The Blond and I

Look at Moi

2006-08-04T14:06:00.000Z

This is just fabulousness in a photo wrapped in a blue poncho. Sure I look a little dog tired (it was early and cold) but Kath Day-Knight is just pure gorgeousness.

Vanity Check

2006-06-28T15:36:00.000Z

I just did a vanity check in Google to see who else out there uses the Ashley Stewart name, so far, I've found I'm:

A range of fat lassie's clothing and a recruitment company.

So with me you can be fat, look fabulous and get employed all in one super-brand.

Glad to be of use.

Ring Ring

2006-06-26T13:28:00.000Z

Well I am glad that the the issue of the National Football Star, the Radio 1 DJ, the News of the World and the sex act with a mobile phone has been cleared up.

But it does make me wonder if any mobile phone has that good a flash.

boo

2006-06-02T11:15:00.000Z

still here

John Prescott

2006-04-26T12:22:00.000Z

You just would not would you?

Ever?

No?

Good.

The whole sordid Prescott affair brings new meaning to word repugnant.

Wayne Lineker

2006-04-25T08:25:00.000Z

You just would, wouldn't you?

No?

Good-o, more time for me then.

*shunt*

Push the buttons

2006-04-24T11:24:00.000Z

Friday I wore my first ever polyester/nylon mix tracksuit top to work. I rarely wear man-made fabrics, so this was a novel experience for me - and a pretty jolly one at that.

I had statically-charged nipples all day.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

A Road Less Travelled

2006-04-20T08:23:00.000Z

BA kindly mislaid our luggage on our return flight, and considering we went on a shopping trip and had restocked on all the fabulous essentials, this could have been disastrous. I wasn't really that bothered about losing the case or its contents to be honest...

What really bugs me is that my luggage has now travelled more than I have....

A Road Well Travelled

2006-04-20T08:15:00.000Z

The Blond and I have just returned froma lovely two-city break to the states. We landed in Boston and went on to NYC.

Boston is as beautiful as you'd imagine - we walked from the City centre into Harvard, via the geekville of MIT. The only criticism of the whole place is the distinct lack of restaurants. If you want to eat Italian/French then fine, but other than that there was nothing, nada, zilch. Not impressed.

NYC was an odd experience - it was the first time I had been back since 9/11 and splitting up with the American Ex. We stayed in what one set of friends described as a boutique hotel. Sadly is was a shit pit. We had the Sophia Loren room at Chelsea Pines, sadly it was more suitable to Sophia Petrillo. Meanwhile Canary Warbler was staying at a fabulous hotel but he was gracious enough to allow us to abuse its hotel bar.

Rokker Radio

2006-04-03T09:50:00.000Z

The BBC is launching a new radio show for the Gyspy Community of Beds, Buck and Herts. Rokker Radio is the first of its kind. What kind of running order can we expect?

* The Second Hand Clothes Show
* More than one way to skin a cat
* Desert Island Diddykoi
* Benefits Holiday
* Wife Swap
* How Clean Is Your Caravan?
* Stolen Car Booty
* Ready Steady Cook A Hedgehog

The last five of these were supplied by a superior wit to mine. He has asked for anonymity for fear of reprisals.

Suggestions below please...

Ludmilla's Broken English

2006-03-23T11:27:00.000Z

I've just finished Ludmilla's Broken English by DBC Pierre.

It's a lot like a knee-trembler in a back alley - lots of anticipation, slightly dirty, quick to finish, leaves a bad taste in the mouth and is ultimately very unsatisfying.

Now, Peyton Place beckons....

Price of Fashion

2006-03-22T15:40:00.000Z

I am wearing a rather fabulous embroidered blue shirt recently purchased in Melbourne. The trouble is that with this rather brisk weather I have nipples as hard as rocks which are now rubbing against the stitching - giving me rather tough and tender tit-ends.

Hoping to soothe the pain, I licked my thumbs and rubbed my nipples, after a couple of minutes and a few odd stares, I realised I looked like a dirty old man in 'Confessions of a Window Cleaner'.

If this is what jogger's nipple feels like, I am never exercising again.

Virtual Love

2006-03-15T14:37:00.000Z

Is it wrong to be smitten with a fictional pop star. Am I just one step away from a moustachioed blow up doll?

Hair Watch I

2006-03-14T08:33:00.000Z

My hair is still thinning - though for the first time in years it is long and fabulously highlighted.

Just trying to decide what to do with it when it does finally stop being a mop top and turns into a comb-over.

Affairs of State

2006-03-13T10:10:00.000Z

Now I hate to be cynical, expecially about my easily duped Exes, but I received this in my inbox from a very lovely, highly guillible, desperate to be loved and filthily rich Ex about the boy he has just met in Oz:

I am having an amazing time here in Sydney with ***** and I am delighted to announce that we are officially boyfriends. ***** is planning on moving from Sydney to Notting Hill in May/June.

I bet he is... especially if he's seen the house he is going to move into and the immigration red tape that can be cut with money.

Cynical? Guilty as charged... hopefully I'll be proved wrong.

Men in Lycra Rowing Shorts - The Review

2006-03-08T08:58:00.000Z

Oh dear... I should have realised that things would go terribly when I asked Adam how the previous night's performance went. The reply was succinct: It died in the arse. And it appears the local Melbourne Rag agrees:

The performances range from wooden to passably realistic, but as the dialogue is incredible and the nadir of sentimentality, it's hard to imagine how anyone could sound as if they had ever thought or felt the things they get to say.

True to form Adam, the Ex, was truly and astoundingly awful - in both acting and the Lycra rowing suit. Indeed the only person who looked good in it was the only straight man in the production (full time acting and a full time diet do not look good in skin tight Lycra). Full of bad one liners, awful sets, terrible accents and storylines obviously rejected by both Prisoner Cell Block H and Neighbours, it really was blandness made flesh.

Seeing Adam have sex on stage was a revelation - it was full on and lasted well over five minutes. He's obviously been putting the practise in since we parted ways.

I left feeling slightly cheated.

Those were the days...

2006-03-06T15:48:00.000Z

And the highlight of the trip?

I saw my first Glory Hole in over a decade... and they call England 'quaint'.

I'm back

2006-03-06T15:43:00.000Z

Firstly, was I missed?

I bloody well hope so but also suspect that the resounding answer is 'Oh, you were away?'

Australia was fantastic. The only problem is the men and trying to decipher who is gay, who is not and who wants to be as they are all so beautifully turned out. By the end of the trip I devised a fool-proof way of spotting who is who.

The Straights

These are the ones who have the body that suits their frame - fat, thin, muscular whatever, it just suits them.

They also have sensible hair.

The Metrosexuals

These are the ones with impossibly muscled upper bodies and legs that Colonel Sanders would be proud of. Such is the imbalance between the two that they often look as is they are about to loose their balance and topple over. The Metrosexual has also perfected the art of plucking - just enough to give them two eyebrows but not enough to make them look like alopecia sufferers.

The Gays

These are the ones who realised that the Metrosexuals were catching them up so have pumped up their bodies to ridiculous proportions and given Mama Nature a little help with overdoses of steroids. Such is the enormity of their muscles that they usually are accompanied by a fag hag who assist them in their plucking. These ladies apply their role with such aplomb (well they do have to justify their existence after all) that the hirsute gay man is now on the International Wildlife Fund's extinction watch list.

Off to Oz

2006-02-09T15:36:00.000Z

Right I'm off to the land of beautiful men, BBQs, Skippy and Fosters.

Back in a month.

Reflections

2006-02-03T16:50:00.000Z

Having recently seen Brokeback Mountain, I was reminded of a few choice Texan sayings that I have stumbled upon during my time on the ranch. The three that stick in my mind, in no particular order:

Honey, that man there was looking atchyoo like a fat man looks at fried food.

... and the equally descriptive (an old but good one):

There are two things I hate in Texas, size queens and little dicks.

... and a not so seasonal yet still eloquent one (mother to young son)

You wanna see Santa? I hate Christmas, all you say is 'I want I want I want'. Well all I wanna say is Ho! Ho! My ass!

Bates Motel - Cornwall Style

2006-01-30T09:44:00.000Z

Due to works on the house, the Blond and I stayed at a local B&B this weekend when we visited my sister and the new baby.

Arriving at the door in my fabulous fur-collared winter coat, we were greeted by Roger - a nice enough chap with an Elvis quiff, a roll-up perched on his lips and an all appraising eye that left me feeling as if I had just succumbed to an internal search. Suddenly the fur seemed a bad idea.

We were swiftly greeted by two small dogs, each missing an ear and both had that manic small psychotic dog look.

We were ushered into our room by Marilyn - who it transpires has so emasculated her husband that she appeared to be wearing his balls as perfectly formed clip on ear-rings. We went to be that night and locked the door. The ticking clock made us decidely uneasy - like it was counting own to something... I was reminded of the Roahl Dahl story where the geusts get royally stuffed and mounted (not in a good way) in the living room.

The breakfast was divine, but the dogs kept staring at us accussingly, and as I bit into the sausage I couldn't quite help wondering just what did happen tot heir ears...

Men in Lycra Rowing Shorts

2006-01-19T09:12:00.000Z

Firstly my apologies for having left this space blank for far far far too long. I'm a little rushed at work so I will endeavour to update this on a weekly basis until things quiten down.

Now then, to business. The Blond and I are off to Oz shortly to see his family and my friends. One of the people we are visiting is my ex, Adam (in the left of the picture). Adam is an actor (daaaahling) and is so hammy that he alienates the more Jewish element of his fan base. Anyway, the long and the short of it is that we have to see him in the play he has a lead role in. Personally, I think the title says it all:

Men in Lycra Rowing Shorts

This comes from the same company who produced the classic Big Dicks on Stage (I really wish I were joking).

Apparently Adam gets to have sex on stage. Judging by how awkward he looks tweaking a nipple in the poster (tit torture, and come to think of it, foreplay in general were never Adam's stong points) I can only imagine how clunky his sex on stage must look (which is a blindingly obvious case of theatre accurately representing life).

And what does an ex do in such a situation - do I applaud, do I sink into my popcorn, or should I compare notes? Review to follow

Ex and the City

2005-12-09T11:02:00.000Z

My Ex, Adam, the one who broke my heart twice, has a fantastic new job on Melbourne Radio as one of the Mix 101 Bachelors

He's the fashionista (he knew which trousers to buy to show just what he has to offer the gays).

It's a shame his photo makes him look like he's missing a chromosone...

Oh my...

2005-12-07T12:16:00.000Z

My father, who I have always held up as a man of eloquence, sophistication and unrivalled compassion has just managed to wipe out 30+ years of adoration from me with one email.

Ava is beautiful, except when she is naked she looks like a spatchcock chicken.

With grandparents like those two, I'll be buying the little love therapy sessions for her 18th birthday.

Baby Bore

2005-12-06T09:47:00.000Z

Normally grandparents can't wait to tell the world how pretty their first grandchild is. Tragically, my mum is far from normal. Here is how she introduced her grand daughter to family and friends:

Ava arrived at 1.15am today weighing 6lb 11oz. In some of the closer photo's she is still at the hospital and shows signs of bruising and swollen eyes from the birth. Mum did very well and they both came home at 4pm. Ava has the most beautiful hands but huge feet poor lamb.

How many people does it take...

2005-12-06T09:31:00.000Z

... to create a Website?

46 apparently.

My head hurts.

Normally

2005-12-05T09:14:00.000Z

If I am woken up at 1.30am by a diminuitive female, shrieking and wailing her head off demanding food I would be in a foul mood for the rest of the day.

However, this particular young lady is my new niece, which explains why I am full of smiles.

Welcome to the world, Ava, just promise your Uncle Ashley one thing...

... Don't turn into your Grandmother

Blue Water

2005-11-21T09:50:00.000Z

The Blond and I spent yesterday in the company of our good friend Gordy on a trip to Blue Water Shopping Centre, somewhere outside the M25.

The day didn't get off to a good start with the Blond missing every major turn (my navigation was, of course, impeccable) and the fact that the queue for Blue water started somewhere around Whitechapel. Couple this with my fear that the car parj would be ful of Pikeys and their caravans and the mall littered with Class A Chavs made me wonder just why we went.

I have to say though that the whole experience was a joy, very civilised and most of the Kent/Essex element (well they are hardly a massive are they) was confined to River Island.

The only worry is just how much Gordy spent on eye cream... it could easily have wiped off the national debt of Croydon

How not to

2005-11-18T11:24:00.000Z

Yesterday I woke up in the biggest grump imaginable. Shit happens, bad shave and Natasha Kaplunsky on Morning TV do nothing to help matters either. Couple that with the fact that I have a cold in my good ear so I am now almost deaf, meaning all you can hear on my floor is me yelling 'EH?!?!?!?!'

So I go home for a slob out in front of the TV, can't face a double helping of the poor people in Eastenders, so watch How Not to Decorate instead.

That just sent me over the edge - Colin and Justin, sweet as they are obvioulsy know nothing about:

* How to dress
* How to decorate
* How to look as if you haven't just blown a particularly rusty trombone (click link for definition)

What has happened to Scottish exports - we used to have Connery and Lulu. Now we have Colin, Justin and Ali McCoist.

Future Perfect

2005-11-17T08:58:00.000Z

I've been fortunate enough to find myself a new husband for my next life. We were chatting yesterday and we came to the conclusion that we have damned ourselves enough in this lifetime to ensure we'd be together in the next.

We've agreed that Skip will spend my money and I will burn his wardrobe.

I have only one request from the Almighty, though, please don't let me be born in Penge...

A minor victory

2005-11-16T08:47:00.000Z

Never one to be shy to blow my own trumpet (well Mother Nature can only be that kind to a select few of us - which may explain why I never leave the house), but yesterday we won a minor victory.

Yes, the Blond and I, after a carefully orchestrated campaign, successfully stopped the local pub extending its hours. It just goes to show what leaflets, middle class indignation and a kick arse lawyer can do.

The victory is only slightly soured by the fact that I have realised that I am turning into my parents... ie 'Not on my doorstep...'

Oh my...

Back

2005-11-15T09:19:00.000Z

Sorry dear readers, I have had trouble reaching this account - I would blame technology but it appears that I am just a crap typist and couldn't get my password right.

Well Scotland was a change - and not necessarily a good one. The scenery was spectacular, alas I saw most of it from the back seat of a car because it was too wet and windy for anything else.

I seem to have landed myself the possibility of an interesting role at work, Christmas is looming and I haven't had sex in over a week because we have had house guests and our sofa bed is not conducive for horizontal jogging when the Blond's brother is in the next room.

My balls are so full it looks like I have mumps.

Back

2005-11-07T10:04:00.000Z

Well what a week that was - the Blond, the dog and I traipsed up to the Western Highlands for a break. It was cold, it was wet and everything had closed for the winter. Add a dash of real Highland dourness and service with a surl made for an intersting time.

The was one highlight though - you may have noticed that I had no packing dilemma this time. When the weather is as wet and windy as it is up there, you need to pack something thick and woolly. Naturally, that is why I took the Blond.

Speed

2005-10-27T08:11:00.000Z

Not the drug of choice of the '90s, rather the Keanu Reeves/Sandra Bollock action flick.

Three things surprised me about the film:

1 - It's actually really rather good.

2 - It was made in 1994 - which makes me feel as old as the Blond looks.

3 - Keanu Reeves looks exceptionally good in a tight white t-shirt and cropped hair.

With an image like that, who needs porn...

Bloody Bastard Cyclists

2005-10-26T07:41:00.000Z

No really, sod 'em.

Sod 'em all.

They cycle around with their tree-hugging-holier-than-thou-I'm-so-fit-and-friendly-to-the-environment smugness with precious little regard for pedestrians, pathways or any rules of the road that they think are irrelevant.

And to the arsehole who run over my foot this morning while I walked on the pavement; you may get to work earlier and in quicker time than me, but at least I don't look like a complete knob in spandex on my commute.

Tosser.

Hmmmmmmm

2005-10-25T08:32:00.000Z

Late night texts that apparently never existed, so I'm told.

Should I be suspicious?

Not that I am paranoid you understand...

No....

Not me...

Never

2005-10-24T10:44:00.000Z

I repeat never travel with Australians.

* They miss 6m x 6m signs for a road that will shave hours of your journey.

* They then point blank refuse to say they are sorry for missing aforementioned sign

* When asked in Fench a simple question, they reply in English.

* They don't tip service - be it good, bad or indifferent.

* They don't understand that when revisiting the same restaurant they get shoddy service.

Bloody good job the Blond is good in the sack.

Bugger

2005-10-18T08:54:00.000Z

It looks like it will be raining for the whole weekend we are in Avignon.

So my packing dilemma continues... I have to take a kagoul, but how do I avoid looking like a Star Trek fan in it?

Oh la la

2005-10-17T09:15:00.000Z

The Blond and I are off to France, so the usual packing nightmares are keeping me awake at night.

Suggestions please for outfits for four days to the South of France.

I need room in my case to bring back a perfectly formed French Stud, so bear that in mind.

Last night and this morning

2005-10-14T08:21:00.000Z

One mojito, two mojito, three mojito... Hangover

Enough said.

Wounded, mortally wounded

2005-10-13T08:35:00.000Z

UNICEF, that bastion of internation cheldren's rights have blanket bombed the Smurf village - killing everyone in sight except baby Smurf.

Is it me or is this just too distressing for words. It's like seeing Bagpuss skinned and turned into a muff, or seeing Heidi in porn, or seeing Morph turned into a sex toy.

I'm distressed, very distressed, but also intrigued.

Smurfs are already blue, so what colour do they go when they die?

Oi! ITN

2005-10-12T10:25:00.000Z

When are we going to get the dulcet tones of Mary Nightingale or another female presenter reporting from the field on the evening news? The woman has class, sympathy and oozes sincerity, and to be quite frank the following don't quite work for me:

Mark Austin: He's a bit too cute and it's distracting. When he say's 'Iraqi uprisings' it has a strange effect in my nether regions.

Bill Neely: Why does he have to SHOUT AT ME WHEN TELLING ME REALLY IMPORTANT NEWS? Stop it, I say, it's rude.

Nicholas Owen: I'm already fast asleep by the time he's finished giving the headlines.

The X-Factor .... again

2005-10-10T08:30:00.000Z

The Blond, myself and our friends Howard and Ken, sat down on Saturday night with too much booze to see who the final 12 contestants are for this year's X-Factor.

Now, I am no fan of Simon Cowell, but at least he made some sensible decisions. However, the middle-aged Ms Osbourne and lost Santa's Little Helper Louis Walsh made decisions that bugger belief.

I thought they were looking for the person with the X-Factor - it seems Walsh and Osbourne are looking for the X chromosone they are clearly lacking.

Because only that can explain their choices.

It was his party...

2005-10-07T08:18:00.000Z

Last night the Blond, myself and our terrible nice, terribly gorgeous, terribly witty, terribly sexy and terribly straight friend Simon went to Charlotte's Place to celebrate the Blond's birthday.

When we last went, this little restaurant overlooking the common was a jewel: It was decorated with heady green and gold damsak on the walls, ochre tinged wooden tables and red velvet, slightly dog-eared chairs and the whole palce was lit by candle light. It was shabby, yet it was charming, it was cosy and inviting and a place you wanted to spend an evening.

We turn up last night and the damask has gone. As has the comfy worn out chairs. As had most of the candles. It was replaced with generic Swedish tables, brown leather chairs and white walls.

It's only saving grace was that, coupled with his wonderfully-fitted shirt, Simon looked lovely against the pristeen white.

It's the Blond's Birthday today...

2005-10-06T08:15:00.000Z

He's 33 - that great age of youthful maturity, when you see the world for what it is and love it. The age when you can stay out till the early hours and not suffer too much the next day, where your body hasn't yet started to gratify gravity and where you get the first wisps of grey around the temples.

It's also crucifying age, which he'll be best off remembering when he next pisses me off.

Pass, the nails Gladys....

Dinners of yore...

2005-10-05T09:22:00.000Z

I'm off to sit for my artist friend Noel and have dinner at his afterwards tonight. this got me thinking of a dinner we attended years ago together. The below I posted many years ago, and is republished here. The moral of the story? Don't feed the dog from the table.

"The inspiration for this entry comes from a dinner party I attended a few weeks back. The people gathered were an eclectic bunch of artists, lawyers, designers and all the rest. Halfway through aperitifs, we were told that one of the guests was bringing her dog - the dog turned out to be a terribly nice middle-aged man whose name I won't mention in a public forum but he had a rather attractive stud collar with a silver ring on it. Now, I'm of the school 'easy-come-easy-go', but there is no amount of social etiquette classes and training that can prepare you for such an event. This is why I've decided to share my knowledge gleaned from this highly unusual, but infinitely inspirational dinner. Should you find yourselves in a similar situation, the following should help:

* Try not to laugh - Although this sounds incredibly obvious, it is the hardest task you will have to complete all evening. You will see things that will make you squirm with embarrassment and send you spiralling through space and time to your schoolyard days. Even though humiliation is part of the raison d'être of the whole relationship, being outright rude is not.

* Assumption - The relationship between mistress and 'dog' is not necessarily sexual - it is wrong to assume so.

* Do not feed the animal - The 'dog', as all dogs are, is to be fed by his mistress alone and will usually feed from her scraps. If you catch the 'dog' begging or eyeing up the food, tell the mistress - it is not your job to scold him. At the party above, the mistress was kind enough to give her dog a sip of champagne; when he held the glass and was offered a top up, he got a telling off.

* Do not speak to the animal - if you want to speak to the 'dog', you must ask permission from mistress. If you don't, the 'dog' will ask her for permission to answer. Most of the time, the mistress will answer for her pet.

* Fetch! - If you want a pen, light, cigarette or more gravy, ask the 'dog'. This is the one time when you can speak directly to the pet without mistress's permission.

* Supremacy - If mistress declares that she is the representative of Female Supremacy on Earth, do not laugh - you will regret it. I did and regretted it...

* Petting - Don't pet the 'dog' without express permission. This is the only way that the 'dog' knows that he has pleased his mistress; if everyone pets him, it'll lose some of its potency.

* Keep your eyes peeled - Although the relationship is mistress and 'dog', the 'dog' is in fact a man and occupies space and positions that are not usual for a human for any length of time. You can expect the 'dog' to be squatting behind his mistress's chair or sat on the floor by the sofa.

* House and home - Don't ask where the 'dog' lives, or at least be prepared for a shock. The guest at the party above paid a substantial amount of money each week to live in a kennel in the house of his mistress. Others live in cupboards under the stairs.

The Blond and The Dog...

2005-10-04T08:49:00.000Z

... have much in common:

* They love being on all fours
* They are covered in hair
* They both bark for daddy
* They are both well-groomed
* They both love their toys

If only I could get the Blond to come when called...

When Worlds Collide

2005-10-03T13:09:00.000Z

We're a hypocritical lot, us British. We look upon those who pick their nose, scratch their bits, adjust their bras or adjust their crotches in public with a sneer of cold command.

Yet lo and behold, on a genteel, autumnal Sunday afternoon, when the first leaves start to drop from the tree and fall to the cold, dew-laden grass, and Songs of Praise makes way for the Antiques Roadshow, a quick flick to ITV and my senses are assaulted with an ad for Bitch Itch Cream.

If you can't do it in public, don't broadcast it at tea time.

So ladies of the advertising world, I'll make you a deal - keep your Snatch Scratch Cream ads to yourself and I'll put the toilet seat down when I've finished.

I mean, really, What would Thora Hird say?

Elizabeth and Ashley

2005-09-30T08:28:00.000Z

Last night I started watching Elizabeth on Channel 4. When I fell asleep she was a princess. When I awoke she was a queen.

Story of my life, really.

Elevenses

2005-09-29T12:41:00.000Z

My elevenses usually consist of a sit down with a nice cup of tea and a biscuit. Alas, today I forfeited my very British ritual to go to the gym. And I wish I hadn't.

Don't get me wrong, I loved my work out, it's just that the other men there were either grunters or sweaters. Occasionally both.

Now I don't mind this per se, indeed when I closed my eyes, opened my ears and nose, the sounds and aromas sent me spiralling back to my glory days in Chariots.

However, when opening my eyes, the sight of glandular men sweating and moaning and achieving very little brought me spiralling back to the present.

It reminded me of sale day in H&M

The Big Question Now Answered...

2005-09-27T10:45:00.000Z

... by a colleague of the Blond's. Yesterday, while we were hurtling down the M4, I picked up the Blond's phone when it started ringing, and had a lovely conversation with a terribly nice lady explaining that the other half couldn't pick up the phone as he was driving. After a few pleasantries, we hung up.

Today, the Blond tells me that the aforementioned lady thought I was his father. She was almost there, but it does prove one thing to the Blond...

... I am the Daddy.

Two Yellow Roses of Texas

2005-09-27T08:42:00.000Z

Last night the Blond and I played host to my American Ex, his best friend (who I also slept with) and their mothers. Despite being in the somewhat awkward situation of having seen all the men at the table naked at one point or another, the evening went swimmingly.

The mothers were true, gracious, very Southern, very genteel ladies. Witty, sharp, excited at being in Yoo-rup and polite to the point where I was considering adopting the pair of them.

Normally I am a strong advocate of gay men not turning into their mothers (see why, in my case, this is a no go), but in this instance, both these boys could do a lot worse.

Ladies of the South, it was a pleasure...

Mini-Mexican Wave for Me

2005-09-27T08:41:00.000Z

I am now the proud holder of an International Powerboat License. I now have the authority to have a throbbing piece of machinery in my hands to do with as I please.

Well, as the Blond gets older and loses vigour, it'll be lovely to get my jollies with mechanics.

Having the last word...

2005-09-22T08:17:00.000Z

... and still being polite. Now as discussed previously in this blog, you'll know that I'm always right. Now add to this the fact that I always like the last word, coupled with my innate Britishness, I am frequently stuck in conversation loops like the one I had this morning with someone who evidently shares these very same traits:

Me: Good morning!

Them: Good Morning!

Me: You well?

Them: Yes, thank you, and you?

Me: I'm champion, thank you.

Them: Pleased to hear it.

Me: You're looking well!

Them: Thanks!

Me: Those shoes are great.

Them: I got them from Kenneth Cole.

Me: Really lovely.

Them: Cheers!

Me: Can't stand gossiping all day, must dash!

Them: No wories, Take care!

Me: Bye!

Them: Bye!

Me: See you later.

At which point I strode out of ear shot... but damn I will have the last word

Being told what to do by Tracey Emin

2005-09-21T08:06:00.000Z

As the Kate Moss story unfolded last week, my senses were assaulted by the graceless tones of Tracey Emin telling us, the nation, to 'Leave Kate Alone!'.

I know this is quite eleoquent for the usually cotton-mouthed Emin, but I find it a little rich being told what to do from a drink-addled talentless hack. After all the only people I know who make money from their beds are whores and they are far better practitioners of their art than the mono-syllabic Emin could ever aspire to be.

She must assume that because she looks like Yoda, she must be wise.

I've just had a lovely three-way...

2005-09-20T08:56:00.000Z

... conversation with two friends from university - Nathalie (gorgeous red-head who I shared a flat with for a few years), Rob (straight posh totty) and myself. We met in Liverpool when you chose that university town not because of its standard of higher education or its European Capital of Culture status, rather the fact that it had the best nightclub scene, the cheapest recreational drugs and the promise of seedy neighbourhood gang bangs.

In 15 minutes of MSN chat, we covered Hollywood waxes, colonic irrigation, 17 hands between my thighs, shaved arses, bad hair-dos, past lovers from Skelmersdale with a penchant for Celine Dion, the sexuality of aforementioned lover from Skelmersdale and the student union.

Aaaaaaaaaah, those were the days....

The things I do...

2005-09-19T09:29:00.000Z

A topic of debate over the past few weeks is whether or not I am butch or bitch, so in the interest of fairness, here are four butch, manly man things I do and the gay extras that undermine them. You make your own mind up:

I read on the toilet - Very masculine, I hear you coo. Sad thing is, it's usually OK! magazine.

I am good at DIY- Yes, I have work clothes and am good with a power tool. However, I wear gloves to protect my hands.

I box to keep fit - but I wear my tighty whitey shorts when doing so.

I have a hairy chest - but I clip it to show off my pecs.

It was a big...

2005-09-19T08:42:00.000Z

... Gay Day at the Zoo on Sunday. It appears that someone in the marketing department had a stroke of genius and organised the Zoo's first big Gay Day. And it was a roaring success.

The animals arrived two-by-two and the Blond and I watch them file past - first the bears, then the twinks and lastly, the biggest group of all, the fairies. They squealed at the cubs as their tottered past in their finery, matching the animals pride for pride.

And the most popular venue? The nocturnal room... normally a safe haven for the shyest night time animals turned into the biggest dark room in North London - and The Gays felt right at home. The floor was sticky, there were shrieks in the dark, and the whole place smelt like shit - like the dark room in central station, with better views.

Packing - Part 2

2005-09-16T08:28:00.000Z

Next weekend the Blond and I are off to Cornwall to do a two-day course to obtain our International Power-boat License, but just what is a Gay to pack for such an adventure.

* Deck shoes are out - I haven't worn those since Vanessa Feltz was a size 12.

* Kagouls are out - I refuse to wear a garment which, when saying it, makes you look like you're flobbing out man jam.

* Waterproof trousers are out - they're just wrong on so many different levels.

Suggestions below please.

It's a Burden...

2005-09-15T09:36:00.000Z

... always being right. But alas that is my cross to bear.

However, this morning may have been a rare instance where the unthinkable has happened - I may have got it wrong. Which is why I turn to you, dear reader.

The Blond and I split our holiday bills down the middle, when I asked how much I owed, this is the email I got in response:

'Your bill for Italy is £XXX. That includes the shirt and your birthday deductions.'

I assumed that this meant that the £XXX included the shirt which I assumed we bought together, for mutual use.

Am I wrong? It would be a first....

The Ashes

2005-09-14T12:12:00.000Z

Now while I am glad that England won the Ashes and that the Aussies lost (first the rugby, then cricket - barbecue that boys), there is one discipline that the Aussies will always beat us in - good looking sportsmen.

While we may have the upper hand in sport, my time is always spent ogling the better toned, better looking Aussie squads.

Now Flintoff may be a great sportsman, but he does have a face that only a mother could love.

She's got it...

2005-09-13T09:13:00.000Z

But I'm not quite sure it's the X-Factor.

Yes, Michelle Thorse, who wowed Simon Cowell during last week's X-factor auditions has had a lengthy, hard fought career in porn. The remit of the show I understand is to flaunt your talents to the world at large, and it appears Ms Thorne has already done so with aplomb.

She may not have the X-Factor, but what she does have is a hole lot of talent.

It's Manchester, like...

2005-09-12T10:25:00.000Z

The Blond and I went to Manchester for the weeeknd. He to go to the football, me to go shopping. When I last went to the city it was a run-down flea pit. No-one lived in the city centre, pound shops a-plenty and a real layer of urban grime coating the whole city - plus more bad hair than the eye can take in. (Which begs the question what is it these people ask for in the hairdressers 'I'd like to look as if a bird has shat on my head from a great height, plus my usual frizzy perm please')

The bad hair is still there, but the city centre is a dream - Harvey Nichs, Selfridges, revamped shopping centres and great restaurants - Manchester has remodelled itself and has become the gay Mothership of the North. But what of the Mancunians? Here's what I overheard as one lovely mancunian specimen trilled into his mobile phone:

Mancunian: It's really expensive stuff, they only harvest around 5kg of the stuff a year, like, and you can't get better. The high lasts for hours, it really is worth the money like.

While he paused for a reply, I paused for thought and drew the happy conclusion that maybe Manchester hasn't changed after all...

Mancunian: It really is the best coffee money can buy, like.

Alas, it appears it has...

Back from beyond?

2005-09-09T09:01:00.000Z

Did you all miss me while I was away, really sick for two days?

What I thought was hayfever turned out to be full blown flu of some description and - to my shame - I was typically male in my sickness.

There I was laid up with more snot than I knew what to do with, the dog kept his distance, as did the Blond.

I was clammy, sweaty and very smelly. I didn't shave for three days, I was grouchy, I wore my grandpa pants for comfort and jogging trousers for three days and snarled at anyone who came close.

I now know what it is like to feel and dress like a lesbian, if only for two days.

Sniiiiiiiiff

2005-09-06T08:35:00.000Z

I have rotten hay fever today, my nose is an express highway for snot.

Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiffff

To remedy this I duck into the chemist and they send me packing with a nasal spray.

Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiffff

I just find it odd that for years my parents told me not to sniff solvents, and now i am being actively encouraged to do so.

Sniiiiiiiiiiiiiiiffff

In Defence of Jordan

2005-09-05T10:36:00.000Z

Poor Jordan is is receiving broadsides from guttersnipes Abi Titmuss and Jodie Marsh for landing a two-book deal.

Personally I shall be reading them for I can think of no-one else more qualified to write romantic novels. After all she is marrying a real toad who may one day turn into a prince.

Working from home

2005-09-02T09:10:00.000Z

Every Friday the Blond works from home, which means he gets to walk the dog and I get a lie in. Which is all very pleasant.

But there is only one thing about this arrangement that bothers me ever so slightly. When my hairy boy gets home, he sets his computer up takes his trousers off and works in his pants for the duration of the day. Now this mix of Aussie brazeness and my Great British prudery may seem amusing, but I do worry about my grubby, hairy hubby's backside in close proximity to my white dining chairs.

Not very House and Gardens now is it?

Meat

2005-09-01T09:18:00.000Z

Good these Italians love their meat - pork in particular. Ham for instance can be parma, English (that'll be the e-coli), French (still oinking) or cured. The beef is raw, soaked in vinegar or salted by the sweat of a thousand virgins.

If the waiters aren't serving it on a plate, they are showing their own man meat in their beautifully cut trousers.

I love Italy, I really do...

I'm back

2005-09-01T08:04:00.000Z

And have the three things which prove I have had a great holiday:

1) A few extra pounds that I shall lose the good old fashioned way - laxatives and smokes

2) A sun tan - that depsite whatever I do will disappear in a day

3) A sore hoop - that I'll get ointment for

Packing

2005-08-26T07:55:00.000Z

As we packed for our upcoming trip to Italy last night, I suddenly realised just how gay I am by looking at the sheer amount of clothing we packed:

9 pairs of shorts/trousers
All our underwear (even the grandma pants we save for laundry days)
8 pairs of shoes
15 T-shirts
10 Formal shirts
6 Belts
3 Pairs of sunglasses
4 Pairs of swimming trunks

The Blond said with a wink that he best pack the lube, I replied sure, as that's the only way we'll squeeze your fat arse into the plane seat.

He wasn't happy.

Negroni and Pork Scratchings

2005-08-25T08:55:00.000Z

Tuesday night the Blond and I went to the new Gary Rhodes restaurant in the Old Cumberland Hotel in Marble Arch. It used to be the Britannia Hotel of the south - a glorified, crumbling knocking shop desperately trying to hang on to a gilded past.

Now it is a vast, open plan hotel-cum-raturant-come gallery space with lots of white walls, garish neon lights and odd looking stautes. It's been hailed as a little piece of New York in London. It looks like a monumental waste of prime real estate to me that doesn't quite pull off the minimalist chic that the Hempel has.

The restauarant itself was lovely - classic Rhodes food - British, simple and well prepared and I started the meal of with a negroni - Campari, Martini and Gin. After the meal we went to the Elephant's Graveyard (City of Quebec) where ageing gays get to pick up young rent boys for the price of a pint and the bus fare home.

The Quebec is a place where beer is warm and pork scratchings aren't a delicious salty snack but rather sweaty old men playing with themselves and where the old meet the young. The air thrums not with witty repartee but above the chatter you can hear the older clientele's favourite pick up line is 'Your English is very good'.

The next day I was so ill (flu) and depressed (Campari has that effect on me) that I spent the day watching bad television, indulging in my own pork scratchings.

Hail Marys

2005-08-23T08:10:00.000Z

There are people in my life who drift in and out, but remain steadfast allies. One such friend of mine is Joseph, a short, compact little blond gay who is as nice as he is short; lovely smile, great laugh and cute to boot. In our heyday we used to write reviews for gay porn films, now we both have respectable jobs built upon the knowledge gleaned from all those videos.

Joseph, like many nice gays, has been treated like shit by many of his past boyfriends which is why, when he called up telling me we have to meet for lunch because he has found 'The One', I couldn't help but have my interest piqued.

So the day arrives, Joseph arrives, resplendent in denim and dusty pink, being trailed by a man who towers over him and is a huge hunk of Latin handsomeness - the man oozes dangerous sexuality, intellect and sincerity. I am, along with all the others in the canteen, suitably impressed. Joseph skips up and introduces his new man:

"Ashley, I'd like you to meet Jesus"

My jaw almost hit the floor - I couldn't think of a more appropriate name for one so Biblically proportioned (as Joseph didn't hesitate to tell me during a potty break, during which time I found out he is almost exclusively passive, too). However, I couldn't stop grinning at the thought of the pillow talk between two gays called Joseph and Jesus.

Imagine the scene, if you will, as Jesus is being royally nailed by Joseph:

Joseph: Take that big boy

Jesus: Ooooooh daddy

Joseph: Grunt

Jesus: Grunt

Joseph: Grunt Grunt Grunt

Jesus: Bring it home Daddy

Joseph: Oh Jesus I'm coming!

Amen to that

More Butch than Bitch

2005-08-22T08:08:00.000Z

The Blond demolished a wall this weekend - sledge hammer in hand, sunglasses on and sweaty in the right places, he made my day.

If I had a fanny it would have wobbled

Perks of the job

2005-08-19T10:53:00.000Z

I see the Pope is on a state visit to his native Germany. It sounds like the perfect job to me:

* Good house
* Nice uniform
* International travel

But the highlight must be having all those people bend down and kiss your ring - I bet he has a lovely cluster too.

Lost

2005-08-18T08:36:00.000Z

I don't know about you, but I sure as hell am. What promised to be a great series descended into mind boggling melodrama worthy of Hallmark, not Channel 4. The pilot had much going for it - scary monsters, looped cryptic messages, polar bears and people getting eaten or sucked into jet engines.

But what did we have last night? A cute dog reunited with his owner, a naked Japanese lady having a wash (even her hubby has come over all nice), an impossibly pregnant girl (just what is she giving birth too, I wonder, a water buffalo?) and some piece of hokum around the girl who was being extradited home (what for we still didn't discover). All this and not a beastie in sight.

Having said all that I am hooked. I shall be return every week to see the beautifully chiselled Josh Holloway, being as attracted to him as I am as gay men are to anonymous sex in bushes.

It's big and brown and won't go away

2005-08-17T09:12:00.000Z

We have a wealth of talent on this floor - writers, designers, coders, taxonomists, user experience bods, community hosts to name but a few. But as far as I know Gillian McKeith doesn't work on this floor to analyse staff stool samples. Which is why I am aghast to have been visually assaulted by the biggest floater I have ever seen inhabit a staff toilet. So to whoever it is, I address the following:

1) Chew your food.

2) If at first you do not succeed, flush, flush, flush and flush again.

2) If you are so proud of your creation, take it to the appropriate website. Don't leave it for the rest of us to savour.

Ta.

Motherly Love

2005-08-16T08:06:00.000Z

It's my birthday month, which means I am guaranteed two things: to get a year older and to get crap presents from my family. I don't want to appear ungrateful, but the presents I have received in the past you wouldn't wish on anyone. The list of previous gifts includes, but is by no means restricted to, the following:

A singing lobster
A feng shui rock pool
A miniature boules set

So it is for this reason that my family ask me what presents I would like. last night's conversation proved that not only does my family know they buy me crap presents, but also that my mother has obviously passed her Gay-Levels Magna cum Laude:

Mother: So what would you like for your birthday then sweetheart?

Me: I actually know what I want this year, I'd like 500 diamond poker chips weighing 11.5gm each, I have a web address where you can get them cheaply

Mother: Really? Is that what you want?

Me: Yes, why?

Mother: Well it's just a little macho for you - I was thinking of getting you some bed linen.

Me: That's sweet, duchess, but the poker chips would be lovely, honest.

Mother: Oh OK then, I suppose you've never really been a real fairy have you?

Me: Excuse me?

Mother: I mean you're a poof, yes, but you're not a Mary are you?

Me: Eh?

Mother: I mean, uh, you're just a poof not a sissy or a real queer?

Me: Sorry, duchess, you've lost me.

Mother: I mean you are you. Just a homo, I mean it's not your fault you're gay is it?

Me: No, it's yours.

*** She hangs up ***

I'll be expecting another singing lobster for my birthday then...

As many of you know

2005-08-15T15:00:00.000Z

There are two things I hate: size queens and little dicks. Which is why I love the Blond because he is generous on the second count indeed. Not only that, it does tricks too.

So it is big and it is clever.

So there

Marvellous darling, simply marvellous

2005-08-15T09:17:00.000Z

Yesterday my dear friend Noel and I went to an event that is at the heart of the English Unashamedly Rich - Glyndebourne. We both arrived looking diamond hard and Saville Row sharp in our suits (his Oswald Boateng, mine Hugo Boss), laden with Champagne, good food, picnic baskets and the air of people knowing they are in for a treat.

And we weren't disappointed.

The great thing with Glyndebourne is that because the event has more money than God at its disposal, they spend it all on the best singers, orchestras, set designers and conductors money can bribe. We sat through nearly four hours of sumptuous sets and nubile singers and left feeling as if we'd just eaten a quart of clotted cream.

The other great things about Glyndebourne are the Fruits in Suits. I love a decently clobbered gay, but sadly yesterday's fruits were a little too plump and ripe for my tastes. More suitable for pulping than picking I'm afraid.

Ooooh the shame

2005-08-12T10:52:00.000Z

All our meeting rooms are named after famous personages, and today I have just heard that we are all coming together in Amelia Earhart.

Saucy Minx, no wonder she disappeared.

So...

2005-08-11T11:31:00.000Z

So, BB6 Anthony is straight then?

Hmmmmmmmm

Put the tweezers down sweetie, and back away from the mirror.

Floor Show

2005-08-11T08:21:00.000Z

I have one of the most enviable views from my little corner of the office - sprawled before me is West london, and directly outside I have one of the largest council estates in the country. Even in the bright sunshine the houses have an air of the down-trodden about them. And as much as I loathe stereotypes, when they smack you in the face, you just have to acknowledge them.

For instance, one in three of the houses has some form of white goods on their lawn - fridges, freezers and vacuums are all stored on the 1m square pateches of lawn. There are burnt out cars and nubile youths, bare chested, smoking on the brick walls looking up at the office where I work. And then there are the net curtains - that bastion of British interior decor that serve only to cover the squalor of lower class living.

Every Wednesday, about 2pm two residents of the estate partake of their carnal pleasures in their living room, against the window, for all to see. This is with such alarming regularity that he is either paying for it or they just want to squeeze in an afternoon quickie between Neighbours and Flog It. Being a red blooded male I'd normally not mind, but the poor chap's body prefers to gratify gravity rather than defy it. Plus he seems to revel in giving his lady oral pleasure. And for a gay, this is not good as Cunnilingus is an airline I have never flown...

So this is to my new council estate friends:

1) Please make you sessions last longer than 10 mins - when I bring popcorn I expect to finish it before the show ends

2) To the male - please go to the gym.

3) If the above fails, buy some net curtains

Please.

Dilemma

2005-08-10T09:28:00.000Z

How do you let someone know that it isn't homophobia, it's just that everyone hates them?

Answers below please

Family ties

2005-08-09T08:22:00.000Z

If your second cousin is your cousin's cousin what is it when your sister's husband is a real Daddy?

The Duchess and Grumps

2005-08-08T08:29:00.000Z

The Blond and I were regaled with a visit from my parents over the weekend. Mother arrived resplendent in orange and my dad was behind her, basking in the light of her dayglo t-shirt. She spent most of the weekend sat on the decking, smoking, arms folded on her belly spouting forth on the world, its problems and how she would solve them. Who needs reiki or the ancient oracles when we've got our own Buddha of Bermondsey ready to share her wisdom. And share and share and share...

She didn't stop, not even for breath, for the whole weekend...

It got to the stage where I sat with my deaf ear to the old bird and switched off (a skill passed from father to son). In this state we went to an auction, mother still resplendent in orange, looking like an overripe tangerine, dad in tow and we sat waiting for our lots. I was shaken from my catatonic state by the Blond who looked as if he was being swallowed by the sofa we were sat on, and he flicked his head towards Buddha, and went crimson. Mum was spouting forth, still, and this is how it went:

.... and this pink thing shot up, and out poured this green foam, and I tell you sweetheart it stank, it was sticky and I couldn't wash it out for weeks.

I have no idea what she was talking about, but I now look at my dad in a whole new, orange tinted light.

Banksy

2005-08-05T13:23:00.000Z

Banksy, guerrila artist, has just finished a series of works which depict his own particulary astute opinions on the wall dividing Palestine and Israel.

I like them, they say more about the situation and the wall than anything else I've seen. I wonder if he'll pop over to West London and sort out my living room.

Full Series - http://www.banksy.co.uk/news/index.html

Awful moment of realisation...

2005-08-05T09:16:00.000Z

The Blond and I were watching EastEnders yesterday - there's nothing like the misery of that sorry soap to really lift the spirits, when I was hit with an awful revelation: Pat Butcher is my mother, she just has better accessories.

Seriously, the size, the hair, the smokes, the make up, the accent, the facial expressions and the way she behaves are those of my mother. I paled, nearly fainted...

The Blond pissed himself laughing and was amazed that I hadn't seen the parallels before. He then got very serious, very quickly....

Apparently, under no circumstances, am I to turn into my mother.

Ever.

Charity begins...

2005-08-04T09:06:00.000Z

... in the Charity Shop where I donated my clothes on Saturday. We tend to do this more with my clothes than the Blond's - after all these people have enough to worry about, without insulting them with his togs.

Imagine my surprise when walking home last night I see the queen who manages the charity shop where the Blond and I make our donations wearing the sweater I donated the previous Saturday.

I know that these shops have a reputation for the staff taking off the cream of the clothing that is donated, but what really pisses me off is that he looked better in the jumper than I ever did.

Bastard.

I wanna be MT

2005-08-03T07:43:00.000Z

I want to be my friend MT (http://memyselfmrtourette.blogspot.com/), it's not because I am unhappy with my lot, it's just that I want to:

Go out and shag gorgeous men indiscriminately
I want to have the motivation to get my body as buff as his
I want to have the confidence to liberally sprinkle the word 'cunt' into every conversation - and mean it
I want to be him so I don't have to come to this place and 'work'

And to cap it all he has a date with a Swede - a beautiful one at that. I just hope he eats all his vegetables...

Santa Claus is coming...

2005-08-02T07:57:00.000Z

Is it wrong to dream about Santa in August, as I did last night?

Maybe there's some underlying issues with bearded men emptying their sacks at the end of my bed that I need to explore.

Hampstead Heath

2005-08-01T08:29:00.000Z

After an internet search, a credit card payment over a dodgy server, myself, my three best friends (The Blond, Moët and Chandon) and a bucket of greasy chicken went to Hampstead Heath.

Music on a Summer Evening at Kenwood house is a very English affair - picnics, day old baguettes and wonderfully British old ladies with blue rinses and plastic macs. It was cold, it was wet, there were far too many women and young girls crroning for Will Young. The Hackney Massive were there with their 'Come on Will Light My Fire' t-shirts, with too much make-up, bad jewellery and tight fitting shorts - they brought their wives with them too.

The night was a little disappointing compared to my previous experiences on the Heath - after all the last time I'd arranged to meet a man on the heath via the net I packed knee pads, not Moët - though the audience I used to draw with my little floor shows was comparable.

Exit pursued by a bear...

2005-07-29T20:01:00.000Z

Mother Nature, like every other woman in a position of power, is a fickle mistress. Sometimes she produces real gems like my friend Gordy: compassionate, caring, generous to a fault and witty. Sadly, she also throws up men to abuse those like Gordy, like his ex, who is more akin to Baby Jane Hudson than any man I know.

I first met BJH when Gordy invited the Blond and me round for get-to-know you drinkies to show off his new catch and a meal. My first impressions were good - BJH is handsome in a way, forthright and a dab hand in the kitchen - slightly too hairy for my liking, but then again why should I care because it wasn't my bed he was going to molt in.

The evening started well but after a few drinks the argument started - there seemed to be something in the air that I couldn't quite grasp (and I was damn sure it wasn't the dander from BJH's back hair) and the two started fighting - and it got ugly and awkward but towards the end it started to settle down. Not a great first impression but the Blond and I put it down to nerves.

So naturally, when the occasion arose to meet up with Gordy and BJH again, we jumped at it (aperitifs in teatro are not, after all, to be dismissed lightly). The arguments started before we could order drinks and the evening got progressively worse as we ate in Mezza and descended to the Friendly Society where BJH managed to do the unspeakable - piss the Blond off. Now those who know the Blond know he is quiet, determined and not easily riled (like most Aussies), yet somehow BJH managed it. And those even more in the know, realise that there is only one person allowed to piss him off, and that's me.

In the true spirit of camaraderie, and because we love Gordy to bits, we agreed to meet them in Satsuma for one last attempt to try and see in BJH the good that Gordy did.

We didn't. At the end of the meal I was sat next to BJH and I suddenly realised that I had not been this close to a real cunt since birth.

I then had to tell Gordy that while I am happy to see him again, but not with his bunyon of a boyfriend. Being the star that he is, he took it on the chin and understood. He knows me well enough that to make such a suggestion meant that I had been pushed to breaking point.

Gordy duly dumped him and that's when his true vindictive manipulative side came out - Gordy is now being pursued by this hairy couldn't-care-less bear with aplomb.

The moral of this story?

If you're gay man you love dick, so don't date a cunt