Love:
My new iPOD Nano. It is sooo choice, if you have means, I highly suggest you acquire one.

Hate:
Getting out of bed in the morning. It's like being torn from the womb.

Love:
Cornish pasties. When I see them sitting on the hotplate in the canteeen, I smile to myself.

Hate:
'Lost'. Am I the only one?

Love:
The excitment of a new movie being released.

Hate:
The dispointment of seeing a bad movie.

Love:
Being a kind of 'agony aunt' to one of the guys in my office. Even if he is a twink.

Hate:
The feeling of frustration when ironing and you just can't get the corner of the handkerchiefs just right.

Love:
My own company

Hate:
My own compnay

Love:
is a four letter word.

Hate:
is a four letter word.

You ever have one of those days when everybody seems to be mad at you and you can't figure out why?

Welcome to my Life.

I wonder if they actually are or I'm just being a little over sensitive.

Either way, I'm keeping my head down.

Normal day, interrupted.

3.30pm I'm sitting at my desk, saving the company millions, just like every day.

As if.

My Phone rings.

''I just thought you might like to know'' says the voice ''Christopher Eccleston is in the bar''

OH MY GOD.

The Doctor is in the hotel bar.

Shit.

I slip on my jacket and leave the office. I walk across the lobby and enter the bar and there he is.

One of my hero's is drinking a cappucino.

I casually walk past and go behind the bar and watch him for a few minutes.

I want to go over and say hello, thank him for a great job of bringing this fabulous british institution back to the small screen and back into my heart.

But I don't.

I'm too professional for that.

I observe for a few more minutes before returning to my office, smiling.

The oldest friend I have is a girl who was also the first person I came out too.

Way back when.

1988. I think.

Adele.

We met at the Birmingham College Of Food and Domestic Arts, but don't try googling it, its gone.

At least the name has.

We were on the same course and got along, we kinda liked the same things and we were both pretty good(we graduated in the top four of our year).

And we just kinda fell into a friendship.

So after college we went our seperate ways and kept in touch, either by letter or phone and every time I went back to Birmingham we had dinner and a movie....

To me she is beyond being a friend, she is family.

Compared to me she is very sensible, while I was out getting trashed in a club or bar in London she saved 20k for a deposit on a house.

Then she met Adrian, the Accountant.

In the last few years she has had a hard time, healthwise.

When she told me was pregnant I had little hope she would go full term as she had lost the previous baby.

But she has.

And on December 29th Katie was born.

5lbs 9 oz.

Small kid brought into the world via emergency c-section.

And when she told me, I thought that that would have been me, had the genetics dice rolled a different number.

And I don't say that with any hint of self pity or remorse.

I ain't one of those fags who think they would be better off straight.

I'm completely happy the way I am.

But it's like looking into a parallel universe.

One of my favourite cinematic moments, and I guess by default one of my great sci-fi moments is the stealing of the Entreprise from the space dock by Kirk and Co. in Star Trek III : The Search for Spock.

Yes Binky, I said Star Trek

Why do I Like it?

It's a real tense sequence.

Our heroes have stolen the ship, gone against all kinds of starfleet regulations because they believe they should do this for their dead friend. As they take the ship out the space doors are closed and as they get close Kirk turns to Scotty;

''And ....NOW Mr Scott''

''Sir?''

''The doors Mr Scott!!''

''Aye Sir, I'm working on it!!''

Of course, the doors open just in time and they escape.

All this is set to a superb, rousing, bombastic score by James Horner.

Incidentally, there is something quite nice about Mr Scott, in daddy bear type of way.

Cool, ain't it?

My Mother is no academic.

She's no slouch either, but on paper she has very little.

She's of that generation that left school with minimal qualifications and went straight into a job, in her case it was Grey's department store in Birmingham.

She's graduated from the University of Life with a full honours degree.

One time, a long time ago now, she decided to study to become a typist, so she could get some secretarial work.

So for about six weeks or so she went to college and practised on my battered typewriter.

Better her put it to good use than me use it to perpetuate a delusion of being a writer someday.

As if.

Now, my stepfather was not the most supportive person in the whole world, and let her know this by mocking her.

Whenever he did this I would feel immensely sorry for her.

When the day of the results of the exam she had to sit she looked at the envelope for a long time before opening it.

And her face fell.

She had failed.

She showed the letter to the stepfather and he mocked her even then, saying that he knew she would fail.

Like, the bastard ever amounted to anything.

I still see that disapointment sometimes, in my mind and my heart still goes out to her across the vastness of time.

I just had to get that off my chest.

But what I think bothers me more is my inaction.

I should have done something.

If your a seasoned hotelier whats the first thing you do should you find a suicide in your hotel?

Call the police?...no

Call an ambulance? What for? He/she is dead already , they're not going to get better.

Call the coroner?...and risk an eighty pound fee?...Nope.

The first thing you do is charge the credit card.

And add twenty percent.

Hotel Babylon.

This series began tonight on BBC1 and I have to say that I was impressed with how well it caught the spirit of hotel life.

London is not as glamourous as it appeared in the show, but who cares? It looked fabulous, all shiny lights and speed, bright lights and fast living.

Like Vegas, minus the tackiness and plus the style and class.

The characters were well drawn, and I've worked with all of them at some time or other.

The streetwise Concierge, the crusty Doorman, the gay Receptionist, the ambitous young Hotel Manager and the seasoned GM.

I was that young hotel manager.

Except I batted for the other side.

I wasn't as good looking as the guy in the programme but I got laid just as often.

Maybe more.

I was certainly a lot more switched on than the guy portrayed in the programme.

I knew all the tricks, and invented a few new ones.

For example, one night when I was a night manager I lost the early morning call sheet.

I knew I had at least one five am wake up call, probably a guest going to Heathrow to catch an early morning flight.

So what do you do when you don't know which guest to wake up?

Thats right Binky, you wake 'em all up.

The fire alarms had a habit of going off anyway.

The Hotel I was most fond of was located in Marble Arch.

I loved that little hotel.

I loved it with a passion, I felt I had grown up there.

I arrived there as green as a leaf and left a seasoned pro.

It wasn't the best hotel in the group, but it wasn't the worst either.

Almost everybody in the group looked down upon the hotel as it was in dire need of refurbishment.

It was relatively small with 108 rooms. The floorboards creaked,the wallpaper was heavily patterned and chintz was the theme.The lift was a million years old and there was no air con.

I remember remarking to the brother of the chairman one afternoon after he had popped in ad hoc for a coffee.

''Our greatest weakness (the condition of the hotel) is also our greatest strength (the need to prove ourselves to the rest of the company)''

Profound words formed under scrutiny.

The working day began at eight and finished at whenever o'clock.

The lobby and guests were the focus in the morning,followed by breakfast at ten,followed by paperwork,followed by lunch at one and then maybe a walk around Selfridges at two. More paperwork until four then back in the lobby for the arrivals.

Then a cocktail around the corner at six followed by more beer and numerous phonecalls to the night manager, ensuring that everything is ok.

I knew the hotel backwards, I knew every room intimately.

I made it my business to move around the hotel chatting to everybody, to know there business.

Their business, was my business.

I loved the lobby, watching the guests come and go.

Or should I say, watching the businessmen come and go.

And I saw some beutiful sights.

One morning in the lobby two American bear couples arrived and of course, I clocked them immediately.

And they,in turn, clocked me.

One came over to where I was standing by the Concierge desk, asking for a map.

I took the map out of the stand, opened it and marked the hotel.

And the Kings Arms.

And the Quebec.

And XXL.

I handed him my business card, advising him to call me for anything, anytime.

He smiled.

Two days later we indulged in some pretty wild sex while his hubby walked around the British Museum.

Another time I was loosely seeing this Irish Guy and he came into the hotel to see me.

I pretended to give him a showround but as soon as we were in a vacant room, I locked the door and he sank to his knees,hungry.

He blew me against the bedroom door as the maid hoovered outside.

The danger only added to it, you know?

When he had finished, or more accurately when I had finished I zipped my fly closed and brushed down my immaculate suite before continuing with the 'showround'.

But most of all I enjoyed the feeling of being King of the Castle, of the being the Captain.

I liked being disturbed with problems and issues.

And solving them.

Of going to meetings, presenting a rate strategy or entertaining a client.

I don't get to do that kind of stuff anymore and that makes me miss it all even more

The little hotel was refurbished and has since reopened.

It looks amazing.

Everybody has moved on, including me.

I'm on day three of an eight day stretch.

I'll work through to Tuesday the 17th and then take two days off before the weekend.

Which kinda suits me as I like to go to the movies during the week, when the cinema is a little quieter.

Popcorn munchers.

I hate 'em.

On day two of the eight day stretch I had my appraisel with the boss.

And it went fine.

I mean, what could he say? I do a pretty good job.

He did tell me that he knows I'm only giving eighty percent to the job.

I've worked pretty hard to get my department running well,to train everybody of the various processes so they can now do pretty much everything that needs to be done, so I can kick back and do as little as possible.

Delegation is the best thing ever.

Try it.

Except he's kinda busted me, but in a good way.

He wants me to get involved in other departments, a fresh pair of eyes around the place.

To come out of the 'comfort zone'

So that's what I'm gonna do.

At the end we discussed the company sponsorship of some education which he agreed to.

Wait, there's more.

I broached the subject of a pay review and again he agreed.

*YAY* for me.

But the best thing, the thing that made the appraisel so enjoyable?

No LONDON GUY present.

I handed over a belated xmas present to a friend and colleague in the hotel.

He unwrapped it and looked at the fondue set quizzically before breaking into a broad grin.

''Thank you, Samantha will be very 'appy''

He's french, you dig?

I knew they wanted a fondue set. It had come up in conversation over dinner a few times.

What the heck if they were a lame throwback to the 70's.

Fondue's, not the french.

''Oh it's not really a present for you''

Again, he made with the quizzicall.

''It's more of an investment for me'' I deadpanned.

''If there were no religions then thereb would be good people doing good things, and evil people doing evil things. Religion forces good people to do evil things....''

The man speaks the truth.

Oh yes.

The credits rolled, white writing against a black background, set to a melancholy guitar.

Slowly the house lights rose and I sat for a second looking up at the giant screen.

I had bawled my eyes out at the end of the movie.

Brokeback Mountain.

I stood, pulled on my big black coat and moved toward the exit, my eyes red and wet.

I didn't care if anybody saw me.

They're not the boss of me.

I exited the movie theatre and pulled the coat around me tight , more to find a little comfort than too find any warmth.

I walked up the busy street, strangers rushing past, guys in no more than shirt and girls with even less.

My breath danced in front of me before merging with the ether.

It had taken the death of his friend and lover for Heath Ledger's character Emmit to finally be able to express any kind of feeling of love.

The love that he both craved and also denied himself and his friend played to perfection by Jake Gyllenhall.

I thought about this movie as I walked along the canal to the apartment, in a perverse way I didn't want to let go of the emotions it had stirred, the heart strings it had tugged.

I'm still thinking on it now.

Had a bad day?

Woke up late and found your goldfish belly up in it's bowl?

Spilt your coffee over your suit?

Realised your more overdrawn than you thought and you won't be going out this weekend?

Had a bollocking off your boss that you know you dudn't deserve?

Have you had a bad day and just want to shut the world out and climb under your duvet?

Yeah?

Good!!

No I mean it.

Good.

'Cause I want you to take all that negative energy and roll it up in a ball and send it toward the VENDOR of my house.

They are really dragging their heals and are looking for the first week of February to complete, and even then they are not sure.

I put the offer in back in November.

I said I wanted the end of Jan.

So I'm getting a little stressed by this as at my end everything is boxed away.

Tomorrow I will tell the estate agent that I want a completion date of February 1st in writing or I will pull the offer and look for another house.

Simple as that.

So, do me a favour and send all that bad mojo their way.

I'm waiting for the sale of a house I have bought to complete.

It's frustrating as Solicitors seem to move at a pace that is slower than a crippled snail.

It's not a huge house, it's a two bedroomed end terrace in a suburb of manchester, it has a front and back garden and a homely open fire in the lounge.

The kitchen is big with a stone floor and a woodburner, it has two big doors that open onto the garden.

Upstairs the master bedroom is huge and the second bedroom is a good size, the bathroom is also bigger than I expected.

But hey, size isn't important, right Binkster?

Okay, it is.

I've decorated and redecorated it over and over in my mind, I've chosen the furniture and know exactly where it's going..

Hello...homosexual...!

I'm kinda at that stage in life where I'm ready to give up city living.

I mean what's the point?

I don't really go out on the scene even though I live on the doorstep of Canal Street.

And yes, the apartment I rent is nice, I can walk to work but....

I want more.

My head is full of cozy nights in front of the fire and hot summer afternoons reading in the garden, or barbequing with friends.

Buying a house may not seem a big deal to you.....but to me it's a major fucking achievement.

I've always carried this feeling of unworthiness, a feeling that I don't deserve to have these things in life.

I know where this feelings come from, but thats another blog.

Right now, I can't wait to get the keys.

To wake up in the morning and go downstairs to make a cup of tea.

With tea that I bought, in a cup thats mine, in my kitchen.

It'll be the best peanut butter and jello sandwich...

2006 arrived in the company of some friends and dinner.

Two french couples.

But we won't hold that against them!

Bwah hahahahahahahahaha.

I kill myself.

I went to dinner out of an obligation more than anything else and ended up having a really good time.

Thats how it goes sometimes.

The menu was typically french;

Pate to start

Foie Gras

Then there was supoosed to be a Duck Cassoulet but people were complaining they were full and we skipped to the cheese course.

I could have found room.

Believe me.

Then dessert.

Which was a small frangipan tart.

Each course was accompanied with the perfect choice of wine.

Starting with a fairly pedestrian Alsace and then progressing to a very tasty Monbazillac to go with the foie gras.

The red was perhaps the poorest choice, it tasted too metallic and not oaky enough...I forget the name.

Anyway, midnight came and went and the New Year was ushered in with shouts of 'Bon Anni', the french doors were thrown open and people celebrating all around the small block cheered us and we cheered them.

The night passed quickly with lots of debating and altogether very grown up talk - Europe being a hot topic.

''England will embrace the Euro'' I declared ''When the name is changed to the pound and the Queens head is on every singke one of them. And not before.''

It didn't go down to well.

Before I knew it, it was 5.30am and the bed was calling to me.

I thanked my host's and walked back, breathing in the fresh new year air, my head full of thoughts for the year ahead.

Will somebody puh-lease put James Blunt out of his misery?

I'm hearing that bloody song everywhere.

Sheesh!

Eggshells on Boxing Day.

Why did I say it?

Why am I an asshole?

Binky, don't answer that.

Let me explain.

With my weird and wonderful family setup Christmas Day is spent at the Mothers and Boxing Day at the Father's.

These two worlds will never meet and if they do it will be the end of all life as we know it.

Okay, slight exaggeration

So I arrive at my fathers and the whole family is there, brothers and girlfriends, wives and nieces.

Even a mother in law.

So I go in and say hello, and begin chatting.

My Dad asked what I got for Christmas.

So I told him and I must admit I found my mothers choice of presents comical.

Nice thought, but no.

She had bought all manner of tools, drills and DIY manuals to help with the house.

So I tell this to my Dad and I add ''...Jason and Ray will be using them more than me''

Ray my stepfather.

Insert size 12 into mouth.

Foot, that is.

My Dads face falls a little at the mention of my stepfather and he infers straight away that I will be calling on him to do any DIY jobs around the place.

Which I won't.

I said it without thinking and quickly changed the subject.

With my family, sometimes it's like walking on eggshells.

So 2005 recedes into memory as we rush headlong into 2006.

Just a little reflection on the year that was.

The hotel moved into its second year of operation.
The LONDON GUY arrived.
Won the 'H.O.D of the Year' Award.
Revenge of the Sith
New series of Dr Who.
Began this little blog.
Moved apartments from Ayrtoun St to Great Ancoats.
Attended the BearBash and then GayPride.
Got sucked back into the highly addictive world of....
collecting comics.
Uncle Brian died.
Another BearBash.
Serenity.
Bit the biscuit and began the lengthy procedure of buying
a house.
Made a lot of friends via Eurowoof and Bearwww, a couple in
particular.

Note: no holidays. Damn.

For 2006;
Buying the house.
More travel.
Gym (As if!)
Superman Returns
Study.

Boyfriend? Here's hoping...