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º December 5th-10th 2000
Monday a blog
Tuesday Patti Smith
Wednesday pop quiz
Thursday Damien Hirst
Friday Spiral, Tasmania
Saturday a long night
Sunday Joan Collins, cockroaches, Northern Lights
º Monday 4th December 2000
Apparently: I've started a blog
º Tuesday 5th December 2000
Apparently: Patti Smith's gig in London last night took place at St James Church, Piccadilly? And her first song was 'Over the Rainbow'? (Source: Independent)
º Wednesday 6th December 2000
Last night to the Retro Bar where I have an occasional Tuesday habit of turning up at the Pop Quiz to watch some friends of mine fail to win Big Cash Prizes by the traditional half-point. (Last time I went I Iost them a vital point by insisting an answer was 'Georgie Fame' rather than 'Alan Price' - I'm not allowed to speak during the quiz any more.)
Their team-name then was 'Boyfriend by Christmas'. I noticed that, this time, fourteen days closer to Christmas, they weren't so confident. (Is it only gay quizzers who've developed team-names to a fine art? One week this summer, a winning team at the William was 'Fly Concorde direct to your hotel.')
º Thursday 7th December 2000
Apparently: Damien Hirst used to be a roadie for Barry Manilow? (Source: Popbitch)
º Friday 8th December 2000
Last night to the Spiral Staircase to catch up with John behind the bar. (I found a web-description of the Spiral yesterday: "An often amusing little venue to go to if you like people-watching, or are a clinical psychologist." That's about right.)
Max and his boyfriend have spent three entire days on the Christmas decorations, with the result that the place now looks like nothing so much as a Soho strip-joint circa 1970. Cool.
Other hot news: the actual spiral staircase has been sold. For £150. It turned out to be an aluminium replica. Max says he's glad to see it gone, given that there will be no more exit-bound drunks found hanging from the top of it come 4am.
Apparently: It is no longer illegal to cross-dress after dark in Tasmania. (Source: Independent)
º Saturday 9th December 2000
Last night in the pouring rain to Jacomos for a drink with Little Steve. I like Jacomos: it's that rare thing, a gay bar where you can have a conversation without shouting. (Middle-aged? Moi?) The last time I was here was with David Sim and David Saunders, both of whom might have been joing us tonight; the last time Little Steve was here he got shagged on the pool table (apparently).
Given that Trade is just down the road, there are surprisingly few other gay bars in Smithfield (mind you, Trade doesn't open its doors till 3am). Having nowhere else to go wouldn't normally matter, except when you get to Jacomos in the pouring rain, ten minutes late, and discover that the place is closed for a private party. Times like this, I wish I wasn't the last queen left in London without a mobile.
So I sheltered in a dripping doorway and watched the lightning for a while, till Steve turned up and, after a huddled conversation under his umbrella, we decided to go say hello to Paul and his hundreds of belgian beers at the Dovetail.
Then a call on Steve's phone (the first of many) from Phil, to say that Neil has rung from a nearby call box (he left his mobile at home) to say that, eek, Jacomos is closed. Yes Neil, we know that. But which call box? Happily, we found him (I wasn't expecting Neil, but he knows I fancy him rotten, so that's good).
The Dovetail is full, and Paul is busy ("You don't half pick your moments"), and there are no tables. Confronted by a repertoire of, ooh, at least a hundred different beers, Steve and Neil both opt for a -quote- pint of lager -unquote-. Chatter about Neil's lightning trip to play at a club two hours outside Helsinki, and Steve's trip to Switzerland to organise a show halfway up a mountain, and another multi-part phone conversation with Phil, after which we decide to move onto Islington, starting at the Edward VI.
And, after Neil has returned to the Dovetail for his bag, and after we actually manage to procure a black cab in the pouring rain, and after we've had a minor disagreement as to whether the hotel next to the Eddie at the Angel is a Stakis or a Hilton, and whether it matters, that's what we do.
The Eddie looks surprisingly cosy tonight: no music, and lots of candles. Is it a theme night? No, it's an electricity failure. But we order more lager, find a table, and a chair, and another chair, and a stool, and the lights come back on, and we can see that, no surprise, there's no-one we fancy in tonight. (I did say hello to Jim, and to H2O David though.)
More conversation (about sex, and about boyfriends, and the difference between the two) and more multi-part phone calls with Phil who is (a) just leaving and (b) heading towards the Edward and (c) at the Joiners and (d) still at the Joiners and we decide, somewhat reluctantly, to get another cab in the still pouring rain to join Phil at the Joiners. I mention that I'm guestlisted for One Nation, the Queer Nation night at 33 Old Street, but neither of them are very interested: Neil doesn't fancy the music, Steve doesn't fancy the men.
We could each of us write a multi-page essay about The Joiner's Arms but this is not a night to dwell on previous miseries, so let's not. (Suffice it to say that we all used to enjoy spending a lot of time there, and now we don't.)
With Poppy behind the bar, and Speedy on the decks, its just like old times: an excess of familiar drug-fucked faces to say hello to (including, hey, Phil) and a dearth of interesting strangers to get off with. I started the evening feeling too tired to go to One Nation, but the lager's kicking in now and I'm thinking of changing my mind.
Just as well really, since next time I look round Phil and Neil and Steve have vanished into the night. Steve claims to be going to the Two Brewers, as its on his way home, but I suspect he was going to the Block, which is not. Phil and Neil were due at John's boyfriend's birthday party, just around the corner. (Hey, I know John. Hey, John likes me. Hey, I could do that. Or, excuse me, am I being especially obnoxious/ drunk/ boring/ ugly tonight?)
One Nation it is then, and I stagger the oh-so-familiar route past the kebab shop opposite Columbia Road and on to what used to be The London Apprentice. (More multi-page history to be written about that late-lamented venue too, but let's not go there.)
Maybe I'm not especially obnoxious/ drunk/ boring/ ugly tonight; the door whore seems particularly pleased to usher me behind the velvet rope. I'm sure the fact that's its still only 11.30 and there are no queues has little bearing on that.
Inside, its pretty empty, so it's easy to spot Patrick Lilley and his pipe lurking in the DJ booth downstairs. We spend the time-honoured half hour lurking in dark corners attempting to count the punters whilst Patrick whines about it being too empty and I reassure him that Patrick It's Still Early. And indeed, by the time we venture upstairs to find Talullah, the place is filling up nicely with the usual mixed-race mixed-sexuality Hoxton-cum-Hackney crowd.
I dance a bit here and there, kiss hello to a few familiar faces (Sean, Paul). Patrick buys me a beer, and I decide it's official: I'm drunk. I totter out into the night, consider one for the road at the Spiral, but wisdom prevails and I spend 20 minutes looking for a black cab instead.
The cabbie agrees with me that there are even more drunk suits on the street than usual. The Christmas Party season is starting early this year. Remember: you heard it here firsht.
º Sunday 10th December 2000
The British service provider, LineOne, have announced that they are strengthening their portal with a roster of celebrity writers. One name in particular caught my eye: Lifestyle Consultant, Joan Collins. Useful that. Must remember, next time I'm blind drunk with my trousers round my ankles: "Errr, what would Joan Collins do now?"
I work the occasional late night shift as a sub-editor at the web edition of a large broadsheet newspaper. The job consists largely of taking the day's stories and digging out hyperlinks to relevant external sites and previous editions.
Despite the strip-lighting and the no smoking policy, I enjoy the work - not least for the attractive company of a dedicated crew of young fellow subs and their traditional gallows wit. I like the serendipity of an evening spent on search engines too, bobbing for apples and not knowing what you'll come up with.
Last night a story on pest control in Beijing hauled up this historic headline: Cockroaches think with their bottoms. Ring any bells?
I finished Northern Lights this afternoon, just in time to hot-foot it to the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. Philip Pullman's 'His Dark Materials" trilogy has been puffed as the next Harry Potter. But, dear me, it's much much better than that...
