I'm a cat with no tale, a copycat.

When I was a kid, one of my favourite things was to copy stuff. I'd happily copy cartoon characters, drawing quietly for hours - and I was quite good at it. My skill in mimicry soon developed into copying other people's handwriting and signatures, although I never really developed this talent beyond hand-written notes from my mum excusing me from P.E. They always worked because I was careful not to do it all the time, just on the occassions when I couldn't face the communal showers and the feelings of anxiety and insecurity I always suffered from.

On top of mimicking drawings and my mum's handwriting, I also discovered a talent for vocal impressions. Added to my status as (bored with the unchallenging nature of schoolwork) class clown, I was quite the comic. Unfortunately, no-one discovered my talents and I didn't really enjoy drama, so beside the odd playtime performance they didn't go any further.

The basis for my skills lay in the fact that I first arrived on the Isle of Man with a bit of a wierd accent. I lost my affected scots accent fairly quickly, slipping back to my baseline southern accent, so had to develop the long harsh vowels of a manx accent or get teased mercilessly - it most resembles a merseyside accent with a bit of lancashire thrown in, and the tiniest gaelic twang.

Ever since, I've had a thing with accents. I might have mentioned it before, but I can't be around people with strong accents without starting to pick their vocal mannerisms. I have two main accents depending on where I am and who I'm with - generic northern and generic southern - I can switch between these fairly easily without thinking about it, modifying them slightly depending on the regionality of the person I'm speaking with.

The scots accent I had for three years while living in Elgin slips back easily if I'm around Scots - I have to actually will myself not to do it. If I've been around my Nan I pick up her Midlands-ish accent - I didn't actually notice she had a Midlands accent until a year or so ago and it was quite weird to realise I'd just not noticed for 30 years.

All in all it gets a little confusing at times, but I've learned to just go with it and not be too concerned that I don't really have one fixed accent.

posted at 10:40 AM •

Anybody who knows me at least moderately well, or indeed has ever stood within ten feet of me, clutching a worn inkjet printout of the site feverishly murmuring "It's him, oh god it's him, I can't believe it's really him, it's really really him, oh god he's so much better looking in real life" will no doubt know I am something of an Acorn Antiques fan.

Admittedly if you're in the latter category, this fact will rattle around your head with endless other trivial facts about me such as the name of my first rabbit, and which hand I prefer to masturbate with, but run with me on this little preamble.

Everything I know about life I learned from Acorn Antiques, such as what colours Gainsborough's "Blue Boy" comes in, the correct way to package a Spode tea service, and how to avoid choking to death on coconut macaroons.

You can imagine then, my unbridled glee at the news that Victoria Wood was writing a musical based on the Manchesterford soap opera. And now, probably a year after I first heard the news, here we have "Acorn Antiques! The Musical".

I'm going to cut to the chase now - my unbridled glee has vanished like so much coke up Celia Imrie's perfectly fluted nostrils at the news that the going price for a ticket is £75! (No need to take a week to come up with the exclamation mark there).

Victoria Wood, you should be witheringly, gut-wrenchingly, haemmorhoid-inducingly ashamed of yourself. You greedy, awful, nasty piece of money grabbing shit-tinsel.

Even if I did have seventy five quid (or fifty-five quid for a seat with a resticted view) available for a seat, I don't have many friends who do as well. And although I know the audotorium will be filled with no end of mincing northern queens with more money (and antimacassars) than sense - I will know that there are thousands of people who would desparately love to see the show but cannot afford to do so.

Victoria, I hope the show bombs and something else horrible happens to you.

posted at 10:12 AM •

I've learned a thing or two about Intolerable Cruelty over the last two years. I'm in many ways grateful that the institution of same-sex marriage is little more than the equivalent of exchanging friendship bracelets in front of a group of gurning drag-queens and befuddled aunts at this present moment in time, because if it weren't I might have gone through a lot more red-tape than the rather large amount I'm still wading through.

Yes, yes, I got the house - of course - well, actually, nearly - champagne corks will be popping when that finally goes through, but *sigh* I'm still not happy.

Now, finally I see something I can aspire to, I can dream of. Catherine Zeta Jones is my new role model, and I have a new goal in life - marrying rich.

If I can't find love - then why not settle for the next best thing - money?

So - how to start? Where do I find myself a rich, eligible husband - ahem - I mean, partner - and where do I get a lawyer skilled in drawing up same-sex prenuptuals?

PS feel free to read this post as either the deranged ramblings of yours truly or a commentary of the aforementioned film, of which I give 3 stars out of 5 - Stellar performances let down by difficult material, a little disjointed and lacking in a consistent rhythm.

posted at 11:41 PM •

What you waiting for?

I'm amazed at how quickly my mood can turn. There I was yesterday, recovering from whatever it was I was recovering from that I had earlier in the week. I wrote one of my usual posts about how nobody loves me, how crap being a wooftah is, etc etc etc - and I couldn't get through to Blogger to post.

It's turned out to be a good thing, as it so often is - I saved the post and went home.

Settled into my usual routine - get tea on, quick check of things online, and settle down for a good film. And the film last night turned out to be one of those films that shed a little bit of light into my gloomy week.

Confessions of a Teenage Drama Queen - cinematic ritalin.

Now I'm all stricken with generic Disney feel-good homilies - be true to yourself, never stop believing in your dreams, 15 year old girls have more fun.

Not quite sure how that last one applies to me, and I'm not sure I can find out without breaking any decency laws. Still, Lindsay Lohan. Woo!

posted at 3:45 PM •

posted at 11:36 AM •

What an amazing time...

What a family...

How did the years go by...?

Now it's only me...

posted at 10:08 AM •

Well, I think it might've been the day old pizza that did it. I spent the night shivering and unable to sleep, eventually puking up into a bucket next to my bed.

I had a day off work two weeks ago and I've got a load of work on, so I've dragged my ass into work, feeling very sorry for myself.

posted at 11:36 AM •

Meh.

I needed a leave of absence. Things have been getting on top of me and I just needed some time away from the blog to sort my head out a little.

The insurance claims are moving along - but on Friday a letter arrived from the Peugeot 307 driver's solicitors contesting liability. Actually, no, not just contesting liability, he's saying it was my fault.

Apparently I was in the wrong established on the road, headlights on, riding along below the speed limit. How very inconsiderate of me to be in the way of his perfectly sensible "0-30 U-turn from parked" manouevre.

Well, with a bit of luck my witness with come forward and there'll be no contest. And then there'll be the matter of how much they'll settle for - that could prove to be interesting. Still, I'm finding that not being whacked off my head on drugs all the time, or thinking about my next score of drugs, that I can cope with the little ups and downs a lot better. In the last couple of weeks something strange has been going on in my brain. I've been getting back to normal as my brain chemistry isn't being blasted with elevated dopamine levels on a weekly basis.

It's something that I've been becoming more aware of - and realising that for the two years I've been writing my ace life I've been on one drug or another. One of the reasons I've been tempted to finish the blog - I just don't know whether I want to do it any more, or need to.

Not much has persuaded me otherwise yet.

posted at 11:15 AM •

You know - wouldn't it be just my luck if this hire bike got knocked over by a passing Jaguar while I was parked outside the garage chatting to the mechanics about the claim, sustaining a few hundred quids worth of damage and leaving me liable for £250 excess and losing my £50 deposit?

That would just be so fricking hilarious.

*meh*

posted at 10:09 PM •

Wanted to write a little bit about Prince Harry, as everyone else seems to have done.

I don't find anything about the whole affair to be shocking - desperately funny, but not in the least bit shocking. One of the doziest bits of rhetoric floating around comes from the whingeing guardianistas rattling on about how actually, in any case the Swastika is an ancient symbol that was co-opted by the Nazis, and isn't it terrible how we've forgotten it's true meaning and don't we think a europe-wide ban is ludicrous?

The fact of the matter is that no matter what the symbols origins were, like it or not, the Nazi party decided it was quite a striking graphic and a new level of meaning was imposed on the top of the previous layers. You have to hand it to the Nazi party, they really understood about the power of image - the uniforms, the symbolism, the use of colour, the films of Leni Riefenstahl - they were responsible for the greatest horrors of the Twentieth century, but they looked good while they were doing them.

The symbol now stands for the acts commited behind it. The Swastika is the Nazi party is the holocaust.

The layers of meaning accumulated around the symbol have transformed it perhaps into the greatest monument of human acheivement. This is what we are capable of. This is what our petty fears and hatred led us to. This.

Why should we ban this symbol? Because we don't like what we did? Because we don't like to be reminded that humans are capable of killing each other because of our differences?

Another point is that with something so evil embedded in the collective consciousness of our species, you can bet that there's going to be an outlet for it. As soon as something is taboo, you can bet some group is going to be fascinated with it.

There are people who are interested in S&M and leather for whom the uniforms and symbolism of the Nazi party are utterly alluring. Is it offensive? Yes, to some people it would be. Does it mean they support genocide? That's another question entirely.

I wouldn't be surprised if Prince Harry knew exactly what he was doing when he wore that uniform. I think he could have put a bit more effort into it though, as in the photos I've seen he looked like a scruffy yob.

posted at 1:23 PM •

Things I didn't know there was a term for - thanks Smidsy.

Sorry mate, I didn't see you.

posted at 5:50 PM •

Just took delivery of one of these until my little baby is back on the road. Not bad going less than a week after my accident, and still with the bruising to prove it.

Slight snag with the helmet though. My old helmet is trashed now after taking a small bump to it during the accident. The company dealing with my claim and supplying the hire bike also provide a replacement helmet, but it's completely basic - and the fit is only just about right.

Helmet fit is always a bit of a tricky one for me as, well, I've got a big head. No sniggering at the back.

So, I've got a problem now - do I buy a new lid on my credit card, taking a gamble that the claim will go through without a snag and fairly quickly, or do I wait?

posted at 2:09 PM •

Well, nothing like a dreary Sunday doing very little after getting smashed on Saturday night to bring one back down to earth. With a crash.

The cheerful mood of Friday lasted through till Saturday, despite being constantly achey all over and getting paranoid that some kind of delayed-effect organ melting may be happening and that at any second I might just drop dead. I've mostly cracked the neurotic hypochondria I suffered from as a teenager, but once in a while it creeps back into my life.

I met up with Alex, the ex assistant manager from the King's Arms and his boyfriend Louis, in Costa Coffee on Compton Street. The Gayest Place On Earth™.

We then ended up staying out all evening getting slowly drunk on the £40 Alex had just paid me back after lending it to him the weekend before.

Sunday stutters online, wake, sleep, wake - wondering where that £40 has gone. Spend the day feeling annoyed with myself and having to resort to walking around East London looking for quotes for a new motorcycle helmet that I'm claiming on insurance.

Decided to cheer myself up by going to the cinema. Saw 1950's backstreet abortion drama Vera Drake. Ended up feeling even more depressed.

Should hear whether I'm getting a loan bike from the insurance company. Can't stand another day on the cattle trucks, and with a bit of luck I'll have another crash and cheer up again.

posted at 11:08 AM •

Well, nothing like a fairly serious road traffic accident to shake you out of a funk.

There I was, brumming along Hackney Road, off to buy a new butt-plug, as my last one had *ahem* somehow broken. Alert as usual, doing a sensible speed, a sensible distance from a transit van in front of me - suddenly a black Peugeot 307 pulls out in front of me doing a U-turn and slams into the side of me.

I walked away unharmed, but the same can't be said about my bike, which took a right old walloping, losing both wing-mirrors, more fairing damage, and then started pissing fuel all over the road.

Funny how life is huh?

I limped home (metaphorically), bike recovered by my lovely local garage, and started working through all my insurance documents. Slight panic that I didn't have a current MOT certificate out of the way, and I limped off to bed (not metaphorically).

And this morning? I feel great - cheerful, happy, full of beans. I must remember this for next time I feel down.

posted at 11:27 AM •

I've had the beginnings of a cold for the last few days. On top of everything else I've been feeling incredibly irritable, listless and emotionally vacant, and I can't put my finger on the source of my anxiety.

Maybe it's just the time of year, maybe it's the fact that I've turned my life around in the last few months and now things aren't as fast-paced as they used to be. Maybe it's a whole host of things. I just can't seem to focus on things that might get me out of my funk - such as getting the remortgage underway and finalised.

I just can't seem to focus on anything.

The cold has been lingering for a few days and I've been keeping it at bay with echinacea, which seems to be working well. Then this morning I overslept - I just felt drained of life, not overly sick, though there were a few lingering aches and pains. Considering that one of my colleagues had a day off last week, I decided to call in sick. Possibly not the best idea, but I'd rather call in sick than arrive an hour late for work. You know how it goes.

I've been trying to concentrate on getting the paperwork together for the remortgage, but it just feels like an uphill struggle. Everyone tells me different things - you need this form signing, you need a letter of authority from here, you need to show these documents, those documents...

So I jump through the hoops, I look through papers and files, dredging up the past - this is when you and John got the notice that the landlord was going to sell, this is where you found out John had cheated you on the mortgage...

I look around at the paper walls and feel frustration welling up inside me - I want to cry, but nothing comes, I'm numb to it all. I think about escaping a lot at the moment - getting out of this city, getting back to the country, away from the artifice and painful memories.

posted at 4:09 PM •

Grieving is an incredibly complex emotional system.

To be just a little bit arrogant for a second here, I'll say I understand it pretty damn well as I've been living with it in one form or another for most of my life.

Why did I want to cry yesterday? Why do we do anything at certain times of the year? It's entirely arbitrary in some ways, but grief is not a simple process that you switch on or off. I wanted to cry because I know that some of my feelings are locked away currently, and it frustrates me that I've done such a good job of burying them. Maybe I should have kept my feelings to myself, but that falls into the blogger's dilemma - if I'm writing for myself, then why publish? Of course I write for an audience, but I know that you will find reading some of my thoughts difficult. In some ways I try to make you understand what it's like to have lost a parent, and I'd like to think that some of the things I write might possibly be useful to someone going through the same things.

Grief works like the tide, pulled by the gravity of the lost love. Sometimes it washes over you, a multitude of emotion, currents and eddys, spraying you with tears. Sometimes the water pulls away, exposing mile after mile of beach.

So I stood there on the beach, trying to command the water to rise, and of course it didn't.

I understand myself better than any other time when it comes to grieving, so don't worry that you can't think of anything to say. Ultimately I'm glad I shared this bit, because it's important, yesterday was important and that's why I wanted to feel something.

posted at 1:14 PM •

I can't cry.

I hate this feeling, this non-feeling. It comes sometimes, and even though one becomes attuned to the mental and emotional state of nothingness, it's none the less distressing. I don't want to wallow in mawkish sentiment, but I can't celebrate Mum's life either. I just feel so emotionally worn out, and for the last few weeks I've been retreating into myself.

I want to cry, but I can't.

I pulled out some old photos - I don't have many here with me, most of the family photos are in the Isle of Man. I have one picture taken on my graduation, with Mum and Nan. Nothing. Not a tear.

posted at 9:32 PM •

I can't quite get my head round the fact that it's been three years since Mum died - I feel like I lost a year somewhere, but I suppose that's all part of the process of what I've been through.

January 12th, 2002 - the phone call came that we had been waiting for, hoping we wouldn't get.

"Your mother's condition has deteriorated significantly overnight."

The thing about the final moments is that I noticed how unlike the movies they were. There's no music, no beeping life support machine. There is no final goodbye, no last seconds of consciousness where you smile through the tears and say everything you need to say.

The life support machine is switched off, and the person connected to it slowly dies. It took about a minute or so.

And then you return to your life, to try to make your way in the first hours of your new life.

posted at 1:18 PM •

Celebrity Big Brother just got watchable.

Who could fail to be rendered speechless by the arrival of one of the housemate's ex-mother-in-law, especially considering the fact that it's one Jacqueline Stallone.

Brigitte: Oh my god, it's Jackie!

Jackie: Mnyyyeeeayy, mmMMnnyackie...

The woman can't even say her own name! Forget punch-ups, bickering, celebrities picking their toe-nails with kitchen cutlery - THIS IS WHAT WE WANT TO SEE! We watch your programmes so you can make advertising revenue for one reason, and one reason alone - to see what happens to people with more money than sense when they invest in inhuman amounts of awful plastic surgery. Bring on the fucking freaks!

Bring on mmMMnnyackie!

posted at 10:55 AM •

Don't you just hate it when someone with a really popular blog links to you and you've nothing funny to say to all the people visiting?

I'll assume most of you have been here before at one point or another, so instead of the usual introductory "Hi, I'm Steve, I'm a 31 year old Virgo gay male living in London", here's a brief resume of what's been happening since you last visited. Not that I mind that you don't visit, but you could call more? Can I make you a sandwich?

I'm not a barman anymore.
I'm still single.
Half the time I'm happy with that.
I stopped taking drugs two months ago.
I also stopped clubbing two months ago.
Except for the occasional fetish club night.
Other than which, I've gone quite boring.
I'm still living in East London.
I still have the cat, HP.
I never talk to my ex.
I'm working for a great company doing web stuff for film marketing.
It pays OK.
My niece is nearly one year old.
My sister still hasn't got the hang of contraception.
She's 33.
I have another niece/nephew due in March.
It's been three years, tomorrow, since my mum died.

So there you go. Don't be a stranger, OK?

posted at 7:46 PM •

There's a DVD rental place at the end of my street. It opened about three years ago, bringing a much needed injection of entertainment to the otherwise bland bit of East London I live in.

The owner is a big surly and burly Essex geezer who looks at you blankly if you look for anything other than the latest big blockbuster. A year or two ago I went in to get the night's entertainment and as I was paying, the surly burly owner (who was staggering slightly and smelled of vodka fumes) reached under the counter and gave me a VHS of a soft-core goth girly porno music video. Somehow I couldn't quite bring myself to tell the bloke that um, I wasn't really interested in watching teenage girlies smearing fake blood on their breasts and I shoved the video in my bag and hurried out.

I haven't been back since.

It's a bit of a bitch, as I like films. I haven't had a lot of time in the last year or two to go the the cinema, and I haven't had money to buy every DVD I want to see. Recently I got into the habit of buying a couple of films a month, but after shelling out £15 a piece on a couple of turkeys (Spiderman 2; Godsend) - I started to question the amount I was spending.

Along comes Tesco DVD rental. I joined up a month ago, and it does exactly what you'd want from a rental service, at a fraction of the cost (consumer watchdog mode activated).

I've joined at the top subscription rate - £15 a month, which allows you to have 3 DVDs at any time, and unlimited rentals per month. If you work the system well (watch the film the day it comes and post it for collection the next day), you can easily get through 12 films a month, which works out to £1.25 a movie.

Correction My subscription package is actually £13.97 a month - and I get Tesco clubcard points on that. If anyone knows of a better value (based on the amount I get through, that's just over £1 a film, plus points) - let me know!

posted at 11:04 AM •

Sehr goil.

Or maybe I'll learn german.

For some reason I find the above phrase incredibly satisfying. Oh, yeah, except most german gay men have bleached highlights and wear leather slacks a la Michael Knight 365 days a year (the only time they take them off is on a leap day).

Sehr goil, Kitt. Sehr sehr goil.

posted at 5:21 PM •

Sitting here at work can't focus can't concentrate with music bleep bleep fucking bleep put on my headphones not much better try to do some work inherited PC is a total mess cracked applications on crack won't run so I can't do the work fucking thump thump annoying fucking bassline can't we just have fucking silence for five minutes I'm going to kill someone in a minute no installation disks for the software I need got to trash a load of stuff on the inherited PC and I would kill for silence I can feel a headache coming on this is like fucking chinese water torture keep looking at the gaydar profile of the guy I met last night trying to decide whether to say hello and thinking about work and not having a fag bleep thump bleep thump

posted at 1:15 PM •

My friend and old colleage from the King's Arms was back in London from his job posting in Toronto this weekend, and I had plans to meet up with him for a night out on Saturday.

As a result, I missed the BBC's screening of Jerry Springer: The Opera. The resulting fuss is not surprising however, and I'm going to toe the line with Blue Witch's opinion here.

While I think there are many good reasons why the BBC screened the show, my feeling is that this growing undercurrent of US-style 'Freedom of Speech' is creating a culture of 'Freedom to act like an offensive idiot just for the sake of it'.

A month or so ago I saw a clip of US right-wing commentator Ann Coulter spouting off on a news programme. The woman was clearly shooting off as many offensive opinions as she could in an attempt to score the best sound-bite. She was abusive and insulting to other guests on the programme, and spouted rhetoric that wouldn't have been out of place in Nazi Germany.

Of course, the educated viewer would see right through this and perhaps reason that she's being inflammatory to provoke debate. Others might argue that she has a right to say what she thinks.

Personally I'm starting to feel that just because we are 'free' to say what we think, doesn't neccessarily mean we should. Do we as a culture actually gain anything from just trying constantly to shock and provoke people? In the case of the Jerry Springer screening, it now seems that this will be fuelling the case for 'anti-hate' legislation in this country.

I'm getting increasingly frustrated with the growing de-secularisation of society - is the UK headed down the same route as the US? How long will it be before our domestic policies are steered by religious lobbyists, and how long before we have an Ann Coulter of our own?

posted at 1:02 PM •

I'd recommend being a recovering drug addict to anyone.

Two months ago I landed up in a counselling centre in East London where I met Ash who was to be my future counsellor. My sessions with him have been incredibly useful - one of the things we talk about most is how the mind works at many different levels, and although you may think you're doing one thing, actually you're setting yourself up to use again. You subconsciously engineer situations which enable you to act in ways that just perpetuate problems rather than sorting them out.

Becoming aware of these cognitive distortions opens you up to so much about yourself that you hadn't noticed before. Cognitive distortions are a common set of behaviours that include overgeneralisations, jumping to conclusions, all-or-nothing thinking and magnification of negative traits. They serve to keep us in negative patterns of behaviour - in my case, using drugs.

Once you start to become aware of these patterns, you start to see them cropping up all over the place and realise how insidiously they weave themselves into everyday life.

My efforts at getting back in the gym, for example. This weekend I set myself the task of finding and joining a gym. I decided to go look at a couple of local gyms on Saturday but a couple of other things 'got in the way' and so I put it off to Sunday. Sunday came and I was feeling really pressured to get going. I went round to have a look at the places I had on my mental list, but neither of them really jumped out as places I'd feel happy in.

The first one was a bit of a muscle-pit, but was incredibly cramped and shabby. They had all the equipment I'd need but essentially it was a shit-hole. The second one was a local authority gym - nice and clean, but hardly any equipment, just row after row of cardiovascular bikes and treadmills.

I started to feel despondant, and a cognitive distortion crept in. "I'll never find a gym that suits me, I'll be pale and skinny for the rest of my life."

Of course, this isn't an accurate perception of reality. I just haven't found the right place yet.

It's a shame that there doesn't seem to be anything suitable local to me, as one of the main things you should factor in when looking for a gym is proximity to home (or work). I've got to go look at a gym in Stratford, but I'm starting to wonder about setting up a gym at home - I've got some weights already, and would just have to get myself a simple bench and clear out the spare room.

posted at 10:46 AM •

The cat breathes cat-food cat-breath onto my face while I sleep and dream of flesh-eating zombie drug dealers.

This is not your brain on drugs. This is not reality.

And I watch the story of the greatest transexual punk rock girl to ever escape from East Germany.

Do you accept Jesus Christ into your life as your personal saviour? No, but I really admire his work.

Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Hedwig never existed, but really who can say that they really exist, and really who cares, and really what does it matter what is really really real and authentic and what is fake anymore. Really?

I will always love you. What do you think, do you think love lasts forever. No, but I think this song does.

Cause and effect, back to front. We look for meaning in fantasy, and fantasy in authenticity. Men dressed as men dressed as women dressed as men. Girls who are boys who like boys to be girls.

Some things change, some stay the same, and from the East will come something new, something better.

Inauthentically really authentic.

posted at 1:03 PM •

So far I've not mentioned anything about New Year's resolutions.

I don't generally believe in them - resolving once a year to better oneself only to fail a couple of weeks later.

My circumstances have rapidly progressed for the better towards the end of last year and self-improvement is on my mind in any case - so, I'm not making New Year's resolutions, I'm just forwarding my self-improvement programme.

Three years ago I did the same sort of thing - set myself a few goals to help me get through a difficult year. I'm still living with the benefits of that year, after passing my bike test and getting my first bike.

So - this year. Well, there are two main things I want to work on this year - firstly I want to start getting in the gym, and second I want to start learning a language.

On the second point, this is something I've been wanting to do for years and now I find myself with the time and energy to do something about it.

But - hmm - what to learn?

A year or so ago I fancied learning Japanese, and although I feel that the main reason for learning a language shouldn't just be how useful it would be, that does feel like the main negative in learning something like Japanese. So - a European language then. French seems the best option - I have a tiny bit of pre-GCSE French and it does seem like a good second language to have.

L'Institue Francais offers a weekend course running for ten weeks, three hour sessions for £245. Seems like good value and I've heard good things about the Institue Francais.

Anyone have any advice?

posted at 1:20 PM •

Capitalism forever.

An advert trying to persuade you that you need a ring-tone that sounds like a frog pretending to rev a motorbike. This is the end result of an economic system based on private ownership of capital. They know, you see - they know that you see your mobile phone as a signifier of your personality, your individuality, they know it's a lifestyle accoutrement, they know you have money, and that you will give your money to own what they sell.

You are a subject of capitalism. You are not a free man. You are not a number. You are a bar-code. The bar-code is not the sign of the devil, but if they tell you it is you will buy more, so you believe them and you buy their ring-tone, Nike trainers, Audi cars, Billy bookshelves. You are an RFID tag. You are a cookie. You are a loyalty card. You are a branding tool.

You cannot buy your way out of the system. You cannot protest against the system. Anti-capitalism is another lifestyle choice with it's own loyalty scheme. Buy a dog on a string, buy a t-shirt with a controversial logo, once a year reward yourself with a trip to the latest eco-friendly holiday spot.

The system comforts you and reflects you a million times. This is you. This is what you need. This will make you happier.

The system exploits your vulnerabilities, pack shot of lasagne with the layers propped up with foamboard, PVA cheese sauce glistening under a tungsten halogen spotlight.

Your mobile phone rings like a frog pretending to rev a motorbike as the telly blares out the latest reports on the world's disasters, 24/7 news presented by lipgloss and mascara, combovers and smart suits.

"Why does this lasagne not look like the pack shot," you wonder to yourself.

posted at 10:27 AM •

News feature on the bbc today about unpaid overtime.

This is something I've lived with in various guises for now over seven years. In the early days of my career I thought nothing of working late for no extra money.

The motivations were varied - I loved my job, indeed in the first year or so I couldn't quite believe I was being paid to do something I enjoyed so much. I learned on the job, so the extra time was often spent getting experience that would be vital to my career development.

The pressures behind the unpaid overtime changed a bit over time. There was the feeling of being at the cutting edge of a new industry, an excitement and a willingness to stay long hours (and more than a few weekends) with the rest of the team to get the job done.

I was lucky in that John's job was always very much nine-to-five, so there was always a meal waiting for me at home and I knew that when I eventually got home I could relax.

Lately everything has changed. I still feel pressure to stay late - but I try to get away before 7pm as often as possible.

I'm not the young career guy anymore. I don't want to be seen to be 'a slacker', but these days I've only got a finite amount of time to get things done. When I get home from work I have to cook, do a bit of washing up, eat, clean a bit - there's always something that needs my attention.

I'm looking forward to having the whole weekend free and starting to do some stuff for myself. I keep thinking things are going to get easier, and well, in the last three months they have - but I still have this feeling that something is missing.

Ironic that I took time out of my busy schedule yesterday to watch Desperate Housewives, which got it's first airing in the UK yesterday on Channel 4.

posted at 11:37 AM •

You people just don't give up do you?

OK - I've told about a quarter of the story of the last ten days so far.

A sizeable part of the holidays was spent being pretty down. Christmas and the new year celebrations aren't there for single people, and since having to start again on the socialising front (minus a few people with 'dependancies' that I don't need to be around) - I found myself, well, by myself.

As the people here grow colder, I turn to my computer, and spend my evenings with it like a friend...

But through all of the glumness, I was actually pretty content. I didn't go out much, I only got drunk once (on New Year's Eve), and I didn't touch any drugs. And that last one was the key to my glum-but-not-glumness.

This is your brain on drugs. Everything feels so much better, and so much worse. Cocaine fucks with your dopamine and serotonin levels. Long term use affects a lot of mental processes and although you know it's not doing you any good, you can't imagine life off it. You feel depressed a lot of the time, but it's a chemical depression, and there's a very simple cure.

You stop taking cocaine.

The chemical depression lifts and you slowly start to become yourself again - with all that entails, ups and downs.

I find now that with my new perspective, the downs are in some way enjoyable. Hey - I know what it's like to be depressed, so this is OK. I'm OK, you're OK, everything is OK. The glumness is understandable, and I know that I can get through it.

So, I chatted away in chat rooms, I watched films, I pottered around the house. I tortured myself in Homebase a few times (*sigh* walk-in shower enclosures) - I bought myself a blender/liquidiser for Christmas and invented shakes and smoothies (three kiwi fruit, half a mango, apple juice, ice-cubes - mmm). I went to the cinema by myself, and I went out on the bike to my Gran's and yesterday down to Box Hill in Surrey with a couple of guys I hooked up with in the bikers chat room on gaydar.

A couple of those stories I may expand on later. After nearly two weeks with not much blogging, I've got some catching up to do.

posted at 3:07 PM •

I've given some thought to writing a round-up of my 2004. What I have decided is that the story of last year can't be told by looking at what happened when. To pick apart the chronology of last year would be to miss out on the important parts, which happened in between times.

2004 was a year of the fundamental things. Life spirals round, going over the same things over and over again, but each time giving us a little more understanding - if only we are able to take the lesson life offers us.

The fundamental things - happiness, work, love, friendship, well-being, money - I began to learn more about these things and start to better understand my needs and desires. The return to these basic particles of life has been the drive, the journey and the destination of last year.

I have hopes for 2005. But I have a deeper understanding of those hopes, and know that nothing worth having comes without a price.

posted at 2:13 PM •

I like to think I'm lucky.

I grew up in relatively affluent middle-class surroundings - a condition of my early life that I feel no need to apologise for or somehow affect otherwise. I spent most of the Thatcher years cocooned on the Isle of Man far away from escalating unemployment and social inequalities that characterised the eighties.

The Isle of Man is a tax-haven, although that fact has little bearing on everyday life to the average person (although a £6k personal tax allowance is the standard as far as I recall). The main difference I suppose is a fairly well-off government which along with other factors led to extremely low unemployment.

When my family moved back to the island, my Mum immediately got herself a job, returning to clerical duties which she had done before she married my Dad. She learned to drive, she found us somewhere to live, and created a warm and stable home for my sister and I.

Mum worked, and me and my sister looked after ourselves - me from the age of 12.

As soon as I hit 16, I got myself a Saturday job. I already had a good grasp of economics - having money was a good thing, and I knew you had to work for what you wanted. One of the first things I bought was a pretty good quality cd stereo that I think cost me about £300. I got it on interest-free credit, and paid it off £50 a month for six months.

I went to university, and had a succession of part-time jobs. I graduated and started my career. I've been made redundant three times, but until last year I've never found it hard to find work. In fact, since my sixteenth birthday, I think there's only about 6 months where I didn't have one form of employment or another, and that was when I started my degree in Stoke-on-Trent, and I decided I didn't want a part-time job.

I'm lucky because I have an incredibly strong work ethic. Not working is not an option - I have never signed on, although I could have taken that option last year after my last redundancy. The last week and a half off work has been a wee bit mind-numbing. When I have nothing to do, I get lethargic and run-down, but as soon as I get myself going I feel fine again.

My last shift in the pub was on Sunday - it ended without any Rover's Return style send-off or final speech. My weekends are now totally free, and time will tell how I'll cope with that.

But I'm still working, and you'll definitely not see me down the Job Centre.

posted at 11:42 AM •