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º April 9th-April 15th 2001
Sunday Drugs..
Saturday Drink..
Friday and chewing-gum.
Thursday 7k p.a.
Wednesday Perspicacity, Black Swan
Tuesday Keep to the Walls!
Monday 20 30-yr-olds
º Sunday 15th April 2001
I came a cropper on drugs, says Widdecombe
º Saturday 14th April 2001
1300 hrs: ring David to suggest it would be a nice to sit in the sun with a drink or two and some mellow company for a few hours. Mellow company limited, sunshine variable, but we agree to meet at The William in Hampstead at 1430 hrs. (Conversation: how long did it take David to get home last night. And why.)
1445 hrs: sitting in the beer 'garden' at The William with three apparently ownerless dogs, four lesbians, five French tourists, and no sunshine. (Conversation: blogs. Blogging. Bloggers. More Blogs.)
1600 hrs: move inside, avoiding three tragically stoned Hampstead queens whilst trying to catch the eye of a cute guy in a checked shirt. (Conversation: the cute guy in the checked shirt. What we'd like to do to him. And for how long.)
1630 hrs: drinking bitter in The Flask. (Conversation: Death. Intimacy. Vulnerability.)
1700 hrs: wandering from Well Walk to the Vale of Health to the traditional bank-holiday Funfair. I take David on a traditional "it used to be really cruisy in this bit but now I'm not even sure I recognise it" Heath walk. (Conversation: the best sex you've ever had on the Heath. At night. In daylight.)
1800 hrs: in the courtyard at Jack Straw's Castle, trying to ignore three spoilt small children. (Conversation: pop, pop, pop; pop music.)
1830 hrs: David takes me on a traditional "it used to be really cruisy in this bit but now I'm not even sure I recognise it" Heath walk. We agree that we'll aim to meet up again back at The William at 1930 hrs. (Conversation: what's on later. Ex-boyfriends.)
2000 hrs: back at The William, trying to catch the eye of a several cute guys in checked shirts, at least one of whom turns out to be a lesbian. (Conversation: ex-boyfriends.)
2230 hrs: Closing time at The William. (Conversation: why I'm going home now.)
2300 hrs: Central Station at Kings Cross, watching a frantic yet strangely forgettable cabaret from Cher Travestie. (Conversation: why X could be one's boyfriend if he tried hard enough. And was younger. And a bit more cute. Why I'm really going home now. How I seem to be too drunk to talk.)
0030 hrs: Liquid Lounge on Pentonville Road, whose refurbishment is so radical that for a moment we think we might have walked into the wrong bar. Good music but a sparse crowd. Sean, Paul, Danny, Simon, Leke etc are there though. (Conversation: How I seem to be too drunk to think. Why I'm really really going home now.)
0130 hrs: Spiral Staircase. (Conversation: fnergh. Awhoooo. Guffg.)
0300 hrs: Home (Conversation: -- )
That's what I call a Good Friday.
º Good Friday 13th April 2001
Little thought whilst chatting with Dorian, Jonce, Mark and a couple of Daves in Bar Code last night: Cheese-and-onion flavoured chewing-gum.
º Thursday 12th April 2001
Eight die in arson over 'theft' of penis
An American millionaire is paying the Russian Space Agency 20 million dollars for a return trip to the International Space Station. I calculate that, at that rate, a mini-cab journey from Wapping to Old Compton Street and back would cost £595,744.68 (or £660k if he's a good tipper).
A David was the first to guess the cd I bought. Clue for you others:
Is there anybody here who feels this low?
Under fifteen feet of pure white snow.
Three things I'd like someone else to make whilst I sit back and congratulate myself on being an ideas-man:
GERBIL A mini-site that you log onto automagically each day, and where you choose your mood for the day. Everyone that reads your blog then gets a little animation tucked into the corner of your page showing a mad gerbil rushing round his cage, or a somnolent gerbil prone on the bottom of the cage, or a laid-back gerbil leaning against the bars smoking a fag.
MEMEME Members submit a word or phrase that succinctly describes some meme that seems to be going the rounds. "Word of the day" or "All your base" or "never done" fr'instance. The site then automatically searches all known blogs, and produces a graph of which memes are peaking when.
POTLACH A group data-base where friends keep track of which books, cds or dvds they're prepared to lend out, who borrowed what when, and what's overdue to be returned.
OK: get coding. With blogger down and a holiday weekend coming up, you have nothing better to do after all.
As part of my fabulously on-top-of-things day yesterday, I spent some time considering my so-called finances, and concluded that I need about 7k p.a. to exist, and a further 4k p.a. to enjoy myself.
Which is pretty damn frugal, I think - especially when you consider the following:
- Versace shopping trip: £250,000
- catering for birthday party: £120,000
- wig for birthday party: £3,500
- monthly jewellery bill: £80,000
- monthly florist's bill: £15,000
- charity proceeds from selling old clothes £428,000
- cost of losingHigh Court battle with ex-lover: £8,000,000
Can you guess which cd I bought?
I was thinking today how much more contented life must be when you go out to work every day and, like, do stuff. Not big stuff, not even important stuff, just - stuff. ("10:30 - say hello to Graham, 11:30 - read e-mail 12:30 - buy sandwich")
My average day is so laid back that it becomes a major achievement to have just taken out the rubbish. (Getting up - doesn't count. Reading - doesn't count. Blogging - doesn't count.)
But yesterday, I
- paid all outstanding bills
- washed up
- decided not to buy four shirts and two pairs of trou
- bought six books, two dvds and one cd
- had sex
- cooked
- washed my hair
- cut my toenails
- cleaned the bath
- ate
- watched Teachers
- emptied the rubbish, and
- went out and got pissed.
Do you know what? I think I'll take the rest of the week off.
º Wednesday 11th April 2001
Hold the phone numbers! Small black bag containing small black notebook found at work! I am not a fuck-up! Life smiles at me! Let's all go to the White Swan and get pissed!
"A passage in Chapter Ten describes the difficulties I faced in a vain attempt to take my own photograph. Much of what is written there also applies, with almost uncanny precision, to the challenge of preparing this pen portrait; here, however, the assistance has been provided by Ian Martin, whose patience and general perspicacity have proved as indispensable to this project as they were to XXX, on which we collaborated in 1981."
Nice to be appreciated, eh? (And so beautifully written, too. Note 'vain'.)
It's the Acknowledgement at the front of an "auto"-biography wot I ghost-wrote in 1986. You, gentle reader, will appreciate it even more when I report fragments of two conversations that bracketed the writing of said Acknowledgement:
"Sir says the publishers want him to write an acknowledgement, but he trusts you to write it."
"Sir says, that's fine, but what does 'perspicacity' mean?"
Bugger: it looks as if it's official. I've lost my notebook. Together with approximately 200 phone mumbers. So all you people who think I might need to call you now and again (even though you know I never will), please re-supply your numbers.
The rest of you: go photo-copy your address books, now.
(And, puh-lease, no smart-assed remarks about electronic organisers; I'm not in the mood.)
"The day really gets off to a bad start. The server connection to the net is down hard. We worked on it last night until 0100 and could not bring it up. Finally, jiggling some cables brings just a part of the net back (that really instills confidence in the stability of your network). Sergei is still having difficulties with his email. The file server is acting up."
Cyber -Space Station Commander's log says that Windows NT and Outlook Express are to blame. Surely not.
Somewhere in the mid-1950s, the American poet James Merrill (son of the founder of Merrill Lynch, raised by a French governess) met David Jackson (equally handsome, equally wealthy, equally well-educated - but somewhat less blessed in terms of literary talent).
Living together, the two men began experimenting with a Ouija board, a habit that eventually became central to their lives and which, in 1976, Merrill began using as a source for a series of long poems, now known as 'The Changing Light at Sandover'.
The novelist Alison Lurie knew both men well. In her new book, 'Familiar Spirits', she wonders (given that it takes at least two pairs of hands to operate a Ouija board) whether the Sandover poems are not in some sense a duet rather than a solo...
A NYRB review of the Lurie book (and of Merrill's 'Collected Poems') contains the full text of an early work called 'The Black Swan', one of those rare pieces that has occasionally moved me to read aloud. These are the first and last verses:
|
Black on flat water past the jonquil lawns
Always the black swan moves on the lake; always
|
If that moves you to read aloud as well, you can compare and contrast your reading with that of Merrill himself (as well as hearing the full text) at The Poetry Audio Archive. (RealPlayer required.)
James Merrill died of AIDS in 1995. RIP.
º Tuesday 10th April 2001
Ann Widdecombe: We met by a strange twist of fate...At first I didn't like his songs. There was too much language for my taste...The next day I took him for lunch at the House of Commons, and we discovered that we had lots of other things in common. For instance, we have both been called 'homophobic', whereas in fact we simply believe in the traditional family.
Eminem: After the set, the lady comes round the back. She's straight on my case: I don't eat good, too thin, twitchy...I knew straightaway she wasn't some bitch who was playing around with me just because I sold a million records...The day after we met, we had lunch at Big Ben...Widdy worries about aliens. From Albania, wherever. Some sci-fi place...I said to her, "Widdy, you could be a Tory Rap Ho, make something of your life."
How We Met. Independent Sunday Review. 1st April 2001
I see that Brainsluice thought the American Queer as Folk was "pretty good"; I was less impressed. I guess there's nowt so...
Signs of Spring
I very rarely travel at rush-hour, thank God, so I have months of uncluttered winter tube platforms to perfect my ritual routes: clatter down these steps in case a train is waiting at Canada Water, saunter to that point on the westbound platform that will release me at this point for the up-escalator at Green Park, wheel left down that tunnel keeping an ear open for an incoming southbound train, lean against this vending machine...and so on.
And then, suddenly, as if some hopper has suddenly come unlatched: tourists! Everywhere! Sauntering along in my space, all rucksacks and macintoshes and suitcases-on-wheels. Peering around for clues about where to go next. (Which part of "Way Out" do you not understand?) Unfolding maps the size of tablecloths. Muttering.
Move, dammit! Get out of my way! I live here! You are blocking my well-oiled path! I need to do a nifty leftward swerve right where you've parked your eight year old child!
We need a public poster campaign: "If you do not live in this city, STAY CLOSE TO THE WALLS."
Really, there's quite enough about Graham Norton in this blog already, but Clearsphere points me to a Guardian interview that needs to be transcluded if only because it doesn't help identify the attractive skinny guy with glasses that drinks with him in the White Swan most Wednesdays. (Not the ex-boyfriend with whom "he still lives in the same house in east London" surely?)
º Monday 9th April 2001
Cocaine and gay party shame
"The Countess of Wessex's business partner" says the News of the World "is a drug-using cheat who is more than happy to arrange sex tourism and gay parties for company clients.
"Murray Harkin, 37...who is openly gay, insisted he would 'ditch' his regular boyfriend, IT expert Mark Bowling, to mix debauchery and business on a trip to Dubai."
The paper quotes Harkin: "I was going to say we could have a dinner or party for Mohammed over here. I can invite some very interesting people...'A' list people that he would like...Discreet nice gentlemen...Not young, but, kind of, like, nice boys. All good jobs!
"You know 20, kind of, 30-year-olds. That's probably too old for him, but it would be quite stimulating for him because they're kind of, really like all English boys...We could put a splash of young people, funky young people..."
The paper further reveals that "Harkin...lives alone in a flat opposite London's Oval cricket ground."
(Note for non-Londoners: distance between Oval Cricket Ground and Royal Vauxhall Tavern - approx 400 yds.)
Tabloid stunts mean no more Royle Family.
Tabloid stunts mean no more Royal Family?
Oof! Vauxhall Dukes Vauxhall Turnmills Spiral Pontis Oof!
What with the rain, and Dame Edna being late, the Royal Vauxhall Tavern was especially crowded yesterday, but we eventually wormed our way to the front and sang our little hearts out: Andy and Alex, Matt, Dorian, several Steves and a Dave or three.
Too crowded really, so we scurried through the wet, down to Dukes, which was pleasantly relaxed (unlike the pace of our drinking.) David thought Dukes was going to be full of fat people but it wasn't - though Dave did his best to make up for it by eating an entire fried chicken family meal afterwards. Healthy appetite on that boy...
Then back to the Vauxhall, which was still crowded, and where I somehow managed to lose both of them before heading up to Turnmills for the One Nation launch.
Slightly quiet when I got there, and I feared the worst, especially since they were using the main floor rather than the side-room which has been in use when I've been here on a Sunday before. Patrick and I passed the time by popping some balloons. But by midnight (and the last pubs closing) the place was filling up nicely.
I had a radical thought at one stage: how about making One Nation the one place you can still go to, eek, dance (rather than get off yr head, or pose, or bicker)? That would be kinda radical. Of course, Luke would have to learn to relax into his grooves again, like he used to in the -sigh- old days. But a change of medication might see to that...
Maybe he did that later in the evening, but I'd already stumbled back into the night, the night where all buses seem to go via Shoreditch, forcing me to pop into the Spiral for one last quick drink - a coke in this case, because I just needed to apologise to John for not returning his call.
And then home via Pontis. Ham, egg, chips and beans. Eeuk. But hey mom: I'm eating!
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