Our marital hootenany

Here is a picture of page 43 in Grazia this week. Owls. Owls everywhere. Owls in fashion. Owls on T shirts, owls on Kate Bosworth, owl earrings and owl belts. Twit twoo, you might think, that’s a nice T shirt. Going to get me one of those. Not I. I am not happy.

Usually I’m delighted to be accidentally in fashion. A pair of wedges I bought in Clarks recently were featured in Bella magazine a few weeks later, on their ‘this week we’re loving...’ page. Women who buy shoes in Clarks don’t usually expect to be labelled fashionable. I was delighted to be accidentally fashionable and immediately tweeted my fashionable friends to show off that my shoes were on a fashion page and I was bang on trend.

But this is different. I did not accidentally follow fashion, fashion accidentally followed me and I need to put a stop to it, pronto. How do you put a stop to fashion? Do I call Vicky Beckham? Ask her to do me a quick fave and under absolutely no circumstances be seen in an owl jumper?

It’s all Gareth’s fault. He started it, by liking owls - actual owls, not owl jumpers and owl earrings. Actual living owls. He can reel off a list of owls that are native to the British Isles, he’s intrigued by their faces and fascinated by their hunting prowess, the design of their feathers and that they fly silently. He likes the fact the collective noun for a bunch of owls is a parliament of owls and that they have three eyelids per eye, one for blinking, one for sleeping and one for keeping the eye clean and healthy.

All very well. Gaz liked owls and banging on about owl facts (see above). I liked buying him presents, so when I saw a little furry owl in the gift shop of an owl sanctuary we went to, I bought it for him, so he could put it in our little bonsai tree and pretend he had the actual owl he so longed to own. Slowly, friends and family got wind of his adoration and he / we were given so much owl paraphernalia that things started to get a bit silly - you could sit on our sofa and without even moving your head, ratchet up double figures of the amount of owl crap you could see in our living room. I thought it was fun - it’s not like it was cats we were into (crazy old ladies are into cats. A cool young hip couple like us had found a totes unusual animal to obsess over) I didn’t really share G’s appreciation of what made actual owls so great, but I did like hunting for obscure little owl titbits for the flat. In fact my hunting prowess would have made an owl proud, hur hur.


Then we got engaged. As wedding plans developed, we thought it would be hilarious, ironic and unusual to have an owl themed wedding - stopping short of having an actual owl deliver the rings, because we don’t like our owls to be kept in captivity with a chain on their ankle.

We made this decision, this owl themed wedding decision, a year ago. Long before the owl fashion erupted. Twelve MONTHS before Grazia suggested you spend £795 on an owl jumper. (That’s one month's rent. On a jumper.) Three hundred and sixty five DAYS before Grazia told it’s 500,000 readers that £195 spent on an owl scarf was a really good investment.

At first I just thought it was rather convenient that I had been able to get a few owly things in Accessorize over the last few months. Now there has been an explosion of all things owl and I realise I have been feeding in to the very fashion craze I didn't want to happen.

Thanks Grazia. Now we look like we’re doing whatever you tell us, but tenfold, because we’re not just buying your jumpers, we’re decorating our entire wedding to your gospel word. We’re going to look like crazy fashion mad Grazia groupies who have no control of our fashion urges. Owls are in, you say? Right, get me a million of them, I’m going to decorate my wedding with so many owls you’ll be eating mice for main course and growing extra eyelids by the first dance.

For the record, our wedding may be airing six weeks after Grazia told you to like owls, but we started the trend, alright? And only because G really likes real, actual, wild owls.

Bloody fashion, coming along and making me look fashionable, right when I most don’t want to be. Where were you, fashion, when I really needed you? When I was at school and all the cool kids were wearing Levi’s and Dr. Martens and I was wearing my t-shirts inside out and my dresses back to front?

I’m just stating, for the record, that I really like wombats. There, I’ve said it. It’s out there. Look out, Autumn / Winter 2013, you’ve got wombat mania coming. And I’ll be leading the fashion pack with my wombat jumper and my wombat earrings.

(Something tells me this won’t take off. The wombat silhouette looks a bit like a poo.)

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Strangers on a train

When was the last time you had a stranger sleep in your house? A one night stand? A party so kerrr-azy it was gatecrashed by people you didn't know?

I can't remember the last time for me - probably because the party was so epic. But the point is, it's been years.

Well, it had been years, until a few nights ago. Now it's just been three days.

For her own sake, I'll call my friend A Nonny Mouse. A pseudonym. Her real name is Rachel Peters. Don't want you guys judging Rachel Peters for having a strange man back for a romp.

A Nonny Mouse was staying with us for the night and coming by train. I drove to pick her up and she called me as she alighted her carriage. Hmmm, she sounded different. I'm no detective but there was a definite gin-like giggle in her voice. She was inebriated and I knew it.

'Er, I've met someone,' she tells me. I'm so rusty at all this strangers on a train business I presume she means she's bumped into a friend. No. A stranger. On a train. 'He's got nowhere to stay tonight… could he come back to yours?'

Well, I already know what Gareth's going to say to this. He's a photographer. He has, I don't know what, tripods and stuff, the last thing he'll want is a stranger coming back and eyeing it all up.

A Nonny Mouse, who I'm going to call Nonny from now on because it takes less time to type, arrives at the car park with this man of questionable character. He tells me his name is Ozzie, but it's not his real name, and no I don't need to know what his real name is. Within one whiff of his scent I can tell he's been drinking for several hours and probably doesn't wash much, but he's good looking enough and I can see why Nonny has been flirting with him since Swindon. That was probably about the time the booze kicked in and she stopped being able to smell the lavender / musk / sweat emanating from his every pore.

Not one to be a party pooper, despite knowing Gareth won't be happy, I say alright, he can come back, but he better not nick anything.

Ozzie assures me he won't. Nonny assures me he won't - she tells me she trusts him, which is quite the endorsement from the drunk girl who has known him for one sixth of a day.

Still, she had this cute look in her eyes like she really didn't want the fun to end and I wasn't going to be the one who sent Ozzie off to sleep rough while Nonny was left with nothing more exciting than coming back to the chapel for a cup of herbal tea and a cold sofabed.

Ozzie, Nonny and I arrive back at ours. Gareth seems to be taking it quite well - Ozzie is very charming and makes sure he makes an effort to show us he's not the 'Shit, since that bloke came over I can't find my piano' type, but more the 'Wow, since that bloke came over and did Reiki on me I'm really feeling more connected to my chakra.'

(Note - no, he didn't do Reiki on us. As if I'd let anyone hover their stupid hippy hands over me. But it looked like the kind of thing he'd do. He lived in a van, shat in a ditch and washed in a bucket for god's sake. Every day of his life.)

Ozzie and Nonny get flirty and continue to make their way through the rum they were enjoying on the train, so Gareth and I made our excuses and went to bed. With every single piece of Gareth's camera equipment. We stacked it up in the wardrobe, I had to spoon a tripod. He then wedged a laundry basket under the door handle and put his trusty baseball bat down his pyjama bottoms. Armed and dangerous - Gareth was ready to take Ozzie on, just as soon as he got through our barricaded bedroom door and went for a lens.

The next morning Ozzie left with nothing more than he came with and we all had a jolly good laugh about how worried Gareth was about his very expensive kit. It's easy to laugh when nothing gets stolen.

Later, I went to meet up with some girlfriends and regaled to them the story of my unusual night with nothing but a laundry basket between me and what could have been a killer rapist thief.

Soon, all the girls were offering up their own stories of the strangers they had had back to their houses - back in the day, of course, not recently. We are all ridiculously predictable these days.

I'll leave you with this. My friend Cesca's anecdote beats Ozzie's 'I didn't steal anything' story hands down. Her husband, Mike, he makes a regular appearance here, he's a good bloke. The kind you instantly want to hang about with. And so it was that Mike met some guys in a kebab shop or on the tube or something, I forget the details. Mike, being the generous, trusting man he is, invites these 'legends' back to his for a nightcap. Strangers come back to Mike's house and they all get thoroughly drunk, to the point where everyone passes out.

Hours later, Mike wakes up to a knock on the door. It was the guys he'd been partying with the night before, the strangers he'd invited back to his for a night of fun. The 'legends'.

'Er, we stole your wallet,' said the strangers, handing it back to Mike. 'But we felt really bad about it because we had such fun with you last night, so we brought it back.'

Isn't that just lovely? Criminals, brought to their knees by Mike's banter.

I like to think Ozzie would have stolen our house if we weren't so charming, but I'm not sure I came across as charming when I said: 'Right, we're going to bed. Don't steal anything, I'm a journalist, I'll find out where you live. Night night!'

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Cosmo Blog Awards.

I have some news and it's pretty ruddy terrific. I have been nominated in the lifestyle category of the Cosmo Blog Awards 2012, for this very blog, the one you are reading right now with your beautiful eyes.

It's just about the greatest thing in the world, don't you agree? But rather than just salute myself, say 'thanks for your vote' and move on, I thought I'd tell you a little story about my journey to this moment.

It all started when I discovered Mum's typewriter. I used to churn out a story a day and although I don't know if Mum kept the stacks of paper I piled up, I wouldn't blame her for fueling fires with them. They were, in hindsight, absolute drivel. My mind would wander and wander and my protagonist would not have any kind of disruption to their equilibrium, which needed resolving, possibly with added love interest. (Formula for all good stories. Think about it.)

Instead, my protagonist would just sort of do nothing, but I could write about him or her for pages and pages. Then I'd declare the story finished, shout: 'MUM! I HAVE FINISHED IT!' and chuck it at her. She would then painstakingly read it. (If I was the mother in this scenario, reading it would          otherwise be known as sleeping) and tell me that it was another cracking story.

I grew up, I did, and honed the old story telling craft. Mostly by having the gift of the gab at parties and seeing which stories went down well and which ones bored the bejesus out of my audience. I used to start anecdotes about two years in time before the point of interest, until someone told me to know what was waffle and what was icing.

Then I got a new boyfriend, who I am now marrying. And the reason I am marrying him can be summed up by this: he bought me this here blog. He listened when I told him I liked writing but didn't have an outlet for it. He bought the blog, set me up, and away I went. That's the kind of guy I want to marry.

That was a few years ago now. I kept up the writing, and now, boom shakalaka, Cosmo have noticed my efforts. I am so thrilled that I had to take an afternoon off when I heard the news, just so I could spend four hours doing cartwheels and humping said boyfriend's leg, in an effort to not only show him my appreciation but also try and find a way to burn off all the pent up energy. I'd do much the same cartwheel slash hump regime if I won the lottery. 

Who knows what will happen next. I'll probably win the Cosmo award, be invited to become a columnist, then the people who represent Caitlin Moran will call and ask me to write a book. 'Here's £100,000, upfront, you talented little sausage!' they'll say. Presumably.

Or I'll just carry on beavering away. Either way, the cartwheels have been turned now, the leg has been humped. I'm a very happy blogger.

Please keep reading, and tell your friends to too. And that bloke at the bus stop. And your boss. And feel free to blackmail them into voting for me. I absolutely endorse it.

Please do click the link below to vote for me - you have to enter your email address, then find me on the lifestyle page. I am Kim Willis, by the way. Forever in your debt.

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The King and I.

Ah… the Olympics. What a jolly exciting time.

For those Brits lucky enough to be in the thick of it, it'll be an Olympics to remember forever. For me, it's old hat. It's not my first Olympics, you see. And I'm far less involved in the London Olympics than I was in the Sydney Olympics. While some of you saved lives and built villages on your gap yarrrrs, I pulled some strings and got myself a job at the Sydney Olympics.

My dad's kind of a big deal in the sailing world and he had it organised that I'd be a trolley dolly. I move in high circles when I pull strings. My job involved helping sailors get their boats from the boat park to the water, then putting their boat trolleys back while they went and won medals. I was quite good at it, actually. Trolleys can be difficult to navigate, I'll have you know.

Being in the midst of the Olympian mayhem was unforgettable. And although I was just a humble volunteer trolley dolly, my dad was Mr Big Wig, so I got to be his plus one at all the fancy events.

I've gone with Dad to a lot of fancy events in my time - he's always been single and I've always been willing to be his well behaved daughter, showing off to his friends how articulate and well brought up I am, in return for some free flights to foreign climes. But there's one thing I always request - at these lavish dinner parties, where the average age of attendee is 60, and the average topic of conversation is yachts, knots and political boycotts, I just want to sit next to my dad.

And so it was, as we walked from our hotel to the black tie, invite only, exclusive dinner laid on by the Sydney Olympics, that I reminded Dad about my request. 'Don't forget Dad, I want to sit next to you.'

As Dad is the aforementioned big deal, we were on the top table. I'm fine with that. I'll bosh out my best anecdotes, eat with a knife and fork and won't even lick my plate. I can pretend I'm not feral when needed. But as we approached our designated seats at the top table, some bloke sitting on the opposite side of the table beckoned me over. He didn't even speak, he just pointed at me, pointed at the seat next to him, and immediately people were shuffling out of the way to make room for me next to him.

Well, of course, I had nothing to worry about, Dad and I had our agreement. I looked over at Dad expectantly, ready for him to explain to this man that I already had a seat and it was next to my old man.

Dad just sort of waved me over there dutifully, and then a waiter had my elbow and I was on my way to sitting nowhere near my dad, and instead next to a man who had ordered for me. Not happy.

I sat down in a huff at this black tie dinner, Sydney Olympics. Who was this bloke who thinks he can decide who sits next to him?

In retrospect, Dad might have thought to mention to me that we were going to be sitting with royalty.  

I proceed to make light conversation with the stranger who had demanded my presence.

'I'm Kim,' I say. 'What's your name?' He laughs so hard the table actually shook, as everyone around him sort of laughed along politely in an 'anything you laugh at must be funny, your majesty,' sort of way.

'Don't you know who I am?' he asked.

God, bit arrogant, I thought.

'No,' I say. Because I don't. Not a clue. So far all I've surmised is that he's a bit demanding.

He hands me his accreditation. This being the Olympics, we've all got our ID hanging around our necks.

HM King Constantine.

Hmmm, I think to myself, none the wiser, seeing as I'm thick as two short planks. HM - those must be his initials. I've got initials, he must have some too.

King - a nickname? King Constantine - a double barreled surname?

I hand his ID back to him, the penny a long way from dropping.

'She still doesn't know who I am!' he bellows, banging his fist down on the table in delight. Then the woman to his right leans over. 'You are sitting next to the King of Greece,' she whispers.

Well, that was embarrassing. Thanks for the heads up Dad.

I managed to turn the situation around with a heavy dose of flirting. He loved that I didn't know who he was and I was soon scribbling down his phone number while he made promises about helping me on my gap year. As I was wearing a pocketless dress, I had to hand the King's scribbled down phone number over to my dad. Now that's one scrap of paper I wish I still had.

Embarrassment subsided, King got bored of me and started talking to his right. So I turn to the handsome chap to my left.

'Whoops,' I laughed, pointing to the King with my thumb as I rolled my eyes and shook my head in a 'what's he like, silly King!' sort of way. Not sure if you're allowed to point at kings with your thumbs.

Young handsome man to my left smiles sweetly.

'I'm Kim,' I say. 'What's your name?'

And so began the entire sequence all over again with HM King Constantine's son, the Prince. Well done Kim, well done, a double whammy of social faux pas. I even asked them why, if they're the Royal Family, they don't live in Greece. (Exiled since in 1974. Political minefield. Probably best not to mention it.) I was 18 years old. I didn't read newspapers, I was ignorant and my subscription to the Week didn't commence for another ten years.

So that's my best Olympic story. I have another one about how I snogged a medallist, but I don't think Dad would like me to recount it.

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Diary of a wimpy kid.

My name is Kim and I'm a wet blanket. A wuss. A scaredy cat.

I don't know why. Or when it started. But somewhere along the line, I've become a big girl's blouse.

Let's say that you've just asked me if I want to do a bungee jump. Cue mild sweats, fast thinking ways to avoid the situation, and notes to self never to answer the phone to you again.

Or maybe you've got a really good idea for my hen do - we're going swimming with sharks. (Note to hens - we better not be.) My throat would tighten, a sound night's sleep would be out the window, as would our friendship.

My fear of adrenalin was highlighted this weekend, with a visit to see a girlfriend who is in the RAF and flies fighter jets every day.

This friend, she gets up in the morning, puts on her boiler suit, probably a pair of Aviators, and heads down to the RAF airfield where she pops herself into the cockpit of a killing machine and takes to the skies. One day, she'll go to war.

Now, you might have already painted a picture in your mind of what this friend of mine might be like. Doing one handed press-ups in her own time, eating steak for breakfast. Doing arm wrestles with her co-pilot. Allow me to quash any stereotypes. She has soft, floaty blonde hair. She loves a good pedicure, she wears dresses and drinks white wine. She's planning a wedding, a big white wedding, she has a diamond ring on her finger.

Not exactly Iceman. (Top Gun reference there for the lads.) Yet, Iceman is exactly what she is. A fearless Maverick. While I'm more wouldn't say boo to a Goose. (Top Gun analogy losing its way there lads.) 

'What scares you?' I asked her, wondering if spiders and bungee jumps and roller coasters and caves and heights and sharks give her the willies, as they do me.

'I nearly crashed mid air the other day,' she said, off hand. 'That was a bit scary.'
 
Tough as old boots, this one. And just two generations ago, my own flesh and blood was just as hardcore. Grandma Willis, she flew Spitfires in the war. She was one of the first women to get her RAF wings and paved the way for my friend's career. Meanwhile, her actual descendant, at best, edges towards spiders with a pint glass and a piece of card before running off in the other direction squealing: 'Nevermind, he can move in, we'll move out!'

I never have and never will jump out of a plane. I know people who have. 'I was terrified,' they say. No, you weren't, you can't have been. Not properly terrified, like me, because if you really were terrified, you would have locked yourselves in the loo and refused to come out, (Actually, I'm also afraid of locking myself in the loo. Usually I just prop the door shut with my foot and wee while sort of straddling the space between the door and loo. It makes for a sorry mess but better than running out of oxygen and drinking loo water while awaiting rescue, which is what I presume will happen if I lock the door.)

At best, get me drunk and I'll suddenly turn into Jack Bauer, doing roly polys into hedges and waking up with scratches on my arms. Pretty brave, Jack Bauer. As am I, when I risk life and limb impersonating him. But I'm also drunk. And drunk's no good when you need to fly a plane, or swim with a shark, or get on a roller coaster. Definitely not the last one, you'd sick all over yourself.

When the world ends, people like my RAF friend will be alright. Me? As soon as I run out of contact lenses, I'll be done for. No one is going to care that I can put together a few words in a fancy sentence when they're battling invading alien hoardes and whatnot.

No, it really is time to strap on a pair.

And so, I've taken step one towards ditching the poltroon behaviour. I have just been reconditioned to believe I am not afraid of the ocean. A hippy told me that it was just a childhood fear of a swimming pool cleaning machine (it looked like a shark) and I needed to let go.

Good news - it worked. Just call me Billy Ocean. I have booked in a windsurfing lesson on my upcoming honeymoon, in a bay that used to be called Shark Bay, until they decided it was putting off the tourists and renamed it Kite Bay. And who would be afraid of getting eaten by sharks in Kite Bay? Not I.

(I found a picture of a shark kite. How fitting. I'm even a little bit afraid of it.)

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Cruise Control

Katie Holmes and I have a lot in common. We've both got brown hair, we're both taller than our men in heels. (That's us in heels, not our men in heels.) Both been touched by Scientology.

I was wandering up Oxford Street a few years back. Minding my own business, probably laden down with ill advised purchases that I wore once then gave to charity. I do like to do my bit for charity. Not so good at doing my bit for fashion.

'Would you like to do a personality test?' someone asked me.

'I love personality tests!' I exclaimed, as I was led into a little room and sat down. I was already late for meeting my friend Laurence, but a few minutes wouldn't hurt and I do take every opportunity going to fill out questionnaires about my personality so I can see who I am. I like it when it turns out I'm great.

I no sooner had the pen in hand when Laurence called to see where I was.

'I'm doing a personality test!' I exclaimed.

Quick as a flash, Laurence saved me from a cult.

'You're on Oxford Street aren't you?' he asked. 'It's not a personality test. It's a Scientology test, you dick. Get up and walk away now.'

'But I want to find out who I am,' I stuttered.

'I'll tell you who you are when you meet me in the pub. Do not stay there.'

So I made my excuses and left. Dodged a bullet there, didn't I, Katie Holmes?

Katie wasn't so lucky. She went a bit further down the path. Rumour had it she had a silent birth, as is the expectation on mothers in the Church of Scientology.

I'm not a fan of religions. In my opinion, religions appear to be rather flawed. Scientology in particular takes the biscuit. Any religion that expects mothers to squeeze something the size of a watermelon out of something the size of a lemon in silence is spouting pseudo-science and needs to be questioned.

L. Ron Hubbard. We all know who he is don't we? The science fiction writer who claimed: 'If you want to get rich, start a religion.' (Nice one, Jesus.) L Ron's dead now, which Scientologists believe means he has been reincarnated into one of the other forms he'll take on in his billion year life cycle. I believe that it means he is dead now. 

It's easy to see why Tom Cruise is such a fan of Scientology. He's been given the number two rank at Scientology HQ. The religion adores him, makes him feel like the most important immortal alien trapped in a man's body since time immemorial. I heard that when Scientology has it's annual banquets, the more you pay for your ticket, the closer you get to sit to TOM CRUISE.

Well I fancy. What a privilege. You mean the short guy with the crooked teeth?

I can't afford that. How much do I have to pay to sit near the Saturday Night Fever guy with the penchant for sex with massage therapists?

Crikey I can't afford that either. Ok, let's see. Can I afford a seat near Jason Lee, from My Name Is Earl? Juliette Lewis, the awesome actress cum rock star with a potty mouth? I want to sit near her, she's cool! No Kim, you can't afford that. And what are you doing here anyway? You didn't even complete the first personality test. You went to the pub instead.

I did, it's true. Religion is not for me. Gin is the only spirit I believe in. It's not holy, but it gets the job done.*



*Disclaimer. Will change mind and religion if Ryan Gosling, Channing Tatum or Jessie from Breaking Bad request it. Or all three. Will definitely ditch all rhyme and reason for the trio. Mmm, what a scrumptious Scientology sandwich that would be.

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50 shades

50 shades of this, 50 shades of that… No, I haven't read it. No, I'm not going to. In my blissful state of ignorance, I'm going to write about it instead. Without having any idea what I'm talking about. I jump on enough band wagons as it is (skinny jeans. Ballet pumps. Crush on Channing Tatum. Chai tea. Actually I like to think I started the last one) but this wagon has way too many band members as it is.

I was given Lady Chatterley's Lover for my birthday. It was written in 1928. I'll get around to reading that soon. Then maybe in 84 years I'll see what all the fuss is about with this Grey character.

It's not that I'm averse to c-literature. (Although I am averse to that amalgamation of words. Yuk.) I love porn. I love whatever I can get my grubby mitts on. And I like, separately, reading. I'm reading two books at the moment. Bad Science. (Excellent. Now there's a band wagon I wish everyone would jump on) and the Psychopath Test, which I read aloud to my boyfriend every night, like some kind of warped bedtime story. Sometimes we have the window open and I do wonder if our neighbours can hear my dulcet tones as I soothe my boyfriend into the land of dreams by talking about murderers and sociopathic behaviour.

And I even once read one of these erotic novels that are now topic de jour. Yeah, that's right, I read an erotic novel long before any of you knew your Grey from your riding crop. I had joined a book club and one of the girls suggested we all read The Piano Teacher. Dutifully, I went hunting for this book I had never heard of.

I went to a cute little church-run bookshop in a cute little church-run town with my soon to be mother in law. We were looking through the books when suddenly I stumbled upon the Piano Teacher. LOOK! I said to mother in law, shoving it in her face. IT'S MY READING MATERIAL! What are the chances?!

She sort of looked at me a bit funny and went about her day.

I bought it and took it home to read in time for my next book club meet-up.

From what I recall, The Piano Teacher is about a girl who starts having piano lessons in a sinister university where the teacher whips her (yes, all erotic novels love a good whipping, it seems) when she gets her C Major wrong. Bit of an odd book to suggest at a book club with people you hardly know, I thought. But I persevered. I quite enjoyed it. The girl ended up having to get her kit off to be spanked in front of an array of lecturers who were all there to watch her perform / get whipped. I think that was the plot, I'm a bit hazy now. All I remember was there was a lot of spanking.

It turns out there are two novels called The Piano Teacher. The rest of my book club read a book about 1950s Hong Kong under British rule.

Anyway, I think we all agreed I was the real winner, enjoyed as I had a bit of soft porn.

Christian Grey is described by all the media outlets that are shoving him in my face as a modern-art loving, helicopter flying, rich, powerful man who likes to bonk twice in a row. He sounds like a right knob. I've met men who like modern art. I've met men who own their own helicopters. They were rich, yes, powerful, yes. But also pot bellied, dull and sported receding hairlines. Not exactly the stuff of fantasies.

My fantasy man, who goes by the name of Channing Tatum, is my crush-of-the-month because he took loads of drugs in the excellent 21 Jump Street, then gate-crashed band practise and jumped through a giant symbol, shouting 'Fuck You Miles Davis!'


That's enough for me. Perhaps there is something wrong with my loins. I'm turned on by funny. It does help that Channing, or Channers, can I call him that? is built like a dream boat, of course, but that's what I want. A fit bloke crashing into a drum kit. You can keep your helicopter piloting, chocolate fudge caramel voiced sadist, thanks.

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