Sex & the settee

Niall Stokes’ brother once caught me in a horrifically compromising position with a beautiful woman, in his house, the morning after a hotpress Christmas party several years ago. I have absolutely no idea how I ended up in Niall Stokes’ brother’s house in the first place, but it’s safe to assume there was drink taken. Lots of drink. She was unspeakably mortified and left as if the hounds of hell were snapping at her heels, never to be seen again. He was highly amused and so was I. As you do in these awkward situations, we

ate cornflakes, drank tea, talked about things like the weather and then he pointed me in the direction of the bus stop. We’ve met occasionally in the interim, but apart from the mandatory knowing smirk, have never spoken of “the incident” since.

There was no need. He knows. I know. He knows I know he knows. There’s a whole lot of knowledge going on. Indeed, in the weeks that followed it became painfully apparent to me that his brother, my boss, also knew. When you work in hotpress for any length of time, you soon realise that no matter what’s going on, Niall knows. He may spend all day seated in his editorial chair, plotting and scheming from behind his editorial desk, but he doesn’t

miss a trick. Niall knows. Niall always knows.

As I didn’t speak to Niall personally this afternoon, I can only assume that this is the kind of confessional prose he had in mind when he asked his assistant to instruct me to write a special “Sexual Indiscretions In The

Hot Press Office” special for the 25th anniversary issue of his august organ. Having written for him for five years, I can safely say that very few of Niall’s suggestions, however deranged or hair-brained they might seem, tend to surprise me anymore. Nevertheless, this one knocked me for six. Or should

I say sex.

Of course there is always method to Niall’s madness. Vague journalistic briefs such as this one are a specialty. He never gives his writers too much instructional rope, just enough to fashion a functional noose with which to publicly hang yourself, if you’re that way inclined. Alternatively, you can just ignore him and waffle on about biscuits or the latest David Holmes album instead. Either way, he won’t be too bothered.

I’m guessing he asked me to do this job because he knows I have “previous” in the field of sexual indiscretion in the workplace. My form may be patchier than that of a mangy racehorse, but it will always be there.

I should clarify that by workplace, I don’t mean Hot Press specifically. What I’m talking about can be described as the incestuous gang bang that is the Dublin showbiz/media/PR “scene”. It’s a small pool that ebbs and flows

between nightclubs such as Lillie’s Bordello, Renards and the like.

Everybody knows everybody, and when enough drink has been consumed, everybody tends to get to know everybody a lot better. Then they all compare notes.

When, as a newcomer to the hotpress fold, I realised that many of the more attractive female fish who lived in the shallows of this pool were more than happy to teach a young cub reporter the ways of the world, I dived straight in and splashed around with abandon until exhaustion set in and I clambered out again a chastened man. With the benefit of 20-20 hindsight, I have no problem admitting I carried on like a complete dick. I was young, footloose, fancy-free, excited, ungallant, arrogant, a complete dipsomaniac and

downright obnoxious to boot. My behaviour was consistently appalling for a disturbing length of time. They were happy days.

At the risk of sounding repetitive, Niall knows all about the shenanigans of his staff, past and present. He knows all his staff know he knows, and he basks in the knowledge that we continue to have no idea how he knows. The fucker.

I can’t speak for anyone else, but sometimes I made it easy for him. I’ll never forget the look of unbridled glee that lit up his editorial features when a hotpress colleague and I who stepped out with each other for a while, but were attempting to keep our relationship secret from everyone at work, bumped into the entire Stokes family as we walked hand in hand down Dame Street one night. He never mentioned it, but you could tell he was reveling in the fact that he knew and the knowledge that we knew he knew.

Other times there were “incidents” I thought he couldn’t possibly have known about until word got back that he was blissfully aware of very sordid detail. And while this column may read like I’m Gene Simmons from Kiss, let me assure you that nothing could be further from the truth. My past sexual indiscretions in the workplace were cack-handed, few and far between compared to better hotpress men and women than me. I’ve read my friend and

colleague Olaf Tyaransen’s memoir, The Story Of O, and was infinitely more amused by the tales of sexual derring-do he left out than the ones he deemed worthy of inclusion. I was there. I saw it all.

There are other Hot Press figures who have chosen to keep the more lurid details of their private lives private. Perhaps it’s because they are blessed with common sense, or maybe they don’t actually write for the magazine and would never admit to having lawful carnal knowledge of yours truly even if they did. Who could blame them? Whatever their role in the

hotpress scheme of things, they’re discreet, so I’m not about to upset them here. Let’s face it, if Stuart Clark isn’t man enough to confess to his assorted fetishes and perversions in print, far be it from me to embarrass him here. I have no desire to open a can of worms, not least because Clark would almost certainly perform a lewd sex act with it and end up nicking his pierced todger on the serrated edge.

Before I go, it occurs to me that despite what I may have said earlier, Niall Stokes doesn’t necessarily know everything that goes on in Trinity Street’s answer to Ayia Napa. Indeed, if Niall knew as much as I think he

knows about Sexual Indiscretions In The hotpress Office down through the ages, there’s no way in the world he’d pull the aforementioned editorial chair up to the aforementioned editorial desk every weekday morning. I can honestly say that I’ve never been sexually indiscreet on either piece of

furniture while Niall’s been away on holidays, but I can think of several of his employees, past and present, who have. Obviously I’d name names, but that would be indiscreet. Suffice to say, it’s not called the hot seat for

nothing. And then there’s that sofa…