May 31st 2004 - June 6th 2004
Sunday Echolalia
Saturday Washingtonienne
Friday Bless
Thursday Aha. Oops
Wednesday Foaming phobics
Tuesday Searching
Monday Apologia
Sunday 6th June 2004
I know what it means; I know what it ought to mean
Echolalia: - the noise of very young children playing in the courtyard of my block of flats, shouting, screaming and generally gibbering, often in languages that I can't even pretend to understand.
Saturday 5th June 2004
Yet another blogista opens her big fat mouth and gets herself into trouble: Washingtonienne
Friday 4th June 2004
Thursday 3rd June 2004
Although I'm pretty crap at names (an understandable flaw in a sub-culture where every third man I know is called Dave), I'm usually pretty good with faces.
Which is not to say that I always know where I've seen someone before, only that I do vaguely recognise that I've seen them. (Especially if they're cute.)
As with last night in Ver Zwan, where I looked across the room at a tall dark-haired young man, and thought, "Aha.
"Now, is that the guy I rather fancy, and to whom I was introduced last year by a mutual friend, and on whom I have subsequently forced my heavy-handed conversation at least twice?
"Or is it the man that I spotted, and rather fancied, when I saw him stark naked at a distinctly louche venue that had best remain nameless and on whom I subsequently attempted to force my heavy-lidded attention for the rest of the evening?
"Hmm, do you know, I rather think it's both. Oops."
My how we laughed when I went up to him and explained.
Wednesday 2nd June 2004
We are not "homophobes." This word means, "The fear of men."
We are NOT frightened of men. We are also not frightened of sodomites. We do not respond in terms of phobias, like sodomites who panic when they come face to face with a manly Bible believer.
Stories abound of how sodomites have gone into demonic frenzy and done unspeakable things when faced with a true saint of Jesus Christ. This is because they don't know what to do with a Bible believing man. THEY are the ones with manic phobia.
There are certain places, certain insane sites, that entirely defy criticism, mental landscapes beyond description, vistas of blistering lunacy to which the only valid response is a drooling slack-jawed empty stare.
And this is one of them.
("Mickey Mouse and Donald Duck Sodomites? Daisy Duck and Minnie Mouse lesbians? The proof is in.")
Tuesday 1st June 2004
I had a very pleasant message from a complimentary stranger, who stumbled across my site by searching for "fuck my inability to live appropriately". (And which is more strange: that he went searching for that thought, or that I supplied his need?)
Whatever else that indicates, I think it's time once more to take a lazy wander through the lush thickets of the jungle that is: my search requests.
Would it, for instance, surprise you to discover that Blogadoon is the top tip for eye candy stoke newington church street? It surprised me.
Less surprisingly, and only somewhat to my disgust, Priory keystone and Disney hidden messages continue to lure in punters.
Comfortingly, predictable concerns like garrett hedlund naked, naked boy and, er, Naked Sonia Gandhi still bring people to my door, along with those seeking frederic michalak shirtless and prince william underpants. (You may consider homo for dummies, White-Swan stripper, and diary of a binge drinker equally relevant.)
Some come searching information that I feel I ought to have, but don't: indian erotic blogs, "peter mandelson" + sex, hampstead fuck, Sauna Massage Kings Cross; others have not a hope in hell of finding what they wish for here: city gardener, search pretty middle age x wives or, no connection presumably, what does David beckham do in his spare time.
Puzzles abound. What mechanism, precisely, brought me three visitors in as many hours, looking for stories with moral dilemmas, "firm smack on the bottom", and "old transexual"?
A moment's terrorised thought shows that the query bomb underpants virgins does make a certain sense; quivering me to new identity turns out to be a line from Walt Whitman.
But as to why do my fingernails glow dark - I'm sorry, I haven't a clue.
George bush godchildren? There's got to be a joke there somewhere. Anal sex coronation street? Not in this lifetime. Laundry basket princess? Err...
And the most unsettling search request of all?
Monday 31st May 2004
Apologia pro vita sua
A very mellow moment early on Sunday evening in the courtyard at South Central amidst the throng and bustle of Horse Meat Disco, as I looked around to find myself surrounded, with no prior agreement, by at least a dozen of my close friends.
A pleasant contrast to a few hours earlier, at Soho House, where I'd somehow inveigled myself into the jostle and cram of HeartFM's party - only to find myself up to the gills in faces I didn't know, and didn't especially wish to know.
My diurnal clockwork, the tide that governs the rhythms of my days and nights, has always been slightly off: even at school they'd become used to having to turf me out of the dormitory in the afternoons, whence I'd retired for a little nap having lain awake Thinking for much of the night.
Just as soon as I started working for myself, things took another turn for the worse: I'd find a handful of children knocking on my bedroom door at seven in the evening, demanding that I get up and cook their supper.
These days, living on my own and working nights, I never rise before noon, although I'm often still up from the night before - it's always seemed unnatural for me to decide to go to sleep, as opposed to having no option but to let the book fall from my hands.
Amidst this anarchy, there is an underlying pattern: I'll enjoy a week or so of relatively sane sleep, going to bed at dawn, waking regularly in the early afternoon. And then some unscheduled odd event - a thrilling novel, an unexpected phone call, a bout of debauch - will push the envelope, and the gears will start to spin.
I'll wake up suddenly alert, as if thrown from a speeding car, after only four hours sleep, then moon about the house for four hours more, then snatch a desperate nap, only to wake up with only twenty minutes in which to get to work.
On those rare days when I don't even have the discipline of work to lend some spurious rigour to my days and nights, the cogs lose their teeth entirely - as with this Friday, Saturday and Sunday, a rare three days off which I managed to waste quite comprehensively, eventually waking up, sleep-sated, at one o'clock on Sunday morning, with only the distant possibility of an early evening visit to Vauxhall in prospect.
Which I why I jumped at the chance to occupy the afternoon at Soho House. Which is why I was already a wee bit drunk by the time I got to Vauxhall. Which is why, come nine o'clock or even earlier, I really felt I had no option but to turn my back on the company of my friends and drag my weary bones to bed.
Sorry, people. Catch me there again this weekend: bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, I swear.
......previous week
