Rumours of my death have been exaggerated.

I've not got meningits, and I'm not ill - though myabe it wasn't the best thing to write a post describing the symptoms of some hideous disease, and then bugger off and not write anything for a week.

I've just not felt like writing anything - I've been busy doing nothing.

Christmas went by uneventfully. I had the whole day off on Christmas Eve, so I decided to bike around London delivering cards to a couple of friends, rucksack full of Christmassy treats and witchy mince pies. After a couple of stops in Crystal Palace and Balham, I ended up in the King's Arms at 3pm, suddenly realising I didn't have any food in the flat for the next couple of days. I am, as you no doubt already have gathered, not one of life's great planners.

Tescos in Leytonstone was packed to bursting with people fighting over the last pack of sprouts in the world. I gave up my ideas of a lavish Christmas lunch and just bought a load of single-person ready meals as usual. And cat food. At least the cat would have turkey.

Christmas day was low-key as expected. I managed to stay fairly up-beat the whole day and although I started boozing at about 2pm, I soon got bored of wine and remained fairly sober.

Boxing day was a fairly hectic evening shift in the pub - and I did something I've been mulling over for the last few weeks.

I handed my notice in.

The last few days have sped by, watching films, chatting online, bumbling around the house and trying not to get too miserable about the fact that I've been by myself.

I've just finished watching the last bit of A.I. and all hope of that has now evaporated. I don't know why the film got panned so much - for me it's exquisitely, painfully beautiful. But then - sometimes I feel just like David - a little boy, looking for love.

posted at 10:18 PM •

The neck is still sore by the way. Oh, and I have this weird rash type thing on my arm.

I'm beginning to suspect I was abducted by aliens on Monday night and subjected to a series of invasive medical procedures.

Hmm.

[Goes to bathroom]

Damn. Just my luck to get abducted by the ones that don't use a rectal probe.

posted at 10:33 AM •

Been thinking a lot lately about 'The Nanny State'.

People in Britain moan constantly about restrictions placed on them - rules and legislation imposing further into everyday life. Civil liberties groups are up in arms currently about ID cards, arguing that they will be turning the country into an Orwellian fascist-state distopian nightmare.

It's now 20 years since 1984, and I'm beginning to feel that George Orwell was the greatest criminal of the twentieth century - creating an atmosphere of animosity and suspicion towards authority.

Trust is the buzzword of the new millenium. Respect is the currency of the street. Those in power have every dirty secret aired, no matter how trivial - in the name of justice.

I'm not saying that politicians shouldn't be accountable, nor am I saying that recent events are miscarriages of fairness - but the underlying currents of distrust are creating a nation of children.

What's the alternative? Mob rule? The Law of The Playground? Here's a little suggestion: If you want to stop getting treated like children, then stop throwing your fucking toys out of your pram. Start taking a little more social responsibility and treating other people as you would like to be treated.

Perhaps we should have a Little Angels style programme to teach the country how to be better citizens, and those in government how to lead a little better. Or maybe we should just make Tanya Byron president for life.

posted at 10:11 AM •

...and now I can't get this image out of my head.

posted at 11:11 AM •

Woke up yesterday feeling great. Christmas cards and presents despatched, I had a lovely relaxing evening, feeling free of stress and able to concentrate on work.

Got into the office on time (after nearly mowing down a cycle courier), had breakfast, got to work on the website adapt I've nearly finished for upcoming highbrow road movie. Work is really busy - those of you who have been paying attention will remember that the bulk of my company's work is online film marketing, so the Christmas season is as busy as the rest of the year for us. Which is a very good thing.

Halfway through the day I turned my head and felt a sudden twinge of pain. I put it down to a little bit of muscle pain and ignored it. By the time I got to lunchtime, my neck was starting to seize up. I took a couple of Nurofen and went out to do a few chores.

The Nurofen didn't seem to take the edge off the pain, and by the end of the day I could barely turn my head at all.

Biking home wasn't nice - the pain made it hard to concentrate, and turning my head to do lifesaver checks was difficult so I had to rely on my mirrors.

Couldn't relax all evening - I switched on to the witches' brew - co-codamol and red wine - but my neck was rigid.

Couldn't get comfortable in bed, but managed to get to sleep, and I've woken up with the pain as bad as ever and feeling very ratty.

posted at 7:57 AM •

Scottish colleague : Oh yeah Steve, I'd love a cup of tea.

Me : Yeah well, I'd love James Gandolfini to sit on my face, and that ain't gonna happen either.

As you might guess, I'm pretty much comfortably out at work these days.

posted at 4:13 PM •

I have no sympathy for anyone who whinges about Christmas shopping.

I nearly always leave mine too late and this year has been no exception. Apart from a half-arsed start midweek, where all I managed to get was a box of Thornton's chocs for my cleaner, I'd done bugger all - a few thoughts and ideas but nothing.

Luckily this morning I had an excuse to get my ass into gear as the pub had called a staff meeting at 11am. I got myself down into town, only to find (somewhat to my relief) that the meeting had been cancelled on account of no-one being able to make it.

I should have been annoyed, as Saturday is really my only lie-in I get, but was glad to be down in town in the morning before the crowds really made shopping more of a gladiator style fight to the death.

So, I shopped. I shopped to within an inch of my life. Main presents were purchased within the first hour, after deciding to just do what my sister had done to me and ask her what she wanted.

HMV gift vouchers for sis & boyfriend.

The next on the list was the latest addition to my family. So, for the first time in my life I went baby clothes shopping.

Seriously - baby clothes departments should be closed to gay men. I cooed and screamed around Baby H&M, picking up cute tops, cute fleeces, cute tights, cute dresses. Slammed a load of stuff on the gold card and hurried over to Baby Gap. More cooing. More muffled adoring moans. More plastic.

Next, Nan. Hmm. Always a tricky one. Whatever I get she'll love. I can't go wrong, but I like to at least try to look as though I've put some thought in. Nan: over 80, lives alone, colourful past in Equity, likes dead people. Hmm. Old people like books don't they? Perfect - biography of John Thaw by his widow, Sheila Hancock.

I'm on a roll now. Back to the pub to gather strength for next wave.

My dentist and his boyfriend: bottle of 8-year old Slivovitz (Serbian Plum Brandy) - rather chuffed at that one - Nesh (the boyfriend) is from Montenegro, and actually come to think of it will probably hate Slivovitz. But still, it makes me look clever.

Everyone bought for in three hours. No crowds to jostle through, no tears, no screaming and no fights to the death over the last handbag in the pre-xmas sales.

posted at 9:16 PM •

Down With Sex

Somewhere lurking in the depths of my imaginings is a hit screenplay - a quirky, light-hearted yet groundbreaking gay romantic comedy. Playfully insincere with a flutter of tongue-in-cheek humour, casting aside the usual themes you find in gay movies (boy meets boy, boy dies), my movie would appeal to gay and straight audiences alike. Hetero couples would go see the film, parents would take their kids, gay folk would go on dates to see it. Everyone would be uplifted and inspired by my film, and the world would rejoice. Naturally, Oscars would flood in - Golden Globes - The Palme D'or. I would be hailed as a visionary, an auteur, a genius.

Ahem.

Back in the real world though - there's a hitch. No-one wants a gay romantic comedy - gay men want hard sex, they want to walk up to a stranger in a seedy club and suck his cock. Gay men want perfect bodies and lots of sex. They want frequent sexual partners, open relationships. And sex. More, faster, harder, thicker, longer, better, sex, hard, wet, deep, sex, sex, sex, SEX!

Gay men in their forties, fifties, sixties are discovering a new 'liberation' in the 'post-Aids' scene. There's a demographic swell starting to show large (in more ways than one) - men in their middle years are coming out of their closets more than ever and behaving like teenagers. And I don't mean the type of teenager that stays in on a school night and studies. These are hormonal, mid-life crisis, sex-crazed idiots. The type that used to be scoffed at for wearing jeans with an overhang and buying a flash car, now parading around in leather harnesses, pumped up on steroids and humping more than chimps at Windsor Safari Park.

Beauty pageants are de rigeur. When I went to San Fran two years ago, you couldn't move for hairy stocky men wearing leather sashes or waistcoats declaring their status as Mr Bear Cocksucker Kentucky 2002.

Gaydar has recently started their own such beauty pageant - sex-factor. Entrants to the contest (and although you don't have to enter, you can't opt-out of being nominated) - put their pictures into a amihotornot style ranking system, and the top ten each month are rewarded with an animated gif.

Well in any case, one good thing has come out of it - it's basically an indicator of how insecure a guy is. If he's entered the competition, it's highly unlikely we'd be compatible as partners. If he feels the need to have his existence validated on the basis of a glamour shot voted on by strangers, well good luck to him.

I have a feeling that they'll be looking for approval for quite some time.

posted at 10:48 AM •

The Swarthy Toilet Brush has worked his magic again.

Back in January I got mixed up with him for the first time. I started to get a bit keen on him despite everything about him saying "I AM A TOTAL MESS". Anyway, no sooner had I started to go a little gooey on him, he disappeared for two weeks (no replies on phone/texts), and reappeared with a boyfriend.

I was upset, but hey, I knew he was a mess, and I knew getting any more involved with him would only end up in tears.

Soon after meeting this new boyfriend I heard he'd gone back to Greece, taking bf with him. I didn't hear anything about him for a while, but word got around that the bf had been ditched and Swarthy had stayed in Greece.

Then about two or three months ago he appeared in a chat room on gaydar. We started chatting again quite regularly, and usually having a really enjoyable time with him.

He gave me advance notice that he was coming back to London, which he did last week - but I only found out last Sunday. We made arrangements to meet on Thursday, but when my dentist rescheduled my final appointment on Monday I asked him if he wanted to come over. We had a really great night, but all the time in the back of my head was the nagging sound of my good sense saying "NO, NO, WHAT ARE YOU DOING YOU PRAT?"

I was having doubts about meeting him tonight, but he just got in touch and told me he wasn't going out anyway. So I should feel relieved really.

But I can't help feeling like I've been used.

posted at 1:34 PM •

String theory

My boss is a bit of a perfectionist. We've been designing our own Christmas cards, and he's been picky every step of the way. Not in a bad way - this is the company's first Christmas, and he wants to send out a good impression to all our contacts and clients.

The design went off to the printers last week and yesterday we got the final product back. They looked fine to the untrained eye, but closer examination showed them up to be fairly sloppy. The halftone screen used to create the greys for the text was terrible, and you could see dots with the naked eye. Gift tags to go with the cards were worse - badly cropped and cut, with bits of text cut off at the edge of the card.

Boss was far, far, far from impressed.

He sent our Scottish designer round to get heavy - and it got heavy. The director of the company, so pissed off with Boss' constant nit-picking apparently threw a right old girlie strop and ordered Scottish designer to hand over the gift tags as we weren't getting them. Scottish designer refused, and was told to leave after the director flew into a complete rage.

So today Boss decides to write a snotty letter of complaint.

"Do me a favour, Steve - phone up and get the director's surname."

Unmoved by Boss' pleas for help, I resorted to a different tactic.

Googlism.

Within 10 minutes I had the director's full name, home address, wife's name, name of child and had discovered he's an amateur boxer.

It's just stunning how leaky information is on the internet - judicious searching on company names, phone numbers, lookups on 192.com and archive.org can throw up no end of useful information. Persistence is the key - you leave NO thread left uncovered - trying multiple spellings often helps, nicknames, email addresses - throw everything into Google and sift through what comes back.

Of course - I'm not about to use the information maliciously - but it does make you think...

posted at 8:26 PM •

How many weblog posts have started with the words "It's easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40," I wonder?

I feel like Meg Ryan, and that line from Sleepless In Seattle is ringing through my mind. Which, I might add, isn't such a pleasant thing, as Rosie O'Donnell isn't far behind, and I'm just not in the mood for fat lesbians.

"'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."

What utter tish. Whoever said that (oh, it was Tennyson, yes, well that makes sense doesn't it) - was obviously not a single gay man over 30 or a single straight woman over 40. There I was doing all very well, happily enjoying my singledom when along comes the Swarthy Toilet Brush, back from Greece for a week.

Now everything is all upside-down again, and I'm feeling all down and miserable. There's a hundred reasons why - like the fact that it was bloody weird having someone sleeping next to me, but distressing that I thought it was weird. I've gotten so used to having a whole double bed to myself, and since getting a new duvet, am perfectly snuggly and warm all by myself.

Then there's the fact that he's returning back to Greece on Friday, and the fact that he's a lovely guy to be around when it's just the two of you, but when there's an audience he completely changes.

All of it adds up to a cul-de-sac of a relationship, but tantalisingly almost a proper street.

posted at 2:31 PM •

Ah yes, my Aussie colleague.

Some things are damn easy to find on the net. Bloggers in particular can be pretty easy - IF you know they blog, and IF you know a few things about them. There are some people that try to safeguard against this, by not mentioning their name or certain activities relating to their non-blogging lives.

I think I've mentioned before that I have a bizarrely common name. It doesn't sound like it's particularly common - but a search for my name in Google reveals about a zillion of me, from all walks of life, all races, sexualities, nationalities. There's no women though. Funnily enough.

The proliferation of "other me's" means it's actually quite hard to find my blog without a quite informed search string.

This preamble brings me back to my Aussie colleague. Not soon after starting at my new job I learned that my little aussie colleague has a website. Not unusual for someone who's a web designer/developer - but it then turns out that part of his website is - yes, you guessed it - a blog.

I mentioned this briefly back in July, not soon after I started my new job, but then at the time he wasn't regularly blogging. He just started again - and it's now weird that I can read up on what he's doing but as far as I know he's not found me yet.

He was bloody easy to find - name, place of origin, blog - but in any case, he hosts a load of stuff on there and regularly shows stuff around.

Obviously if I link to him he'll more than likely pick up on me straight away.

So - little task/competition for everyone:

Where's Steve?

Try and find me - prizes will be awarded for the most amusing/inventive/revelatory string in Google that results in my ace life placing in the top ten.

posted at 10:32 AM •

The pace of life since my last blog birthday has been incredibly fast. I made a wish last year, and funnily enough I got what I wished for. But it wasn't like I imagined it would be.

My birthday present to myself was a new sound card and surround sound speakers for my desktop PC - which is now about 7 years old, and yet isn't at the same time. The sound card came bundled free with the 5.1 speakers - my ace life value tip from PC World.

I've been hankering after a desktop Mac, but have realised that for my purposes it's just as well to upgrade the components of my PC. I think the sole component from what I orginally bought is the floppy drive. Everything else has changed - and yet, it's somehow still the same machine.

Mutatis Mutandis.

No blog birthday wishes this year - I have everything I need. Thank you to everyone who has helped me through the last year.

posted at 11:53 PM •

Today, I had a cheese sandwich.

This is my Aussie colleague's name for blogs which don't really have a lot to say - Cheese Sandwich blogs. You've seen them all over the place - maybe you think this is one of them - it's certainly been feeling a little like that for a while to me.

Today, I had a cheese sandwich.

Today I got frustrated and tired and didn't take drugs and had some dental treatment and drank some coffee and did some other things that were equally as important.

Ahh, another blog existential crisis with not a lot I want to talk about. Sure, there's been the usual round of possible dates, possible shags, possible reconcilliations. I've been thinking about life and relationships and people and places non-stop, but I've also been non-stop busy and haven't had five minutes to myself to sit and write something.

And I've only got four minutes now, so I'm going to have to stop.

posted at 3:55 PM •

Drama has returned.

A BBC film crew are shooting 'The Inspector Linley Mysteries' outside my office, my next-door neighbour tried to commit suicide last night, and I had a date with Marc Almond's number 1 fan.

I should really learn to keep my big mouth shut. Can I have the dullness back now please?

posted at 9:47 AM •

Charlotte Church Nipple Slip

I have no idea why, but even before I had this as my title byline, this search string appeared on my stats on a weekly basis.

I'm only vaguely aware of what on earth this bizarre conjunction of words actually means - something to do with a Cardiff chav-ette diva falling out of her dress - and I imagine the poor souls looking for such an image might be a wee bit disappointed when they get here.

Well, life ain't fair kids.

While I'm at it, how's this for some total link sluttery:

Fran Cosgrove I'm a Celebrity Naked
Janet Street-Porter Fellating Paul Burrell

There. Now, what was I saying about prostitues?

posted at 5:57 PM •

A prostitute climbs onto the stage of a West End pub to sing karaoke. Well known and liked by many of the men cheering and laughing in the audience, the soft country twangs of Tammy Wynette are sung along to with tongue-in-cheek humour.

"Sometimes it's hard to be a whore..."

The prostitute's boyfriend watches on, laughing and chatting with male friends, some of whom could well be future or past clients.

Sound like the plot to some kind of sleazy porno? Or perhaps the establishing scenes of a gritty courtroom drama?

It's neither - this is what I just had to put up with during a double shift at the King's Arms. The prostitute in question is a tall portly bearded man, in his late forties to fifties who, as far as I can make out, is a whore (and that much is indisputable as his advert and photograph were in a gay listings magazine last week) - for a hobby.

It's pathetic. I've chatted to this guy once or twice - he rarely acknowledges me, evern though I've been serving him for well over a year - and as far as I can tell, purely because he isn't attracted to me. The couple of times I've been in a group chatting to him, everything he talked about revolved around sex.

Everyone in the pub knows he's a whore, and whenever he's mentioned, it's in the same breath as describing how big his cock is.

This culture sickens me, and increasingly I feel totally out of place in it.

posted at 1:32 AM •

The good news is that I didn't do any coke last night.

The good news is that I had a great day with my workmates - my boss is fantastic, and a really sweet guy - he took us on the London Eye, and then over to the brasserie in the OXO tower for lunch. For the first time I really bonded with the lads, and the whole day was really enjoyable.

And now the bad news - I had a huge craving. It got to about seven thirty, we were in the Elbow Rooms in Angel, waiting for a pool table. I was on my second or third gin & tonic, after an afternoon of wine, champagne and drambuie.

I started to have a huge craving, and I started to feel in a lot of danger. I decided I would take control of the situation, and get myself home before I got any further.

That was the plan. I think. I don't know. I think I might have been sabotaging myself - that's one of the things you learn about coming off drugs - sometimes you can sabotage your own efforts - convince yourself you're doing one thing, when subconsciously you're doing something else.

I made my excuses and left. I went to the tube.

Northern line, two stops south. Adrenaline rush. Trying to eye up this desparately gorgeous tattooed straight looking eastern-european looking thug. Heart pounding. Losing control.

Northern line, two stops south to Bank. Central Line.

East...or west?

The bad news is I went west. I had a 'FUCKIT' moment. Panic and adrenaline took over, all my good work flying out of the window, and I placed myself in fortune's hands.

Tottenham Court Road, the only thing between me and coke is now whether the dealer is in the pub. He wasn't, but there was someone else. He didn't have on him, but he had a source. I gave him fifty. I waited. I played pool. I sobered up a little, drinking shandy through till ten. The deal never materialised, but it was already done.

Mate gave me my money back, and I got myself home.

I was lucky, but I failed. OK, I gave up the search, I sobered up, and I got a good lesson in Times When I Am Most Likely To Be In Danger. It could have been different, and I feel like I failed.

posted at 11:23 AM •

Bloggin when drunk - it's a larf innit.

Why do I keep going on about John?

I keep going on about him because I am a passionate person. When someone gets me to care about them, that's not something I give up overnight. Well, not in certain conditions. I'm pretty much over him now - pretty much. I went through the most horrendous break-up and I didn't really have anyone around to talk it through with. John stonewalled me, and I just didn't have any confidantes at the time. No-one failed me, no-one could have just jumped in at that point and rescued me - I'm not the rescuing type.

Yes, I go on about him a lot - because in MY mind, he was my family. And I don't have a lot of family to go throwing around. Imagine one day the person closest to you in your family - your mum, sister, dad, brother, gran -=turned round to you and said, "I've finished with you".

Imagine they said that, and then wouldn't give you a chance at talking it over - what would you do? What would you do if there wasn't anyone really there to talk it through with? What would you do if there wasn't anyone that knew the two of you?

Whatever any of you think about me going on and on and on about a relationship that may well have been doomed years before it ended - know this - I LOVED HIM. I am a passionate person - I love people, I love life, because I know how shit and fragile life can be.

And the problem now is trying to find someone who feels the same way I do, and isn't a total fucking lunatic.

Yes, I know I go on about it. I was with the man for nearly six years, and it came to an end in a heartbeat. It doesn't hurt like it used to, but there is still part of me that wishes I hadn't had to become the person I amtoday because of the break-up.

posted at 11:24 PM •

Christmas season drinks and meal with work today - all afternoon.

Woo.

Yay.

I really have to restrain myself from making constant references to the fact that the boss is Jewish.

Anyway, no time for a proper post - and I'm feeling slightly bummed because I just got my Paul Smith suit out of storage for it's annual appearance and found there's a big bloody hole in the back.

Rats.

Or more likely, moths.

posted at 11:03 AM •

Drums fingers

Hmm.

Sighs

So, um, yeah. I'm running out of dramas. I got the mortgage paperwork in yesterday, that's all underway now. I've only got a couple of trips to the dentist left. It's now been a month (well, four weeks) since I touched any drugs.

I had a drug counselling session yesterday afternoon after I'd dropped the transfer papers for the mortgage into the bank. My counsellor, Ash, is great - we speak the same language and he was really affirming about my progress so far. I'm apparently in a green phase - I'm doing really well, but still have to be really careful around people and places where I might be tempted.

I'm starting to wonder what life will be like without and endless series of crises to respond to - and I'm remembering that life wasn't always like this - I used to plan and dream and have ambitions.

In the meantime though I'm having a slightly disconcerting reaction to finally getting my mortgage transferred to my name - I feel guilty about not having to give anything to John.

Now, rationally and emotionally I know I was treated pretty poorly by John. For starters he left me after I'd supported him for six months of him being unemployed, just as I lost my job and he landed on his feet. Then there was his total stonewalling of me when he broke up with me - his refusal to discuss anything or to give us a second chance. He cheated me out of money, lied and tried to cover it up, and ruined my credit rating.

But for some reason I still feel that I owe him something.

Maybe I just need to remind myself that life isn't fair. Life hasn't been exactly fair to me in the past, but I've gotten the shitty end of the stick. Sometimes life isn't fair - but sometimes it's unfair in your favour.

In the words of Nick Berry, Every Loser Wins...

posted at 1:30 PM •