Sober up

Beth and I went for lunch with the boys yesterday in celebration of GBBF (gay boy best friend) Richard's birthday.

We went to Roast in Borough Market where we dined on potted salt beef, scotch eggs, oysters, guinea fowl, partridge, pork belly, Goosnargh chicken, potatoes cooked in beef dripping, kale with garlic, spinach with pine nuts, English cheeses, damson Queen of puddings, chocolate banoffee pudding, apple and blackberry crumble, whisky and gin cocktails, champagne, English sparkling wine, bottles of Bordeaux, Sauternes, maraschino liqueur, port and sloe gin. It was seriously decadent!

Being an intelligent bunch - consisting of a psychiatrist, an operations manager, a lawyer, a journalist and a government policy adviser - the conversation flowed with the wine and led on to discussions about the X Factor, licking dogs, spotting the fellow gays in the restaurant, how St Paul's Cathedral looks like a big breast (we could see it from our table), how one of our set of parents are currently hob-nobbing with the lesbian sex shop owners down their local golf club, Dynasty, Dollywood, Lip Service, our individual voting records (why do I have so many friends who vote Tory when I am a die hard Labourite?), the Spending Review, siblings, the benefits of Valium on a flight, men visiting the club buffet after coming out of the dark room at XXL (urrrgh!), school days, how drinks and mixers are so much better served in the US (always crushed ice, never cubed), Oxford vs Cambridge university and can men and women ever really be friends, a la When Harry met Sally.

The answer to that last question is yes, if both the male and female in question are gay. Both Beth and I have GBBFs as do many of our Sapphic sisters. You see, in this situation the GBBFs don't need to deal with all that unrequited love which often occurs with fag hags and us gay girls don't have to deal with our heterosexual male 'dikey likeys' having secret lascivious thoughts about us. It can really fuck up a friendship if you subsequently find out that someone is harbouring romantic feelings and has some misguided belief that you would reciprocate and change sexuality if they just tried it on. It doesn't work like that, being gay is not a choice!

After lunch and two drinks in a pub by the Millennium Bridge, the lightweight boys went home, whilst Beth and I carried on down to the Retro Bar for a chaser and then on to the vigil against hate crime in Trafalgar Square. We heard the inspiring Stuart Milk speak (nephew of Harvey) and cried when they read out the names of LGBT people who have died as the result of hate crime in the past ten years. A sobering end to a not so sober day.

A good roasting

That's what some of the contestants on X Factor could have done with Saturday night - a good roasting. Preferably over a large open fire in the ITV studios. And throw in Louis Walsh and Dermot O'Leary for good measure. Roast leprechaun anyone?

Speaking of roasts, I have one in the oven right now. A rolled leg of lamb stuffed with capers, garlic and anchovies. I'm really looking forward to it. Certainly given that I have a minging hangover, caused by Cava, which only roasted meat and ample carbs will be able to penetrate.

Anyway, back to the show. Last night's programme put me in mind of a Pontin's holiday camp talent contest (Butlins would have been too good). Or at least a very poor year at Eurovision. Let's recap on some of the low lights:

• A rapping skeleton from with eyelashes nicked off some ropey drag queen attempting to convince us that Worcestershire is a hotbed of raw urban talent. Move over Brixton, the 'Malvern Massive' is where it's at.
• The reincarnation of Margarita Pracatan, but now she is a scary beardy weirdy bongo player from Brazil trying to channel Barry Gibb.
• Diva Fever - who might as well have just waved a massive rainbow flag on the stage for two minutes. It would have been more entertaining.They're gay you know.
• Storm Lee and his amazing troupe of dancing gimps

I could go on, the material was endless, not least Cheryl Cole's increasingly radioactive hue and the fact that every male contestant seems to have their level of campness cranked up to high octane (a shot of tequila for every time the term 'diva' is used next week...I will be rat arsed by the end). But I shall save myself for subsequent shows.