Things to ponder

The suit was a roaring success and I don't think I've ever been so complimented by men before in my life. The girl seemed to approve of it too, and I think the fact that I was wearing it with trainers made me look faintly Doctor Who rather than just trampy.

Our first port of call was her local bar where she knew everyone. It's quite a cool place where you can buy a scooter as well as a cocktail. It's just shame they don't sell real motorcycles as well.

After a appetite wetting drink we went for a meal in a Polish place and drank a wide array of vodka while eating food and talked of nonsense and other things. We may have been a bit silly with the number of courses we ordered. I ate so much I felt like I was about to explode out of my new suit and so after a chaste 'mwah' ambled off into the evening.

I'm still not entirely sure of her intentions towards me but she is terribly good company.

Emergency Suit

I've got a last minute appointment with a girl, and I really wasn't dressed for it. I just don't think a chap should take someone out to supper while he is wearing shorts.

Fate was with me however, I spotted a little place just off Bond Street that was closing down and spotted this suit. It was the last one in the shop, and it fits perfectly.

Another sartorial emergency avoided. Phew.

My first track day

Since you are reading this my head didn't fall off. Although it felt like it was about to a couple of times. The bikes we were on were fast, sickeningly fast but more on that later.

We arrived bursting with enthusiasm and got to see the other journalists wobbling around the car park on tiny bikes. Out of the whole group only one other person there actually had a road license for bikes, or any riding experience. The rest of the people there had never been on a motorbike before and so had to learn the basics before they could race. We (the other biker and I) had been put in the 'premier' group we got to sit in a corporate box thingy and eat sandwiches while we watched an earlier group of riders scream around the track.

The time for us to join in the fun came around finally and we got changed into the gear. I've never been encased in leather before but it did make me feel a bit happier about going out on the bikes. We had short briefing about the track and what the different flags were for. This bit was excellent fun because it was just like being in that scene at the end of Star Wars: A new hope where the general briefs all the fighter pilots. Our costumes were more red and black than orange and sadly we weren't being instructed by a talking fish but it was still jolly exciting.

After the briefing we were given an instructor and a bike and then sent out. The bikes are proper racing bikes, they don't have lights, mirrors, or even a dial to tell you how fast you are going. They are also extremely light and powerful so I found my bike to a be a bit of a handful when I first got on it. The first few laps were taken really slowly while I got a feel for what the bike could do. Even just shifting my weight around a little bit made it wobble all over the place. After a few laps where we slowly increased our pace we had another briefing where we were shown how to climb around the bike to shift our weight on corners. This was an entirely alien technique for me and it took me a while to get the hang of it.

By our third and final set of laps - which were in the dry - we were zooming around the track and I was climbing all over the bike like a hyper-active spider monkey. I felt completely secure in what the bike could do and I deeply sad when the racing was over. Once we had finished we got given an assessment and a certificate. It was like a prize day at school and I'm terribly proud of mine.

I can't wait to go back and have another go at it, and yes that is actually me in the photo.

The early bird rides the bike

I'm up far too early, this is an inhuman time of day that should only be experienced when heading home from an amazing night out. It should not be seen at the start of the day. I'll forgive it a bit because I'm up early because I'm going motorbike racing so that sort of makes up for it.

In other exciting news, I was talking to a v. pretty female friend about work things and using some dark powers that I don't really understand she found out who my agent was and then later that evening found this blog. Oh dear. Still the knowledge can't be undone so let's all make her very welcome eh?

Right, I have to try and drink as much coffee as possible.

Boiler suits and Eurovision

I managed to recover from man flu and so on Saturday morning I went to the classic bike show with a chum. It was a nice show, pleasantly low-key and full of enthusiastic old duffers making jokes about valve timings. There were lots of chaps striding around in slightly grubby boiler suits and it was a gloriously hot day so all was well with the world. After looking at lots of lovely motorbikes we went to a smashing pub by a river and drank beer. It was a nice day of chap related activities.

In the evening I went to a Eurovision party in a friend's house. Russia won which I wasn't upset by, the song was a bit so-so but they had a chap prancing about on ice skates who had a smashing mullet so that was probably worth voting for. Greece nearly won but their entry was rubbish, and even worse sung by someone who hadn't even been born in Greece, TSK. The French entry was brilliant and I've ordered the album by the artist because I loved his electro pop nonsense and excessive facial hair. I adore Eurovision

On Sunday I had a sort of relaxed day with a friend, we cooked pleasantly rubbish food like potato waffles and fish fingers and watched films about dating awful women. The afternoon was taken up with a cookie drop and then an invite to go a party at Shoreditch House appeared out of no-where so we went. It was rammed, I've never been there when it was so busy. The service was awful, and we left only after a couple of drinks.

Monday was a bit more relaxed, I spent most of it doing fiddly computer things and reading motorbike magazines. Spiffing.

Man flu and soup

I have man flu, I don't think it's fatal but you never know with these mild temperatures. This rather dull illness has caused me to rethink my weekend plans, I was going to go to a rather strange festival but since I was feeling a bit off I thought a few days in a damp tent drinking far too much would probably not get me in tip-top condition for racing motorbikes.

Since there was no-one to make me chicken soup I had to slog down to the shops to get the ingredients myself, it wasn't a pleasant trip but I managed to get some supplies in and spent the rest of the day dosing myself with vitamin C and sleeping.

It reminded me of the time that 'a girlfriend' was unwell. I spent the whole day, yes the whole day making a chicken soup for her. Luckily I had roasted a chicken the day before so in between working I carefully tended a stock pot filled with tenderly chosen vegetables and other delightful herbs to make the best soup I possibly could.

After hours of attentive cooking it was ready and I presented it to her. It smelled amazing, I mean really good. Just thinking about it is making my mouth water and I thought that by putting so much effort into making some food for her she would really appreciate how much I cared for her.

She took a sip, and then said "If my dad had made this he would have strained it to remove the fat."

A question of Judgement

I have awful taste when it comes to women. Terrible, cataclysmically bad taste. In short I should not be allowed to pick girls for myself as I cannot be trusted to pick nice ones.

Thankfully I have managed - through luck more than anything else - to accumulate lots of excellent female friends. Female friends who care. Since the last girlfriend was such a nightmare (and believe me she was - I really should get around to posting some of the nonsense she did) they (my friends) have decided that I'm not allowed to date anyone else until they give me the thumbs up.

I trust their judgement because when I was blinded a wave of pheromones they instantly took a dislike to my last girlfriend. They could tell she was a bad egg, when I was too busy swooning.

It's worth pointing out that these female friends are mostly married or in proper grown up long term relationships, and thus have no ulterior motives. They just want me to go out with someone nice and be happy. So my chums have decided that I can't date anyone else until they have given them the seal of approval which I think is terribly wise, if a little tricky to engineer.

I like the idea of any future girlfriends having to pass an independently verified test. I wonder if it will have a hazard perception section where they will have to click furiously when they see danger just like in the bike test I took.

The meaning of brunch

What is brunch? It's an imaginary meal between an honest breakfast and a wholesome lunch. It's a meal of reprobates, the unemployed and tramps and for that reason it's quite possibly my favourite meal of the day. I like a meal that doesn't serve much of a purpose apart from give the feckless something to do with their mornings.

I met the Madam for brunch because plans for supper last night got completely derailed by my phone deciding to malfunction. Because of her business she works unusual hours and thus is often available to go for meals or walks with writers who should be proof reading but can't quite face it.

It was a good brunch. We had a lovely walk through Chelsea with her small yappy type dog and visited my old local pub for some food. The walk back was punctuated with fairly regular checking of phones as I'm waiting for a call about something to do with work. The call came in and it was good news. I now have some work for a very well known magazine for ladies that will provide some more much needed cash for the motorcycle fund.

Hurrah for writing about bedroom matters to pay lumps of metal that go extremely fast!

Run Radius

I often think about disappearing, not in a sinister way but the sort of way that makes you go 'Gosh there is nothing good on tonight, lets go to Mongolia'. It's not that I really would do it but it's nice to have the option, which is why having a rather broken passport was so annoying.

I think the definition of freedom is your run radius, the distance you could cover if you just decided to leave that very moment. At the moment I don't think I could get very far, and this troubles me.

I used to have a bit of a habit of going to far away places alone on a Friday just because I didn't have anything planned. I'd pull on the tropical lightweights, amble over to the airport and get on the next flight I could. I used to have all sorts of adventures especially if I ended up going somewhere that I didn't speak the native tongue. It's amazing how much you can learn on a flight if you pick up a dictionary in the departure lounge and not being able to speak the local lingo really isn't an option.

Perhaps it's time for another adventure like that? Of course all this conjecture could just be happening because I'm waiting on exciting news and waiting does not agree with me. Even so I think I should get my white linen suit dry cleaned, you know just in case.

Aquatic dating

Planning an aquatic date is proving slightly more challenging than I thought. Even though London has a rather smashing river running through it there isn't that much to do that is sort of suitable for dating.

But since The Iranian, actually lets call her the Persian. It's a sort of synonym for Iranian but it has up far more romantic images linked to it. Images of empires and warrior women.

The Persian is a bit of an action girl, which while also being deeply refreshing means dates can be a bit more active. Well not massively active, she hurt her knee snowboarding so can't do anything that involves running at the moment.

Since she is an active sort of girl, and likes adventure maybe a bit of power boating is just the thing to bond over?

A cunning array of stunts

While in the midst of the now almost traditional 'furious pitching Monday' I happened to mention in passing that last week I'd passed my bike test. It was slightly in context as I explained why I hadn't pitched many ideas last week because I was off doing manly things with motorcycles.

Anyway, the editor said congratulations and then offered me a biking assignment. I said yes without realising what was really involved, so next week I'll be screaming around a racing circuit on proper racing bike. To put this in perspective lets look at my road riding career so far.

Day 1 - Compulsory Basic Training - A morning spent riding around a car park and then an afternoon ride onto the roads.
Day 2 - Direct Access Course Starts - First time on a 500cc motorcycle on the road.
Day 3 - Ride around some more, then do a mock test.
Day 4 - Morning of practice, then motorcycle test.
Day 5 - Borrow road going sports bike that can go at 142mph, wobble around South West London grinning like a loon

So the next day (assuming I don't do any more test rides this weekend) will be

Day 6 - Race 1000cc motoGP bike around race circuit.

I'm just glad I'll be borrowing someone else's trousers.

Old friends

Today I spoke to an old friend via email. He was probably my closest friend from the age of about 16 to about 24. We fell out of touch, I don't really know why. I think there was a misunderstanding over something and then in that traditional male way we just didn't talk. Since we didn't live near each other anymore we couldn't solve it by just going to the pub and having a pint.

Anyway we are talking again and I'm delighted, absolutely delighted. Friends are to be treasured, I may have to go on a trek up north to go and see him in a pub and catch up properly. Some other stuff happened today which was good but it's not as exciting as an old chum reappearing.

Oh and I'm trapped in the flat. My flatmate double locked the door without realising I was inside, and well I can't actually leave. I suppose in the event of a fire I could try jumping out of a window but it would be quite a fall. I better not start any fires then.

The trouble with telephones

Telephones are marvellous things, a whole new range of flirty options are opened up by them. They also have issues though, because we expect them to work when they malfunction people can get the impression that they are giving each other the cold shoulder when really they aren't. Pesky eh?

Anyway, The Iranian called today and we had the following exchange (as well as talking about other things).

T.I. - "So what was the thing you wanted some advice on?"

Me - "Well, I know where I'm taking you on a second date, and I've got a very special third date planned, but I'm rather stumped when it comes to a first date. Can you give me any clues?"

*dramatic pause*

T.I. - "This isn't how things normally go."

Me - "You should know by now that I'm a risk taker, I like to live life on the edge."

*T.I. Laughs*

T.I. - "I like marine things, I did consider becoming a marine archaeologist for a while."

Me - "Okay so something that involves rootling around the mud somewhere underwater. I'll see what I can do."

FIN

Relationships and Gin and Tonic.

Women can be tricksy. I think they are so difficult because it's quite hard to understand what is going on in their heads. They assume that chaps understand them better than we do and this causes issues. We don't really understand girls.

Most of the time we honestly don't know a females intentions towards us, or what they are thinking. Which could be why men become interested in predictable, mechanical things like say motorcycles because they can be understood.

It's not all bad, I've got a married chum who said the best thing about living with a girl is that you could live together for a hundred years and you still wouldn't have any idea what she was going to do tomorrow.

Yes, I'm writing this because a girl has done something strange and I don't really understand. Perhaps a strength giving Gin and Tonic will provide some insight?

Triumph Daytona 675

It's weird how sometimes objects speak to us. The simple lines of a well cut suit can inspire you to stand better, a cocktail mixer can lure you into making more martinis when you really should go to sleep and sometimes you can see something in passing and no that it is going to be involved in your future.

I need a road bike. While the bike my dad made is wonderful and brilliant it's not really practical for riding around London. For a start it doesn't have any sort of locking system so the only security would be that you need to know the secret combination of things that have to be done to make it start. Also to convert it for road use would tame the wild charm of it. It's an off-road bike, a bike for charging over hedges and the fact that it is completely unique means it's a bit too precious to leave unattended in London.

Now lots of people have been suggesting sensible first bikes, something that can happily plod along and all that but secretly I've been dreaming of riding something a little bit, feisty. The bike that encapsulates this desire is the Triumph Daytona 675. It's a stunningly beautiful bike, agile and fast in a gentlemanly way. Or at least that is what the reviews implied.

I had a free afternoon today so I ambled over to the bike shop and asked for a test ride of the Daytona. My reasoning was that if I didn't try out riding one I might never have a go and I'd always wonder. So after signing a few forms I was left alone in charge of this beast of a bike.

I don't think I've ever been so nervous in charge of a machine before, this includes various incidents with Aston Martins, tanks and even aircraft. I was on a proper racing bike, in London traffic, and I had only passed my test a few days ago. I was starting to regret asking for the test ride but I just couldn't bring myself to go straight back to the show room defeated. It time for the stiff upper-lip.

I took a deep breath, closed my helmet and then slipped the clutch. The first sixty seconds or so of riding were a little jerky. Which we can put down to a combination of an unknown machine and nerves but very quickly I started to get the bike. It was far more responsive than the bike I trained on and one I'd realised that the turning circle was a little restricted I was away. For something that is designed for whizzing around race tracks it behaved really well in traffic. More importantly the riding position fitted me perfectly so I felt completely at home on it.

Since I don't often drive or ride in London I didn't know where I could take it to really open up so I just nipped around South West London, going along the roads I normally walk on enjoying myself. It was terribly good fun, my mouth actually hurts from smiling so much.

It was a awfully sad moment when I had to hand the bike over, my hour and a half test ride seemed to go by in a flash - although I had managed to I stop for five minutes to get the girls at my old job to give their opinion of it (big thumbs up) while making my way around London. I had sort of hoped that I would realise that this bike is completely unmanageable in traffic and I would scare myself into getting something sensible but the exact opposite has happened. It wasn't unmanageable, it was lovely and I've only seen a tiny percentage of what it can do. I don't just like it, I'm completely besotted.

I don't care what it takes, I must have that bike. It even looked good with my jacket.

Lime pickle and music collections

My dad ate a lot of strange things. When he was still living in the family home I'd sometimes find him having a midnight snack of cheese and half a raw onion. When he spread butter on bread it was about half an inch thick and marmalade was the only thing to have on toast. He also really liked pink wafer biscuits, which is what he wanted served at his memorial.

One of the things he really liked was Lime Pickle, I can remember eating it in Wales quite a lot while we sat awkwardly around a table. The house in Wales was freezing most of the time so we would be hunched over in coats with hot cups of tea eating a selection of cured meats off wooden boards. It wasn't exactly a happy time but now I'm content to have a dash of Lime Pickle on something and be reminded of him, and his silly braces. The cancer and treatment had ravaged and warped his body and so he was a weird shape, it was almost impossible for him to get trousers that fitted properly so had to buy strangely large jeans and wear them with braces. It (combined with his white beard) made him look like Father Christmas during the off season. That's what I think of when I eat Lime Pickle.

When I was working on my car test I spent quite a bit of time carefully selecting the music I was going to play in the car on my first solo drive. The car was an ancient Mark 2 Escort from '78. It was a bit of a muscle car as it had been modifed, this combined with rear wheel drive and fairly shabby looks made it a lovely car to drive around. It was sickeningly fast but looked a bit rubbish (okay, really rubbish but I can only remember it fondly) so you could burn up surprised people in BMWs and Mercs.

After hours of selection this was the opening tune to my first ever ride in a car on my own. It was a lovely summers day and I can still remember every moment of it. The feeling of the warm breeze coming in through the window as I drove, the strange sensation of being alone in a car and the total sense of freedom.

I've got my first proper ride on a bike coming up now, well once I decide which one to get and so I'm starting to think about soundtracks for that too. The opening track can't be too aggressive the road near the flat is swathed in speed cameras but once I get on to the engaging roads outside of London it would be nice to have something you can really lean over to.

Breakdancing on Champagne

Since I had good reason to celebrate I decided to open the bottle of champagne I had chilling in the fridge. I called the Iranian and asked her to join me for a light supper and she said yes. So beautiful women and champagne, the perfect way to raise a glass to fate.

By the time she arrived it was starting to get mildly chilly outside but we decided to dine on the balcony because it's such a novelty. Ate olives, talked about keeping Polar Bears as pets and going on adventures with people you don't really know. It was lovely and when the time came for her to leave I was a bit sad.

Her taxi was having issues finding the building we were in so I walked the Iranian out to make sure she got away safely. It was late but showed her the library and gym as we passed by.

She was delighted by the library with the lights out and for reasons that I don't entirely understand (possibly due to drinking a little bit too much champagne) she ended up trying to teach me a breakdancing move. I was not very good at it, I'm really not that cool. I couldn't even work out what I was trying to do and managed to get some carpet burns while trying to get it right. This caused great amusement and we were both giggling like loons when some other people came into the library and found us, in the dark, on the floor, rather tangled up.

I think I managed to leave before my blush properly kicked in but I'm not sure. The Iranian was bundled into the waiting cab and set on her way and I went to bed. It had been a terribly exciting day.

Motorbikes and sticking it to the man

This week has been rather good. I got my first piece of journalism published. Proper reporting with investigating and things. I've stuck it to 'the man' or at least told on him. Rock and roll.

Anyway, the other big news today is that I had my bike test. My full bike test, and I passed. It was a bit scary as, well it went a bit wonky in the middle or I thought it had, but it turned out I was okay. There is slightly more to it then that but it's a story for chums in the pub, not for publication on the Internet. It (passing) still hasn't really sunk in, but I think that's because I don't have a road bike to charge about on yet. I've been at bike training all this week so it will be a bit strange tomorrow to not have to get up early, pack all my excitingly armoured gear into a bag and amble over to West London for bike school.

I really enjoyed the lessons, the instructors were brilliant and as well as giving us everything we needed to pass the test they also taught some extra stuff. The sort of extra stuff that could save your life if a corner starts to go a bit wrong. It was also nice to do something so completely focused for a while, and forget other things.

Post test we whizzed back into London and while charging along the road I thought about my dad. I think he would be dead proud of me, I'm not just a fop anymore. Now I'm a biker.

Silver clothes, victory and ice cream

Another bit of the biker uniform was purchased yesterday. A lightweight summer jacket, in silver of course.

It's quite unusual for a coat in that it won't keep me dry in the rain, or protect me from the wind. What it does do is hold armour and is futuristically silver, and it does it jolly well. I don't own nearly enough silver items of clothing, especially since it's 2008 so really we should all be wearing silver unitards and riding a robot to work.

I didn't actually mean to buy a coat yesterday, I ambled over to the post office to pick up a parcel and while I was there got a call from one of the places in Soho I work at and they asked me to come in. So suddenly my favourite bike gear place was sort of on the way I needed to travel and so I popped in to say hello and picked up a my new jacket.

After Soho had finished I resisted having a traditional post-work sherry and went straight to the pub quiz. We had a reduced team from last time we entered but my chum had just purchased some new shoes (also in silver) and so this was considered a good omen.

We brought a few jugs of Pimms and set about them while answering the questions. The Pimms was very nice but so weak that it almost had a sobering effect. Even with mild booze we started off well, and were in the lead for a bit but a tricky round about The Sun (yes the star, not the newspaper) put us in second place. Thankfully we did very well in the intros section and managed to scoop first prize again - hard cash.

This time instead of having a Chinese meal we went for victory ice-cream. The only place we could find that served it was in Leicester Square so we got to watch women in flashy dresses totter about as we ate. The Sex and the City film had premiered a few hours earlier and people had really got dressed up for it. Thinking about it I probably should have put my silver coat on and tottered about with them. Oh well there will be other chances.

Man flat

The flatmate is away this week, she is going to Cannes for some work stuff so I've got the place to myself for a week. Since I'm alone I've been doing all the things that she doesn't approve of, well most of them. I've not been out late yet, but that's because I was so exhausted on Saturday after bike school.

The main room in the flat has become a lot more blokey, instead of only having high-end fashion magazines there are motorbike magazines and manly newspapers everywhere and my bike gloves are drying in the sun. Radio 4 is on constantly in the background and I can still smell the bread I made earlier - cooking things that smell is forbidden. Tomorrow I think I'm going to roast a chicken, I can't wait.

Journalism

I don't really think I'm a journalist. I don't report the news or stuff like that, or at least not yet. I've just handed in my first news piece and I'll find out on Monday if it is going in which is quite exciting but that's not the point of this blog post.

The point is that lots of journalists have very loose morals. Writers for magazines and newspapers get bribed a lot - not traditionally money - but freebies. It's sort of part of the scheme of things now. If say a product is being launched, no matter what the product is the launch will be somewhere nice like a smart hotel with free booze or perhaps even somewhere hot to lure journalists out. I don't see a huge problem with this provided the journalists follow rule seven which is don't take the piss.

Just because a PR has squeezed your knee and brought you a cocktail you shouldn't really give their product a better review. Sadly not everyone follows this system and this chap at Motorcycle News should be taken out and flogged.

How is this news?

Although if he does get flogged can you take his jacket off first? I'd love some Hein Gericke gear.

Who is Antonio?

This morning I got a call from Antonio. It was one of those phone calls when the phone decides of it's own free will to call someone and the person on the other end gets to hear someone walking or something like that.

After a bit of going 'hello? Hello? HELLO?' I hung up and the mystery began. I don't know an Antonio. Most of the people in my phone are named in a way to remind me who they are or where they work so there is Jeff @ The Foppish Times or, Clair The Woo and so on.

I don't have men in my phone as just their name, even my closest friends have some sort of nickname associated with their entry. Antonio just doesn't make sense. If it had been Antonia that would have been logical, it would have been the number of a girl I met at a party who I fancied but a man? Why would I have the phone number of a strange man on my phone?

Speaking of phones I'm not looking forward to changing my phone. My current one is getting a bit wonky from all the times it's been dropped or licked by horses and my contract is about to end. I don't really want to change my phone though, because when the time comes to re-enter everyone on the new phone there won't be much point in transferring the name 'dad' and that's just a little bit sad.

Pocket Logic

Pockets are tricky things, well using them is at least. I tend to carry a lot of things around with me when I'm ambling around. Typically I will have with me.

1)Pocket watch
2)Keys (office + house)
3)Wallet
4)Phone
5)Moleskine notepad + pen
6)Music player
7)Dark glasses

Now there are some rules to how things go in pockets. The keys are scratchy so they can't go in the same pocket as the phone, dark glasses, music player or pocket watch. The wallet should never go in a back pocket because it easiest pocket to steal from, and keys can't go in a back pocket either as you may sit on them which can be remarkably painful.

The notepad needs a slightly larger pocket but it can share it with something else, and the Dark glasses are easy to break so they shouldn't go in a pocket that is sat on either. The phone goes a bit mad if it is sat on too. This means that arranging one's pockets requires a bit of thought. Sometimes it's easier just to take a man-bag to somewhere and be done with it.

Ipod resurrection

Back in the mists of time on my first ever date with T.P. While drinking cocktails I sat on my Ipod and it was no more. 60 gigs of classical music, rare jazz and far too many show tunes was lost to me.

It was sad because some of had taken ages to track down so I got a replacement music thingy but never really got around to loading all the tunes into it. It was dead and a world of music was lost to me.

Anyway, I downloaded a nifty program and now I'm currently getting all my music back, all those lost tunes and operas are being returned to me and it's like bumping into an old friend in the street. One who constantly breaks into song.

Summer Suits

The time for lightweight suits is on us. If I was more organised I'd put all the tweed into storage. It's time to break out the linen suits and tropical light-weights. Hurrah!

Yesterday I had a very productive drink with the Woo. She was providing some much needed moral support after I had to deal with a unpleasant situation and then together we worked on some comedy and feature ideas. It was a terribly productive pub meeting, it really was. We had ideas and everything.

Tonight is the launch party for a diamond encrusted shirt or some such nonsense. I mean really. Why? What could will that do apart from making it scratchy? Still a chap should investigate these things.

G-spot update

My chum and her G-spot are doing well post operation. She is delighted with it but hasn't tested it out yet - I think you are supposed to let it rest for a few days before seeing if it's made a difference.

I wonder what her (not-quite-a) boyfriend makes of it all?

Delays, G spots and Gay Bingo

Sadly the trip to New York was delayed for reasons I don't completely understand. Still if you are being offered a trip on a wheeze you should forgive a bit of a playing about with the timing of it. It's going to happen at some point this week which means I have a bit more time to think about clothes. Will New Yorkers like a tweed suit better than a velvet one?

A chum of mine is having an operation today. She is having her g-spot enlarged, yes her g-spot. This is supposed to improve all sorts of bedroom activities and she is understandably excited about it. I must admit I'm slightly worried, what if something goes wrong? I thought this was the sort of operation that was advertised only in spam emails. Anyway I'll keep you posted on what happens as I'm sure you will be at least little bit interested to find out if it works.

Since I wasn't jetting off to New York I spent the weekend messing around with chums. One of them took me to the excellent Gay Bingo. I'd never been to bingo before but now I'm definitely a fan especially when the drag queen doing the bingo calling turns it into a performance art routine. I can't wait to go again. The picture is from the entrance to the club, isn't it marvellous?

The Groucho Club, Guitars and Psychic lesbians

Yesterday was a bit of a strange one, The morning was terribly productive thanks to the miracle of coffee but the afternoon was a bit listless. Since I wasn't getting a lot done I decided to bimble into Soho to join some chums for the party circuit.

The first bash (with the Woo) was in The Groucho Club. I've never been to the club before and I must admit it took a bit of an iron will to not be over excited by the whole affair and look slightly bored and like I go their often. I must have got this look just right as we weren't questioned on entry and waltzed straight into the book launch party. It was a jolly affair full off psychic people, the book was about a lesbian and her psychic experiences so I suppose that is to be expected. It was a great bash but we had to zip off to the next thing which was a book reading in Foyles.

It was for an award so we heard short readings from each of the books before asking some questions. The books were very moving, and I'm going to pick up a couple. Thanks to the Woo I was introduced to a newspaper editor (thanks again Woo) who asked me to email him today. Hurrah!

After that we dashed back to the Groucho for some more drinks, and talking to other psychic types. One woman had been regressed to a passed life (fairly normal these days) but had also been progressed into the future too. I though this was a brilliant idea and asked her about robots and aliens but sadly she only went a few years into the future and it made her give up smoking.

The next bash was an office warming in Soho. Lovely offices on Frith street and we drank booze and talk about nonsense. I'd discovered that I'd won a rather smashing electric guitar by Gibson which is marvellous. I had completely forgotten about entering the competition and I can't wait to see the look on my little brother's face when I hand it over.

Of course I can't hand it over this weekend. Why? You may ask. Well it appears I'm off to New York for no reason other than the Madam asked me if I wanted to go on some trip thing and I said 'yes'. It's all expenses paid which is very pleasant but I have no idea what one should see or do when one is there and I'll be bimbling around for a few days.

If any New Yorkers are reading this, do you have any tips?

Magazine tribes

Magazines aren't just delightful bits of paper to read they are statements of tribes. People by them to join a gang. They feel part of something, and people can judge each other by the magazines they read.

Would you feel quite the same about someone if you found them browsing The Spectator, Socialist Worker or Triple X Grannies?

This is even more compounded because these magazines now have their websites for dating. Some of my friends have had real success on them, I know one chum who now has a husband and a baby thanks to the Guardian dating website. I've got another pal who is using the dating website on The Onion because that's the sort of chap she would like to meet.

I'm not sure which magazine would have the right sort of readership for me. I suppose the closest is Chap Magazine but even that fine periodical isn't an exact match. They don't talk nearly enough about motorbikes even if their cravat news coverage is spot on.

Suspenders, journalism and Schubert

It's just gone 10:30am and today I've already.

1) Written about the dangers of suspenders. Not the sort of danger they could do to a woman wearing them but the power of distraction they have over chaps. Suspenders are a leading cause of high blood pressure among men and I have no-doubts that they have caused fatalities.

2) Done some proper journalism. I've been investigating something that 'the man' is doing and he shouldn't be. It's not quite Watergate but I have been phone-fencing with government officials and obliquely finding out things all morning.

3) Drunk too much coffee so I’m either bouncing around the room to Schubert or typing nonsense on blogs instead of working.