More Festive Dylan Jones

Wednesday 25^th December – Christmas Day

Weight: 13.13 (Not quite what was planned) Calories: 2,600 (junk food was only food available) Fags: 5 (have no nails left) Alcohol Units: 0 (excellent) No. Of Boyfriends: 0 

7.00am  Merry Christmas!  Hurrah!  Am wide-awake and perfectly ready to venture out into the dark morning ready to help the needy.  Am amazed at the amount of people around at this time of the morning.  A gentleman comes to meet me at the Station where I am being picked up and I steel myself for a hearty Yuletide greeting.

‘Are you with Securicor?’

‘Ummm, no.’

‘Just what I fucking need this time of the morning!’  And off he goes.  Perhaps I am too romantic when it comes to Christmas.

7.15am  Rosie turns up in her car to give me a lift to the shelter.  Her car is full of people and I wish them all a Merry Christmas and fortunately they return my greeting with good cheer.  This is more like it.  It turns out that the gentleman is a reformed alcoholic on his fifth and Rosie is helping at the Women Only centre for the tenth year.  Claire, like myself, is a ‘shelter virgin’ and works for The Guardian.

7.45am  Bermondsey Christmas Shelter Project.  The converted, disused warehouse is heaving with merry volunteers most of whom seem to know each other.  Naturally my killer instincts are sharply on the lookout for three things.  Potential boyfriends, caffeine and the smoking area.  I must say there are some very tasty looking men around including Jason, our Team Leader, who looks very snazzy in his sweat shirt, jeans, Timberland boots and a Santa hat.  Everything seems very organised and warm as we are given our lecture on the ‘Rules’ in the guest’s area.  Jason takes off ten of us to the main hall where we are given our duties for the first two hours.  I am paired up with a talkative woman called Mary and we are seated in a corner of the large hall.  Around us bodies are beginning to stir.

8.40am  Am having very interesting conversation with a man named Doug who has been on the streets for four years.  It is very difficult because his Scottish accent is very thick and I have difficulty trying to decipher it.  His pal Chris, a chirpy Londoner has brought back a huge breakfast for the two of them and I begin to feel v. hungry.  Chris goes off to the on-site hairdressers to have his head shaved.

9.50am Mary and I are still sat chatting to Chris and Doug.  Sally, a Welsh alcoholic has joined us and against one of the main rules Mary starts to talk about politics, ‘Gee Double-Ya’ and the possibility of war.  Sally, Chris and Doug all seem to have well informed views on the matter and I pray that nobody asks me about it.  When Sally does ask my opinion I offer everybody a fag, which works well as a ploy for changing the subject.

11.40am  Much as I like our three new friends and am enjoying our conversation I am now out of fags.  I really ought to read the papers more.  We have been here for four hours now.  Surely there must be something else we can do.  Volunteers seem to be moving around all the time.

12.35pm  Mary finally asks a Team Leader whether or not we are supposed to be here.  Finally we are relieved.  Jason comes up to us and apologises.  Looking as dishy as he does I could forgive him anything.

‘I’m terribly sorry about that.  Sat there, the supervisor thought you were guests.’  Bastard!  We had been encouraged to talk people.  And do I really look like a homeless person?  I grab a coffee and head for the smoking area to blag a ciggy.

1.10pm  Lunch duty is a little better.  I am stood in the middle of the queue chatting to guests as they queue up for food.  Some of them are wearing much better clothes than me it is true, but many of them do still smell of wee.  It is fun though and I make lots of new friends.  I only wish I could help them a little more so I don’t say anything when my new mates Doug, Chris and Sally sneak back in for seconds.  I will try to bring in more fags tomorrow.

5.00pm  Home at last.  V. tired.  Only shop open was Chicken Cottage at the end of the road, which I suspect is run by Muslims.  I suddenly remember that I had recorded Eastenders and I settled down to watch it with mug of tea. 

5.05pm  Gahhhhhhhhhhhh.  Set the wrong channel and have now recorded Slim Steven’s Christmas Cracker with special guests Atomic Kitten and Darius.  Am too tired to cry.  Will go to bed now.

A Blast From The Past

I wrote this the year before I met Sean, a homage if you will to Helen Fielding but a slightly different perspective and obviously seasonal. It's in three parts, so I shall post them consecutively before Christmas.

Tuesday 24^th December – Christmas Eve

Weight: 13.10 (De-hydration) Calories: 1,800 (most of it chocolate coated) Fags: 25 (am saving myself) Alcohol Units: 0 (excellent) No. Of Boyfriends: 0 

9.10am  Oh dear.  Have woken up on sofa with empty bottle of vodka and surrounded by pine needles.  For some reason I feel remarkably lucid although I am a little flummoxed as to why my Jesus Action Figure has a Radio Times picture of Brad Pitt stuck on it’s face at the top of the Christmas tree.  Am seriously troubled by what various psychiatrists may also make of this.  Fortunately none are expected for breakfast.

11.20am  After a long bath and refreshing breakfast of warm orange juice I decide I really ought to go to bed early tonight in order to be bright and breezy for my Christmas Day chores. 

12.50pm  Flat is looking particularly tidy at the moment and the tree makes the whole room smells of pine.  I decide that now may be a good time to set video for all the programmes I will miss over Christmas Day.  Ooo, a phone call.

1.15pm  That was Euan who has returned to his parent’s castle in Scotland.  Says he is bored already and did I want to fly up to meet him.  As tempting as that seemed I reminded him of my duties to the homeless of London.  He was very sweet and told me to fly up for New Year’s Eve.  I doubt whether I will though, as it tends to get pretty nippy up there and may seriously hamper my chances of pulling somebody who might be more than a one-night-stand.

5.50pm  Have spent the last hour trying to decide what to wear tomorrow. They suggest that you dress warmly and with layers that may be removed should you get too hot when working in the various areas of the hostel.  Eventually I settle for something that fits.  I had better check my e-mail for some last minute seasonal messages.

6.15pm  Gahhhhhhh.  I have an offer of a lift from a charming woman from Carlshalton who is passing through Streatham on her way to the centre.  She will pick me up, along with two others, at seven in the morning.  Bugger.  Now I will have to go outside in the rain and cancel the taxi.  Still think of the money I will save.  I grab my cigarettes and hurriedly run down the stairs as my mobile rings downstairs.

6.30pm  In hurry to get to mobile I fall arse over tit down the stairs.  Swearing, I answer to hear gunfire in the background.

‘Dylan?  Are you alright?’

‘Marsh?  Hello?  Where are you and what’s all that noise?

‘Oh, just fireworks.  I just wanted to say happy Christmas before the big day.’

‘I fell down the stairs.  You sound like you’re in a war zone.  Where are you?

‘Norwich, of course.  Have you been drinking again?’

I explain that I just slipped on the stairs and he says he has to dash.  Ohhhhh, I think I pulled something in my back.  Am v. suspicious of Marshall’s whereabouts over the holiday.  He says that he is in Norwich but I sense that he has been flown to sort out terrorists in anti-capitalist state.  Story about being football journalist reporting on Norwich City match simply doesn’t ring true.  What do gay men know about football apart from usual Beckham trivia? 

7.40pm Must sleep now as I have a really early start in the morning.