May 9th 2004 - May 16th 2004
Sunday Stunned
Saturday Tidy
Friday Omnivorous
Thursday Spirited
Wednesday Auts
Tuesday Raga
Monday Random
Sunday 16th May 2004
It's 5:30 in the morning and I'm lolling in an arm-chair with a somewhat over-priced can of beer held loosely in my hand.
To my right, a semi-naked boy clasps his naked lover in his arms. To my left, a pudgy sixty-year-old man wears just a posing pouch.
A trio of transvestites in improbable stillettos idly stir their drinks with straws, looking over from time to time to the far end of the bar where a distinctly plump principal boy (boots, tights, frilly shirt) is playfully spanking his leather-skirted girlfriend.
A young guy in glasses - not unattractive - is dancing in some kind of plastic poncho. And precious little else, so far as I can see. No, wait: red lycra cycling shorts.
There's a darkroom further back, some commodious toilets and a bare strip-lit room that describes itself, in the print-out sellotaped to the corridor wall, as 'Dungeon' - no takers tonight. What's going on in the dimly-lit space advertised as 'Girls and Couples Only' remains a mystery, given that I fail to qualify on either count.
No matter. I'm quite happy sitting here smiling, seriously chilled.
It occurs to me that here's a space in which I can present myself in whatever guise I could wish for. Scoutmaster, dinner lady, botty man, thief. Lacking any other Freudian directive, I sit up and pull off my t-shirt.
Cool. I finally made it back to Stunners.
Saturday 15th May 2004
You know the lame joke about gay burglars? Here's a new twist.
Friday 14th May 2004
Obituary watch
"His chief interests were books, and intelligent conversation. A gentle aesthete and a shambolic dilettante, he was extraordinarily widely read, but shrewd and critical as well as omnivorous.
"He wrote several novels, or parts thereof.."
Thursday 13th May 2004
Sir,
Your City Comment (Apr 30) reports that "the poodle, national dog of France, is known for its shy temperament''. As chairman of the Poodle Club, founded in 1876, I would like to point out that the Kennel Club breed standard describes the poodle as "gay-spirited and good tempered", certainly not shy.
Yrs,
C L Seidler, Horsham, W Sussex
Sir,
Poodles may mistakenly be thought of as "gay" because of the coloured ribbon often worn on the head. This originated when they were used as gun dogs and could be identified when retrieving from water.
Yrs,
Victor Cornish, Stapleford, Cambs
Wednesday 12th May 2004
I have, at least in the abstract, a great affection for people with autism, not least because their reverence for logic tends to lead them to agree with me when I suggest they ought to be known as auts.
In the early days of the internet, I frequented a gay forum (and this was way before pictures became as common as they are today, so you'll just have to believe me when I say I went there for the quality of the conversation).
Witty as they were, the residents of that forum also demonstrated enormous reserves of kindness when newbies strayed in, looking for answers to unformulated questions. ("No offence honey, but it's just like they say: if you feel ya hafta ask the question, ya don't need to ask the question!")
One day an aut called Toby wandered in, and stayed. Toby said he was an asexual hermaphrodite, and after witnessing a few of his enquiries and his bemused response to our explanations, we pretty much believed him.
He made us laugh a lot - not with him, and certainly not at him, just by the shockingly off-kilter perceptions that he summoned. Sadly, I've forgotten all of the things he said that made me nearly wet myself, which is why I was particularly glad to come across a story (in a review of Charlotte Moore's 'George and Sam: Autism in the Family') about how George's parents bought their autistic son a toy telephone, hoping to encourage his verbal skills.
Imagine their dismay when they discovered that all he would do with it was pick up the handset and intone: "Please replace the handset and try again."
Tuesday 11th May 2004
At our paper, at least, graphics that are prepared to look as if they've been torn out of a page are referred to as a "rag-outs" (apparently).
That's the only explanation you need to appreciate why a colleague's desktop has a file on it called 'abortion_ragout'.
Monday 10th May 2004
Random encounters from the weekend
Drifting around the back bar at The Swan on Friday, I passed what I took to be a middle aged man in difficulties, wisps of white hair everywhere, surrounded by a concerned crowd anxious to hold his arm.
Passing and turning, I noticed a rainbow t-shirt, unlikely apparel for a derelict, then realised that the crowd were merely anxious to express their admiration. Official then: Sir Ian McKellen does drink at the White Swan.
In the (as ever inexplicable) queue for Duckie the next night, two sweet skinny boys leant forward to ask me how much it was going to cost them to get in.
When they asked what time Fire opened, and how much that might cost, I said that their best bet might be Dukes ("Just a block down the road, big pub painted back, so you'll know it's gay.")
They thanked me and said they'd give it a try. As I watched them wandering away, I remembered it was Bear Night at Dukes. Sorry, boys.
I spent much Saturday night wondering if I'd see the kinda cute guy that I'd lamely attempted to chat up several months ago. That had been at The Swan, and my line was "Shouldn't you be at Duckie?", since that was where he'd first come to my attention.
But here I was at Duckie for a change and..oh, there he is. (And yes, my line this time was "Shouldn't you be at The Swan?")
Standing next to Jonathan a little later, I watched him being accosted by a gibbering fan. "Oh, its you, its overyourhead, oh, I read your blog all the time, I can't believe I'm actually talking to you..."
Under the circumstances, rather good of me to keep silent, wouldn't you say?
At the night bus-stop, I warned a young woman off the perenially broken ticket-machine, watched her buy a second-hand ticket from some swarthy foreigner, and smiled when, having paid for it, she turned to ask me if I thought if it would work.
"I sure hope so," she explained. "That was the last of my cash and I have to get home to Tottenham Hale." I pressed a pound coin into her hand, and realised how nice it is to give money to people who haven't explicitly asked for it, for a change.
On the night bus, stealthily ogling the East European porn-star lookalike across the aisle, my view was interrupted by someone sitting down next to me. As I settled myself to give him more room, I realised he looked vaguely familiar and, drunk as I was, muttered accusingly: "I know your face from somewhere", a statement he understandably shrugged off with considerable diffidence.
As the bus moved off down Fleet Street, I got my book out of my pocket, he bent down to his bag and pulled out a copy of Hello. Not a close acquaintance then.
As I rose to get off on Commercial Road, it came to me. "White Swan," I muttered, and he smiled and nodded assent. (Do you notice, like, a theme here?)
Sitting getting steadily more drunk with four friends in The Vic off Columbia Road on Sunday, I found my knee being clasped by a somewhat raving Antipodean.
"Aw, I rearly must apologise, I've taken ten Es this weekend and I'm a little bit..y'know." Did he have to work tomorrow? "Yeah, I have to teach class in the morning..."
......previous week
