March Came In Like A Frozen Hare....

I've got big plans for March. But not yet. I'm off to see my friend Ange today. She hasn't been well, so I'm going to go spread some joy. As is my wont. Then I'll be back. And just as soon as I'm back, we've got some catching up to do, you and I.

I leave you with this:



Can you see what it is?

Sex Facts of the Animals. And Ange (The Littlest Ho)

Ange Fact

Ange was 13 when she swallowed her first mouthful of male ejaculate.

Now, the last thing I want is to seem like I’m passing judgement, but in my most humble opinion, that’s just a tiny bit on the young side.

I on the other hand was 24 when my taste buds first thrilled to the tang of a lady’s toilet area.

Again, the last thing I want is to seem like I’m passing judgement, but in my most humble opinion, that’s just a tiny bit on the old side.


Animal Fact #1 :: The Giraffe



Giraffes regularly indulge in all-male sex orgies. They are gay.


Ange Fact

Ange has Chlamydia.

I do not.

We are different people. Different animals. On Sunday we went to the zoo together. I took photos and learned some things. When she told me she had Chlamydia, I waggled my finger in her pretty, cum-hungry face and said: ‘As ye reap, so shall ye sow.’

Ange, to her credit, told me to go fuck myself, before adding, ‘And it’s the other way around, you dickhead.’

Ah, yes. So it is.


Animal Fact #2 :: The Iguana



The female iguana has retractile spines on the inner wall of her vagina, with which she is able to pierce her partner’s member and hold him in place long after he has ejaculated inside her. Why she has evolved this ability is not known, although zoologists suspect that it is ‘just for fun’.


Ange Fact

By the time she’d left school, Ange had worked her way through five boyfriends. While I was at home experimenting with Marmite, she was in her boyfriend’s car, all fingers and thumbs.

The fact is, I’m enormously envious of Ange. She has abilities I do not. Sex abilities.


Animal Fact #3 :: The Peruvian Semen Monkey



The Peruvian Semen Monkey is so-called because of the male’s astonishing capacity for producing and disseminating three times its own body weight in sperm in a single day.

I actually had to physically restrain Ange.


Ange Fact

Ange has had two abortions. (I’m not so envious of these.)


Animal Fact #4 :: The Gorilla



The gorilla is not a very sexy creature. Although gorillas are monogamous – which is nice – they only actually make love once every 70 years. The rest of the time they just sit around talking about the weather.


Ange Fact

Ange is a very sexy creature. She has a wonderful tongue, which she has a tendency to roll out onto her chin when she thinks she has said something amusing. I realise this sounds rather revolting, but it isn’t. Honest.


Animal Fact #5 :: The Penguin



When it comes to sex, the penguin’s reputation for sweetness and charm is completely unfounded. The female penguin is a cow. When confronted with a male in whom she has no interest, sexually, she will often knock him to the floor and trample all over him. If the male is foolish enough to take umbrage, the female will spit poison in his eyes then simply turn her back and ignore him. It should come as no surprise to learn that the female penguin works in television.


Rogue Fact

If I had been born a beautiful woman, I would have cocks coming out of my arse.

Death, Dating and Other Natural Disasters

Sally didn’t fancy the funeral in the end, which is a shame because it was extremely moving. Ange’s mum was evidently very much loved. For some reason (blind prejudice) I had come to assume that the inhabitants of Dartford were all vile soulless cretins no more capable of genuine human emotion than a bucket full of piss and clams. But that was wrong of me. And yesterday brought that home.

Sylvia Charlton had two miscarriages and a still birth before Ange came along, all healthy and bouncing and bold. Then, even though they wanted more, Sylvia and her husband Ed stopped trying to have kids of their own. They thought they'd quit while they were ahead and Ed had a vasectomy. They loved kids so much however, that – as well as cherishing Ange, obviously - they did everything they possibly could for everybody else’s kids. I guess they realised more than most how truly sacred young life is and they wanted to do everything within their power to nurture it, and to make it great. And so they became community child carers in a way which would never be possible today. (I am led to believe that these days, before you can even blow a raspberry at someone else’s child, you need a qualification in midwifery and a certificate from the local council.) In the 70s and 80s however, children were not made of sugar glass and you could still throw half a dozen rocks into a crowd of people without necessarily hitting a paedophile.

So basically Ange was raised in a community crèche. And although she never had any siblings of her own, other people’s kids were always around and she never wanted for company. Sometimes she got jealous of course, and on occasion she lashed out, but that’s only because she was – in Sylvia’s words – ‘a proper little madam’.

Naturally, as she spent a lot of time looking after their kids, Sylvia spent a lot of time with the young mums of the area. Consequently, she got to know them, and when they had problems – problems of a sensitive nature – they would confide in her, and Sylvia discovered that she had a knack for sorting them out, giving them the right advice and helping them help themselves to get their lives back on track. And so, as well as her role as community childcare consultant, Sylvia became the first port of call for any young couples in need of any kind of advice. As far as I could gather, she gained a reputation as a kind of a cross between Dr Ruth and Dr Spock.

Consequently her funeral was a very emotional affair, with a long line of friends and relatives taking turns to pay tribute to Sylvia, to tell their stories of how she’d helped them better their lives, and to thank her for all that she’d done.

Then when they were all done, we listened to The Green Green Grass of Home by Tom Jones. I don’t think there was a single person in the church who was not crying.

Sylvia loved Tom Jones.

Tom Jones and Dr Hook.

Despite that, I wish I’d known Sylvia, and although I never met her, I found myself missing her. Grief is infectious. At some stage it seemed odd to me to be weeping over a woman that I never knew; but then later it occurred to me that it wasn’t at all odd. Funerals are an emotional business, and as any decent film or book proves, just a couple of tales of human kindness and suffering are enough to move a person. In fact, by the time I got back home this morning, I felt like I’d been dragged through a particularly involving episode of Six Feet Under.



In the absence of Sally, Keith accompanied me to the funeral. It was the first time (as far as I am aware) that he’d seen Ange since they slept together. Ordinarily such a meeting might have been slightly fraught, but death has a way of putting things in perspective. And although Keith may have ruined a decent relationship by putting his thing in Ange, at least no one had died.

On the whole, Sylvia's funeral was pretty amazing. Indeed, and I don’t mean to be in any way disrespectful or inappropriate when I say this, it was truly wonderful. It was everything a good funeral should be. It was a mega-moving celebration of a life tremendously lived.

‘There’s something I need to tell you,’ said Keith.

This was this morning, on an early train back into London. We were a little hungover and probably still slightly mawkish from the funeral. I already knew about the results of Keith’s MS tests. He told me last week. He asked me not to mention it here because he was intent on getting on with his own blog. But that hasn’t happened. And if I want to tell you what Keith said next, which I do, I have to tell you what Keith said before. So here goes.

Last week Keith went to see the specialist to talk over the results of his various tests. There was good news and there was bad news. The bad news was that he does have MS. The good news is that he has a very mild form of MS and apparently there’s no reason it should get any worse than the intermittent tremors he experiences now. Although it might. But there’s no reason it should.

And that was that.

As I say, that was last week.

This morning, Keith said, ‘There’s something I didn’t mention.’ He looked me in the eye. The right eye. It twitched. ‘There’s something in my brain,’ he said. ‘The size of a blueberry.’ He smiled. ‘It’s not supposed to be there.’ He shrugged, looked out of the window.

He had a brain scan. And they found this area, this small dark patch. A shadow. It could be anything. It could be nothing. Well, not nothing. It’s definitely something. But it could mean nothing.

He has to go in for more tests this Wednesday. So he’ll find out soon enough. Well, not soon enough, but… you know what I mean.

Last night I had Ange crying on my shoulder, sobbing that she wouldn’t know what to do without her mum. I told her everything will be alright. Will it? Probably. One way or the other.

This morning I had Keith, all wet-eyed and looking elsewhere as the grey Kent countryside blurred past him like quotidian hyperspace. I told him everything will be alright. Will it?

We hang by a thread.

And sometimes it really scares me.

Meanwhile, in other, somewhat lighter news, Sally wants to take me out for a meal, which is as queer as it is exciting. (Queer in the old-fashioned sense). But she can only do Thursday. Which means that speed dating will have to be sacrificed. Apart from the fact that I’ve already paid, this actually makes me feel rather gay. (Also in the old-fashioned sense.) So… rather than throwing the money away, is there anyone out there who’d like a potentially humiliating experience on me? If so, drop me a line and I’ll give you all the details.

Salut.

Feedback Friday :: All Work And No Play Makes This A Dull Blog

bulk :: 16st 5 (Bollocks bollocks bollocks)
alcohol units imbibed :: 12
cigarettes smoked :: 0 (Hurray!)
joints smoked :: 0
runs run :: 0
swims swum :: 0
writing jobs accepted :: 4
grieving friends comforted :: 1
silver linings :: 1

Typically, just as I’d decided to devote more time to writing stuff that interests me, I got offered a lot more work writing stuff that doesn’t interest me. Which I would be a lunatic to turn down. This means that my entire week has been eaten whole by deadlines. Except for the small part of it which has been dedicated to helping Ange come to terms with the death of her mum.

I never met Ange’s mum, but by all accounts she was a wonderful woman. She’d been ill for a while and she suffered a second stroke last weekend. Then, just as she was recovering from that, she suffered a fatal heart attack. Ange was there when she died. She took it hard, blamed herself, got drunk, had sex with a stranger, cried during the sex, ran home in the middle of the night without any knickers and took the week off work. Then she phoned me on Tuesday in tears. Mutual schoolfriend Karen was also there by the time I arrived. I spent the rest of the week popping back when possible to keep her from beating herself up and helping her arrange the funeral.

The funeral is on Sunday.

Oh, and next Thursday, I am going speed dating. I booked it on a whim, a bottle of wine and a prayer, before I could talk myself out of it.

So next week at least, should be interesting. This week however, all told, has been rotten. I had so many things I wanted to get on with and I couldn’t get on with any of them. One interesting thing however: I received an email from Sally (she of the silver eyes and Araki obsession), asking me how I am. I haven’t replied yet. Because I am cool.

If you’re still reading this, Sally, how do you fancy coming to a funeral on Sunday? Go on, it'll be dead good.

Now I must work.

How very very dull of me.

Have a great weekend, everyone.

RIP Sylvia.

I Sound My Barbaric YAWP Over the Roofs of the World (Because Chicks Dig Poetry)

I used to keep a diary. A proper diary – the kind you cover with tears and bad poetry and keep hidden under your mattress like a shameful secret or a semen-sock. The kind that in recurring dreams is devoured by family and other sneering enemies, maybe over your coffin.

Last night Keith and I got talking about a weekend we spent in Brighton many years ago. He claimed that in the middle of the night I stripped off and marched into sea, shouting, ‘Any fool can walk on water. It’s merely a matter of mind over matter!’ I maintain however, that no such thing happened. I maintain that the water-walking episode took place in North Wales years later.

So when I got home in the early hours, I dug out my old diaries and checked. I was right. Of course I was right. For I have the memory of a giant computerised elephant, whereas Keith has the memory of goldfish with Alzheimer’s. Why, sometimes he even forgets he has a girlfriend!

Sorry. Sorry, Keith. And happy birthday for tomorrow. Me old mate.

Anyway, the reason I mention all this is because I ended up staying up till gone light this morning catching up on my adolescence. Mostly diaries from when I was 15 and 16. What was particularly astonishing and not a little dispiriting was how very little has changed. I still spend most of my time bemoaning my physical appearance and lack of female company. The only difference is I wrote a lot of really shocking poetry then.

So I was thinking of maybe sharing a bit of the really embarrassing stuff, by way of full exposure. But I think I might be a little too ashamed. I’m definitely too ashamed to include any of ‘Angry Poem on Gulf War’, written on 27 January, 1991.

God, I was ticked off about that war.

But besides war in general, nukes specifically, vivisection, suicide, dandruff and despair, I also seemed to specialise in poems that appeared to be clever but in actual fact weren’t. They gave the impression of having depth but were in fact empty Petri-dishes of disappointment. Like this one:

Bait

A cat steals bread, by the slice,
From the kitchen of its owner.
Takes the bread to the garden
To use as bait for birds.
The owner of the cat notices
That his girlfriends
Are getting younger.

This next one too is similarly delusional, but for some reason I still actually quite like it. It was written when I was 16, so it’s quite a mature, introspective piece. Yo, check it:

My Eyes

My eyes.
Nestling in their walnut shells
Like frightened boys in crowded cells,
To and fro like sulphured bells
Which toll when someone dies.
My thighs.
Like two pale boys who cower in fright
With shifty eyes of cellulite
Which twinkle spiteful through the night
When someone lonely cries.
My size.
A sea of impact, pressure, noise,
A mass of ass devoid of poise.
A crowded cell of frightened boys
With watering, damaged eyes.
My eyes.

Then there’s this, one of my unrequited love poems from one of my 400 volumes of unrequited love poems. I’m almost ashamed to say, but I’m pretty sure this was written about Ange, back in the day, when she was giving herself at parites and I was hiding away in my bedroom reading ee cummings and listening to George Formby. (I had already found out the meaning of ‘unrequited’.) I’m actually quite proud of this one. It doesn’t have a title:

thy skin is a bandage of unbroken beauty
thy unsleeping bones beat the passion of truth
thy head (clenched with questions) laughs poems of loving
thy heart (filled with giving) smiles proof

Awww.

Go on then, one more.

Tick Tock, Tick…

How her wings do flap and carry
Folk to coffins, kids to bed.
Mistress Time without a worry,
Winds her watch and finds me dead.

Hmm. I should have stopped at the love one. Damn it!

The Long, Dark Soap Opera of the Soul :: An Open Letter to a Friend

So, as you know, I started keeping this blog so that I could help force myself to pursue a healthy lifestyle and, somewhere along the way, find myself a lady. A lovely lady at that. One with silken skin and leathery skirts. Or vice versa. One who would make me giddy with adoration and fill my nether regions with hot blood and gristle. A lady to laugh with and love with, to have and to hold, to tickle and tether from this day forth, as long as we both shall live. Or at least for a couple of months, till the inevitable withering or betrayal.

Finding such a thing of course requires me opening my heart and telling my tales. It requires me sharing my intimates and spilling my beans. And my beans of course are smothered in the brightly coloured sauce of other people, other things. The occasional colleagues. The pets I’ve known and loved. The women I ogle on buses and the ones who give me hope in parks and online. And my family, I suppose. And my friends. Aaaaaaaaah yes, my friends.

I haven’t really got that many friends, and of those that I do have, only Keith is aware that this blog exists. (As far as I know.) Because I told him. Because I had to tell someone. But now, as of last night, I’m kind of regretting it. Because as of last night, I realise I want to talk about Keith. And not in a good way.

I’ve been struggling with this all day.

But if blogging is like therapy, which it definitely is, I can’t just lie here on this virtual couch staring out of the window or talking about America’s Next Top Model every week. There are things that need to be said. Even if they sting. So I may as well say them directly. And I know I may regret this. I may end up not even posting it. I don’t know. If you’re reading it, it’s probably safe to say I forced myself to click ‘publish’. I hope I don’t regret it…

Dear Keith

I’ve known you a very long time and you’re my oldest and dearest friend in all the world and I love you.

But.

I got a call from Patricia yesterday, your girlfriend of more than a year, the woman you love and want to marry, the woman whose children you have pledged to support and threatened to adopt. She was crying. She said that you’d betrayed her, that you’d slept with someone else on Friday night. She didn’t know the name of the woman you slept with, but of course I do. You slept with Ange.

I’m amazed. I’m disappointed. I’m shocked and hurt and totally bewildered. I don’t know how you could do this. I don't know how you could do this to Patricia. I really can’t get my head around the fact that you’ve gone and jeopardised the very thing you’ve always yearned for, that which you’ve described a million times as the best thing that’s ever happened to you. And for what?

Ange is great, don’t get me wrong. She’s a fabulous woman. She’s warm, witty and wonderful. But she’s hardly the most emotionally mature mental patient on the ward, is she? She said to me sometime last month: ‘I’m not a very good girlfriend. I’m a good fuck, but I’m not a good girlfriend.’ I replied that I thought that’s all most men wanted anyway, was a good fuck. She said: ‘Not the ones I meet. Nine out of ten times they fall for me. Or they think they do. And they want to go out with me. Or they want to take me home to meet their parents. I’m sure the fact that I don’t want any of that is what makes them think that they do… But I really don’t get off on being in a relationship. I like my independence. And I like my friends. And I don’t want kids. So what’s the point? I just happen to have a very high sex drive.’

I’m guessing that’s what swung it for you. The sex. I understand it’s a very powerful force. I hope it was worth it.

I could be wrong of course, and I’m sure I shouldn’t be writing all this without having heard your side of the story. But for now you’re not sharing; and I have to.

In a way I hope I am wrong. I hope Ange is the one for you. I hope you’ve fallen in love with her and you both make each other blissfully happy. But even if that turns out to be the case, you could have handled it a lot better. You didn’t have to hurt Patricia like this. She spent most of last night weeping into my arms, trying not to wake the kids with her sobs, wondering what she’d done wrong, what she'd done to deserve the pain she was in.

I can’t believe it.

I know I shouldn’t because it’s ludicrous, but I can’t help feeling a little guilty for bringing the two of you together. I keep thinking, if only I hadn’t got sick, or if only Ange hadn’t got sick before me, or if only I hadn’t got back in touch with Ange in December, or if only you weren’t such a selfish fucking short-sighted arsehole.

But this isn’t about me. It’s about you and Patricia; it’s about you and Ben and Dina; it’s about you and Ange. And neither you nor Ange are answering your phones tonight. Hopefully you’re round at Patricia’s and you’re going some way to starting to sort this out, one way or the other.

I’m sorry I’m writing this to you in a public forum and not in a private email. But I kind of lied when I said it’s not about me. It is also about me. And this is where I write about me and my life. And this ugly mess you’ve made is now part of my life.

I’m sorry I’m coming across all self-righteous too. Maybe if I had the opportunity, I’d be a treacherous son-of-a-bitch too, and maybe you’d be up here, poncing around on the moral highground, all holier than thou and smug as a Samaritan. Maybe. But I doubt it. You're not as self-righteous as I am. And I'm not as selfish as you are.

Most of all, I’m sorry this has happened. And I hope it can be resolved without too much more pain. I just don’t want to see the people I love hurting each other. I know, I know, me, me, me…

I’m sorry.

Good luck.

Love,


Stan.

In other news, someone pointed me at this dating site, OkCupid, which wipes the floor with loveandfriends. Just as soon as I have a moment, I’m going to beef up my profile and find that woman I’m after, the one with leathery skin and the jasmine-scented undergarments. And when I find her, I swear to God I'll treat her well and never ever be swayed by another woman's leather. Or jasmine. I swear.

Oh, crikey. It really is good. I just had someone message me!

I’m in!

Anti-Virus

Ange and I had arranged to meet up for a meal sometime this week so I called her last night to check it was still on. She didn’t answer. Then, fifteen minutes later, she called me back sounding like she’d just regained consciousness after a 12-hour operation. She said she’d been in the bathroom when I called, being sick from her bottom. She’d been vomiting for most of the day, from both ends. She seemed really dazed. I asked her if I should come up and see her. She said she didn’t know, which was really a yes in disguise, so I drove to Hackney, stopping off along the way for some bad magazines (Heat, Now, Soaplife), because she likes that sort of thing, and some carrot and coriander soup, because I had no idea how ill she actually was.

Turns out out she’s got the norovirus. That’s it above. It looks pretty. But it isn’t. It’s really nasty.

I’d never seen projectile vomiting in real life before. It really was like in The Exorcist, but without the other unpleasant stuff, the cussing and the blasphemy and the ultraviolence. Well, there was a bit of blasphemy but nothing that involved a crucifix. God, I hate that film. Ange was in a right state. When she wasn’t passing stuff, she was just lying around all shivery and delirious. She was very sweet and sad and I felt very tender toward her, especially as in lucid moments, she kept complaining that she looked ‘a right state’. It’s true that with vomit drying on her dressing gown, she was far from her best, but it really didn’t matter.

She’s less feverish today, and the vomiting seems to have stopped. She’s still spending a lot of time on the loo but is now well enough to stress about missing work. So that’s good.

Now I’ve got to do another round of disinfecting. I’m determined not to catch this thing myself, but I think it might be a bit difficult to avoid it, what with such close proximity and all.

By the way, last night while Ange was managing to get some sleep, I was eating carrot and coriander soup and losing my cyber-cherry with an Irish girl in Germany. At the risk of repeating myself, isn’t the internet wonderful?

Is It Because I Is Ugly?

I met up with Ange again a couple of days ago. I told her I’m keeping a blog, but wouldn’t tell her what it was called. The reason I wouldn’t tell her what it was called was because I feel really shy about it. And I haven’t really got anywhere yet. It just feels a bit half-arsed. Plus, if I’m honest, I’m starting to really like Ange. More perhaps than is healthy for our burgeoning friendship. So I’m trying to keep some distance. Plus, I think I just feel a bit ashamed. I kind of hate blogs.

Now of course I'll be even less likely to tell her about it, not only because I've just confessed to fancying her (and by extension, pleasuring myself to thoughts of her), but also, because I'm just about to call her a racist. Repeatedly.

So. Wednesday night it was, she cooked me healthy food and we drank wine at her place. Which was very nice. During which, the conversation turned to sex again, as conversations often do. She couldn’t believe I’ve only slept with two people. I couldn’t believe she’d slept with over 50.

‘It must be worse to have slept with two than with none at all,’ she said, sensitively. ‘Because you know what you’re missing, don’t you?’

‘Hmm, yes. That’s very true,' I replied. 'Thanks for ramming that home.’

‘But how do you cope with the frustration?’ she wanted to know.

‘What makes you think I cope with it?’ I replied. Then: ‘I have a very active fantasy life. And I’m a highly skilled masturbator. And if my imagination is waning, I also happen to be a dab hand at the internet. There is no pornographic permutation I can’t search and squeeze one out to within a matter of minutes. Not that I’m comparing masturbation with sex of course… Well, I suppose I am, but only very unfavourably. Have you seen a film called Last Night?’ I asked. She hadn’t. Probably neither have you. It didn’t do a lot of business.

In a nutshell, it’s about the last night of human existence: everyone knows it’s coming and the film is about how they all prepare for it. One character makes a list of all the different types of people he’d like to have sex with before he dies. A black woman, a virgin, his high school French teacher, a man. And using various means, he attempts to complete his sexual to-do list before the world ends. I explained this to Ange and then explained that I’d done something similar, but with masturbation.

I should add at this point that I’m not proud of any of this. But it’s all part of what it is living a life unloved, and for the most part unlovable. I’m sure I can’t be alone in being alone to such an unpalatable extent. Can I? Oh, well. Even if I am, I beg you to bear with me. I am getting to the point very soon. Probably.

So, on the back of this conversation, Ange tells me that she would never sleep with a black man. Naturally, I call her a racist. She denies it. ‘I just don’t find them attractive,’ she says.

‘But that’s idiotic,’ I say. ‘It’s like saying, “I don’t find Taureans attractive” or “I don’t find lawyers attractive”. There are as many different types of black men, as many different black “looks”, as there are fish in the sea.’

‘I don’t fancy fish either,’ she said.

‘Fair enough. But to say you don’t fancy black men is like saying you don’t fancy freshwater fish, or you don’t fancy flounders, whereas other fish you’re fine with. In other words, racism.’

‘I can’t believe you’re calling me racist,’ she says at this point, seemingly on the verge of becoming quite upset.

‘I can’t believe you’re being so openly racist!’ I cry. ‘OK, let’s calm down here,’ I suggest, more to myself than to Ange. I pour some wine. I drink some wine. ‘What would you think,’ I said, ‘if a black man said that he refused to sleep with white women, that he just didn’t fancy white women?’

She paused, as if to suggest – at least as far as I read it – that she was about to lie. Then she lied. ‘I’d think it was fine,’ she said. ‘It’s personal taste innit.’

‘Hmmm,’ I said. ‘Well, it seems to me it’s personal taste informed by personal prejudice. OK, let me try another tack. Tell me – honestly now – don’t you fancy Denzil Washington?’

‘No, I don’t,’ she replied, scowling racistly as she did so.

‘OK, what about Kanye West?’

‘Nope.’

‘Right then. What about Thierry Henri?’ I was feeling confident. Every woman I’ve ever met can’t help drooling over Thierry Henri.

‘Nope. Look, I’m sorry, Stan. I just don’t fancy black blokes.’

I sighed. I didn’t believe a word of it. But I felt that to call her a liar as well as a racist might be verging on the offensive.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘When you go on holiday, do you like to sunbathe?’ I could tell she did. She has sunbed skin.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and I can see where you’re going with this.’

‘Good,’ I said. ‘That’ll give you time to come up with a decent answer. Have you ever been to bed with a white bloke with a deep tan?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I really fancy white blokes with tans.’

‘Well, what’s the bleeding difference?!’ My exasperation was beginning to flow over.

‘OK, OK,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what it is.’

‘You’re racist?’ I offered.

‘No,’ she said. ‘And I really wish you’d stop saying that.’

I apologised. Sincerely.

‘Have you got a type?’ she asked. ‘What’s your type?’

I started to shrug. ‘I really don’t think I do have a type,’ I replied. ‘I’m incredibly unfussy.’

‘You must have a preference,’ she said. ‘In your head. An ideal.’

I shook my head. ‘Conscious?’ I offered. ‘But really, I’d take whatever I could get.’

‘OK, well you’re probably a special case. Most other people – let’s call them “normal people” – they have a type. My type is tall, muscular white men, with thin noses and large, square chins. What I don’t like however, are African men. And this is probably going to make me sound more racist than ever, but what I don’t like about them are their physical features. I don’t like their thick lips. I don’t like their wide noses and flaring nostrils. I like blue eyes. I like thin lips and noses. I like hair I can run my fingers through. I don’t like short, wiry black hair. And I don’t like dreadlocks. You know? I like pale ginger blokes. And I know a lot of people don’t. Loads of people don’t fancy gingers. Are they racist? I don’t think so. It’s personal preference.’ She paused, then added, ‘For fuck’s sake’.

I laughed. She had worked herself up into quite a little froth. But I was also scheming. ‘I’m pale,’ I said. ‘And certainly ginger-ish.’

‘Yeah, but you’ve got a face like a bag of elbows,’ she said. ‘And you’re too fat.’

‘Fucking racist.’

She laughed.

‘No, but seriously,’ I said. ‘This personal preference thing. It’s tantamount to prejudice.’

‘Oh, God…’

‘OK, OK.’

We changed the subject. But I still can’t help feeling that not fancying black people is racist. Just as not fancying white people, or not fancying Indians, or Japanese people, or Arabs would be racist. Actually, maybe not Arabs. Nobody fancies Arabs.

I jest, I jest.

But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe the reason it rankles so much is something to do with my looking for excuses for the fact that I am not attractive. If I can label Ange racist for not fancying black fellas, I can label everyone else racist for not fancying me. And maybe that’ll make me feel better in some way.

It does, in fact. If I think that every woman who’s ever looked at me with disgust is prejudiced – prejudiced against ugly people, prejudiced against fat people, prejudiced against me – then that makes me feel better.

I, in turn, am prejudiced against anyone who’s ever been on Big Brother, all Scientologists, anyone who supports a football team, anyone who regularly takes cocaine, pathological liars, cheats, racists and Helen Fielding.

And so it goes.

Normal service resumed next week. Any thoughts in the meantime gratefully received.