A Velvet suit, Google and the feminist republic of Brightonia

When you break up with someone, move house, end a job or change something important like your opinion on tight trousers you should get some new clothes. This is to mark this historic occasion and help kick start a new period.

As it was the time of new beginnings I went on my usual pilgrimage to the Real McCoy. For those who don't know about this wondrous place it is a shop that sells clothes from the 1870s to the 1970s. The male selection is rather limited but it does occasionally throw up a real treasure.

I like to think that the show rewards me for getting through something tricky by giving me a lovely item of clothing. I think it's luck because finding something I like and that fits me in what is basically a specialised second hand shop is tricky. When I visited my dad on my own I was gifted with a fitted tweed number that I adore, telling A I was going to have no-more of her nonsense was a surprised to find a lovely smoking jacket.

On this visit I found a brown velvet suit that fitted me like a glove. I wasn't sure about it until I tried it on and the fit, and amusing lack of trouser pockets completely bowled me over. It is the perfect thing to wear on New Year's Eve in Brighton with a load of feminists.

Of course a brown suit is an easy item to get wrong, too flashy a shirt and you look like a failed magician, too conservative and you will be more akin to a geography teacher. Not that either are bad people, but that's just not my look. I've settled on a faintly stripy pink number and combined it with some very sharp shoes which I think gets the balance right.

I will soon be entering the world of dating so I Googled myself today as people do that when they meet you and want to find out more. I'm not even close to the top search of my own name. I can't believe that. I've got a moderately unusual name and people from the 1800s on genealogy websites appear above me. I can't decide if this is a good thing or not, I toyed with the idea of setting up some fake websites about how I saved some nuns from a fire or taught dolphins to read so that people searching for me would hear good (fictional) things. Maybe not for now.

I must dash now, I've got to pack up my waistcoats and get things ready for my trip to Brighton to stay with some outrageous feminist friends for NYE. I can't wait, seeing them is always a joy and their misadventures are the stuff of legend. Just the ticket when a chap is starting something new.

What a carry on

People are predictable. If someone starts acting strangely and you can't work out why they are suddenly doing something so weird there are only two reasons why this may happen.

The first is money. This happens less in day to day relationships but I think it should get a mention because the amount of corruption going on in local county councils is amazing. You wouldn't believe the things that people are getting away with here in Devon. It's really shocking.

The other man reason why someone starts acting strangely is sex, typically affairs. If someone suddenly breaks up with you with talk of 'needing more space' or 'wanting to find themselves' as much as they would like to pretend that they have had an epiphany it's really just they have met someone else.

This is extra topical because of memorial arrangements. My uncle, who is a bit of a rotter and has spent his whole live doing very little but sleeping with rich women and living off their largess has started acting strangely. He is married, of course but that has never slowed him down. I say strangely because his actions over the funeral thing seem to make no logical sense.

Why is he doing everything he can to please the Himmler woman? With out a care about how it affects his brother's children? Why because they are having an affair.

I don't know how long it's been going on, but Himmler did also try and seduce my dad's best friend when he was there during my Dad's final days. This woman is just horrible, and so is my uncle. I mean really. Can't someone just show a modicum of self control?

The end of an aga

Please excuse the pun, but it is that time of year and a key part of my mother's house is changing. This Christmas has been a strange one, I've had some things I really wanted - like a moka pot and a lovely new shirt and somethings I could have done with out. A long email from T.P. detailing how awful I am.

Christmas was a touch sad because I missed my dad. When I was wrapping presents it felt like I had missed someone out and when Christmas Day happened I found myself waiting for him to call as he did every year. It's a troubling time of year because it was around Christmas seven years ago that my mother discovered he was having an affair and he was gone by New Year's Day.

So I suppose this feels like the end of that period, the seven years of sadness where a family fell to pieces.

What makes this feeling of change even more potent is that the aga is being replaced. The Aga has been the heart of the house for as long as I can remember, it's always on and burbling along to itself like a cast-iron chicken. Making the kitchen warm and being a source of freshly baked rolls. On the top of the aga the lids are slightly dented after years of people sitting on them while having difficult chats about things. You can deal with anything while sat on the hot top of the aga with the drying socks dangling above your head.

With oil prices going up so much it's being replaced with a Heritage, which burn much more efficiently and are better in every way. It seems like a potent symbol of change, almost as potent as my new socks.

Mince pies

I'm using this festive time of year to sort somethings out. Sort of like a training montage but with more mince pies and brandy butter.

One of the things I am going to have to consider is returning to the single scene in London. I'm looking forward to it really. When you are single a night out could end up anywhere, with anyone. Who knows what sort of adventure you will have? In my limited experience when you are seeing someone the only element of chance is what will make them angry tonight.

Of course now that I'm meeting new people again I have to decide what is important to me, I don't want to jump into a serious relationship for a while but what do I want? I also have to think about what is and isn't acceptable.

I went to a Christmas party in the village last night and there was a woman who had a pair of gold trousers on. I'm not sure where I stand on that, but I will have very strong views when I get them. A chap can't be neutral on trousers.

Victory!

I have finished. thirty two thousand words later and I've finished a book that is going to be published and everything. Hurrah! I may even go as far as to say HUZZAH!

It's almost a shame I'm in Devon, I really should go out drinking with chums but instead the only company I have at the moment is two elderly, farting cats who can't get excited about anything that doesn't involve 'meaty chunks'

For the first time in months I can chill out now, well once I've just checked everything again and thrown it at the postman. I can read fun books, or perhaps have a nice weekend somewhere relaxing with out the vague feeling of guilt that I really should be writing about Craps or Roulette.

The other nice thing about finishing is that I'm going to get a nice cheque, and then in a few months when the book gets printed onto bits of tree I'll get another cheque for doing absolutely nothing. I'll probably spend the money on credit card bills and food but it's nice to day-dream that I might get something exciting with it like a holiday somewhere warm or a road going motorbike.

Working with animals

I've been at the family pile for the last few days working. I needed to get out of London so I could finish a lot of writing. I thought the countryside would be ideal for writing as the nearest pub is miles away and there isn't a lot to do apart from type furiously.

I was about half right. This morning I realised that I could spend no more time sat in front of the wood burning stove eating mince pies so I finally sat down in the downstairs drawing room to write. There is a vast table there over looking one of the gardens. It was a brilliantly clear and frosty morning and so I set about typing yet more nonsense about casinos.

This started off well enough. The geese were strangely interested in seeing this new person in the window so they spent an hour or so with their hot beaks pressed up against the window breathing heavily on the glass as I typed. After a while they got bored of that and went off to the duck pond for a swim. The duck pond was frozen over so they stamped on it for a bit and honked a lot before sitting down on the lawn where they could watch me from a distance while plucking at nearby trees and bushes.

Watching geese is quite a good break from writing they are mildly interesting but not enough to be completely distracting.

In the afternoon it got so cold in the drawing room that I retreated to the kitchen. The kitchen is a different world, it's got an AGA burbling away in one corner so it is warmer and there are three cats in residence. Two of them are rather elderly and one is a naughty baby cat. Spider - my cat - is jet black, evil and extremely clever. He is a bit wobbly these days so he just lounges around occasionally popping out to murder something rare. Spider loves all the other cats deeply.

The other cat is Stripy, she is an stroppy tabby cat who doesn't really wash herself as much as she should so he pongs a bit. She just about puts up with Spider but hats Maus.

The final cat in this trio is Maus, a young cat, almost a kitten who is gray and extremely naughty. Maus likes Spider and enjoys annoying Stripy. When I was trying to write she would run up and down my leg and would then stare in my eyes for a second before biting me on the chin.

After my chin had been attacked she would run off again into a corner of the room to plot her next move. These moves typically involved some sort of attack or going somewhere she shouldn't so I've spent most of the afternoon juggling cats or pulling small angry carnivores off my trousers.

It's been strangely productive and now I'm but an amusing anecdote or two from finishing this book. Phew.

The time has come to go to war

If the last year has taught me anything it has been that a capacity for being pleasant is readily abused and that a well placed handkerchief can improve almost any outfit.

The war with the second wife progresses and after her loopy letters and various high and mighty emails from uncles about 'family duty'. I have jolly well had enough of suffering in silence. War has been declared, I have told them in no uncertain terms that if she is going to the memorial service, I shall not.

While my sister was talking about never speaking the family again I feel this is a bit too much of a passive response and well I'm bally well not up for that.

So listen here, Himmler. I will not be surrendering and all the other wags who have recently been taking liberties with me, it stops now.

Mad woman

As it is the festive season it's the time of madness. Today the family (mothers, brother, sister and I) all recieved letters from my father's second wife.

I don't know if she is just bored, or maybe she is high on the fumes from goat dung but she seemed to think it would be a good idea to send letters to us all. I suggest that she might be intoxicated on some sort of drug because the letters are horrible. The first paragraph or so is faux-friendly and then it is sprinkled with various nasty comments about how we excessively bothered my dad during his final month by daring to contact him and other such things. They are not friendly or pleasant messages.

I can't imagine what this woman thought these letters would achieve but it just reminded me again about how some people are just nasty and one shouldn't have time for them.

That's a lovely thought for Christmas.

Banana Theory

The weekend was nothing if not eventful. I went for lunch with some old female friends to get out of the flat and have a good talk about things, by things I mean various relationships exploding. It was lovely talking with the girls, they gave some useful insights into the female mind as well as lots of useful advice my favourite of which is the Banana Theory.

If you break up with someone you should move out of the flat, right away. Think of it as a painting with a banana in it. If you take the banana out of the painting it is a banana, so it's fine. The painting however now has something missing so it doesn't feel complete anymore. The person who was explaining this theory couldn't remember why it was a banana.

So I'm not in the flat anymore, I'm elsewhere because when I was in the flat working it didn't feel like it was over. It just felt like she was on holiday and any minute she would return and things would be as they were, as if the last week hadn't happened.

Meeting up with the girls was great. We went for lunch, but didn't leave until 9pm so you can imagine what sort of state we were in. The nice thing about having a large circle of female friends who you can really talk to is that you get the truth about what was going on, they provide such insight into things. Sometimes it's a bit painful to be told but I think it's always worth it.

Batman

This week has been strange, and dark. I've been living the life of a recluse while I try and write more about gambling (it's not that I have writers block, I just can't think of anything else to say) and try not to think about stuff too much like, how I'm not going to be able to afford to live in this lovely flat anymore, and how I really don't want to be looking for somewhere to live over Christmas.

When you break up with someone when you don't live with them it's fairly easy, you just exchange pants, CDs and other flotsam that has drifted over to your respective places and then stop calling them. This is a whole new league of trouble.

I will manage it, but you know, I think I'm due a bit of fabulous good luck thank you very much. In a year where I have had to bury three friends and a father, let alone the other stuff I'm due a big cheque from the bank of good fortune.

I watched Batman last night and spent at least 30 minutes day dreaming about going to china to go to jail for a bit so a shadowy organisation could think I have potential and train me up to be a ninja type person and then I could go and fight crime.

I'm experimenting with a new sideburn shape now, I'm trying to change something to give me some zing again. Normally I'd go and buy a new waistcoat or perhaps some cufflinks but spending extra cash right now would not be wise.

Just a little bit more

'I say Louche' you might say. 'You are having a bit of a week, still it can't get much worse can it?'

There would be no reply to this, because I am in bed with some awful sort of sickness. It's not even a romantic illness where I can waste away gracefully at the seaside while writing poetry, oh no. I think I ate something bad, or perhaps the stress has just finally got to me but either way I think I've lost about a stone in weight just today. While this miracle weight loss may sound pleasant the method of getting rid of that weight was not.

Now I'm desperately trying to pull myself together as Noel Fielding from the Mighty Boosh is opening his art show toinght. I really want to go but I can't if I'm a shivering wreck.

I think I'm on the path to recovery, I managed to eat a bit of fruit with out it deciding that it had too much to live for and decided to scamper out of my belly again. Plus I'm blogging and I'm pretty sure that is one of the 10 signs of life.

C'est Fin

It's over, I came home and made a cup of tea and T.P. said she wanted to be single. I'm not surprised as it was clear something like this was coming but it still knocks a chap for six a bit.

I've asked her to move out for a few days. I have got a book to finish and if we aren't under each others feet, let alone in the same bed then things will have a better chance of being resolved in a amicable way. I'm already wondering if I can afford to keep this flat on my own.

It's a bit of a shame, she was the only woman to ever meet my father but it is probably for the best.

This is turning out to be quite a week, and once I finish writing this it's back to writing about gambling.

'We need to talk'

Is never a good thing to hear, nothing good has ever happened after someone has said that statement. T.P. has been acting strangely for the past few days, more strange than usual and now she wants to have a talk about us.

This is after a 'is this really working?' type conversation over the weekend. This was a strange conversation because I couldn't see what was wrong, but after her insisting maybe she is right? It wasn't as if she was complaining about something I had done.

In a bit I'm going to walk home to have this talk. I'm not looking forward to the walk, or the talk.

Previously there has been the occasional moment when Louche-TP relations have been a bit low but nothing serious. There was the incident when I heartlessly ordered a take-away pizza or the time when I didn't look her parents enough in the eyes when they came over for supper, and we do not speak of shelves but this seems somehow different and much worse.

For one thing we have started being terribly polite to each other, that's always a worrying sign. Oh dear, oh dear indeed.

You sir, wouldn't dare eat that chili!

The third post from the weekend has been deleted with out seeing the light of day. It is for the best, it was about something sad that I can't really deal with right now and thus in true British fashion I have decided to bottle it up until the end of this week where various deadlines are over.

Yesterday after doing some more writing I was invited out by a friend for afternoon tea. She wanted to take someone I work with and I out for a posh meal as a thank you for getting her to do something which turned her business around, well not turned it around. It's not like she was in trouble or anything but it definitely helped. It probably helped a bit too much in the view of her boyfriend as after her business got a sudden influx of cash she redecorated her flat, got a new haircut and broke up with him.

Our reward was afternoon tea at the Wolseley. We opened with Oysters and champagne before going on to tea and cakes, and champagne. It was lovely, just the right side of kitch and a great deal of time was spent trying to work out if each of the cakes was better with champagne or tea.

After the tea we stumbled over to the 50 club to drink cocktails. The first round were moderately sensible, but then it got worse. After a few rounds of 'sweet sue' and 'Demon martini' one cocktail appeared with a chili on the side of it.

I was challenged to eat the chili and various bets, side bets and hedge bets were thrown up and before I knew it a wodge of cash was on the table, a swarm of people holding money and I was holding the tiny evil red chili in front of me.

What did I do with the chili? Reader, I ate it.

Hard core

The following description of my weekend is hard core, not in the naughty video sense just in the sense of being hard core, it's not for the light hearted sort or anyone who says 'I say, mind if you hold off on the Pimms a bit, I had a heavy night last night'.

This story really starts on Thursday when I went wine tasting, I got myself comfortably drunk, not quite ruined but more than enough so that I didn't feel like doing much the next day. Instead of not much I wrote a lot of words and then in the evening I went to a party.

These parties are special because they are a bit rude (yes that sort of rude), they are organised in the middle of no-where so you have to slog across London to get there. And even more amusingly are organised by the party organiser. The one who talks to me like I'm a moron, bless. Anyway she doesn't do that anymore because this time I was going to her party to review it. What a good weeze!

The chaps and I, got dressed up. The theme was a sexy Christmas office party so I was dressed as an angel, in a suit so I was an 'office angel'. This costume involved a viciously well cut pinstripe number, some wings a halo and about half a tonne of glitter and gold body paint for anything visible. My hands are still a bit sparkly.

After a bit of struggling with eyeliner we were suitably angelic looking and we bimbled over to meet up with a friend and then onto the party. The photographer who was there to take a few shots of me at the party had arrived before us and he was having so much fun getting strangers (girls in their underwear) to pose for him that didn't actually take any photos of me.

I was only going to stay for an hour or so because I was tired and I had something big the next day but by the time I checked my pocket watch it was 4am. I had a really good time, loads of old friends were there Hannah the lovely Dominatrix, The Blond Bombshell, M the DJ (who is terrifyingly pretty in drag) and various other old salts who I've not rubbed shoulders with in ages. Before I realised it, the club was closing. Well I say club the event was in a huge mansion with a plethora of rooms each filled with something slightly more bizarre happening. Nothing actually 'adult' but right on the edge of it like a racy re-make of a John Hughes film (of the Pretty in Pink/Weird Science type).

At around 6:30 I was outside somewhere in SE21, I had no idea that postcodes went up that high and I had left my coat and most of my other stuff at a friends house - this friend had disappeared with a German woman with a whip earlier on and had not re-appeared. I was in a bit of a pickle.

There was a bus going to an after party for those that hadn't quite danced enough, but sadly all the tickets had been sold out. I couldn't even catch a lift into the centre of London because of 'health and safety'

I looked around me and it was dark. I was lost with no chance of getting a cab and my phone was being wonky. It is times like that when a chap has to jolly well get a stiff upper lip and do the British thing. First I changed my outfit and hid my wings. The bus driver had spotted me asking about getting on the bus and new I was a 'no' I borrowed a wig of someone else and then waited until the bus driver leaned over to get some chewing gum out of his pocket. Quick as a flash I zoomed into the bus and dived onto a seat near the back. The next 30 minutes were gripping as I hid in terror of being kicked off the bus in some ungodly part of down wearing a wig and painted gold.

The spirits of the great escape were with me that day and after what seemed like an age I got off the bus and walked the remaining way home. I was feeling rather chuffed with myself until I glanced at my watch. It was 7:20! I rushed the remaining way home but only had about 20 minutes before I had to set off again. I spent almost all this time trying to remove eyeliner.

20 minutes of frantic scrubbing later and I was still looking rather 'intense' around the eyes, but I had no more time and so I had to go to the next task of the weekend, a comedy course in North London.

I wasn't even hungover when I first arrived, I was drunk but with a very clean face. It started off well enough because I managed to drink about four pints of coffee which kept me awake if made me go to the loo constantly. I laughed a lot and got really into it, the people on the course were v. entertaining and the teachers were excellent. At the end of the day we had to perform a set in front of the rest of the class which was really frightening, I think because after the talk was given everyone would provide feedback on what you said but everyone was very nice and laughed in all the right places.

Apart of me is looking forward to the set I have to do now, but I'm still slightly worried about it, either way I can't do much because I have to finish this silly book.

After show I went out for a drink or two with the people which wasn't a great idea, I returned home an exhausted mess and only wrote a dozen or so words before I went to bed.

The next day was very productive, I wrote 5,000 words before what I was typing turned into nonsense and finished off a feature. Ding-dong and all that. I'm going to have to go out on extreme weekends more often.

Guests

This will be the first of a trio of posts, the weekened was eventful so there is a lot to cover. Do you have a stiff Gin and Tonic to hand? Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin.

T.P. had one of her besterest friends over to stay over the weekend, normally a very pleasant thing to do but this friend has a boyfriend with her and they are not getting on terribly well, not well at all.

I think (the friend and her other half) have been averaging about five or six arguments a day which as you can imagine gives a delightful spin to the weekend. I've not actually seen them that much because I've been working all weekend but still.

T.P. had a quiet chat with her friend to suggest that for some of the problems in the relationships she might not be entirely blameless, this was as well received as flan made of baby sick. so now the flat is almost silent as everyone tries to avoid each other. T.P. was amazed that a friend could act so strangely, this information would prove very useful later.

This really is the true spirit of Christmas, people who don't see each other that often anymore being forced together to have silent bubbling arguments.

Wine, public relations and the law

I went wine tasting last night. It was the office Christmas party so we went to a great wine shop in Bloomsbury with a little room downstairs full of interesting bottles. After about five minutes of tasting our team had identified the first round of wines from a list but we decided in the interest of being sure we would give them a very thorough tasting, very thorough indeed.

Due to this dedication we found identifying the second round of wines much more tricky. I didn't get notes of raisins or a complex taste just 'red' and 'makes my tongue go numb'. Through luck more than anything else we managed to get them right but sadly were disqualified from winning because we got all our questions correct which made the judge suspicious.

I also learnt an interesting fact about liable law in England. If you say something about someone and it is untrue you can be sued but if you are just rude to them there is nothing they can do.

So to say the actor Jeff Cruise is gay would get me in a lot of trouble but if I said Jeff Cruise was a wanker. Well that is fine.

I'm currently waiting for a P.R. to get back to me, I would be providing some publicity for one of her clients in exchange for a quote but they are being a nightmare about it. Still writing about nonsense makes a nice change from writing about the value of bets or trying to explain the rules to yet another game of 'lose your money fast'

Oh and no new interesting searches this week, apart from 'Birthday Helmet'. I'm sure the searcher was looking for something else when he or she arrived here.

Baccarat

I finished off the chapter on Craps today, now I'm working on Baccarat. I also managed to do most of another piece. I've never managed to squeeze 5,000 words out of my head in one day before. I don't think I'll be able to do it every day, I feel 'stretched thin' by all this working. I feel tired, but it's a different sort of being knackered, like being in a long distance race against yourself.

It's a good clean sense of exhaustion like you get after stripping down an engine or building a table out of wood. It's nice too because I'm busy writing, I think this is the moment when I feel like I'm really doing this as a job rather than dabbling in it so see if I can.

Looking back on a year ago when I think what I was going through then with the troubles with A and hating my job, well I'm glad it's over.

Speaking of girls, T.P. has been acting a bit strange lately, she has been going out and drinking with mysterious friends and coming home late. Last night she even stayed at her parents place, I've got no idea what that is about but it does have me worried.

Craps

I'm covered in craps today, ho-ho. That joke just doesn't get tired. No seriously folks, I'm writing about Craps, lots.

Craps isn't really a complicated game. It's just badly explained with layer upon layer of complicated bets slapped on top of it like jumpers smelling of sweat and biscuits covering up a wet dog so you end up with a stinking mess you don't understand.

Either way I'm decidedly bored of it and would much rather be outside kicking leaves or chasing girls with sticks.

Oh Noes!

I'm ill, mildly ill with a mild temperature and everything.

I'd like you all to remember me fondly and after careful thought I've decided that I'd like TP to spend the rest of her life wearing black and mourning my sad passing.

Goodbye cruel world.

The BBC challenge

Last night I went to the BBC to see a recording of a show you can read about the show here. I like going to the BBC building, no matter how long I live in London there are still parts of it what will always be 'excitingly off the telly' the BBC centre home of Blue Peter and Saturday Live is always going to have a special place in my heart.

Anyway we bimbled in after some mild security checks and were herded through a surprisingly complicated selection of rooms and corridors before we got to the show which got me thinking. How hard would it be to hide in the BBC? So here is the challenge.

Go and get tickets to see a show - It's free and not that hard to organise, then at some point when being herded along to the show, escape. Try and find somewhere to hide and see how long you can last before you are caught. I think a couple of hours would be easy, but how about 6 hours? or 12? Could you hide for a day just by looking bored and holding a clipboard?

So who is in?

The allure of pool, progress through waistcoats and the terror of words.

I went to a Christmas party on Friday. It was supposed to be a Christmas party for a group of people who met years ago doing something very silly, over the years it has evolved and now it is a Christmas party just because. We got to a strange pub in East Bourne and drink and catch up and so on.

This year was the first time I'd ever taken a girl as traditionally this Christmas bash was a male bonding affair kept secret from women I was dating. T.P. knew a few people there so it seemed logical to take her along.

After a horrible journey there; I really don't miss rush hour on the tube. We arrived slightly crinkled from being forced into a train carriage like pressed ham and ready to drink. So we drank.

There was a pool table in the pub and over the course of the evening T.P. went from just about hit the white ball with the wind behind her to beating the reigning champion much to his surprise and disgust.

It was excellent to watch. There is something alarmingly sexy about girls playing pool, it should be televised or at least have it's own gentleman's magazine dedicated to it.

And yes, the picture is actually of T.P. although it will probably only remain up there until she notices and then chokes me with a cravat until I take it down.

In clothing related news I've been practically living in my new waistcoats and I've noticed a pleasant benefit, they make me sit and stand-up straighter. I did have a bad habit of slouching before and now thanks to my new wardrobe I'm ram-rod straight, you could use me to prime a cannon.

Speaking of cannons, did you know the word 'tampon' comes from the bung of cloth used when loading a gun with shot and powder to fire? You do now.

This week is going to be terror week for me, I've got an alarming amount of work to do, including most of a book, three features and a stand-up show. I'm sort of making progress, in that I've chugging along with the book but in classic style I've left it all to the last minute and now I'm doing the grown up version of writing it on my knee on the bus on the way to school.

Still it worked then, so it's bound to work now as long as this doesn't count towards my final mark.