My night with George Clooney

Well, that got your attention.

Last night I dreamt I slept with George Clooney. We had mad and passionate and unbridled sex. If you’ve never had the chance to get in bed with George I can highly recommend it. If I was scoring, I’d give him a solid eight and a half. He’s that good, though he does pull the sheets right over his side in the middle of the night.

Readers who have been with me from the beginning of this blog will already know that George and I have form. We have history. Fortunately his wife, Amal, was no where to be seen last night. She’s very very understanding, well at least I think she is. If she ever discovers this blog she’ll probably sue my sorry backside through the international courts in The Hague during her lunch break – whilst simultaneously wearing a terrific dress and flashing those amazing legs of hers. I obviously can’t compete. But enough about her, back to me and her husband.

In the dream, right after the sex, George made me a hot and steamy cheese fondue. Apparently he’s a big brie fan. Who’d have guessed? He had one of those pointy dipping sticks with a crunchy crouton on the end of it which he’d thoughtfully drop onto the end of my tongue every so often. He’s most attentive. He might hog the blankets in the middle of the night but he’s very generous with his croutons, I can tell you.

The reason I’m updating you with the details of this fascinating story is because when I came down to the cafe kitchen earlier for breakfast I discovered Guido drawing up the menu for tonight’s dinner service. And would you believe this? Slap bang right between the cod and the rib-eye was an optional Cheese Fondue for two to share. If you can get here tonight it’s a bargain at £10.

“Gosh,” I said crunching some granola, “that’s a funny co-incidence because last night, right after I had mad and passionate and unbridled sex with George Clooney, he cooked me a cheese fondue.”

“Really?” said Guido, I could tell he was impressed, “how’d his taste?”

“Oh the absolute best,” I said, “yours’ll take some beating. His was so light and creamy and tastey.” I couldn’t help it, I momentarily paused whilst I recalled his thick muscular hairy arms dunking. “What you planning to use for dipping?”

“A toasted crusty cob,” said Guido. I strangely felt myself involuntarily raise an eyebrow. “You got a problem with that?”

“Hmm,” I said, “All I’m saying is that George has a preference for croutons.”

There was an awkward silence.

“Well if the two of you happen to fit in sex again tonight, perhaps you could try using a baguette instead.” He looked back at his menu. “Let me know how that goes down.”

On reflection I’m not really sure telling Guido about my dreams of extra marital  sex was one of my better ideas. Even if it did involve cheese. But don’t worry, I think our wedding is still on – at least I hope it is because I’ve been spending a lot of spare time researching pavlovas.

I seriously do doubt that neither George nor Amal will make it onto our guest list. But if George insists on popping up during our honeymoon for a quick one, trust me, I’ll be keeping it to myself.

Hot air

I’ve been reading about a tiny village in the rugged mountains of Italy which sounds just like Utopia to me. All anyone ever seems to eat there is a meagre amount of cheese and ciabatta crumbs and chew on scraps of oily fish. They’re all as fit as fiddles, despite dragging on packet after packet of cigarettes and stoically glugging a vat of red wine every day. Statistically they can expect to live to a hundred and ninety years old but guaranteed to still have zero cholesterol. I’d happily herd goats there.

“It’s their diet,” I said to Guido. “In this country…,” I said shovelling in another slab of Guido’s heart attack inducing bread and butter pudding, “nobody takes pride in their bodies anymore. Oh, pass that jug of hot custard, would you?”

One of the problems (if indeed it is a problem) of being in a relationship with a partner who looks like a cross between a German Olympic javelin thrower and that shirtless hunk from the 11 O’clock Diet-Coke Break commercial is that you are constantly put to shame on the body image front. That’s why readers, starting from tomorrow, I’ll be commencing a strict de-tox diet which will only involve eating copious amounts of boiled cabbage.

“Are you sure you’ve thought this one through?” asked Guido. I could hear the scepticism crackling in his voice. “Because you don’t actually like any vegetables, unless they’ve been deep fried.”

Nevertheless I’m feeling pretty confident about the double whammy effect this green leaf diet will have as I can now reveal I’ve also been going to the Bermondsey Community Hall Thursday night aerobic class. Well, when I say “I’ve also been going” what I really mean is, I’ve been once. It’s run by a very energetic sports coach called Stanislavsky, though he exclusively lets me call him Stan for short. He’s from Hungary and although I can bearly understand a word he says I have to tell you he has the best thighs I’ve seen this side of Budapest. He’s also a strict vegetarian and, although we met just last night for the first time, I think he may have confessed that his secret regime involves a raw zucchini first thing every morning.

Well when Stan got everybody running on the spot let me tell you something strange started happening. All I could hear was a strange and incessant rat tat tat noise. It was like the faint sound of distant gun fire. Initially I thought I’d something stuck to the sole of my shoe. It was only when I got closer to watch Stan give detailed instruction on how to jump and then squat safely I realised that the sound was actually eminating from between his butt cheeks. Every excited lunge Stan took had the added and highly audible sound of an alarming gas leak. I can only think the root cause must be the internal spontaneous combustion of all those vegetables he’s been swallowing.

Rest assured I’ll obviously be monitoring my own body’s reaction to it’s de-tox. If it requires eating something sweet and sticky and stodgy in order to counter act any adverse reactions, I know just where to find it. And it’s not in the Italian hills.

Crimes against ice-cream

This week in London something unexpected happened.  The sun started shining. The temperature hit 76 degrees. Unpacking my beachwear was absolutely out of the question until I rushed to do what any other self-respecting, utterly vain, and VERY white gay guy like me would do. I got a spray on tan.

Now, I’ve no problem whatsoever having skin a fluorescent tangerine shade but I definitely think I’ve got Guido worried about our wedding photographs. But I’m so grateful he doesn’t care at all about his own skin tone because when the outside temperature soared it triggered one of his astonishing money making brainstorms.  Selling homemade ice-cream out of the café window.

I’m very open minded – but when it comes to ice-cream I’ll admit I’m totally vanilla. Of course I’d do everything to help sales, especially if it involves eating, so happily agreed to blind test Guido’s new recipes.

You won’t be in the least surprised to hear that we did that in bed last night. And it got Guido noticeably excited under the sheets with his wet scoop and a black satin blindfold. If you catch my drift.

“Tell me honestly what you think,” he asked as I stretched open as wide as I possibly could before snapping my lips shut.

“Hmm…,” I said, “this tastes remarkably like one of your smelly old socks,” I said, because frankly it did.

I lifted the blindfold just to make sure I wasn’t actually sucking on a damp one. Apparently this particular recipe was Wild Garlic and Honey flavour so that gives you an idea what the content of our laundry basket stinks of if you’re ever in the unfortunate position to have to lift up the lid. So you have been warned. I put the blindfold back on feeling strangely relieved. I had high hopes for the next mouthful.

“What do you think?” Guido paused tentatively as I took a big lick.

Avocado and Sour Cream flavour tasted just like avocado and sour cream but Curry with Mango flavour tasted of bleach in my opinion. Tequila flavour I could tell straight off. It was totally intoxicating. But I absolutely can’t begin to describe to you what Brown Bread and Orange flavour was like. I obviously had to take a peek. Bizarrely it was exactly the same colour as my new skin.

“Ok,” said Guido, breathing a heavy sigh of relief, “that’s the tasting over but can I say I’m getting pretty hot and turned on staring at your naked and helpless body wearing a blindfold.”

I felt what I could only assume was a spare spoon proding me through his tartan shorts.

“I have a suggestion,” he said, “why don’t I keep you blindfolded whilst I feed you the rest of this tub of Tequila flavour and just see what develops on the sensation front?”

I’ve done something similar before in bed with Guido though on that particular occasion it involved the two of us and a lobster. I have to tell you it certainly was an interesting way to pass an hour or two, so if you’ve got the time and the inclination I can certainly recommend doing it with a sorbet.

Just so you’re aware. Apparently Fake Tan flavour sales are outstripping Smelly Old Socks two to one. I’m not at all surprised; they’re a funny lot in Bermondsey.

If I’m honest I’m just really disappointed this stuff hasn’t made the customers change colour yet.