Being Boring

I'm being a bit crap at this blogging lark, aren't I? And why is this? Is it because it's been sunny? Possibly. Is it because I've been away? Possibly? Is it post-Glastonbury comedown? Yes, amongst other things. Is it because I have nothing to say? Absolutely not. In fact, quite the opposite - I have too much to say (although a lot of it revolves around Big Brother, to be honest, plus Glasto and my Mardi Gras weekend), and I don't know where to start. I have also been distracted for hours today by other people's blogs. I started off reading a few accounts of London Mardi Gras, which led to the perusal of some other really good blogs. And some have photos! As a result, in addition to my forthcoming petit copain Olivier Rochus (see 26/06 below), I have now fallen in lust with at least two people men (why am I tempted to use such pointlessly ambiguous language?) who are featured in other people's photos. But I'm too shy to say who. Hell, I don't even know their sexuality. Perhaps I should read their blogs (where applicable)! (Even though it was LMG day, it's wise not to make assumptions; everyone goes out with their mates, especially when they're gathered in Soho Square, or when someone is leaving the country (or both)).

Actually, there's a reason why the muse has deserted me for the last few days. I'm paralysed by fear. Fear of tomorrow's JobCentre interview and of defaulting on my mortgage payment next month. The two aren't entirely unrelated. Not that I'm really afraid of the JobCentre. I've done the odd bit of freelance work lately; enough to show them that I do make some effort, and I'm on the books of two agencies. It's just that I know the interview will be tortuous. Back in March, on returning from Australia, I had to start a new claim. (You're not allowed to go out of the country and still claim dole.) I left there thinking I knew more about their procedures and how to fill in their forms than the inept staff did. Tomorrow, as almost every fortnight, my interviewer will undoubtedly ask once again if I have had any interviews. As always, I will grit my teeth and tell them politely that you don't have interviews for the kind of work I do from time to time. Then they will ask if I've done any work recently, and I can truthfully say yes. Then they will ask, fingers poised at the keyboard with an excited 'I can input something here' look on their face, when I had an interview for the job I've just had, and why I left. I will scream inside and politely explain, v e r y s l o w l y, the concept of freelance journalism. Wish me luck.

Funny thing is, I was actually offered a "job" yesterday, but felt obliged to turn it down, as I felt underqualified. Well, not underqualified exactly. 'Unable' would be more accurate. I don't think I'll tell the JobCentre about this one; they'll probably stop my benefit for refusing a job offer. Walking along New Street, I bumped into a very horny friend of about 14 months exactly. Funny how I remember exactly when we met. He has recently lost his job and is on the books of a couple of temping agencies. (Indeed, he gave me a tip about one, which has led to a positive-sounding lead today. I've e-mailed my CV to them tonight, but agency woman already called me back this afternoon to say she had a client who was interested in me. Perhaps I'll be able to tell the JobCentre to bog off after all very soon?) Anyway, I asked this friend how he was managing to survive, and he tapped his backside, laughed and said "selling my arse, of course". I laughed too, but not too much. He wasn't actually joking. He's done it before, ads and everything, and frankly I am envious, because he has the face, body and personality to be a very good rent boy escort indeed, and I am still hoping for a free sample of his wares. Then came the job offer. He told me that he's looking for a slaveboy, on behalf of someone else. I politely declined. Obviously it's shockingly immoral and disgusting and I couldn't possibly consider it. Now if he'd said a master....
· link