FFF - Fight For Fellatio!

The brilliant David E. Kelley has taught me many things in life, not least now to write the best series on television. But I never expected to learn about fellatio from him.

   

But sitting in the UK tonight, watching a repeat episode of Harry’s Law, this is what I learned from the character Harry (Kathy Bates): fellatio is illegal in Georgia. 

Geez! They even know how to spell it there?!

   

I was gobsmacked. Actually, that’s a bad word. I can doubtless be arrested even for uttering a word that smacks of (oh god, there I go again) . . . of lips . . . or things they might do.

   

Not only is it illegal in Georgia, it is illegal in 11 other states, including Florida. That’s the one that distresses me the most (there are a lot of blokes there. All off my list now. Sorry, guys).

   

So, here’s what I learnt from Google:-

Georgia code section 16-6-2 provides a 1 to 20 year mandatory sentence for any adults consenting to "any sexual act involving the sex organs of one person and the mouth or anus of another" (The latter’s okay; I can do without the crusties). Married couples are not excluded from this law.

Most states have repealed the law but it is still illegal in the following:

Florida

Idaho

Louisiana

Michigan

Alabama

Mississippi

North Carolina

South Carolina

Utah

Virginia

Puerto Rico

To be honest, I’m okay with all of them, but I met a few cute guys in Florida, and now it seems I have to kidnap them on American Airlines (and probably pay for them too, not to mention  get up for the 6am flight to get it cheaper), just to get them to California to make my oral hygiene legal.

   

What’s it all about? 

In a week when people are getting hysterical about equal marriage for gays, why is no one screaming about equal fellatio rights for a dozen states in the USA?

   

And who is policing it? In divorce cases, does it classify as “marital coercion”? Blimey, all we get in Wales is half a Stella, a crack to the back of the head, our 10ccs and we’re happy.

   

The first night I was introduced to fellatio was in car registration number TB0 440H. I remember the night very clearly because it was the first time I came into direct contact with an adult penis: an adult penis while travelling at 30mph in a white Ford Estate, more to the point. I hadn’t seen a penis since I had taken baths with my brother a decade earlier, much less handled one. I had tiny hands anyway, so coupled with my complete lack of experience, anything put in my palm was going to look and feel like a Tyrannosaurus Rex. 

Once I had got to grips with the fact that sex clearly involved multi-tasking (zip, steering-wheel, gear change - I confess to having been more than a tad nervous: no, abject terror, would be more accurate),  I realised I had to start revving it up.

Then, just as I was getting used to my new job, I received what felt like a crack to the back of the skull (it was probably just a gentle shove, but I was finding co-ordinating my actions with worry about breaking the speed limit difficult to cope with; my terror of breaking the law has always over-ridden everything in my life). 

At crack number three, the penny finally dropped that I was required to get my head down and put the Tyrannosaurus Rex in my mouth (which was even smaller than my hand) and I had to get munching.

  

Four and a half years of sexual activity taking place almost entirely in a car (the first Ford was traded in for a silver one of the same make, registration number MUH 853P), I would become an expert in co-ordinating hand-brake, steering wheel, motorway driving and consuming anything Tyrannosaurus Rex threw my way at inopportune moments. 

Small wonder I developed a highly developed technique, if not what some went on to call in later years, in the UK press, an obsession with blow-jobs. 

I will continue to FFF (Fight For Fellatio) in those 12 backward states. 

Florida, you thought 2000 was bad. 

You ain’t seen nothing yet.

    

  

   

Six Nations - Here We Go Again

There are few things I miss about the UK when I am in LA, but the Six Nations rugby tournament is one of them.

   

It’s still possible to watch it over there, of course, but today I’m rather glad I will be sitting in a Welsh hostelry for the 1.30pm kick off between Wales and Ireland, rather than the King’s Head in Santa Monica at a gruesome 5.30am.

   

Not that the King’s Head didn’t have its advantages – bumping into the divine Matthew Rhys in his Welsh rugby shirt being one of them – but there is something that just feels so wrong about shouting at that time in the morning.

   

This year, Wales has all the Blues away, which means trips to Paris, Rome and Edinburgh. It’s much better than the years where they visit just Dublin and Twickenham. I last went to the former in 2008 and remember just two things: nearly fainting with excitement when I spotted Brian O’Driscoll in the Four Seasons Hotel, and crawling across my bathroom in the same hotel when I was struck down with a very bad bout of flu.

   

I visited Rome during the Six Nations of 2005 and declared, when I arrived home, that there was “nothing to see” there. It wasn’t until I returned there at the end of a cruise that I realised I had managed to miss every ruin. My camera was full of pictures of penises, though, snapped outside the ground as men relieved themselves al fresco, owing to the city’s inability to provide adequate facilities.

   

Full bladders used to be a problem in the old Arms Park in Cardiff in the years before seating. Men simply used to urinate around you (the East Stand was particularly bad), uttering a “Sorry love” before filling their bladders up again with another gallon of Stella, thereby creating the problem all over again. At least when my bladder was full, I asked to be lifted over the heads of spectators in order to make my way to a proper toilet. 

Only once in my entire life did I have to improvise a toilet, when I was on a two-hour journey on a train that had no facilities. I made a little nest out of a newspaper someone had left and went in that. So far, so good. The problem was that there was more liquid than there was nest and I was required to throw the first sitting (as it were) out of the window; or, rather, the problem came when I realised, nest cupped in both hands, that I had not yet opened the window. Struggling to contain the contents of said nest, I grappled with the window and chucked the receptacle with my best discus arm. It was unfortunate that the train hit a particularly vicious wind tunnel at the time and I ended up wearing the nest, plus most of its contents.

   

Queuing for toilets is the thing that ultimately stopped me going to rugby internationals. Although I was in New Zealand for the Rugby World Cup, I no longer go to Six Nations matches – or, rather, I go to the cities where the games are, but watch in a pub. It means I don’t get cold, I can use the toilet without having to pass pools of urine and vomit en route, and I don’t have to miss three tries while I wait in the eight man deep queue for a drink.

   

And so, here we go again. Six Nations 2013. It’s a beautiful sunny day in Cardiff (that alone is something to celebrate) and it’s just over two hours to go until kick off. My bet this year is on England to win, although France, my adopted team, can always be relied upon to put a spanner in the works, as they did in New Zealand against Wales.

   

Meanwhile, in the US, it’s a big weekend for the Superbowl. I never did find out what that was, other than it involved a lot of men watching TV and shouting a lot. 

Give me rugby any day, just not at a time when the birds are still asleep.

Judging Alex - Take Three (The Happy Ending)

Now, look. You don’t have to read this. 

So any of you people out there telling me to go get a life (yes, I know life is short and I should shut the hell up and go sell candy floss on Venice Beach or whatever) . . .  SHUT UP.

   

This is the third part of the trilogy of my misplaced interview with the brilliant Judge Alex and, believe it or not, some people are genuinely interested in hearing how it ended (see parts one and two for those of a narrative bent).

   

Or, rather, let me tell you how it didn’t end.

In the absence of a recording, my imagination had the chance to concoct many things. Not only was I engaged to Judge Alex (we have yet to break it to his wife), I was married to Robert de Niro, who proposed to me while holding two bananas (okay, it was a dream, but WTF was that about?) and I was a grieving widow at the tomb of Marlon Brando. Well, me and a horse’s head, but you get my drift. I was very, very stressed.

   

Los Angeles does strange things to me, but anyway, back to Part Three of of iPad Loss: the Movie . . .

   

FINALLY, I got hold of a police officer in some godforsaken part of Florida, who went to the address displayed by Find My iPhone (or Pad etc). No answer. She informed me that she had spoken to the neighbours and that the person in question travelled a lot. I liked this officer. She was giving it her all, which made me think this was the biggest case she had ever been given. “There are four houses on this block”, she told me, with ill-disguised incredulity. “No kidding!” I responded, unsure whether this was a good or bad thing for me.

   

Was he, “the perp”, I ventured ( I watch a lot of TV)  a “bad” person. Silence. I quickly realised that in the US, there were things I was not able to say such as . . . “Was he/she a . . . ?” You see? I can’t even print it.

   

Having imaginatively administered smelling salts to the officer, after my politically incorrect question and establishing that the “perp” did not appear to be a dot dot dot dot dot dot (honestly, I swear they were calling paramedics to the officer, such was the impertinence of my question), the officer admitted that no, this did not appear to be a “bad” person. Not the kind of person who would steal a Judge Alex Voice Memo, I ventured. Er, no. But, should I wish to call back over the weekend (when the officer was away), I should feel free to ask them to visit the perp (my words) again.

I wasn’t hopeful. So, plan two. The brilliant actor and presenter Stephen Fry (who happens to be a friend of mine – though not in the Biblical sense LOL #geddit?) has over five million followers on Twitter, so I thought it would be a good idea to ask him to Tweet about my dilemma. He did. And how they responded! I was an idiot for not having backed everything up (I had); I should speak to Apple (Geez! Even my mother does not talk to me as often as these people); I should check iTunes (DUH! I am not a moron!).

   

Then, amidst it all (the needle in a five million people haystack), the answer: iPad only backs to iPad, not to iPhone (thanks to Apple et al, for all that wrong advice). But, then, not so good – it doesn’t back up APPS.

   

Wrong! I bought another iPad and ticked back up 13^th January 2013 (interview had been 10^th January). I watched. I waited. The clock ticked. It was the longest 10 minutes of my life.

   

And then. There it was. They were. Seventy five minutes, plus another . . . oh, who cares. My Judge Alex was back. His voice. His laughter. In my excitement, I nearly pressed “Delete” - but, reader, did not (you will be glad to know).

   

I have spent the past seven hours boring everyone person who stood still long enough, informing them of my love affair with the iCloud, to which I owe my life, my sanity.

Thank you, Mr Steve Jobs, for looking down on me and saving me from ignominy. 

And thank you, gorgeous, dear Stephen Fry, for your lovely words - yes, life really does sometimes reward good people – and for your kindness; life is 100% better tonight than it was yesterday.

   

As for Judge Alex, I am back in the dock (in my dreams), where I belong. Handcuffs optional.

Judging Alex - Take Two (The Interview That Almost Came Back)

How many cops is it possible to talk to in lifetime? 

Since having my iPad taken on Sunday night in Miami, I have been through about five US states and a dozen officers, which is more than I have spoken to in over 50 years of living in the UK (that number, by the way, is three). If you add my court case against my LA landlord last year, I realise I speak to US law enforcement officers more often than I speak to members of my own family.

   

For the missing Blackberry, I had to go through American Airlines (no joy), Burger King and Chili’s restaurant at LAX, and half the LAPD, whose response was “Ma’am, let me tell you what we do and what we don’t do . . . “ In essence, that boiled down to: they don’t take details, they don’t take a report, they don’t give reference numbers and, as became abundantly apparent, they don’t like speaking to foreigners, even though I put on my very best British accent.

   

And so to the iPad loss and the Judge Alex interview stored in Voice Memos. Blimey, that was another tale altogether. Miami police don’t cover Miami. There’s Miami mainland, Miami Beach and any number of individual pebbles forces, each with its own people, and, as I not so quickly discovered, somewhere near La Goya Street up near Orlando, where my Find My iPhone told me my iPad had been located.

   

You can imagine my excitement. “Jaci Stephen’s iPad has been found” said the e-mail. I whooped with joy; I cried as many tears as when I lost it; my palms sweated, anticipating the joy of the black leather case back in my hands. But then . . . that was it. Nothing. I sent messages to it. I begged for its safe return. I even told them they could keep the thing – just send the Voice Memos to iTunes. I went to US White Pages and rang rather frightened strangers, demanding that they return my equipment.

   

But now it was located, I was back to square one. Which police force would have the unenviable task of going to go round to the address and beating up the person who has made my life a misery over the past four days? Certainly not Orlando’s “We have a lot of cases to deal with” force, and very much not LAX’s “Ma’am, let me . . . “ Yep, mate, I know. You ain’t gonna help me.

   

It’s certainly not like it is on the telly. There, I would meet with the lovely Olivier Benson from Law and Order Special Victims Unit (okay, that’s sexual attacks, but someone very much like her) and they would have my case sewn up, with me the victor, in about 43 minutes.

   

I tried Apple Support to see if they could extract the Voice Memos from the lost iPad. Well, they were about as useful as a maggot in a Granny Smith’s. 

I tried iTunes Support. Let’s just say a couple of contact lenses strapped to Katie Price’s breasts would have provided more support than the lot of them put together.

I even contacted Stephen Fry, who knows about all things Apple, and even he directed me back to iTunes or the Genius Bar. I forgive him; he has other work to do.

   

As the days go on, there are more bits of the interview coming back to me, although Judge Alex wants to check over what I print, as he thinks perhaps his memory might serve the piece better than mine.

Blame it on the sun. Blame it on the excitement. Blame it on the wine. 

Blame it on Apple, who hid the Voice Memo back-up I always use in my iPhone in something called Utilities. And also their ios6 system, which fails to store Voice Memos.

   

Blame it on the US police force. Blame it on iTunes. Blame it on thieves who go around nicking other people’s property with no thought as to how it might affect them or their livelihoods.

   

I know I’ll get over it; after all, nobody died, nobody got pregnant, and apparently that’s a good barometer these days (although both those things would have got me to Olivier Benson a darn sight quicker).

   

But it still galls me. 

Knowing that on 590 La Goy Street, Florida 32908, my iPad is sitting, lonely and depressed, in someone else’s arms. It was only an iPad 1 and I know I can buy a 2 or a 3 to replace it, but it’s those Voice Memos I’ll never get back. 

They say the apple never falls far from the tree; in this case, the Apple is an ocean away and I’m still heartbroken.

   

Cox’s Pippins to the bastard who has it.

    

   

Judging Alex - Take One (The Interview That Got Away)

My screams could be heard above the sound of the waves crashing onto South Beach. 

The tears springing from the geysers that used to be eye sockets were producing enough salt water to fill South Beach twice over.

I sobbed, I begged, I grabbed anyone with a badge and poured my heart out.

   

Someone had taken my iPad. One minute’s visit to the rest room at Miami’s Fontainbleau Hotel was all it took for (according to the security cameras) a woman to rummage through my NATPE conference bag and make off with it – apparently telling staff she would return it the next day. She didn’t.

   

But the loss of the iPad is not the worst of it. My travel insurance will cover a replacement – just as it will cover the replacement cost of the Blackberry I had stolen last week. The horror, the horror, to quote Conrad, was what I lost on the iPad: my interview with Judge Alex. 

An interview that has been two years in the making and which filled over two glorious hours of Voice Memo. But thanks to Apple’s new IOS6, voice memos do not get backed up to the iCloud; it’s a bug, apparently, which doesn’t help me one little bit. 

As Voice Memo on the iPhone 5 I use as back-up mysteriously disappeared, I therefore was totally reliant on the iPad. And now have just the 35 minutes I managed to transcribe. It’s still over 4,000 words, at least 3,000 of which are me gushing over the man whose show became addictive viewing for me when I was living in LA; but Judge Alex’s gorgeous laugh has disappeared into the iCloud ether, and I am more than a little upset. 

I feel I have lost a limb. 

The irony is that had I not arranged to meet up with Judge Alex for a farewell drink prior to my returning to the UK, I wouldn’t have been in the very spot from where the bag was taken.

   

So, the interview is going to take a little longer to write than it would have done, and at the moment I am just trying to write down as much as I can remember about Judge Alex, who (for starters):-.

1.              Not only has a great laugh, but very good teeth. Very white. The kind of teeth you wouldn’t mind flossing if there was nothing on the telly.

2.              Has impeccable manners – standing up when I left/returned from the rest room (which, with my tiny bladder, was often; it’s a wonder he wasn’t in traction after all that movement).

3.              Is very funny, very smart and great company – just like the show.

4.              Has been a pilot, a cop and a judge. I like a man in uniform, so this was as if all my Christmases had come at once. I wouldn’t know which I’d want him to wear first, though. Sometimes a girl can have too much choice.

5.              Would really like to be on Dancing with the Stars.

6.              Likes red wine.

7.              Looks like a film star.

8.              In 2008 was voted the most trustworthy face on daytime TV and the second most trusted face of all TV celebrities (beaten by Dr Oz).

9.       Was once billed by People Magazine as one of the “sexiest men alive” (no arguments from me).

10.           Is not going to leave his family and come to live with me in Wales (he can be very mean).

These are just a few bullet points and there will be a lot more to come, once I am over jet-lag, and possibly even more if my iPad ever turns up, or if Apple ever solves what is apparently a big problem with this latest operating system. 

Otherwise, it’s just going to have to be a re-take, your honour. 

Or I’ll see you in court if they find the bastard that stole your laughter.        

   

A Globe In The Hand Is Worth Two In The Basket

An hour is a long time in a laundry basket.  

That was my concern when, looking for a secret hiding place to gatecrash the Golden Globes private party at LA’s Soho House, I started wishing I weighed the 50 kilos I was when I left the city just over a year ago.

   

The laundry basket in the Ladies’ rest room at Soho House is not very big. In fact, if I wanted to make it my hiding place, I had 120 minutes in which to lose at least two stone. With the club closing at 9pm for a private party with the show’s hosts, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, I had very little time to case the joint and perfect my crashing strategy.

   

I used to be very good at crashing parties. I once crawled through somebody’s legs to talk to Stephen Spielberg, who had just won a Bafta for Schindler’s List. I told him I thought ET was the greatest film ever made. ‘D’you know,’ he said, ever so kindly, given that he had just won his first major award for the holocaust epic. ‘I was thinking about that film last week - and I think you may well be right.’

   

I once crashed the Evening Standard Film Awards in London and spotted a rather lonely looking Al Pacino. We approached in a romantic movie kind of way, but all I could get out were the words: ‘I am your greatest fan.’ 

I am not sure whether that, or the three things I managed to say to Bill Clinton when I fought tooth and nail to reach him, were the most embarrassing. Then, I managed to stutter: ‘This is the greatest day of my life’, ‘You are the greatest man who has ever lived’ and ‘Can I have your autograph.’

Then there was Leonardo di Caprio - "I really love your work." My friend had persuaded me not to say "Phew! You survived the ship!" which had been my first choice of introduction.

   

In London’s Groucho Club, I came face to face with a rather handsome man and, in my capacity as a TV critic, promised him a meteoric rise to stardom. ‘Have you ever done any acting . . . I can spot people . . . I could write about you and make you a star.’ On and on and on. ‘D’you know what it is . . . You’ve got that real kind of Ewan McGregor charisma. What’s your name?’ ‘Er, Ewan McGregor.’

   

So, I know how to get into places and meet the stars. Sometimes, they look a bit frightened. La Toyah Jackson, to whom I had kindly given up my favourite seat on an Air New Zealand flight from the UK to LA, introduced me to “Mini Me” Verne Troyer onboard. The 2 foot 8 actor shrank so far back in terror at my gushing approach, he all but slipped into the seat lining.

   

The day before the Golden Globes last week, I introduced myself to movie supremo Harvey Weinstein. When Harvey enters a room, people stand to one side – he’s like Moses parting the Red Sea. His stunned expression made it clear I had broken some Hollywood code, like an errant Israelite trying to steal Moses’s thunder.

   

Having dismissed the laundry basket as my temporary home, I turned to the cinema, which was still open, following the showing of a movie. Perhaps I could stand behind the curtains? But would my feet poke out? What if they locked the cinema and I had to spend the night trapped in red velvet?

   

Was any of it worth the risk, anyway? I have been member of Soho House since the first week and am now an Every House member. How awful if I had it taken away because I was discovered in a laundry basket and was being carried out on a stretcher, having dislocated my back among the damp towels?

   

I decided not to risk it. I had already had my picture taken with Bradley Cooper, Sally Field, Benedict Cumberbatch, Toby Jones and Josh Groban at the Bafta Tea Party (which I managed to crash, courtesy of British TV producer Nigel Lythgoe – another of our exports who has made it big across the pond). 

I had just flown from Miami, where I had interviewed the divine Judge Alex, whose name fronts the best reality courtroom series on TV.

   

There is only so much hanging on a girl can do, and well into my Fifties now, I realise that dignity must come first. 

One day, I’ll be a prize-winner and I won’t have to go scavenging for hiding places just to get close to the coat-tails of others. They’ll be begging me to market laundry baskets. 

Trust me. I’m a gate-crasher.  

What is it REALLY all about?

Another two, this week. There are more and more of them, every couple of months. People whose names, just a year ago, had been in my diary for lunch. 

People who cancelled. 

People who I cancelled. 

All dead.

    

It’s called getting older. But I still can’t get to grips with the fact that I am next in the queue. I just can’t. I’m frightened. Yes, I am sobbing for my dead friends and relatives; I cry every week for the wonderful father I lost in 1990; I cry for my friend who killed himself in a garage, beside a bottle of vodka and a note for his parents; I cry for the death of my young cousin and the devastation that has wrought amongst our family,

How do we cope? How do we move on? What’s it all about? We still search for answers in the cliches.

For me, it’s not religion that gets us through, it’s things like this (in no particular order, as they say in the TV shows):-

My friend just laughed at a really stupid joke I made.

My mum, realising she gave me a bit of a hard time yesterday, gave me a cheery phone-call. And we never said what it was/wasn’t about.

Rhys Gosling, who came to fix my boiler, who did a really great job and did not rip me off.

I have people who love me.

I just realised I have an episode of Law and Order SVU series 14 to catch up on and I am in love with Olivia Benson (though not in a lesbian way . . . I don’t think).

The fact that I’m sitting here. Alive.

Going into my garage and seeing a hand carved wooden desk my parents gave me one Christmas when I envied my cousins’ supermarket equivalent.

I will be spending the winter in the sun.

I have a brain that, so far, I have used well (quiet in the stalls!).

I can read and write – a true blessing, and something those of us who can should do everything to spread amongst those who cannot.

I’m going to bed now – counting my blessings. And there are many.

And yet, and yet, the eternal question . . . What's it all about?

And do we want to know?