Harrison Chase and the Rollercoaster of Doom

Yo. Harrison Chase here,
How are you doing?

It’s a crisp winter day and I’m sat in my study getting an eyeful of golden leaves through the window.

I love cold weather. I love the crisp air and the opportunity to wear my glow in the dark skeleton gloves. I also like being able to pile so many blankets on my bed that they almost crush me.

One disadvantage is the winter wardrobe. I think winter knitwear is quite ageing and seems to go from a school uniform / preppy look to middle-aged with nothing in-between. I’m 26 now. I have been for a great many years and I want that continue.

So are you wondering what’s going on with my love life? That’s my usual topic isn’t it, not cardigans.

Well it has been a bit of a rollercoaster weekend on that front, an Alton Towers Smiler kind of rollercoaster.

Do you remember this?

Well unfortunately something similar happened on Friday night.

We were having a romantic dinner at mine. The conversation revealed something minor about each other that neither of us liked.

It was no deal breaker, but we both could have handled it better. It simmered under the surface for an hour or two, cooled off…..and then unexpectedly went totally nuclear.

As he stormed out of my flat shouting “I can’t believe this is happening” I just thought “No, neither can I”. I haven’t heard from him since.

Oh well. As the French say “Ca la vie”, or as I say…… “Fuck it”





Harrison and Friends, and the Staircase of Terror

Hello, and good evening, Harrison Chase here, polishing off my magnificent column.

I got asked out when I was in Morrison’s earlier. It’s surprising considering how rough I look and feel. Good on her though, it takes courage to do something like that. I could learn a thing or two there.

I explained that I was a full-time gay and told her that she had made my day.

I’ll tell you why I look so rough. I’ve been on a four-day drinking binge that even Mel Gibson would find a bit excessive.

Manchester was the destination, wine, beer and spirits were the tipple, a stag party was the reason.

We stayed in a swanky penthouse with a spiral staircase. Such staircases are quite treacherous when you’re constantly shit faced, thankfully none of us slipped.

We did two escape rooms while we were there. The first was in a terrifying haunted house. Some aristocrat had been fucking around with a Ouija board and then vanished from his locked room without a trace. We found his body stuffed in a wardrobe in a secret room that we accessed through the fireplace. Mystery solved, high fives and beers all round.

Next up, the President’s son had been kidnapped. The clues led to a trainspotting style shit hole called ‘Room 60’. We cracked that one too, though if we’d known it was Eric Trump who was being held to ransom we probably would have let them keep him. I don’t care what people say. If you kill an elephant for fun you’re a dickhead.

Anyway, I’m back in London now, the excitement is over and a return to work is looming.  At least I have Saturday to look forward to, dancing at my now joint favourite club. The brother-in-law is coming down for it. We’re going to party like it’s 1999, that should be easy…..it’s a Britpop night.

Alright, see you fuckers

Mr Harrison Chase

Harrison Chase and the Persistent Four

I know I promised to tell you about the headmaster next, but I’m hungover and can’t be arsed. I’ve had some hair of the dog but it hasn’t touched the sides.

I was out clubbing last night in a pair of gold PVC trousers. It wasn’t fancy dress before you ask, I just happen to have a very loud wardrobe. My mate Dan once told me that I don’t have outfits, just a load of costumes.

I rocked those trousers last night, I felt like I was in Studio 54. I’ve totally got my swagger back.

I was shit faced by the time I left the club. My swagger became a stagger, then I went arse over tit and faceplanted the tarmac down Kennington Lane. The trousers were ripped to bits, as was my knee.

Anyway, about the persistent number. I have always said that dating is a numbers game. For me it seems to be about one number in particular, four.

I haven’t got past date four with anyone since I dumped that loser nearly two years ago. It’s like a curse. Something always goes wrong before or on date four. It’s often disappointing because there’s got to be something there for it to get that far. It happened again last month actually, but I’m keeping that particular disappointment permanently under wraps

Anyway, the reason I bring this up is that I’ve got a very rare fourth date with someone this Wednesday. If it goes well it will be new territory for me, if it doesn’t, the curse of the persistent four will have struck again.

I’m quite nervous about it actually. This fella is handsome, he’s nice, he LOVES indie music, he codes, seems reliable, his name forms a hilarious pun when combined with mine and he has a good head on his shoulders. He has unexpectedly grown on me. Date three ended with a rather electrifying kiss. I know, get a room.

Next time I’ll tell you what I got up to in the headmaster’s office. I still find myself grinning when I think of that one.

Alright losers, get back to it

Harrison Chase logging off








The Wandering Hands

Yo mammals, Harrison Chase here.

I promised you I’d get through this backlog of dating stories, but I’ve barely started.

Right, how should I pick this up. Maybe with Bobby, Bobby from Detroit Michigan back in July.
Bobby had a face that could be from a Brylcream advert, teeth that could be from a Colgate advert and conversation that could be from a Sensodyne advert, AKA……boring as fuck.
One of my new favourite expressions is “read the room!”, Bobby wasn’t very good at it.
I thought it would have been perfectly obvious that I couldn’t have been less interested, but barely half an hour into the date I felt something on my leg. It was his foot, and it didn’t seem to be an accidental brush.
Next came the wandering hand on the knee, and then the other hand. Bobby had gone from boring and flirty into full on Benny Hill mode. I had to get up and move my bar stool as far away from the table as possible.
What gets me about this is that the guy was 12 years younger than me. Surely if anyone should have been the creep in this scenario it should have been me!

Alright, that’s all for now. Coming soon, Harrison’s Adventures with the Hogwarts Headmaster.
Harrison, over and out

Tales of the City

Hi Fuckers, look who’s back!

I’ve restarted this dating bullshit after a six-month break. I’ve got so much to tell you that I’m going to have to divide it into chunks, like tofu, or vomit.

The unimpressible fitbag ‘Reza’ was my biggest disappointment of last year. He told me on date three that my story about sleep walking and then going through my mother in law’s wardrobes in the middle of the night was “too heavy” and that it had somehow spoilt the night.

I agonised over that for a bit when things went tits up with him. I shouldn’t have, that story is GOLD, he needs to chill out.

Anyway, the reason I bring him up is because I wonder what he would have made of a tale I was told on a first date this week. I met this guy straight from work in a Tiki lounge, fun place, great music, I was chair dancing………until

“As we were hit, Sandra was killed instantly”.

Where can you go from there apart from this ….

“Sorry to hear that…………….. so do you have any pets?”

Talking of wildly inappropriate things to say to someone who you have just met, when I met up with a Doctor in Clapham for a second date his first words were “I feel great, I’m wearing this amazing supportive body stocking”

I did not want to find out what lurked beneath that.

Thankfully a grand reveal was not even a remote possibility. He turned out to be the most sanctimonious shit I have ever met. He told me I had “failed humanity” by not giving an angry pissed bloke some money, and he wished I could see the world like he did.

Whatever dickhead, I hope your halo is elasticated like your body stocking, it will stop your head from getting any bigger.
Alright, that’s it for now. I’ll be back soon, there’s lots more where this came from. I’m saving the really juicy good stuff for another time.
Oh the juicy stuff, I’m grinning just thinking about it.
Harrison Chase, back in the game, on a train…..over and out.

Swiping The Slate Clean

Bollocks to dating, I’m packing it in.

After nearly ten months of being back on the dating scene I’m officially bored. I must have spent over a grand on it. I’ve wasted countless hours meeting people who after five minutes I never wanted to see again.

Dating fatigue has set in, the Tinder profile has gone, the app has been deleted. I’m going into a dating cocoon. I’m planning on emerging from my chrysalis later in the year, hopefully with bigger arms and less debt.

I’m out for my birthday on Saturday. It’s an excuse to wear my legendary silver trousers. I bought them in Camden in the late 1990s just before my first ever Bowie gig. They have been a cherished possession ever since.

I’ll be celebrating the big 2-6 at an indie club in Hackney. Maybe the trousers will give me an edge, maybe I’ll meet someone in person and not through an app, maybe we’ll snog on the dance floor as they play suede.

I can’t believe it has been a year since I last turned 26, it feels like longer.

Anyway,  See yaz




Tales of the unexpected

Hello there,
Long day? Tired? Trumped out? Don’t worry. Put your feet up, I’ll do the talking.

The unthinkable keeps on happening. The more I try to understand it the more confusing and unpredictable it becomes. If 2016 has taught us anything, it’s that we must all learn to expect the unexpected, it’s the new black.

Take yesterday afternoon for example. I went out for a couple of drinks with my mate Nick. Just a quiet couple of afternoon pints. Several hours later I was fleeing a club after being aggressively twerked by a young man who seemed perfectly sane just moments before. It turns out twerking is as hilariously unsexy in real life as it is on MTV.

A couple of weeks ago I put on my lucky T-Rex socks and went to meet Hugh, a man who was frankly punching above his weight by asking me out at all. Hugh it turns out….is a total shit. Hugh never bothered showing up for our date, Hugh never even bothered texting me to let me know he wasn’t going.

As the barman cleared up empty glasses around me I had the feeling that it wasn’t really happening, that this could only happen in a scene from a film.

My life is becoming more filmic actually, there is more going on these days. I’ve had a sudden spike in richness. I’m talking about enjoyment and experiences here, not Scrooge McDuck richness.

Did I tell you that one of my new year’s resolutions was to be less frigid? I’ve always been jealous of people who can meet someone they like, enjoy themselves and then continue their life without endlessly dissecting ‘what it means’

I was telling a junior Doctor this last Thursday. Just to be clear, I was his date, not his patient.

That Thursday started strangely with a shock Trump win. Later on a bloke called Edward got the rare chance to make a second bad first impression…. by cancelling our first date for the second time. Perhaps it was this snub that made me agree to go to Dartford in the middle of fucking nowhere to go on a different first date….cue the Doctor.

It was great, and strange. We sat in a bar in a near-deserted shopping centre. There’s not much going on in Dartford. This young man was an over-achiever on an epic scale. Fashion model, child genius, karate champion and recording artist, he also spoke just about every language under the sun including Mandarin. He seemed very proud of himself, and who can blame him.

Wild Tangent alert. Do you remember me telling you about the text rationing odd ball from earlier this year?

Forgive the skip back in time here. I once invited ration man over for dinner, but he wasn’t having any of it. He said it was far too big a gesture for so early on, that he wasn’t comfortable with it, and that he was commitment phobic and had only ever gone out with one person.

Do you see where this is going? My date on Thursday was only that one person!
As soon as he told me about ‘a friend’ who stumbled across a Faberge statue at a flea market in Paris I knew straight away.


I broke the news that I had also dated that guy. It was less awkward than you might expect. The real awkwardness was only an hour away.


After a brilliant evening he dropped me off at Dartford Station. We sat in the car for a moment anxiously waiting to see if we were going to kiss. We didn’t, we weren’t drunk enough.

It was in that anxious moment that I somehow missed the last train back to London. When I realised this he had already driven off. Fuck, fuck and fuck. I was stranded a squillion away miles from home.

With no other option I bit the bullet and sent the guy an SOS text message. He came back to pick me up and said I could sleep at his place as long as this wasn’t ‘a ruse’.

His place turned out to be a hospital dorm the size of a chest freezer. We were right on top of each other, and not in a good way.


After a few drinks and a few hours of nervous small talk we both squeezed into the single bed to turn in. As I lay there I thought “I can’t fucking believe this”

He was clearly thinking of something else

“Can I help you with you new year’s resolution?” he asked

Yes please. Sometimes the unexpected can be delightful.


Harrison out, sleep tight