A couple of weeks ago I saw that 'Dreams of a Life' was being shown on Channel 4. Directed by Carol Morley it tells the story of Joyce Vincent, a woman who died alone and lay undiscovered for three years.
I've never really been a 'faking it' kind of person. I understand the need to sometimes temper our behaviour and adapt to certain situations to 'fit in' but it doesn't take a genius to find out when someone's being disingenuous.
I like Jodie Foster. She comes across as a focused, successful, beautiful and loving woman, who just happens to be gay, and maybe by concentrating on her family and career, rather than her identifying herself publicly as a lesbian for the last twenty years, that's exactly what people should accept her for.
If I'm going to keep a diary then I first better make sure I have a life to write about, but then if I'm living such an eventful, fulfilling life, how the hell am I going to find the time to write about it?
They say Christmas is about giving, about sharing and about being with the ones you love, which is a load of sentimental old tosh. It's about getting drunk, receiving underwear you wouldn't be caught dead in and tolerating behavior from people you normally wouldn't be seen dead with.
The funniest thing about today? My dad picked me up in an old transit van, full of newspaper, rubbish and dust from his working week and he said to me "You don't mind me picking you up in the van do you son? You must remember us always driving around like this when you were a boy?"
When people described themselves as being bisexual I automatically assumed they were gay (if male), trying to make themselves more interesting (if female) or desperate to broaden their appeal and fan base (if famous). I thought saying you're bisexual was just a cop out, just like saying you're a Liberal Democrat.
I may live in the Royal Borough Of Greenwich but the part I live in is more rough than Royal and every other day can feel like Halloween. People demanding treats with menaces is a weekly occurrence, it just happens to be that my neighbours call them bailiffs.
A sports car won't make you grow a bigger penis and a spritz of Chanel will never bag you a Brad Pitt so don't buy into it. A smear of lipstick won't leave you looking like Kate Moss and all the isotonic sports drinks in the world won't give you thighs like Chris Hoy.
I hate <em>X Factor</em>. I make no secret of it. It infuriates, upsets and troubles me. It's like a manipulative ex who the rest of the family love but whom was actually inherently mad, bad and dangerous to know.
Are we in the double dip or have we come out the other side and are now going down for the third time? Am I supposed to be cutting back, giving some slack or just cutting corners on the luxury and only buying the necessary?
It's like I didn't take the phone call from middle age but it's left me a voicemail saying "I've reserved a place for you in your early forties, can you hurry up and confirm your coming only the demand is high and you'll be shoved back in economy if you don't claim your ticket soon".