If you're wondering why my posts are suffering from an acute case of anorexia, it is because this week I have been suffering from a major bout of Bloganoia. This is a new condition that is well documented apparently, whereby you bitch and moan and assassinate various characters, then realise that you are totally shitting where you are eating and take all the best bits out of your recent posts. However, I don't really want to write positive, mundane stories about Shire life because, lets face it, that's as dull as fuck. Therefore I have decided to go forth and be a little more pleasant than I am cynical... for as long as I can.
With this in mind, I must touch lightly upon my first night at the gay bar - not that it was bad at all, in fact quite the opposite. First of all, it isn't a bar, more of a club.... in that it has a dance floor, and the clientele like nothing more than botching the steps to the Gangnam Style over and over. Like the punch at some suburban linedancing class' christmas party had been spiked with rohipnol. And, unfortunately, I couldn't pass myself off as the elusive, sexy new barman because every single person who I have been flirting with on Grindr must have turned up that night.
Oh yes: Grindr. The iphone app that has now become my primary social networking tool.
What can I tell you about Grindr if you're not familiar with its work?
Well its been making gay, desperate men all over the globe feel inadequate for over three years now. Basically you take a picture of yourself looking sexy and nonchalant; like you do this kind of pose everyday (this shall henceforth be known as the bait). You are then presented with a sort of sliding puzzle map of pictures of other gay men doing exactly the same thing (this shall henceforth be known as the lake). Each face is lined up in the order of distance they are away from you, NOT in order of attractiveness (because that wouldn't be fair). And to be honest, if they haven't taken a picture of their face, then its probably not worth looking at. BELIEVE me.
You can then see whether there is a fellow brother within your locality and instantly message them if you want to meet up. The idea, I guess, is so that we never need come in contact with another straight person ever again; that we can march from spot, to spot, to spot without ever having to look up.
Of course, with this instant flirting (the likes of which you would never do in the real world) comes the possibility of multiple cases of crippling rejection. Especially when you swallowed your pride and punched well below your weight to message poor Joe83. Only because he's just three feet away and online and you're on your own with an unopened bottle of Pinot.
The messages also have code. For instance: "What are you looking for?" is generally a cut to the chase from someone who is looking for casual sex. I'm always tempted to respond with: "What I'm really looking for is a Morphy Richards Slow Cooker in mauve. Any ideas?"
In London, Grindr is ridiculous. You walk around with it continuously on. It bleeps at you through your trouser pocket: telling you that even the guy pissing in the bushes outside the front of your house is a fellow homosexual.
In the Shire it is totally necessary because, unless we all get electronically tagged, you'd never know where your next orgasm was coming from.
One example of it working to my advantage was when I found out the hot guy in the queue at the Post Office collection depo, who caught my eye a few times, WAS in fact a brother. Only trouble was, I didn't find out until I got home and by then he was 5 km away according to Grindr. If only I'd acted upon instinct and sparked up a Royal Mail orientated conversation.
"What are you in for? Mine was too big for the slot..."
I can understand the appeal of a devise that enables you to get your jollies without ever having to dismount Shanks' Pony but me? I'm just after mates at this point. Heaven knows, I've spent so much time on my own whilst unemployed; I've given both my shadow AND my reflection alternative names. I also couldn't just turn up at someones house for sex - I'm not spontaneous enough.
I'd feel like I had to take some sort of welcome gift, or through a few essential cosmetics into a Waitrose bag. Anyway, I simply can't stay anywhere overnight without some dental floss and a hefty splodge of cooling peppermint foot balm. And I wouldn't want to seem presumptuous by pulling these items out of my man bag before asking whether I can sleep next to the wall.
Conversely, I could never have anyone round here for something similar. I'd have to crack open a new Glade plug in (the special occasion one that I've been saving). I'd also be scratting around in the airing cupboard for the one spare towel that hasn't turned to sand paper thanks to the hard water of East London.
I'd be frantically texting: "Actually, I know I said immediate, but can you leave it an hour or so whilst I pop into town. Oh BTW: Are you a Hob Nob or an Abbey Crunch kind of guy?"
By the time I'd got home and laid out a half crescent of biscuits on one of my impressive "best plates", the moment of impulsive lust would have definitely gone. I've have to sit down with an echinacea tea and an episode of Judge Judy.
And imagine the horror as he unearthed all of my little bedroom secrets. The fact that I have separate day to night time pants in my underwear draw. And he would be sure to come across the old moisturiser dispenser that I've decanted all the free Freedom lube sachets into to save me buying a £20 bottle.
So, yes I did see about four or five Grindr pals in there and OF COURSE I couldn't say hello to them because that would have broken the illusion of mystery (my bait looks quite butch).
I went around the whole evening trying to mimic the same face that I was pulling in the photo so I didn't let them down. Needless to say that I had a great night. Lovely staff, decent music. However, I did see eight or so gold ties hanging over the door: looking set out but forgotten. I'm hoping this is NOT a coincidence...
And after all that moaning.... I scored myself a date (he shall be henceforth known as the catch).
Tuesday 18 December 2012
Friday 14 December 2012
Week 2 Part One
This week has been an interesting one: the slow transition from boy to man... well, at least in terms of this one gay's journey.
On Monday, I thought that I would never find respectable work again: thrown once more to the top of the slag heap of part time administration for out of work actors and aspiring novelists the world over. Worse still, as an actor (and aspiring novelist), if you're not good for administration as a reliable source of income... what the fuck ARE you good for? That "Golf Sale" placard loomed ever closer.
If I had to endure the condescending eye of yet another temping agency dolly bird; giving me the once over and asking: "So.... Why the move from London?" then I would scream. They always ask that question as though my years of professional experience in the all conquering capital was irrelevant now that I was on their turf: literally begging with my bowl out. Oh, do me a favour luv. If you hadn't got knocked up in 1997, you'd have been the first in line for a place at drama school in London as well!
Finally, I had a breakthrough. A very pleasant female employment agent, one of the few who I had not contacted personally- bizarrely, called offering me part time admin work for £7.50 an hour. So desperate was I that I practically screamed "I'LL TAKE IT" the second I answered the phone.
I was thanking her for her consideration in the same way that someone might if they'd been donated a kidney: after years of painful servitude on "the list".
"Okay then, that all sounds fine. And how much were you getting per hour in London then, Ed?"
"Er.... My last temping job was £12".
Long pause.
"Well, things are a bit different here I'm afraid"
I could sense her discomfort, even over the phone. Her exasperated sigh told me more than words ever could.
"There is also another problem, you don't drive and this job is near Littlehampton".
I am aware of the skills that I don't possess.
"Oh, I've seen a bus to Littlehampton. I'm not adverse to getting a bus. We did have them in London. I'm sure it will be fine".
Turns out it was near Littlehampton. Well, if you call a 48 minute walk from the closest bus stop in the blistering wind and merciless sleet: near.
Cut the bus out altogether and it would have been an easy one hour and thirteen minutes schlep door to door. And trust all the soles of my shoes to give up the ghost in the month when I didn't have a disposable income.
Still, I was persistent, I didn't want to appear ungrateful. They're hardly banging the doors down with job offers at the moment
"I tell you what, perhaps I'll brave it for the first week, and who knows? Hopefully my natural charm will bag me a lift from a nice, generous colleague who lives in the city centre"
It was a risk.
I mused a second as I remembered the journey I had already made along the virtual route via Google maps.
"Because that two mile cross country road that I'll have to traverse daily does look a bit treacherous. Particularly since its evidently a hotbed for black ice and has a distinct lack of council funded lighting"
My agent was on the case.
"Well.... perhaps you could dummy run the walk tomorrow, see what its like and then give me an answer in the afternoon".
A genius idea. I was actually considering it.... for £7.50 an hour. £868 a month..... £10,416 per annum.
I told her I'd sleep on it.
This morning, one look at the driving rain and my good friend: reality kicked in.
"Morning, could you please tell the agent that I won't be doing the walk and I won't be taking the job"
This evening, however, was my debut voyage into the world of community radio in the Shire, and one that I was looking forward to.
I was instructed to meet the charming and motherly representative at the door - a lady who had obviously donated a great portion of free time to this cause. This was highly admirable and something you see often in hospital radio. Admiration aside though: this is 2012 and I was about to become a professional nightmare.
Her tour didn't take long. Everyone was extremely pleasant and welcoming and what the studio lacked in size, it made up for in charm. The music library room bore a slight resemblance to Fritzls basement... if Fritzl liked storing his vinyl on stackable wooden shelving. The presenting procedure was a little old school. I spent most of the evening sizing up a decent bit of shelf space for my two solid glass presenting awards.
My desire to inject a little much needed change into the place was immediately palpable: I was half barging my way under my tour guides armpit to march into her office with a measuring tape, a John Lewis furniture catalogue and a desk sized picture of my nearest and dearest to replace the signed photo of "Diddy" David Hamilton. I jest.
Fifteen minutes in and I found myself having to pull rank.
"So, would you be comfortable presenting tonight? You don't have to say much if you don't want to"
She was sweetly challenging me to sink or swim - hoping that I wouldn't cower in front of her headset microphone combo. I could hear a gauntlet crashing somewhere in the distance so I raised one eyebrow and nodded towards her Broadcasting Association certificate.
"Erm, I did tell you that I'm the incumbent Best Male Award Winner 2012....... didn't I?"
Her face dropped as she practically threw herself at me and shouted: "You're not! OI, PATRICK?!? WE'RE IN THE PRESENCE OF ROYALTY HERE!" without a shred of irony.
I had no need to be cynical. She was totally sound and I had just found myself a new best friend. We're a strange breed us radio types.
And god bless my handsome and gifted seventeen year old co presenter. Not just for putting up with me beginning every sentence with: "And, as an award winner....."
After he handed me a script for the evening's presenting duties (a script!!!) and tried to ignore the bamboozlement on my face (one of the closing lines actually read: So its goodnight from me INSERT NAME HERE and its goodnight from INSERT NAME HERE), he informed me that the radio for him was a sort of voluntary community service after being somewhat of a teenage tearaway in his formative years. I couldn't understand this since he was so polite and helpful. He was also studying an array of A Levels that put my advanced GNVQ to shame. I detected a hint of self doubt.
He told me he was there primarily because he loves music. I couldn't help feeling that his luck was down since we'd played nothing post 1977. Only a few Irish ditties, the song from the Clover advert and a canon that even Pachalbel himself might wrinkle his nose up at when asked to choose the tracklist for a greatest hits compilation.... if he wasn't dead.
My colleague was also eager to learn the technical side of radio production yet hadn't been taught anything yet. Well no, since the current technician appeared to be governing the proceedings courtesy of an SX Spectrum with adjoining joystick.
Needless to say, I nailed said script and practically got a standing ovation from the control room situated behind the bullet proof glass at the back of me; my new lady friend clapping with admiration spread across her face. I was beginning to like her. My teenage companion leaned over and graciously remarked that it was the best night he'd had there so far. Look at me: contributing to the rehabilitation of the youth via the medium of staunch professionalism and a hefty dose of camp.
I gave him a wink. "Don't worry mate, give me a few weeks, I'll have my own show and I'll teach you the ropes". It was sweet: just like we were in prison and trading information for respect.
I think I might just be okay.
PS. If any of you are reading this, I write it all in good humour. x
On Monday, I thought that I would never find respectable work again: thrown once more to the top of the slag heap of part time administration for out of work actors and aspiring novelists the world over. Worse still, as an actor (and aspiring novelist), if you're not good for administration as a reliable source of income... what the fuck ARE you good for? That "Golf Sale" placard loomed ever closer.
If I had to endure the condescending eye of yet another temping agency dolly bird; giving me the once over and asking: "So.... Why the move from London?" then I would scream. They always ask that question as though my years of professional experience in the all conquering capital was irrelevant now that I was on their turf: literally begging with my bowl out. Oh, do me a favour luv. If you hadn't got knocked up in 1997, you'd have been the first in line for a place at drama school in London as well!
Finally, I had a breakthrough. A very pleasant female employment agent, one of the few who I had not contacted personally- bizarrely, called offering me part time admin work for £7.50 an hour. So desperate was I that I practically screamed "I'LL TAKE IT" the second I answered the phone.
I was thanking her for her consideration in the same way that someone might if they'd been donated a kidney: after years of painful servitude on "the list".
"Okay then, that all sounds fine. And how much were you getting per hour in London then, Ed?"
"Er.... My last temping job was £12".
Long pause.
"Well, things are a bit different here I'm afraid"
I could sense her discomfort, even over the phone. Her exasperated sigh told me more than words ever could.
"There is also another problem, you don't drive and this job is near Littlehampton".
I am aware of the skills that I don't possess.
"Oh, I've seen a bus to Littlehampton. I'm not adverse to getting a bus. We did have them in London. I'm sure it will be fine".
Turns out it was near Littlehampton. Well, if you call a 48 minute walk from the closest bus stop in the blistering wind and merciless sleet: near.
Cut the bus out altogether and it would have been an easy one hour and thirteen minutes schlep door to door. And trust all the soles of my shoes to give up the ghost in the month when I didn't have a disposable income.
Still, I was persistent, I didn't want to appear ungrateful. They're hardly banging the doors down with job offers at the moment
"I tell you what, perhaps I'll brave it for the first week, and who knows? Hopefully my natural charm will bag me a lift from a nice, generous colleague who lives in the city centre"
It was a risk.
I mused a second as I remembered the journey I had already made along the virtual route via Google maps.
"Because that two mile cross country road that I'll have to traverse daily does look a bit treacherous. Particularly since its evidently a hotbed for black ice and has a distinct lack of council funded lighting"
My agent was on the case.
"Well.... perhaps you could dummy run the walk tomorrow, see what its like and then give me an answer in the afternoon".
A genius idea. I was actually considering it.... for £7.50 an hour. £868 a month..... £10,416 per annum.
I told her I'd sleep on it.
This morning, one look at the driving rain and my good friend: reality kicked in.
"Morning, could you please tell the agent that I won't be doing the walk and I won't be taking the job"
This evening, however, was my debut voyage into the world of community radio in the Shire, and one that I was looking forward to.
I was instructed to meet the charming and motherly representative at the door - a lady who had obviously donated a great portion of free time to this cause. This was highly admirable and something you see often in hospital radio. Admiration aside though: this is 2012 and I was about to become a professional nightmare.
Her tour didn't take long. Everyone was extremely pleasant and welcoming and what the studio lacked in size, it made up for in charm. The music library room bore a slight resemblance to Fritzls basement... if Fritzl liked storing his vinyl on stackable wooden shelving. The presenting procedure was a little old school. I spent most of the evening sizing up a decent bit of shelf space for my two solid glass presenting awards.
My desire to inject a little much needed change into the place was immediately palpable: I was half barging my way under my tour guides armpit to march into her office with a measuring tape, a John Lewis furniture catalogue and a desk sized picture of my nearest and dearest to replace the signed photo of "Diddy" David Hamilton. I jest.
Fifteen minutes in and I found myself having to pull rank.
"So, would you be comfortable presenting tonight? You don't have to say much if you don't want to"
She was sweetly challenging me to sink or swim - hoping that I wouldn't cower in front of her headset microphone combo. I could hear a gauntlet crashing somewhere in the distance so I raised one eyebrow and nodded towards her Broadcasting Association certificate.
"Erm, I did tell you that I'm the incumbent Best Male Award Winner 2012....... didn't I?"
Her face dropped as she practically threw herself at me and shouted: "You're not! OI, PATRICK?!? WE'RE IN THE PRESENCE OF ROYALTY HERE!" without a shred of irony.
I had no need to be cynical. She was totally sound and I had just found myself a new best friend. We're a strange breed us radio types.
And god bless my handsome and gifted seventeen year old co presenter. Not just for putting up with me beginning every sentence with: "And, as an award winner....."
After he handed me a script for the evening's presenting duties (a script!!!) and tried to ignore the bamboozlement on my face (one of the closing lines actually read: So its goodnight from me INSERT NAME HERE and its goodnight from INSERT NAME HERE), he informed me that the radio for him was a sort of voluntary community service after being somewhat of a teenage tearaway in his formative years. I couldn't understand this since he was so polite and helpful. He was also studying an array of A Levels that put my advanced GNVQ to shame. I detected a hint of self doubt.
He told me he was there primarily because he loves music. I couldn't help feeling that his luck was down since we'd played nothing post 1977. Only a few Irish ditties, the song from the Clover advert and a canon that even Pachalbel himself might wrinkle his nose up at when asked to choose the tracklist for a greatest hits compilation.... if he wasn't dead.
My colleague was also eager to learn the technical side of radio production yet hadn't been taught anything yet. Well no, since the current technician appeared to be governing the proceedings courtesy of an SX Spectrum with adjoining joystick.
Needless to say, I nailed said script and practically got a standing ovation from the control room situated behind the bullet proof glass at the back of me; my new lady friend clapping with admiration spread across her face. I was beginning to like her. My teenage companion leaned over and graciously remarked that it was the best night he'd had there so far. Look at me: contributing to the rehabilitation of the youth via the medium of staunch professionalism and a hefty dose of camp.
I gave him a wink. "Don't worry mate, give me a few weeks, I'll have my own show and I'll teach you the ropes". It was sweet: just like we were in prison and trading information for respect.
I think I might just be okay.
PS. If any of you are reading this, I write it all in good humour. x
Friday 7 December 2012
Week One
So officially one week in now, well maybe just over a week. I'm not going to lie. Its been utter hell.
The job situation is the pits. One realises that whilst residing in London, we seem to be cared for by some Mother Nature esque character who ladles us with convenient resources so we never have to worry. We are able to get from A to B with a canny use of the capital's frequent bus service. We are always able to find a source of income - whether it be via a few shifts at the ale house at the end of the road to sticking envelopes for some godforsaken charitable organisation that, with the best will in the world, we don't give a fuck about... and all the while we are destined to carry this big bag of dreams around with us in the hope that one day the promise of the big city will give us a use for them.
Here, however, there is no such promise. You are stripped bare. Dreams are for the overly ambitious, work is something you do to survive - there is not really a purpose tacked onto it for good measure, talk is honest: direct. A spade is a spade and not some "gardening implement" that, when past its sell by date, can be painted, decorated and then deemed kitsch or retro.
I have wondered around this town feeling totally lost for ten days now. What am I doing here? Why did I come here? What skills am I equipped with to get through this experience? Where am I going and how long will it take me to get there? I have been a victim of London thinking - the need to make a sense of my life and not to just LIVE it.
Tonight I went for an interview at the local gay bar; a reliable outlet that might give me some pocket change. Its only open twice a week in the vain hope that, in time, it will prove more popular to the gay week demographic. After that, I was set to meet a date - someone I had met on Grindr. Oh yes. I swore off Grindr in London - the prospect of some over zealous pervert being only 100 metres away was not one that I held dear. Here, its a necessity if you are to meet anyone who loves his mother within an acceptable public transportable region.
The date: My knight in shining armour. A total no nonsense, straight down the line teetotal Gloucestershire resident. An absolute dream. When asked where we should go, his response: "Here if you want a bit of class, there if you don't". Sorted.
And after thirty minutes of his sage, down-to-Earth, West Country realism: "Gloucestershire isn't half as gangster as it thinks it is. Bite back at them and they'll shit 'emselves", we were graced with the presence of a half cut, fake bosomed dental nurse who shall remain nameless. Her first words to him were: "Your mates fucking fit in' he?"
Words I had been waiting thirteen years to hear in London. And after languishing in this compliment for a few moments, I heard next "Oooh, I love piercings. In fact; I've got me ears done, me belly button, me nose" and her crowning glory: "Oh, and me fanny!"
The stuff of legends.
Where I would normally be five pints in and making a complete tit of myself in our fair capital, I was three beers down, feeling suitably merry and had made two friends who I trusted implicitly. No need to prove anything, just to be me and confident that my new compadres were enjoying my company as much as I was enjoying theirs.
For the first time in ten days, I realised that it was in London that I had felt lost.
Tuesday 27 November 2012
The beginning
So, I'm here.
I've flown the nest.
I've separated myself from the dizzying, dazzling lights of the city (London) and headed for the slightly hoity toity, reserved and conservative streets of a certain Gloucestershire town.
And my mission is simple. I was unfulfilled by my life in London: a dead end job, lonely nights, terrible dates and a flat that had seen more bouts of vermin than a scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.
I was down, but not out and I decided to pack it all up and move to a new life away from that place to test whether things really do work outside of London.
I am looking for the perfect job, the perfect man and the perfect dream to aspire to. I think I lost a few of my dreams along the way to get to this point and I reckon I'll have to work hard to get a few of them back.
But I am determined. Who's with me?
I've flown the nest.
I've separated myself from the dizzying, dazzling lights of the city (London) and headed for the slightly hoity toity, reserved and conservative streets of a certain Gloucestershire town.
And my mission is simple. I was unfulfilled by my life in London: a dead end job, lonely nights, terrible dates and a flat that had seen more bouts of vermin than a scene from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.
I was down, but not out and I decided to pack it all up and move to a new life away from that place to test whether things really do work outside of London.
I am looking for the perfect job, the perfect man and the perfect dream to aspire to. I think I lost a few of my dreams along the way to get to this point and I reckon I'll have to work hard to get a few of them back.
But I am determined. Who's with me?
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