The procrastinator returns

Green in here, isn't it?

As you can see, my (very, very) rudimentary HTML skills have returned this blog to something approximating its former glory.

So, how long's it been? Nearly a year, you say? Gee whizz, time doesn't half fly by when you're flogging fine wine (and, some would say, a dead horse) in the arse-end of London.

Why the hiatus? Well, to tell you the truth, I kind of lost my taste for blogging. It happens. When I was a kid, I went through a phase when I would only eat tuna sandwiches - tuna, tuna, tuna. Tuna for breakfast, lunch and tea. Man, did I love tuna. So what if it contained dangerous levels of mercury? Tuna and me, we were pals. Then, all of a sudden, I went right off it. If I was offered a tuna sandwich, I would push it away. I'd make gagging noises. I'd give it to the dog - and we didn't even have a dog. I'd go out and find a dog specifically so I could feed it my tuna. I'm surprised the tuna fishing industry didn't collapse overnight. So total was my rejection of all things tuna that I didn't touch the stuff until a few years ago. Then, for some reason, I woke up one afternoon (I like a good lie-in) and thought "I fancy a salad nicoise". And that, as you say, was that. Tuna and I were reconciled.

So blogging = tuna. Okay?

I would like to summarize the last nine months for you in bullet-point form, so we're all up to speed and normal service can resume. Right, here we go:

  • January: I had a hangover that seemed to last all month. It turned out that I had glandular fever. And, since it is the "kissing disease", I had to keep away from Lucy. Mmm, special torture.
  • February: Still feeling like a steaming heap of crap thanks to the glandular fever. This didn't stop me going to Cologne for Karnival. Though, in retrospect, drinking industrial quantities of beer was maybe not the best thing to do while still convalescing. It turns out that alcohol doesn't, in fact, kill the germs. Braincells, yes. Bacteria, no.
  • March: Lucy's Great-Aunt Rosalee kicked the bucket. She was a game old bird, and apparently snuffed it while trying to re-align her satellite dish by hitting it with a shoe. The funeral was a rather jolly affair, with lots of her old pals from her days as an exotic dancer - glamorous old ladies with a rather shocking line in innuendo. Lucy inherited the blue 1978 Morgan, and I pray to Great-Aunt Rosalee for protection every time we take a corner too fast.
  • April: Did anything happen in April? I'm not sure. I think maybe Marxist Jim did some shouting.
  • May: Jasper and Nell celebrated their one year anniversary, which meant that I lost my (rather mean-spirited) bet that their marriage wouldn't last 12 months. On the plus side, I am reliably informed that Nell appears to have turned into a demanding, screeching harpy, so at least I had a lucky escape when she ditched me.
  • June: I turned 37. And the least said about that, the better.
  • July: A bit of a shocker, this. One of my good friends, who had hitherto been something of a ladies' man, well and truly came out of the closet. I'll leave you to guess who it was (hint: it wasn't Wall-Street Phil, who is too exhausted by running around after little Jude to even think about sex). If you guess right, I'll let you know all the juicy details.
  • August: A week's holiday in the South of France which was delightful, thank you very much. Apart from me managing to get a quite severely sunburnt arse (don't ask... I said don't ask), which meant sitting down was virtually impossible. My, but that was an enjoyable return flight. "Sir, can you return to your seat, we are about to begin our descent." "Um, can't I just stand up? I promise not to fall over or anything." Classy.
  • September: DISASTER!

Yes, disaster.

But if you wish to know the nature of the disaster, you will have to tune in again for the next gripping* installment. I promise not to make you wait another nine months for it.

 

*may not actually be gripping

The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Spier Shiraz 2005 (South Africa). A big, powerful wine with gingery, peppery flavour and plenty of body. Great for drinking in large quantities after a DISASTER. £6.99
2.10.06 12:03


Disaster!

It is a quiet night chez Bland. The night rubs against the windows like a cat, and the rain does a Busby Berkeley tap routine on the roof. Your beloved narrator is spreadeagled on the sofa, watching the highlights of the Ryder Cup. Well, I say watching. Your beloved narrator is more sort of listening, while resting his eyes. And snoring.

Above my head, the large, brownish patch on the ceiling - which I'd meant to get round to painting over last month, but you know how these things are - begins to darken ominously. A small drop of water forms in its centre. Slowly, the drop of water grows in size until gravity begins to pull at it. The drop of water resists. Gravity tugs a bit harder. The drop of water grits its teeth and stays put. Gravity gently suggests to the drop of water that it should pull its socks up and just bloody fall. The drop of water shakes its head and says it would much rather stay on the ceiling, thanks very much. Gravity threatens the drop of water with a crowbar. The drop of water shivers. Then, with a remarkable precision, it flings itself into my open, snoring mouth.

"Cah, pftht, wah! What the hell was that?"

Lucy - who is sitting next to me on the sofa and who has been watching the drop of water's birth and its swan dive down my gullet with rapt attention - explains that the roof is leaking.

We stare up at the ceiling. More drops of water, seeing that their fellow has fallen to earth with no ill effect, have decided to join the party. A large damp area is forming on the sofa. The brown patch on the ceiling has gone very dark.

"Ah, bugger it," I say. "We'll stick a bucket under the leak and get someone in to have a look at it tomorrow."

As it turns out, this is not the best plan ever devised. 

Eventually, Lucy and I board the sleepy train to Bedfordshire (after I have spent ten minutes brushing my teeth, trying to get the taste of roof-juice out of my mouth). I can sleep for Europe, so I'm out like a light (after a bit of... well, you know). Somewhere in the night I have the sensation of a roaring or a shuddering, but then it's back to dreamland.

I am woken by Lucy putting a wet hand on my face. I look at the clock by the bed. It is still silly a.m.

"Roof's gone," she says.

"Ruth? Who's Ruth?" I am confused. It is far too early for one of Lucy's non sequiturs.

"Not Ruth. Roof. Come and see." She takes me by the hand and pulls me out of bed.

Like a wobbly-legged fawn, I follow her into the hallway, mewling plaintively.

"What's going on? Luce? Why are you all wet? Oh." As I splosh into the living room, it becomes achingly obvious why she is all wet. The roof has fallen in.

I shall draw a discreet curtain over the scene that follows. There is rather a lot of swearing.

 

It has since become clear that a small lake has been forming on the flat roof above my abode for some time now. The rain in September swelled it to such an extent that the lake decided it needed to expand its premises, preferably in a downwards direction. The drop of water that fell in my mouth was just the scouting party.

Lake:  What do you have to report, Private Droplet?

Droplet:  Well, the flat's a bit scummy, and you don't even want to know about the carpet they've got in there, but they do have a brand-new widescreen TV and a DVD player that we could really fuck up by falling on.

Lake:  Good work, soldier.

We've got to wait for the place to dry out before we can get someone in to sort it all out (at prohibitive expense, naturally). Thank God for contents insurance, that's all I can say.

In the meantime, we are homeless. And this is why we are staying (God help us) in the spare room of my employer, the splenetic and not-in-any-way-at-all easygoing Marxist Jim.

It's a tense time for all of us.

 

P.S. Menace guessed correctly. Well done, sir. Your prize is my good opinion. The story of Enzo's emergence from the closet is to follow.

The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: Bethany Riesling 2005 (Australia). Crisp and limey, like cold autumn rain filtering gently through the plaster in your ceiling. £6.49
4.10.06 11:34


Out

Enzo and I have been mates for years, ever since I first landed on the Arcade, still skinny and twitching from the breakdown. I used to escape into the Giannone's cafe for a coffee, shell-shocked and reeling after one of Marxist Jim's verbal assaults (I had yet to develop my current immunity to being called a useless f***ing c***; for some absurd reason I was still feeling a little bit fragile), and when he brought over my latte Enzo would chat to me about normal, comforting things like football and getting drunk.

I liked him from the start. Sure, he was maybe a little too fixated with trainers. And he was almost aggressively good-looking. And the whole "I'm going to be a popstar" thing wore thin very quickly. But he was a good laugh, and Christ knows I needed that in those days when everything seemed to be saturated with shades of grey.

Eventually we started hanging out after work - drinking and playing pool down the pub with his big brother Tony, or occasionally going clubbing in town, where Enzo would always end up playing tonsil hockey with some gorgeous girl while I sat on the sidelines and marvelled.


When Lucy arrived on the scene, however, our friendship cooled a little. I figured that he'd fancied himself in with a chance, and my unexpected success had put his nose out of joint. Eventually, we started hanging out again, but as part of a group rather than just the two of us.

Now, picture the scene: it is a sultry day in July. The sort of day that just cries out for a beergarden and one too many pints of cold lager. Lucy has bombed off in the Morgan to visit her barking mad sister in her new house down in Wiltshire, so I find myself alone, at a loose end and with craving for fizzy alcohol. Wall-Street Phil is busy with young Jude (as ever), Vinnie is in Brighton, getting yet another tattoo, and I am not such a masochist that I would ask Dylan along to the pub, as his conversation would make me want to drown myself in the nearest water-butt (the hosepipe ban is still in force – and I’m not sure how I’d go about drowning myself with a hosepipe anyway). So I nip next door to the cafe and ask if Enzo fancies a few pints after work. He answers in the affirmative.

At the end of the day, we meet up in the Swan's "beer garden" (actually just a patch of bare concrete and a few scattered tables with wonky legs) and proceed to get riotously drunk on lager. All of which is well and good, until Enzo leans towards me and, in a slurred stage whisper, offers to suck my cock.


To say that I am taken aback would be the understatement of the year. How to respond? I rack my brain, but can find no precedent. I opt for the polite refusal.


"Errr... no. But, look, thanks for offering."

"Are you sure? I'm very good at it," Enzo puts his hand on my knee.

"Umm, no, you're all right. Thanks anyway, mate." I mumble.

"S'okay. Just thought I'd offer." And he goes back to his pint as if nothing untoward had happened.


 
The next morning, Lucy groons back in the Morgan and bounds into the flat, where I am busy self-medicating with a bacon sandwich and a vat of coffee. I look like death, and feel even worse.

"Hiya slugger. Good night last night?"

"Yeah..." I chew pensively on some bacon fat.

"You don't sound so sure."

"Well, it's all a little indistinct, and I was very pissed so I may just be imagining things, but I think Enzo kind of... offered to give me a blow job."

"What was it like?"

"I didn't say yes. Jeez, Luce."

"Well I can't say I'm surprised. He's had a crush on you for ages."

The piece of bacon fat sails across the living room and hits the stereo with a wet plick. I am aghast.

"He has?" My brain is doing cartwheels. "So, does this mean that Enzo is, you know, gay?"

"Well, duhh." Lucy delicately picks the bacon fat off the stereo. "Do you want this?" I shake my head, and she pops it in her mouth.


Further questioning reveals the following facts:

  1. Lucy's gaydar is several million times more sensitive than mine.
  2. She has been aware of Enzo's sexual preferences for a couple of years now, but has never seen fit to mention it to me.
  3. Enzo is not officially "out", in that he hasn't told his family yet. But he is unofficially “out”, in that he has sex with men.
  4. Enzo confessed to Lucy that he had a bit of a thing for me during one of our tasting evenings at the Bottle Shop. Again, she chose not to mention this until now.
  5. It turns out that when Lucy appeared on the scene, it wasn't her of whom Enzo was jealous. 


All this came as something of a shock, I can tell you. But as the hangover abated and my capacity for rational thought returned, it all began to make quite a bit of sense. I think back to all those women he pulled when we were out - they'd be throwing themselves at him, and yet he never seemed to have any long-term relationships. And then there was the obsession with shoes. But I clearly have the observational skills of Helen Keller, so all this passed me by.

I have since spoken to Enzo about it and he has confirmed that yes, he is indeed gay. Which makes it sound like an easy conversation - it wasn't. I was appallingly English about the whole thing. The amount of stuttering, blushing and umm-and-ahhhing would have struck even Hugh "all I do is stutter" Grant as being a bit over the top.

Still, all is now well between Enzo and myself. And it's always nice to know that someone out there thinks you're hot stuff. Even if that person does have 5 o'clock stubble and dresses to the left.


 
The Bottle Shop recommendation for today: 'Sassaiolo' Rosso Piceno Superiore 2003 (Italy). A bold wine with a ripe, brambly nose and the deep, ruby colour of someone who's trying to be subtle about asking his friend if he's... y'know... ummm... ahhhh... well... sort of... you know... gay. £5.99
6.10.06 14:15