Word up Che

Last night, I planned to go to see the Brit romcom/80s nostalgia trip Starter for Ten with a handful of workfriends. What I had not really bargained for was the agreement of new tactile and enthusiastic Argentinian cyberfriend Sebastien to come as well. Like a high profile football transfer, I wanted to keep my cards close to my chest regarding Sebastien, you know keep the papers away to stop other "clubs" expressing interest or out-bidding me at the last minute. Not only that but I hate dates. I just say "yes yes yes" (like the Winston Churchill bulldog in the TV ad) "yes, you are right, oh yes, you are not wrong," drink, look at my watch, drink some more, and slam my mobile on the table in frustration over not getting my emergency phone call to get me out of there. I needed that after the unemployed opera singer from Barnsley. He, however, was happy to come to a group outing, a little too happy when he was there, so much so James thought the never-ending smiles were a result of prozac.Once El Nino swept into town with just three minutes to spare before the film (I considered it rude not to show my frustration with missing the trailers, which I prefer to the films. Mini movies. I can fill in the blanks myself and are often better) Lee's temperature also started wreaking havoc, not helped by 4 layers of clothes in a bitterly cold Islington.

For once, he actually looked like his picture, was full of beans (not literally) and could talk and smile simultaneously. Something I have not managed. Ever. In fact, if I had a nickel for every word he said, I would have a lot of useless coins in the UK. After the film, which has a tremendous soundtrack including Teenage Kicks by the Undertones, not to be confused with Wheatus, which I did, and even the Argentinian didn't. Sorry even Seb didn't. I must personalise him with a name. My poor memory and eyesight must be rectified soon before I become a vegetable. That is a very serious problem. Anyhow, we all proceeded to a local pub called the Crown, where I was, ironically, just weeks before with the Scouser Paul, whom I thought was also pleasant and friendly when I met him there at his local. No panic attack ensued and despite the pressure of a group format and ten beady hetero eyes scrolling over his inches, he performed magnificently, like an enthused and almost extinct seal.

Despite my polite protests, he started a tab on his card, bought a round of drinks, two plates of chips and had the audacity to ask for cigarettes from James. He could only do this once he recovered his wallet, which he left at the cinema and proceeded to dart back at 100 mph to retrieve it. I mean, at that point, I thought "I have heard some excuses in my time, even from the guy, who said he had left his oven on, but this was extremely dramatic". A few pints and plates of chips later, we left the others for an Italian meal (which I now bought) at La Porchetta where I pulled out his printed website profile and read it aloud. Scouring through the pages of information about what he was like, looking for, hoping for, dreaming of, his checkered career and equally checkered love life, like I was checking the Trade Description Act. Since he was a chef, I thought it wise to ask the differences between a head chef, a sous chef, a chef de partie and a commis chef, which is apparently not a communist nutter in the kitchen yelling "no soup for you." Working for BMI long haul, Seb spends a lot of time with his head in the clouds, feet on the ground and with greateful elite business passengers, different from his days as an economist, banker, freelance journalist, all of which were a "lie" as he wanted to be good with his hands. Carpentry or cooking. His heros were Jesus and Jamie Oliver. That leaves me limited options for fun role play so its either the Mary and Joseph film next or a cook book. That's if his mouth is not drowning out air traffic.

If you are still awake and care and are trying to work out if I like him. I do.

Bang Bang Oy Veh

When I googled "Jewish and Gay" several months ago, I expected to see something depressing about Stephen Fry or websites about who is running Hollywood. It was with some surprise that up popped the JGLG website in all its multi-colour glory and I was just in time to express interest in the curiously-named Jewish Gay and Lesbian firework display. Ooooh, I thought as images popped into my head of little rockets wearing kippot racing through the sky with the larger ones going "Oy, look how far my son has gone, I'm over the moon". "Royston, you think your boy is doing well, look at my spinning Catherine, she now wears a sheitel". "You must be thrilled, Sacha".Apprehension aside, I persuaded my sparky friend Alison to cancel her typical Saturday night, which we won't go into here, and attend the packed soiree chez Julian in the brisk West Finchley air.

Greeted by the effervescent president Peggy, who will have edited this and inserted her own adjective, the dutiful fellow-Manc Eric on the door and our hospitable host and pyromaniac, Julian, we were invited to digest so much food, wine and chicken soup for the soul that if there was an early Father Chanukah, he'd have never fitted into his 32 inch pants. Apparently every Jew is 32 inches. I am not sure where we count from. But it's true.

We all ooohed and ahhhed as Julian lit the touchpaper to the fireworks, handed out sparklers and ordered guests off his well-manicured lawn. The scene was a Jewish Battle of the Somme with few drink-related casualties, the most visible to me was the ever-youthful Sheldon spinning Alison around, near the now-anxious and charming Leanne. Look out for them on Strictly Come Dancing. More important than the fireworks was the friendly spirit, which, in my experience of the Jewish scene around the Manchester bars, transcended age, background, experience and the almost unbridgeable North-South divide. Even Stephen Fry might have found something to smile about here.