Month: March 2001

Excerpts from a Subterranean Diary: Note to self: it’s not necessarily a good idea for employers to have direct access to one’s inner thoughts and anxieties before you even get to interview. I thought I’d removed plasticbag.org from my CV, so I was startled when today I saw it there, in the hands of a potential employer, large as life. The situation has since been resolved. I could base my entire publicity regime for the site on the distribution of carefully concocted resumés…

Jesus Christ. Does absolutely everyone in the world have to have an online diary?

In an ironic piece of news, it seems that Ivan Massow is to take on the beast of Time Out by investing heavily in a free competitor. He’s been interested in magazine publishing for a while now, as far as I can tell. I’m not sure he’s had much luck with it though. Here’s the quote from the Media Guardian:

“Massow targets listings market: Financier Ivan Massow has taken a 10% stake in CapitalLive, the free listings magazine taking on Time Out in London. Mr Massow, who built his financial services business targeting the gay community into a top 10 financial advisor, will become chairman of the title.”

Whatever Meg might say to the contrary [what Meg said], she is my wife, I am very masculine, I can carry shelves and it is true that withholding sex is the only way to keep them in line. If she says any different it is because she is hysterical and needs to have a baby. What can I say?

Why did no one tell me that Derek has started logging again? I’ve missed it terribly. It’s nice to have him back.

A piece of contract work that I was semi-relying on has just fallen through, leaving me frustrated and having to fall back upon freelance writing, which – although fun – pays ridiculously badly.

Matt reveals his fetishes: “The subtle interplay of media and peer pressure, the slow progression into adulthood, quiet sexual play through the teens — all of this is dwarfed completely by televised pornography, dirty magazines found in skips, and pissed fumblings in the park (or, in the case of Americans: MTV, a box of Kleenex, and massive sublimated guilt that is liable to explode at any time in a shower of bullets).”

My evening with Big was pleasant, but frustrating. I suspect that’s the last I’ll see of him – a fact that I find depressing. [Hi to Ian who I bumped into at Barcode while with Big.]

I am to be a pizza delivered when you’re not in the mood to cook. I’m not to be a cinema, but straight-to-video – and rented not bought. I am to be a public convenience (20p) in the middle of the city on a Saturday morning. I am to be a hand-shandy – nothing more – on a grey day, while bored, in front of Neighbours.

So having spent much of Friday afternoon in the gym, damaging myself, I then decided on Saturday to spend most of the day helping Meg, Luke and Davo (Hi Catherine!) move into their new place. This involved moving many many boxes. Not as many, perhaps, as if I wasn’t still hurting from the gym the previous day, but many nonetheless. So today I have this cumulative body collapse thing going on, where pretty much any kind of movement of any kind causes me tremendous pain and makes me want to go immediately to bed. I do, apparently, look quite nice.