Profile. Gay.

It's pretty when its empty. But then, I think that about all places.

One of the ex’s friends had a birthday party at Profile in Soho. Baffling choice for a girl. The bar was gay central – If you like Muscle Marys and shirtless bar tenders.

The entrance to the bar, which was essentially a 10 foot corridor (see photo on right) fitting on a handful of cramped tables had people sitting down eating a full dinner to the seriously loud and shady techno music the DJ was playing. The DJ was loving his music. He was so hot for himself, he couldn’t believe it.

This was not my kind of gay bar. It got very crowded ,very fast, mostly with men who looked like someone had inflated them with a bicycle pump. That probably didn’t help either. Burly men take up far too much room. I think bouncers ought to take that into account when doing a head count.

I got fed up pretty soon into the evening, once the place got packed. Unfortunately I was duty bound to stick around, at least for a bit longer.

To entertain myself I played little games with myself. It was hard to hold a conversation in there. We were standing right next to the speakers and the self-lovin’ DJ.

I tried imagining I was a gay man. Would this bar be cock heaven? Would I just wander around with my penis bursting from the seams, reading to pounce on any bloke for a little bum-bum? Would I be having a good time? Would I go for the weedier, skinny guys or the big ol’ burly ones?

I think if I was gay I’d probably be into bears. I don’t like burly men who are hairless – It looks unnatural. A big beard and many tattoos. Hot. Maybe some kind of ex-con.

I really love that novel Maurice, by E.M. Forrester. It’s a great gay love story. A repressed Englishman bonks the young under-gamekeeper. (I love the term ‘Under Gamekeeper’. Anyone doing that job is begging to be bonked.) It has a happy ending. I love happy endings, especially in gay fiction. Leave the unhappy endings for real life.

Gay men largely seem to get better love stories. I stopped reading female gay fiction after a while. It just got too depressing and in a way even the L Word is depressing. Everyone is constantly bitching, back stabbing or cheating. Nothing good ever happens and if it does, you know it can’t last. I can’t handle that kind of stress and disappointment in my fantasy life. At least that should go smoothly.

Speaking of sex, A4 sent me to her friends blog who writes (or at least wrote) about homo-sex. It has only has 11 posts, but man, they blew my mind. I’ve read some gay fiction, but the ones I read partly intellectualized all the sex. This blog is just hunting for the sex, having the sex and then writing the sex. I honestly can’t imagine thinking about sex, sex, sex all the time. Or having that much sex (without even turning a profit.)

While I was there I also had an epiphany about a new kind of chandelier for gay bars. I was looking at a disco ball rotating gently above my head (this is how bored I get at clubs, which is why I’ve never really enjoyed clubbing) and the lights reflecting off it reminded me of chandeliers. Then I thought how great would it be to have a giant chandelier, but made from thousands of small rotating disco balls instead of the individual crystals.

God I was really bored at this club. I told the ex I was going to go soon, of course they didn’t have to come home with me.

The ex was drinking wine and was already a bottle in. Not good. Not good at all. I knew I needed to exit and fast unless I wanted another failed drunk management strategy on my hands.

The ex didn’t want me to leave right away, so I strategized and used sex as a lure.

It worked.

I’m not ashamed.

Welcome to Hell

This is hell, conveniently located on Bateman St, Soho. I am ticket no. 908

I’m going to Espain in April. So I need esvisa (groan)

My bank decided not to tell me they had stopped posting me my bank statements.

It took 2 months to find this out. Then another 2 weeks to actually get the statements.

Lloyds TSB, people.

Statistically the most complained about bank. So proud to be one of those millions and millions of people.

So I had to take the morning off work to get the visa. I felt guilty, even though it’s not my fault I have to jump through these hoops and frankly I haven’t even visited a gynaecologist or a doctor in years. (Well I’ve never visited a gynecologist. I’m scared and I don’t want some strange person up in my vajayjay)

Fucking guilt. How am I not a catholic? To placate myself more than anything else I tell my boss it wont take long.

Fortunately this visa place is in Soho. Unfortunately my work is across town.

Some improvements to the visa system have at long last been made. You now can book an appointment online. This is free. In the past you had to call a premium number, at a pound a minute. That’s worse than comic relief.

The online booking system said choose a time slot.

Then it only gave me one option.

This is bureaucracy at its best.

I waited for 30 mins at the Visa place to get my number called – this is actually efficient. I once waited 7 hours in Croydon to get my student visa renewed.

I got to counter 12. The guy doesn’t bother to look up at me, he just takes my papers and goes through them.

“How old is this photo?”

It’s quite a few years old. So naturally, I lied immediately.

“Uhm…I don’t know really…maybe a year?”

The moment the lie left my lips I regretted it.

I realised I’d used that photo for more than one visa, more than a few years ago.

He knew it too.

“Don’t lie to me. I’m serious.”

He meant business this guy. So I said look I don’t know. I guess its old.

“This photo is invalid.”

Panic.

“Uhm.. Ok can I take one now and give it to you?”

“Yes. Do you have your travel insurance coverage plan? This is not enough. I need the terms and conditions.”

“Uhm I have this piece of paper with me that’s all. I left the terms and conditions at home. Do I just go to this booth to get you the photo? Shall I do it now?”

“That’s not important. We are not talking about the photos. We’re talking about your travel insurance – I need the coverage plan or I cannot process your visa”

Oh fuck.

I left that at home. I seriously don’t want to have to trek all the way back home.

“Ok so what can I do? Is there a computer I can just buy insurance from here?”

“No. You can try a post office.”

Fuck. Ok I guess I’ll have to go home. Arrrggghhhhh!!!!

“I can go home I guess and get this. I live in Angel. It should take 15 mins to get there.”

“15 mins?”

He’s skeptical. Clearly he doesn’t trust a liar.

I was exaggerating. It takes at least 25-30 mins on the tube. But whatever.

“Ok fine”

He raises one eye brow.

“I’ll give you 2.5 hours to get there and back. I’m putting a time on this paper to let you back in and if you are not back before 2:30 your visa will be denied. And since you said it only takes 15 minutes you should be able to manage that.”

“Do I need to que up again or can I come straight back to you. What is it that you need me to bring?”

“You will get it wrong. Just bring all the papers.”

I laugh in his face at this direct insult.

“No seriously, you will get it wrong.”

I nod. He’s probably right. I’ll just bring everything.

So I double-check

“Today? Today? If I come back today? Today seriously today?”

This guy is thoroughly unimpressed with me

“I have already told you have 2 hours.”

“Ok.”

Pressure pressure. Mission Impossible.

So I first go to the photo booth and pay 4 pounds to take a photo that makes me look like I’ve just left a Charlie Sheen all-nighter.

Then I run home. Scarf flying, sweater getting sweaty. Everything seems to be taking longer. Why are tourists so annoying? Can’t they walk at a pace that is not a crawl??

I get home. It’s nearly 12. I’m exhausted. I should have been on my way to work now.

So I take a cab back to the visa place. This is an expensive visa.

I walk in to find that fucker has just gone for lunch.

I wait there for nearly an HOUR! I was flipping the fuck out. I need to be at work! An hour ago!

I read nearly a whole Barbara Cartland in the time it took to do all this commuting and waiting. (That’s how I register time now, I don’t look at clocks, no minutes and hours. It’s a 1.5 Barbara Cartland. 45 past Barbara Cartland. Page 98 Barbara Cartland ‘o’ clock.)

I keep looking at the door, hoping he’ll be out. When will he be out?? What is he eating?

He finally walks by. Looks me dead in the eye. Then turns around and goes back into his visa hiding hole.

I know what this is. He is showing me how much power he has. These visa people are power-hungry bastards.

The worst part is most of the people in that place were Indian. This guy looked and sounded proper desi. Like what the fuck? Help a sister out. Jana Gana Mana man.

Eventually he comes back to his desk. I’m looking at him, staring him down, with intent. I want my eyes to bore into his fucking soul.

He looks at me, mildly puzzled. I’ve seen you today?

“Yes! You gave me this note and told me to come back before this time!”

I remorsefully tell him I’ve been waiting for an hour. I look at him with blame. More intent.

Also I can’t actually believe he’s forgotten already. What happened to Mr. Mission Impossible? Be back in 2 hours and no more or death?

“Oh if I had known you were waiting I’d have seen you straight away. You should have told me.”

Told him? Told him what? I’m fucking waiting to see him. The whole room is waiting. This place is purgatory. Everyone is waiting. What tell him? I can hardly go to the back to the kitchen and insist he sees me. What drugs is this guy on?

“You looked right at me and walked away!! I thought you were ignoring me because you were in your lunch break!!”

“Oh no, I see so many people I didn’t even remember you.”

Sigh.

Maybe I should show more cleavage in future.

Good news is at least I got my visa.

Espain here I come.

Penis Drawings

Shape Analysis

I really love drawing penises. I realised that while drawing this.

Sure, I enjoy drawing vaginas too, but I find they don’t have the same comedic value.

This is not based on any particular sexual preference, I’m merely referring to the shapes when you draw them.

The cock with its cylinder and two circles is so much funnier looking. (see above, my seriously M.A diagram)

The vagina has a more elegant, modified elliptical shape, which makes me feel it ought to be taken more seriously.

I can’t imagine some tagger graffiting vaginas on underground passes and subway walls with the same carefree abandon as scrawling a big, giant, hairy knob. Knob drawings are far more carefree.

Also entirely hairy ones. The hair is not just on the balls, but everywhere. Like a Chewbacca of cocks.

I was doodling a hairy cock on a napkin at Prithvi ages ago and Bhangar who was sat there with Riddhi, got offended because I covered the whole cock in hair.

He said they didn’t look like that, it’s insulting. Only the balls have hair.

I suppose he had a point.

Now I just draw ones with veins, unless I want to be insulting. I find it helps to add the detail.

See? That’s so M.A. of me! How can they get rid of M.A. illustration??

This is the world penis drawing competition. I’m thinking of entering.

Brilliant Advert to Promote Safe Sex:
http://www.liveleak.com/e/3cd_1268037569

Dick-Tater. A fun cock pun. If I were a competition judge I’d let it win. 

Sweet

My boss came back after lunch from a client meeting and gave me a sweet that this Cali drug lord client gave him.

It’s part of his new trial product range of items made with weed.

I have low expectations about the performance of these kinds of products.

I once bought a bag of ‘natural’ grass from Camdem and it was just a bag of junk. It didn’t work and tasted terrible.

So I ate the sweet on the way home in the tube.

Nice, kind of gingery, mentholic. (If there is such a word as ‘mentholic’. Spellchecker doesn’t believe there is)

I got off the bus and promptly texted by boss to say officially that although it was tasty, I found that the sweets were not ‘medical’ in the slightest.

As soon as I sent the text I realised I was pretty darn mellow.

I love my boss.

I Hate Birthdays

Let them eat cake. Hell, lets all eat cake.

I find birthdays to be highly anxious times.

Not mine, mine are fine (mostly). I don’t care that much.

Sometimes I organize drinks at a pub, other times I can’t be bothered. May isn’t warm enough in this country and in Maharashtra my birthday is a dry day (not that has ever stopped us drinking at home). So my birthday is usually a moderate affair.

The ex is the opposite. The ex’s birthday is very important. Like an occasion of state.

Parades and confetti, a marching band and obsequious fawning. Protesters being executed at dawn. The usual dictatorial celebrations.

The ex also likes to test me before the big event, by asking, very casually,

“So….do you know what next thursday is?”

I pretend I don’t know, casually of course,

Shrug. “Uhm… no….?”

The ex’s hackles rise immediately – Ou est la guillotine??

“You don’t remember?? You forgot?”

Then I make a mock-horror face and say

“OH MY GOD!!! Noooooooooooooooooooo!”

I try to entertain the ex at home, in this way. The ex hates it.

That aside, the ex’s birthdays give me nightmares. Literally. I woke up stressed a week before the ‘Royal Day’ after a dream where I was looking for gifts in vain. The pressure is dreadful.

What is worse is that I feel the chances of success are slim to none. If the ex desires something it has already been bought, and it’s usually some designer gear. This makes gift giving a real struggle. The ex is also a utilitarian, so novelty items (that great birthday present refuge) are a no-go area.

If the ex doesn’t like a present I have to return it, not the ex. So my hair-pulling, pathetic efforts are rewarded with trouble and humiliation. (I think, only one present of mine has remained unreturned.) Worst of all the dud present is soundly critiqued and I am scolded for any of its flaws.

How can I buy the wrong kind of present? Why aren’t I more efficient? What is wrong with me? I suck. Doesn’t the ex always get me gifts I like? Blah blah.

This is true in so far that I have so far only disliked 1 present (one didn’t fit but which I returned, myself).

The simple reason for this is that I have low expectations. Not in any negative way, but I don’t demand cake. No confetti. No parade. No heads on silver platters. I’m pretty easy to please.

This year after looking around and pulling out my hair, I asked the ex what they wanted. Shoes and clothes were out – size is too risky. Household things – a vase? Yuck. Things for kitchen – like what? I already bought the ex a chef’s outfit with name embroidered. You know it was really stupid of me to use that gift on a non-event day. It was a great gift. I should have saved it for some ‘occasion’ instead, but I was excited and I wanted the ex to have it. Now I had no idea what to get, Fuck!

Anyway, to return to the point – I asked the ex what they wanted.

The ex grudgingly told me what they would like. Grudgingly because I’m expected to be a psychic, you know. I ask because I would rather get something the ex actually wants, and perhaps I won’t be criticised and have to return it. The ex translates this as not giving a fuck.

(The ex is one of those people who demands surprises but hates them once received. The ex will deny this, but the ex is not a ‘surprises’ person. Fact. And I’m not a psychic. Double fact.)

So I found whatever it was online, wrapped it, matching card. Blah blah. (The ex loves things that match.) The ex said OK thanks – at the time…Later the ex said it wasn’t good enough. (which annoyed me hugely) Then we had that idiotic fight about cake.

It wasn’t just a fight about cake… (like that Marks & Spencers ad –  it’s not just a cake…it’s a chocolate soaked, gold-plated, diamond encrusted M&S cake).

I feel the ex is uniquely ungrateful and ungracious. (My mom and I bought a bag, from some expensive shop in Bombay, which the ex absolutely hated and didn’t hesitate voicing it. Then I felt bad about that. Bad that we got it wrong, bad the ex was tearing into the little peace-offering and bad because I told my mom that the ex liked it. Bad x 3. Never again. Seriously.)

So now I feel nothing will be good enough.

Note: Let me just add that the majority of my birthdays the ex has ruined in some way. The year before last I slept on the couch after an awful, entirely unwarranted scene at 4 in the morning – also even though it was the last thing I wanted to do, the ex and my gay ex flat-mate insisted on going to The End. A seriously shit time. Hated it. I fucking hated it. So angry about that. Yes, still.

Another year, the ex couldn’t be bothered with me and leaving me in their flat, went out with some other friends. I was so depressed I cried. One year we went to Brussels and the ex fought we me and then said some things which were so offensive and upsetting, that I can’t forgive them even now.

Last year I refused to do anything – I’d rather just have a peaceful night.

So a couple of weeks ago the ex asked me what I wanted. I said Barbara Cartlands (I didn’t think the ex would agree, frankly.) But the ex did agree! On a small list of 15 used books on eBay.

I was really, really excited. I made up the list up to prevent duplicates. It took some time to do this.

The ex only bought 8 because the seller ran out of the others. Dammit! So I asked if the ex would let me check and make another list?

“No I can’t be bothered, it’s done now. That’s it. Don’t bug me.”

So now, even though I am aware it’s ungrateful and absurd, I’m disappointed.

Partly because the ex clearly doesn’t reciprocate any of the anxiety I feel for their birthday, and partly because I wanted all 15.

Like its pointless. Birthdays just are fucking pointless. Yours, other people’s, everyone’s. Whatever you do it’s a fucking disappointment. I fucking hate birthdays. I wish we could just can the whole thing.

(My Barbara Cartland addiction is making me slightly dramatic and emotional. I wanted those 15 god dammit. How will my BC count ever go up at this rate?)

——

Post Post-script:

I’d like to say while writing this post, I thought of a good gift for the ex for next year and although I’m not sure the ex will appreciate it, it’s probably good to plan well in advance considering the high level of tension the Glorious Day of Birth can cause.

And Fuck I’ll even buy a cake which the ex probably won’t eat. Sheesh.

Christ. Fucking cake.

——

Post Post Post Script: We had a pointless fight about cleaning the other day (nothing to do with the post above), so I went on a spree and bought 17 more BC’s to console myself.

I feel better now.

723

211. So beautiful. So magnificent. So... I'm at a loss for words. Click to view large.

That’s 211 Barbara Cartlands you’re looking at.

Yup, two hundred and eleven. Let me just spell it out. Let me savour it.

God just looking at it turns me on.

Then I think of the 512 I’m missing and I lose my hard on.

I was partly joking initially when I said it would be fun to hunt down and buy all 723 Barbara Cartland titles. I vaguely meant that I’d buy as many as I could and I guess that would be all.

Now my drawer is overflowing. I can’t do any work. I don’t feel like drawing anymore. I just want to read BC after BC.

A4. asked me if I was really going to spend over a grand on Barbara Cartlands. This was a bit of a reality check. I hadn’t really thought about it in terms of hard cold cash. I only feel my collection isn’t accelerating fast enough.

I have a bad feeling it might end up being more than a grand anyway.

Even if I buy all the books on eBay and amazon I don’t know if my count will go further than 500 or so. The last 200 BC’s are going to be really tough to track down.

It’s all getting a bit out of control.

Minimizing personal possessions to make room – I got rid of most of my shoes because they compete for space with my books. Books always trump shoes, which shows you my lack of perspective. I actually need some shoes.

The not drawing is worrying me the most. It screams lack of focus, lack of ambition. I have all these ideas, loads of plans, sketches, thumbnails for large drawings but I really can’t do anything besides read these damn books.

I’m supposed to finish some freelance work and I’ve procrastinated all morning instead.

I also just bought 9 more.

Fuck. What is wrong with me? Why do I get like this? Where is the moderation? But then lack of moderation is so much more exciting.

Just imagine how amazing it would look to have 723 Barbara Carland titles on shelf upon shelf. I can already see it, in my mind’s eye. Just towers and towers of Barbara Cartlands. Even as they are, unarranged and piled under my bed, the sheer quantity of them lined up haphazardly thrills me.

723 now, that would be truly impressive.

I can’t wait.

Failed Drunk Management Strategies

 

My Tipple Of Choice

The first time I ever saw someone completely trolleyed was at Ayan’s party in the Xth Std. It was also the first time someone served alcohol at a party (as far as I know). Leo and I both made a conscious decision not to drink at all at this party. (I know! Leo! Not drinking! Free booze too. I mean, It’s momentous! It’s astounding! I can barely believe it myself!!)

We stood on the side like a couple of old women watching various people whose behavior got progressively worse as the night wore on. There was a fat Sardaji slumped by a terrace wall, swinging around a half empty bottle, while shouting at the top of his lungs,

“MA, SHAKTI DE! MA, SHAKTI DE!!”

(Ma, give me strength!)

and Leo and I smugly thought,

“Tsk Tsk tsk. We will never behave like these rowdies…”

I’ve dealt with a few drunks over the years, Leo, the ex, the ex’s gay friend, my gay friend, randoms here and there. Although I’ve learned that there are bad drunks and there are good drunks, I’ve never been able to manage a drunk efficiently and entirely successfully. (Good drunk or bad drunk, sometimes management is required either way)

So as a means of self-analysis I’ve listed a few of my (failed) drunk management strategies…

Strategy 1: Placate Placate Placate

Say anything, say everything, just make sure you never say ‘No’.

Drunk says:

“I want to get a puppy. I will quit my job and live at home with the puppy.”

So instead of saying:

“You can’t afford to stay at home and a puppy is like a baby so you can’t just leave it at home alone while you go to work.”

You must say:

“Yes yes get a puppy, lets name it Chintu. We will both quit our jobs, I will also get a kitty, we can call her Posse.”

Sometimes this strategy fails me. I don’t know why exactly, but I suspect the drunk (like an animal sensing fear) knows deep down that my placating isn’t sincere enough or that my underlying anxiety remains (I have anxiety around drunk people, I feel they are too unbalanced and unpredictable and this makes me nervous). This can put the drunk into a rage. Knowing they are being pacified winds them up like nobody’s business.

“Don’t humor me! Don’t lie to me! You are lying to me. I can tell! Yes you are!”

And once paranoia sets it, it’s going to get rough. Fasten seat belts.

So my tip would be to approach this step like a Method Actor – Get inside the role. Be the role.

You are the drunk! You will get a puppy! You will never work again! Yay! It’s all possible!!

Strategy 2: Retaliate

Sometimes I get frustrated when Strategy 1. doesn’t work quickly enough. Instead of patiently waiting it out I get angry. Why is my evening ruined? Why am I the designated baby-sitter! What the fuck!

If the drunk is being especially belligerent I start to lose my temper – I try arguing or scolding them into sobering up.

Oh. My. God.

This has never worked. This strategy has been nothing short of total and utter disaster. Tears, crying, shouting, fighting, roaming around streets, the works.

Take it from me, never ever do this. Bad, bad strategy.

Strategy 3: Emotional Avoidance

Some drunks become very introspective once the high has peaked. Emotional. This is when it all starts going downhill. Do they have any friends? Their life is going nowhere, why is it like this? What is our relationship? Who are you? Why are you here? Etc. Etc.

I really dread, more than anything else, having an emotional conversation with a drunk person. You transmogrify into a washing machine – Things just go round and round. In the end, no one wins and everyone cries.

So this strategy was to try to avoid all confrontation. Just refuse to talk. Politely and calmly say,

“Look I don’t want to discuss this now. Let’s talk about it tomorrow morning. Please respect my feelings. I cannot discuss this now.”

This sounds reasonable no? Perfectly sensible?

No.

Fail.

Determined to stick to my guns on this issue and not get dragged into an emotional mire I kept repeating the above, but all it did was upset the poor drunk. Why wouldn’t I talk to them? Why was I being so mean? They just wanted to talk. Why was I ignoring them?

Then I felt like a horrible bitch. I felt horribly guilty and then horribly annoyed with myself.

Followed by guilt again. A guilt sandwich. Nice juicy guilt. Mmmm. So Catholic.

Then I partly caved, gave in and tried talking. I soon regretted it and tried to back a hasty retreat into silence.

Oi, it was a mess. Not a successful strategy.

Strategy 4: Self-Awareness

“Self-awareness is defined as the awareness that one exists as an individual being. Without self-awareness the self perceives and accepts the thoughts that are occurring to be who the self is. Self-awareness gives one the option or choice to choose thoughts being thought rather than simply thinking the thoughts that are stimulated from the accumulative events leading up to the circumstances of the moment.”

- Wikipedia. That great source of misinformation

Drinking is an exercise of self-awareness (unlike periods). I’m a pretty good drunk, I know when to stop and if I’m drunk I know I must keep my mouth shut and just go home.

Sometimes I try putting this theory into practice with other people. If the drunk is behaving irrationally or badly I will gently point out that there has been some drinking, perhaps their judgement has become clouded? Shall we discuss it tomorrow? Can they not see that?

No. They really can’t.

I had high hopes for this strategy but I forgot about the power of denial. The drunk will flatly refuse to admit it even if they reek of spirits, are slurring every second word and wobble about like a sailor on a rough sea – They’ve had a bit to drink, but they are definitely not drunk. They are not drunk. They are NOT drunk, OK???!!!! They are TOTALLY SOBER!!! FUCK YOU I AM TOTALLY SOBER!

My gently gently awakening of self-awareness strategy starts to crumble. I start interrogating. I do both roles of good cop and bad cop.

From

“It’s OK, I don’t care how much you’ve drunk. I just want to know that’s all. Just be honest with me. It doesn’t really matter either way.”

To

“How many have you had to drink?? Just answer me. No, it wasn’t two. Don’t lie to me! Yes you are I know it wasn’t two! Don’t lie to me! How many??”

“Can you walk in a straight line?? I bet you can’t! Show me then?!”

Once you get sucked into this role play there is no backing out. They will insist they are not drunk, you will not believe them. They will feel annoyed that you are dismissing their feelings, you will be annoyed that they are lying.

Also it’s not very nice to ask drunks to walk in a straight line. I feel bad I said that.

Major fail.

Strategy 5: Rational

Try acting like nothing is wrong. No one is drunk, everyone is sober, we are having a normal, rational conversation.

This doesn’t work. Of course it doesn’t work. I don’t know why I sometimes think it might.

1. The drunk thinks they are sober and rational regardless. See Strategy 4.
2. You cannot be rational with a drunk. You must placate. See puppy example in Strategy 1.

As A4 told me wisely..

“Don’t you know that when people come home drunk you do not offer them reason?”

Wise words.

I know it too, I feel like I lose my mind sometimes. I should just nod and say yes and shut my mouth. Lesson learned.

Strategy 6: Actual Avoidance

Unlike Strategy 3: Emotional Avoidance, this strategy physically requires you to remove yourself, thus also dramatically reducing the chances of any sort of ‘scene’ occurring.

Lock yourself in the Bathroom. Take a long shower.

Wait for drunk to calm down/fall asleep. Then go to bed.

All will be well in the morning.

It is a tad cowardly yes…

Strategy 7: Join the Enemy. Get Drunk.

You remember that helpful tip in Strategy 1. about Method Acting? Getting into the role, understanding the role?

This strategy is far easier if you can’t act. We can’t all be Christian Bale.

Get so badly hammered you can’t even stand. This has never failed me yet. I look so useless and faltoo when I’m drunk that it forces the other person to sober up and take care of me.

The tragedy is that I hate being drunk. Merry yes, drunk no.

In Conclusion:

I would say Strategy 1: Placate Placate Placate, in more capable hands than mine, is the keeper.

If you enjoy extensive cirrhosis of the liver then Strategy 7: Join the Enemy is the one for you.

Strategy 6: Actual Avoidance, is for those who might not.

Well that’s all folks, those are my 7 (failed) strategies. Hopefully they will help you avoid similar pitfalls should you come across them in the future.

I in turn, shall re-read this post and try to improve my drunk management techniques and be more sensitive to inebriated people.

CSM To Kill M.A. Illustration Course!

I am fucking outraged. This is a travesty.

They want to drop the illustration pathway from my old M.A. at Central St. Martins.

Got an email out of the blue from Foz, our illustration tutor and the subject of many posts on this blog, asking us to sign this petition to keep illustration as a separate course as opposed to just some cheap whorish add-on to the design course.

Fucking designers. Fucking bastard typographers.

You know what? I may have a ‘design’ job but at heart, I’m an illustrator, and I always will be. So fuck all you designers, I don’t fucking care about your fucking grid.

Fuck you, fuck your grid and fuck, fucking Helvetica! Fuck.

So there.

Now lets take a deep breath, and sign the petition below.

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/macdillustration/

So this is what I wrote for the petition:

“First of all, I can’t imagine being stuck with a bunch on typographers and designers on the same course. All they care about is ligature and kerning. It’s ridiculous. It’s practically impossible to stay awake during a crit.

I would never have bothered applying for the course if illustration wasn’t its own pathway.

More seriously, it would be a huge mistake to drop this course. Even if my future career is not illustration, it really informed my thinking and approach to any brief/project. It was a fantastic course, largely due to the teaching from Foz & Gary.

I wish I could do another M.A. Keep it!”

Even if you are not from CSM or even an art student please sign this petition so those fucking idiotic bureaucrats don’t drop the best pathway off the M.A.

Design is fucking cold and dead. The course needs illustration.

I also learned from Martyn that the entire printing facilities – silkscreen, etching, everything – will be moved off the college campus to Archway.

Like that’s fucking convenient.

I mean it was hard enough to be able to print back when everything was in the same building, now the poor students have to trek all the way to Archway.

Failing all these things – no illustration – no print facilities, I would really advise all future applicants that they should not bother going to CSM after 2011. It would be entirely pointless. Anyone can stare at a screen and use Photoshop (look at me, living proof.)

You don’t need to fork out thousands of pounds for poor facilities and a lack of creative choices. Go to Falmouth or the Royal Academy or somewhere else for a proper art course.

The University of the Arts is fucked. There I said it.

Sign it. DO IT!

http://www.ipetitions.com/petition/macdillustration/

Boys Beware!

“One when never knows when the homosexual is about. He may appear normal, and it may be too late when you discover he is mentally ill.”

Gosh! Well I’d better keep an eye open for those dangerous homosexuals….

New Offices

Westbourne Studios Panorama

We moved to our new offices this Monday. Nice not to have to eat at my desk daily.

There was a fierce rumour going around the day before yesterday that Willow and Will Smith were somewhere in the building.

Although I investigated throughly (popped out for a fag) I couldn’t detect any signs of celebrity. No throngs of excited people, no burly body guards – all was quiet and peaceful.

However when I was in the downstairs loo (far right of the photo above), I heard through the wall either behind or above me, a child’s voice doing vocal scales.

She was singing so badly off-key I was almost convinced it could be Willow Smith.

The only downside to the new offices is that the corner shop is further away than entirely convenient. You have to go downstairs, walk up a little grotty bridge that goes over the rail lines and then walk another few minutes to the tube, which the only corner shop for miles.

This doesn’t seem like a long walk (and it isn’t), until you run out of something small like milk or sugar and have to walk back in the cold.

Additionally there is some inconsiderate prick who keeps letting his dog do these enormous brown poos, almost comedy poos, on the little bridge over the rail lines. He never picks up after the dog and as the week wears on the poo gets scattered all over the bridge.

I hope that fucking asshole’s dog poos on his fucking head.

Prick.