Fag haggery, BBC filmmaker Simon Reeve and make-believe catering friends

This week, I have been called many things. A faux 18 year old (which I take complete responsibility for, please don’t ask), a fag hag in the making, and a Facebook whore. I’ve been slotted into so many subject positions that my head is spinning from the experience. It’s been an eventful last few days of hasty Re-education, Reflection and Rejection; proving that the 3 Rs of Reading, ‘Riting and ‘Rithmatic ain’t always what the university of life is all about.

Today, was a landmark of a day. Today, Christina called a guy. And he was straight (I think).

Somewhere out there, I should be christening a ship with a bottle of champagne in commemoration.

Okay, stop rolling your eyes. It’s a good story. Really. Not quite as exciting as a limousine ride through the city with Brad Pitt, but hey. He’s getting long in the tooth anyway. Botox can only stave off wrinkles for so long before you look like a blow-up doll.

Facebook. Heard of it? No? Then you need to have less of a social life.

I’ve been posting up, for the last 3 weeks, ‘status updates’ along the lines of: “Christina is madly in lust with BBC documentary filmmaker Simon Reeve”. And the following week, it will read something like: “Christina is still madly in lust with BBC documentary filmmaker Simon Reeve”.

You see, I’ve been following his 3-part series Equator. Simon Reeve and his strange, funny and at times sobering adventures have been the sole reason I’ve stayed in my jim-jams for three Saturday evenings in a row. That’s dedication. There’s another D word that I could use, but let’s not go there (and if you have a dirty mind, please clean it – it has 11 letters, not 4).

Come on. The guy stuck his finger up a chicken's ass and made it compelling Saturday night viewing. What's not to like about the London chap?

In my defense, I do teach Media and Cultural Studies at university so I am always on the look-out for good documentaries. After using One Day in September for several semesters when teaching the ramifications of media intervention in historical events (I also wrote an article about the documentary for an Arts Critical Reader), it only recently 'clicked' that the book from which the documentary was made was written by Simon Reeve. I like a man who I can have an intellectual conversation with that doesn't devolve into discussions of his obscure parts (one of his series goes to parts of the world that no-one has ever heard of).

Was that a good enough disclaimer?

This evening, after a night of kung fu I return home to check my Facebook to find a message from a friend. Let’s call him X, shall we? X tells me that today, in Perth, in Western Australia, the most isolated city in the world, he met Simon Reeve. AND he has his number. To protect X’s identity, I’m going to say he works for an electronics store that sells mobile phones. Or a pie shop. Take your pick.

To cut a very long story short (long story? who me?), by end of Facebook exchange with X, I not only have butterflies and a wanton urgency to embarrass myself, but I also have Simon Reeve’s phone number in Australia.

I also have the support of X, who I quote verbatim:

X: “In all seriousness, just ring him up and ask him out – he’s all alone in a big city, and it’s his first night here. Just try not to gush too much...”

Sage advice. X pretty much gives me a script to read from, because as much as I like to stand up in front of 600 students in a lecture, I give Dustin Hoffman a run for his Rainman-money when it comes to one-on-one with men that I like.

I am also informed to say “I got your number from a friend who is a caterer” because apparently it’s a dead-end answer. I am a terrible liar without those prompts (this has me wondering if X does this regularly for a living).

So, with number punched into my mobile and a sense of anything goes (and if it doesn’t, I’m pretty sure I bought a big ass slab of chocolate today which is stashed in my briefcase), and after several push-ups to burn off excess energy, I make the call.

Do or die.

Preferably not the latter.

* brrrrring brrrrring [that's the phone] brrrrring brrrrring *
* click of the phone being picked up*

Simon: Hello?

Christina: Hello? Is this Simon?

Simon: Yes it is.

Christina: Hi Simon. My name is Christina. You don’t know me but a friend gave me your number. They said you were in town and I was wondering if you had anyone to show you around Perth?

Simon: Actually I do. I have my film crew.

Christina: Ah. Ah. (followed by some very strange guttural sounds loosely translated into, “Oh bugger, what now?” and “where is the advice of X when you need him?”). Oh, that’s good.

Simon: We’re shooting a series here.

Christina: Wow. That’s great. Have you been taken out for drinks yet?

Simon: Actually, we’ve just come back from drinks. We’re flying off early tomorrow morning to Exmouth. By the way, how did you get this number?

Christina: Oh, a friend of mine does catering and they passed the number on. They saw on my Facebook that I liked your Equator series. It was fantastic. (I refrain from saying, “you’re the reason why I sacrificed my Saturday nights three weeks in a row so I sincerely hope you're neither gay nor married")

Simon: Why thanks!

Christina: Well, if you’re back in Perth again and you need someone to show you around, you have my number on your mobile.

Simon: Thank you. And I’m really glad you liked the series.

Christina: Thanks Simon. Cheers and best of luck with the new series. And I really am quite normal. (and after I say that, I know I shouldn’t have: George Lakoff's book Don't Think Of An Elephant springs to mind)

Ta dah! See. I am shaking off my Fag Hag robes. Not quite the response I was hoping for, but nothing ventured and nothing gained. Except an exercise in self-humiliation.

On the plus side. It’s a step up from gay boys, 21 year olds and Mirkwood Elves.

Hey. I tried.

Buy me an ice-cream if you see me on campus. I’m milking the sympathy for as long as possible.