Pissing Christ, my kingdom for a decent PR. I want FRESH lilies on the coffee table and in my dressing room - Gloria Hunniford's suite will suffice, but get the fucking rosaries out of there.

Hmm - methinks celebrityhood becomes me.
Lunch at Quags?
Elton!
*mwah*

posted at 11:03 AM •

The thought of honest-to-Betsy Christians ferreting around here is too much temptation for me to bear. Oh what the hell, seeing as I'm an unrepentant sodomite, I may as well get my money's worth from the ride.





With thanks and lots of gay bum-sex to jetsetpiggy. I forgive you for calling me Skeletor, you runt.

posted at 10:47 AM •

*Groan* - me and my big mouth.

There's a whole history of 'me and my big mouth' - and I hereby reserve it as the title of my memoir/epitaph (until I can think of something more witty).

Yes, it appears I'm a pull-quote generator for the cybernet wing of the monster raving loony party (aka ex-gay central). Even as I type, some ex-gay ministry in Bumfuck, Idaho will be running my words through their central theolog-o-liser, wringing as much Jesus juice out of them as they possibly can and regurgitating it to a bunch of circle-jerking self-repressing freaks.

I hold you personally responsible - that's it, no more spells please, as they're having a tendency to explode in my face. You can cease construction of the bronze effigy of me, cancel the ocelot tongues and hummingbird spleen, and set your bees off 'kill'. Thank you so very much.

I could ramble on about how annoying this all is, but frankly martyrdom or demonisation don't go with this outfit sweetie, so I'll just go back to being a happy well-adjusted homosexual man who sniggers at religious fruitcakes thank you very much please.

Instead, why don't you go and say hello to andrew, another healthy well adjusted gay chappy living in Sydney. He has a beautiful son he co-parented with two gay girls, who is just the cutest little thing ever (well, after my own little bundle of neice-ness - hello Ella!!)

posted at 9:35 AM •

Hey-ulp, the Christians are after me!

posted at 8:08 AM •

The older I get, the more steps I take away from the singularity of my birth, the less sure I become about things. Facts and reality become less certain, and fuzzy logic takes over.

Absurdly though, the less certain I become about things, the more secure I become in that uncertainty, the easier it becomes to see things in different shades of grey at the same time. Life imitating a multi-angle DVD.

In my restless week, I've been existing in other people's comment boxes, able to find a purpose of voice responding to other people's opinions. I'm envious of people with opinions - they always seem so certain. But it seems to me that most people's opinions are based on a concensus of opinion.

Religion, for example - religion has always seemed to me to be a mass delusion. I can't see the point in it - but then, I can't see the point in most things, and if everyone felt like me then what lot of good would that be.

I grew up in a very secular world. The church was somewhat present, but only very tenuously, and it's never managed to convince me that it has anything useful to offer. For starters there's the rulebook - I'm not going to stick my neck out and pretend I really know anything about this book - but what I do know is that some people use it to tell other people they are wrong, and that to me seems rather contrary to the whole point.

But I stuck my neck out and got shot down by Christian snipers - and I learned a thing that I'd heard before: there's no point in arguing with these people. These people base their reality on a set of stories, their hard opinions on fables and third-hand tales, rather than embracing the morality of these stories.

I don't need a book to tell me how to live my life - I am intelligent enough to find the rules out for myself, and where there are gaps I will turn to American sitcoms of the 80's. You can learn a lot from 'The Golden Girls', and ultimately it's a numbers game - more people follow Christianity, so it's more real than my Church of Dorothy. But they are both stories - they are both interpretations of reality - and I think anyway I'd rather have a theology that favours cheesecake over crucifixes. So tell me my brothers and sisters...

What Would Blanche Do?

posted at 10:18 AM •

Ever created an audio juxtaposition and realised you've just made a huge mistake?

Sheryl Crow will now forever sound like Diana Krall singing on helium - great, there's that ruined for me. Jesus, how on earth could I ever listen to this woman?

How much more can suck this month I wonder?

posted at 11:59 AM •

Can I get Ritalin from my dealer? I can't even stick at feeling 'so-what'-ish without my attention switching to something else after five fucking minutes.

Look, I'm just feeling verrrry verrrry restless OK?

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Anyway - had a hard day of trying to do work, and actually reading blogs. Found a few things which have reaffirmed my desire to blog - negative, positive, and well, this guy.

This has totally clarified something that's been buzzing around in my head, and is true of 'bears' in London. Let's set the record straight shall we: You are middle-aged men who identify with cuddly animals, call yourselves things like 'bears' and 'cubs', and say things like "This is my husbear."

GROW THE FUCK UP.

posted at 4:46 PM •

I can think of a million reasons to carry on blogging, but each of them culminate in the one reason to stop: so what?

So what? So what if I tell you all about my weekend, so what if I started a project of writing about all the guys (sad little men) who visit the pub, so what if I wrote about my trials and tribulations, giving insights into the difficulties life throws in one's path, so what if I ramble on and on about being a 'gay divorcee' and plunge into a endless quest for The Great Dark Man? So what?

Yeah, this is a bit of a blog-tantrum, and it's also a bit of a thrash around (restless chap that I am) because I don't feel in control of certain areas of my life - but at the same time I feel quite calm about the thought of termination, not at all melodramatic - well, not much anyway.

So what.

posted at 10:04 AM •

Blog Existential Crisis.

I'm feeling restless, and questioning the point of this site. On Friday I stumbled over a blog who's author died last week, and the subsequent posts were by family and friends who were trying to come to terms with his passing. The guy was roughly the same age as my Father when he died, and I am rapidly approaching the age my Father was when I was born. Those facts have no significance whatsoever, I just like pointing them out.

The blog's stats were of course still viewable through the usual route (always fun to look at other people's stats) - and it was fascinating to see the regular steady 70-unique-visitors-a-day (adjusted for seasonal and weekend variations) - suddenly shoot up into their thousands after his death.

Suddenly his last couple of posts before his death become something other-worldly, and people stop to read his final words, probably hoping to find some truths: god, life, death. Hoping that they would see a glimpse of heaven.

I think the blog should have been left as it was when he died - no tidying up, no explanation of his death. Death does not clean up after itself. It doesn't sneak into your room while you're not looking, straighten the bed clothes and leave a little mint on the pillow. I looked at this guys' final posts and thought, "I've had enough of blogging."

I think I'm thinking of thinking of stopping here.

My worst has happened, and I'm looking forward for the first time in months - perhaps years. I look back over the last couple of years, and I see someone who has an incredible ability to cope through adversity. You might think my life is one great car crash. You might think I whinge too much about it. You might think I dwell and brood too much. Partly it's because my blog has become a place for putting my deepest feelings, when I'm pushing the real world away.

But it's not me. It's just a conversation I'm having with someone who sometimes listens, sometimes ignores me, sometimes looks at me with bafflement as I waffle on about some crap going on that one day will mean nothing.

So I carry on posting all this intimate stuff. I don't have the focus that other bloggers have, and although I do share some of their passions (london underground, cost-saving tips, camp trivia, pop music) - it's not the stuff that comes out here.

Maybe I'll carry on writing what I've been writing, revealing everything, leaving no stone of my life uncovered - or maybe I'll stop here now, tidy up all the loose ends and leave.

posted at 11:15 AM •

Wanky art graduate conversation overheard in the office...

A: "You remember Anna?"
B: "Anna *surname*?"
A: "I think so - used to work in the Tate?"
B: "Yeah, that's her."
A: "She's working for Chris Ofili* now."
B: "Wow, really? I saw her at Christmas - I knew she was trying to leave the gallery she was working at."
A: "So if you want to get in touch with her, just call Chris Ofili's people - oh, I suppose she is Chris Ofili's people..."

Hang on - that was a conversation I just had... Oh shit, I'm such a wanker...

posted at 6:03 PM •

Now it's Germans.

Why won't this fucking tit of a week just piss off and die?

This post brought to you by the Fucking Tourists, Why Don't They Just Go Run Under A Big Shiny London Routemaster Bus, Can't They See I'm In A Bad Mood - And Another Thing, What's This Shit About Respect All The Time These Days, What's Wrong With Just Showing Consideration To Others, I Hold Trisha And Her Researchers Responsible You Know, I Really Do Campaign.

posted at 4:27 PM •

Ah, the cigarette break - the last refuge of the civilised man.

Were it not for the habitual ritual of gathering essential belongings (fags: check; lighter: check; mob: check; pass key: check), unshackling yourself for your desk-irons, wrenching your dew-encrusted eyes from your monitor and heading out into daylight (it burns, it burns) - I think I may well have decided to quit smoking.

And there you stand, with all the other bad kids, tarring and feathering your own lungs, and doing what bad kids smoking in groups have done for millenia: bitching.

Of course, being a contractor, I can't take part in the office politic - I'm an outsider, someone to be watched with fear and suspicion, certainly not someone with whom you entrust the office gossip with.

So, I'm stood outside, dodging lost American Tourists, looking at the backs of murmuring, furtive-looking permanent members of staff, and I suddenly had one of My Ace Ideas™.

Office Whip - a member of the personnel staff who ensures harmonious working relations, deals with disputes on a floor-level, and facilitates a politics-free, unified workforce. Actually now I come to write it down, it sounds like the sort of thing you would have called a shop steward, but without the baggage of a union. Do these exist already in large companies? Google has an Ethics Committee, so I would think this position would appeal to their forward-thinking ideals...

This post brought to you by the Find A Cool Job For Steve Campaign

posted at 12:06 PM •

Has Baroness Golding been showing Elsie's blog to her guests?

(Oo, get me - all topical like).

posted at 10:11 AM •

So many posts flying through my head, and I can't catch hold of them for long enough to write down. I feel like Alice falling down the rabbit hole - wait, no, sorry, not that again, that just confused everyone. Bad blogger - write 5,000 lines, "I must not write esoteric posts that alienate my audience".

Except now I've gone all post-modern and self-referential and you'll probably be sitting there wondering what the hell I'm going on about. Blast - I can't win either way.

I'm sure someone has been stealing hours from me this week. I've just had no time to do anything - sitting in my office at home surrounded by a mountain of paperwork, staring into the distance and before you know it, it's midnight and I've got to get some sleep or I'm not going to get into work on time.

The chances of this contract turning into a permanent role seem to be dissipating - well, I haven't heard anything to suggest they might be taking on permanent staff, and I found out yesterday that the reason they have so many contractors at the moment is because an entire team is in San Francisco on another project.

The Fear is creeping up on me from all sides. Working this week with a snotty nosed little prick who speaks to me like I'm a senile octogenarian who has never touched a computer in his life. Is this the way things are going to be if I stay in this line of work? At the age of 30, I should be several rungs up the ladder by now, but through a series of bad luck, bad choices and bad management I'm a contract worker with a slipping foothold on even that lowly position.

Children can smell fear, and they like nothing better than picking off the weakest of the herd.

Well - at least I can console myself that I can grow a better beard than him.

posted at 9:44 AM •

"Oh, you can't help that," said the Cat:
"we're all mad here. I'm mad. You're mad."

posted at 4:55 PM •

posted at 10:29 AM •

Why, you're only a sort of thing in his dream.

posted at 2:36 PM •

Life's a bitch

Yesterday received notice of procedings to recover £1500 from a courier car I collided with - last September. Have to sort this out with my insurance company.

The lining of my nose is somewhat fucked after a bit of a heavy weekend two weeks ago, and onset of hayfever is not helping.

I'm spending money faster than I can earn it.

I'm behind on my housework, and haven't had a day off work in about 2 weeks.

Got my first gatso ticket this month - £60 and three points - can I exchange these in Argos?

Feeling restless in general - need some long-term security, and it's not happening at the company I'm working at.

I still haven't been discovered as a 'blogger to watch'.


Life's bitchin'

Things seem to be picking up again with me and M after the catharsis of last week and wrenching closure from John.

Got three incomes - contract, pub and rent money; and have an invoice to issue to my last employers.

I'm getting my drug habits under control a lot better than I did at the end of last year.

The lodger has a houseboy who cleaned the kitchen and living room... for free yesterday*

Had a good job interview this week, and career confidence is picking up.

Sorted out flat battery on bike this weekend, finding a new garage with nice friendly helpful chaps.

posted at 1:08 PM •

posted at 1:14 PM •

Don't stop me now, I'm having such a good time - I'm having a ball.

Travelling at the speed of light, waking up at 9am already on my way to work, showered and rested I overtake myself on Old Street roundabout, time slowing down as Eisteinian theories of relativity are replaced by Heisenberg's quantum theory of an uncertain future for a busy Flash contractor already half an hour late. The fabric of Parking Spacetime folds and spindles - Wardour Street *fwip* - Park Place *zzzzshimm* - Golden Square *ffvvooam* - the creases forming a tesseract that I speed through.

Wondering if there's a drug I can take that allows me to: exist on one hours' sleep a day, hold down two jobs while looking for another, fit in some DIY, some blogging, some photography, some reading, some writing, some drawing, some sex, some eating, some time in the gym, some time with the family, the garden, the bike, the country, the arts, prevent cancer, prevent old age, prevent lines, wrinkles and cellulite, promote world peace, my latest studio album and collection of contemporary folk poetry inspired by the terms and conditions copy on the back of direct mail leaflets for sanitary towels.

Wondering if there's a drug which allows me to go back in time and write a smash animated series for the BBC called I am not an animal about a group of animals escaped from a vivisection lab with the ability to speak utter banal drivel. Steve Coogan is interested you know, oh yes? You'll commission three series, Mr Grade? That's fantastic, wonderful... Oh and I've got another conept for you Mr Grade, yes, it's called Strictly Come Dancing, Mr Grade, yes, it's a cross between Celebrity Stars in their eyes, Come Dancing, and that episode of Faking It where the girl who looked like a lesbian had to train as a professional dancer. Oh, you didn't see that one Mr Grade? Well, it wasn't the best one of that series - no, you're right Mr Grade, the one with the Drag Queens, that was the best one.

*Flash* Give me success.

*Flash* Give me fame.

*Flash*

posted at 10:23 AM •

I need a future here folks.

I'm done with my past - the last ten months, two and a half years, two weeks packed away into little boxes with dynotape labels: she died, he did this, I did that. Over and over, more and more of the pieces falling into place like a time-reversed film clip of a barn being torn apart by a tornado, trying to rebuild a life that wasn't mine anyway.

Positive and negative, trial and triumph - back to thinking about gettingawayfromitall and making plans and being me.

"I shall take a holiday," I decide to myself.

"If I land that job, that anyjob that will sort my ace life out, I shall tell them I have holiday already booked." "I shall tell them I have a two-week holiday booked, and I shall pay for it when? ever? Does it even matter anyway, I need to break, and not break down."

"I wanna soak up the sun and close my eyes and feel the UVA and UVB on my eyelids red and warm and no place for darkness, a placenta of novels and Ambre Solaire."

I feel like I've been lying to myself, but that's just over-analysis after the fact. This time there are no lies and no hidden agendas, no reason to pretend that the future hurts. Do your worst - it cannot possibly be my worst, for mine has already happened.

posted at 12:50 PM •

Eighty quid for a beautiful shirt in Thomas Pink. Perhaps I should look somewhere cheaper, but it's all about presentation - an eighty quid shirt says "confident", an eighty quid shirt says "competent" - but I'd better leave the price tag on. Oh well, it'll be Tescos Value shopping and bulk buy at ASDA for a while.

Meanwhile, the lingering trail of work from my last redundant post is getting irksome. Last couple of ammends that I keep forgetting to do - think I've nearly worn out every excuse in the book, but I'll try the trusty "the email's in the post" routine one more time. Can bill the tossers two hundred quid when it's done and buy two shirts and have change for a night out.

posted at 10:46 AM •

Whew another weekend over time for a nice relaxing week up at 7am sweaty spunky bedsheets draped over a swarthy hunky gorgeous blokey remembering the night before in the pub on a makeshift tinselled platform in front of a hundred pissed up non-effeminate homosexuals belting out abba and loving it centre stage and thinking about other bloggers blogging from Turkey and how the eurovision was watched with the sound turned down while the DJ played boom-bang-a-bang and puppet on a string and congratulations and going home after the pub on my bike high on the adrenaline and what's that smell and happy so contentedly motherfuckingly happy to have my bike back and it was only a flat battery after all and only had to fork out twenty quid for the guy to give you a lift down into the west-end pillion and jump leads so washed the bike when I got it back to Leyton but it's still a bit shabby but hey it's nearly mine only two months more payments but I've got to get the insurance renewed hope it's gone down this year, hey I am thirty now and not some idiot born-again forty something biker statistic but damn got my first points and I've got got got to remember to send my license and sixty quid and I need to get a new shirt today got to look a hundred bucks for the interview this evening got to impress them but it's not the end of the world if I don't get it and i listen to the streets as I catch up on blog land.

posted at 9:45 AM •

OK, I give in.

Who are you and what do you want from me?

It's about me not flossing isn't it?

posted at 12:30 PM •

Another week of contracting nearly finished.

This time has gone a damn site better than my last bout of temporary employee-ness in September and October last year. Thankfully I wasn't blogging then, because apart from a bit of name-dropping that I need to add on to my CV, they're not jobs that I want to remember that much.

This one has, for the most part, been fantastic - the set-up and organisation here is superb, the location is a dream, the run in to work is fun (East London to the West End in around 25 minutes - parking permitting), the people are friendly and the work is stimulating. The only problem came in the last week or so, and my preoccupation with my emotional pile-up. I'm not the sort of person that can just bury my feelings, and the outpourings here were written mostly during work time. Not good when you're a contractor trying to make a good impression.

The elements of the site I've been building have run into trouble, and I can't find a way out of them. Navigation, which should have taken a couple of days to build, has ended up taking a week, and it's still buggy.

My dreams of going permanent here now seem exactly that - not that I ever knew whether they were looking to take new permanent staff on. They've lined me up for some more work next week, but no-one is mentioning anything beyond that.

Looks like I'm going to have a bit more time for DIY again soon.

posted at 9:34 AM •

The irritating Americans are really getting on my tits. Twice now I've been stood outside the office where I'm contracting in the West End (read: Tourist Central) having a smoke and I've had American Tourists ask me for directions.

Not being from a civilised country however, they seem to not understand how to speak to strangers in a polite manner.

"What street is that?" one asked - no 'please', no 'excuse me', just twang out your question in the most nasally obnoxious manner possible.

The first time I swallowed my irritation and helped out, mumbling and muttering to myself, scathing L'esprit d'escalier forming in my mind as the baseball-capped pensioner wandered off in his Perpetual State of America.

It just happened again - Mom and Pop apple pie, tourist map, matching K-Mart slacks and rucksacks, probably trying to work out the way to Lye-chester Square. No attempt to get my attention, no attempt at politesse, just shout the question in my direction. This time I couldn't control my annoyance - which in British terms means I smiled a little less than usual, and only said 'sorry' four or five times. Actually, I just shrugged, adopted my finest Surly European Look Of Disdain (note to self: switch to Gauloises), grumbled a 'dunno'.

There, get lost for all I care - if you can't at least say 'excuse me' then don't expect any favours.

posted at 3:29 PM •

Well, what have I been doing in the last couple of months when I've not been wandering through the twisted metal and jaws-of-life diorama that I let my ace life become?

Well, it's been a strange time - freeing the broken body of order out of the car crash of chaos...

After my little stresshead outburst at my last employers, I was sent off to work from home and there I stayed after my redundancy period had run out. Housebound, I set about a haphazard series of home-improvements, some of which I've mentioned already. I cleaned, organised and renovated, and learned a lot of things about doing it yourself, building on my basic knowledge gleaned from seven years working behind a checkout in B&Q. The biggest discovery has been that actually you don't have to fork out a wheelbarrow of cash to make your place look a little better. So, with that in mind, here's my Queer Eye for the Straight Guy style advice...

Tip 1
Replace all the light switches in your house if they're old, shabby or all different types
Depending on how many you've got this shouldn't be too expensive, unless you're Elton John or his partner David Furnish, in which case, just pay someone to fit diamond encrusted Fabergé light switches. It cost about £40 in my house to replace every switch with a snazzy brushed chrome effect affair.
Of course - always take care when messing with the electric in your house - always switch off the mains supply at the consumer unit or fusebox - and never mix plaid and stripes, even when you're doing little jobs around the house.

posted at 9:34 AM •

Dear Steve,

At first, I thought the feelings I had were normal. Slight doubts and uncertainties about my feelings for you that I rationalised and compartmentalised away. I don't know whether you'd changed or me, but something was different, and I could neither explain nor justify how I felt. But I felt less.

Time with you was a strange mix of comfort and discomfort. I knew you, and I could see your love for me, but increasingly I began to question whether my feelings were as strong as yours. Fear began to creep into my mind, and after Joan died, the fears grew worse.

In that year, 2002, I threw myself into work, while you went from drug-fuelled weekend to drug-fuelled weekend. Perhaps I thought the doubts and fears would end, and I tried to ignore them, but all the time they were growing stronger. I didn't need you, not as much as you needed me. I didn't need your touch, your caress, your comfort. How you didn't see it, I don't know - I felt like shaking you sometimes, I felt like shaking your eyes open and screaming at you that I didn't love you anymore. Every question you asked me seemed to have one answer, but I couldn't bring myself to say it to you. Time away from you was a release, but brief, as I returned to your hurt, questioning eyes.

"Why didn't you call me?"

"Because I don't love you."

How could I say those words to you? Your world had fallen apart, and this would be too much for you to cope with. So - so, so, so - I lied to you. You looked deep into my eyes and each time I pulled the cord running from my back, the words coming so easily as they had done when they meant something to me.

"I love you cublet."

At the last, the lies and excuses became too much for me. Coupled with all the financial and work problems we were both having, my brain shut down. I felt trapped by my lies, and every day I hated myself more and more for what I had done.

I never meant to do this to you. I never meant my lies to consume us, but your love terrified me. In your heart, perhaps you can see that what I have done was not in malice, or perhaps you will always hate me. I did love you once, and I dearly hope that one day you will find love again.

I am so sorry.

John

----------------------------------------------

I never received this letter, and I never will. Over the past ten months of searching for the truth, this is the best approximation I can come up with as to what John went through. Maybe John feels he has said this to me, maybe he feels what I have written is taken for granted - he never did understand that sometimes you have to say things, even if you think they are understood.

This is the missing piece of the jigsaw, and I take a kind of comfort writing it for myself - and in a way, it is a true text - the man that he is now would never give me these words, so I write them from the man I loved who lives on in my heart, and will do forever.

posted at 10:09 AM •

I missed out one little detail.

Over the last week, the emotional destruction wrought by John has been getting harder and harder to ignore. I began to see the magnitude of his deceit, and began to realise that the one thing he has never allowed me is closure.

It's clear now how easy this has been for him - he has been walking that path for some time - two years maybe - slowly distancing himself, slowly separating. When I told him I thought the relationship was nearly over, he grabbed the chance - and in hindsight, he would have found another reason, another thing I said to end things, so I shouldn't beat myself up over that any more.

But he carried on lying to me - when the excuses he gave me didn't add up, and the questions haunted me every day, still he didn't come clean. Still he didn't let me see exactly what had happened. Oh, how he goaded me for falling apart. Oh, how he mocked my emotional collapse, while all the time maintaining his composure over the end of a relationship that for him had ended years before.

On Sunday I went to see him.

I rode out to his house in Teddington - thankfully I never realised before just how close it was. I had no plan, I was running on pure critical drive.

The tears came the minute I set foot in his house.

I rambled for hours - he was silent throughout. I didn't really need him to say anything - but I got what I needed.

Things turned bad of course - bad for him - things were already too far beyond bad to get any worse for me. He threw my things out of his house, I locked the front door behind him. He was forced to break into his house through the back door, and when he eventually found me in his bedroom, he attacked me.

It's interesting that the thing he tried to do was cover my mouth. To shut me up. He has never told me how he feels about what he has done to me, other than the occassional mumbled "I feel guilty" - but his actions at that moment told me everything I needed to know, and I think at that moment I felt a little closure.

He phoned his new lover - I spoke to him - and that too gave me more closure, to hear his little consolation's voice. To hear the voice of the boy who sleeps next to the man who was once my bear.

----------------------------------------------

I just received the fall-out email from him, but now it doesn't matter - I have taken from him what I needed. I have started to be able to move on from this treachery, and find the strength to face him and not need him anymore.

posted at 12:37 PM •

More catharsis.

I need to get this bile out. I need to vomit up all the pain that John Chisholm has infested in my heart. I think it's working.

I've been cautioned in the last few months as to how much I reveal on here, but it's not about that anymore - now it's about my peace of mind. In the last month, several large pieces of the jigsaw slotted into place, and I realised how I'd been taken for a total fool. It began to dawn on me that the man I'd loved, the man I put on a shining pedestal was in reality, just a weak, sad little man.

I loved him, truly, madly, deeply - and looking back on all of the things that I said last year - all of the things that a couple of people have pointed out to me as proof that things weren't right - now make sense.

I adored him, and he frustrated the hell out of me. Leaving on work jollies and not calling, watching me work tirelessly and not lift a finger to support me. How could this man who loved me do that to me?

It's obvious isn't it? He didn't love me - he didn't love me so he could do that to me - and yet he told me he loved me and I believed the lie because I was terrified of the truth. Once I found out that he actually stole money from me, I couldn't ignore it any longer.

I have to face these facts, so that I won't cling on to the deceit he spun around me. I have to shout these truths out, because they are all that will get me through this.

One of the things that hurts is that even after I gave him the exit route that he's been waiting for, he carried on lying to me, in a idiotic, misplaced attempt to somehow lessen the pain he'd inflicted on me.

Knowing what he knew - all the doubts he'd had about us, all the times he'd said "I love you, cublet." and not meant it, all the financial support he'd received from me, all the theft and deception - even knowing all that, he still stuck the knife in and demanded half of the equity in the flat. The flat that I'd sunk all the money into - worked tirelessly one summer to get the deposit together - and eventually paid off the resulting debts with money from my mother's pension fund after she died. He wanted it.

He put considerable pressure on me, making my life hell - all I wanted was my love back, and all he wanted was money.

Sad, venal little man.

He eventually dropped it - but he managed to do it in a way that was another knife in my heart - "you've ruined me, Steve," he said - "I can never take you to court over this, so you win, and I won't be able to buy my own place for years..."

No, John Chisholm, you ruined yourself. You nearly ruined me too, but, maybe I can get over this. Maybe I'm a damn site more resourceful, and good, and strong than you ever fucking realised.

Maybe there is hope...

posted at 7:45 AM •

If it was a case of getting over an ex, perhaps I would be able to. But it isn't about that - it's about three words:

"I love you."

Naive, pathetic trusting Steve. "I love you." he said, and I believed him. I believed he loved me, and even after he stopped telling that lie, I believed I could win him back. All this time, I believed that if I just tried hard enough he would come to his senses. He didn't love me. He probably didn't love me when he walked beside me behind my mother's coffin at her funeral. He didn't love me when he held my hand when the night terrors came. He didn't love me when I struggled to keep myself together through my grief.

He didn't love me.

I am still in love with a man who has stolen from me, who lied to me, whose treachery has taken from me something far more dear than any "sorry" can repay. This man stole my heart, and returned it to me infected with doubt and spite.

He has his happiness, his new lover, his consolation. I have nothing, a chasm of self-pity and self-loathing that nothing can fill.

Will I look into my next lover's eyes and search for the doubt in there? Will I question him each and every time he says those three words to me? Will I ever be happy again, knowing that someone who tells you they love you might be lying?

I don't really want to find out again, and so the future fills me with utter despair.

posted at 9:44 AM •

Well the Atkins lunch seemed to work. Didn't get as drowsy as I have been doing, so I think I'll try to avoid the complex carbs at lunchtime in future. And maybe try to have breakfast.

Me, me, me again - the upbeat ending to last week dissipated over the hectic weekend, and I'm back to feeling down. I miss John a lot. I could embellish that, but I just don't have the energy. My longing for something I apparently can't have is draining me and sending me into spirals of self-loathing. The pub doesn't help, but I don't have the energy to leave - some of the regulars delight in taunting me for being thin - they only do it because they see it annoys me, but what they don't see is that actually it makes me utterly depressed.

Sorry, crap post, but I can't give much at the moment.

posted at 1:00 AM •

Spurred on by a comment to my afternoon drowsiness, I've tried an experimental Atkins-ish lunch today - Tesco's Healthy Eating Tomato and Basil mini chicken breasts and Cottage Cheese with crunchy vegetables and a fruit salad. I've been suspecting my intake of complex starchy carbs could be contributing to my tiredness, so we'll give this a whirl and see.

I've had several people tell me of the benefits of Atkins - but all to do with fat reduction. As a result, I've always taken the opposite approach to Atkins, and lately I've been trying to eat more starchy carbs (pasta, rice, potatoes) in an attempt to put on weight. I'm one of the bizarre people who are underweight (in my case just slightly) - and unhappy with it. I've met others like me, both male and female, and it's always refreshing to do so and compare notes on being unhappily underweight.

In a world where the majority of people who consider dieting do so with weight loss in mind, you feel a total freak when you want to put weight on. Last year when I was going to the gym, I hit my first goal of 12 stone - which for someone of my height, 6'2" - is in the normal range. Nobody could seem to get their heads round the fact that I was ecstatic with this acheivement, so it went unnoticed.

The last couple of months of upheaval have taken their toll on my weight though, and currently I think I'm somewhere below the 11 stone mark - I don't know for sure though, because I'm terrified of the bathroom scales.

posted at 3:09 PM •