What do you call a gay cougar? A PANTHER!

I’m not exactly a spring chicken. I often joke that I am a middle-aged queen and refer to myself as ‘a man of a certain age’. To be specific, I’m 39 and now only a matter of months away from the big 4-0. I can not wait for this massive celebration and as a general rule I don’t think I have a problem with growing old (Botox helps!).

I think this is because I don’t think or feel like a 40 year old. I’ve always struggled with ‘maturity’, it doesn’t sit well with me. I behave like a child, I socialise like a teenager and I date like I’m in my early 20’s. Now this has become even more apparent in the last few months when I’ve got myself back on the singles scene. I spent most of my 30’s in a beautiful relationship and now that this has ended I think I’ve regressed in age.

Leader of the Pack: Demi

I may be 39 but I am back acting like someone a decade younger. And it seems my tastes haven’t evolved in that time either. I’ve caught myself a number of times recently ‘engaging’ with those much younger than me. There was one moment at Daywash on Big Gay Weekend when I found myself all animated in the middle of a circle of 22 year olds. I swear some of them weren’t even shaving yet. What could I possibly have in common with these boys?

You are right, absolutely nothing. 3GreggyD and The Sculptor airlifted me out.

I'd do anything Madonna does

But this has been happening a lot. To the point where it’s started to make me uncomfortable. Then suddenly the penny dropped.

I’ve become a gay cougar!

The term cougar has become a synonymous with modern-day dating and often used to mock. But I completely understand now. It was a lightbulb moment – I am a cougar! But I struggled to see myself in the image of the traditional cougar – I wear pants but no make-up – so I put the call out on Twitter. What do you call a gay cougar? The response was quick, dramatic and unanimous. A gay cougar is a…

…PANTHER!

How fucking cool is that! I’m a Panther and I couldn’t be more proud. I love that there is even a term for it. I should have known the gays would be all over this one. Oh the fun I am going to have now that I can legitimately call myself a Panther. They have sleek black coats, can move incredibly fast and pounce on their unsuspecting prey with stealth like precision. Kudos to me!

Calvin Klein and boyfriend

Before I lose myself in a sea of Panther jokes, I have to admit there is a more philosophical debate to be had around the existence of cougars and panthers. If you had of tried to explain this to me even 6 months ago I wouldn’t have understood, but now after a while doing the pub/bar/Grindr circuit I completely get it.

The dating scene is entirely dominated by the young. And by young I mean under 35. Boys in their 20’s are literally swarming everywhere. You can not buy a vodka, lime & soda or turn on your Grindr without them popping up everywhere like cockroaches. Now this is a brilliant thing if you too are in your 20s, if you are ‘a man of a certain age’ it really does narrow your focus.

Elton John and boyfriend

There just aren’t that many men of my age out and about – on the scene or online. Maybe they are all shacked up by now? Maybe they lost interest in the scene a long time ago? Maybe they have secret places they go to that I don’t know about yet? But I’ve been on a 7 year hiatus so I’m playing catch-up. I’ve got my training wheels on for sure but I’m yet to find a way to meet people that isn’t dominated by the young.

I have no choice but to become a panther!

Without getting all sociological on you arse, I can imagine it would be very similar for the cougars. If you want to meet someone, have some company, have some fun; then your options to mix with people of your own age are very limited. They are all off choosing their new home furnishings or planning couples weekends away. They are having dinner parties with old friends and going to school concerts.

Us panthers and cougars, well, we are out to get some action!

Karl Lagerfield and boyfriend

And the only other people out doing the same are the young. Age does have its advantages for the cougars and the panthers though. We’ve had many more years to fine-tune our wit, charm and intellect for the sole purpose of luring in our prey. They are putty in our hands when they come across our specilaised skill-set. Well, sometimes.

So today I’m all about empowering the panther and the cougar. Now that I understand this social group and recognize that I am part of it, I can completely appreciate and encourage our existence.

Besides, someone needs to be teaching the young how to do things properly.

No reason for this photo, just that its my favourite from the weekend!

Big Gay Weekend!

To the uninitiated, Big Gay Weekend is a fabulous series of parties and events co-ordinated as a fundraiser for the wonderful people at New Mardi Gras. Some of you may remember Sleaze Ball, well that has been replaced by a 3 day extravanganza. The Gays must be increasing in their stamina.

Before I get dirty with the party details I need to address my Manscaping issues I wrote about last week – the contradiction of the full beard needed for one function with the clippered torso required for another. I may have had the beard but it did nothing to help my fit in at gathering of Bears. Clippered my torso for dance party but because of my flabby gut there was no way my singlet was coming off. Note to self: hair is neither here nor nair.

The Sculptor (who purposely does that in photos), 3GreggyD and McDimples

So who are the key player on this Big Gay Weekend? It was a gathering of Twitterati that’s for sure. We had visiting Melbourne Gay Royalty 3GreggyD who as it seems knows more about socializing in Sydney than I do, sad but true. He’s also more connected. He planned our whole weekend god love him. Staying at Man Pit with me (Little Sammy and I make him sleep on the floor) is ex-ex-boyfriend-come-beautiful-friend The Sculptor. The three of us were a posse the whole weekend.

The Sculptor and Little Sammy

Playing very important Special Guest Appearance roles were McDimples, Lucky Paulie and Murdoch. McDimples put in some hard, fast yards over Friday and Saturday night and left me breathless with his flirting abilities. Lucky Paulie had to work over the weekend as he is changing the face of Australian television so he couldn’t misbehave. Murdoch is a new Twitter friend, he came from nowhere on Sunday and BAM! he was all over it!

As you can see from the shot above, 3GreggyD, The Sculptor and McDimples enjoy a certain crowd so they dragged Princess St. Murphy to the Oxford to kickstart BGW. Yep, still don’t fit in! It smells. It’s overcrowded. It’s a fucking nightmare to get a drink. If there hadn’t been porn playing on the TV’s I would’ve wanted to leave much earlier. I didn’t even get felt up and I was wearing my best Japanese-butt jeans. But both my Melbourne visitors knew of another party we could go to – Commando.

Now this had me intrigued as I am sure one of them told me it meant you had to go Commando, as in no underwear. I held high hopes I was gonna be undie-checked at the door cause at least I could interpret that as some action in my lonely head. But alas, we got a bum-steer. No one checked my Kenneth Cole briefs as I handed over my cover charge. Commando that night started two trends that went for the entire weekend – 3GreggyD and The Sculptor know more people in Sydney than I do and gay men do not like wearing shirts. Especially in a 400m radius of a dance floor.

Commando was cool, the music was brilliant. But the best bit was the Ball Pit. It brought out the inner child in us all. Frollicking in the Ball Pit is just like you would imagine, hilarious. That is until I thought I thought I lost my wallet. Luckily my jeans were so tight nothing was coming out of those pockets and it was a false alarm. Phew! How could I rack up more debt if I didn’t have atleast 2 credit cards with me?

Suitably drunk and super-confident we strutted our way up Oxford and hit the Shift. The first gay bar I ever went to was the Shift in 1995. I think some of the same crowd is still there. If ever you want a snapshot of the sheer diversity of the gay community step into the Shift one day. You can say a lot of things about this place but ‘dull’ is not one of them. I love and adore it, but I think maybe for all the wrong reasons.

Something very strange came over McDimples at the Shift – he got his sex-face on! He was like a MAGNET!!! He was being showered with love and affection from someone different every time I turned around. It was some phenomenal flirt-work, the likes you rarely see. Now if he was putting notches in his bedhead….???? Me, I’m still finding my feet. There was one (far too) young boy from Mississippi who I gave a whole new meaning for Mississippi Burning due to my facial hair. Weirdest part of night was towards the end when our Melbourne brothers turned to us and say “We’re going for burgers”. What the…? Is that code for something? Apparently not, they went for burgers. McDimples and I kept drinking, that’s how we role in Syd-er-ney!

Saturday is a blur. 3GreggyD and The Sculptor dragged me out of bed for lunch where we told our war-stories from the night before, quickly organized a dinner for that night and then they put me back to bed. Satyrday night, Una’s for a schnitzel is a life-changing experience. It is my favourite meal in Sydney. It is heaven on a plate with gravy. Although we kept choking on our food cause we had some funny stories to share. Lucky Paulie was finally able to join us and thank god he is as Twitter/Grindr/Scruff obsessed as the rest of us – we love our phones (RIP Steve Jobs!). I hurt from laughing!

McDimples, Lucky Paulie, St. Murphy & 3GreggyD

My beautiful Schnit

Una’s was followed by gay-casual drinks at the Green Park. Everyone was still mocking me for my diarrhea story from dinner. We were now sitting on stools. I can’t help my bowel condition! Had one of those moments when the pendulum could have swung either way – home now or out till lunchtime tomorrow. Commonsense and the return of daylight saving prevailed and we tucked ourselves into bed at a respectable hour. Such good boys, almost angelic.

Sunday was the big one! Daywash.

I love a crowd of any sort, always have. Make it a gay crowd and I’m even happier. Make it a gorgeous gay crowd heaving to the dance-version of Adele with no shirts on and I am in absolute HEAVEN!!!! I hadn’t realized how much I missed dance parties until the moment the first bare, incredibly toned, torso took to the podium. Papa was home!!! It’d been 4 years since I’d been to one and that will not happen again. Just unbelievable fun. Fun fun fun!

3GreggyD and The Sculptor were in brilliant form. Again, they knew more people than I did. At one point I was completely surrounded by boys from Melbourne and Brisbane. It started at noon so no excuse for anyone to have a shirt on (except me of course!). My $2 Thai singlet worked a treat at this quasi-summer event. A prominent Melbourne gayer gave me a corsage of a body-loofer from the overhanging clothes line and I also acquired a hot pink tutu to complete my spectacular dance outfit. And dance we did. Lost count of the amount of times I heard Adele on steroids.

The spunky and hilarious Murdoch was backing up from the night before, left his friends at home on the couch and came and played with us all day. See, Twitter does good things.  We’d become friends online and had only met so briefly only the week before. He is now my dance-party buddy and we’re planning for the next. He’s very tall and can see everything so he was like my own personal telescope.

3GreggyD, The Sculptor and Murdoch

We all moved from room to room doing our best So You Think You Can Dance impressions, we’d wander off and then come back to the group, we socialized with strangers and caught up with old friends. It was truly joyous. I literally loved every second. EVERY GODDAMN SECOND! My little heart sank when it finally ended.

We shuffled our way back across Hyde Park for a much-needed costume change before the after-party, Splash. I forgot to feed Little Sammy which I didn’t realize until lunchtime the next day. But I did remember a Yves Saint Laurent spritz, a new singlet and a fresh pack of B&H. Splash was v. cool but yes, everyone was starting to get a little messy. Perhaps even me. I did think at one point I’d never seen a hotter group of men than the crowd on the dancefloor but that could have been the double-vodka’s talking. And I’m out of training, four years out. So my little meaty thighs were starting to get tired. Positioned myself provocatively on a vast leather couch and chatted and giggled with some old and dear friends.

Oh dear.

Then suddenly the lights came on! Oh dear, warts and all. There was talk of a new venue but for fucks sake I’m 39! I needed to curl up in bed before serious injury/possible heart attack. A quick check of my compact and I looked 105. Yes, time for this tired old queen to punch some Z’s. Waved goodbye to 3GreggyD who still had some fight left in him and stumbled, staggered, pretended to strut my way down the hill (thank god!) to Man Pit. A very hungry Little Sammy needed some cuddles.

But a better weekend is hard to recall! This was one of the great ones!

Had an absolute fucking ball!

Manscaping!

I’m having issues with body hair. In the most part because I am a ‘man of a certain age…’ and there just seems to be more of it. The second reason is that now social occasions determine a certain hair aesthetic, a cultural requirement.

These are the pressure I currently face.

Lets start from the top and work down. I’ll stop at the belt line, cause I don’t want to have to use the term wippa-snipper in this post.

Brows have been important to me since my mid-20’s. This is when I quickly leanrt that a young-gay in Sydney should not have just the one eyebrow. I was mocked endlessly when I first stepped onto Oxford St for my monobrow. Cause I never went to gay-school I did not understand this rule. Me, I’d been cruising through regional NSW as a straight boy and no one had ever mentioned my massive, ear-to-ear-with-no-break-in-the-middle eyebrow.

This is another example, of which there are many, that gay men are held to higher standard than our straight brothers. The second most obvious is the beer gut. Completely appropriate on all straight men, it can even be sexy. The gayers will not stand for that. Its frowned upon. I’ve seen people whisked off for emergency sit-ups at Fitness First before their friends had to cull them.

Anyways, I digress.

I’m sure in the early days of having my eyebrows waxed I could get away with every 3-4 weeks. Slowly over time this became every three weeks. Well this year it is absolutely a maximum of 2 weeks. I feel like I spend more time at ManKind than I do at work. Not that I am complaining, I adore them. Especially my beautiful Ona who has never put a single tweezer wrong in all the time she has been my brow manicurist.

But surely having to go every 2 weeks is excessive! And don’t you dare suggest I should ‘maintain’ myself! If you knew the strength required to pull one of those fuckers you’d know that this is impossible. Ona is the only one who can do it.

Now in my weekly planner it is very clearly marked that Mondays and Thursdays are shaving days. This is primarily because I don’t care what I look like on Wednesdays or weekends. I’ve been shaving since I was in Year 6 and nothing bores me more, and I mean nothing. I’d rather watch repeats of The Nanny than shave.

This is where I get to ‘cultural body hair’. Just in the nick of time yesterday morning before I applied my Clinique shaving cream I remembered tonight! Phew. See tonight I have The Sculptor in town again and we’re going to a gathering of Bears. The Sculptor has taught me that they do not trust or like anyone without facial hair and there is nothing I hate more than being ostracized or getting the dresscode wrong. So I’m full hairy Bear for the night.

But here’s the contradiction. I have a dance party thing, Daywash, to go to on Sunday which will be full of the buff and the beautiful and you can bet your life there will not be a hairy chest amongst them. So while I’m thinking ‘thank god I remembered not to shave’ I’m also thinking ‘Where are the Remingtons, I need to trim down that chest’. There are different hair rules for every occasion.

Not mine, but a Stunt Double

I have to admit I’m not so opposed to clippering my chest though, for two reasons. The first, and most importantly, is that my chest is the only body part so far to sprout some grey hairs. And they look horrific. Only when I’m wearing a low-cut blouse does anyone notice. Chances are I’ll be topless most of the day so I need to trim those fuckers back.

The second is that a clippered body makes you look more defined. Not sure how or why, it just does. You want take off a few kilos than No.1 clipper all over your torso. I’ve been meaning to go to the gym for a few months to be ready for this party but I kept forgetting/sleeping/eating. So now I still have the body of Marshmallow Man so the clippering will at least help a little bit. I’ll be more Sumo than Marshmallow after a once over with the Remington.

So not only am I getting hairier and greyer but there seem to be more rules to follow. What I should just do is become a straight man and not have to worry about any of this shit.

Hahahahaha. It'd be a cold day in hell....

Not good with new people. But Grindr...???

As a general rule I like people. When I am around people I know I have a good time. I’m relaxed.

I’m not good with new people. New people scare me. The running joke at work is that it can be years before I remember your name. It’s the whole polite thing that makes me nervous. I’m not very good at being polite. In fact for a Communications Professional it is an outright miracle I’ve ever been able to hold on to a job at all. Let alone be any good at it.

Around my friends or in the office I am possibly the rudest, crudest man in the world. Familiarity for me breeds offensiveness. My ‘go-to-one-liner’ will always be crass. It’s how I role and 30+ years of conditioning.

But online, with the giant buffer of the computer screen, I am nowhere near as uncomfortable with new people as I am in person. Taking even the briefest moment to compose a (semi) polite response makes a huge difference for me. I’m even sure some people who don’t know me in person could actually think I am quite lovely from what they know of me online.

Which leads me to my problem.

I’m newly single as of earlier this year and slowly but surely I’m putting myself back out there again. I’m jumping on the dating Merry-Go-Round. And having been ‘coupled’ for such a long time it’s a whole new world compared to the last time I was single. Now, everything happens online. And I mean EVERYTHING! Especially for the gayers. Just Grindr alone has completely and dramatically changed dating in the gay community.

An example of a Grindr homepage

For those unaware of Grindr… It’s a GPS-based messaging system for the hummersexuals. It’s an iPhone app (the reason why all gayers have iPhones!) that when you turn it on it tells you how far away other gayers are – within metres. It is truly the greatest invention the world has ever seen. And as it is culturally acceptable within the gay community, everyone is incredibly direct about what they are looking for – chat, dates, relationship, a root, any and all of the above. It’s the envy of all straight men.

You check out their pics, you check out what they are looking for, you check out if you know anyone or have been there before. You then instant message with who ever and as many as you want while you find what you are looking for. Basically it means that you can pick up without leaving the comfort of your own lounge. My theory is that it has made gay men the laziest species in the world. It’s easier for the gayers to find ‘company’ than rabbits.

A Grindr profile

But back to my original story.

So I’m putting myself back out there. Chatting to boys all over the place. Online I am somewhat polite, semi-intelligent, mildly amusing. But as you know, in person I am bordering on being a complete asshole. So I’ve been chatting away for a while now but at some point you have to put your money where your mouth is (or where you want it to be) and actually meet the boys your chatting with.

A Grindr chat

Which, finally, leads me to my dilemma. Who I am in person can be very different to who I am online – especially when flirting with boys. When I actually go on these dates, and with the existing familiarity we’ve developed online, is my opening line going to be “What the fuck have you done with your hair?”. Or “Ohhhh, I see you’ve stacked on some weight!”  

I just don’t know if I can trust myself to be polite with new people. On a date. The thought of being polite throughout a whole meal sends shivers of fear up my spine.

This is all too much for a 39 year old to learn.

I am starting to think that my Grindr profile should come with a warning…

“May seem like someone you’d like to meet now but chances are he’ll be VILE by dessert.”

This ended up much longer than originally anticipated so ‘the actual dates’ will become Part 2 of this post at a later date.

Also, its really important to me that you know I have taken all these pics from the Grindr website and haven't breached the privacy of anyone on Grindr. 

Cause that would just be fucking rude!

There's a Bear in there!

Oh dear. I am a princess after all. I thought being nearly 40, carrying a few extra kg and not shaving as often meant that perhaps I was manning-up in my older age.

No. It does not. I am as big a princess as ever.

My friend The Sculptor has found a community he loves hanging out with, the Bears. They are a community-within-a-community of the Gayers. In a nutshell, and with sweeping generalisation, the Bears have lots of facial and body hair, tend to be large, wear lots of leather and flannel. And drink beer. And they love to party together.

Bears are hairy. Fact.

I’m sure there is much more to it but as I’ve only just dipped my toe in at this time I am far from an expert.

The Sculptor roped me into going to one of the Bears annual dance parties this weekend, I was dead keen at the time. Never really found my clique on the gay scene even after being a professional gayer for so many years. Hardly a Muscle Mary or a Gym-boy, indie/alt inner-West scene is completely foreign, Drag Queens scare me and I am two decades past Twink. I was excited / scared about this party. There ended up being a clash of dates with my little resort holiday with Lady M so had to pull the plug on The Sculptor. SI instead I took baby-steps into the forest full of Bears.

They're recruiting! But do they really want me?

Instead of the big dance party I went to a warm-up Bear gathering on Friday night with The Sculptor. He was up from Melbourne and staying with me at Man pit. He practically dressed me. 90% of my wardrobe was not Bear-attire. What, a low-cut disco top, skinny jeans and a dress boot don’t cut? No.

After about 4 costume changes I’d never looked or felt so butch! I had to take all my jewellery off and use as little hair product as possible, can you imagine? I felt primitive. Then the cruncher – no frangrance. “What, no Chanel??? Are you fucking kidding me?” I would have no friends The Sculptor assured me. I was willing to risk it, I snuck a quick spritz as we walked out the door.

Talk about fish-out-of-water! I had no idea so much facial hair existed. Did I miss a memo? And tight t’shirts filled with either huge muscles or beer guts. Why was everyone so tall? Once you get over the incredibly intimidating look of these gents it was a delightfully friendly crowd. For an aging-wannabe-twink like me this was a whole new world. After 15years on Oxford St I’m still spreading my wings.

The Sculptor is sooooo in his element. I went to a bar with a  similar crowd in Melbourne and one of his friends said to me “he’s this years IT Girl!”. So true, The Sculptor is on Fire. He knew loads of gents. I even had some friends there, but sadly they weren’t wearing leather. Granted, I got very little attention. They could see through my fake wardrobe and probably smell my Chanel, they could tell I wasn’t one of them.

Me and The Sculptor

So at a very respectable hour for me I packed my self off home with only a slight wobble to my step. Smiling. Very glad that I went but even more glad I’m not going to the big dance party. I think that would have been too much for my virginal ways. Dance parties for me are mini-skirts and tassled arm braids, not leather harnesses and chain mail.

Well not yet anyway. But if you see me with a beard and ripped flannel shirt than you know all bets are off. 

One of The Sculptor's sculptures and yes that is a giant penis.

If you want to know more about the work of The Sculptor, head here!

Bangers! Whatcha got for me?

In just over a week I will have landed in Bangers! No better place to spend your 39^th Birthday than Bangkok.

I’m fleeing the city for the big day cause there ain’t much to celebrate at 39. That’s not because I’m unhappy or anything, but with the huge celebration of my 40^th fast approaching, anything this year pales in comparison. I want to save all my party-fever for next year’s extravaganza. Oh its gonna be massive. 4-0 deserves nothing less.

So for this year I’m sneaking off to Bangers for a lazy 6 days of shopping, eating and drinking just to be completely self-indulgent. Have booked into a fabulous hotel, the Lebua Tower Club. You may recognise it from The Hangover 2 cause that’s where it’s set. I am going to be SOOOOO South-East Asian glamorous!

Lebua Sky Bar

But I need your help. I have only ever spent 24 hours in Bangers so I’m not really sure to do with my time there. I need your tips and recommendations. Like I said, I want to be completely self-indulgent, so here are the kind of places I’m looking for…

* Fabulous, gorgeous day spas

* Beautiful restaurants

* Shopping centres that sell everything you could possibly want to buy

* Bars that are crammed full of gorgeous people

* Nightclubs that make me look pretty

Now having said that, there are also things that I am NOT looking for…

* Any act that involves a ping-pong ball

* Any bar where you slip someone money for anything other than a drink

* I do not want to have “now is that a man or a woman?” go through my mind

Flood me with your hot tips and recommendations. I’m up for anything as long as it is a little extravagant or too much fun to handle.

Would love to hear what you think!

Thanks all, appreciate your help.

xoxoxo

I've got nothing today except the shits! Why?

I'm getting pretty organised with this blogging thing now and I've even been known to put some thought and planning into it. I was planning on an insightful, witty piece for today on the weird things about being single but yesterday left me very sad, tense and with the shits. Here are the reasons why...

I spent six and a half hours on the road in yesterday's weather which I think would make anyone anxious. All drivers were so tense you could feel it. It was an open road drive on a freeway and I guarantee you there was not one car speeding. You just felt on edge the whole time. It was so exhausting. 

Then in the final stages I passed by the horrific accident northbound on the F3. You knew immediately that there must have been lives lost. It was an incredibly sad sight, and just so eery. Emergency services were everywhere and they were still working on one of the cars. Heard on the radio moments later they were still trying to rescue passengers. Your heart broke for those involved. One fatality, two rushed to hospital. Devastating. 

As horrific as that accident was, I believe there would have been many more except everyone on the road was being so careful and cautious yesterday. THANK YOU FELLOW DRIVERS! I feel very reassured that when it gets tough most drivers forget about time, rushing and whatever else is going on in their lives and just focus on safety. Prevented many more accidents I'm sure - and saved lives!

The thing that gave me the shits yesterday, and it is incredibly superficial and silly in the grand scheme of things, was that after my dramatic drunken injuries on Saturday night I am a physical mess. Can't believe I'm 38 and still falling over. Not sure which to blame more, the slipping or the intoxication, leaning towards the intoxication. Old enough to know better that’s for goddamn sure!

So now I am limping around with a sore knee and corked thigh with a giant scab on my forehead. I'm going to have to wear a hat to work cause I can't do my hair and no one should have to look at it. Yes, yes it’s a completely superficial wound which will be gone in a few days, but its still gives me the shits I have it at all. But in comparison to other events of yesterday it is ridiculous to even bring it up.

Sadness for the life lost, tense from the driving and shitty at my own stupidity means not the post I'd planned today. 

Sending deepest sympathies to the family and friends of the driver who lost his life. So unbelievably tragic.

Mid-Life Crisis hits early!

You may find what I'm about to say shocking and disturbing.

I’ve got a horrible, horrible feeling that I am in the early stages of a mid-life crisis. I don’t want to prematurely inflame the situation but I really get the sense I am only a few years off the stereotypically tragic midlife crisis with all the clichéd trappings.

Now we’ve all mocked and laughed at celebs who’ve so obviously gone through it, and we’ve whispered and gossiped about our friend’s dads and workmates who go all MLC. I’ve enjoyed this as much as anyone. But now I think I get it, I understand it, and this is not something to be laughed at. It is a deep-seeded, psychological issue that I can’t seem to control.

Classic MLC

Let me take you through a few of the early warning signs that I am currently experiencing…

Now that I’ve grown my hair into a quiff that resembles Andrew McCarthy in the 80’s I am desperate to get some frosted tips! I would just kill for some beautiful honey highlights. Even if it was just through my newly acquired floppy fringe. Now I know that a man of a certain age should never ever get foils, but that doesn’t change the fact that I really, really want to.

Fabio I adore your frosted tips.

I’ve started dancing again! I actually believe I’m a real groover on the dance floor – I’ve got my mojo back. I haven’t danced, like in a nightclub, for years and of late I am literally pushing people off the podium. Just this weekend I was whipping out some of my very best moves. The harsh reality is they look more like a Young Talent Time performance than booty shakin’ the young folk are bustin’ out. I think at one point I even did a grapevine. The moment I do the ‘wave’ I will be kicked out for sure. My MLC has made me think I am a young hip, cool kid who can boogie-woogie.

Disco dancing like its YTT at The Beat

Speaking of going out… I am playing in bars and clubs like I am 19 again. And what I mean by that is that I have been going to bars that serve drinks in plastic cups rather than a gorgeous crystal martini glasses. Their fridges are stacked with Bacardi Breezers and not boutique beers. This is just goddamn inappropriate for a man of my age. And the fundamental difference is that when I was a young fella I used to laugh at the seedy old men standing at the bar with their floppy, frosted tipped fringes  - now I am that man! It kills me to think that now I am being laughed at, especially without even delivering a pithy one-liner.

My next car will be a convertible, I guarantee you that. I have never been a car person, ever! I only just learnt how to put oil in the one I have. But I am completed fixated on having a convertible by my 40^th. And I have no idea why. I just really, really want one. A BMW 1 series, Audi A3 or a Volkswagen Eos (in that order, depending on budget). I reckon I’d even be one of those losers who drives across the Harbour Bridge on an overcast winter’s day with the top down wearing Ferrari aviator shades. You know exactly the man I am talking about. Wonder who will finance me? Is there a fund somewhere for MLC men that I can access???

I love you!

I’m loving my personal trainer. Now I could try and kid myself and say that I am getting up at sparrow’s fart a couple of mornings a week so that I can stay fit and healthy and live a better life. NO WAY!!! This would be a blatant lie. I do it because I am incredibly vain and have a massive ego. I wanna be thin and have muscles, a body that looks good in swimmers and shirtless on a podium (such an MLC thing to say!). I want a body that is more Olympic swimmer than marshmallow man. Progress is slow on this front, primarily because of the aforementioned bar-hopping.

I’ve realised that in my mad frenzy to furnish Man Pit with butch, masculine furniture that I’ve actually gone quite porn star. I’ve got a black leather arm chair at its very heart. Now that would never have been part of my décor before my early on-set MLC. I have lots of heavy dark wood furniture with silver accessories. I also have a giant mirror above my bed. There was a practical reason for this – it’s this huge gold ornate mirror that is too heavy to hang but sits beautiful on the ledge behind my bed. But now I am wondering if it was my subliminal MLC that lead me to placing it there. Man Pit has the strong hint of ‘aging porn star’.

And finally, and this will be no surprise to anyone who knows me, I dress far too young for my age. Skinny jeans with a baggy arse do not work on portly middle-aged men with a saggy arse. Low cut V t’shirts exposing grey chest hair should be binned. Purple accessories, such as shoes and watches, are far to try-hard on a 38yo, especially when worn in combination. Hair bands look good on funky 22yo’s, not semi-professionals. St. Murphy, do not buy clothes from the Zara Youth collection! My MLC is preventing me from realising I can not buy the same clothes I did when I was 24, and that at some stage I need to ‘mature’ my wardrobe.

Hot on him, not so good on me...

Yes, yes, I admit, you’ve caught me on a bad day. While I do not 100% believe it is in fact a mid-life crisis I am going through, I was more than slightly alarmed when I started thinking about this list. It actually started to make me think there is more truth in it than I originally thought. I am on high alert now for further signs. If I start dating a 21 year old or buy tickets to a Short Stack concert you all have permission to slap me. If you see me wearing gold jewellery, especially an earring, or I ask you to come with me to Home Nightclub you can cull me without question.

Let me assure though I will do my very best not to become a clichéd MLC. I want you laughing at my witty story-telling not my frosted tips.

Three Little Nuggets!

I swear my watch just jumped forward six days! If I didn’t know better I'd say I've been cast in a bad sci-fi movie about time travel (I got the role over Eric Bana). Since drinks with Mummy-Bloggers it feels like 6 days got crammed into 24hours. 99% of my life I’m sitting on the couch, eating pizza and wondering why I don’t have a life; then for 1% it’s a crazy, psycho blur. I’ve used up double my year’s quota of activity just in the last week.

But for the sake of my beloved blog I’m trolling out three stories from the last week that ring clear in my head. All for different reasons. St. Murphy has become bizarrely like a diary for me, which was never my intention, I had hoped to be more interesting than that. It appears I’m too self-centred to write about anything but myself (Shock! Horror!.. St. Murphy you’re not self-centred).

Story 1 – Royal Wedding

Hello Boys!

I would never in my wildest dreams have predicted that I would be so transfixed by this fairytale. I fell hook, line and sinker during Ten’s appalling telemovie which had me on the edge of my seat. Then from the moment my beloved Kate stepped out of the hotel I was in tears. No joke! Miss Cal will vouch for me, she was on the couch beside me. We were literally in a trance the whole ceremony. It was truly spectacular and amazingly beautiful. Maybe there is a romantic deep inside me after all.

A-Dorable!

So many highlights! The trees, the music, the dress, David Beckham, my new best-friend Pippa. The 6 priests, the hats, the carriages, the crowds swarming towards Buckingham Palace. It was 5 hours of heaven! The absolute highlight on my little couch was during the national anthem when Miss Call, who is normally super-intelligent, turned to me and said “Why isn’t the Queen singing?” To her credit she realised her error immediately and we were hysterical! SHE IS THE QUEEN, ITS ABOUT HER! My only non-pure, un-romantic thought during the whole thing was about the James Middleton / Prince Harry sandwhich that I am sure is on the menu.

My fav Archbishop cause his eyebrows are bigger than mine!

Story 2 – So grown-up and brave!

Was south of the border in Melbourne on a work trip over the weekend. Had a lovely cocktail party, a gorgeous dinner, then a quick disco nap – as you do on a Saturday night. You know how it is when you are newly single and determined to be a part of everything? I know this will ring bells with some of you. I wanted to go out and dance on a podium waving my arms in the air like I just don’t care! My hurdle – I couldn’t find anyone who would go out with me. Was feeling rather sad and lonely, fat and ugly, who know one wanted to play with – then I had a very Oprah moment and forcibly made myself pretty and went out to the Greyhound... ON MY OWN. So grown-up and brave.

Reno'd Greyhound. It did fill up. (haha file pic)

Now I can’t remember doing this since 1996 when I first moved to Sydney. Difference then was I was young, thin, had big gorgeous hair and didn’t get tired if I lifted my arms above my shoulders. I distinctly remember I had no problem making friends. Oh how times have changed. I spent nearly all night standing sadly in a corner sucking on double-vodka’s and B&H Fine. I forgot the key element of going out on your own – you have to be prepared to approach and start conversation. And no way am I doing that! As I’ve been saying for years, I’m not good with new people. Too old to make new friends. Luckily I had the young-gay-Melbourne’s obsession with hair-product to keep me entertained. So much hair-product it was both hilarious and disturbing. Please note boys; if you are not a model do not get a model-like haircut, and if it takes more than 3 minutes to do you hair than the cut is not working for you. Thank god I am now back in Sydney where I do not have to go out by myself and the gays respect their hair.

Story 3 – Hang-over cure fail.

Had a work party on Sunday night which is my ABSOLUTE FAVOURITE night of the year. It is the one and only night of the year I wear a tie – even bought a new one. Now you may have heard me brag here before that over the years I have mastered the hang-over cure. Being interstate I didn’t have all the ingredients so I woke up (late) on Monday with one of the most debilitating hang-overs ever. Speaking was a huge issue, brain-function was the equivalent of an NRL forward. I stumbled into work looking like the grim-reaper. I don’t even think my shoes and belt were the same colour leather.

New tie - so proud!

To cut to the chase on tedious tale, I am writing this to extend my sincere thanks to Qantas. More specifically, Qantas Club! I bailed for the airport early after even the polite receptionist said I looked like shit and then slept in the cab the whole way. Qantas couldn’t bring my flight forward – damn to hell that discount ticket – so I turned a lounge at QC into a make-believe bed, curled up cuddling what was left of my dignity, and slept for over an hour! Doesn’t matter what you pay for QC cause there is always one day a year you would give your life for a membership. Monday was that day. Thank you also to the check-in guy (who earlier I despised) who had the good sense to keep the seat beside me free on the plane. My breath was horrific and there would have been complaints. Moral to the story, I want to have my 40th at Qantas Club.

My beloved Qantas Club

So just three little nuggets (tried for gold, more likely shit) that in a nutshell sum up the last 6 days. The emotional highs of the Royal Wedding  and Sunday night down to the crassness of passing out in Qantas Club. Talk about highs and lows – I’m practically Lindsay Lohan.