You Just Haven't Earned It Yet, Baby

I have just come back from our annual work conference. For some reason, I always become rather stressed and anxious before a conference and this is often reflected in my stools. Luckily, my body grows accustomed and my bowels settle down.
It all began on Monday when the company got together for a buffet lunch in the office canteen area prior to an elaborate presentation at the Rivoli cinemas.
It is quite an extravaganza with some rather swanky videos and funky tunes to boost our energy. I am pleased I work for a company that does not take itself too seriously and those who present have a decent sense of humour. I'd go mad otherwise.

We often have 'special guests' at our conferences and the marketing department do a superb job in getting some big names (hanging out for Dawn French next year - fix it for us, Dan, could you?)
However, being the person I am, I am often a tad unfamiliar with some of the big Aussie names we attract.
At the end of the Rivoli presentation, we were the audience for Matthew Hayden, a cricketer whose book is due out in a few months. Cricket.
That's the one with the boxes, right? Ah yes... now I recall...

Well, Matthew gave his little speech with some gloriously flowery mixed metaphors and anecdotes so full of sporting jargon I was left none-the-wiser, but I don't suppose he gets paid the big bucks for public speaking gigs. It could have been worse - it could have been Jason Akermanis.
All I know is that I'm crap at cricket, so I can't complain.

When this was over, the sales teams from around the country headed to Creswick. If you have ever played the computer game (or seen the film) Silent Hill, then you know what to expect (minus rabid dogs and zombie nurses - one hopes).
The Novotel is a good hotel; we stayed there last year too. My good friend Gavin Burbidge and I usually share a room, but this time, we got a two-bedroom suite, so I didn't have to put up with his snoring and he didn't have to put up with my farts.



As you can see, it was a nice suite. It had it's own fireplace, which was not to be sniffed at - for fear of dying from carbon monoxide poisoning.



I had the larger room with the super-dooper bed and I had the en suite with the shower.



There was also a kitchenette for some unknown reason and Gavin's bathroom had a wonderfully deep spa bath. I did take the opportunity to have my once-a-year bath on the Tuesday afternoon, but it was so big, it took an hour to fill!
(Yes, I shower daily and I take care not to waste water, which is why a bath at the conference is a treat!)

The Monday evening, we had our second 'special guest'. It was the writer and environmental genius, Tim Flannery. I have had the opportunity to listen to him before, but that in no means dampens the effect the second time around. The man is simply a genius and,f rankly, he should be running the country.
No disrespect intended, but it was entertaining making comparisons between Tim's speech and Matthew Hayden's. Bless.

As for the evening meal I was still feeling a little tender in the abdomen. I hadn't had any lunch and I couldn't face much dinner either, so I ended up chatting to some of our publishing agency guests (Nina Kenwood from Black Inc. and John Hunter from UQP) and then dashing off to bed around 10 before I fainted from malnutrition.

Tuesday was a whole new ballgame. Previously, we have spent our time all sat in one room like a captive (and often unresponsive) audience - it was like that bit in Edith Nesbit's The Enchanted Castle where the children perform their play to a room full of homemade dummies.
This time around, the agencies were situated at separate tables (nothing to do with Terrance Rattigan) and we, in small groups, visited each publisher where they would give us information about their forthcoming titles and we could also provide feedback and ask questions. Bonus! It also gave us the opportunity to flirt with them too, if that was something we wanted to do. I, of course, would never do such a thing - heavens to Betsy, good gracious, no!

I spent most of the time off in the late afternoon reading the manuscript of John Ajvide Lindqvist's new book, Harbour. I simply love this man's work. Let me tell you, I am only a third of the way into the book, but it's everything you'd expect from the man who brought you Let The Right One In and Handling the Undead.



Please excuse the vulgarity of my naked legs, but alas, I had nothing 'comfy' to wear, having hoped for a hotel robe to laze around in - instead it was a polo shirt and my undies. I put the polo shirt on especially for the photograph - be grateful!

Tuesday evening, at the evening dinner, we had another 'special guest'. This time it was the Australian singer/songwriter Paul Kelly, who even performed a couple of songs for us. (In case you're wondering, yes, he has a book coming too!)
Now, prior to the knowledge of Paul's book, I had no idea who he was. So when it was announced he was our guest, I was about as excited as if they'd proclaimed the arrival of Mr Singh of the local law firm, Singh, Singh, Buttrose and Singh. However, the electric atmosphere surrounding me as the more knowledgeable and enamoured groupies thundered their applause in appreciation, I understood what this man meant to people. After hearing him speak about his songs and also perform, I became acutely aware of his talent and could see why he would generate such enthusiasm.
Oh, and although it's not much interest to anyone, this is what I was wearing that night. I only put this in because I am aware that you might want something pretty to look at. Although I'm not pretty, my tie is rather geeky fun.



Sadly, the look and the tie did not help me pick up the rather handsome waiter, Jarrod. He was tall, lean, young (d'oh) and with the most magnificent nose. I do love a big nose! *sigh*

Wednesday was the day we got to see the Penguin UK titles and, boy, they do like their funky pop music. It keeps us awake I suppose.
We also heard from our brands and licensing people (Troy Lewis is a wizard of puns and for that I am truly thankful!)
After lunch, we saw some super stuff from Marketing and Publicity and finally some interesting aspects of the future of our internal computer systems. I say 'interesting' but, as you may know, I am not the most technologically sound person you will ever meet. I got the gist of it and I can see the benefits, but I think I'll wait until the whole thing is up and running before commenting so I can do the whole trial and error perusal. (Instructions? Bah!!)

Wednesday night was the big party night. We were told to dress formal. I took two suits for the occasion, leaving the decision making to the last moment. I could have gone with the grey suit I bought for Louise and Adam's wedding last year or the funky white suit I bought three years ago. In the end, I went for the funk, mainly because this is the first time in three years I have been able to fit into it!



The damn thing cost me something between six and eight hundred dollars (I forget), so I thought I ought to give it another airing.
The blue shirt is a gorgeous Saba shirt I bought years ago in the hope that one day I'd be thin enough to wear it. Thank goodness! The time has come!

No special guests this evening, but everyone looked glam and dazzling. there are some pics below. I do not have a steady hand, so forgive the appalling nature of the pictures.

The two Louises! Or Two Lous Lautrec, as I like to call them.


Pre-dinner drinks.


Fancy!

Gossip Girls.

Kim, being classy as ever.

"Did you watch Masterchef last night?"


Then it was the awards part of the evening. Each year, there are a smattering of prizes ranging from door-prizes (who'd want a door? They're a nightmare to transport home again) to the prestigious 'Rep of the Year Award'.

Door-prizes were picked out of a large fish bowl. Two goldfish, a castle and a bit of weed. Huzzah!
Claire Hume won the innovation award (I did take a pic, but it was so blurry - blame the emotion!)
Then the two big ones.

We have a 'Hall of Fame' and this year, one of the Queensland reps won this mighty honour. Peter Leeder, who has been with the company for nearly 21 years, took to the stage and gave a very humble speech.
Then, the big one. Rep of the year went to me wonderful friend and occasionally annoying room-mate (*wink*), Gavin Burbidge.
Not only was this a well-deserved accolade as he is an amazing bloke who does a terrific job, but it was also a remarkable moment for the rest of us, for it was the first time he was "almost speechless". Shame about the "almost", Gav! Just kidding - you're a legend!

Peter and Gavin, receiving well-deserved awards.


Not only does he win the adoration of his colleagues and a $5000 travel voucher, but, as Rep of the year, he also receives this splendid award...


As anyone who knows me will attest, I am one of those big-mouthed fools who spouts off everything he thinks. It is not etiquette to say it, but I don't give a flippity-floo-flah. One day, I would like to win such an award. Oh yes! The only thing I have ever truly won was an award for having an Outstanding Personality whilst at college. In other words, I won for being flamboyant!
But to win for being the best at what you do is something we all strive for. I can't see it happening though as my colleagues are all so bloody brilliant at what they do. Everyone deserves to be recognised for their fine, hard work and I am proud of them all and proud to be a part of their team.

Still, one day, I may take that stage, and when I do... I bet I'll be bloody speechless too!


One final thing...

Someone's cleavage. I won't say who. It's not my fault. I was lunged at.

Berlin*

This weekend, I watched the Eurovision song contest for the first time in my life. Well, it's true I may have channel flicked over it in my youth, but I have never sat down to endure the gala in its gargantuan glittery glory.

I did not watch the first semi-final, but I did watch the second along with my friends Chris and Richard. Chris is a Eurovision Aficionado of the highest calibre. What he doesn't know about Eurovision is not worth knowing - and some of the stuff he does know is also not worth knowing. So I was in the best possible company as I had my EuroCherry stolen from me.

Chris initially thought I was detesting the entire night due to my critical barbs, but eventually he realised that this was all part of my enjoyment.

A few points.

1) If you are a boy band with sequined hotpants, do not at any point admit that you're all straight. The majority of your audience are probably gay and you just lost millions of votes. Silly Lithuanian boys.

2) If the advertisers want us to buy their albums, please spell the artistes names correctly. It's Cliff Richard and Matt Monro, not 'Richards' and 'Monroe'. Asswipes.

3) Although I don't believe it should be judged on spectacle (costumes, dancers, lighting effects) I will give bonus points if you're cute.

I watched the final on my own on and had flurries of texts between my friends Chris and Nola regarding the various performances. My two favourites to win were Romania and Germany and I was pleased to see them both finish in the top three.

The UK entry was absolutely dire. No, that's being too kind. I cannot even begin to describe who utterly dreadful it was. The one consolation was that Josh seemed to have smuggled a badger into Oslo down the front of his pants. Now, that sounds good to me!
Another appalling entry was Ireland. This song was pathetically wet and bland. Our Australian hosts kept referring to her as 'Royalty' - what? Fergie?

Tom Dice from Belgium was a decent entry, but it felt a little out of place. I didn't mind watching him though, cute as a button. (Whatever that means).

Germany won. Hoo-bloody-ra! Somebody said she was Germany's answer to Lily Allen. No, that can't be true. Germany's answer to Lily Allen should be a rifle to the face.
So, it's Berlin to host next year?? You've gotta love those Germans. Sure, World War II was a bit of a hiccough, but give 'em credit where credit's due; their music is fun and their genes are stunning.

See! I got into it. Who'd have thought it?

*(Sure, I know it was in Oslo... but next year, Berlin?)

Clubland

Something occurred to me recently. The peaceful, gentle café of yesteryear has died a death; well it has in Metropolitan Australia. Maybe it never actually existed here.
When I lived in England I was much more fond of sitting in a ‘greasy spoon’ café than whittling away my time in a pub. Picture me flicking through the papers whilst nursing a large mug of strong tea and picking my way through a fruit scone or demolishing a decent bacon sandwich.
(You cannot get a decent bacon sandwich anymore! White bread, butter, crispy bacon – HP sauce optional – it’s not that hard. These days it is all ‘bacon and avocado on rye’ – give me a break!)
The ‘greasy spoon’ as it’s commonly known, is not as vile as the name implies. This breed of café has its own charm and ambiance. Sure, there is something rather geeky and retro about the tomato-shaped sauce bottles and the gingham curtains whose length can only cover the lower half of the window, but it’s a style I seem only able to reminisce about.
If music was to permeate the air, it would have been something faint and melodious from an old radio balanced on a rickety shelf behind the counter next to an old biscuit tin and a porcelain figurine. The cable would stretch precariously down to the plug socket but invariably remain intact for the duration of its life.
These days, every café has to be ‘funky’ and blast music of jaunty tempos and pumping rhythms into acoustics worthy of Sydney Opera House. (“Pump up the jam?” “No thank you, just some marmalade and a knife, thanks!”) One can barely hear oneself think as one tries to do the quiz in the back of the local paper. Even as you cradle your beverage, the frenetic energy surrounding the venue bullies you into a scalding swallow and enforced ejection as it appears no one wants you to stay longer than ten minutes.
If I wanted to have to shout at my friends and those who are there to serve me, I’d hang out in a nightclub!
Yes, I know I sound like an old man, but I am sure I am not alone. We live life so fast these days and there is little room to take a break and relax without feeling the burdening pressure of capitalist notions and speedy delivery. Angst is thrust upon us in our daily lives through work and through the media; we don’t need it injected into our coffee breaks too.
So, bring back the old cafés, ditch the loud music and let’s enjoy the slower aspects of life before we all die.

N.B. It’s pronounced ‘Scone’ as in ‘Cone’. It’s only ‘Scon’ when there’s none left.

Designer Life

One of the things I hate about being gay is the myriad expectations that come along with it.

Just because I like some musicals, does not automatically make me gay – just as how the fact that I love the 'Die Hard' films does not make me straight.
I don’t like all musicals. In fact I genuinely despise some, including 'Rent', 'Grease' and anything with Zac Efron in it. 'West Side Story' doesn’t stir my loins either, despite being directed by the superb Robert Wise. Sure, I love 'Little Shop of Horrors', 'Sweet Charity' and 'Bugsy Malone', but that’s not an entire genre.

I hate drag queens. I think the majority of them are talentless hacks (or hags?) and also slightly offensive – are these grossly exaggerated performances an insult to the female gender? If you must insist on the whole female-impersonation malarkey, at least have the decency to sing rather than mime – and please, I beg you, stop with the Shirley Bassey. Anyone would think the gay community were trapped in a time warp bubble.

I don’t own any Kylie Minogue or Abba albums. Sure, I have some Madonna, but I also have albums by The Commitments and The Kinks. Don’t tell me Andrew Strong is a gay icon.

I hate clubbing.

I am not promiscuous.

I do not own a leather harness.

I do not mince.

I do not attend Pride marches.

I don’t have a lisp.

I don’t have anything with a rainbow flag on it.

I don’t own a West Highland Terrier named Judy.

My jokes aren’t solely based around innuendo.

These clichés are not merely stereotypes. It seems some gay men feel the need to adhere to this strict code of application. Since when is it compulsory to lack individuality? Granted, the whole horrifying nature of ‘coming out’ in a still-homophobic world is cause to seek something accepting and comfortable. The gay community (for want of a much better and more appropriate phrase) is abundant with people who have been through excruciating times and are more than willing to aid and assist those who are spinning out of control due to apprehension and fear. I expect this is why these young men begin to adorn these attributes, just so that they can feel a part of something bigger. I feel I can say this because I was one of those young men and I too had mentors who helped guide me through those heart-achingly distressing times. However, I resisted a lot of the more flamboyant accessories – although I did attempt to try them for a period… (picture me singing 'Don't Cry For Me Argentina' in a cafe full of fags)

Unfortunately, because of my lack of ‘gayness’, I have had some queens say I should have my gay card revoked. (I think mine just got lost in the post.)
I have come to realise that, ironically, some gay men are also the most bigoted; especially those who deny that bisexuals exist or hurl abuse at lesbians.

Simply, I am gay because I prefer the company of men in the bedroom. And I mean ‘men’, not effeminate, skinny, mincing ladyboys with fluttering eyelids and a penchant for squealing “Ooooh!” every time the word ‘big’ is mentioned.

Sure, people should be allowed to be whoever they want to be. This is a basic freedom – as long as you’re not hurting anybody else. Just don’t expect me to fall into the same category just because I like cock.

My Affair

I have been single for quite some time now and I am in two minds about it.
Part of me is quite content to be single and live a quiet, peaceful life in which I can do my own thing, live at a leisurely pace and enjoy those quiet evenings in snuggling up to my cat and watching an old movie on DVD. If I was a woman in an Eighties movie living in America, I'd also have a big baggy New York Nicks sweatshirt and massive bed socks to complete the tableau.
Then there is the other part of me. The part which yearns for company, contact, comfort and other words beginning with 'co'. (Don't be so filthy minded!)

In the past few years, there have been moments where I have ventured out into the world of dating, be it social interaction in smokey venues or in the privacy of my own home via a keyboard. However, I tend to come home empty-handed and a little forlorn. It is in those rather tedious moments that I begin to ask myself "Whose type am I?" as it appears I am no ones. Yes, I admit it's maudlin to think that way, but don't tell me you're all perfect and never have those moments of self-pity! Go on, admit it! ;)

I try to evaluate where I have gone wrong in each instance and I think I should draw up a set of rules to abide by strictly each time I open myself to the possibility of attraction.

1) Don't talk too much. I tend to suffer from DBS (David Beckham Syndrome) - I look all right until I open my mouth.

2) Don't invite them to the apartment. My belongings of the nerd variety are enough to frighten anyone off. (Can you count how many times you see the words 'Doctor Who' in my living room? It's a billion.)

3) Don't break the ice with the circumcision story. Sure, it's hugely entertaining, but it can wait until I get to know someone better.

4) Don't do the self-deprecation comedy routine - it's simply not attractive.

5) Don't try and flirt. I am horrendously bad at it.

6) Don't sing. I must remember I am not as good as I think I am!

7) Don't tell the joke about Father O'Brien, the fisherman and the big fish. Too many people don't like the C-bomb.

8) Don't be too earnest. It looks desperate.

9) Don't be too generous. It's creepy, albeit genuine.

10) Don't mention the war.

I am sure that somebody out there suits me and I suit them. I am hoping it's the wonderful Scottish comedian Danny Bhoy, but I doubt it somehow.

The truth is, all these rules are a load of old bollocks. This is me. I am a little over-the-top at times and I can be annoyingly enthusiastic and pathetically tense. Despite all these flaws, I am a good person with a kind heart and a rather odd sense of humour. I like these positive attributes and I wouldn't change them for the world.

I just hope there is someone out there who can appreciate them too.

Don't Run Away From Me Now

I wonder how many people look back at their youth and find they are honestly appalled by the way they behaved? On far too many occasions, I have had sudden flashes of my adolescence and cringed with abject horror.
I, for one, was a tad confused and if I was born later than I was, I might very well have been labelled an ‘Emo’ for all the gut-wrenchingly abysmal self-pitying poetry, tormented soul-baring hi-jinks and the ‘nobody-understands-me’ vibes venting from every pore. It makes me shudder with each recollection.
For those fortunate enough to not have known me during those painful years, let me illustrate with a few details and anecdotes.

Attire had to be black. I had black cowboy boots, tight black boot-cut jeans, long black leather coat, black shirts (even one with a pirate-style lace-up job at the collar!) and a black fedora. My Mum became rather frustrated with this dour dress-code and gave me some money insisting I immediately go out and spend it on some shorts and t-shirts for the summer. Coming back from the factory-outlet store, she was gutted to discover I had spent her hard-earned cash on black t-shirts and black shorts; probably because they looked dreadful with the cowboy boots and fedora.

I did try to dye my hair black one day. I got my friend Rhian to colour my hair whilst leaning over her bath tub. It looked good in the artificial light, but then, when I strolled outdoors, it was a stunning purple. Not quite so cool after all. Having said that, I was doing some work experience at the local Old People’s Home, so I blended in quite nicely.

I grew a goatee beard and had long hair which occasionally got tied in a ponytail. It was the early nineties, after all. Hanging around Nottingham, wandering between shops dealing with various geeky items from cult television merchandise to Gothic accoutrements, I was often mistaken for a drug dealer and on one very bizarre day, Jesus. But that’s Nottingham for you.

Although not a fan of tattoos (not even temporary tattoos, but that’s because I can’t stand oxymorons) I did vandalise my skin with black or red marker pens inviting people to ‘cut here’. This was partly influenced by my rather dark sense of humour rather than an insidious desire to do away with myself. I will not deny that later on, I did have very dark days when the severely dramatic side of me sought a path to obliteration, but thankfully I was prevented from making an absolute fool of myself by friends intervening or the realisation that there was some good telly on that night.

The most embarrassing confession was my desire for a more vampiric lifestyle. Yes, this was years before Twilight and Buffy, but even then, there was something intrinsically cool about the immortal drinkers of plasma.
Despite the contemporary scares of AIDS polluting our consciousness since the Eighties, I still had a penchant for drinking blood and I did sip upon the sweet nectar from a couple of friends when accidents occurred. Before you reel back in disgust, they were willing donors and not the sort of people who gave themselves up to the pleasures of the loins on a regular basis. I may have been barmy, but I wasn’t totally stupid… well, maybe a bit stupid.
There was a time when I thought it might even be possible for me to become a vampire! I tried avoiding sunlight (plans which were continually scuppered when society dictated that I had to attend school) and I wondered how I could join the realms of the undead.
My idealistic notions were shattered when I realised I would no longer be able to eat garlic and I gave up the whole crazy shenanigans and ate some Chicken Kiev.

This period of morbid angst was, thankfully, a relatively short-lived one. These days, when having a gloomy-do, I just hide in my apartment with the curtains shut watching old Fred and Ginger movies on DVD whilst munching down a packet of custard creams and using my tea for dunking. A much more reasonable pastime, don’t you think?

Alegria

For a while I was a ‘Third-hole Theo’. After some time and effort, I surpassed the ‘Fourth-hole Freddy’ mark and now I am a ‘Fifth-hole Ferdinand’! It has got to the point where I may need to puncture a new notch in order for me to be ‘Sixth-hole Steven’.
Of course, I am talking about belt-holes.

As a child, I was sometimes described as ‘stocky’ or as having a good body for Rugby – what a horrible thought. Then, I became a bit skinnier for a few years due to a terrific metabolism and the hills of Derbyshire providing superb obstacles for walking. Then I hit 25.
I woke up on my 25th birthday with a slightly rotund waistline, an extra weight upon my person. I refused to call it a ‘beer-gut’ as I do not have a penchant for the obnoxious brew, so I proclaimed it as my ‘merlot-midriff’.
Not long after, I became involved in a relationship. You do not need me to tell you what a disaster this is for the figure. Once sitting comfortably in the security of love, all hell breaks loose and the adipose tissue multiplies. Cupid strikes you and knocks you off-guard and the next thing you know, you’ve gone from Twiggy to Loggy.
Time has passed and I have been single for a good few years, but the blubber clung to me like a needy child with abandonment issues.

As I approach 35, I am aware of my physical form and, being the sort of person who is constantly wary of what people think, I want to maintain some sort of aesthetic for those who may like to act as voyeur. Anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I can be dreadfully and hopelessly self-conscious (some may even have the gall to scream “paranoid” and slap me with a cymbal-less tambourine until I accept it) and this attacks my confidence like shock waves vibrating a kidney stone to its doom.
So, with this in mind, I made a concerted effort to take control of my destiny and forced myself to be more careful with the foods I consume and also get off my wobbly buttocks and stretch the old legs on a regular basis.

I now think twice before putting anything in my mouth (careful, this is not a Carry On film!) and I walk. I walk and I walk. Just about everywhere.
I try to walk to and from work on a daily basis (as long as I do not have to carry anything too heavy). This is a ninety minute journey and as long as I have my iPod assaulting my eardrums with a rhythmic beat, I am quite content. My happiness is only disrupted on occasion when I am forced to step off the pavement to allow cyclists past, when I see other pedestrians nearly killed on crossings due to some idiotic driver or when I see a dead animal in the kerb (I have been known to weep upon seeing a dead cat. I am such a softie!). These frustrations aside, I have a jolly exercise regime and it’s all absolutely free! If there is a god and I get to meet her/him, I must thank her/him for Legs. I will also have a quick word about blisters, inner-thigh rash and nuclear war whilst I am there, but the praise will be enthusiastically forthcoming.

So, here I am, approaching my 35th birthday and I am finally getting to a point where I think I could happily get my kit off in front of other people. Who knows, I may even streak for a giggle. Actually, on second thoughts, I’d better not. No one needs to be subjected to that.