The Curse of the Toothbrush

It seems counter-active, but this is how a toothbrush can stop you having sex...

So, you will see from yesterday, this weekend was Manchester Pride. And yes, I did bonky bonky on the Friday night. But then I bought the toothbrush. Fatal error. But it only stops the bonking, nothing else.

So, finding myself in a strange part of town on Saturday morning, and with ever-so-slightly furry teeth because my guest had been unable to supply me a toothbrush I was left with two options: option 1 - get back to my friend's house to clean my teeth and change (I had managed to have a shower); or option 2 - carry on with the walk of shame, grab a cheap toothbrush and toothpaste in town and enjoy the day. I chose option 2, scrubbed my teeth in a pub toilet (a man dressed as Wonderwoman was having to help his friend dressed as Catwoman with a zip that graced his undercarriage at the urinals behind me) and consumed booze. And so began a rather pleasant afternoon, if ever-so-slightly sluttishly accompanied by a toothbrush and toothpaste poking out of my pocket.

That of itself is not the curse.

That night, however, the curse developed. I made one crucial error - I took the toothbrush out with me. There was coerced reasoning behind this: my friends said that I might as well take it with me as I was likely to stay out again, and otherwise I would end up having to buy another toothbrush and have two toothbrushes. Well, actually four - the cheapest toothbrushes were in a pack of two. But I reluctantly agreed, secreted the toothbrush away and headed out.

To not have sex. Unintentionally.

I did pretty much everything-but. Twice. The first with a stalker who followed us bar-to-bar until I eventually gave in and had a snog. Well, quite a few snogs. The second is a mystery. I know it happened; I'm just not sure how or with who. Or even where particularly. But I do have a niggling feeling that it was, somehow, "wrong". Ah well. But then I ended up back on my friend's airbed, alone.

In all fairness to the toothbrush, it is probably as much the curse of a) alcohol; and b) limited sleep the night before (because of the bonking) as anything else. Well, on this occasion at least. And let's face it: it wasn't because of the ghost.

Anyhow, I went out again on the Sunday night. At this point I was still oblivious as to the curse, believing it probably more due to booze; and again the economics of many-toothbrushes having a bearing. Not that 88p for a pack of toothbrushes really ought have that weighty a bearing. But again I slipped the Hope Diamond of my lay into my pocket and headed out.

Again, with the scene being the busiest it gets all year round there was no shortage of talent and I struck lucky. Ish. But again, it never got any further than a snog and fumble. And it's not as though the toothbrush was on display to dissuade people by my expectations either - it was tucked away nicely out of sight (unless I bent over, which I was very careful not to). But so it was that I ended up back at my friend's house, celebate.

And to think, if I'd left it at home and been happy splashing out another 88p; I could have been happily splashing out over some poor sod in Manchester.

How to kill a ghost

Have sex with someone.

That is the short answer. Now for the long answer. First, lets create the ghost...

Many moons ago (at least six. Months that is) I met someone in a nightclub. Someone pretty damned gorgeous. And a doctor. Yes, lots of people (well, at least two) commented about a doctor and a solicitor getting together. But we did at least try. I made a very hearty effort: I booked a Friday morning off work, trekked over to Birmingham on the Thursday night from work so we could have a meal. It didn't quite go as planned: we were both a bit tired, and it wasn't as easy to find the place so we ended up just having pizza and then sex. Actually, sex and then pizza and then sex and then sleeping and then sex.

But, despite us being tired, we got on phenomenally well. We may have been tired, but we were cuddley and giggley. We laughed more than I may have ever laughed before on a date.

And then he went away.

Skiing in France. And we carried on texting but never quite got around to another date. Which was disappointing, and made all the more so by getting the text saying it just wasn't going to work out on February 13th, the day before Valentines's day. So I was single, yet again, for Valentine's day. Awesome. Anyway, I moved on: he may have been the dishy doctor David, but he wasn't mine.

And I never saw him again...

Well, until Friday.

I have been to Manchester Pride every year for around the last decade. This year I took the Friday afternoon off work to travel. I don't usually, normally I go straight from work, snack on the train and go straight out when I get to Manchester around 8. But it is a wee bit tricky drinking and maybe even clubbing with your weekend bag, and we had been given a 'summer early finish' at work. It's basically the afternoon off even if it rains. Nice in theory, but when you have to maintain a proper service with a small team, it isn't very practical. But it was a very quiet day and the team could cope without me so I left early.

Yes, it's a lot of detail to go into in order to explain why I got that particular train. But, I was on the Birmingham to Manchester train. And so was he. Unfortunately all I could grab was a couole of brief glimpses as we got on and off the train: reservations and getting stuck in my seat because a fat man wedge himself in next to me meant I couldn't have a wander to find him.

And so it was there was the ghost. Set as a seed in my brain, there to affect all of my pride weekend. Like a block of ice around my penis, I wouldn't be getting any bonkybonk until I could get rid of the ghost.

So, how do you do that? Get drunk enough and sleep with anything.

That makes it sound very base, and degrades who I did the bonking with. He was actually very very cute, right up my street...well, if he didn't live on the other side of the country. He was seriously good-looking, nice hairy chest and intelligent: practically unflawed, except for a surname which was practically unpronouncable. Anyhow, that was it, tap unblocked, ghost burnt. I would not spend all weekend thinking of the dishy doctor.

And a good bit of bonking along the way.

Euro? Nogo

I slept with the windows in the bedroom open last night and was awoken by a torrential downpour at one stage; and by overheating at another so I can't really be bothered today. It's annoying as well because it means I slept and will sleep on the train and therefore cannot eye-up the current train fitty.

Anyhow, as I'm not in a witty mood, there shall be a departure into Eurozone politics.

At university I had to do EU law. We had a seminarist called Catherine Phoeng who was raised (if not also born) in France. She was an ardent Europhile. Not just ardent in fact, but so Europhillic that she just could not comprehend a Eurosceptic point of view. We did not get on. We had many heated debates, icluding one huge, blazing row about the British three-pin-plug. I saw it as a very safe, sensible design; she saw it as a barrier to integration. She also ignored the fact that it helped create jobs in manufacture (particularly of travel adapters). It amused my fellow seminarists greatly.

It was around the same time as the single European currency was coming into effect - trading was due to start, though the actual money was not to be distributed for a few years. I was hugely sceptical about it. Catherine could only see benefits - the reduction in problems with exchanges; breaking down barriers; reduced costs and a central European bank. It was this latter that particularly concerned me. I said that the salt-water test would come after around ten or fifteen years when the initial euphoria had calmed down - we would see whether the currency worked for trade; as an investment; and for stability.

PIGS

Portugal; Italy and Ireland; Greece and Spain. All dragging the Euro into a massive crisis. The major problems? Well, there are many. We will start with the industries:
Germany has a heavy industrial and manufacturing sector. The PIGS are hugely dependent on tourism. France, obviously, doesn't have an industry, they just go on strike. Yes manufacturing has contracted in the global economic slowdown, but nowhere near to the extent that tourism or fishing have. The PIGS have simply haemorrhaged money - people are not going to their countries, introducing wealth to their countries and yet they are still spending and borrowing.
Britain's economy is safer from this because we have a heavily service-based economy.

Then there is the banking. Even though all of these countries share the same currency; they have their own budgets. Germany has always been somewhat prudent; whereas Greece has not. As such, the Grecian borrowing sprialled out on control on the basis that they always thought they could pay it back.

And then there are the interest rates. Or rather rate. A single rate. Despite the fact that so many of the countries in the Eurozone has such vastly different industry bases; such hugely different economies; and such astonishingly different spending and borrowing policies; there is a single interest rate. Germany and France are somewhat concerned about inflation at the moment. As such, the interest rate for the Eurozone has increased slightly. But this has increased the cost of borrowing for the PIGS.

The scale of the Eurozone is simply incomprehensible and entirely incompatible with a single currency. And, although I am not an economist, I cannot see it as sustainable.

I did see with a wry smile a German commentator suggest that Germany should take control of the Euro. To what degree, one has to wonder? Are they to take control of all of the individual sovereign banks as well? Each individual country's economic policy? As an Englishman, perhaps I should not make comment.

I know this is a very simplified view, but I smile.

And not just as a Eurosceptic; but because ten years ago I was right.

End of the A-hair (gel)

Yes, poor joke. But it kind of neatly sums it up.

Yesterday was a monumental day. I finished off the cheap hair-gel which became associated with my ex.

I also finshed off the green milk that I bought especially for the last lad I was seeing.

I don't know why, but I associate items with relationships.

The hair-gel I can understand - the Ex often brought it up in conversation (because it was crap but cheap. The hair-gel, not the Ex). The milk is slightly more tedious: I normally drink red milk, but as a special exception - because I was expecting the boy to come back for tea again last week - I bought green milk. This is a perfect example of what I get like when I start out in a relationship (albeit in a very tokenistic way). I get giddy and I start doing things I would never normally do, purely for the benefit of whoever I'm trying to stick my willy in. Like buying green milk instead of red in the hope the gesture will impress.

It's odd considering how incompatible I am with relationships that I should be so desperate to try to make them work so early on. This has involved (with various different people) trekking around the country, buying things, making things, trying new experiences, even atteding a wedding as a plus-one. All just to impress.

But there is usually some sort of disposable, physical item that I associate with the relationship as well. With someone I went out with a long time ago there was the enormous bottle of shampoo. It had been on some sort of offer at the supermarket and he regularly commented on the ridiculousness of it. Me being me, even though I associated it with him, I still couldn't throw it out: I had paid good money for that stuff so was bloody well going to use it up. And I think that meant that - certainly in that relationship - I struggled to achieve that nasty Americanism - "closure" - until I had used it up.

There were certain other things which I could just throw out - things with little practical use like photos, cards, notes, pictures and things like that. And fortunately there are no items of clothing that I associate in quite the same way with any particular relationship.

So there was the hair-gel which, despite it costing 19p, and despite the fact the hold lasted for all of fifteen minutes, I still couldn't just throw it out. And, now that the boy from the last few weeks has decided "now isn't the right time to get into a relationship" (for which read "you're too odd to get into a relationship with"), there was the milk. But fortunately if you don't use the milk up, it goes off anyway.

It really is bizarre that I struggle to hold down relationships in the way I do. And it frustrates me. There is nothing more than I want than to settle down in a relationship. But no, I have to settle for second best: bonking as many different people as I can. I look at other people in relationships and I get jealous. I see people who are my age and have already been together for ten years. TEN years. It would take me at least ten years to get to that stage. And then I'd be forty. And even then, they'd still have ten years over me; I'd still be ten years behind. And that disappoints me. I see these old people on the news who are celebrating sixty, seventy, eighty years together, and I can't even do eight bloody weeks. And when I get as old as them, the best I'm probably going to be able to get it is forty years: half what they have managed.

Of course, it's not the be-all-and-end-all: being in a relationship. I do see people who just don't know any better. And there are those people who simply cannot be on their own. I don't know why: maybe they get lonely, desperate, just don't know what to do with their time on their own or how to cope; but as soon as they come out of one relationship they HAVE to be in another straight away.

Sometimes when you look at those couples who have been together for ten years or so, you do have to wonder why. They don't seem to love each other; they just depend upon each other - they are more of a housemate than a partner; someone else to do the washing up for them. There's no romance to it after a while.

And then I've seen people who could do so much better, they just don't want to risk being single; or worse still, they just don't want to rock the boat, have an argument, break someone's heart. So it's just easier to stick with a safe, comfortable if ultimately mundane and unsatisfying relationship because, well, things could be worse. Whereas I get to ride the storm: the highs and the lows of the many, many waves of the relationship ocean. This isn't a nice, safe cheese sandwich, day-in day-out; this is gourmet dining with the full knowledge you could be allergic to nuts or one of those mussels could be dodgy. And, of course, that you will get bored sick of the creamy sauce after a few mouthfuls.

Nuts, mussels and a mouthful of creamy sauce? Sounds like a good night to me.

Festival fun!

So, it turns out I needn't have bothered worrying about being on my own at the festival - I was for pretty much 90% of the time.

Here's a rundown in stats and facts:
FOUR hours journey time there on Friday
TWO and a half hours sat stationary in traffic
NINE am - the first alcoholic drink on Friday (in the car on the way there)
ONE pm - the last alcoholic drink on Monday (in the car on the way back)
ELEVEN am - actual arrival at the site
TWELVE noon - time my tent was fully setup after trekking with kit for miles, exchanging ticket for wristband and finding a spot.
THREE photos of me asleep before everyone was properly set up and organised
THREE hours of proper sleep over the entire weekend (probably)
TWENTY cans of lager taken with me
ELEVEN cans returned with: no lagers, but three cans of bitter and eight of diet cherry cola.
THIRTY pints of lager drunk
TWELVE bottles of lager drunk
THREE little bottles of wine drunk
UNKNOWN amounts of strawberry pear cider and vodka consumed (as well as a few tequillas)
TWO pot mashes eaten
TWO pot mashes brought back uneaten
TWO sausages in a cup
EIGHT small sausages and a burger out of a tin eaten over the weekend (along with other bits and bobs), but
ZERO proper meals consumed over the weekend (there was a chicken sandwich thing but that doesn't count as a proper meal)
ZERO times I used a portaloo - just urinals again this year!
ZERO times I had sex this weekend
FOUR hundred and seventy eight photos taken
FIVE different coloured bodypaints worn over the weekend (yellow, orange, green, pink, purple)
SIX randoms sat on my shoulders throughout the weekend
UNKNOWN numbers of randoms met over the weekend
TWO items which didn't make it back: chair and a pair of espadrilles, although the musical coolbag nearly didn't as well
ZERO silly hats bought, though there very nearly was one - this is why I shouldn't be left on my own with money near a silly-hat-stalls
NINE am tomorrow the tickets go on sale for next year... and yes, I am buying!

I saw:
Saturday
Wolf Gang (on my own - my friends took until we reached the main arena entrance to decide they wanted to go to the car to charge their mobiles. We did eventually regroup... some three hours later)
Emma's Imagination (on my own)
Noisettes (on my own)
Ellie Goulding (on my own)
N-Dubz (with friends!!!)
Hurts (back on my own)
Fenech Soler (on my own)
Rihanna (on my own)
Eminem (on my own)
Sunday
Bruno Mars (with friends! But it was Sunday and we had already missed a lot of bands due to just sitting around drinking)
Example (back on my own again)
Jessie J (on my own)
Plan B (on my own)
Chase and Status (guess what... yep, on my own!)

However all of this belies what an actually fantastic time I did have, and I did actually spend a lot of time with my friends around the campsites.

Festival faff

Ok, so I spent last night packing my bag for weekend number 2 away (you won't get a post tomorrow or probably even Monday because of this).

Weekend number 2 of 4 by the way. I have no idea when I am going to be in a position to get my wheelie-bin emptied (it gets collected on a Friday).

Anyhow, this weekend is V Festival, one of many in the UK festival season, and another entry in my Exciting August tradition. Only it nearly wasn't. On a number of occasions.

V has been part of the tradition for a number of years now. I go with university friends. Well, went. For one reason or another they have gradually dropped off over the years. Donna and Darren stopped to save for their wedding; Andrew and Vicki similarly (well, with Andrew it was more that he was getting old and didn't like spending so long without heating and a tv); and Abbie moved to New Zealand. A slightly drastic way to get out of it. So anyway, we all decided that last year was to be the last year we would go together, and we had a very enjoyable time of it. I have to say, knowing that no-one else was going, I wasn't hugely disappointed.

So I wasn't going. Well...

Anyhow, then it got to a few days before the tickets went on sale in March. One of my football friends got in touch to say he had seen who the headline acts were for the festival and he and his girlfriend wanted to go. They would like me to go with them. Firstly because I am obviously a very cool friend, they know I enjoy the festival and it gave them a good excuse to see good music with a totally awesome chap like me. That and they got to pop their festival virginity and could now say they had been to a festival before they died; but being virgins they were very wary and needed me as the voice of experience. Albeit exactly the same aged experience (or ever-so-slightly younger than my friend).

So now I was going. Well...

We still had to get tickets. It would be that morning that my train late so I got to work moments before 9am when the phonelines and websites went live. After around an hour repeatedly clicking refresh on the various websites and trying the various different phone numbers I was successful in getting my tickets!

So now I was going. Well...

The next day my friend lost his job. He asked what the cancellation policy was with the tickets as he was now not earning a wage. There was no policy - you cannot cancel once purchased. So he decided he would see how things went between March and the festival.

Things didn't get much better. He got a part-time job as a favour from a friend, but it was not enough. A few weeks ago his girlfriend asked me if I knew anyone that wanted to buy their tickets because they simply couldn't afford to go. I didn't.

So now, was I going? Well...

I don't mind doing a lot of things on my own. We've already seen that I can more-than-happily go to a gallery opening and get roaringly drunk on my own. And I have done it at V before too - I will frequently disappear off on my own to watch a band that no-one else wants to watch; or jsut to have a bit of time by myself. But it's a bit different when it is a weekend on your own. A long weekend. A full 36 hours, all on your own with no company except for any company you manage to make there.

Then there is the cost:
£175 for the ticket
£10 for the booking fee
£40 train ticket
£15 bus connection
£150 food and spending money.

And when you see the tickets selling on a popular internet auction site for well in excess of £200, not only could I make a saving, I could actually tidy up with a bit of profit.

And it isn't as though I had nothing else to do that weekend and would be spending it on my own at home. A very good friend had his 50th birthday party which I would very much like to go to; and another very good friend is returning to America after a year in this country and was having his leaving drinks. All things considered and the factors weighed up.

So now I wasn't going. Well...

I texted my friend and told him that, as none of my friends wanted the tickets; and I didn't want to go on my own, if he and his girlfriend weren't going then I was going to sell my ticket too. He got back to me after a while. I'm not entirely conviced he was aware his girlfriend has suggested they were to sell their tickets; but in the end his heart had managed to overrrule her head and they were going.

So now I was going. Well...

I got a text off him asking which campsite we were in. I replied that we selected them when we got there. He said that on some of the ticket resale sites people had tickets for certain campsites. Why was he looking at the ticket resale sites? Was he looking at selling his tickets without telling me? Was he going to leave me high-and-dry?

Was I going?

Well. I sent a text a couple of days later trying to finalise details.

He said he had emailed me.

Why had he emailed me?

Was it to let me know where to post his tickets?

This was just a couple of days before the festival. There was no way I could sell my tickets so quickly.

Was I going on my own?

Why couldn't he text me? I was on the train - I couldn't get my emails. What was in the email he couldn't put in a text?

The walk home has possibly never been longer.

I got home and checked my emails. He had simply asked lots of questions about what to take and what time to meet up. Nothing that couldn't have gone in a text.

So now I am going.

Well...

Open all hours

When I logged on at work today it informed me that I needed to change my password.

We probably all have this. Every month or 6 weeks or so it demands we change our passwords. The problem that I have is the various requirements put on this and the problems that changing passwords requires.

At work, for example, the password has to be a minimum of 8 characters long; must contain one upper-case letter, one lower-case letter and one number. Because of the frequency of change, I know of a number of people who simply use their name with a number tacked on the end, and increase the number each time they have to change it. Already the 'security requirements' have lead to an exposure to security lapses because so many people use their name... because the password changes so frequently.

Then we have another system for booking holidays. This requires a change of passwords every 15 logins. Awesome. Again, one upper-case letter, one lower-case letter, one number. Only this time the password has to be between 10 and 14 digits long, and also contain a 'special character' - <>?/+=*. Quite why this is necessary when the system only allows people to book holidays, quite no-one knows. Again, this is somewhat defeated by at least four of my colleagues who have a post-it note attached to their screen telling them their current passwords: the frequency with which they change means that they will almost certainly be remembering the wrong one.

Then there is the email account. Not only do you have to have the various combinations of letters, numbers etc.; but it will not let you register any password where any three consecutive letters are in the same order as three letters in your surname or given name; nor where any two numbers could be numbers from your date of birth. You also can't use a password remotely similar to any of the previous 12 passwords registered.

I have seven computer programs at work that require password logins. Each has a different set of requirements and a different frequency of change.

Any it shows - well over 60% of the calls to our IT helpdesk were people who had locked themselves out of one of the various systems and needed a password reset.

And this is even before we get onto external websites.

I have three different internet bank accounts.
Bank 1 requires:
First name
Surname
Postcode
Password
Mother's maiden name.

Bank 2 requires:
Sort-code
Account number
Password
Security question.

Bank 3 requires:
Login (not the sort-code or account number)
Email address
PIN (not card pin)
Password.

And then of course there are the various other websites which may require an email to log in, or a specific username, and all of them seem to apply different requirements with regard to password security.

It really does seem that in order to make systems as secure as possible they are actually making it so difficult so as to increase the risk of potential breaches. I remember when my mother first got a cash machine card; she had the PIN written in the back of a diary she carried in the purse because she couldn't for the life of her remember what it was otherwise.

And they say that using computers and mobiles is causing us to forget important numbers.

Bonking, basically. Breaking boys bums in Brighton (oh, and a couple of traditions)

After three days on a campsite with very few facilities; a proper, decent shower is very much appreciated. At least that's my excuse.

So, this weekend was Brighton. For the last six years now a group of us have gone down to Brighton to celebrate Brighton Pride. We camp on the official campsite (which has, again, increased its prices substantially, whilst reducing facilities) and then go in for the pride events. It is another tradition in a month of traditions which includes V Festival and Manchester Pride - other weekend-long events which I have attended for at least the last six years and now form the backbone of my summer plans... well, for now.

Even Brighton Pride of itself is a series of traditions. We always set off at 4am; we always stop at particular services on the motorway; we always shop at a particular supermarket on the Friday then spend the afternoon catching up on the sleep we missed out on by getting up early that morning. It has become so regular a schedule that whilst we were undertaking our usual stroll along the pier - this is how we always spend our Sunday afternoon, having had Sunday lunch in our now-regular pub which replaced our old-regular pub on the occasion it was closed for refurbishment - I actually struggled to find anything new to take photos of. Yes, we all posed in the cut-outs on the pier, where you poke your head through the hole and appear on the body of a mermaid or a married couple; but we had done that on every previous occasion - the only difference about the photos would be that we looked a year older. Well, not quite...

One of the things which does change, is the group of people who go. This year, for example, Matt was unable to attend. It is the first one he has missed. However, in his stead we had Kendra and Amy. Last year we had Jo turn up, but no James. I think there are only two of us - Anna and myself - who have been to every year. And that is practically the only distinction: "2009? Oh, that was the year so-and-so came along and so-and-so didn't".

We did, however, break a number of traditions; mostly on the Saturday.

We didn't go to the actual event in the park. They were charging £17.50 for entry, and we simply couldn't justify that. We spend an awful lot to get down to Brighton anyway, with the cost of the camping, the travelling, the shopping etc. even before we get to the cost of 'entertainment'. We spend at most three or four hours in the park before we get a bit bored. And mostly it is just an opportunity for people to try and hawk their wares at us. Yes, there is a bar, and a dance tent, but bearing in mind the pubs along the main street in town were open, we could get exactly that there. We did still attend the parade, albeit from a different position to any other occasion, but with the parade we don't have any 'set' place where we watch - it depends how early we get up and into town. But we made the effort to watch the parade on the seafront because we weren't going to the park, so it was the best place to start the day.

And then, probably because we didn't go to the park during the day, the whole day was set out of kilter. Whereas usually we will head into town of an evening around 8 or 9, because everyone was left to their own devices during the day we ended up leaving quite a bit later. This meant that we were more drunk by the time we went out. It also meant that we did not have either the time or effort to get ourselves to our usual starting spot - every year we start out from a lovely bar called Brighton Rocks (we were disappointed last year because they had a refurb so we couldn't have our traditional photo in front of the stripy painting) which is the furthest bar from where we get off the bus and we have to walk past every other bar on the way.

So yes, there were deviations from the norm. What there was - and has been every year - is a showerblock entirely devoid of any hot water. It makes for a bracing shower. We still do shower - three nights (four for me because I stay over with my friends on the Thursday beforehand) is simply too long to go without a shower; so you have a brief rub down. But what it does do is make you somewhat more eager to find someone else to stay with - a nice, warm, comfortable bed followed by a lovely, powerful, hot shower is great... and the fact you get sex as well is an added bonus! And that is where one of the final traditions of the weekend comes in - the Sunday night bonk.

I will be clear about this - I do not lower my standards. However, with it being pride weekend not only are there a substantially greater number of people there (thereby increasing the number of fitties); not only are you by the sea in summer, and therefore people seem naturally more attractive; but also people are more eager. The pride spirit fills the air - people are heady, optimistic, entertained, smiley, boystrous, horny.

And so it is that on Sunday I went back to a house in a backstreet of Brighton for a shower. Oh, and sex. And it was good. They both were. The boy was cute. The boy was just 21 - he took a particular eagerness in showing me his 21st birthday cards still erect on the mantelpiece. The boy was also a recent graduate of Sussex uni and the gold-medal winning member of the university trampolening club, as he took quite a delight showing me is awards and certificates. Sometimes you just want to get down and dirty and then off to sleep; sometimes these little touches are actually quite nice, they make it all more personal. Then he moved on and said "Now I'm going to give you what you came here for". I nearly said "shower" but he finished off with "an orgasm".

Then in the morning I got the shower - a delightful mix of almost blisteringly hot jets with a thyme and lemongrass aroma from the showergel. Fantastic. Then a mad dash back to the campsite to get everything packed up before the eviction.

It was probably quite a good thing that this year they tagged people at the campsite with a bracelet so you didn't accidentally pull someone dashingly attractive but with the same lack of shower facilities.

Sleeping with the lights on, working with the eyes shut

Well, I managed to snatch an almost-normal night of sleep last night.

This does, of course, need to be put into context of what an 'almost-normal night' is - which I shall later - however it is the first night I have had this week where I have gotten more than a couple of hours.

On Monday night I hadn't quite dropped off to sleep when the riot passed the top of the road. So I didn't get any sleep for the rest of the night because they could come back and cause more trouble. It's very difficult to drop off, even just snatch a couple of hours sleep when you are worried that your home or even your own well-being is at risk.

And that's the same reason I hardly got any on Tuesday night as well. Worse still on Tuesday night I had blown-off a date purely to go back and ensure the security of my property. It's bad form when rioting starts interfering with your romantic life.

Tuesday evening was a very strange evening. I don't think I have ever experienced anything quite like it. The early part of the evening was spent very "spirit of the blitz" - I was out chatting with the neighbours, securing gates and making sure that anything that could be smashed or thrown was put round the back and locked-up. Then - as the sun set, casting long auburn shadow over the green and leafy neighbourhood - we went into lock-down and light-up. There was a single moment when everyone knew: it was time to go indoors. No excuses were needed, we just said cheerio and went.

The doors were shut, locked, checked and double-checked. I closed and locked windows I wasn't even aware I had a key for. Blinds were drawn, curtains closed, lights turned on throughout the house to ensure that the house looked occupied and not ripe for the pickings. And then I tried to maintain a normal evening. I started cooking and washed up and cleaned the bathroom and it was odd. It was eerie. The lack of cars driving past outside was distinctly noticeable. No-one walked past. It wasn't helped either with having all the windows closed and it being quite a warm night, but even the birds seemed quiet. It really was spooky. And this was even with my usual background music on.

Around 2:30 am I decided I would try going to sleep, but when you are so wired, so on edge of any noise, it is impossible. I did eventually - out of sheer exhaustion - nod off for an hour or so, but it wasn't good sleep.

Nothing happened.

Absolutely nothing.

Not even a branch falling off a tree.

But that was good. Even if nothing happened Tuesday night, it meant that the likelihood of anything happening last night was considerably reduced. And nothing did happen last night. Normality - whilst not entirely present - was at least in the room by conference call. And so I could sleep.

Like I say, a relatively normal night's worth of sleep - around 4 1/2 hours. I don't get much more. I have conditioned myself to operate on very little sleep. When I first started work, I would be getting up around 7am; which allowed me to go to bed around midnight and still get a good night of sleep. My lack of discipline means that the midnight curfew got pushed back and back and before I knew it my regular bedtime had turned towards 1:30am. Then I got a different job, which meant the 7am crept towards 6:30am instead; though with no correction in the evening. Then another change of job meant that the alarm started getting set for 5:45am. A combination of sensibility and exhaution meant that I did start to strictly impose the midnight withdrawal, however that still means that I don't actually usually drop off until close to 1am. So that is a normal night sleep.

All in all I need this holiday that I am going on tomorrow, so you won't hear from me again until probably Tuesday.

A new direction

I took a leap of faith over the weekend, a step into the dark, a bold new beginning. I walked a different way to my brother's house.

I like my routines, and I like my routes. I have nice regular routes. I have a route that takes me to the train station; I have a route that brings me back from the train station; and I have a route that takes me to my brother's house.

You may think it odd that I have one route that takes me to the train station; and a different route that brings me back, but it isn't.

In accordance with one of my other principles - that of maximum efficiency - the routes are always amongst the most direct. Whether this is in terms of distance actually walked, or in terms of time taken, they are the least of either. Now, it may seem daft that this differs, but in reality it isn't. One thing to take into consideration is the time of day - the traffic flow differs in the morning (light flow generally, but slightly heavier into the city) to evening (when the flow is more considerable, and actually quite heavy out of the city). This means that some of the junctions and crossings operate differently, and therefore it can actually be quicker to walk back one particular route with more controlled crossings whereas walking in would just be along the shortest route possible.

Then, as well, there is the sunlight factor. Particularly during the 'breaking' hours of sunrise and sunset, it is always nice to maximise the amount of sunlight. This is even better when the sun is actually hot. So, whereas in the morning the sunlight may be on one side of the road, as the sun swings round during the day that side may be cast into the shadows of the buildings. Sad I know, but the sunshine decides which side of the road I walk.

Finally, where two routes are of equal length and brevity, the prettiest - or most green - route wins. I would much rather walk through a park or wood than a carpark.

Anyhow, my brother purchased his house around three years ago, and since then I have spent many a Saturday or Sunday afternoon ambling over to his place so that he can drive us all to mam and dad's for dinner. This again is very sensible: a) it means we only take one car, saving fuel costs; b) it allows me to drink; c) it allows me to not even need to own a car any more. And always the same way...

I turn right out of my gate (very rare that I do that) and up the road I refer to as my back passage - it takes me round the backside of my house. I then turn right up past the Fransciscan Friary and up the hill, round the dog-leg to the lunatic asylum where I bear left onto the main road for a short while, then right, quick left and quick right down the VERY steep hill to the place where there used to be a pub but there is now a develpment of 3 and 4-bedroom houses. Then I pull a hairpin twist, up the little wooded passage up to the playing fields, past the 5-a-side pitches, to the next main road. Then it's just a quick down and back-up past the bungalows and I'm pretty much there.

Well, anyway, I decided to change the habit of a lifetime. Well, the habit of 3 years or so. And no, not one of the Fransiscan friar's habits. Rather than heading down the very steep hill all the way to the bottom, there is a road that pulls me across the hill, over a main road, another dogleg, then I'm back on the road I hit just after the 5-a-side pitches.

I did this on a rather random whim. I had a bit of time and a lot of curiosity. I wanted to see new places. It's hardly India, but it's a start. So I went and followed the roads round.

It was interesting enough. There wasn't anything particularly exciting - no hidden park or shopping precinct I had been unaware of; it was all just houses. But it was a change.

I don't know as I will keep the change as a permanent change. I don't think it affected length or duration one way or another. What it did do was deprive me of the opportunity to check on the development of the houses being built.

But these little changes, tiny, almost unnoticable changes, are the reasons for having the routines and the routes in the first place - the deviation from the norm makes for interest. Excitement maybe. They are a break in the dull monotony of the day.

Oh, and now I know where I can find an old steel bath rusting away too.

The reasons for writing about not writing about riots

Let me put this into context...

Last night was the third night of rioting in various areas of London, which also saw the riots spread not only to new areas, but to other cities including Birmingham, Bristol, Liverpool and my home city Nottingham.

The reasons for the rioting are already known or will come out in the wash. I am not going to start supposing or commenting. However, I am going to respond to some critics.

Last night, I made some very fripperous comments on Facebook not in anyway related to the riots. The response that I got was along the lines of "how can you be so flippant/sarcastic/ignorant about the riots happening?" Apparently if you made any comment on Facebook which did not condemn the violence or sympathise with the residents, then you were ignorant. One 'friend' deleted himself. No loss really.

So, why did I not condemn the violence. Why did I not use my Facebook page to rant or make political statements?

A number of reasons.

Firstly - I don't. If people want to know my political/fiscal/other views then they can find them by other means. My Facebook is - and always has been - a light-hearted look at life. If anything, in the current circumstances that distraction is probably welcomed by a lot of my friends as light relief...

Secondly, there is overload. If I look through my Facebook feeds from last night there were well over 400 posts from various people. In fact some of my friends just seemed to repeatedly post the same thing every hour/half-hour/ten-minutes. They treat the feed as though I have no other way of finding out the news. I do - I have a lot of other news sources, most of which are infinitely more credible, accountable and accurate than my friends various ramblings on their feed. It really is disappointing that no-one had anything else to say. Of the well-over 400 statuses, I would be very lucky to have read half-a-dozen which were in any way unrelated to the riots. I hope that, for my friends at least, I have injected something different into their day which would otherwise have been filled with masses of 'oh-woh is me' messages. Yes, it gives a sense of the public opinion of the riots, but a) was there really any doubt that the public at large condemned them? and b) I would be associating with the wrong type of people if the statuses were either condoning or encouraging them - I know my friends, I know what they are like. I also know what they are thinking and would have appreciated a break from the predictable.

Thirdly, did I really have anything to contribute to the debate? It's all very well talking, but if you are not saying anything new or anything sensible, you are just adding to the noise. And there are only so many ways that people can be 'disgusted' with the behaviour. Yes, I could stake out my political opinion; yes I could wade into the rights and wrongs; my conjectures as to the underlying cause and any potential resolution. But am I really contributing that other people haven't already? There are many, many, many people more learned out there on the subject; all of whose views can be read in the newspaper articles, on the websites or heard in the interviews. The chances are they actually know more what they are talking about. And if they don't then they deserve to look as stupid as they are about to be made to look; and it certainly isn't my intention to look any more stupid than I naturally have to.

None of this is to say that it doesn't affect me. It does - greatly in fact. I have a lot of friends in all of the cities involved, many of whom were posting particularly interesting updates about how the incidents were affecting them personally. These statuses were the ones I was interested in. I needed to know that my friends were ok.

And, more particularly, it did directly affect me. I was woken up at 1:30 am as the Nottingham rioters passed the end of my street less than 20 yards away. My house itself was directly between two of the areas subjected to damage. You can read the news report here But you won't hear me make mention of it on Facebook, unless I can do so in a suitably flippant manner.

The art of not having sex

Can you believe Friday night was the first time I have seen The Shawshank Redemption?

So, the BOTM has been blowing a bit hot-and-cold on me. And not in a good way.

And it is an understandable hot and cold. The cold is almost directly a reaction to the hot. He does fancy me - but almost too much. He is therefore reacting to that by not letting him get too close to me, because he doesn't want to hurt himself. He is worried that his job will change very soon and he will end up having to move away, and he doesn't want to get hurt when (if) that happens. I have said he can't go around living on a maybe, but until the job uncertainty is settled he is somewhat cautious.

He outlined all of this in text conversations when I was trying to convince him to come over for Friday night. I had a real concern that he was trying to blow me off for good. Again, not in a good way. But a small amount of coersion convinced him to come over and we had a very nice night in watching films (including the said Shawshank Redemption) and chatting. Lots. We chatted absolutely loads and made each other giggle.

Anyhow, then came time for bed...

This is probably why I do so much better with one-night-stands. You know where you are there. You are both back at yours (or theirs) with a single, very animal instinct. You are going to do bonking. You both know this, so it isn't a surprise when one of you peels the underpants off of the other (if they are even wearing them). In fact it would be a disappointment if you didn't. But this wasn't the case. There was no so obvious a motive. He could have just been staying over; just somewhere to stop because he'd had a drink (albeit a tiny dribble of Pimms). Or it could have just been for a cuddle - we all love just a cuddle. It could even just have been for a chat; or because it was too late to be driving home; or because it was easier than driving home; or maybe testing the water; maybe it was the next step, but the step before sex; maybe he did want sex; maybe he just wanted to spend some time with me; maybe; maybe; maybe.

Well, we went up to bed and I snook into bed whilst he was in the bathroom (I had already done my bathroom bits; I wasn't going to bed dirty). I kept my underpants on - firstly in case we weren't having sex (it's a little bit of a surprise otherwise) and secondly in case we were having sex it forms part of the foreplay. He also kept his pants on and clambered in next to me. We then had a kiss ... and a cuddle... and a chat... and then went to sleep. Still cuddling though, that's always a positive.

So, why didn't I make a move? Well, because I didn't want to. Not because I didn't find him sexually attractive - I did. But because I didn't want it to be inappropriate; to scare him off. He may well have wanted it and have been slightly disappointed that I didn't make the move. As I see it the cons of each circumstance are:
High risk - start off trying to have sex; petrify him as he thinks I am predatory and untrustworthy. He then spends the entire night on the edge of the bed too scared to go to sleep in case I attack again.
Low(ish) risk - don't have sex; he then spends the rest of the night slightly concerned that maybe I don't fancy him.
Yes, if he really wanted sex he could of course have made the move on me; however as ever I am the ever-so-slightly more dominating of the two, and I think it was mutually accepted that if anything were to happen, I would be the instigator.

Obviously I have already staked out the emotional basis for not trying anything on. There is also the logistical side. Well, sort-of. The major problem is that I have an enormous penis. Physically it is challenging. However that is only the half of it. Well, quite. The main problem is that it then becomes a talking point. Once they finally get over the shock of the size of it and stop blathering about "Oh my gosh... that's enormous... I've never seen one so big... seriously, that's huge... "then suddenly it is the centre of discussion.

"Have you had problems getting people to take it?"
"How many people have you actually had it in?"
"Is it natural?"
"When did it develop like that?"
"Does it run in the family?" (slightly odd that last one - firstly, how would I know; secondly, why would you want to know? Are you going to chase around my brother for a bonk as well?)
"Do you struggle getting condoms to fit?"
"Do you struggle getting underpants to fit?"
"Do the footballers in the showers make comments?".

All this time I'm just wanting to get 'at it' and suddenly we're having a full-blown conversation about anatomy, genetics and evolution. And I'm not getting full-blown. In fact, it's actually having a destimulating effect. There's nothing quite to kill an erection as considering whether the size of genetalia runs in the family. Everyone thinks an enormous penis should be amazing, a bonus, but in fact it is a hindrance. So, I kept it in my pants.

And so we woke up on Saturday in each other's arms, cuddling nicely and chatting and bantering. So perhaps it was the right decision. Perhaps what that does is enhance the debate next time as to whether to have sex then, or whether things are going along just nicely without the bonking; increase the expectation; crank up the pressure, the stress. At this rate I'm going to talk myself back to celebacy.

But then he decided to throw it all into further uncertainty yesterday by again issuing his concerns over his job and his emotions, and he hasn't been in contact since. For a chap such as myself who runs things through his mind in a million different combinations, this is never a good thing. I flow to imagining that he is head-over-heels in love with me and is figuring the best way not to scare me off with his devotion; then ebb to concerns that he really doesn't fancy me at all and is just being polite and not wanting to destroy someone who is clearly a fixated lunatic.

Maybe if we'd had sex he've known that it was something worth trying for. That or maybe he would think I operated purely on animal instinct and wasn't in it for a proper relationship.

The mystery of the missing train fitty

I can breathe today.

For the last few days I have been a bit worried: one of the train fitties has been missing.

He's one of the ones that gets the connecting train as well.

I get two trains in the morning, one to Leicester, and then the connecting one out to work. Then in the evening I get the return journey, again connecting in Leicester. And this particular train fitty gets on all four of the trains. Or did... until Monday.

Monday evening he got off the first train at Leicester, but never got on the second train. I presumed I had just not seen him, missed him somehow (though this is difficult as he wears a very bright red trackie-top and carries a similarly bright yellow bag. Not that I pay far too much attention to him or anything...). But then he didn't get any of the trains on Tuesday either. By Wednesday I was starting to assume that he had popped into Leicester to pick up some dinner on Monday night but been abducted by the aggressive taxi-drivers who hang around outside the main entrance and forced overseas to work in a sweatshop producing lingerie.

I have an ever-so-slightly active imagination.

Anyhow, this morning I was running slightly late, so got breakfast at the train station. There I was struggling onto the train with a very unhealthy sausage sandwich and spilling rather hot tea all over my hands, when the train fitty appeared. Why do they always appear when I am looking as far from hansome, debonnair, sophisticated as I possibly can?! Oh well, at least I know he's not dead.

And, when I eventually pluck up the courage to talk to him, I could even ask him where he went for all those days.

Coffee?

For a first date, last night actually went rather well.

I didn't get as nervous as I usually do for some reason. This is despite my constant worry that I am going to forget what my date looks like and we will both stand feet away from each other next to the left lion in town for around 10 minutes before each deciding the other isn't going to turn up and abandonning hope. Nope, we each remembered what we looked like.

More excitingly, neither of us were disappointed with what we (well, the other of the 'we') looked like.

My date was indecisive. That's not necessarily a bad thing, until you bear in mind that I am also indecisive. I had therefore taken the lead and thrown out a smattering of ideas as to where we could eat - Italian, English, Thai, Indian, Chinese, Spanish. In fact just about every type of cuisine I could think that is cooked within the city boundary in the hope that he would make a decision. But he didn't. He didn't even narrow down the options. So we went Thai. Which was very nice, very good food.

The good thing about my date is that he was more than happy chattering away. I have said previously I can get nervous around people and a bit shy and struggle with small-talk, but not yesterday - we were able to chatter on for a good long while.

Then we went for a drink. This is always a bit of a cringe-moment for me. I know all of the gay bars in the city well, and will always know one of the bar people in any bar on any night. So, if I don't want to be introducing my new date to my friendly bar-people quite so soon, the alternative is to go straight... but then that restricts whether we can show any form of affection. Now, whilst I am not overly affective in public, it is still nice to make little moves - rubbing the knee, touching the bum, maybe flicking his hair or such like. So for that reason it makes it a little difficult to relax in straight bars on a date. Normally, if I'm not on a date, I have no problem. But on a date I have enough nerves in my body without knowing that I'm contrained with flirty motions. I would explode in a massive Tourette's seizure and probably end up in an unacceptable state. So we went to a gay bar.

Now, my date was similar to me in not indulging in flamboyant displays of emotion, however was able to relax, and again we chatted away really well for the drink. My date, though, was driving so rather defeated the point of being in a bar. As the night drew later, it got to the stage where we really either had to make a move or make a night out of it. So...

Coffee?

This is a loaded question, and one that could very easily have gone off in my face. Is 'coffee' these days still 'sex'? And if so would I be appearing too expectorant? Maybe get a slap for my troubles? Or alternatively would I get actually get some? Or does it just mean coffee? So I took the plunge and suggested we went back to mine for coffee.

And we went back.

I should point out - and following on from yesterday's post - I had the beginnings of a head-cold. I personally thought that Thai was a very good choice because I could have something hot and spicy in the hope of heading off the cold, at least for a few hours. But no, the dull ache behind my eyes had slowly but surely developed into a substantial pressure. I was trying not to let it affect the date, but it is very difficult to pay attention when you are struggling to focus. And for once not because of the booze. But he was very understanding about it.

It's not good, going back for coffee when you know you are probably infectious.

Anyhow... we started the journey back in his car. The journey is just about long enough for me to make my excuses... "The house is a project" "I'm very manly, I enjoy DIY" "It is structurally sound" "It's just the aesthetics that need working on" "Plaster on the walls is very overrated these days" etc.

Into the kitchen. "So would you like coffee, lemonade, squash, anything else?" And do you know what, the most perfect response: "Why does no-one ever offer tea?"

I love tea. I probably love this boy purely on the basis that he loves tea and would rather have tea than coffee. And it's true - why do we always say coffee? I personally, as a Brit, would always drink tea in preference to coffee. I'm not even a big fan of coffee, and yet there I was offering coffee.

My dad will be aware that I had someone over last night because I used the tea-pot and the posh mugs. Dad is currently helping me out with a couple of bits of DIY. I do it out of generousity- he seeks any excuse that he can get to have a day away from my mother.

Anyhow, we had our tea, and a lovely long chat, and a lot of kissing was done too. Quite a lot of kissing. Good kissing as well, once we found our groove. Sometimes, occasionally, your styles don't quite match and it takes a wee bit to adapt to each other's technique. He, for example, actually quite enjoys starting off mouth a bit open. I got used to that.

But then it got late, and he could tell that I was suffering with my poorliness, so we did a bit more kissing and then said goodnight.

So a very good night with no coffee. Or 'coffee'.

First date

So, that is tonight's excitement that I mentioned yesterday, with the lovely lad I met at Nottinghamshire Pride.

And I have come down with a cold. A proper, full-on head cold that's actually hurting my eyes.

Awesome.

Football fatigue

So, today should be five-a-side day, but I'm not going.

Rebel.

Well, not really. I'm not going for one particular reason - I'm already busy tomorrow night. You will already be aware that I have regular routines, and that usually means that I can only free-up one night during the week to do something different, something radical. More about what excitement I am up to tomorrow night in tomorrow's posting (or maybe Thursday's). But needless to say that means that my usual jobs cleaning the bathroom (or something equally as gripping) have been shifted to tonight and football has been sacrificed as a result.

I'm not disappointed though.

I've been getting a bit fed-up with football for a while now. I think it is time I took a break.

Obviously I have already commented in this post and again in this post about my frustration with lack of play. But I think the major reason is me. I get bored with things easily. Whilst routines and such like are all very nice, they are also very mundane; and one of the joys of having a routine is that a change really is as good as a rest.

I am quite a volatile sort of person when it comes down to it. I have major ebbs and flows of moods. It's not good. It makes me look like a nutter. But it's really just out of boredom. I think this is one of the reasons I have so many diverse hobbies. I think it may also be a contributing factor as to why I am single. It certainly explains why I can't sit still at night long enough to watch an entire tv show, let alone a film.

The last time I got football fatigue it fortunately coincided with having my jaw broken for me by a group of chaps as I was walking home one night from a nightclub. I could therefore have my break from football whilst my break was setting. Well, breaks. I ended up with two bits of metal in my gob. So I had six months out. Not that anyone at football seemed to notice. Actually, that's not quite fair - three or four of my close friends there did, but otherwise no-one from the club was in contact.

This time my fatigue has coincided with Exciting August. Every year I fill my August with busyness and excitingness. In fact this year Exciting August has overspilled into both July and September. It involves a few fun weekends at home sprinkled amongst weekends away in London, Manchester, Brighton, and a field in Staffordshire for V Festival. All of which means that I wouldn't have time (or in many cases even the possibility) to get to football even if I wanted. I'm hoping that at the end of all of that excitement I will be reinvigourated and return to football with a fervoured vigour.

Or at least some form of communicable disease.

A gay, gay, day.

So this weekend was Nottinghamshire Pride.

It has been rebranded. Once upon a time (well, last year) it was Nottingham Pride. Quite why we have the 'shire' added I don't know. It's not as though it was held in the shire - it wasn't, it was within the city boundary. Nor is it as though those in the shire have previously felt alienated or in any other way excluded. I don't even think it opens it up to any additional funding from the County Council. And it isn't as though Londonshire or Birminghamshire struggle.

Anyway, Pride events generally should be about three things:
A reflection of the fight that people have gone through in order achieve our current position;
An acknowledgement of our diversity; and
An acceptance that true equality has still not been achieved and that we are not at an 'end', that more work still needs to be done.

Obviously for most people it is about dressing up, drinking and dancing. Oh, and blowing whistles.

I've never understood what it is about gays and whistles. Perhaps it is the noise so closely resembling a gay squark.

Anyhow, I went along to show my pride. Well, actually, I did - I went along as a member of the community and as part of the football team 'building community links' and all that guff. And I did my bit, marching with the banner, standing on the stall, drinking.

Yes, lots of drinking was involved. So much so that I actually didn't make it out in the evening. Well, that's not true, I 'made it out' in the evening only because I didn't go home. But I didn't manage to stay out after 9:30pm. This is what you get from trying to consume your daily intake of calories from beer alone. I think I may have had a sandwich at one point. I definitely had a snog though...

As we were walking round the litter-strew field (despite there being many bins around, the gays seem unable to walk to dispose of their rubbish properly. They also get flyered quite heavily by the local bars trying to get them out drinking later, something which clearly failed with me) with a couple of friends I saw a rather cute lad laid down with some friends. We made eye-contact and smiled and so I had to carry on walking past. I get too shy around people and can't go over and talk to them. It didn't help that I was in my football kit replete with rather tight shorts and "big cock" splashed over my back. That is the name on the shirt, not just an oversized strap-on. Anyhow, the lad sent his friend over to come and get me and I now have a date on Wednesday night.

I may have sobered up by then.