December2006

Tuesday 5th December 2006:

It’s him, he’s returned, he’s back, that primeval man, homo-erectus, or, as we more commonly know and love him, Dick, and love him we do, and have, frequently, in fact virtually without a break since he started work on a new client project last Friday and his sex drive went into orbit on account of the associated stress. I knew as soon as he walked through the door on Friday evening that he was in a state of excitement. Like a wounded gazelle trying to outrun a hungry lion I stood no chance of fleeing as he went straight in for the kill. I found myself face down over the kitchen table with my jeans and undies around my ankles while he expounded his excitement at length, and when it comes to length Dick’s dick is right up there with the best of them. Shane wasn’t too pleased to arrive home and find dinner was delayed on account of Dick’s appetite for other things. He hauled him off upstairs in order to give him a good seeing to and me the opportunity to see to dinner. Poor Dick, he can’t help himself, and though Shane and I are more than willing to lend a helping hand along with other things there comes a point when watching a bit of telly is more appealing than shagging. Such a point came last night and Dick had a lean time of it as he tried, yet again, after an afternoon of non-stop groin activity and pole dancing, to initiate sex. The living room reverberated to the sound of yelps as Shane firmly slapped his exploratory and hopeful hands away from our exhausted and over used persons. He then banished him to solitary confinement in an easy chair well away from where we were sitting on the couch, warning him that if he didn’t control himself he was going to cuff his hands behind his back. I could tell by the gleam in Dick’s eyes that far from acting as a deterrent, he was turned right on by the very thought of having his hands cuffed behind him, so much so that he had to take himself off upstairs to play solitaire. When we went up to bed Dick, lying hand in hand with his beloved trouser pet, also called dick, was fast asleep. Shane shook his head and said it might be best if we slept in the single room rather than risk awakening the beast and having him stalk us all night, as he as much as we needed some rest. So, we slept in the single room together, it’s called the single room because usually only one of us sleeps there at a time, but it still has a double bed in it. I must say it felt good just lying there safely curled up in his arms. Shane and I have been through a bit of a rough patch recently, in fact he was seriously pissed off with me for a while and boy did he let this houseboy know it. He reined me in so tight I could barely breathe without his permission. More later, Shane’s bawling for me, Dick’s probably broken free from his restraints in the cellar and is on the rampage (lie detector says NO) okay, he isn’t really restrained in the cellar, though I’m sure he would be if we had one, he’s actually out liaising with his client over dinner, I just hope no one in the restaurant drops their cutlery and bends over to retrieve it, the poor sods won’t know what’s hit them. Better go before Shane bursts a blood vessel, he probably needs me to peel a grape for him or something, either that or I’ve filed his underpants in the wrong order.

Thursday 7th December 2006:

It’s cold wet and very windy here today, totally miserable in fact, which seeing as it’s December and not July is hardly surprising, we can’t expect sunshine and balmy breezes. I think the Americans definitely have the right idea in calling this time of year The Fall. The avenue we live on is lined with trees and the road and pavements are currently still covered in fallen leaves, God knows why we bother paying council tax because the council do sod all to clear up, it’s not so bad when the leaves are dry, I enjoy kicking my way through piles of crisp dry leaves on my way to the shops, it makes me feel like a kid again, but when they’re wet it’s another story, because then the street turns into the equivalent of a fucking skating rink with me slipping and sliding on piles of decaying, slimy leaf mulch, especially on my way back from the shops laden down with carrier bags, like this morning. I ended up falling arse over tit and landing flat on my back. I was in a right mood when I got home and discovering that I’d forgotten my house keys didn’t help. I didn’t have my mobile either so I trudged across to Eileen’s to use her phone to call the men folk and see if one of them could come home and let me in. She was out, since her mother died she’s been going out a lot more, so I trudged back home and stared at the door trying to will it to open, it didn’t work. Of course if I’d been Dick a locked door would have posed no problem, I think I might have mentioned before he can slip any lock in next to no time, something I found out early in our association. When he was a kid he apparently fancied a career as a kind of Master Raffles, gentleman thief, and diligently set about learning the art of the locksmith, he has skeleton keys, jig pickers, the lot. His ambition to be a posh thief waned as maturity and moral responsibility set in, but he still retained the skills of a lock breaker. However, I wasn’t Dick, a dickhead perhaps, but not Dick. I was wet, cold and all in all a very, very pissed off locked out houseboy and didn’t that door know it as I laid into it in a rage. Leaving the shopping on the doorstep I went off in search of the legendary un-vandalised public callbox, eventually finding one in a street far, far away. Dick wasn’t answering his mobile so I called Shane who wasn’t very pleased about me being disorganised enough to leave the house without my keys, he was even less pleased when he arrived home and saw evidence of my temper in the form of muddy trainer prints on the front door along with a fair sized dent. He sent me to dry off and change my wet clothes while he put the shopping away and then he went back to work leaving me to chew over the ominous words: “we’ll discuss this properly when I get home this evening.” So, a bit of a shit day really and not set to get any better, not if the look on Shane’s face was anything to go by as he reviewed the front door on his way back out to his car. I’ve cleaned all the mud off, which makes the dent even more noticeable. I feel really bad about it; after all kicking the door served no purpose and solved no problems. I might be able to fill the dent and stain it over so it doesn’t show too much. I hope so. I’m always pissing Shane off in one-way or another. Like I started to explain in my last diary entry he and I went through a rough patch a couple of weeks back.

It all started on that Thursday when I planned to try out a new recipe for ginger cashew chicken (see my Thursday 23rd November entry) I never did get to try it out, because by the time Dick and Shane landed home the migraine mugger had struck and I was in the grips of a major headache, the painkillers I took, didn’t, kill it I mean, in fact they didn’t even stun it and I convinced myself that something sinister was growing inside my cranium, a thought influenced by Sigourney Weaver, whom I’d watched in Alien 3 on telly the night before, thus I decided I had an embryonic alien queen growing in my brain just waiting to burst out. Knowing my luck it would be a drag queen and after splitting my skull apart it would sing a medley of Madonna songs before frenziedly slaughtering everyone in sight with a deadly sequinned handbag and a barbed wire boa. Unlike Sigourney I didn’t have a handy pit of molten lead ready to plunge into and save mankind…isn’t life a bitch sometimes. Unable to move around without feeling sick I was lying on the couch and looking forward to some sympathy and the reassurance of company. Being ill is no joy in general; being ill when you’re alone is double misery, as you have nothing to distract you from what’s going on in your body. I was mentally planning my own funeral and writing an obituary for the newspaper, as well as a farewell note for my mother when to my huge relief I heard the crunch of car wheels on gravel followed by a key in the lock. Dick was first home and I duly got my serving of affection and sympathy from him, then Shane landed and I got second helpings, though sadly as things turned out it proved short lived. Click here for the short story of You-Did-What? It’ll be there soon anyway, I hope, autobiographically speaking I haven’t had much time for writing up excerpts from my life of late, plus sometimes the words stick rather than flow and lying on the couch watching re-runs of Murder She Wrote while eating biscuits has more appeal. I think the official literary name for such an activity is procrastination by chocolate hobnobs. Successful authors are the type who type and who do not indulge in hobnobbing on the couch.

I’d better go make a start on dinner, I’m making a steak casserole and it takes ages to cook. If I go quiet for a few days it’s probably because Shane has killed me, or locked me in a room with Dick who is still acting like a porn star who’s taken an overdose of viagra and I’ve been fucked to death.

Friday 8th December 2006:

After putting the casserole in the oven last night I consulted google to see if it came up with hints and tips on saving your arse from a Top’s wrath. It didn’t, but it did come up with a promising tip for repairing dents in hardwood doors. I was that excited I got an erection. It was suggested that a damp cloth and a hot iron would work wonders by causing the fibres in the wood to swell with the steam and thus remove the evidence of this particular houseboy’s inability to control his temper. It worked a treat, admittedly it took patience and a couple of attempts, but it really worked, damp cloth over the dent, then hot iron over the cloth. I polished off the scratches with a bit of teak oil and hey presto; I was dead pleased with myself, sure I was redeemed. Shane duly admitted that I’d done a good repair job, he ate a hearty dinner and once I’d washed up he requested my company in the study where we discussed my ‘unwillingness’ to control the temper outbursts that frequently ended with something in pieces and then he told me to take off my jeans and briefs. I pointed out that I’d fixed the door, but he pointed out that my fixing it didn’t make me breaking it in the first place right or acceptable, we had a contract, if I broke something in temper, I got punished, regardless of whether I later replaced or fixed it. So, a good spanking I got after all, which I suppose I did deserve, I do have a temper and I’m not proud of it. Dick was sweet afterwards, cuddling me without stripping me naked and molesting me into the bargain, sometimes comfort rates higher than sex.

Dick and Shane are going out with HIM this evening, to the opening of some fancy new Japanese restaurant that he apparently has a part share in. I was invited, but I declined saying I’d rather stick a lighted candle up my arse and hire myself out as a table decoration for BDSM functions than go to any raw fish emporium HE had a part share in, unless the part concerned was his cock and I got to stick a fork in it before tossing it into a tank full of piranha fish. Needless to say my reasoning did not impress my Daddies. Dick said I was being a little idiot and it was about time I grew up and got over my jealousy. Shane didn’t say much, in fact nothing at all in a verbal sense, but his hand imprinted a strong message of disapproval onto the seat of my jeans. I’m a bit pissed off to be honest, they could have made more effort to try and persuade me to join them. They’ll come in from work and start going through their, Gilli, where’s my this that and the other routine, and then they’ll sod off to this fancy fish shop while I’m stuck in watching telly and doing the bloody ironing. I know, I know, it’s my own fault I’m a contrary, childish prat, but you’d understand if you ever met HIM, smarmy sod he is. Anyway, I’m no good at posh functions, people usually think I’m the waiter and try to give me their orders and empty glasses. I feel uncomfortable and out of place, it’s not easy being the junior partner in a threesome, most people just don’t get it and Dick and Shane are treated as a couple while I’m treated like a spare prick at a wedding, and of course the Bears are much more practised at socialising than I am, it’s part of their background, second nature to them, not to me though, I grew up on a run down council estate where socialising meant talking to the person in front of you in the dole queue. I feel awkward and well defensive, which can make me a bit mouthy, especially if I think someone is talking down to me. What the hell have I got to say that’s interesting: Oh, I dusted the skirting boards this morning, they were filthy, or, isn’t limescale a bugger to remove from the toilet bowl? Both Daddies say I’m too self-conscious and I suffer from reverse snobbism and when I relax I’m perfectly charming and the equal of anyone. I wonder if it’s too late to change my mind about going, not that I actually want to go, I just don’t want to be left out.

Monday 11th December 2006:

I’ve had an up and down kind of weekend, beginning Friday night when I decided to change my mind about going out to the Japanese nosh shop opening. In retrospect, on the whole, taking all things into consideration, it turned out good, yeah; I think good sums it up, good enough to fashion into a small chapter of my autobiography in absolutely no order at all. Click here to read BLACKPOOL ROCK.

I’m tired tonight and a bit depressed, I’m going to post my weekend account and then I think I’ll have a bath, I find baths are better for depression than showers, the option being that if you don’t work through your depression as you soak you can always drown yourself, not that I’d be likely to succeed, the bloody Bears just about camp outside the bathroom whenever I shower or bathe (and if I ever get round to finishing my, You Did What, chapter you’ll find out why) popping in every five seconds to help me find the soap, and you know what Dick’s like, he looks in the most unlikely places.

Wednesday 13th December 2006:

I disturbed Dick and Shane’s sleep on Monday night; well strictly speaking it was more Tuesday morning. The conversation went:

Dick, naked, arms folded, loudly: “What are you doing honey?”

Me, wearing boxer shorts and stating the obvious loudly: “Hoovering.”

Shane, like Dick, naked, unplugs the hoover and says with quiet menace: “It’s ten to three in the fucking morning, no one hoovers at ten to three in the fucking morning.”

Me, defensively: “It’s the best time to hoover, the dust mites are asleep, it catches them off guard.”

Dick: “Is something on your mind Gil, you’ve been a bit down all evening, do you want to talk about it?”

Shane: “Whatever’s on his mind will keep until morning, back to bed, both of you.”

Basically, a Christmas card was on my mind, a Christmas card from my mother, it arrived on Monday morning after the Bears had departed for their work lairs and I was busy going about my duties as houseboy. As cards go, it was, how can I put this, basically shit, it was an insult, the cheapest end of the cheap and nasty market, the kind of card that really should be sued under trade description laws for calling itself card when it fact it was merely paper. It was so thin and flimsy it needed a fucking crutch to help it stand, it’s the kind of card that sells in packs of 300 for 29p in tat and crap marts, it’s the kind of card you send to neighbours you hate so that they know you hate them, it’s the kind of card that mums buy for the kiddies to give to other kiddies in their class, the ones they don’t like and my mum had sent me one. She hadn’t even put ‘love from mum,’ she had signed it simply, from mum. I was gutted, I mean it’s not as if she’s tripping over offspring, I’m it, the only one, her sole child, fruit of her womb and she’d sent me a Christmas card that Jesus wouldn’t have insulted Herod with. Usually she sends me one with Son written on it, as if to remind us both that she has one and I’m it, and usually she writes a few words and usually she puts, ‘with love from mum.’ I was upset. Dick and Shane said that maybe she was hard up and it was all that she could afford, or maybe she was busy and hadn’t had much time to shop around for a nicer card. They told me to call her, to talk. It sounds daft, but I couldn’t. I picked up the phone a time or two and put it down again. To me that card opened old wounds and freshened their hurt, it felt like a rejection, it felt, I don’t know, it just felt bad, so I didn’t call. Maybe she is hard up, maybe she didn’t have time. It’s not as if I rush home to see her every weekend, or call her everyday, or even every month, in fact the last time I spoke to her was when I visited Lee in September, so what right do I have to expect any more than a tatty, cheap card at Christmas, maybe I’m just a tatty cheap son and it’s as much as I deserve. I tore the card up and binned it, and now I feel rotten for doing that.

It’s blowing a gale here tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if we lose part of the back fence, it’s been rickety for a while and I’ve been meaning to sink a new support post, but haven’t got around it. Dick’s yelling for me, he’s been clucking around me like an old hen, he gets worried when I go quiet, he says it makes him fear that he’s going deaf.

Thursday 14th December 2006:

The back fence miraculously survived the gales last night, but with the wind still whipping around it at sixty odd miles an hour I took no chances and braced the loose post with a couple of splints this morning, it doesn’t look pretty, but it’ll do until I get Dick or Shane to drive me down to Homebase to get a new spike support tonight. Good job one of us is handy, or at least willing to have a go at being handy, see, I'm not just a pretty face about the house, versatile I am, hmm, maybe it's time I asked for a pay rise seeing as I'm not only a houseboy, but also a groundsman. With a bit of luck I’ll be able to pick out a Christmas tree while I’m in Homebase, they have a gardening section. I love Christmas trees and it has to be a fresh one, nothing else will do. I wanted to put one up last weekend, but Shane refused, he said it was far too early to have a dust-gathering tree cluttering the place up. If it were left to Shane we wouldn’t have so much as a sprig of holly tucked behind a picture frame, he’s not a big fan of Christmas decorations. I was a bit pissed at him for saying no to be honest and had a whinge to Dick about it, who in turn tackled Shane who still said no. Dick asked what kind of wicked Daddy denied his baby boy a Christmas tree. Shane said his kind and if either one of us mentioned it again that day there would be trouble.

Eileen has got a Christmas tree up and a holly wreath on the front door, it looks very festive. I said as much to the boyfriends last evening, hoping that a hint would be taken and papal blessing given to the getting of a Christmas wreath for our front door. No chance. Shane said he sees no purpose in hanging a wreath on the front door where you can’t see it, what’s the point of decorating your front door? Besides, the wire used to hold the thing together would scratch the paintwork. I sweetly told him that I was delighted that his Christmas spirit bypass operation had been such an astounding success and had he sent a Christmas card to the surgeon who performed it. Shane said, ‘do you need an hour’s corner time in order to reflect upon the nature of respect?’ I said nowt, not a word, if nothing else I’ve learned, mostly, when to button my lip.

Right, I’m going to brave the elements and launch my person across the road to Eileen’s house, where I’ll spend a pleasant hour or so verbally napalming the neighbours while drinking coffee and eating homemade mince pies, life’s just one mad social whirl for this houseboy.

Sunday 17th December 2006:

Dick can’t keep his hands off my balls, he’s done nothing but finger and fiddle with them all day, and for once we’re not talking about the ones that hang resplendent between my legs, we’re talking baubles here, Christmas tree baubles, he keeps trying to re-arrange them. Yes, I finally wore Shane down and got my Christmas tree. What finally clinched it was that good old standby of brats everywhere, a tantrum. On Saturday morning at breakfast I broached the subject of the Yule tree yet again and he said no, maybe next weekend. I pointed out that next weekend was Christmas Eve and there would hardly be any point in putting one up and he was being totally anal over it. I wanted a tree this weekend. He said I was being childish, so I thought fair enough, if the cap fits, and hurling myself full length on the kitchen floor began drumming feet and fists while shrieking and bawling that I wanted Daddy to let me have a Christmas tree, now, now, NOW! Dick almost choked; he sprayed coffee all over the table and ended up crying with laughter. Shane hauled me to my feet, but try as he might to keep a straight face he just couldn’t and cracked up, the result being that this houseboy got his tree after all, see, tantrums do have a role to play. We picked one out yesterday afternoon and I decorated it this morning, jealously guarding the decoration box so that no one else could get a look in. It’s standing looking stunning in the bay window in the living room. I love it. Only, as I said, Dick keeps shifting the balls about, and I don’t want him shifting my balls about, I’m happy with the arrangement of my balls. It’s the designer in him you see; it thinks it knows the best layout for Christmas tree balls. He’s a menace. I also caught him helping himself to a candy cane and had to sharply remind him they were for decorative purposes, not for him to lick, God, he can’t set eyes on anything hard without having to curl his tongue around it. Wagging his sucked stick at me he said I was a possessive little bastard and if I didn’t watch it he’d colour my arse a shade of red that would put Rudolph’s nose in the shade. We’ve had a nice weekend actually, inclusive of mock tantrums and teasing, and the Bears have cosseted me to make up for the fact that on Friday I got myself in what Shane calls one of my states over nothing. Click here to read Robins. Damn it, I’m being told to haul my arse away from the computer, as Shane wants to use it, the computer that is, not my arse, though knowing Dick, he’ll make up for any deficit from Shane in that respect. It’s a hard life being a houseboy.

Monday 18th December 2006:

I finally bought all necessary Christmas cards this morning and not from Card Warehouse, I didn’t dare go back in there in case it triggered another emotional meltdown. I opted for the Clinton card shop, it’s a bit more expensive, but there’s more room to move and the sound system was churning out nice safe, non-emotional Christmas tunes, such as Little Drummer Boy, mind you I have to say there can’t be many new mother’s who’d welcome some kid turning up and banging away on a bloody drum when you’d just given birth. Talking of babies, there was one on the bus this morning, I don’t know about you, but I’m allergic to babies and little kids and I usually avoid them at all cost. It’s been foggy all day here and cold with it, so I got the bus into town instead of walking, it was packed and there were no seats to be had, I wasn’t too bothered, as I don’t mind standing. Anyway, this woman at the back of the bus suddenly shouted, “there’s a seat up here, c’mon love,” and plucked the small infant that had inhabited it onto her knee. Oh please God no, my blood ran cold, not a baby, but it would have been rude to refuse so I thanked her and sat down, sure enough the baby started trying to attract my attention, as they do, making sounds and smiling and touching my sleeve. I never know what to say to babies, I mean for a start I don’t understand what they’re saying to me, so I forced a smile and made inane sounds back at it while praying for a pensioner to get on the bus, so I could give up my seat with a gentlemanly flourish. The child was some kind of infant sadist because not content with chattering in its strange tongue, it got scent of my fear and tried to climb off its mother’s knee onto mine. I broke out in a cold sweat; I have never been so shit scared in my life, what if the mother thought I was trying to abduct it and started screaming for the police? She didn’t, in fact she encouraged it, saying that the small one had taken a shine to me, which filled me with even more fear, what if she were looking for a surrogate father for it? I’m just not daddy material and I couldn’t see Dick or Shane being too pleased if I took a real baby home with me, they’re not daddy material either, not in that sense anyway. To my relief the mother got off the bus before me and I self-consciously waved bye-bye to the little person in response to it waving bye-bye to me. It left a lingering reminder of its presence on my jacket sleeves in the form of several litres of slaver; I looked like giant snails had trampled me.

To calm my nerves I went straight into Café Nero when I got into town and bought myself a coffee. I actually detest Café Nero; I only went in because it’s next to the bus stop. I hate the huge, thick white cups they serve the coffee in, it’s like drinking out of a small toilet bowl, they must have been designed and made by armitage shanks the cistern people and they’re so heavy you need both hands just to lift the fucking thing. After buying cards I did a bit of general panic buying, well, I thought it’s nearly Christmas, why not, if you can’t panic buy at Christmas when can you? So I panic bought a couple of cd’s, a new t-shirt, a pair of pre-slashed designer jeans which I’ve had my eye on for ages, they were an irresistible bargain being reduced from £130 to £65, I also bought a scarf, it’s one of those striped college type ones and I thought it might make me look intellectual, some blue and green hair paint, which is guaranteed to annoy Shane, then I went into a florists and ordered a Christmas bouquet to be sent to my mum, spending a bit more than I usually do. While I was in the florists I impulsively panic bought a holly wreath for the front door. My credit card was exhausted and perspiring by the time I tucked it back in my wallet and headed home. I walked home fearful of risking the bus in case it was full of predatory babies looking for a father figure to gurgle at.

The wreath looks nice on the front door, I like it, I’m hoping that my blue and green streaked hair will deflect Shane’s attentions away from dwelling on any possible holly and wire damage to the woodwork. The Daddies will be dining alone this evening, as I’m off out gallivanting. I’m playing male escort to my lady friends from the lit class, we’re going out for a meal in celebration of the season. I’m going to wear my new jeans and t-shirt.

Thursday 21st December 2006:

I stepped out into the garden for a breath of fresh air this morning and got beaten up by a robin; the vicious little bastard jumped me from behind, I thought it was Dick at first, he’s not adverse to jumping me from behind, but then I thought no, the pecker is the wrong size. It was a tough little bugger, I thought I was a gonner, I had to beat it to death with next door’s cat in the end, I’m sorry animal lovers, but it was survival, me or the bird (Lie detector says NO) Okay, that was a complete lie, I didn’t kill it with a cat, I actually drowned it in the bird bath (Lie detector says NO, NO, NO) okay, okay, I admit, I made the whole thing up, what can I say, it’s a slow news day and I’m bored…so very bored, bored, bored, bored, in case you’re wondering, I’m so bored I could just, do something, but can’t be arsed, I’m unmotivated as well as bored, it’s a killer combination. I suppose I could be getting on with writing my autobiography, but I’m bored with writing and have no motivation in that area either. I’m all-alone. My Daddies have abandoned me. They’ve gone out to separate work-based functions tonight, it’s that obligatory office Christmas celebration time of year and they’re obliged to put in appearances.

I had a good night out with the girls the other night, and no I did not get drunk, how dare you even suggest such a thing, I know how to behave properly around ladies, particularly older ladies. We had a nice dinner, we discussed a variety of topics, I negotiated a compromise between Dorothy and the waiter who got her order wrong, twice, then tried to say she had confused him, he apologised and promised to sort it out properly and Dot promised not to carry out her threat to insert her white stick into his anal orifice. I made sure that each of them got home safely. I’m a perfect gentleman I am. Predictably on getting home last Monday night Shane told me off for sneaking a wreath onto the front door, but he let it stay, I think he likes it really. Again predictably, he hated my green/blue colour-streaked hair, saying in a chillingly casual tone: ‘if that mess is anything but very temporary i.e. beyond this evening, I’ll streak your backside to resemble a sunset.’ Dick liked my hair and said he fancied dyeing his own hair in similar fashion. Shane said coldly, “I don’t think so Richard.”

Dick gave me a wink and after turning an imaginary baseball cap round on his head so the imaginary peak faced the back, he flicked his forefingers and thumbs at Shane and said in a terrible bling hip hop style accent, “Yo wazzup Daddy?” Shane was not amused, but we were, we cracked up. There was a bit of hassle over my new designer jeans, both Daddies wanted me to remove them, but for different reasons.

The scene when I walked into the dining room prior to going out:

Dick whistled, “Lucky ladies, I don’t suppose I could tag along?”

Me, sitting on his knee and putting my arms around his neck, “no, they’re my girlfriends, I don’t want you turning their heads.”

Dick: “Possessive little bastard,” he slipped his finger inside a nicely situated designer slash, “very sexy too, I don’t suppose you’ve got time for a…”

Me, firmly telling the puppy, which was enjoying Dick’s finger petting it, to stand down: “No, I bloody haven’t, you lust animal.”

Dick: “such a cruel boy,” he kissed me, “later then.” He turns to Shane, “doesn’t he look gorgeous.”

Shane to Dick: “Yes.” Then to me: “Get changed.”

Me: “WHAT?”

Shane: “You heard, get changed, you’re not going out in those jeans.”

Me: “Why?”

Shane: “Don’t question me Gillibran, take them off or I’ll take them off for you.”

Me: “Shane, please!”

Shane, in menacing tone: “Think Gilli is it appropriate to go out in that kind of attire when the people you’re going out with are old enough to be your grandmother? Is it proper for them to be subjected to provocative glimpses of some pretty young thing’s arse and balls every time he moves? People in the restaurant will think your lady friends have hired a gigolo for the evening.”

I appealed to Dick (of course I do, I’m gorgeous) but he shrugged and said: “I have to admit it’s a fair point honey, go on, do as you’re told and dress to suit the occasion,” he smiled, “need some help in taking them off?”

Me: “I can manage thanks.” I got off his knee and sauntered towards the door, saying sweetly to Shane, “maybe I should hire myself out as a gigolo to elderly ladies, it’ll make a change from being a domestic gigolo to two elderly men, they’ll be nicer to me, I’ll get to top and it’ll probably pay better.” Shane shoved back his chair and shot to his feet and I rocketed out of the dining room and up the stairs. He let me live. To be honest, when I thought about it he was quite right, I just got carried away with wanting to wear my new jeans and didn’t think about whether they suited the occasion and the company. Like I said, it was a pleasant evening and when I got home Dick and Shane had both stayed up for me, if you get my drift. Handing me my designer jeans they said as resident domestic gigolo I could start earning my pay. I hustled good.

Well, it’s nearly Christmas, I’ve got the sprouts on boiling already. Actually, we were originally invited to HIS place for Christmas this year and I wasn’t too happy about it, I wanted to stay at home, but then Shane’s sister Penny invited us to her place, or at least she formally invited Dick and Shane, I was the optional, she wished, extra. Shane’s dad is getting on and he hasn’t been too well recently, she played the guilt card and said it might be his last Christmas and it would mean a lot for him to have all his children around him. So, we’re going to Penny and the Muppet for Christmas, oh joy.

I think I’ll get something to eat, I’m starving, I haven’t had any dinner yet, couldn’t be bothered earlier. I’ve felt a bit off all day actually, might be going down with something.

Friday 22nd December 2006:

I really hate answering the phone only to discover someone on the other end doing a sales pitch for:

New windows and doors…No ta, got some.

Insurance…no thanks.

Kitchens…no thanks, got one.

Bathrooms…see above.

Credit cards…Nope got the full set.

Loans…only if I don’t have to pay it back.

But what I hate even more is when you politely decline whatever they’re pushing and they decide to get shirty and start hassling harder. I got one this morning offering me insurance like he was doing me a favour, it was a mega deal, he actually said those very words, and apparently I couldn’t afford to miss out on it. I decided to take the chance anyway and said no thank you. He said I’d be a fool to miss it. Again I said no thank you, adding, I’m not interested. His tone of voice immediately changed and he demanded to know how I could possibly not be interested when I wasn’t fully briefed about the product and all he wanted to do was send me out the policy to read through, he might as well have called me a wanker, because that’s what his tone of voice was implying, at which point I dropped all pretence of civility and told him to fuck off before putting the phone down. The mistake I make is in letting them launch into their sales spiel instead of just saying sorry, goodbye and putting the phone down the moment it becomes obvious that they’re selling something. Shane doesn’t utter so much as a syllabub, or even a syllable; he just hangs up. For Christ’s sake, if I wanted insurance or a new fucking kitchen I wouldn’t sit by the phone on the off chance that someone will call and offer me the opportunity to buy it. I mean, how many people actually do say, oh yes, thank God you rang, I was just thinking that I desperately need a new kitchen, or whatever? It pisses me right off being constantly press-ganged in my own home by telesales people, in my opinion they prey on the vulnerable and the bloody government should regulate the bastards, it’s harassment that’s what it is.

Yes, I am a touch on the grumpy side today. I think I’ve got a bladder infection that’s probably why I was feeling off yesterday. Trying to piss this morning was torture, I was bursting, but all I managed to pass was a trickle of pure acid, I thought the end of my knob was going to dissolve. I’m going the doctors later, and therein lies another source of annoyance, getting a same day appointment with a doctor. The receptionist invariably says: is it an emergency? Fuck’s sake, what constitutes an emergency to a medical receptionist anyway, one or more limbs hanging off, a kidney and a yard of intestines dangling out of your rectum, blood spurting out of a hole in your head? If I felt I was a medical emergency I wouldn’t be chatting on the phone to a receptionist about the possibility of seeing a GP. I’d have dialled 999 and screamed hysterically for an ambulance and the best available Consultant. Why do they think you call and ask for an appointment, because you want to have a cosy chat with the doctor about soft furnishings or the football results? You call because you feel like crap and you need advice, reassurance that you’re not about to become a medical emergency and hopefully anti-crap treatment of some kind. I managed to convince her that no, I couldn’t actually wait until the New Year to see a doctor and nor was I going to whip out my equipment in front of the pharmacist in Boots to look at, I wanted an appointment with a real, qualified doctor as soon as possible, aka this very day. After all I pay tax and NI and I have a right to utilise the services I contribute to, oh yes, I’m a properly employed houseboy I am, I’m on the company books and I pay my dues, Shane sees to that. So, anyways, the receptionist took pity and fitted me in this afternoon at 4, making it plain that she was doing me a big favour and that I was inconveniencing everybody. I’d better get ready, Shane insisted on giving me a lift and if I’m not standing on the doorstep ready to jump in the car the second he rolls up on the drive he’ll get tetchy.

Sunday 31st December 2006:

Hello again, yes, ‘tis I, the houseboy returns after the Christmas break, not that I did, break it I mean, I never touched it and no one can prove otherwise. With one thing and another I haven’t had much time for computer activity lately, both Dick and Shane take a break from their offices at this time of year so my online time is pretty much restricted.

Well, 2006 has outgrown its nappy and is soon to don a grave cloth, while 2007 is limbering up in the wings. Here we are entering the final furlong of the 21st Century’s first decade and how does the world mark it? By execution and hanging a man to death, we have come a long way since the days of barbarism. I know Sodhim Insane was an evil bastard who had to be called to account, but still the whole hanging thing disturbs me deeply. It seems to me that it would have been an altogether cleaner, quicker business if whoever discovered Saddam hiding under his rock had shot him there and then with a kind of ‘oops’ I thought he was armed and I didn’t realise who it was kind of approach, but that’s probably why I’m a houseboy and not a world leader. They’ve buried him as well, what’s the point of that? His grave will either become a shrine for wannabe dictators and those who claim he was just misunderstood or a target for those seeking revenge for atrocities committed against them on his orders, you’ll have one lot laying flowers and the other lot laying bombs, I’m telling you, if I lived in the village near where he’s planted I’d be planning on moving out.

Anyways up, enough politics. I hope you had a good Christmas. I’ve had better to be honest. For a start I thought we were never going to get away from Penny and the Muppet’s place. Dick and I formed an escape committee in the end, we dug a tunnel using a teaspoon and hid the soil in condoms, which we then sprayed silver and passed off as Christmas decoration, though mind you, I had to keep a close eye on Dick, you know what he’s like, show him a well filled condom and he wants to mount it. (Lie detector says NO) Oh all right, it didn’t quite happen like that, I exaggerate a teensy bit. I think the main problem was that I didn’t feel well, so the three days spent at Penny’s house felt more like years. I did indeed have a bladder infection and was prescribed antibiotics and told to refrain from sex until the infection cleared, which in itself was bad enough, but even worse the antibiotics prohibited alcohol, so no sex, no booze and Christmas with Poison Penny, Dickens couldn’t have dreamed up a more ghastly scenario. I was a seriously unhappy houseboy, or a sulky, ill- tempered brat as Shane put it. To be fair to Shane, I was a sulky, ill-tempered brat at times and really it was only lack of privacy that stopped him giving me a damn good hiding on a couple of occasions. The infection improved fairly rapidly, but the course of antibiotics was for 7 days and neither Dick nor Shane would hear of me jettisoning it in favour of a glass of eggnog and a quick shag, it was no sex, no booze, full stop. I have actually finished the course of antibiotics as of Friday gone and am feeling completely fine again and looking forward to falling off the wagon and onto something hot and, well, you get my drift.

We’re having friends over for dinner this evening, and HIM. Shane loathes what he terms the false frenzy of New Year’s Eve and prefers to stay at home, so do I, especially since I have Dick and Shane to stay at home with, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be and no one else I’d rather be with. Well, I’m afraid this is just a rush entry (I wish I had a pound for every time Dick has said that to me) I’ve got loads to do in preparation for tonight, I’m having a stab at goose, not literally you understand, the goose in question is already dead so there’s no need for me to stab it, I don’t think I could anyway, not in cold blood, not unless it went for me first and it was a question of self defence, even then I’d probably just curl up on the floor and scream for help.

Happy New Year!

JANUARY 2007