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As some of you might or might not know, I have a long and illustrious career in telly (quick, someone grab my feet). Yes, that lawless, soulless Wild West where pimps and thieves run free and good men die like dogs.  As part of my role, I’m responsible for making sure that everything you see on your telly screens has been signed off, released, contracted and cleared. This goes for the music you hear, the people you see, the places they are in and any artworks et al in the back of shot. House numbers, number plates, passers-by and even clothing labels are double and triple checked before a programme airs.

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You know when you’re pining for someone after a date? It’s rare. It feels amazing. It’s the sign of a good date. But not all dates leave you feeling this way. In fact a lot of them make you want to give up the dating world all together. 2011 was not a good dating year for me. Here are some of the more memorable gems which I share with you for your viewing pleasure:

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An epidemic has swept the gay community and threatens to un-hinge us all. It’s frightening. It’s real. It’s called Gay Alzheimers.

Or, coined by local groups, ‘Galzheimers’

Studies show the affliction is wide spread and few gays are immune. Insiders claim many will have seen the signs but probably weren’t aware they were dealing with the symptoms of this debilatating epidemic…

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On the BBC documentary, The Duke at 90, the Duke of Edinburgh recounted what he told Prince Charles when it came to dealing with the press:

“Don’t talk about yourself; Nobody’s interested in you.”

I love this because it’s  indictative of the times we live in. We blog, we tweet, we live more public lives now than ever before, where all we do is talk about ourselves.  This is no bad thing if people find us interesting. But it also gives rise to the ‘real me’s’. Those who live public lives and then publicly hint at even more of themselves to be had which you don’t know about. It’s the bit they keep back; reserving that special part for an exclusive handful.

I have issues with real me’s.

Only a chosen few get to see the REAL me; If they knew the REAL me then they’d love me; It’s my time now to show the REAL me *audible gasps*

You are not a new designer label about to be launched on the market. You are not a new generation iPhone. People will not be queuing round the block to get a piece of you upon your revelation.

It’s totally bizarre in a society where we are obsessed with being real & genuine, that we on the one hand proclaim absolutely transparency and ‘what you are is what you get’ only to turn around and declare – that wasn’t me at all! That was a shell, a disguise, a mere taster for the exuberant wonder that is actually, drum roll please, the REAL ME!

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When writing this I was on day three of being trapped in my flat. I had the opportunity to touch up the hairline restoration I had done two years ago, so sat at my laptop with a number one crop, swollen head and saline spray to water my new hair. That’s right.

I’ve just had plastic surgery.

Plastic Surgery, like psychics, global warming and homosexuality, is a subject on which everyone has an opinion. And everyone believes they’re right. People get so horrified by plastic surgery; a light conversation can quickly turn into a Salem witch hunt:

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I read this; I get to the part where he turns to his friends and says ‘…that’s him’, and I imagine what his friend says back to him. I imagine him saying:

“Mate, cut and run, he’s ruining your life, I don’t even recognise you anymore; you flinch when your phone rings, you never say yes to hanging out without checking with him first,  you look exhausted, you’re skint, and all I can see you getting out of this is a complete and utter ball ache.”

You ruined it J Campbell.

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