Day 56: I Propose An Immediate Ban On Social Kissing, And Demand The Reinstatement Of The Handshake

I'm not talking about man-likes-lady kissing. I'm off that for a bit, as regular readers will know. I'm talking about 'social kissing'.

It's OK if you're a Continental, particularly if you're a Frenchified Continental (for e.g., I think the Belgians and some of the Swiss count). Even then it's complicated: I get kissed twice, three or four times when I go to France; it all depends on whether they think they're posh or not, whether they know me well, and which part of France they were from originally. But it's British Social Kissing I object to.

In the olden days, it was just Sloanes (pseudo-posh types) who did it, mainly in The White Horse in Parson's Green whilst wearing rugby shirts or pearls (sometimes together). Then media types did it, and going to a Media Function (part of my old job, and not a part I miss), would mean you would get a kiss on each cheek from up to one hundred different people in a night, whether you knew them or not. By the mid-90s, you had to kiss all your colleagues in your advertising agency before you'd even sat down with your double-decaf monkeyjizz latte. By 1998, a commercial shoot would often be delayed by up to an hour as the director, producer, producer's assistant, make-up and wardrobe people, sound boys, gaffers and runners kissed themselves into the ground.

As recently as June 2006, I went to a meeting with 15 people, all of whom kissed me on each cheek. I had no say in the matter; they just did it. The meeting was delayed by 10 minutes.

It's getting out of hand. If you actually like someone, you end up giving them a hug. And it's only going to get worse. The sheer waste of time aside, it's just wrong. We're British, for fuck's sake. We don't do touching, unless it's man-likes-lady time (and even then it's not guaranteed).

I had a meeting with an advertising recruitment person today. You would think, wouldn't you, that they'd be top of the list of Unwanted Kiss Distributors. But no. She shook my hand, and I shook hers. Then her boss (who I have met and who could, theoretically, kiss me as she has at least met me), also shook my hand. And I shook hers. It was quick, not awkward or over-familiar, business-like (as businesslike as anything can be if I'm within 10 feet of it), and nice.

So it's time to bring back the handshake. If you're really keen, you could bow; add a click of the heels if you fancy it. If it's someone super-exciting and you're a girl, curtsey. (If you want to know how, you just put your right leg behind your left leg and bend at the knees a bit. I think. No doubt Monkeymother, a.k.a. Posh Totty, will correct me if I'm wrong; she was virtually in the Royal Ballet when she was a gel.) I promise you it'll catch on in no time, particularly once everyone works out that exchanging kisses for a firm handshake will save up to 3.6 billion working hours a year.

Day 56 (I'm pretty sure now): I Go To The Gym (Part 2)

After the episode with Mr Cunty (see below), and after she'd made me do some stuff that made me look like Superman, except not actually flying, Anuja and I sat cross-legged on the mats.

Me (small voice, looking at my hands): Anuja?
Personal trainer: Yeah?
Me: Could you ... um ...
Personal trainer: Yes babes?
Me: Um, teach me to do cartwheels. And handstands. When I'm thinner. You know.
Personal trainer: Why's that, babes?
Me: Well, I've never been able to do them, even when I was little, and I really want to.
Personal trainer: Sure. Be fun. Want to know how to do this?

She gets up, runs, skips a bit, then actually and literally spins in the air without touching the ground and lands on her feet. I applaud, and make her do it 3 times. She tries to high-five me, and for once I accept.

Me: Gosh*. Yes.
Personal trainer: Tell you what. Let's start with a backwards roll.
Me: OK. I think I can do them.
Personal trainer: Good.


* I actually did say "gosh", as unlikely as it seems.

Day 56 (I think): I Go To The Gym (Part 1)

Personal training. Quite hard, you see. I was in the gym this morning with Anuja (who is becoming less annoying as my thighs become more supple), doing squats on a half-ball thing holding 5kg weights. I have to concentrate when I do things like that otherwise I fall off and die.

And a man starts talking. Into his mobile phone. On a bluetooth handset. In the gym. Before I go any further, I have already given you some clues to his extraordinary cuntiness ('bluetooth handset' and 'in the gym', for e.g.), but this particular specimen reminded me of something a boss of mine once said: "You know him? When they had a competition for cunts, he came second. You know why? Because he was such a cunt."

Fact is, anyone who talks loudly about their 'business affairs' into a mobile phone is either a) a salesman; b) a failed small local businessman; c) unemployed, but hasn't told Marjorie yet. Things I learnt about Mr Cunty include:

1. he is meeting someone at 2pm tomorrow at the Hotel of Cunts
2. his email adress is Mrcunty@yahoo.com
3. he lives just off Streatham Common at No. 2 Cunty Street
4. he understands what you're saying, Mike, but he thinks there may be a solution - and wants to run it past you on Friday
5. no, John, although he can see your point of view, he fundamentally disagrees
6. he can put you in touch with his solicitor who, although slow, is fundamentally sound
7. his fax number is 020 8674 CUNT

And do you know what I did? Nothing. We moved to the other side of the gym, and I shouted MAYBE WE SHOULD GO SOMEWHERE QUIETER as we walked past him. I went on the treadmill and with sweat running in my eyes, threatened to stop the machine (not a good idea when you're running; is another way of meeting sudden death) and have a word. But I didn't.

I didn't tell him to shut up. I didn't tell him that is was unlikely that the other 30 people in the gym cared what Mike thought. I didn't tell him that I couldn't concentrate. I didn't tell him to stop. I just glared in an English way and wrote a note that will have no effect at all. Now who's the cunt, eh? Still, at least I'm not him, so I can't be that much of a cunt.

Day 55: I Consider My Career Options (Again)

As the weekend draws to a close and everyone else starts packing their satchels for the morning, once again I wonder if I should get a job. I'm still torn between astrophysicist and showjumper, to be honest, but can't be arsed to do the training.

So, bearing in mind that I can't be bothered to do much or use what's left of my brain, I've had a long think (with the help of some mind mapping, SWOT analysis and referral to my 'key skill sets'), and whittled the choice down to:


1. Fashionista
2. Pop commentator
3. Entertainment reporter
4. Member of Liberty X
5. Radio 1 DJ
6. Editor, Heat Magazine
7. TV Presenter
8. Tim Westwood
9. Paul Morley
10. Showbiz reporter
11. Claire Grogan
12. Diva Expert
13. Winner of Pop Idol 2003.

Once I've chosen one of these jobs, astonishingly (and as if by magic), I will suddenly have the unalienable right to have an opinion. I will then be paid to express my opinions about a series false oppositions and questions that are of no import whatsoever. And I'll have to take myself as seriously as I can. As seriously as Christiaan Barnard took telling Mr Washkansky he was going to take his heart out and replace it with someone else's, perhaps.

I'll be able to talk about all kinds of things on the telly and in the papers. (I won't write my opinions down, though; I'll just be quoted a lot.) I'll have comment columns in magazines, and be interviewed at parties. Who's better? Michael Jackson or Duran Duran? Is she too fat? Is she too thin? What are the key trends for Autumn/Winter 2006? Tulip skirts? Pale complexions and mouths? Guillemots? Brave, brave Kylie. Footless tights. It was right in the middle of the whole Britpop/Loaded thing. You can't deny Mick Jagger was a rock star, right in your face. Layered vests have gone down, but grey woollen schoolgirl tights are going up. It's a post-modern* masterpiece. It was very knowing, and also ironic. To be honest, unless you were there, you'll never really understand it. Festivals are full of the middle-classes now; they've lost their way. When the Spice Girls broke onto the scene, pop as we know it was changed forever. You can't underestimate the impact that Talking Heads have had on The Raconteurs. You can buy a frock just like Micha's from Top Shop, and some shoes just like Sadie's from Shoe Express. Usually, the chaps come out when your career's on the skids. I remember when Tracy was selling shares in her work and Jay picked up three for ten pounds apiece. No, but seriously - and this is important - who's better, Bananarama or Cher?

Think of it. I could be paid to talk about Britney Spears. If I changed my name to Eddie Hampton Armani and described myself as a 'Diva Expert', I could find myself on Channel 5 at 10.45 on a Sunday evening saying things like "I think we love Cher because we believe". If I had won Pop Idol 2003, I could be given money to have an opinion about Take That. If I change my name to Paul Morley, I could be paid to have an opinion about anything at all, and if I became Tony Parsons, I could get paid for being a cunt.

And the best bit of all is that I wouldn't have to really do anything. Just read some tabloid newspapers, flick through Heat and Grazia once a week, watch about an hour's worth of telly at 5pm and 1am, put 'Christina Aguilera's chaps' into Google now and then, play some records and, just so I've got a clever opinion in case BBC2 call me in, listen to Woman's Hour on Radio 4 occasionally. Hold up - that's what I do anyway. Anyone know a good agent?

* People who know what post-modern actually means never use it. Fact.

Day 54: I Go To Harvey Nichols

Regular readers of this blog will be aware, by now, that I am quite the porker. They will also be aware that I am in the middle of a strangely entertaining project called "Shift The Pork 2006". Now, my excess pork cannot be ascribed to late night cake-eating. Nor can it be put down to "glands", a "big frame", or a "low metabolism".

Truth is I have an extremely irritating 'condition' that is fairly common, utterly dull and that kindly helped me go from "l would" to "well, she's quite pretty, until she gets her kit off". I don't have a problem with food. I don't binge eat and I haven't got a weird emotional relationship with it other than I like it a lot but, annoyingly, not very much of it makes me fat. And to be less fat, I have to work very fucking hard. So I have worked very very fucking hard, and in the last six weeks I've shifted about seventeen pounds, and found muscles I didn't know existed. (If you're wondering, my weight loss can be ascribed to that astonishing combination of eating less and moving around more.) So I was feeling quite perky about myself until I went to that centre of fashion excellence, Harvey Nichols.

Harvey Nichols is, if you don't know, a flash department store in Knightsbridge full of posh clothes and makeup and handbags that cost £2,300. I was there because they've got good clothes if you're like my best friend, who is 5ft 9, good-looking, and a size 10 (or sometimes 8). We went to look at things to buy for her to wear to her wedding. She bought something unutterably lovely that she looks really beautiful in, and that made me very happy.

But I felt miserable when I came out into the chilly afternoon. It's not like I have to buy all my clothes from specialist retailers for the larger lady, but I'd expect to be able to fondle a (UK) size 14 with a certain "it's only 4 months away" wistfulness. But in Harvey Nichols, the clothes on the racks only go up to a size 12, and that was obviously slightly obscene: the girl serving us described it as "very big". Down the road in Yves Saint Laurent they had a skirt that was so small I (genuinely) thought it was made for a child, and everything in Marc Jacobs seemed to be a size 4.

I'm not going to bother to go into what the media may or may not do to women. I can argue about who's most to blame, advertising or magazines, and I'm not sure there is an answer; both parties would, I've no doubt, say "we give people what they want". (Which is, incidentally, the tabloid newspapers' justification for what they do.) I'm not going to go into the social or sexual politics of it, quote Orbach, Paglia and Dworkin, tell you that over 50% of British women are over a size 16, that Nicole Richie looks shit that thin and will probably die soon if she carries on like that, that Victoria Beckham's waist size is the same as the average 10 year old girl and that only women over child-bearing age can afford those Marc Jacobs shirts in size 4. There's no point.

But I do know this: I will never, at 36, look good in a bikini. I will always have the very fine (and now, to my eyes, rather beautiful), silvery stretch marks on my tummy and arse. The best I can hope for is that I will be very fit one day, wear the clothes I want to wear, and that I won't have any bits that wobble or hang off. I'll be strong, able to run for half an hour without passing out, do cartwheels, climb trees, eat nice food, and die when I'm quite old. And that'll be good enough for me. As long as I avoid Harvey Nichols.