October 20th 2003 - October 26th 2003
Sunday Screamers
Saturday Et tu?
Friday Yeaaaah
Thursday Wrap
Wednesday Diwali
Tuesday Vengeful
Monday Bad press
Sunday 26th October 2003
I haven't slept with any of the Twenty Most Influential British Gays as interviewed in the Observer today. (Not knowingly anyway.)
But I was struck by the enormous influence these mature figures attribute to the gay bars and clubs in their lives.
Patrick Cox praises Shadowlounge and Salvation, and the family of friends he's made there: "Going to clubs is my going to church. It's time to be free, to have fun."
Wolfgang Tillmans loves going to the George & Dragon in Shoreditch: "People there are not brainwashed by the ultra-stereotyped gay mantra of drugs and musclebound bodies."
Kim Lucas and Simon Hobart slip in plugs (ooh matron) for their respective flagships, Candy Bar and Popstarz. Brian Paddick mentions Bootylicious. Philip Hensher name-checks Queer Nation. Isaac Julien pays tribute to The Bell.
Michael Cashman says he was taken to "a bar where I saw two boys snogging. It was a huge relief."
And Paul O'Grady remembers performing at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, the night the police raided it: "They trooped in wearing rubber gloves. I was carried out, saloon girl-style, kicking and screaming."
Saturday 25th October 2003
Chatting away to a friend in the pub, as you do, the name of a well-respected Hollywood director comes up in conversation. And my friend reveals he'd slept with said director a few years back.
Twenty-four hours later, different pub, different conversation, different friend - same confession.
My turn soon then.
Friday 24th October 2003
Do you miss the rude riot that was music-hall? The sing-song round the pub joanna? Bring it on, the best thing since Naked Twister: porno karaoke
Thursday 23rd October 2003
What a fine night at the Swan last night: old friends, new friends, people I've slept with, people I'd like to sleep with - and all of it given extra point, added drama, by the fact there's a film-crew in, quietly weaving its way among the crowd with an (unprecedented!) excuse-me here and a thank-you there, camera and monitor held discreetly at waist-level, no lights, no "And..action!", no "That's a wrap!", no sign they're there at all unless you come across them in the crowd.
"Just tell the crew you don't want to be in their movie if you don't want to be on film," says Sandra from the stage, and you can hear a muttered "As if!" from the media-hardened audience, quietly edging their way towards the action, into shot, keeping one eye on the boy removing his clothing on the stage and another on the director mumbling instructions to his crew.
It's true what they say about spotting well-known actors on your home-turf - just for a moment your heart leaps in recognition as if you've spotted an old friend, and then you realise it's him, you know, the Indian one from Teachers, predictably much smaller than on screen, and, well, if that's his idea of how gay men cruise each other, face to face, blatantly running a hungry gaze the full length of the body, he needs to get some practise in; surely everybody knows the way to do it is to stand alongside your quarry, ostentatiously inspecting every other inch of the room except the space in which they're standing...
And, oh look, there's another familiar face, now what have we seen them in, oh no, this one we do know: it's Darren, giving an unusually restrained nod of the head, did I offend him last time we met - and then you realise that he's been drafted in as yet another man to flirt with, and when the scene is ended he comes over, and you talk, and he says how much he likes The Swan and how he really should come more often, and you want to go, oh, it's not always this good, and then you realise that...it often is.
Wednesday 22nd October 2003
Nine o'clock or thereabouts, half-way up the original Canary Wharf tower, and everybody's settling down for a quietly intent night's work when there's an immense bang and a bright red flash of light.
Fireworks for Diwali of course, tactfully housed on the aforementioned leisure amenity walled from view by thirty-storey towers on three sides so that all the surrounding immigrant communities can see or hear are loud bangs, heavy smoke and intermittent coloured glows.
They must have thought all their Christmases had come at once.
Tuesday 21st October 2003
There were scenes of delight in Port Talbot tonight, as news of the settlement spread. The unions were pleased that the crisis had eased, and the firm was delighted, it said.
John Simpson again, quoting a vengeful news report written by a sacked BBC radio sub-editor; "You must read it out loud to get the best effect. Some unfortunate newsreader had to."
Monday 20th October 2003
People may read and listen to the words of journalists with interest, and sometimes even a modicum of respect, but they know perfectly well there is something dubious, untrustworthy, and faintly grubby about them.
Journalists are inclined to borrow money off you for a taxi fare or a dinner, and never quite get round to paying you back. They are statistically more likely to run off with your married daughter, drink too much, smoke when everybody else has given up and fail to clean their fingernails.
I would guess there are more only children in journalism than in any other profession. The writer Julie Burchill, much more fiercely, once wrote, 'Journalism is show-business for ugly people.'
- John Simpson, 'News from No Man's land'
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