I can't remember when I signed up for Popbitch. I know I signed up for The Drudge Report in the 1990s and haven't read it since. But clearly, at some point, I somehow got onto the mailing list for orgies in Birmingham.
Quite apart from the hilarity of imagining an orgy in Birmingham, it does mean I occasionally get the most startling emails from a "Mr Sword". His latest begins:
"Hi lads, next fuck party will be Saturday 28th. June, 9pm start. (NO CAMERAS THIS TIME)"
My tiny head is wondering about this. Do you think it's a prompt 9pm start, or kind of a 9 for 9.30 thing? Do people just get right on down, or is there Wotsits, Pinot Grigio and admiring small talk about cock rings first?
PS: Two days later and I still smell of kerosene. There has been the occasional office comment "Are you wearing a new... er, perfume?"
Those bloody students. Am sat up late, reading someone else's Torchwood book when I suddenly realise that I have crabs.
Now, I've nothing against crabs. My two previous encounters with them have been rather useful. Firstly, they've told me that a boyfriend was cheating. Secondly, they've given me something to kill to cheer me up.
These crabs just seem pointless. And bloody enormous. And on the march.
Anyway, it's late at night and I'm not sleeping with these buggers tarzaning around my genitalia, so, based on a hazy memory of what's in Derbac M, I try a variety of home cures:
Vodka - had no effect. After all, these are my children.
Turpentine - no effect either, but really, really smells.
Poppers - epic fail. I have to have a lie down while the critters have a disco in my pubes.
I sit up till three waiting for the stinging to wear off while reading a history of Sparta.
I would really, really like to smoke a cigarette but am basically a human firework. So, instead, I watch the survivors of the conflagration crawl desperarely towards the bunker that is my belly button. None of them make it.
I go home to see the folks. It's what I always do when a relationship is over. I have no idea why - we never speak about that side of my life, so it's just me sulking vaguely round the house, helping out with DIY and reading Penguin Crime. Oh, and this time, finishing the book, although I haven't told my parents I'm doing a book, so I must just seem distracted.
The next day, I'm frankly confused. So, my friend Lee takes me to Brighton. We dash in and out of the waves, laughing like children.
Then we order cocktails and Lee tries to sort things out. I explain how the boy just isn't fitting into my life very well. He nods.
"Maybe you're not in the mood for a relationship. Then again, some people just aren't emotionally very mature."
I frown, puzzled by this.
Lee brightens. "Anyway, shall we go to The Lego Shop?"
We go, and we have a brilliant time. Then we have dinner, and drinks, and pointing at silly things. Lee quietly tries to tell me that he's worried I'm an alcoholic. Well, actually, what he says is "Listen, alcoholics like you...". And then I get a late train back to London, and curl up at home with a pack of ten Lucky Strikes and Battlestar.
The Lawyer promises to make up for missing last weekend with a whirlwind evening before he flies out to Estonia for the weekend.
Wisely, he does not offer to take me to Estonia. As soon as I arrived in a country of dead-eyed killers, I'd be off.
Instead he promises a great evening. Which he doesn't turn up for. Curiously, I am rather relieved about this. I am, at the time, trying to finish the book. As far as anything else is concerned, if it ain't booze, fags or Battlestar, I'm not interested. And, weirdly, this goes for emotionally complicated stuff which requires sorting out with time-consuming conversations. So I don't bother phoning him. Instead I get very drunk and imagine that the President goes to a hairdresser's called Barbershop Galactifringe.
At midnight, he texts: "Long day, sorry. Make it up to you."
Emma is 30, single and frankly desperate. She woke up this morning with nothing to look forward to but another evening of unsuccessful speed-dating. But now she has a new weapon in her quest for Mr Right. And it’s made her almost perfect.
Gwen Cooper woke up this morning expecting the unexpected. As usual. She went to work and found a skeleton at a table for two and a colleague in a surprisingly glamorous dress. Perfect.
Ianto Jones woke up this morning with no memory of last night. He went to work, where he caused amusement, suspicion and a little bit of jealousy. Because Ianto Jones woke up this morning in the body of a woman. And he’s looking just about perfect.
And Jack Harkness has always had his doubts about Perfection.
James Goss spent seven years working on the BBC’s official Doctor Who website and co-wrote the website for Torchwood Series One. In 2007, he won the Best Adaptation category in the annual LA Weekly Theatre Awards for his version of Douglas Adams’ novel Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency.
I'm completely not used to having a boyfriend around the flat so much. Forgot all about him the other morning, and was happily pottering around the laundry room when suddenly realised there was a naked stranger looming behind me.
You'll be pleased to hear I didn't think "boyfriend" but instead "psychokiller" and screamed. I would have thrown socks, but there weren't any to hand.
Hmph. Perhaps I should have gone with my first instinct and got a cat.
Meanwhile, not only does he not "get" Radio Four, but he really doesn't like it. The other day I was woken up by my clock radio being passed across to me with a disapproving look.
Right. We've a lot of catching up to do. Still can't say where I've been (Top Secret Project keeps on being announced and unannounced like a government policy).
But... bloke update. Well, he's Scottish, he's a lawyer, he's rather handsome and he lives in Northampton. Which is a shame, but has charms of its own. I grew up near there so I get to point at places and go "I went sledging on that hill when I was eight with friends from school. Christopher Price's mother offered us all cigarettes." I think this makes me endearing and whimsical.
Anyway, laywer is almost perfect. Well, apart from his Radio Four blindspot. "I thought it was where Terry Wogan went to die," he said. I put him right, and he looks even more confused. "So, what kind of music do they play on Radio Four?"
"Well, none, really. Just talking."
"Just talking? Like a phone in?"
"Well, not all the time. You know, news and current affairs."
"So is it just politicians and housewives shouting?"
"And some comedy. And a soap opera about a farm."
"And you have really never heard of it?"
"Given the breathtaking array of content you've just described, can you think of a single reason why I should have?"
I knew I was doing a bad thing by voting for Baltar for Mayor of London. Two days in, and bendy buses were still on the streets and I knew we'd been betrayed.
On the other hand, there was that brilliant moment where his first meeting was with Iain Blair. The Darling of Chelsea had been mocked for wanting to reduce crime on buses - so, in a stroke of genius, he makes it the responsibility of one of London's least popular men. If it doesn't work, it's not Boris's fault. Genius...
Or so you'd think. The next day, by complete coincidence, the Met shoot a Chelsea barrister dead. It's like leaving a horse's head in the bed.
What is this? So, yes, I'm gay. But I'm not completely without standards. I mean, really - is this honestly the best way to advertise a dating service? Topless, okay. Shirt trousers, okay. Minty expression, fine. But a tie????