Hello you horrible lot!
Hope you are well and had a happy new year.
Well, on the advice of a certain blogger that shall remain nameless, I have decided to blog again.
Mainly because it will do me some good whilst I'm writing my second novel and mostly because I've had 4 Carlings and my sales have hit an all time low!
Actually, thats not strictly true. Over Christmas I sold 5 copies of Mr Impossible.... FIVE! Almost the same amount as the Carlings that I aim to consume before I finish this entry. Thats a heck of a lot for a book that is meandering in the lower echelons of the gay horror hit parade.
But why a sudden surge of interest I hear you cry. Well, ladies and gentleman... I have become a whore. No, not of the Victorian East London, bonnet wearing, Jack the Ripper fearing variety, I mean in terms of pushing my novel on the poor unsuspecting Gloucestershire public.
One might call it somewhat of an epidemic. "Could you take me to Charlton Kings please Drive, and by the way - I've written a book - do go and buy it"
To be fair, many, many people are impressed that I have shown the commitment and wherewithal to scribe a full 336 pages all by myself and will, for the most part, go and buy Mr Impossible if they have endured, sorry - enjoyed a wedding reception littered with my anecdotes - one doesn't get something for nothing nowadays, but really? A work training session? Did I really need to put my hand up and contribute to a "thought shower" with the parting shot "by the by, my book is available on Amazon" just to snag a sale? Pitiful.
Anyways, that is how I am currently presenting myself as an author: desperate, ruthless, shameless... proactive.
And I do hope that you will forgive my lack of blog-put over the last couple of years because, you see, whilst you are scribbling a narrative, the blog tends to get forgotten and, in case you hadn't noticed, I have released yet another novella AND I am currently scribing a second full length novel. So its not like I've forgotten you - I am just working super hard to generate some extra humourous bedtime reading for all those who enjoy my writing.
So shall we make a pact? I will continue to bash out the novels, if you continue to be patient with my blog posts. Deal?
Right, what time does the off license close....? xx
Thursday, 28 January 2016
Friday, 14 March 2014
March
Okay, so this month thing didn't quite work did it?
And its not my fault you see because two MAJOR things have happened since Christmas and since I have been a little tied up, I'm guessing you'll forgive me for not updating you with the little treasures and trinkets of my otherwise menial life.
Well, first and foremost, unless you have been living under a rock for the beginning of 2014 - and I hope to God you haven't because the floods have been pretty bad: my book has been released!!! Hooray!
It was meant to be released on NYD, however, I was a bit anxious with all the Amazon beings and doings (like filling out a tax claim form!) that I was far too efficient for myself and it was released instead on NYE. To those who are looking to release their debut on Kindle - it says to allow 24 or 48 hours before the file is ready - mine was ready overnight so bear that in mind. And there was a mad panic to get it finished because my original cover designer pulled out and so I imposed upon my best friend to poach some contacts. She came up trumps and my introduction to Fran Wood happened. Fran was so ace - it literally took her one shot to get it perfect. And you know when you see something that looks just right - like the perfect penis for instance, thats when the excitement hits.
Though, if I'm honest, publishing a book oneself is a bit of a lonely journey. Although you have an Editor, an Illustrator and two Proofreaders - there's no one really spurring you on. An Editor may give you constructive criticism but, in the end, the reality is that you're a minnow in an incredibly saturated ocean and it wouldn't be wise to get your fishy little hopes up. And writing the bloody thing has been quite isolating too because no one can climb inside your head and take over for a while whilst you have a snooze. So yes, you are the only one in the car as it careers down the long road to Finishtown but it is worth it in the end.
And another thing they never tell you, is that whilst the gratification is instant - there are long gaps between exuberance. What you don't realise is that yes, your nearest and dearest are appreciative of your achievement but its still going to take them a few weeks to read it. All the while, you're sat there: chewing on your pencil waiting for the verdict. And you're expecting the verdict to come with a gift! In reality its usually a "yeah, it was good". Which I'm not complaining about AT ALL, I just think that when you are writing it - dreaming of the day you finish, you're really expecting people to thank you for it.
The best review I had was: the book made me miss London.
And its not my fault you see because two MAJOR things have happened since Christmas and since I have been a little tied up, I'm guessing you'll forgive me for not updating you with the little treasures and trinkets of my otherwise menial life.
Well, first and foremost, unless you have been living under a rock for the beginning of 2014 - and I hope to God you haven't because the floods have been pretty bad: my book has been released!!! Hooray!
It was meant to be released on NYD, however, I was a bit anxious with all the Amazon beings and doings (like filling out a tax claim form!) that I was far too efficient for myself and it was released instead on NYE. To those who are looking to release their debut on Kindle - it says to allow 24 or 48 hours before the file is ready - mine was ready overnight so bear that in mind. And there was a mad panic to get it finished because my original cover designer pulled out and so I imposed upon my best friend to poach some contacts. She came up trumps and my introduction to Fran Wood happened. Fran was so ace - it literally took her one shot to get it perfect. And you know when you see something that looks just right - like the perfect penis for instance, thats when the excitement hits.
Though, if I'm honest, publishing a book oneself is a bit of a lonely journey. Although you have an Editor, an Illustrator and two Proofreaders - there's no one really spurring you on. An Editor may give you constructive criticism but, in the end, the reality is that you're a minnow in an incredibly saturated ocean and it wouldn't be wise to get your fishy little hopes up. And writing the bloody thing has been quite isolating too because no one can climb inside your head and take over for a while whilst you have a snooze. So yes, you are the only one in the car as it careers down the long road to Finishtown but it is worth it in the end.
And another thing they never tell you, is that whilst the gratification is instant - there are long gaps between exuberance. What you don't realise is that yes, your nearest and dearest are appreciative of your achievement but its still going to take them a few weeks to read it. All the while, you're sat there: chewing on your pencil waiting for the verdict. And you're expecting the verdict to come with a gift! In reality its usually a "yeah, it was good". Which I'm not complaining about AT ALL, I just think that when you are writing it - dreaming of the day you finish, you're really expecting people to thank you for it.
The best review I had was: the book made me miss London.
That really is a great review. Because the reality is that I actually don't want high praise, a pat on the back, a bunch of flowers with each turning of the last Kindle page. I want the story to speak to the soul, to paint itself on the imagination, to stir some emotion or humour but most of all for people to see it through the characters eyes. And I do think that this is what I have achieved.
And on to the second MAJOR thing: I met the man of my dreams! I know, I know! Thats what I set out to do when I started this blog over twelve months ago, and I have achieved this too. Now I'm not going to say to much about him because I know he'll be reading this but, you know when you're watching a person eat and they're watching the telly.... And you could just sit and watch them eat whilst watching the telly all night. And you just want to squeeze their little cheeks.....
I'll leave it there.
And can I thank all of you who have purchased Mr Impossible thus far, and those of you who are yet to purchase.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Mr-Impossible-Edward-Payne-ebook/dp/B00HLTIWA8/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1394797301&sr=8-1&keywords=mr+impossible+edward+payne
Big love. xx
Friday, 15 November 2013
November 2013
Okay, so I lied. But hear me out.
Firstly the magazine never materialised. Partly because the "Editor" who was all full of piss and vinegar at the start, then couldn't be bothered to return anyones messages and partly because the gaggle of mates who he'd got on board were shoehorned into roles that didn't really suit them. In my opinion.
So as heartbreaking as THAT was (well, you can't miss what you've never had) I threw myself into writing the novel and guess what my darling OGIGers, its finished! And due for release in January. And because I don't really like to draw attention to myself, I'm planning to launch it on New Years Day. So look out for that one.
Okay, so it has been over 6 months since I have kept you up to date and I'm sorry it has been so long, but writing a blog and a book took some doing. So now that I no longer have to concentrate so fully on one, I can dedicate some much needed care and attention to the other. And now as I sit; the stale taste of Jack Daniels in my mouth from hitting the bottle hard last night with my favourite lesbians, sending horrendously explicit Grinds to someone who likes my chest hair in North Birmingham, I felt I had to fill you in on the life thus far.
Well, for starters, I thought I had found the perfect job. Recruitment consultancy. And I can see you all nodding your heads: Oh, he'd be perfect at that, being a peoples person and all. And I know because I would have agreed with you. But alas no. And before any other "people's people" out there consider going into the industry, let me save you a lot of time and energy.
Its sales.
So if you have ever worked at Staybright Windows and/or any other call centre the length and breadth of the country, you're in the right ballpark. And rather than flogging photocopying toner or timeshares in Tunisia, you are actually dealing with people's trust and feelings. And by no means do I regret it, and I have met some truly excellent Recruitment Consultants, but this old timer just couldn't pull it out of the bag. So I quit.
And I really should be more scared than I am, but I'm not because things have always figured themselves out. And if there's one thing I've learnt from jacking your life in and moving it to a smaller, more conservative city its THINGS ARE NEVER AS BAD AS YOU THINK THEY ARE GOING TO BE.
My imagination can be worse than any Stephen King book if I really put my mind to it, but life is not a horror novel or a potted history in the articles of Take A Break. Its a bit more merciful than that.... Unless you're Rose West of course.
What about the gay bar? I quit that too. As much as I loved it, the unfortunate thing is that the gays in Cheltenham talk. And if you go out, get blottoed on cheap Sambucca and call someone a thief behind their backs, chances are the old jungle drums will get to them before you do. So that had to go as well. And for the record, she wasn't a thief: I AM A COMEDIAN!!
So thats the job and the book. What about the love life I hear you cry! Well, aside from having to adopt a "one in one out" policy on the front door of my bedroom at one point, I am actually looking to settle down.
I want a dog.
I want a mantlepiece with sunkissed photos of me and the BF in Gran Canaria amongst my radio awards. I want a shelf of beer in the fridge instead of a four-pack, two cigarette butts languishing in the puddle by the back door, two sets of concealer marks on my white pillows. I mean: seriously. I had a clear out the other month and realised that all my good condoms were out of date! Its been so long since I've had meaningful bottom sex that I have literally expired rubber!
And whilst there have been a couple that really have meant something on this journey, I'm doing a Bonnie Tyler and holding out for a hero.... and listening to a lot of Katy Perry.
And I promise never to lie again so; same time, same place next month?
And if you want to hear more about the book then check out my video chapters at:
https://www.facebook.com/edwardpayneauthor
Love Ed. Singer, song writer, author, blogger, actor, shameless promoter. xx
Firstly the magazine never materialised. Partly because the "Editor" who was all full of piss and vinegar at the start, then couldn't be bothered to return anyones messages and partly because the gaggle of mates who he'd got on board were shoehorned into roles that didn't really suit them. In my opinion.
So as heartbreaking as THAT was (well, you can't miss what you've never had) I threw myself into writing the novel and guess what my darling OGIGers, its finished! And due for release in January. And because I don't really like to draw attention to myself, I'm planning to launch it on New Years Day. So look out for that one.
Okay, so it has been over 6 months since I have kept you up to date and I'm sorry it has been so long, but writing a blog and a book took some doing. So now that I no longer have to concentrate so fully on one, I can dedicate some much needed care and attention to the other. And now as I sit; the stale taste of Jack Daniels in my mouth from hitting the bottle hard last night with my favourite lesbians, sending horrendously explicit Grinds to someone who likes my chest hair in North Birmingham, I felt I had to fill you in on the life thus far.
Well, for starters, I thought I had found the perfect job. Recruitment consultancy. And I can see you all nodding your heads: Oh, he'd be perfect at that, being a peoples person and all. And I know because I would have agreed with you. But alas no. And before any other "people's people" out there consider going into the industry, let me save you a lot of time and energy.
Its sales.
So if you have ever worked at Staybright Windows and/or any other call centre the length and breadth of the country, you're in the right ballpark. And rather than flogging photocopying toner or timeshares in Tunisia, you are actually dealing with people's trust and feelings. And by no means do I regret it, and I have met some truly excellent Recruitment Consultants, but this old timer just couldn't pull it out of the bag. So I quit.
And I really should be more scared than I am, but I'm not because things have always figured themselves out. And if there's one thing I've learnt from jacking your life in and moving it to a smaller, more conservative city its THINGS ARE NEVER AS BAD AS YOU THINK THEY ARE GOING TO BE.
My imagination can be worse than any Stephen King book if I really put my mind to it, but life is not a horror novel or a potted history in the articles of Take A Break. Its a bit more merciful than that.... Unless you're Rose West of course.
What about the gay bar? I quit that too. As much as I loved it, the unfortunate thing is that the gays in Cheltenham talk. And if you go out, get blottoed on cheap Sambucca and call someone a thief behind their backs, chances are the old jungle drums will get to them before you do. So that had to go as well. And for the record, she wasn't a thief: I AM A COMEDIAN!!
So thats the job and the book. What about the love life I hear you cry! Well, aside from having to adopt a "one in one out" policy on the front door of my bedroom at one point, I am actually looking to settle down.
I want a dog.
I want a mantlepiece with sunkissed photos of me and the BF in Gran Canaria amongst my radio awards. I want a shelf of beer in the fridge instead of a four-pack, two cigarette butts languishing in the puddle by the back door, two sets of concealer marks on my white pillows. I mean: seriously. I had a clear out the other month and realised that all my good condoms were out of date! Its been so long since I've had meaningful bottom sex that I have literally expired rubber!
And whilst there have been a couple that really have meant something on this journey, I'm doing a Bonnie Tyler and holding out for a hero.... and listening to a lot of Katy Perry.
And I promise never to lie again so; same time, same place next month?
And if you want to hear more about the book then check out my video chapters at:
https://www.facebook.com/edwardpayneauthor
Love Ed. Singer, song writer, author, blogger, actor, shameless promoter. xx
Sunday, 31 March 2013
March
And a Happy Easter to you!
I must say OGIGers - for that is your new name, you have been very patient this month because it has been WEEKS since my last entry. And I thank you kindly for that. In my defence, however, this blog has now been extended to an article in a new gay magazine called Violet that will be hitting the high street soon. So thats TWO loads of OGIG per month! Oh, how I do spoil you. Obviously though, this one is the original and best so there will be far more juicy muck spread right here as always.
Anyway: to business. Men!
When did we become such unfeeling, unloving, insufferable barbarians?
When did we start manufacturing shit somewhere other than in our colon, so that it dribbles out of our mouths, unscented and invisible, without a second thought for those on the receiving end? Now I'm including myself in this bracket because I have to, unfortunately, since I have a penis. Well, I am here to inform you, my dear friends that gay men; through all the hardship we've suffered at the hands of those who have unfairly judged us, through all the ridicule we have had to endure from those who have shunned us throughout our repressed adolescence ARE JUST AS COCKING BAD!
Of course I'm talking about Grindr, because, as you know from previous posts: I am on the lookout for the perfect man. Some may argue that Grindr is not the way to do it. Initially, I thought this was rubbish. Now I'm beginning to think that Grindr filters out the morons from the gay community in the same way that a sieve filters out the acrid, powdery, elephantine lumps from an otherwise perfect gravy.
Right off the bat the profile picture irks me. If you are unfamiliar with the workings of Grindr, you start with one large profile picture of the person you are targeting, or vice versa, complete with an introductory tagline. You then tap twice to enter the instant messenger screen so that you can actually converse with the imbecile. So first of all, the self proclaimed lothario treats us to a full on snapshot of his grimacing mug, complete with the legend: "straight acting - no camps, queens or over thirties". I'm hoping that I only fall into one of these brackets. And why? Because this continuously reinforced inside job ignorance and insolence makes one feel as though we should be exiled if we are branded as either of the first two. And who makes all the fucking decisions anyway?!? First of all"straight acting" as the great Boy George says, is comical in itself because it implies that it is all an act. Second of all, you're not so straight acting when you've got someones tackle dangling over your face are you big man?
It seems as though being gay is another adjective for being arrogant. Newflash, we are not in Costa Coffee, ordering off the menu and YOU are not David sodding Beckham. My favourite is "don't bother if you're camp, no offence". I'm sorry douchemonkey, but that IS offensive. I suppose you've never considered that you have all the sexual allure of used sanitary towel and if the choice was going out with you, I'd rather shit in my hands and clap!
Then, when you do go on a date with them, its such a mission that its like trying to play Screwball Scramble with a big foam glove on. Why oh why do they need to piss all over the first few minutes?
"Oh, my ex drinks that" And we're done with the Stowfords.
"Oh, I'm driving so I can only have one" I'm walking and I don't even want to finish THIS one.
"I'm not long out of a relationship which was pretty fucked up" I'm not Denise Richards love, I'm here on a date.... with YOU! Did I miss a memo or something?
But the worst: the pinnacle is after the first few dates. You have been candid and I mean really candid about where you are at the moment. Haven't mentioned any exes or fling influenced horror stories. You've confessed that you are not particularly looking for commitment. Just a laugh, some companionship in this lonely old world and a bit of fidelity out of respect for my sensitivity and honesty. Pffft! You might as well throw a clove of garlic at Edward pigging Cullen. Some of the excuses I've heard: "Er.... my dog is bipolar and needs constant attention", "I'm building a maisonette on an unmanned oil rig in the Adriatic Sea and I'll be away for three months", "I've got the bends". Mate, its unbelievable.
And once you're past all that. Once you've had the date, taken them to bed, started to feel comfortable in their company. Thats when the little devil on their shoulder gives them carte blanche to treat you like you are the most disposable thing ever. As though you are covered in armour and the most tactless, crass behaviour will simply bounce off you. If you have ever been there, you know exactly what I mean.... And in a way, because the behaviour is so incomprehensible coming from another member of the human race, in a few days, once you've removed them from the bottom of your shoe, it kind of does bounce off you. You pick yourself up and begin the cycle again like the trojan that you are.
So, I think its fair to say that I am struggling to find the perfect man on this tool. Unless my loins have a tosser magnet imbedded into them. I shall, however, persevere else I'll have no more fodder for this delightful little blog. And I do believe he's out there.... and he's one lucky guy.
I must say OGIGers - for that is your new name, you have been very patient this month because it has been WEEKS since my last entry. And I thank you kindly for that. In my defence, however, this blog has now been extended to an article in a new gay magazine called Violet that will be hitting the high street soon. So thats TWO loads of OGIG per month! Oh, how I do spoil you. Obviously though, this one is the original and best so there will be far more juicy muck spread right here as always.
Anyway: to business. Men!
When did we become such unfeeling, unloving, insufferable barbarians?
When did we start manufacturing shit somewhere other than in our colon, so that it dribbles out of our mouths, unscented and invisible, without a second thought for those on the receiving end? Now I'm including myself in this bracket because I have to, unfortunately, since I have a penis. Well, I am here to inform you, my dear friends that gay men; through all the hardship we've suffered at the hands of those who have unfairly judged us, through all the ridicule we have had to endure from those who have shunned us throughout our repressed adolescence ARE JUST AS COCKING BAD!
Of course I'm talking about Grindr, because, as you know from previous posts: I am on the lookout for the perfect man. Some may argue that Grindr is not the way to do it. Initially, I thought this was rubbish. Now I'm beginning to think that Grindr filters out the morons from the gay community in the same way that a sieve filters out the acrid, powdery, elephantine lumps from an otherwise perfect gravy.
Right off the bat the profile picture irks me. If you are unfamiliar with the workings of Grindr, you start with one large profile picture of the person you are targeting, or vice versa, complete with an introductory tagline. You then tap twice to enter the instant messenger screen so that you can actually converse with the imbecile. So first of all, the self proclaimed lothario treats us to a full on snapshot of his grimacing mug, complete with the legend: "straight acting - no camps, queens or over thirties". I'm hoping that I only fall into one of these brackets. And why? Because this continuously reinforced inside job ignorance and insolence makes one feel as though we should be exiled if we are branded as either of the first two. And who makes all the fucking decisions anyway?!? First of all"straight acting" as the great Boy George says, is comical in itself because it implies that it is all an act. Second of all, you're not so straight acting when you've got someones tackle dangling over your face are you big man?
It seems as though being gay is another adjective for being arrogant. Newflash, we are not in Costa Coffee, ordering off the menu and YOU are not David sodding Beckham. My favourite is "don't bother if you're camp, no offence". I'm sorry douchemonkey, but that IS offensive. I suppose you've never considered that you have all the sexual allure of used sanitary towel and if the choice was going out with you, I'd rather shit in my hands and clap!
Oh, and how honoured I should feel when you bless me with an Instagram shot of your quivering member. How lovely it looks in its purple hat, smiling at me like a seal with a fish in its mouth, as though you are dangling the proverbial carrot over my nose?
Please; the last time I saw something that red and disused, I was throwing an old Comic Relief nose out.
"Oh, my ex drinks that" And we're done with the Stowfords.
"Oh, I'm driving so I can only have one" I'm walking and I don't even want to finish THIS one.
"I'm not long out of a relationship which was pretty fucked up" I'm not Denise Richards love, I'm here on a date.... with YOU! Did I miss a memo or something?
But the worst: the pinnacle is after the first few dates. You have been candid and I mean really candid about where you are at the moment. Haven't mentioned any exes or fling influenced horror stories. You've confessed that you are not particularly looking for commitment. Just a laugh, some companionship in this lonely old world and a bit of fidelity out of respect for my sensitivity and honesty. Pffft! You might as well throw a clove of garlic at Edward pigging Cullen. Some of the excuses I've heard: "Er.... my dog is bipolar and needs constant attention", "I'm building a maisonette on an unmanned oil rig in the Adriatic Sea and I'll be away for three months", "I've got the bends". Mate, its unbelievable.
And once you're past all that. Once you've had the date, taken them to bed, started to feel comfortable in their company. Thats when the little devil on their shoulder gives them carte blanche to treat you like you are the most disposable thing ever. As though you are covered in armour and the most tactless, crass behaviour will simply bounce off you. If you have ever been there, you know exactly what I mean.... And in a way, because the behaviour is so incomprehensible coming from another member of the human race, in a few days, once you've removed them from the bottom of your shoe, it kind of does bounce off you. You pick yourself up and begin the cycle again like the trojan that you are.
So, I think its fair to say that I am struggling to find the perfect man on this tool. Unless my loins have a tosser magnet imbedded into them. I shall, however, persevere else I'll have no more fodder for this delightful little blog. And I do believe he's out there.... and he's one lucky guy.
Friday, 8 February 2013
February
Its cold.
And its hard being a non driver and stranded in a small Gloucestershire town that has shops banging shut under the current governmental reign, quicker than the arseholes in the rugby locker room when Gareth Thomas enters through the door.
However, I have been keeping busy. First and foremost: I've made a friend. And what a friend he is. FINALLY someone who is such a loveable scamp that I find myself yielding to the old "pull my finger" bit, purely for entertainment. The gays in London never appreciated this - nobody but NOBODY wants to smell another queens colon. My new friend is deliciously straight but has many (okay, one) tale of dalliances with members of the same sex: mainly where they were amorous and pissed and he lay bolted under stretched cotton sheets, wearing nothing but a grimace. He really is marvellous and, through him, I have managed to gain many unique opportunities such as my first EVER semi professional directing gig on an amateur reimagining of a play I was in at Uni. Well, I say "in", I think if you combined the stage time of all three of my pitiful walk on parts - it barely covered the same time frame as a Petti Filous television advert. It is, however, an amazing experience and one that I am hoping to continue for a good many plays to come - if they'll let me. I hear Steel Magnolias is just crying out for a remake. I am so lucky, however, as the cast are adorable, the director is fast becoming my new BFF and I am surely finding my feet as the bitchy, no nonsense but strangely-chraming-because-he's-camp assistant director. Its marvellous.
Now: radio. Well, you can hear me now LIVE on Radio Winchcombe (www.radiowinchcombe.co.uk) every Sunday night from 6-8 pm online. The show is: Sounds On Sunday with Tom Bostock. And what a good team we make. He talks about rugby and I manage to make my bemusement audible. Last week Tom asked me to bring my chosen album of the week in so we could pitch against each other to win Facebook fan votes. Feeling slightly pressured and under the influence of ITV 2's Big Reunion, what did I present? Liberty X..... monumental fail.
The Gay Bar. Oh what a life that is. I've gone from feeling a little like a fish out of water to totally loving it. My manager, thank the sweet Lord, has had the good grace to leave the golden ties where they belong: dangling from the bar door, and is again becoming a really good friend. The resident DJ: the lovely and fragrant Ian Solano - after the shameless peddle of my house track video link via Facebook, actually dropped the track into the set last Saturday night, sandwiching it neatly between Rhianna and Kesha. It almost sounded at home in line with two pop heavyweights. I nearly lost my grip on the bottle of Amaretto that I was helping myself to. And whilst I looked all bashful behind the bar and purposefully DID NOT tell people that it was actually my voice on the track, I quite happily watched two lesbians - one that looked suspiciously like Adrian Mole- making out with hungry tongues whilst my dulcet tones reverberated around the walls of the club. Now I know how Hilary Duff must feel on a daily basis....
Oh, and the date. I forgot to say! Well, someone hit me up on Grindr, as they do, and sent me a picture of himself in a full length mirror, dressed in nothing but a towel. It was instantly trouser pleasingly impressive and immediate impulse told me that I should tap it but, on closer inspection he was quite a way away from the mirror. Now I've been caught out like this before. The first date after my split with a long term ex, I showed a picture of someone who had been hitting me up on Plenty of Fish to my very good friend Lindsay. She took one look at the bronzed beauty and warned: "He's fit. However, I know the picture is taken on a cruise ship Pet, but he might be a bit short because his shoulders are meeting the Antipodean skyline" I waved away her cynicism, only to be stranded for two hours with someone who needed a leg up just to get onto the bar stool.
Anyway, earlier this week, after a few flirtatious texts, I turned up to the venue only to be met by the man from the picture. And, yes, he was a little far away from the mirror.... about 14 years! And whilst very pleasant, he was so nervous that he told me he didn't really drink and then rattled off hangover stories that even Princess Margaret would have ruffled her underskirts at. We left, promising to keep in touch, yet not meaning it for a second.
OH, and did I tell you about the previous date?? He saw me working in the bar. I couldn't really remember him to be honest, but his friend gave me his number to call. That should have been the first red flag. Anyway, the next night: pissed, alone and bored I wrestled the number out of my back pocket before the washing machine condemned it to the big pile of mulch that had claimed the lives of so many potential shags before. So I met him.... Desperate wasn't the word. He was practically inviting me off on a couples only Center Parcs break before I'd even plonked my arse down. And I did my best to share some of his enthusiasm for European Theme Parks (what IS it with Gloucester gays and Theme Parks? Theres nothing wrong with it, its just a bizarre trend) but it wasn't going anywhere. I unapologetically choked down a couple of pints whilst my driving date sipped his lime and soda; scrutinising my every move. I could literally see myself dressed in a veil in the reflection in his pupils. He then offered me a lift but I politely refused as the pub was so close to home that I could probably fart and be propelled to my front door. He insisted and we rode the entire fifteen seconds back to the end of my road - I didn't want him knowing the door number, before departing.
Thirty minutes later I got the follow up text. Did I say text? I meant poem. He'd written me a Hallmark card poem. Four sentences, perfectly rhyming.
My response: "Thanks..... Should I be scared?"
No further contact.
After all this, what I am trying to say, my friends, is that I am doing okay: making waves in all the right places and, unlike in our fair capital, though there are a few ignorant nay sayers in this town, there is no bleak and impending sense of doom lurking around every corner. There seems to be a certain sense of "we're all in it together" about this charming little environ. And don't get me wrong, I miss London like hell at times, but I'm enjoying giving a little back to the me that London wanted for herself.
Friday, 18 January 2013
New Year
Okay so I think 2013 might the year of my mid life crisis.
For a start I think I'm dressing too much like a teenager. In London you can get away with it. Wearing high top sneakers and women's skinny stonewash jeans can be labelled as "post modern" if you can blag your way out of it. I've always thought, and you can disagree with me here, that I have been on the right side of fashionable dressing. Yes, I've always pushed the envelope slightly - those who remember the luminous yellow skinnies and floral shirts, step forward. Now I'm actually visibly sighing in front of aztec prints on mannequins and wondering which format I should go for that might befit my age. Should I have it emblazoned across my chest on a cheap Matalan t-shirt that I can quite happily cut down for dusters when the fashion fizzles out? Or do I pay £19.95 for a simple squiggle on the pocket of an overpriced denim shirt, similar to one that I threw out in 1999 with my Nirvana Nevermind album (I only deigned to like track five, just to be sociable).
To date, I have relented and purchased two shades of chinos..... Chinos? I haven't worn chinos since my mother bought some at Next Kidswear, midway through her Howards Way phase. And not only am I buying them, but I'm buying them in terracotta and berry. Thats right. I am choosing a colour palette that was last seen in a peanut butter and jam sandwich. And why? Because they're on full display in the shop front of Topman. And since Topman is the yardstick by which all of the Gloucestershire male's 2013 trends should be measured, I am sure that I am due to be bamboozled by 2010's fashion for at least three more years to come. And, much to my sister's chagrin, I will try and keep up with it for now. My previous penchant for all things draping is now wholly unpalatable. Even for the people of this fair town who, by and large, don't give a fuck about what THEY wear, but they give a mighty shit about what I wear!
And lastly the music I listen to. Last week I yielded to public demand - and by public I mean my own head, and downloaded a dubstep album and, after being informed that Skrillex wasn't the new name for Cif Power Gel...... I actually quite liked it. Only to be chastised by my junior muse, for acting far too young; like a 17 year old gay! What more can I do? Apparently Little Mix is off limits, Ke$ha is no go. So what am I supposed to listen to? Mash Ups are age old, Rebecca Ferguson is a poor mans Sade and Sade (if pronounced correctly) is either the slang word for a posh sheister or a new island they've found in the Maldives. Well I am here to tell you my friends, that Little Mix's album is far too ballad heavy (well of course it is now that I'm listening to Skrillex) and Ke$ha's album isn't a patch on the last one and I'm sorry, but no matter how many "swags" she drops in in lieu of consonants that she has taken out, Rita Ora's album will never be as original as she thinks it is. What happened to the good old days of the inoffensive, banal lyriced, sway from left to right in a donkey jacket pop from the 2000's? I mean, when did you ever see Hear'Say wishing they had a "drunk sex feeling" a la the aforementioned Miss Ora? What is a drunk sex feeling anyway? Surely if you were drunk, you wouldn't remember. I never have. Hangover guilt is MUCH nearer the mark.
In conclusion, I think that I am going to have to ride the storm a bit. Until I get a nice little clique of thirty something Glostonians as friends, I think I am going to have to be a sort of age-chameleon. That is, of course, until my crows feet give me away....
For a start I think I'm dressing too much like a teenager. In London you can get away with it. Wearing high top sneakers and women's skinny stonewash jeans can be labelled as "post modern" if you can blag your way out of it. I've always thought, and you can disagree with me here, that I have been on the right side of fashionable dressing. Yes, I've always pushed the envelope slightly - those who remember the luminous yellow skinnies and floral shirts, step forward. Now I'm actually visibly sighing in front of aztec prints on mannequins and wondering which format I should go for that might befit my age. Should I have it emblazoned across my chest on a cheap Matalan t-shirt that I can quite happily cut down for dusters when the fashion fizzles out? Or do I pay £19.95 for a simple squiggle on the pocket of an overpriced denim shirt, similar to one that I threw out in 1999 with my Nirvana Nevermind album (I only deigned to like track five, just to be sociable).
To date, I have relented and purchased two shades of chinos..... Chinos? I haven't worn chinos since my mother bought some at Next Kidswear, midway through her Howards Way phase. And not only am I buying them, but I'm buying them in terracotta and berry. Thats right. I am choosing a colour palette that was last seen in a peanut butter and jam sandwich. And why? Because they're on full display in the shop front of Topman. And since Topman is the yardstick by which all of the Gloucestershire male's 2013 trends should be measured, I am sure that I am due to be bamboozled by 2010's fashion for at least three more years to come. And, much to my sister's chagrin, I will try and keep up with it for now. My previous penchant for all things draping is now wholly unpalatable. Even for the people of this fair town who, by and large, don't give a fuck about what THEY wear, but they give a mighty shit about what I wear!
And lastly the music I listen to. Last week I yielded to public demand - and by public I mean my own head, and downloaded a dubstep album and, after being informed that Skrillex wasn't the new name for Cif Power Gel...... I actually quite liked it. Only to be chastised by my junior muse, for acting far too young; like a 17 year old gay! What more can I do? Apparently Little Mix is off limits, Ke$ha is no go. So what am I supposed to listen to? Mash Ups are age old, Rebecca Ferguson is a poor mans Sade and Sade (if pronounced correctly) is either the slang word for a posh sheister or a new island they've found in the Maldives. Well I am here to tell you my friends, that Little Mix's album is far too ballad heavy (well of course it is now that I'm listening to Skrillex) and Ke$ha's album isn't a patch on the last one and I'm sorry, but no matter how many "swags" she drops in in lieu of consonants that she has taken out, Rita Ora's album will never be as original as she thinks it is. What happened to the good old days of the inoffensive, banal lyriced, sway from left to right in a donkey jacket pop from the 2000's? I mean, when did you ever see Hear'Say wishing they had a "drunk sex feeling" a la the aforementioned Miss Ora? What is a drunk sex feeling anyway? Surely if you were drunk, you wouldn't remember. I never have. Hangover guilt is MUCH nearer the mark.
In conclusion, I think that I am going to have to ride the storm a bit. Until I get a nice little clique of thirty something Glostonians as friends, I think I am going to have to be a sort of age-chameleon. That is, of course, until my crows feet give me away....
Wednesday, 9 January 2013
End of December
This month I have been mainly concentrating on how my little London nuances have been fitting in with a West Country audience. Not very well I'm afraid.
For a start, I do like a bit of bitching - London bitching that is. London bitching is the kind where you don't really give a shit about the anonymous London folk that you encounter day by day, so this gives you carte blanche to be as evil about the rest of mankind as you like. And, though I totally like my darling compadres at the gay bar - one in particular who I adore (platonically) it does pass them by a little.
I also love to mime to my ipod at the gym - it makes half an hour on the cross trainer feel like a four minute strut in the tight stilettos of one Cheryl Cole. And unfortunately, not many straight men can take me mouthing the entire score of Native New Yorker. Especially when I add additional mimicking for the five session singers' multiple part harmonies AND when I throw in the trembling lip on the money notes, so I'm used to being frowned at there as well. However I'm not giving it up - its the only glamour I'm allowed nowadays and it assists me in pumping those 22 kgs.
My first gym, whilst unemployed, was a total shit hole. But, on the plus side, it was full of cocky young men strolling about with their tits hanging out of tight fitting wrestling singlets so I wasn't complaining. I have now enrolled myself in a fitness chain since I am earning, yes friends! I have found work!! I won't tell you where it is or what I am doing because I'm not allowed to but I will just say that on my first day, I fell off a ladder.
And we're not talking a minor wobble on the bottom rung: I went down like a total sack of the proverbial shit. And what is one's immediate reaction to taking a monumental tumble? You instantly stand, bleeding from the ears, brushing the carpet of lint from your front and straightening your cracked glasses. You then continue to plead with your snickering colleague: "Honestly, I'm fine!"
NOT a great impression to make on your first day of doing something totally new.
NOT a great impression to make on your first day of doing something totally new.
Next up is the talking to myself whilst shopping. I've never been able to stifle it I'm afraid. Even in London, I was walking around American Apparel; scoffing in the direction of the uber cool till staff "£35 for gold lame leggings! Good luck trying to make a business out of that one!".
Nowadays (because I've yet to receive my first pay cheque) I'm more used to grabbing jars in Lidl and blurting out "Fuck; tuppence haypenny for a jar of peanut butter. How do more people not know about this!?!"
That said, shopping for mens clothes in this particular town is absolutely appalling. The only thing you can buy is a certain brand. I'm not going to say the brand, but everyone here wears it: EVERYONE. Its the hoodies walking towards you down the road, its donning the bosoms of those behind the temping agency desks. I wouldn't be surprised if, when I jump into bed with my first Gloucestershire conquest, it'll be etched across the rubber sheath!
That said, shopping for mens clothes in this particular town is absolutely appalling. The only thing you can buy is a certain brand. I'm not going to say the brand, but everyone here wears it: EVERYONE. Its the hoodies walking towards you down the road, its donning the bosoms of those behind the temping agency desks. I wouldn't be surprised if, when I jump into bed with my first Gloucestershire conquest, it'll be etched across the rubber sheath!
Which brings me nicely onto the date. Well the catch (see below) whom I met in a very respectable bar a couple of streets over.
Lets just say his only ambition was to stay on benefits. And he was only too happy to proudly show me what was etched across the top of his arm: a full colour tattoo of his favourite cryptid. He said it was a dragon, I thought it was Barney the purple dinosaur. We shan't be going on date number two, though he has already suggested a venue. Get Hagrid to take you there, mate!
And may I just relay a delightful encounter in Iceland that I had on New Years Eve? Standing in line to get a few perishables, a semi decent bit of tail was in front of me racking up the frozen chicken portions. As he departed, the buxom, sparsely toothed cashier threw to her mate halfway down the queue: "Oh, he was well fit"
"Really?" spoke she.
"Oh yerrrr, real noice oise (nice eyes)"
"Yeah, I spose he was fit"
"He was"
To which I replied: "Yeah, he was".
Cue shrieks of laughter from my two friends who had obviously never encountered such blatant homosexuality; least of all in the queue at Iceland. The cashier then broke the party atmosphere by turning to me, deadly serious and snarling with teeth bared like a rabid Doberman: "Well, keep yer 'ands off. Eees moine!"
Classic!
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