June 28th 2004 - July 4th 2004
Sunday Pride
Saturday Pixellated
Friday Here, there, everywhere
Thursday Loads of shoes
Wednesday So over
Tuesday No comment
Monday Check
Sunday 4th July 2004
Although you wouldn't know it from the date of this entry, it's taken me almost a week to find anything to say about this year's Pride celebrations in London: I had a perfectly decent, yet rather uneventful, time. Try as I might though, I can find little of universal significance in the day's events.
The initial gathering was, I suppose, somewhat symptomatic. I'd agreed in advance that I'd go see the march with Jonathan - much as we did last year: a little watching from the pavement, a little ambling midst the throng down Piccadilly, a little (well, a lot) of drinking on Old Compton Street to follow.
Pano indicated he'd be happy to join us, adding that Andy and Kevin might be there too. David wasn't sure he'd be up to it.
Much to my own astonishment, I managed to be conscious (if not actually upright) by 11am, exchanging text negotiations that eventually agreed that Jonathan, Pano and I would meet outside Green Park tube station at noon. I arrived there at 1215, in time to collect a msg pointing me in the direction of a nearby bar where, to my stunned amazement, I discovered not two but ten of my chums. (So stunned indeed, that I didn't notice Jonathan was not amongst them until we all hit the pavement fifteen minutes and one pint later.)
Call it: Pack Pride.
It was the first time I'd actually managed to be in pole position for the march - to no-one's surprise, I usually manage to turn up just in time to see the tail-end of cleaners and street sweepers processing into the middle distance.
This year, I was there right from the start, and particularly well-placed to see what I now realise has become an annual phenomenon: the Gay Pride Swooping Air-Kiss Contest.
Ten or more of you stand on the pavement - drinking, ideally, from a bottle of champagne - as you closely study the passing parade. On seeing someone you know (a gay fireman, an exotic drag queen, someone you shagged in Portsmouth in September 1986), you shriek loudly and dart out, like a swallow from an eave, to peck them on the cheek before returning to your envious friends, muttering an explanation.
I like to think I scored fairly highly this year when I pounced on two noticeably well-built post-operative transexuals as they strode down Piccadilly. "Office. Technical support."
Saturday 3rd July 2004
Pixellated for your office-safety, but otherwise reproduced without comment, we bring you, on the occasion of Gay Pride 2004, this extract from the escort pages of QX:
Friday 2nd July 2004
Where are my friends when I need them?
In Sitges, in Tuscany and off the planet completely, judging by these recent text responses:
- Would you believe me if I said I was working? No, I thought not. Sitting in Parrots nursing a very tall drink watching the boys go by. WYWH!
- Am currently at a traditionalist seminary in Tuscany and have today sat through a 4 hour tridentine ordination. Normalcy will resume shortly...
- Kwame karaughi hakonnen adnan khashoggi. Sex pest arms dealer. Pipe smoke interface. What? Where? Beaver?
Thursday 1st July 2004
Admit it. Feminist and optimist that you are, you thought the idea that all beauty-queens were dumber than an ox had long since been revealed as a total myth.
Sadly not.
Proof, if proof were needed, comes from today's "The world according to.." in The Independent, where Emma Spellar, our new Miss Great Britain, bravely answers readers' questions:
Q: What's great about Britain?
A: That's a hard one. I think it's a very fair place to live, and there's a lot going on - especially in London.
Q: What would you change if you were Miss World?
A: Not a lot really...
Q: Should the Royal Family be abolished?
A: No. They're the good old British Royal Family. My favourite has got to be the Queen; I'm sure she buys loads of shoes.
Q: Sandwich or salad?
A: Sandwich. It fills you up more...
Q: Is world peace achievable?
A: It depends on how it's done. It can't be done by one person...
Wednesday 30th June 2004
Interesting times at work, where my responsibilities have recently escalated to include the occasional stint in the editor's chair. (Not before time, you might think - but I couldn't possibly comment.)
As the on-line arm of an established periodical, we have a limited ability to re-prioritise the stories that come in, as yesterday - a slow news day - when many papers splashed with the ovary-transplant story which, I admit, I found it difficult to get excited about, and pushed down the page.
What with worrying about this and many other administrative issues, I didn't have any time at all to invest in smartening up our headlines. Even if I had, I don't think I'd have been able to match the nerve of the red-tops, where, I swear, one of the tabloids headlined the story: "They think it's all ovary"
Tuesday 29th June 2004
I'm sorry I don't offer y'all any kind of comment facility.
It is, partly, due to Blogadoon's stern commitment to remaining hand-rolled: I don't have the time or talent necessary to create a feedback mechanism from scratch.
I also don't have the time to invigilate whatever thoughts or whimsies readers might wish to add to my initial premises. And I'm too much of a control freak to simply throw this space open to whatever washes this way.
But it's also, to be honest, a function of my unashamedly arrogant idea of what Blogadoon is for: I write, you read. If you think the world wants to hear what you have to say - start your own damn blog.
(That said, if you care enough about something to compose and send me an email, I'll always consider including it. Unless, of course, it's mere overt praise - in which case, I shall simply hug it to me in the fastness of the night.)
All this by way of directing you towards an interesting article in last week's Guardian where the "readers' editor" examines the pros and cons of email feedback.
Monday 28th June 2004
The Perfect Urban Weekend
Drinks after work
................Not strictly after work, in my case, given that I had Friday off and wouldn't have finished work till after 2am otherwise - but, having decided I wanted some of that TGIF vibe, I mingled with the other newly-released drones outside Comptons and got drunk in the dusk.
Visit to a club
................Given that I'd started drinking before 8, I'd actually planned on a relatively early night. But Pano, bless him, talked his way into two free tickets for Fusion - which explains why I found myself on a night bus from Brixton as dawn came up.
Farmer's market
................Even more to my surprise, my hangover did not preclude a late-Saturday-afternoon visit to Borough Market where I bought bread, and meat and, oh yes, a vegetable.
Loft party
................Knowing that there wouldn't be that many people that I knew well, I was in two minds about Dave and Kelvin's party but the evening went with a bang - despite some tosser snatching the beer that I'd brought within minutes of my arrival. (A special shout goes out to the man who flirted with me on the roof terrace and showed me his arse on the dance floor.)
Walking home at dawn
................Actually it wasn't quite dawn as I crossed the river. (Will I ever get to repeat that wonderful e-fuelled morning as I ambled across Tower Bridge with a man that I loved, watching the early sun draw Canaletto pinks and blues out of the City's stonework?)
Extravagant sex
................Well. Relatively extravagant, I guess.
Sunday afternoon drinks
................Pretty classic, inasmuch as I was expecting to meet three friends at South Central, and met three others instead.
Quality time
................Guys, I promise I did seriously consider heading over to LA3, but I went home instead - and read an entire novel before falling asleep. Smiling.
......previous week
