A Stroke of Genius vols. II and III

Well, no postings for a couple of weeks, then two in two days!  Oh Matthew, you are truly spoiling us.

Well, the real reason is that I am filling time while my hair clippers charge up.  I had a very age inappropriate haircut yesterday in a moment of madness (actually, a moment of greater than usual level of madness).  What seemed like an 'edgy' thing to do yesterday has transformed this morning into the realisation that I look like an utter cock.  And I don't hang with the Hoxton wankers anymore.

I'll just give you a few moments to compose yourself



......have you stopped yet?........



....no really, stop now.....




.....OH JUST FUCK OFF AND SHUT THE FUCK UP - AT LEAST I DON'T GET MY HAIR CUT AT FUCKING SUPERCUTS.........


......and calm, safe place, calm, in with love, safe place, happy place....

And we're back in the room - apologies, my medication obviously hasn't fully kicked in this morning.

Back to the blog.  Frequent readers of Grumpy Old Gay will know that I have reprised my rehab diary from my brush with death ten years ago.  If you haven't read the first instalment (why not?) this will make ABSOLUTELY no sense, so I suggest that you have a look for the first Stroke of Genius post in June.

Thursday 22nd February 2001; calories - loads; thoughts about sex - even more; spots - 0; perplexed neighbours - 2

Thought I'd better rattle off a quick missive before my trip on Monday to Gran Canaria (or 'Manworld' as my friend Laura has christened it - sounds like a kinky theme park; actually not that far from the truth).  Looking forward to a week of sun, and lots of falling over at opportune moments.  Doctors have advised me to wear my lovely support stockings on the plane, so bang goes my towelling crop top/hotpant combo.

Physio took me to the swimming baths for the first time yesterday.  Hadn't realised that it is half-term, so place was packed with screaming kids, as physio commented "I've never felt so unbroody in my life".  Didn't realise that 11 year old boys were capable of "givin' her one" - did they mean their Top Trump collection or am I just getting old?

Talking of age, don't forget it's my 30th in May - I expect it will be classified a public holiday (not that far removed from the Queen's birthday).  Perhaps Fanta could sponsor the party - of course no mixing of esteemed beverage with vodka, would hate to dilute brand equity (Jesus, I'm slipping back into marketing nonsense).  Am thinking of low key affair, with just a few dancing boys and maybe a small funfair.

Made a triumphant return to clubbing last weekend - went for a 'quiet' drink at The Bulldog, and due to excessive peer pressure (or should that be pier pressure?) went to Sunday Sundae.  Was a bit like taller version of Graham Norton - me ensconced on a sofa greeting my adoring public.  All went horribly wrong after several medicinal G&Ts - had to be carried out to the car - not a good look.

Had weekly visit to beauty salon - purely medicinal you understand.  Had back waxed for the first time - hurt like fuck, but physio started on about "sensory stimulation... " so I suppose it has its benefits.  Went whole hog and had mega facial, and nails done - at least if I'm hobbling on holiday I'll do it with some finesse.

Well better get back to the 'mooing' - how surreal is all this?  By the way, my postman seems to be lost, as I haven't received any post for two weeks, so apologies to those who have sent letters, sponsorship money, letterbombs etc.

Back on the 5th.

Matt xx

Saturday 10 March 2001 ; calories - 10,000; thoughts about sex - 1000000; holiday romances - 0

Well I've made it back from that Mecca of white trash, Gran Canaria.  Finally shifted that pale and uninteresting look.

Whole week was a scream - staying in a gay apartment complex, met loads of lovely people - see pictures attached.  Turned into minor celebrity, very amusing.  Have mastered the fine art of walking in bare feet on concrete while totally pissed - quite an achievement.

Greatest source of amusement was "special needs" treatment at the airport - Spanish end went completely over the top and insisted on a wheelchair brought onto the plane - fabulous way to jump the immigration queue, though horribly embarrassing.

Amused whole complex by doing my exercises in the pool - bit like a deranged Wayne Sleep.  Boys we met insisted on me going out (oh, the torture) and so ventured out to the Yumbo Centre (bit like gay version of Brent Cross for the uninitiated) - even raised a round of applause as I staggered down the steps.  Was bloody glad I wasn't in a wheelchair though - the 'wheelchair ramp' is in fact a 1 in 2 drop which descends about 50m - think Whatever Happened to Baby Jane type drama as Matt enters the Yumbo at terminal velocity!

Highlight of trip was evening out to Garbo's - an 'unforgettable' dinner/cabaret type affair.  Much amusement at bad renditions of Celine Dion, Britney and even the Backstreet Boys.  Well I say amusing, the majority of other tables took it very seriously, for them "Stars in Your Eyes" is a classy programme - let's just say the trailer park must have been deserted that night.

Even organised a party one night (I know, never stop working - was a bit worried at lack of risk assessment though - think Coke legal department would have gone into apoplexy).  Music, vodka watermelon (the next big thing darling), even celebrities cut out from OK Magazine.  Apparently, at end of party (though I have no memory of this) I was found on the balcony shouting "OK, who's up for it then" - thankfully, I passed out shortly after.  Just as well, there's nothing worse than a pissed, horny cripple - not a good look.

Well, must go and moisturise that tan - very refreshing to look half human again.

By the way, post is sorted now.  Thanks to all who have sent sponsorship money.

Lots of tanned lurve,

Matt xxx

Saturday Night Telly??? Fuck right off....

Well, apologies for the break in communications people.  I'm back at work, and I'm so knackered I can barely function - and the fact that I'm on a doseage of happy pills that would floor an elephant makes it VERY difficult to get remotely enthusiastic about anything.

As my Saturday nights now consist predominantly of getting drunk at home, shovelling Thai green curry down my neck, drugging myself with happy/sleepy pills (delete as applicable) and watching TV, a critique of the current state of Saturday night telly is long overdue.

101 Ways to Leave a Gameshow
Mmm, must have taken, ooh, ten minutes to think this one up.  Think 'Total Wipeout' (and what a gem that is) meets the shit National Lottery quiz.  In a nutshell, self-obsessed, posturing contestants (*see disclaimer below) answer 'hilarious' questions, and if they lose they get thrown off the side of a Waterworld/scaffolding type structure.







But that's where the Beeb have missed a trick.  When the cuntestants are flung screaming over the edge, it becomes obvious that they are attached to a safety rope, and actually descend pretty slowly into a swimming pool.  BORING!!  If they were being pushed off a footbridge over the M25, now THAT would be entertaining.

Its one saving grace is having some decent man candy as a presenter.  Steve Jones - you are fit, you are going places - so why god why?????  Probably a big fat cheque from the BBC actually.....respect.











* Disclaimer.  OK, I was indeed a needy, show-off quiz contestant once myself.  On The Weakest Link.  But Anne Robinson is cool (god she's grumpy).  And I won over £3,000. So FUCK OFF.

Tonight's the Night

OH

MY

FUCKING

GOD


This is one of those programmes that is so unbelievably atrocious that you are glued to the set, as if under some form of 'Children of the Corn' hypnosis - or possibly because your brain is struggling to process the scale of visual horror that is assaulting your retinas.

And what makes it worse, THIS IS A SECOND SERIES.  Yes people, this isn't a trial series that has gone horribly wrong, but the Beeb continues as they have a hole in their programming to fill.  No, this has been RECOMMISSIONED!!!!  I can feel a Noel Edmonds stylee rant about the TV Licence brewing....

The ubiquitous John Barrowman (I quite like him in Torchwood, but enough already John - stop saying yes to every shit programme you are offered) stars in an opening scene a la Summertime Special.  For those readers that weren't born in the 70s, Summertime Special was THE prime time BBC1 Saturday night show - a sort of variety show with acts such as Marti Caine and Les Dennis, and the most amazingly bad dance troupe.




Anyway, back to Tonight's the Night.  The opening scene features La Barrowman, crooning his way through a Jennifer Lopez smash (from memory, it's painful to think about too closely), with a troupe of backing dancers. You really need to watch the show to appreciate this - some things just cannot be put into words.

Add your typical BBC1 studio audience, who of course are on their feet gurning, dribbling and clapping along in ecstasy - until the Variety Club minibus arrives to take them home.

The clip below is actually from the first series, but believe me it gives you a taster...



The premise of the show is that JB will make dreams come true - yeah, dreams that involve bad singing/dancing and West End show tune wankathons - it's really a bizarre bastard hybrid of Britain's Got Talent, Noel's Christmas Presents, Surprise Surprise and Beadle's About.  Which is never going to be a good thing.

Of course, all of the dreamers that JB helps have got tragic back stories - one a miscarriage then cancer, one lost his father in a road accident, one lost their best friend to childhood cancer - Jesus Christ BBC, be ashamed, be very very ashamed.  Coming up next week, JB cures a cute child's leukaemia using the power of the lyrics from 'Wicked'.  GIVE ME FUCKING STRENGTH.

John Barrowman - you're fit, and I definitely would (TMI warning)  if the rumours about your tackle are to be believed.  But why???????  (See reasons for Steve Jones above).  My personal dream would involve Freddie Ljundberg, Puck from Glee and out IT Manager from work on a desert island.  You gonna fix that for me John, are ya?  I've got a really shitty back story, it's heartbreaking.  Are ya?  ARE YA GONNA FIX IT JOHN??

Other 'celebrities' who appeared on this shitstorm.

1. Dionne Warwick - WTF - why woman??  You are an actual global superstar.  Have you sold your soul to the devil, or were your millions all invested in Lehman Brothers?

2. Diversity - TV prostitutes, on 50% of all TV programmes, so no surprise really.  See that toe curling advert for a furniture shop "If you like Diversity you'll love The Range" - fucking marketing genius.



3. Lee Meade - ditto - he's Denise van Outen's baby father don't ya know.  Smart move Lee, otherwise no one would remember who the fuck you are.


OMG, next week they have Miley Cyrus and Michael Bolton......I think I might die.....

Come fly with me

OK, so I might have forgotten to tell you that I was taking a trip to Geneva for a week, and that there would be a break in the torrent of general abuse while away.


"But Matt, the beauty of a blog is that you can update it ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD, perhaps on your i-Pad while you sit at the airport and send smug messages with "sent from my i-Pad" on the bottom".


Answer - you are absolutely right.  I could also access my work email, or stab myself in the eye with a pencil ANYWHERE IN THE WORLD.  What do we learn from this kids?  Just because you CAN do something doesn't mean that it's necessarily a good idea to do it.


But I digress - back to Geneva.  Not to a beautiful sanatorium overlooking the lake for some 'behavioural therapy', not even to Dignitas, no, to stay with my big sister which is the best therapy anyone could ask for EVER.  And the fact that my sister shares the same genetic programming as me to drink too much sauvignon means that the trip was more of a retox, I feel SO much better as a result.

You would think after all of the relaxation, sun and mountain air (and alcohol) that I would have nothing to grump about this week.  (Excuse me while I cackle at your utter naivety). Aah, that's better, nothing better than a good laugh at other people.  Right, onto today's moan.

easyjet

OK, you're thinking, time for a cheap shot at budget airlines.  Well no actually (easyjet have decent red wine and wasabi-covered peanuts on board now - I fucking love easyjet).

My gripe is about the 60+ yr old travellers, newly retired couples (NRCs) that frequent easyjet flights, flying off to their little holiday home (that they have bought with their massive pension pot, which is the reason I will retire on £2.47 per year).

OH MY FUCKING GOD.  I'm sorry, but you often hear bleatings about how utterly bad mannered the young people are nowadays, blah blah blah.  That may be true in some cases, but you haven't seen anything until you witness NRCs queueing for an easyjet flight.  My experience started at check-in.  Let me explain, I had paid for Speedy Boarding (never has £14-50 been such good value).  Gatwick on a Sunday afternoon in late June was HEAVING, and the communal queue for easyjet check-in was massive.  If  I'd been in that queue, yes I would have been a bit pissed.

However the joy of Speedy Boarding is that you have a dedicated check-in desk, separate from the main check-in.  Now, as it was so busy, obviously the number of people of Speedy Boarding people was proportionately bigger, hence I must have queued for, ooh at least 5 minutes to check-in.

Not really a problem, you would think.  Well, Mr and Mrs Beige in front of me in the Speedy Boarding queue didn't think so.  Obviously they weren't actually called Beige, however there is an unwritten law that when you are above 60 and travelling by air, you must wear beige slacks and a navy blazer with brass buttons - and of course comfortable shoes.  They were very vocally tutting their disapproval, and totally slagging off easyjet to the whole queue.  You know, the sort of people that have Watchdog, Homes from Hell and Tonight with Trevor McDonald on series link.

And the poor underpaid girl behind check-in that had to deal with their tirade once they reached the desk - they actually uttered (loudly) the immortal phrase "I'm writing to Stelios", at which point I and several other people smirked very loudly.  I didn't realise that people actually said that - I just thought it was people that had been paid to kick-off and create some TV drama on Airline.

OK, the above may have been an isolated incident, but HAVE YOU SEEN NRCs once they get to the gate for an easyjet flight?  Every time anybody with a high-vis vest, a clipboard, or even just a badge walks past the gate it's like a pack of meercats that have just spotted something exciting.  It's a bit like a reverse game of musical chairs - but rather than the music stops and you sit down, it's ANY announcement on the PA and you stand up.  And once the incoming plane actually arrives at the gate, well that is of course the signal for tension levels to increase by a factor of 10.

Now the NRCs will obviously have positioned themselves close to the gate, ready to spring into action when someone makes the first move to start a queue.  A friend of mine says that her favourite game at the easyjet gate is to stand up early and be the first to start the queue, then watch as a hundred people automatically stand behind her - fucking genius.

But what I now take great delight in (as a dedicated Speedy Boarder) is the looks of utter contempt and disgust as I push through the NRCs to the front when the Speedy Boarders are called - bearing in mind that most NRCs must do this regularly on their frequent trips to their bolt-hole on the Continent, has it never occurred to them that a £14-50 supplement is not a lot to pay to avoid the nail biting tension of the easyjet boarding gate?  And then on a busy flight, NRCs that board late and stand blocking the whole aisle looking around in shock, as they couldn't possibly sit apart on a 1 1/2 hour flight.  AAAAAAAAAGH.

Even better, on boarding my return flight from Geneva I was sneerily asked by an NRC if I realised that I was actually in the Speedy Boarding queue - the overwhelming desire to spray them in the eyes with my Duty Free Gucci by Gucci Sport eau de toilette was overwhelming - but at £40 a bottle a piercing withering look/raised eyebrow combo had to suffice.

Right, enough venting.  I need to spend some time telling myself how fabulous and special I am, as instructed in therapy.  Or, drink a bottle of chilled Sauvignon - as instructed by the secret wine voices.

Au revoir

Matthieu xx

P.S. To counterbalance the misery above (OK, I'm shoe-horning this in) a really good opportunity to mention Pam Ann - possibly the most pant wetting stand-up you are likely to see.  If you are a gayer you will automatically love this, but for those less fortunate readers in a nutshell Pam Ann is every nightmare cabin attendant you have ever encountered - but worse - and on coke.