So it's new years eve.

So it's new years eve. Wow, another whole year has passed for me, and since it's also my birthday, I can really say that, mmm yes, another year has gone by.

It's been a busy one. I have moved accross the world, visited Canada, Ireland, Denmark, France twice, Iceland... Got a new fabulous job in London, had the biggest assembly of my closest friends ever (sadly to say goodbye), competed in swimming at the Outgames in Montreal and most impressively for me, survived my first Christmas and new years in the winter.

Well, almost.

Today, just to cap off our lovely week of doing f all around London, we decided to skip off to the Glorious London Portrait Gallery at the rear of the National Gallery for some culture. The wife had seen an advert for an exhibition of the Pet Shop Boys, and we wanted to make sure we saw it before it finished in March.

Ok, so, if you've been nodding thinking, "ooh, yes, I'd like to see that", well, let me spare you the tube fare. Go to your CD drawer, and open up your PSB "Discography" CD (yes, OK, I know you've all got a copy), and look at the inner sleeve. There you will find a better exhibition than the half dozen manky pictures hangin' in the cellar next to the shop in the basement of the gallery.

Pissed off mach 1.

After this occupied a whole 7.5 minutes of the afternoon, and I had already put on my best scarf, best brown boots and new Paul Smith pants to head into the west end, we decided to stroll down the Mall, just to have a nice London walk. This was lovely, we sauntered along the Princess Diana commemorative walk through St James park and laughed like lovers at the squirrels, the geese, the ducks, and the skyrats. We decided that the rain didn't really matter, darn it! lets be devvilish, and get a hot chocolate from the little kiosk adjacent to Buckingham Palace.

What could be more disappointing than a tepid watery hot "chocolate" in a plastic cup on a cold day? HMPH. I don't know, but it doesn't put one in a very nice frame of mind. In fact, when one of the other customers who were milling around sipping their cappucino THREW their swizzle stick ONTO THE GROUND about 2 feet away from the bin, I'm sorry, but I actually felt compelled to sacrifice my drink to decorate his balding head.

I work in an industry who's purpose is to create and manage the land - landscapes, urban spaces, gardens, streets, boulevards, palaces, stately homes, waterways and forests. So when someone blatantly litters in front of me like that (Which, I might add, is a chargable offence in Australia) I do like to say something.

"Excuse me, you dropped your coffee stirrer" as I walked away. As I watched, he was looking for what I was referring to, as if he'd misunderstood, and was looking for the gold Rolex I had spotted on the grass, and really wasn't interested in.
Go back to your own country, and litter up your own national monuments.

Pissed off mach 2.

Arriving back to Queen's park, it was raining, so we took shelter in the station before making a dash for it. We were in the company of another shall we say, largish family, whos 17 children were running around like midges over a dead fish head in a steamy summer rock pool, all eating manderines. One of these alien spawn had decided that the ground was where the peels would look their best, even though the colour scheme of the station clearly said "Lost on a mountain" and not "Carmen Miranda's fruity funbag jamboree".

SO there these peels lay scattered before me, and as my blood pressure started to rise, the child's mother appears before me, and she then begins to chastise the child for the action. I thought, mmm, this is good. She is pointing out that there is a rubbish bin, only 2 metres away, and that its not very nice to litter like that, because it might be someones bed. Caring lady.

To which the child answers back "But everyone else does it..."

Ok, so in my mind, I see my mother's back hand coming at me, with a shriek of "Pick it up or ELSE.."

What I hear from this...woman... is *grunt* "ok"...

I had to contain my fury as we ran out of the station. I would have said something, but I just had this image of Barbarella
being chomped to death by rabid metal toothed dollies as these foul dirty children circled around me.

Sigh

Pissed off mach 3.

Now I'm sitting here, blogging at 9.00pm on new years eve, because we have nothing to do, and we're comtemplating heading to Soho, but we kind of can't be naffed, because I would probably get into a fight anyway. I guess the herbal tea and vegetables diet has begun a few hours early.

Now where are my last ever 3 cigarettes and that bottle of smirnoff?

The name game

My very dear friend Nat and I have often marvelled at the array of wierd, wonderful and outright dangerously stupid names people are often called, or call their children. A name is the most personal and identifying thing we have, and how names are used and what we do with them is the backdrop to today's witty little musing.

Nat(loi) and I started laughing about silly names at a party once; it was oh, perhaps just a little snicker at what the people who cant afford Gucci are usually named, names like Kimmy (look at moi) Sharon, Chantel'le. Most of them are attached to AFL footballers girlfriends/wives/moles (in the UK we call them WAG's).

We then started musing on the different names around the world that are peculiar, and sometimes culturally unique, but still sounded funny, like Shaune'sha, Ishnabevellene and Brandy Terrelene. Whenever we came accross a new funny name, a text or an email would quickly ensure and fits of laughter would follow.

And then the little game took a life of its own and we had populated the whole world with cheap, fake Burberry wearing ASBO's. Particularly funny and captivating, is the concept that it is acceptable to name your child after a country, city or state. I mean, we all suffer Paris, and I guess we're all used to that* but really, when did India become a name for a child huh? And whats with Dakota? (For years our favourite has been Brianna Dakota). And then there's Ireland Baldwin. please

What I want to know is if anyone knows anyone called Rhode Island, Burkina Faso, or maybe even St Kitts and Nevis...that would be a mouthful for mum calling them inside for the evening.

MUM: " St Kitts and Nevis, come on St Kitts and Nevis, Dr Quin medicine woman is on..."

Happy new year Sharelle.
xx

* Actually, Paris was a warrier from the Iliad, Homer's 3000 year old epic on the fall of Troy

And you thought YOU were wierd.

Anyone who knows me, would know that I am haberdashery crazy. In fact, for the past 10 years or so, I have always had at least one, and more often than not, half a dozen knitting projects on the go simultaneously. And they say multi tasking is for the sheilas.

I think it has something to do with my hippy Steiner education; I knew how to needlepoint Elizabethan period costumes before I could read for heavens sake. So now, I always get an intense feeling of calm when fondling the chosen woven.

Before I left Melbourne, one of the gay papers did a full page spread on my little infatuation; I was one in a series of features on freakish fag fetishes, or overtly obscure obsessions. If I recall correctly, the articles were titled "check out these guys! and you thought YOU were wierd...." Needless to say, because it was a national paper, I was recognised from pillar to post, I even had a 'lady who shaves' chat me up in a bar in Sydney, desperate to wear my knitted cuddly crown. BTW if you ever visit my house, then you are allowed to wear it. It's nice.

Apart from the collection of cuddly royal regalia that I posess, thanks to a wonderful book of patterns found by my friend Miss Lady Bunny McKoy on EBAY, I also for some reason, decided to knit a whole pantheon of sweaters for my iPod. I think I have about 60 of them. Why? I really cant say. Other than that my iPod deserves fashion, just a much as the next guy.

I also seem to have about 20 crocheted and knitted scarves from pink, to orange, green, black, blue, yellow and back to pink. In these chilly London winter days, I am very very happy that I have them, indeed.

But today I crossed a new line in the sand, or should I say, slipped one passed one over and knitted back into the last 2 stitches. Being that it is my birthday, and being that I needed alittle cheering up from my horrendous hangover (thanks James, Paul and Pete), I took myself off again to the haberdashery section of Liberty where I purchased for the princely sum of £65, a victorian needlepoint cushion for me to make. Its alovely design, and it'll keep me busy for ages and ages, and I'm very excited to get it started.

So you thought YOU were wierd. Can wait to tell Siobhan. We're going to go to the haberdashery mega world soon. Then I'll never leave home again.

Tell me, is it just WAY TOO GAY for me to start needlepoint?

And can anyone tell me why Blogger wont let me post pictures anymore? Blogger has become SHIT since it went all BETA then made us all change back. I have spent too much neeedlepoint time frigging around with it. FIX IT BLOGGER!

Grandma Masely's Cooter Paste

Here comes another one of Liam's excellent little sketches. He just cracks me up. And, yes, I do know what a Cooter is. If you don't, check it out on Wikipedia ( I know, it's pretty gross..)

Trashy Telly

I think the best thing about being at home with absolutely f all to do, is being able to avail ones self to the wonderful array of rubbish television at ones disposal. Recently the wife took out a membership at one of those mail order video stores, the ones that, unlike the local DVD warehouse, don't need to ask you for 37 forms of ID and will let you join without needing proof that you have lived in the UK for over 56 years and that you earn over £700,000 a year (with all your bank account details provided, please). It's a fairly nifty little service if I dont say. I wonder if they could deliver me Jake Gyllenhaal all naked and wrapped up in a red bow? It is my birthday on Saturday, after all.

Well anyway, being a member of this royal mail funclub beats having to interact with the 2 dour faced Eastern European teenage girls at the local videorama. I mean, when they were handing out manners, I swear these two were way too cool to stand in line. That's my PC description of the situation. I could be inappropriate but I don't need you know how hideous I can really be. In fact the two of them are mangy old mules, even as teenagers.

So, the other day, a package comes from our lovely, handy little mail order shop, and imagine to our utter delight and surprise that within the sleeve, lurked one of the new millenniums most ingenious, well crafted cinematic masterpieces. A veritable tour de force of film noir.

I am referring, of course to the one and only Bennifer juggernaut, that was Gigli.

Now, what's on the telly? Oh look, a "Carry on" marathon followed by 2 days of "On the busses" Can't wait.

Text Message Breakup

Here's the new one from my favourite Kelly, aka Liam Sullivan. If you loved "Shoes" as much as we did, then you'll enjoy how demented this one is. Check out the pictures on the walls at the dinner table.....
Bless.

Merry Christmas

So the most exciting thing about Christmas this year, dear readers, is that I have finally succumbed to the lure of the Australian shop in Covent Garden, and thankfully, the santa stocking will be filled with this.

A dickensonian christmas

HO HO HO

Speaking of which, did anyone see the Janice Dickinson Modelling agency Christmas special "Christmas with the Dickinsons"?


My god, the woman is a pirhana. But I just abolutely LOVE her. She has no limits. And she has no facial expression either. Observe mock look of surprise on her face in this image. She hasn't produced a facial wrinkle since 1984.



SCARY!

But really, today is christmas shopping day. Pete and I are heading into town to get each other's pressies. Then we'll wrap them up, and put them on the mantle. No tree this year, I'm protesting the rape and destruction of the forests for ornamentation of a semi religious holiday based on a myth that I dont know I believe in anyway. So there.

So what. I just like the excuse to buy myself presents and wrap them up and feign surprise when I open them.

And thats REAL surprise, Janice.

Bar humbug

So this morning, as I'm coughing my guts out once more thanks to this stupid cold, and too many jingle cigs, my back decides to take a new turn, this time totally to the west. I mean, what's going on? Really. It's been about 5 episodes in the space of so many months, I'm going spare. I'm now seriously considering getting a walking stick.

So I'm blundering through my 3 1/2 hour meeting this morning, blundering through my afternoon, high on Nurofen plus and just a little giddy from the deep heat packs all over my back. It's a pleasant experience, almost like being slow roasted with dry ice. And the sad thing is, I don't evoke any sympathy from anyone anymore because it's happened so often. Like the little boy who cried kimmy.

I had another meeting this afternoon, actually, a teleconfrence with some lovely ladies in Hollywood (negotiating my 7 figure pay packet for my latest movie deal) and thankfully the meeting was in Notting hill so I was able to basically walk home. Which is great. But I really needed to go into town because

1. I needed to go Christmas Shopping
2. I was meeting Peter Paul and Scotty for mulled wine at Covent Garden.....

But instead, I am now resting my back, sitting at home waiting for Peter to get home, blogging and chatting to guys on Gaydar ( I only have a profile because the guy on the entry page is just totally hot) and what do i hear from downstairs but friggin CAROLLERS.

Like, a choir.

All of a sudden it felt like christmas and more overwhelming than the fact that i havn't even bought one present yet, was the fact that I felt like I was in Home Alone 4 and some middle aged MacCauley Culkin was going to ring the bell.

And then the bell rang.

I ran and hid in the toilet.

Spunk Alert - Joe Flanigan

I was always a fan of Stargate SG1. Now there's Stargate Atlantis, there's a whole new megaplex of spunks available in this genre.

God bless. Yummy Joe Flanagan. Just enough butch without bein a he-man. a very sexy combination.

The work Christmas party 2

After a week of holding my head in embarrassment about what I did and didn't remember doing, I found out this:

a) I was POLE dancing at Freedom Club in Soho until 4.00am
b) There were at least 3 others from my office who were there too, and were possibly drunker than i was.... possibly..
c) My shirt was nearly off, well, completely open
d) one of my female collegues sucked my nipple ring.
e) I had to be led out of the club because i couldn't find the door

If that isn't inappropriate behaviour, then I'm happy for someone to give me some pointers on how to make the situation worse for next year.

What then happened is even more tragic.

I spent the next 2 hours walking from Soho to Oxford street then down to Maarble arch looking for the 52 night bus. Which might have been an acceptable proposition, had the 52 not been the route from Victoria to Willesden Green, not coming within a breath of where I was (I was actually looking for the 6, but counting at 5.00am has never been my forte).

So then I walked back to SOHO (totally the opposite direction of home) where I then got into a black cab.

Such a loser.

I have now stopped drinking for ever.

A few of my favourite things....

Whenever I'm feeling a little self indulgent, or, shall I say, depressed (thats gayspeak) I often like to go back to the music that has inspired my life.

You see music is an incredibly stimulating and evocative media, and through it, I am often able to recall memories from my past, incedences of binge drinking, episodes of former lives....its as powerful as sight or even smell (smell does it for me no end....)

So when I'm sitting alone on a friday night looking at all the christmas cards that I havn't received, I naturally pop the old i'book onto shuffle. I have around 3000 plus songs, and as the shuffle rotation has come around, I think I can safely say that a song by Electronic makes me feel 22 again, a song by Propaganda makes me 15 again and a song by ABBA ... well..

So Im Sitting here, and going through my mail, and there's a fabulous parcel from Dane, with a Montreal CD of pics and videos from Montreal and a lovely Christmas card for me and Peter and Mrs Pussy Tummycurtins. As I'm looking at it, what comes on the Itunes, but Kylie's "love at first sight" which was

FACT
1. part of the Glamourheads GOLD medal winning OUSPLASH performance at the Montreal OUTgames
2. My all time favourite Kyile song.

Its a nice relief from the Hell that I have just gone through sauntering along the west end shopping hell on a friday night before christmas; alone, with no frineds, mulling over the fact that I'm going to be spending Christmas alone in London (where everything I've seen for the last month has been decorated with tinsel).

That's right, Pete and I are spending XMAS alone. No friends. No Dono's after party (god Im thinking of flying back just for that) and no Boxing day with Fiona and Dan in the Kitchen. I think thats going to be the hardest.

In my whole life i have never met anyone like Fiona, Mrs W. Carnie Supreme. God how I miss her every day, someone who I know loves me as much as i love them back, with no limits.

My song for you Fanula: I give you my whole 3000 songs. because I know you know them all.

SIGH

xx

Thick and Thin

Has anyone noticed how inappropriate the new Beckham perfume advertisement is?

I mean, really.

What's with the cardboard cut outs in Superdrug in Victoria Satan where Beckham is basically sticking his cock out whilst Skeletor is draped like a cheap slut down his Armani shirt.

Didn't he SEE Spice world?

I mean, really.

The work Christmas party

Shit

I stumbled into home last night at close to 5 am after

a) losing best hand knitted scarf, black with grey panel Jo Sharp wool, heavy best warm scarf I have. SOOOO PISSED off its not fuuny
B) Spent 2 hours on the fone this morning to Jason Rapp, Who i miss terribly
c) recalling how I had 4 men fighting over me at a straight bar in Picadilly circus. Obviously the few extra kilos suit me then
d) said embarrassment of having that happen in front of the work collegues.

groan.....

What's in a name

I'm seriously considering changing the name of my blog. I think "tummy guts" really is hampening my pulling power in the fickle world of the internet.

So dear readers, Im launching the first Mrs Pussy tummcurtins contest, to find a new name.

She doesn't write anymore anyway, she's way too fat.

I will run this for a month. everyone who reads, must enter. The winner will get a wet tonguie.



xx

Casino Royale

Just got back from the movie picture house in Notting Hill gate where we went to see the new HUBBA HUBBA Daniel Craig as James Bond in Casino Royale. Have to say, it was great and I was on the edge of my seat for most of it, especially the scene where Daniel was semi naked, naked, topless, in bathers.... sigh.

Some observations on the modern era, as seen through the eyes of the Broccoli studio:

1. All african children carry semi automatic weapons
2. All baddies are European and have some form of facial scar
3. Everyone has the latest Sony Errikson mobile phone that plays a tasteful jingle. hahahaha
4. Said phone will connect you straight into the M16 website and get you instant access to GPI with Google pop ups
5. Venice is beautiful
6. You can administer anti venom and defibulate yourself from the front seat of your car and then win 150million in a poker game 10 minutes later
7. With the right coloured slacks and top you can infiltrate the security room of any major hotel and get access to security tapes
8. If you're rich and famous and own a major international airline, you can get a cameo
9. You can buy a tailor made tuxedo without measurements. A womans eye is enough.
10. If you arrive late in the day at any resort hotel, guaranteed that the only room you will get will be a beach suite.

Cynical..? Moi?

I did LOVE this film, however I would have loved it more if Daniel had turned to camera 3 and smiled with a tube of L'oreal active defence in his hand and said "Because I'm worth it!"

mmm you are...

xx

A TINKIN' MOIN PART 1

I don't understand a word in Irish. I'm not talking about the Gaillic language, I'm actually talking about my inability to understand what is being said to me in this accent, oh to be sure to be sure.

I have just spent 24 hours in the capital, Dublin, which, for all intent and purposes was a very pleasant experience, despite missing my flight, getting on a wrong bus in the rain that didn't let me off where I wanted to, and being 3 hours late for my meeting. It would have totally wrong of me to have gotten into a pickle at these small hiccups, no, I was in another country and on my own, and with so much mischief to get up to, I felt I had to embrace my inner leprechaun, fill my pockets from my pot o gold, and riverdance my way out for a night on the town.

After getting myself into a nice little guesthouse run by a middle aged, greying Thai fella naturally called Frankie, I decided that at half past four, and after my exhausting half hour meeting, it was time to head out to one of the 567 pubs that lined Wexford street between my hotel and the city (a 5 minute walk). Along the way, I couldn't help but notice that every shopfront that wasn't a bar, was a barber; the street lit up like Regent street at Christmas but with twirling barbers poles.

So I tought to meselff, I tought "Eddie boy, maybe a haircut might be the way to kill a few minutes before your dinner.." and after losing 13 Euro for 5 minutes in the chair which didn't even involve the use of the razor, I felt suitably groomed, a little ripped off, but nonetheless, I felt like I had participated in what was obviously a cultural panacea that suitably deserved at least a beverage or 6.

So with my fresh stubble glistening in the frosty moonlight, I headed into a brightly lit corner bar, promising Guiness by the bucket load, and an interior fresher than inside a Scandinavian Norsca bottle hanging in a Scandinavian bathroom in Scandinavia.

Such is the curse of the smoking ban. You see, they banned smoking in all work places in Ireland about 2 years ago, and whilst I agree in principle with this move, it does kind of take the enjoyment out of the whole experience of going down to the pub.

So now, instead of sitting in a death pall whilst you have your guinness, your fluffy duck, or even your slow screw against the wall, you get 50 people hanging around the door, madly chuffing away, scaring off patrons who have to walk through a pall of death to get to their guinness et al, after stepping through a mountian of butts littering the street.

Nice one. At least SOMEONE is thinking about the children!

To be sure, to be sure........

Adventures in British Food Chapter 2. Sunday roast with YORKSHIRE PUDDING

Now, since I went for a swim this afternoon, and seing as it is a sunday (when I'm writing this) I'm going to say stuffyas all, I'm making a yorkhire pudding to go with my roast beef dinner.

Funnily enough, the recipe is from Stephanie Alexander, an Australian chef of incredible importance to any gentleman who knows how to make a souffle.

150g flour
1 egg
1 1/4 cup milk
salt.

Its that easy, and so friggin yummy, I ate nearly THE WHOLE THING.

mmmmmmmm