My corruption is in progress

I went to see Russell Brand at the Roundhouse last night. I don’t think I am a prude. I really don’t. Inexperienced and with simple tastes, but prudish, no I don’t think so. He’s a funny man. A dinky, skin-tight all black clad, messy haired man with rootin tootin boots. The population of the world who has heard of Russell Brand, I assume has also heard about his sex addiction. A large part of his act is about that - very graphically so. I don’t mean a visual of his bits, no indeed not, but an energetic display of how he goes about his sexual business. With many, many details that perhaps my mind was unable to process fast enough to laugh. When it comes to pornography (I really didn’t intend that pun) I am almost virginal. Of course I’ve seen some, but not very much and most of it pretty standard.

Apart from his own sexual tales – apparently he will shag anything that his human, female and still breathing – he did enlighten us about other acts of deviancy. One such act is called “seagulling”. Now, I know I am not the only one to have not heard of this, because I asked around! Allow me. It’s when a boy, usually in a school environment but not limited to this, ejaculates into his hand and flings it into the face of an unsuspecting passerby. Grim.

As happens when you are alerted to something, you begin to notice it around you. And so today, when I was running mindlessly on the treadmill, music blaring at me to keep going because one day it will be worth the effort, I looked out of the window at the activity on the street below. My eyes wandered over the Christmas market marquee set up in the very sad excuse for a square, over the working people out on their lunch breaks, the mothers with their infuriating lack of pram-driving skills and/or consideration, into the shop window of ______. Therein, a school boy was looking out, his friends milling around the shop behind him. I was about to move my eyes along, trying to soak up as much of the outside world as I could, when I noticed that his movements were a bit, well, odd. I went back to the window and looked a bit more closely, only to see that he was in fact rubbing himself, rather frenetically. ‘Himself’ being a euphemism for ‘his penis’. See how bold I am becoming? With my new found knowledge I allowed myself to speculate, with a certain worldly-wisenessness, that perhaps the shop assistant was to be the unsuspecting recipient of something very unwelcome.

Everything in my world was so pretty before this. Russell bloody Brand.

Things to rant about...in 3 minutes.

Scottish Housemate and I, and others along the way, have been debating the concepts of speed dating, internet dating and other types of arranged dating activities - as well as the would you/wouldn't you conversation.

The most frequently repeated comment from men and women alike is that they have done it or would do it "for a laugh". My retort is always, "That's not fair!" Someone is genuinely looking for a possible partner and is most likely placing a great deal of faith and hope [and some serious angst] in the process. In my eyes, it's just plain mean to enter into this dating fray if your intentions are not honorable. I imagine how hurt I would feel [and possibly humiliated if I actually quite liked him] if I shared my time allotted self only to find out that he was there for a laugh. I object!

Observation tells me that internet dating to the majority is nothing more than a grown up version of 'Hot or Not'. Let's not pretend that the hopeful lads consider qualities, interests and hobbies. In my office internet dating and subsequent dates are discussed openly. Those women who never make it to the actual date stage are displayed on the monitor for all to see because they dared to express some level of interest and are mocked mercilessly for it. With comments such as "what a minger" the boys rule them out one by one based on looks: and looks alone. Let me point out that these "boys" are aged 28 and upwards, and as the idiom goes, are no oil paintings themselves. God help us.

Now there is another kind of arranged dating activity, one which was the original purpose of this post. Scottish Housemate tells me, courtesy of the London Lite, that there is a new phenomenon sweeping the bars of London town. That was for dramatic effect...one bar somewhere in South Ken is hosting something called Down With Dating. An anti-speed dating if you will. People can go and legitimately take the piss. On the dreaded wall of faces, photos are replaced by your own hand-drawn-with-crayons self-portrait...and your 3 minutes of me me me is an opportunity for you both to talk about things that really piss you off. This I could do. I shall start making a list right now: things high up on shelves in shops; American English; people who walk really slowly in front of you; the fact that Quality Streets come in giant tins; phone contracts; customer services "your call is important to us" on hold mesasges; South African accents....This is too easy. Suddenly "for a laugh" sounds very appealing to me.

Stars in my eyes

A while back I expressed something hopeful about horoscopes and such. I was promised a good year that year and I thanked the stars for that. Since it proved to be completely the opposite, 2006 being an almost complete pile of poo, I turned my back on the wish-wash.

Enter Facebook.

Horoscope and Tarot applications telling me my fortune every day. I am supposed to have found love many times over by now. Why is it then that of late, the only man to have shown any sort interest at all is the manager at Pizza Go Go? At 2 o'clock in the morning. Flirting with me whilst waiting for my fries to become golden and delicious. To go with my large pizza. OK, nevermind, I just answered that. I need new hangouts, clearly.

I think I am going to remove them from my page. Or simply stop reading them. Reading into them.

But hark! Tomorrow my Money and Love are BOTH sunshiny...

Interpol @ Alexandra Palace