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º June 18th-June 24th 2001
Sunday Press your case
Saturday The wrong books
Friday Queen in a hurry
Thursday Foreign news: bollards
Wednesday Diaries
Tuesday Massive missive
Monday Smell 'er

º Sunday 24th June 2001

Today's Independent on Sunday repays close reading, if only for the contrast between these two quotes: Kenneth Clarke has been told by his backers to lose his beer belly and "The thing about Ken is that when he jumps in the pond, you know the waves will hit the bank," said one of his allies.

Then there's news that the Office of Fair Trading wants to investigate incompetent dentists: "It is an area we would like to look into," an OFT spokesman said yesterday. Open wide, presumably.

My favourite though is the vision conjured by the news that passengers whose luggage is damaged in transit will now have no trouble pressing their case.

º Saturday 23rd June 2001

Raji phoned Nick Carr and asked Robin when she answered if she had Linda Moon's tour schedule, the first week.

She said "...They're at the Coach House in San Juan Capistrano tonight, the Belly Up in San Diego tomorow night,... Sunday afternoon the LaPlaya near Del Mar; it's a nude beach."

"Want to go with me, check it out?"

Robin said, "You know what people who go to nude beaches look like?"

"Tell me."

"People who shouldn't go to nude beaches."

"Is Chili Palmer joining the tour?...Ask Nick for me."

About a minute went by. Now he heard Nick saying: "Tell him if he goes near Chili Palmer I'll see that he suffers excruciating pain and will never fucking walk again in his life."

And then Robin's voice: "Nick said to tell you that if you go near Chili Palmer he'll have your legs broken."

"Why couldn't he say it like that?"

"He reads, but the wrong books."

- from "Be Cool" by Elmore Leonard

º Friday 22nd June 2001

And finally, it being Friday, here's a fish pic. A malnourished fish pic.

Bit late in my life to start a group. I have a name and an album cover though. How 'bout The Lobsters of the Fifth Trumpet?

Elsewhere on the (HA!) authority-figure front: proof, if proof were needed, that Little Willy's buzz-cut was mere spin-barbering - since he announced his resignation, he's letting his hair grow.

Plus leadership candidate gay past shocker: Michael Ancram's ancestor was King James I's boyfriend. (Unlike Widdlecombe, Ancram didn't feel the need to announce his candidature status on an estate - he has three of his own.)

And caring-sharing Portillo demonstrates, over a champagne breakfast, that he's got his materialist priorities right after all: "I want the Conservative Party to be for things, I want it to be for people." In that order, presumably.

The Queen's Speech at the State Opening of Parliament traditionally sets out the stall for the Government's legislative programme for the year ahead.

There were complaints that this year's short speech omitted several important issues (like banning tobacco advertising, fox-hunting, gay bullying and old men in robes).

Even worse,apparently, "the Sovereign's Escort of Household Cavalry and King's Troop Royal Horse Artillery dispensed with the Rank Past."

A radical break with tradition?

No. Simply that Mrs Queen was rushed off her feet, having only two hours in which to whip off the crown'n'gown, scoff a light lunch, wrap herself in a pair of pistachio curtains, pop on a straw hat and get down the bookies in time for the first race at Royal Ascot.

Defenders of the monarchy (do we have any defenders of the monarchy??) traditionally point to the tourism revenue generated by events such as this week's State Opening of Parliament, in which our historic second-term so-called socialist party demonstrates its commitment to a radical re-structuring of society by parading a lot of old people with funny names in funny costumes.

Tourists presumably jurst lurve the Irish State Coach, a gilded Ruritanian confection that looks like an Faaaaabergé egg on wheels. The rest of us just wonder why the silly cow can't hop in a cab like everyone else. (And then get on the moby: "I'M IN THE COACH...")

(There ought to be a law against it. Stephen Byers, new Minister for Transport, are you listening?)

I'm not exactly overwhelmed by the news that Stephen Byers can't drive. Neither can I.

Any anxiety I might have had on that score is more than placated by Oliver James: The driving test... tests your willingness to accept subordinate status... People who do well in the test are often also those who do well in exams - they're good at following a simple series of procedures. Those who do badly may feel an unconscious rage towards authority figures.

Given my pre-occupation with long nights and long days, I hate the way that the Summer Solstice has always come and gone before I know it.

Doesn't sound as though many people got much sleep anyway: Rollo Maughling, the arch-druid of Glastonbury, led the pagan rituals, chanting in between delivering loud blasts on a coachman's horn. He was forced to compete with didgeridoos, a 10-piece samba band, three bagpipes, cow bells, tambourines, guitars and the enthusiastic jingling of the White Horse Morris troupe celebrating their 50th anniversary.

52 year old Frenchman fathers twin cousins on his 62 year old virgin sister (and saves 2 million quid) shock horror scandal.

Refreshing news from New Orleans: city bans glowsticks.

 "I don't think the government considered the individuals to be bad or criminal," DeSalvo said. "They wanted the activity stopped."

Can we target fans next, please? And maybe sunglasses worn on top of the head? Oh yeah, and clothing with numbers on.

Yup - Matte as in catty. But not fatty.

º Thursday 21st June 2001

And the Blogstalker, having thrown in the towel on throwing in the towel, is now distinctly firing on all cylinders. Welcome back pet.

How do you pronounce Matte anyway? Because, re-reading, I see I put Matte, ratty and tatty in the same sentence. Oops.

 Official: I do have American readers. (And, my, don't they look cute naked too.)

Bollards shaped like penises? I can think of at least one streetscape that would feel the benefit.

Speaking of naked bloggers, who are these men?

º Wednesday 20th June 2001

Blogger seems to be down and I, alas, have a hangover.

But why not satisfy your lust for daily doings by taking a look at Alan Bennett's diary for 1997?

A call from Barry Cryer, who claims to have heard a woman outside Liberty's saying to her husband: 'Remind me to tell Austin that there is no main verb in that sentence.'

Or, if you like things a touch meta, read the diary entry where he describes finding a diary for 1957:

...the year I should have come down from Oxford but didn't and one thing I think reading this tosh is that if I hadn't got a First (the circumstances undescribed in the diary) I would never have picked myself up to do much except possibly teach - and teach badly.

It was the fairly spurious self-confidence I got from this fluke result, plus the breathing space it gave, that enabled me to go on doing silly turns, being funny and thus eventually to write.

Or compare and contrast what various luminaries (including Andy Warhol, André Gide, Virginia Woolf, John Wesley and Harold Nicolson) were doing in October:

Sir Hugh Casson in Goa, 1980 - He suggests I need a massage. 'Ah', he says, 'you very, very old man ... very tired ... very much work' ... He pinches my leg and my upper arm ...'very, very old', he says, shaking his head... I remember a previous encounter with an itinerant masseur in Agra. When I refused his administrations, he offered, in sequence, his daughter or a copy of The Reader's Digest.

James Lees-Milne in London, 1973 - With bland surprise he said regretfully, 'We can only cater for clients with a waist of less than 36,' and gave me a snide look. 'Besides, all our legs are much flared.' Oh dear, I found myself apologizing for being so old and untrendy. But on reflection, why the hell should a man apologize for no longer being young, as though he was thereby an inferior being?

Or read (the recently outed) Sir Alec Guiness talking about "My Name Escapes Me: The Diary of a Retiring Actor", complete with extracts:

"In the evening to the Theatre Royal, Haymarket, to see an American play called Burning Blue... It is set aboard a fictional U.S. aircraft carrier and deals with tracking down the love that insists, these days, on speaking its name. But it wasn't shrill... Some of the evening was too noisy for my taste, but when the decibels rose high they at least drowned out the heavy breathing in the audience of butch, leather-jacketed middle-aged men."

Or try and track down a copy of Ned Rorem's sensationally frank 'Paris Diary':

I'm really a coward, but am too lazy not to say what I think, and what I think can sometimes get me into trouble, so in that sense, yes, I'm honest.

Or save up for the full nine volumes of 'Ego', the diaries of veteran theatre critic James Agate.

Noel Coward and Gladys Calthrop fulfilled a promise to come to lunch made six months ago... Gladys fell in love with the balcony room and vowed she would use it in her next set of designs, while Noel said he should write a new and sparkling comedy round it... Michael Shepley joined us at the Ivy and everything was very gay. Discussing an intellectual actor who can't act Michael says, "The worst thing about him is the way he whinnies." I say, "I think you mean 'neighs.' Only mares whinny."

It being Minkered's last pop quiz ever, Wendy at the Retro Bar had vindicated her reputation for being the best publican in London by reserving us our own table, complete with party streamers and a balloon.

Big money was available to be won and, by God, we won it, complete with a tie-break tipped into victory by Dave himself.

It all gets a bit blurry after that, but I seem to recall much fun with streamers, a visit to a disastrous show by Regina Fong at the Black Cap, and Jonathan photographing me being anally assaulted by David in a phone box.

º Tuesday 19th June 2001

I hardly ever answer the phone, and I never, ever open the door without first enquiring, in a little-old-lady manner, who is there?

Imagine then my feelings at hearing "Department of Education and Employment" as a response.

Pulling on a pair of trousers, and brushing damp freshly-washed hair out of my eyes, I tried to work out what they'd got me for. (I knew they'd got me, I just wanted to know what for.)

When I opened the door, there stood an extremely cute, small person of uncertain ethnicity. (Slight oz accent, so maybe, cor, native australian?)

Even better, he proceeded to explain that I lived in some kind of action zone, such that the Government wants to give me £150 to spend on educating myself as regards computers.

Modestly, I explained that I was pretty computer-literate already. Shiny-eyed, he explained that it didn't matter: I could treat myself to Javascript for Dummies if I felt like it.

I stared at him. He stared at me. I signed my name. He said "Cool signature."

I said good bye. I said "I hope to see you again." He said "I hope so."

Swoon.

Are you reading this in an office?

An oh so modern office, with slumped bodies staring solipsistically into sophist screens, removing headphones from time to time to join in comradely conversational crossfire?

Part of me wants to think of that scene as a very new phenomenon, and submit it to rigorous cultural analysis.

But part of me thinks of monks illuminating manuscripts, sunlit and silent but for the scratching of quills and Brother Anselm telling the latest Hildegarde of Bingen joke (and Brother Simeon having to have it explained.)

Either way, it's the bandinage that makes it worthwhile...

"Help! I think there's a word missing in this story!"
"What's the context?"
"Bulgaria...security guards blah blah...members of the public...One woman claimed she had a massive for him that she had to deliver personally."
"A massive...?"
"...bouquet."
"...black sausage."
"...blow-job!"
"...that she had to deliver personally."
"...bouquet."
"Yes, bouquet would appear to be the obvious..."
"But we want the unobvious! A massive..."
"...hamster."
"...cabbage."
"...scale model of St Kyril's Cathedral made from discarded toothpicks."
"Oh. hang on..."
"It's an Ali G thing surely? Me like to present me massive..."
"It's not massive. It's missive."
"What's a missive?"

And a warm two-fingered ave atque vale to Cardinal Winning too, who died on Sunday.

Winning, the leader of Scotland's Roman Catholics, described homosexuality as a perversion and strongly supported Section 28 as an antidote to "material (that) will encourage that lifestyle."

As Oscar Wilde said in one of his last letters: "I never came across anyone in whom the moral sense was dominant who was not heartless, cruel, vindictive, log-stupid, and entirely lacking in the smallest sense of humanity. Moral people, as they are termed, are simple beasts. I would sooner have fifty unnatural vices than one unnatural virtue."

"I am the weakest link. Goodbye."

And fucking good riddance too. Next!

Bluebottle speaks: "It's gone all green!"

º Monday 18th June 2001

Ashamed to say that I completely forgot about the Crusaid Walk for Life yesterday - until, sitting on the tube, I looked up from my book just before Green Park to see Saunders standing there.

(It's weird with Saunders: I'm delightedly used to bumping into him at the Spiral from time to time, but lately we've met twice at the same late night bus stop, where he invariably treats me to some of his invariable Hot Chicken Wings.)

Anyway, I asked where he was off too and he held up his Crusaid bag. All I could do by way of riposte was show him the book I was reading: London Walking.

Not quite the same thing. Sorry.

A paper presented to the American Psychological Society's annual conference yesterday concerned sexual attraction between heterosexuals. Predictably enough, the studies discovered significant differences between what men and women want.

Given the way that gender-based behaviour blurs in a big gay crowd it was challenging to try to draw parallels whilst watching the heaving gay throng at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern yesterday.

The report concluded that both sexes rate personality as the biggest single factor in choosing a mate. Which makes the uniformity of self-presentation on show at the RVT all the more striking: same dance moves, same clothes, same haircuts. (Same drugs too, by all accounts.) Does that make a 'pleasant disposition' more or less likely to stand out in a crowd?

Now the vast majority of RVT crowd is, at the very least, anatomically male. And the report claims (to no-one's great surprise) that men rank physical appearance more highly than women. Which explains the number of naked torsos displayed not only on the humid dance floor but also on the (yesterday much cooler) street outside.

Gay men are much butcher these days, of course. But the RVT group still rejoices (very loudly during Dame Edna's act) in being known as the South London Action Girls Society. (You can work out the acronym for yourself.) Plus, they are men who want men.

So one might expect to see some feminisation of the basic male gender behaviour in play. And, sure enough, the report says that women value ambition in a potential partner. Hence show-off dancing, firmly grasped pint glasses, unapologetic cruising.

But female students in the study also singled out body odour above all other sensory experiences as the one most likely to affect desire. (And the study points out that the way a body smells is linked at some level to immunological health.)

Moving from outside to inside yesterday, the wall of fug that hit you at the door like a standing wave was hot, and wet, and - yes - strongly scented. It smelt of beer, and nicotine. And fresh untainted sweat, uncompromised by any other perfume.

And I was reminded that earlier on, sitting on the tube, I had found myself pondering the origins of that camp little gay meme that went around last year: "Oooh, smell 'er!"

......previous entries