Whilst Barack Obama is getting slated for trying to help 46 million poor people get health insurance, over here in Fairfield Hospital, Bury, my mother is trying to get my dad out of public healthcare where he has attracted infections, fractures and MRSA and into something approaching promising healthcare. His latest fall, which has seen him fracture his lower back and need a brace, has set him back on a road to recovery that seems ever longer. After finally getting him in a Jewish care home, where the food is better but the guilt is as high as the prices, she called before to see how he was doing. The phone lines were down. Both her and a friend called their other halves there and no reply. The place could have burned to the ground or he could have been airlifted to help out in Afghanistan with his electric wheelchair. Alas, mother was rerouted to BT, probably an Indian call centre, where the lady said “They have ceased to exist”, perhaps not the correct english but certainly not even accurate. It’s a care home in North Manchester, which has been going 111 years and the prices they charge, they won’t close business if there is a nuclear attack on old Blighty by US Republicans. Finally, the truth emerged. There was a fault on the line. I don’t want public healthcare. I don’t want private healthcare. I just want to go in a box when I feel woosy, it will be easier. Maybe my mum can bring it up with Princess Anne on Friday when the royal arrives at the Carers Centre in Bury precinct to say hello, here’s a cheque, see ya. All the pensioners have been practicing their courtseys. My mother is just going to go to Avril’s for her hair at 1

As posters and early “Life of Brian” memorabilia adorned the walls, the first key “event” was the smuggling of Andy into the Big Brother house, Brian’s own big brother, a surprise guest from Milwaukee, one he had not seen for two years. Brian was told Rachel had disappeared to the supermarket under the pretext of forgetting to get limes for Gin and Tonic whilst in reality she was sitting in an airport waiting, waiting and waiting for Andy’s arrival, just a few minutes apart from that of Dylan and Brian. Once at the house, Dylan sent Brian to the bar to get him a G&T and his brother just emerged like a jack-in-the-box to a chorus of cheers from us and tears from little brother, who stood there perplexed and in total shock. I was in shock too. We still had no limes and lemons are not the same. Over the next few days, though, lemons turned into lemonade in the baking sun, temperatures rarely dropping below 27. Little by little, following Andy’s example, new housemates were introduced into the house to stir things up and provide the entertainment. No-one regretted a thing as Jean-Michel arrived to bellow out Edith Piaf’s famous song, his boyfriend Andreas, who, apparently could get lost in a paper bag, took four hours to get there. Buxom party animal Anna showed up with a friend in toe, Larisse, who had signed herself off work sick with a bad back the same morning she arrived and then spent as much time as possible avoiding the possiblity of a return-to-work tan. She could have used Andreas’ thick factor 60 suncream. Scientists are thinking of smearing it on cracks in the ozone layer. The three went into the sea by the gay beach in town, which contained a thousand clones, all wearing differing shades but same size Abercrombie tops and Aussiebum bottoms. Same size equals tight. One does not need to breathe. Apparently, it’s overrated. When Anna emerged from the sea in the style of Ursula Andress, outdone by a hoard of gay men, practicing the same move, her mascara had run. Dylan told her it was fine. She looked like a Chinese panda. As we necked seafood and Sangria at Santa Maria restaurant, back at the ranch, the booze was also going down as often as Rachel into the pool. Justin and Jo argued, made up and argued some more. Helen, an inspiration in her own right, who had been fiddling with her boobs and tubes, had her kidneys seen to by Spanish doctors n the Hospital del Mar, Sandra belted out the classic “Leave Brian alone”, we all knocked out Tainted Love and obviously happy birthday as a Tiramisu cake was wheeled out during a birthday barbecue. Further treats lay in store as Bonnie wrote and performed a song to Brian to the tune of “I will survive” with adorable girlfriend and actress Valerie excelling as a backing singer as she had as a drug-dealing ho. Bonnie was far more coordinated at this task compared with the first time I met her at a barbecue when she sprayed my trousers with tomato ketchup. Wrong sausage, love. Crouched beneath the bar, and with one foot in a bag of shit, I also helped Dylan to put on an X-rated puppet show of the owl and the bear, which involved a sexual act, that did not please the stuffed and moulting bear. That’s best left alone.

With little news filtering in from the outside world, we relaxed by the pool, learned of the reasons why Brian just cannot see fat people (having had his nose broken and mullet yanked by a fat person in the 80s), why he hates being part-Belgian (they are dull and have no point) and his utter contempt for the talentless Posh Spice and Jade Goody (enough said, I can’t blame him there.) Unlike the persistent Miss Goody, Lee was the first to go/ be evicted from the Big Brother house. You are live on Channel Four, please do not swear. Fck that. Davina the taxi is coming to get you. You have thirty seconds to say your goodbyes. Possibly after that nice break, though, a few Hellos are a little more more likely. Now if you’ll excuse me, for 15K, Heat want me. Well, heat has had me and sunkissed, I got back to London 14 hours ago.

My much-needed week break in Barcelona got off to a flying start, albeit eventually. Escaping grey colours and shadowy relationships, I was in generally good spirits at Luton Airport as a Polish toddler had kept me entertained me by running away from his mother every time she tried to sit and have a coffee. I often feel like that. I used to scream when she left the room. Now only when she enters. He got the better of her for an hour! I did not even mind too much when the X-ray security team spilt all my loose change on the floor and as I bent to pick it up, my belt-less trousers almost came down. Then, the blood started creeping down the wall. My mother called whilst I was buying a toothbrush to tell me that “Andrew was not well again, Keith and Linda could not make it up after all because of his diabetes and Elana has had trouble breastfeeding and that Ilan Aarons, a friend from Scouts 20 years ago, was now living in Germany and that I should not get robbed”. Then the cracks in the walls. BAD Time. Budget Airline Delays. Ours was at least not an unoriginal excuse. The pilot picking us up had hit a bird. Presumably, this was not an aggressive attack on his wife but a winged creature, who was betrayed by his sat nav and flew straight into a fireball. Once respects were paid at his immediate cremation, we were allowed on board, where I was subjected to two women chatting about Kylie’s fears of turning 40 and a “shall I dump him or marry him dilemma?” I told her at the end to finish it, though I did not say for his sake. We all need to stop analysing and start living. Already irritated, people decided to clap wildly at the end of the flight, in appreciation of a murderous pilot, who had carried out a job he is not expected to fail in and belatedly. You’d think we had just defeated the Luftwaffe. God, I hate audience participation.After arriving in Girona, I jumped on a bus, arriving just after 1, at my hostel, which was still under construction. Although I did eventually fall asleep in my nice private room for 12, it dawned on me that my hostelling days were probably behind me. A lack of air conditioning, snoring strangers, broken computers, lifts that don´t listen and a check out policy even for people staying all combined to slowly drive me nuts. The city itself, you cannot fault. It was a little confusing at first as the main streets weaved in and out of each other, surprising for an urban grid system planned by the Romans. But then they always had it in for suffering Jewish martyrs. Cafes con leche, estrella beers and walks down the Rambla, where chickens, rabbits and birds went stir crazy in cages, conmen tried to rip off gullible tourists and Native Americans play panpipes for money in front of designer shops few have the pesetas for. I also observed how much better the Spanish seemed to take better care of their health, diet and appearance than the English and North Americans. Generally speaking. That said, I do feel that in the humour stakes, the English are light years ahead.

The bank holiday weekend has passed and the parental visit is over. For another year. At least. Next time, may stick them on the train to France and dare them to get home. When I saw them approach my flat, as I scurried around with a hoover, throwing a copy of Boyz magazine into any drawer I could find, I could hear the Omen music in my head. When that film came out, she checked my head to see if it had 666 etched on it. Now it’s just 999, a desperate cry help but from me.

We had dinner at my brother’s flat up the road in Hendon on Friday where nothing much happened other than that she did not like the tomato soup he prepared, she spent most of the main course on the phone to 93 year-old Uncle Geoffrey in Blackpool, who had had a fall and spent most of the night in his hallway before the inappropriately-named home help arrived. As a result, her main course of chicken went cold and she does not like parsnips so she dumped them on my plate whilst my brother was in the kitchen. My dad said nothing and ate.

After dinner, we were filled in on all the events in Manchester with a posse of people in my parents’ lives, the only one I can recall was my dad and his friend Louis’ desperate trip to the loo in Southport where they entered a house filled with very friendly women. There was not much noise, no sky sports and little sex. It was a convent and just like home, apparently.

Saturday, my brother needed a rest. My mother’s negativity had worn him down so he stayed in to watch the football whilst I took them on the bus to the Strand from Golders Green. “What do I do with the tickets?” was one of the more advanced questions posed before my heavy Dad nearly toppled onto my mother as the bus pulled out. I sat at the back. After a baguette experience in Baguette Du Monde opposite the Savoy Theatre (we were to see Fiddler on the Roof there) my Dad decided he wanted to go to the toilet. He used his little walker amazingly to wheel himself into London’s most prestigious hotel after which we headed in to see an amazing Fiddler on the Roof. They laughed here.

Avoiding west London because of the Notting Hill carnival, the following day began with a trek to Greenwich on the boat from Embankment. My brother was grumpy before we even left. Apparently my dad had been up three times in the night to go to the loo, which he could not find. In a smallish apartment. We boarded, sat them at the front, sat us at the back, got off to take the lift up Hungerford Bridge, walked across the bridge to find that the lift down was not working that day. More than 40 steps awaited and 20,000 people were ascending. I refused to panic and alerted him to stay on the right, and directed them to the left. We made it. We then disected a further 100,000 people queuing for London’s most visited hotspot – the London Eye. Before we could take the boat from there, my Dad needed the toilet again so we made the 230pm boat with 2 minutes to spare. Craving independence, my Dad wanted to sit on the top deck of the boat in the sun, which he did, bounding up the stairs and listening to the guide whilst my mother ate a peach and looked at the overpriced riverside apartments. My stubborn brother had uttered 5 words since we left. At Greenwich, we descended and made our way through more crowds to the market. On one particular pedestrian crossing, we were half way across when the lights changed. One van driver yelled at my mother for walking slowly to which she replied “Can’t you see he’s disabled?” to the van driver. There is nothing wrong with her mouth. He rather logically said he could see that but did not know why she was walking slowly. She told him to piss off. He called her a slag. My brother told him to f off. My dad laughed. I stood there in useless disbelief. In spite of my list of reasons why people do not get involved any more in London situations, she threatened to deck him if he got out and started. She is 58 and five foot two. He was 6 foot 3 at least. Then again, she is from Liverpool. Too close to call. We left Greenwich intact, had a schwarma take away at mine and then my brother took them away. I called him in the morning to see if there were still three people in his house. There were. We parted. They had a great time. We had a great time. That wasn’t it, though. Well, maybe a bit.

“Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light.” I am surprised to be able to see at all after being awake for 15 hours, three movies and much of the 4,000 miles between London and Detroit. Still, awaiting me was not so much a star spangled banner but a rainbow coloured one in Miami Beach, my final destination, where I arrived with a dried out plane face and a bag of salty pretzels at midnight, the one day after the Superbowl rocked into town.

I had spent much of the flight concerned by the green shades over Florida on the US weather map whilst the rest of the mainland was merely aqua blue. The tornado, which had battered the northern part, had subsided. What was this development? In addition to hurricanes, I came to Miami to get away from emotional ones, also for my birthday, my 33rd, almost one third of a century (for which I bought some blue gel for my mid-life crisis) and to see my Orlando-born friend Christina, who used to grace these grey shores with her presence before returning to the land of sun, palm trees and old men on skateboards clinging on to their youth, and in South Beach, quite literally. Immigration in Motown did not believe me that “visiting my friend” was my reason for coming. He suspected I wanted to stay. He asked if this friend was female and if I planned to change my marital status whilst in the United States. Was he working undercover for my mother? I did not think a one week visit would be enough for THAT?! Can I get to know them first? I should have told him I was here to be the next American Idol but his protruding eyes deterred me.

I will skip daily accounts of what happened as it is merely the freedom, the anonymity and the feel of the sun on my shoulders that I love but there were definitely things I remember.
The Clay Hotel where I stayed found itself buried in the heart of Washington Avenue and Espaniola Way in the Art Deco patch, which stretched far and wide. Even the skyline was dotted with banks, skyscrapers and apartment blocks in the traditional pastel and symetrical style. I shared a room with three others. A terribly dull Canadian from Ottawa, Oliver a young Belgian bartender from Pittsburgh or somewhere with a P and Sylvio, an only-Italian speaking sextagenarian, who had run every country’s marathon for 40 years. With a lot of shoulder shrugging, broken Spanish and scribbling, I actually managed to get to know him quite well as did Oliver, who saw his temper first hand when he was thrown from the top bunk at 2am by Sylvio for making too much noise. I tried to sleep through it. After Oliver moved out, Dublin Dave moved in. Gaydar told me he was gay. The number of briefs he had bought, the toiletry products and the Abercrombie shirt were hints. He gave me a two-minute potted history about why the Irish hate the Brits as we stuffed ourselves with pancakes on the lively and expensive Lincoln Road.

My accommodation was not far from there and 2 blocks from Ocean Drive, the scene of many a movie including Birdcage, and just in front of the adjacent South Beach. As rainbow flags flapped in a gay breeze, this was a relaxed place but not for the faint-hearted. It is Pec Valley, Land of the Bicep, Zip Code.. well unnecessary. Everyone there, man and woman, black or write, young and old, is toned and oiled to within an inch of their lives. It took me half an hour to take my jacket off on the beach. I would have gone into the sea with a puffer jacket on if I had had one with me. They do push ups, press ups, sit ups, chin ups, jump ups. I can barely get up. They are bronzed chocolate brown to perfection. I am cherry red and making my mosquito bites bigger. They are sprawled out. I am sat cross legged in my socks, hiding my blisters. They are in long shorts, regular shorts, short shorts and what-is-the-point-of-those-shorts. I am in a track suit. That is a lie… it was a shell suit with air conditioning. It was refreshing to see an older gentleman go by on a skateboard and a well-fed lady perched precariously on what looked like a kids’ bike. That gave em two fingers. I sat there listening to my CDs next to a couple of angry African American lesbians and a topless straight couple, the woman was buying a thong from an older lady, who really should not have been wearing one. I stayed off spaghetti the rest of the week.

Though enjoying the sun, I was unable to stand more than one day on such a beach and so made a few local trips. I went on a tour of the city, which included a boat trip around Biscayne Bay, where there were miniature islands housed with real celebrities. “John Travolta owned the 24-bedroom brown mansion with the removeable roof over there (yes, in the 1980s) and Gloria Estefan parked her Miami Sound Machine here”. J-Lo had to sell hers when ex P Diddy moved to the same island. B*stard. The Jewish museum, the art deco and the fancy hotels and bars were all impressive, especially for a city in danger of a good beating from the elements between July and November.

At the terribly tourist Gator Park, gateway to the Everglades, I jumped on a boat with a bunch of foreigners and headed into alligator waters. Accustomed to big creatures snapping at me back in Manchester, I was not that afraid here. As it happens, alligators are supposed to have brains the size of a peanut,which is why they have everything they need resting on the water’s surface – eyes, nose and ears – because they are basically the animal kingdom’s retards. “They won’t eat you” came the cry from the tattooed trailer park trash, who drove our boat. “Crocodiles, like Bush, will hunt you down and smoke you out, these guys would just drag you under and drown you,” she continued reassuringly. Equally as reassuring was the Steve Irwin character, who put on a wildlife show for all of us in front of the bleachers next door. Whilst lifting up a skunk and explaining the dangers of skunk spray, he squeezed a hidden bottle of water into the crowd of Italian girls, who duly wet themselves. I and this Australian did too, for different reasons.

Struggling to get the Beach Boys’ Kokomo out of my head, I set off on my penultimate day, at the crack of dawn, for a five-hour bus ride to the Florida Keys, and in particular Key West, 90 eeny weeny miles from Bush’s Cuban nemesis Fidel Castro, who is still sitting up and eating grapes in hospital. Kennedy could not get him, Johnson could not get him, and, it seems, nor has cancer. Still, one does not wish harm on anyone. Except perhaps a fellow beer-guzzling podgy Cuban, who alarmed me at just before 7 in front of my hotel by asking me if I wanted anything sucking or if I wanted to suck something and he was talking a different type of Cuban cigar and these are not banned in Miami Beach. Anyhow, though you may wonder, I politely declined, looked away but remained afraid of tucking into my drizzly ham and cheese empanada in case it gave out the wrong message. This is not really the US. This is Central America. Covered in all its glory.

I boarded the late coach and ended up talking with a 35 year-old Chinese IT guy from DC, who had never been out of the US. This became clear when he asked me if “we get Youtube in Britain”. I felt for someone in IT, this was probably one of those candid camera moments you regret forever. Common language. Different people. He was not the only one. After 160 miles down US Highway 1 (which stretches to Canada) we reached Key West, the southern most point on the US mainland, and I seemed to talk to people whose brains had gone in the same direction. I bought three T-shirts off this local girl, who seemed to struggle with the conversation when it continued beyond, well, “Hello”, if truth be told. Even though I was there in the moment, I felt like it was a satellite link with a ten second delay before a response could be proffered. The guide to the impressive and interesting Ernest Hemingway house was, I am convinced, on some acid trip as he whistled through stories about the renowned American writer at a verbal pace akin to Concorde. If Ernest had been on his own tour, he would have still blown his brains out. And sooner. The flight home saw me sat next to a South Dakota nurse, who warned me of the dangers of organic lettuces and asked me if we not only paid income tax in England but whether we voted, “you know, what with the Queen being in charge of everything.” There is only one queen in charge of my life. And he is typing this. As always, though, there are some Americans who do get what you say. The younger, educated and travelled ones are often in a different league altogether. My newly-wed friend Christina, who owns the Marimekko store in Miami, and her Washington Post husband Michael are but two. There were also two Jeremies, who did.get me. Or was it the mojitos. One was an attractive, entertaining, gay and Jewish lawyer residing among the neatly manicured lawns of flash suburb Coral Gables, which should be a soap opera, who proved entertaining and interesting in equal measure. We sat at a bar and told a fellow drinker that he was Golan in Lord of the Rings. Needless to say she believed him and gave him his business card. The other guy from Massachussetts was met in a bar and was in the US Army 82nd Airborne division and about to spend 6 months in Colombia. Something to do with drugs. Or his boyfriend. Perhaps both. We discussed all manner of things and agreed that since the war had cost America $30 billion that Bush should sell Texas for $45 billion, make a profit and use it to buy Cuba. Most of Havana is already there. There are apparently more than 1 million Cubans in Miami (2.5 million Hispanics in all), the biggest population centre outside of the country,.and they live in the ingeniously-named “Little Havana”. We all passed through Coconut Grove and Coral Gables, places which belong in a Jackie Collins novel.

After a slow and tranquil start, my evenings there, surprisingly, took on the content of a Jackie Collins adventure. The black drag queen with big hair tucking into a plate of fries was one sight at the Palace, one of Miami’s friendly sea-front bars. Another was Jeremy, the Massachusetts guy, and his friend Richard with whom I drank, ate and wandered into some of the fanciest lobbies, restaurant and pool areas at the Delgano, Sagamore and National. We walked in like we owned it. How they did not believe I was trash with my “I have been to South Beach” T Shirt, is a mystery. They must have thought I was part of Hugh Grant’s entourage. I played the bumbling Englishman well, years of practice, it seemed to work its magic. Particularly at Twist, probably the busiest bar in the area. Seven bars on four floors and teeming with gay-for-pay strippers/”dancers” and others. One evening, a Puerto Rican barber proved intersting company whilst a few nights later, I got a tap on the shoulder. I really must sue that plumber. Two guys from Toronto, Steve (24) and Andrew (32) started talking to me. Not long after, boy do guys make it clear what they want, Steve asked me back to his hotel room, which he was sharing with his friend. I asked what about his friend. A wink and a cab ride later. and we were back at the hotel. I got back to mine to see the promise of dawn rising early. I could see clearly then. I hope to stay as clear-sighted now..

After buying a 28 inch TV and DVD player for him and his flatmates from a shop in Manchester, my 27 year-old brother asked me for help to lift it out of the car and into the house when we got home. However, he did so in such a patronising, shouting, arrogant, stubborn, rude way like I was a five year-old on a bike. I therefore refused. He tried alone and dropped it. Scratches down the side and damaged. He stormed into the house claiming I owed him £80, it was my fault for not helping. I assured him that the TV would have made a safe journey into the living room had he apologised for talking to me like a toddler.

The next couple of days were hell. I gave him a hug (he just stood there with his arms at his side) and I told him we have to draw a line under this before it turns into the Middle East. He ate when we didn’t, we went out when he stayed home, he went out when we stayed home and he drove home on Xmas Day morning, claiming my mum always takes my side, that he feels unwelcome, so we drove to family in Stockport in very high spirits, armed with cheap £1 Xmas crackers with no bang.

There, I was under strict instruction not to talk to relatives we see once in a blue moon on any issues including politics, religion, sexuality, family issues or my “personal” life. So I just bunkered down, ate some turkey, drank wine and prayed for sunset. I am not saying my family are basically simple but Scrabble saw words like “of” “it” “and” and a four letter mega-word “food”. By the time we reached the triple word boxes, it was indeed sunset and time to get the hell out of there and go home to watch sitcom repeats on an undamaged television.

Last night I met up again with Argie boy, Seb, and still the Belgrano has not sunk. There is hope. There is also a man overboard here. Lost in a sea of things called emotions, I believe, about someone, who seems not only like a good man but a good fit. I want to lose the cynical edge, tone down the sarcasm, get back to basics and my hopes up high but I dont want them shot down by a five foot 11 smiling Juan Peron. Anyway, who does?

So I sit in the black leather armchair of Mastermind: Specialist subject Sebastien Carro. “You have sixty seconds, your time starts now”.

Q The youngest of four children who live between Buenos Aires and Iguazu Falls, what did Sebastien’s parents do?
A Married once before, his mother, 69, owned a newspaper where his father was a journalist. Both Peronistas, the paper, along with their savings, was expropriated by the Government after Juan Peron’s party was ousted in 1955 and sent to Spain. The dictatorship, which took over, lasted until 19something or other and then she returned north in the early 70s where Sebastien was born. His father died when Seb was a child.

Correct

Q To where did Seb’s mother flee to save her family?
A Patagonia

Correct

Q Name Sebastien’s three ex partners.
A Fernando in Argentina, was a doctor, now a politician. I hate him. Christian and Alex, who was French and split after three years last year (I hate him too) on account of Alex’s different views of marriage to Seb’s more traditional ones and his looking down on Seb for having given up economics to become a chef. I am Jewish. We like our food. The fact that he can cook will put him on the same level as Moses.

Correct

Q What did Lee feel uncomfortable about on the date, which challeneged his bucket load of insecurities and neuroses?
A Firstly, he is very photogenetic. He could drink 15 pints of Guiness and hang upside down in the curtains and look like a soap star. I blink and I look like someone killed Frankenstein with a hot wet flannel. Plus, Lee is not the kind of bloke who wants to be fed tripe with someone else’s chopsticks in front of a crowded and possibly watching chinese restaurant, or have his hand taken walking in Knightsbridge or kissed INSIDE Leicester Square tube station near the police officers.

Correct

Q Why did Seb get suspended yesterday from BMI?
A Because his manager stabbed him in the back and said he was responsible for violating airline regulations by allowing a child under 14 to sit in the window seat next to the wing exit. The kid moved back there as the plane was taking off. He was suspended. It is as ridiculous as it sounds.

Correct

Q How did Seb earn $5000 at the age of 19?
A He got the money after posing in Levi jeans for a magazine article, which went around South America. I think his buttocks have travelled. Apparently they are sublime.

Correct and just in time.. at the end of that round, you have 23 points. I want to get to the final.

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.

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.

Bedecked in a denim jacket, a Che Guevara T Shirt, with a rucksack and my brother’s laundry, I was stopped and bag-searched at 0945 this morning under the 2000 Anti Terrorism Act by three uniformed police and a search dog at Kings Cross, just yards from the barrier.

In spite of the policeman being very nice (and even introducing me to the dog, which i wanted to stroke but felt it inappropriate), my stomach rumbled but that could have been hunger. He asked me a few basic question. if i was on my way to work, what work that was and how long I had been there. “For friggin ever” was not appropriate so I said “four years”. He said he would give me a receipt, which would show the reason for any lateness. I was tempted to say “oh we must do this again”. I was grateful for that, he does not know what my boss Pippa is like. She has heard all manner of excuse from me! He asked me for some id, I had my passport, which must have looked suspicious but I am in the process of renewing, and a credit card. He joked he would not charge me for the search. I mustered a laugh as the rush hour wandered by. He looked through my bag, saw a Nivea for Men oil control moisturizer and probably decided I was no threat. He also asked me to select my ethnic origin. British White was way down the list, which underlines how cosmopolitan London is, I almost ticked West Indian Rastafarian by mistake.

He told me politely if I had any grievances, I could call the following number and they both wished me a pleasant day. I miss the dog already. I am off now to calm that rumbling stomach, think of that poor shot Brazilian and ditch my jacket. Denim is out. And so am I.