New Year’s Eve

After last years slothful effort where we celebrated New Year’s Eve on the sofa with a cup of tea, the Chef and I along with a few friends actually ventured into central London on New Year’s Eve. First stop was Balans, the gayest restaurant in Soho where the waiters served up a decent Thai Curry with flirtatious aplomb.

Comedy Camp was the venue for the rest of the evening. Shazia Mirza delivered her usual risque routine in her deadpan style. Topping and Butch, a tongue-in-cheek leather-clad cabaret act dropped a few clangers with some Madeleine McCann jokes, and Jo Caulfieled was absolutely hilarious as usual with her observational humour.

Once the acts had finished, the chairs were cleared so we could shake out stuff to some cheesy classics until the countdown to midnight. The last time I spent New years in a club was probably 1990 at the Ritzy in Burnley.

I’d tell you some gags but you really had to be there. But do not fear, Comedy Camp is on every Tuesday at Barcode in Soho, so book some tickets yourself at www.comedycamp.co.uk!

Growing Old Disgracefully

My dear dad reached the grand old age of 70 recently. Now what is your image of a 70 year old man? Someone staggering to the post office for his pension before telling you his war stories for the umpteenth time?

Or is it one of a man looking remarkably well preserved with all his own hair, kissing ethnic babes, who are all related to him?

Yes, 70 is the new 60. But there is a darker side to such unruly behaviour. It adds fuel to Gordon Brown’s campaign that 70 isn’t really that old and the next generation (me) is going to have to work till we croak!

So senior citizens, please put away your combat pants, 4x4s and broadband internet connections and please start looking old, for our sake…

Still thirtysomething, thank you

The Chef’s 40th birthday party was a roaring success , with lunch at Frederick’s Islington followed by Pimms and champagne in The Green across the road. The preparations went surprisingly smoothly – I managed to get the “bottle of Rioja” shaped cake from Peckham in one piece; the clever wall chart I had made showing who had been out with who in our social circle didn’t cause any controversy; Even my completely unrehearsed speech seemed OK. The Chef showed his appreciation by getting absolutely trashed – and why not?!

The Chef seems remarkably non-plussed by turning 40 – no sign of him buying a motorbike (well he has a teetotal boyfriend with a MINI) or an affair with a dumb 20 old blond (possibly because I would KILL THEM BOTH!!!!)

No. I think it’s me having the crisis, because during the festivities, I was asked on several occasions “So when’s your 40th then?” which kind of suggests that people think that mine can’t be far away. Am I starting to look that old?! Is it due to the fact that I still haven’t finished the tube of Shisheido facial scrub that my friend Ashton bought me in 2003?

My stock response is that to mark my 40th, Ken Livingstone has kindly arranged a huge party for all of London, and Londoners will be paying £20 in council tax to fund it. There are a few minor sporting events to mark the occasion, but clearly no-one cares about those. So see you there, in 2012.

Note: That’s more than 6 whole years away. Thank you.