Interim: A Reflection on London

Celebrities I’ve thought I’ve seen since moving to London:
- Thierry Henry crossing the road outside ‘Bend it Like Beckham The Musical’
- Jennifer Lawrence outside TCR tube station, sporting robot-from-the-future sunglasses and gym leggings
- Daenerys Targaryen walking up Charing Cross Road. (Not Emilia Clarke; actual Daenerys)
- A fat Ed Sheeran drinking with friends outside a pub in Soho.


Celebrities I’ve actually seen since moving to London:
- Angelina Jolie shopping in Paperchase. Freak.Out
- MORIARTY! He looked into my soul with sad, hungover eyes.
- The bitch from My Mad Fat Diary/home wrecker in Dr Foster

Celebrities I may have seen since moving to London:
- Nick Grimshaw. Apparently he was in the general vicinity of Greek Street the night I was falling out of Be At One and straight into a lamppost on my way home. He might have seen me so that counts.

Fascinating homeless people I’ve experienced in London:
- A man (still uncertain on actual homelessness) lying face down next to a pedestrian crossing clutching a glossy brown wig.
- A busker holding a saxophone but making the noises himself, acapella style, rather than actually knowing how to play.
- Three young men singing a selection of west end hits outside The Commitments (again, still unsure of homelessness vs open-air audition)
- A Jamaican man serenading an alfresco diner with a mega mix of Waiting in Vain, Caribbean Queen and Day-O outside a café on Charlotte Street.

Places I’ve nearly been mowed down by a taxi in London:
- Tottenham Court Road, Leicester Square, Charing Cross Station, The Strand, Old Compton Street, halfway down Kings Road whilst listening to the Made in Chelsea theme tune and pretending to be in Made in Chelsea.

Moments of uninhibited, uncontrollable tourist-induced street rage:
- Infinite. Ongoing. Continual

Number of times I’ve been smiling with excitement then inhaled, through the mouth, the stomach churning, rancid stench of stale tramp piss:
- See above

Asking for it...?

Picture this: I'm standing in a field so vast, with storm clouds so heavy, that I look like I'm in the Deep South. I’m trying in vain to find somewhere to sit out of the rain whilst listening to a friend regale me with stories of her upcoming fashion show and watching a bat circle my head like a teeny tiny vulture. Never before have I felt such a contrast of old life vs new life. Country vs city. Which feels weird considering six years ago it was the other way around. With this new move to my home town (living with the parents, working in London) come the memories I have of living in it. That and the fact that my brother has now started at the same school where some of the strongest of memories were created in.

I’m often attributed with confidence by those closest to me - and quite often people I’ve just met – because regardless of any words being spoken in my direction, hell regardless of any eye contact, I'll get my way into any conversation I’m otherwise sat on the edge of, instead of feeling quietly awkward and starting to sweat at the thought of blank stares as responses. Why? Not just because of a childhood spent in dance classes but because I refuse to be stay silent again (I know, I'm so Angela Bassett in 'What's Love Got to Do With It?') For those closest to me I’m sure the idea of me being quiet is absolutely alien but in my school days I would often be crowded around by a group of boys, on the bus or in the playground, being asked simply to speak just so they could all laugh at my voice. It’s difficult to admit, because I hate the thought that those reading this will think I’m fishing for sympathy, but by Year 9 I was openly carrying a pair of scissor with me to school – not even so that I could self harm, just as an attempt for the bullies to think I was and maybe leave me alone! Sadly I don’t think this ever did actually work.

As more female celebrities are pictured topless and baring the slogan “still not asking for it” in an attempt to change minds about the rationalising of rape, I think about the many times I’ve told a story of my behaviour in school and been met with the same line. In no way am I comparing my experience to the horror of being raped but it's interesting that “well then you were just asking for it!” statement can be found as a blanket line to cover all strains of inexcusable human behaviour. “My friend and I used to run around the picnic benches playing Desperate Housewives” “Oh, no wonder you were bullied!”

Apparently, in primary school this time, I would come home complaining that I was stood in a playground surrounded by a group of boys taking it in turns to hit me. I have no recollection of this but it might explain why as an adult the idea of playing piggy in the middle is anything but scary although, of course, in an entirely different and less appropriate context. Jokes aside, exactly what at the age of ten was I supposed to have done to “deserve” that?

Having said this, I find myself remembering all the times I’ve uttered those words myself. Even whilst going through bullying I found I looked at all the school "losers" - after all, I wasn't a loser I was just camp. At least I was popular with some people and that's all that counts, right? - and thinking God why don't you just stop being weird and people will leave you alone? Why don't you just sit in silence and ignore them instead of going crazy and screaming at them, giving them what they want? Even I, at the height of being tormented for not fitting the mould, continually judged those who didn't know how to "control" the bullies. And I’ll admit that it still goes through my mind today; a classic example of the bullied turning to bullies (I’m sure a lot of people reading this will know how nasty I can sometimes be about those I, hands up, perceive to be weaker)

My favourite book to rabbit on about is The Chimp Paradox by Steve Peters because it talks with such depth about the darker sides of human nature that we’d rather pretend are reserved for sociopaths; like our DNA-led instinct to freeze out anyone who doesn’t fit into our pack. After all, we pack together for protection so anyone who doesn’t fit out pack is naturally a threat. Or, moreover,
the rest of the pack doesn’t want them around so we must weed out the weak in order to survive. All too often we can see this in the behaviour of young children who haven’t yet had social decencies embedded into them and so, to a degree, I forgive the morons who were nasty at a young age. But I don’t forgive the ones who grew up to know better and would still today peddle the same excuse; “well you were kind of asking for it”

Last month Gay Times featured an openly gay man named Riyadh who confronted his school bully on the phone (link here: http://ow.ly/SOyhD) and the bully's response was “I think If you’d pulled me aside I wouldn’t have kept going at you. I obviously couldn’t stop everyone else from doing it. It’s secondary school. You just have to take it on the chin.” Horrifyingly this is something I have told myself countless times, you have to take it on the chin, but something that I will no longer accept. One of my own worst bullies - once I had officially come out been outed - approached me one day to ask if I was "really gay"; fearing the worst I simply sighed and told him I was. To my surprise, and still puzzlement, he just said "oh okay. That's alright you know. I only took the piss out of you before because I thought you were a camp straight guy so you had it coming to you" Er…what?!
And so, two pages and a lot of rambling in,, you may be asking exactly what the tone of this post is. Me too. I’m still not sure but I do know that after the weeks it’s taken me to write this post, after the self-obsessed soul searching, the late night “wont everyone just think I’m whining to get sympathy? Hasn’t everyone gone through this?”, I find myself taking a vow to ban “they were asking for it” from my terminology. No matter how ugly their shoes are; no matter how many guys that girl went home with; doesn’t matter if that kid screams and pulls out his own hair just at the chant of his own name. They’re not asking for it. Nobody asks for that kind of torment at such a young age ever. Nobody asks for that judgement on their “poor choices”. Human nature is no excuse because, though I may have risen from the ashes like a feisty gay phoenix, sadly the 52% of young LGBTQ people who’ve sought help for self-harm may not have. Sadly the 44% of young LGBTQ who’ve contemplated suicide may not have either*. And tragically the many more young LGBTQ people who choose to end their lives never will. Contrary to popular belief it is not now “okay” for LGBTQ children in school these days; it’s a much happier place for many I’m sure. But we’re certainly a long way from home.

To conclude, 12 years on, along with my new vow I find myself asking what advice I would give to 13 year old me trying to lower his voice to sound more manly, trying desperately to resist the urge to chant "don't-make-me-click-in-a-z-formation" and waking up each day with one singular mission: today I must act like a boy. Well it’s “ Fuck 'em”. Don't keep quiet to stop them noticing you; don't stare furiously at your text book as a pikey twat has a fifteen minute argument with the science teacher because he refuses to sit next to you; don't hurry to your desk when you're faced with sick noises as you walk into a classroom; don’t stand for it when other boys dunk a foam football in a muddy puddle and then throw it square into your face. Put your ballet shoes on, whack out a triple pirouette and kick them in their ugly, chavvy gobs... And then click in a Z formation, ok?


*Figures according to LGBT charity Metro, based on a survey of 7000 16 to 24 year olds

Cya, Sugar

Though I've lost a lot of weight in the past year, I told myself this summer would finally be the summer I walk out of the pool glistening like a Davidoff advert and showing off my chiselled 6-pack. The reality was that I looked down and realised I hadn't reached any of my goals for a toned body because I haven't stopped eating crap ...I've just exercised and maintained the same "skinny fat" shape. So whilst struggling with both weight and writers block, I thought like a true artist and decided I should put myself through, and therefore write about, something so challenging, gruelling and demanding on both mind and body that I'm bound to win a Pulitzer. 

I decided to go cold turkey on sugar.  

I know, right. Single-handedly tackling this country's obesity problem. 

Part One: The First 8 Days 

DAY ONE: 

11.14 - I swear to God I feel ill; I know that’s ridiculous and it’s all in my head (and I’ve just got back to work after ten days in Marbella) but I really do feel shaky. 

12.31 - So what the fuck do I have for lunch? 

I’m getting a cold sore. I’m actually getting a fucking cold sore. I haven’t had a cold sore since I was about ten. This is disgusting!  …I wonder if you can rub sugar directly on to a cold sore? 

21.00 Oh wow, just read that sugar travels to your brain on the same path that heroin does. I’m on a heroin withdrawal like Mimi out of Rent. Can just imagine by day four that I’m going to be wandering around the apartment clutching a tea light and singing “Would You Light My Candle?” on the hunt for a Dairy Milk wrapper to suck. 

DAY TWO: 

7.15 - I thought this diet was supposed to aid a better night's sleep. I, on the other hand, have woken up thinking my phone's having an actual joke with the alarm. It cannot be the morning. No. I've only just lay down. 

9.21 -  So the crankiness has set in. It’s like I have no filter! I can't believe this is what two days of sugar withdrawal does to a person.  

12:01 - Seriously, though, what the fuck do I have for lunch? Soup is full of sugar, apparently,  

12:25 - Ooo grilled salmon has only 0.1g of sugar (AND 13G OF FAT?!) 

12:30 - Fuck it I'm having microwaved grilled salmon. But with what? Research into other people who've done this tells me I'm supposed to sprinkle things like "carob beans" on to home caught fish (sorry, let me just get my spear out and go stabbing in the Bridgewater Canal) with a handful of fresh kale. Anyone who genuinely knows what a carob bean is come see me so that we can stop being friends. 

13:30 - in the aisle of The Co-op - WHY DOESN'T ANYWHERE FROZEN MICROWAVABLE GRILLED SALMON?!  

21:00 - I've been shopping but only lasted about two hours. And eating something actually only made my energy levels dip even more because there was no sugar in it. Clearly my personal sugar addiction was much worse than first thought.  

21:30 - I have had to get in to bed. Like I've actually had to because I sat down on it and couldn't get back up again. Surely this is all in my head? Sugar can't physically affect a person this much...can It? 

DAY THREE: 

7.15 - Another morning of waking up to thinking I've only just gone to sleep. When does the "oh my God you wake up feeling completely different" shit start? 

11:50 - Very nearly buckled at the sight of some strawberry pencils at work. I could so easily chow down on a strawberry pencil or four but it's only been three days and I would love, for once in my life, to actually complete a goal (without minor cheats along the way). I have instead opted for a handful of Snackrite pretend Pringles that are actually only <0.1g sugar per 30g! They're full of salt and other shit but give a fuck because I'm not on a diet I'm on a sugar boycott. They are not one in the same.

17.50 - So I've taken a tiny foot off the bandwagon (trust me, I've been known to dive spectacularly off it so this is pretty good) by having barbecue sauce on my meatballs for dinner. To be fair I figured it's probably not that sugar-ific until I researched and found there's, on average, around 10g of sugar in one serving. Shit. 

DAY FOUR: 

12:59 - Whoever the fucker was that thought It's acceptable to bin/steal/move the tin opener in the office kitchen needs to get their fucking head sorted. I've just had to spend 20 minutes of my life using a pair of scissors to stab open a tin of tuna to put on my measly salad. Symptom check: yes, irrational bursts of anger are still very much present. 

DAY FIVE - SEVEN:  

7am-11pm - Abyss. 

7am - 11pm - miserable darkness salvaged, ever so slightly, by vodka and slim line tonic. Lots of Iit. 

7am - 11pm - hangovers are shit with no sugar but I'm starting to feel a bit...normal?! 

DAY EIGHT: 

9:30 - Feeling incredibly smug after walking past a sign for Oreo, Peanut Butter, Banana Nutella and Ferrero Roche milkshakes and not even quivering slightly. Every morning I walk past that sign on the way to work and this is the first time I haven't slowed to a time-lapse pace to deliberate having one as a 'breakfast snack'; James 1, Sugar 0. 

10.56 - Water, water, everywhere and not a drop to drink. Except for the dribble falling on to my keyboard. It's my colleague's 40th birthday and there's a tray of cupcakes, a red velvet cake, a strawberry and white chocolate cake (my favourite) and a shit tonne of Haribo. I can live without the Haribo but fuck me...red velvet cake. COME ON! 

11.00 - I will not eat those cakes. I treated myself to wine at the weekend and glared at the biscuit tin for two days. I will not fall now. I will not eat those cakes. 

11.02 - I could have half a cake. 

11.03 - I will not have half a cake. 

11.10 - I ate one cupcake. I hate me. 

"Tattu, and you?"

It’s a special occasion, you’re sexy twenty-something city dwellers and you want to earn bragging rights on Instagram…where do you go? To a trendy new bar with an ominous name and a website loaded with sophisticatedly dark interior shots, of course.

Though I walk through Spinningfields almost every day of the week I could not for the life of me remember seeing this “new fancy Chinese restaurant” anywhere. Ten minutes after strolling past The Oast House three times, and with Google Maps in hand, I was still none-the-wiser and the bottle of Prosecco we'd downed just before leaving refused to do anything other than add to the fog. Ged (birthday boy, partner in life and crime --->) was just on the edge of deciding that I'd fabricated the entire existence of this place when we spotted two burly bouncers hovering outside what looked like an entirely black glass wall at the very edge of Hardman Square. We approached with nervous caution and only when said bouncers pulled apart a galleon ship's wheel to usher us into a very dark foyer did we realise just how intimate an affair this was going to be. 

On first impression I was confused at how small the building was but was simultaneously distracted by the giant anchors, draped in flowers, hanging down from the roof and realised there’s a second floor. “This is the kind of joint that I need to be seen wandering through with a cocktail”, I thought. Said cocktails were not only reasonably priced at £7 - £10 (considering you could walk into any number of overpriced Canal Street bar and expect to be charged £7.50 for syrup-in-a-glass-masquerading-as-a-Mojito) they were abso-fucking-lutely gorgeous. I ordered a "Bambu - Baby Panda" and was treated to the cutest glass you've ever seen in your life. The restraint I had to muster just to hand it back to the waitress when I was done surely warrants a free meal. Or at the very least a free bamboo straw. As for the cocktail itself, I can only really remember it noting vanilla vodka as an ingredient but I'm pretty certain it was the spirit of life in liquid form, no joke. And the spirit of life tasted gooood. Ged ordered something with rum, I think, but who cares because he didn’t get a panda glass.

Being lead upstairs felt akin to be whisked away to a secret society; the narrow staircase was carved from dark wood and delicately lit by small lotus flowers cut out of the steps that tied in nicely with the great big blossom tree that stood proudly in the middle of the restaurant floor when we arrived at the top. It was pretty breath-taking to be honest. Once we’d taken our seats we were handed the two glasses of what I presume was sparkling rosé that Ged's friend (cheers Keebs) had ordered us from London. I say "presume" because I never actually found out what it was but as soon as I saw it was pink and fizzy I couldn't give a shit what it was, so sparkling rosé it is. 

  

So let’s talk about the food. We ordered Chicken and chilli Gau and Lobster and prawn toast for Dim sum. Ged fawned over the softness of the chicken and used his chopstick prowess to flirt with the waitress whilst I admired the crockery and tried to find the fastest way to get it in my mouth in one go. Next up was an incredibly succulent red roast baby chicken for Ged and melt-in-the-mouth lobster and prawn (get the theme here?) ginger noodles for me. The presentation was nothing short of beautiful; when I received my main and saw an entire lobster head staring at me I was delighted - sick right? - and couldn't wait to Instagram the shit out of it as the visual alternative of saying "yah yah look at me I drink sparkling wine and eat lobster, how's your Thursday?" 

The chicken was tender; the lobster was fresh and the prawns were like little creatures from heaven. My only complaint was an ever so slight lack of sauce on my noodles…but that didn’t stop me clearing my plate so much that it barely looked like I’d had a meal there in the first place.

 The cocktails and pink fizz (oh and the subsequent bottle of Pinot we ordered that I’ve only just remembered about) got us slowly drunker and drunker until I was convinced we were in the most high-tech restaurant that this city has to offer and had basically fallen in love. When I dried my hands under a neon green light I was so astounded by the atmosphere that I felt compelled to leave a note for myself. And, of course, washing your hands under the watchful eye of a gorgeous tattooed Chinese man is surely everyone's dream, no? Just mine?

  

To finish off, Ged's friend again apologised for her absence in true London city style by sending over the.most.incredible.brownie from 250 miles away. According to the waitress this dish isn't on the menu anymore so sucks to be all of you because LOOK AT IT! We offered to let her try a bite but she politely refused and said she's "not allowed", even after we drunkenly tried to force feed her and attempted to shield her from the eyes of her manager using a napkin as a decoy. Top marks to her for being great company throughout the evening. 

Even after the bill we kind of didn’t really want to leave in the end because what could have been a highly pretentious "concept" restaurant that relies on its image to sell seats actually turned out to be one of the best, most honest, dining experiences we've had. And we like to eat. The tables were dutifully waited on by a team of humble and happy staff who really believed in the brand, the food was almost under-priced for how good it was and you could see how someone’s vision had so carefully and lovingly been executed to create a truly unique atmosphere. In short: it was just really, really cool.