Monday, 25 January 2010

Drama Addict...


The last few months my life has been a bit quiet socially on account that I’ve been working in Africa and there wasn’t much of a gay scene there. Have I mentioned that already? Having a few months of quiet was quite a relief seen as the last time I went out properly I was dragged out of GAY in London kicking and screaming. I’ve not been south of Birmingham since.

After my triumphant return to England nearly four weeks ago I’ve certainly made up for lost time. Quite possibly having been involved in more drama in just four weeks than what EastEnders sees in a year. I have to say that although I was the cause of some of it, I certainly didn’t cause all of it, the vodka did.

I do believe that if you asked any of my friends to describe me they’d say loyal, they’d also probably say drama queen, alcoholic and pretentious, but you know what they say, if you don’t love me at my worst, you don’t deserve me at my best. Or is it just me that says that? It’s this loyal thing that get’s me into quite a bit of trouble, you see I always take it upon my self to defend the people I love whether they want me to or not as was the case was on New Year’s Eve, but again that’s another story.

Once again just a few nights ago I found myself involved in another little drama, this time though I was oblivious to the fact it was going on around me till I suddenly realised I was dancing alone in the nightclub, ten minutes previous there had been quite a few of us queens mincing together. Outside on Canal St the drama unfolded between my friends in front of an audience of slightly intoxicated puffs. Now you would never catch me airing my dirty laundry in the street, I much prefer to do it in the nightclub where it’s warm and the audience is already geared up.

If you to have a problem of attracting drama, all I will say to you is get yourself a Dave. Since I have been partying with Dave who is one of the most laid back and nicest people you’ll ever meet, it’s like having my own drama protection society. Luckily for me he manages to stay fairly normal on a night out, so when I’m about to start licking the windows or screaming obscenities at the man on the karaoke, again I’m very sorry about that you didn’t really sound like flipper being fisted, he simply tells me to wind my neck in and get a grip.

Despite all this I really am a nice person, but just in case the demon queen that’s trapped within tries to break out again, just come over to me and tell me to wind my neck in and I promise I wont rip your head off and shit in your neck, those days are behind me.

Thursday, 14 January 2010

Adopt A Gay...


Adopt A Gay For Just £10 A Day

My wings have been clipped, and for now, my high flying career as a trolley dolly is grounded.

My contract ended on the 29th of December and once again I’m officially jobless, which beckons the question just what to do next? I could use this opportunity to finally make my dad proud by following in his footsteps and train to be a plumber.

Now I like my hand up a u-bend as any other man but there are two reasons I won't be pursuing said career. Firstly, I’d do anything to piss off the miserable man and secondly there is no way I’d let these finely manicured nails get chipped whilst trying to unblock someone's toilet. I was thinking about a complete change in direction, joining the navy came to mind, I’d love to be surrounded by…well… seamen. But apparently there isn’t any need for a personal shopper onboard an aircraft carrier.

Perhaps charity.

I have been inspired by charity advertisements. You know the ones I mean: just £2 a month can feed this family in Africa for a year or just £3 a month will ensure this dog gets walked twice a day and go on rock climbing holidays in the Highlands at least once a year. Well, I’m now two minutes away from phoning Elton John and asking him to front an advert campaign to adopt a gay.

I think I have a strong case for charity. Just who is going to keep me in the lifestyle I’m accustomed to? I think £10 a day seems like a reasonable amount to ask for. After all, I have a gym membership to pay for, a personal trainer, a Toni & Guy haircut at least once a month, not to mention my nights out, car maintenance, insurance, my addiction to AussieBum underwear and a Hawaiian spray tan once a week.

For the £10 a month the sponsor will be safe in the knowledge that they can phone their fabulous puff for fashion tips any time they want and as a bonus will receive a signed photograph when their adopted gay has reached his target weight with the assistance of his personal trainer. Sponsors can also be safe in the knowledge that they have prevented a gay from-- gasp-- becoming overweight or even worse, becoming a plumber.

So I ask you. Please give just £10 a month or whatever you can, and help a puff in their hour of need and give them a chance to go clubbing this weekend.

Monday, 11 January 2010

My Name's Mikie..........Get Me Out Of Here......

Well as you are aware of by now I’ve been working as cabin crew over in Africa for a few months taking Muslims on their pilgrimage to Mecca, and I have to say I can no longer wait to get home.

It’s been a brilliant experience flying on the big bird and I’ve had a lovely time but you can not begin to imagine how I long for a cup of real English tea drank from a mug and not doubled up plastic cups. That might sound strange to you but I’ve been drinking that much tea from plastic cups that if you melted them all down you’d have enough to make twenty pairs of Pamela Anderson’s surgically enhanced assets.


I’ve always said there is more to me that just being gay, that I hate scene queens and all things orgy related; as you know I’m a good Catholic boy. However, after two months of rocking in my hotel room that is Faulty Towers and with no gay bar within a 4000 mile radius I might just become one of those vile scene queens on my return to my holy land that is Canal Street that I normally hate so much.


Missing the fact that I could normally walk down Canal Street whenever I want, I’m now planning to get myself some hot pants matched with a rainbow coloured sequined top and take myself down to my favourite gay club, Cruz101, where I will then swap my top for chocolate body spread to which I will let the other queens lick off me whilst I’m dancing to 80’s trashy pop and drinking a pint of Stella through a straw with a green umbrella, just because I can.


I’d also like to swap this Middle Eastern hotel room from an apartment in the centre of the Gay Village that I would share with a poodle dressed in leather. I will then get gay celebrity couple and interior designers Colin and Justin to decorate in a lovely shade of leopard print whilst I have Will & Grace on continuous repeat.


Although there is more to me than just being gay when you can not have something you suddenly have an over whelming desire to have it, whether it be chocolate, wine or in my case a little bit of campness. So for now I will settle for a bit of company courtesy of the soundtrack from Hairspray on my ipod whilst I count down the days till I can get my pilgrimage to my holy land.

Saturday, 2 January 2010

Shits n Giggles


It's no secret that us trolley dollies spend our idol time on board talking about bowl movements, food and sex, only broken in flow by the constant moaning that us Brits could classify as our favourite past time.


Such is the vulgar talk amongst the crew that I could tell you the time of the last bowl movement of each of the 14 crew on board, the colour of the shit and the substance, I could also tell you to the second the last time each of the Queens on board had a little bit of 'me time.'


The vulgar talk is quite fitting to our surroundings, the smell of stale piss that clings to the carpet is enough to make anyone gag, add to that the smell off the crusted shit smeared on the toilet seats and you can understand why us crew go running into the shower with a bottle of bleach and Brillo pad instead of shower gel and a sponge when we land. Such is the glamour on board our modern 1940's jet that you frequently experience a tsunami of turds when sat down the back on touch down.


It's easy to see why the favourite conversation is sex whilst us crew are stood up having chicken or beef for breakfast and drinking tea out of doubled up plastic cups; we're not getting any. In our defence it's not because the crew are mingers but in the planet's most behind the times country bars aren't legal, nevermind the bars that sell martinis to men in tight white vest tops whilst a hideously vile drag queen blasts out a little tune from Boy George, so the chances of pulling are minimal.


Working on a metal tube for hours and hours it's understandable that the crew might start to suffer from a little bit of cabin fever and divulge information that later they perhaps wish they didn't. The last time we had such a vile conversation a certain crew member, let's call him Wayne, because that's his name, decided to inform us all of his last date. Just when things were starting to get romantic and a certain throbbing membrane was about to enter a certain black hole an unmistakable smell, the same that is often smelt at the back of our aircraft, hit him and killed the moment. His date is yet to call him back.


This was followed immediately by a conversation of preference to cock; cut or uncut? Personally I wouldn't know what to do with a cut cock, I much prefer to pull something back, however my senior disagreed, remember her the 'ride him like sea biscuit lady,' she simply stated that she prefers cut cock for hygiene reasons. If I recall correctly I think her words were 'I much prefer being able to go under the rim without using a toilet duck first.'


Happy New Year.