Nov 27th - Dec 3rd 2006
Sunday Stability
Saturday King's Cross
Friday Undone
Thursday Limehouse
Wednesday Smooch
Tuesday Limehouse
Monday Magazined
Sunday 3rd December
My obsession with available-light photography, and my current series of crap cabaret picture (crap cabaret or crap pictures - you decide) have been driving me to new levels of absurdity.
Lacking a convenient surface against which to brace the camera, I have been experimenting with trying to brace the camera against myself: flat against the chest, jammed into a shoulder-blade and, yesterday, celebrating Janne's birthday at Duckie, held flat against my forehead.
Observing this unutterably dork-like manoeuvre on my part, Cunningham (bravely resisting the urge to merely giggle) leant across from his position at the side of the stage and enquired, politely, why I went to such lengths.
I muttered the usual rigmarole about don't-wanna-use-the-flash, can't-be-trusted-to-hold-the camera-steady, lah-lah-lah - none of which he seemed to find particularly persuasive - so, in a fit of mild pique, I handed him the camera.
Whereupon he proceeded to produce the sharpest shot of the series.
Bastard.
Saturday 2nd December
King's Cross, Autumn 2006
Friday 1st December
As a mature gent with a low mortgage, two homes and neither a family nor an illegal drug habit to support, I'm lucky enough to consider myself relatively independent, financially.
And ambition alone hardly motivates me at all: I'm currently on my fourth career, with no realistic prospect of rising any higher than lower-middle-management at best, and that suits me very well. (Although it must be said that what I lack in Ambition I more than make up for in Pride.)
Indeed, above and beyond my own comfort, and a certain minimal concern for my colleagues, just about the only thing that drives me forward at work these days is my grumpy middle-aged zeal to see things Done Properly.
This, far from being a corporate yes-man, I am instead the modern corporation's nightmare: that awkward bastard who sees it like it is, and then calls it as it is.
And so it was at one of our rare Something-Must-Be-Done meetings late one afternoon last week.
I was late (of course) so it took me a few minutes to work out that the meeting had already degenerated into discussion of irrelevant minutiae, busy mapping out a cross-country route to take us round the road-blocks.
When I finally stood up and spoke I suspect I expressed myself - not for the first time - with rather more vigour than rigour. The phrase 're-arranging the deckchairs' may have been in there somewhere, too.
Hence, I thought, the various looks of shock and awe that spread slowly over the faces of my colleagues as my peroration peaked. ("That's the central issue, and that - THAT - is what we need to face up to.")
The meeting broke up shortly after that, replete with the usual covert glances that spoke of issues unaddressed, hopes dashed, and reputations ratified.
My boss, over whose head I had been speaking, turned towards me for the first time, looked me up and down, grinned an ambiguous grin and muttered "Flying low, mate."
Hepped up as I was, I took that as a reference to the dangers of my relatively energetic intervention: those who fly low present a larger target?
It was only as we all filed out that I worked out what he'd said, checked my zip, and realised that I'd just pomp-bombed the room with my flies open.
I guess it must mean something that nobody interrupted my diatribe to point that out. Musn't it?
Thursday 30th November
Limehouse, Spring 2006
Wednesday 29th November
I would normally think twice before directing you to a four-par tabloid story about Francis Ford Coppola kissing a Playboy model on a Bucharest dance floor.
But the headline makes it just about worthwhile. As does the photo caption.
Tuesday 28th November
Limehouse, Autumn 2006
Monday 27th November
The previous three photographs reveal how I've spent the last three Tuesdays: scrupulously attending David Hoyle's Magazine at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern.
The host ('star' is far to mundane) is none other than what was once The Divine David ("I used to be divine but I like to feel I've..transcended that.") and the event ('show' is far too mundane a word) is a loosely-structured series of evenings based around Big Themes.
The first (the best so far, and by far the longest) saw Hoyle animadverting on Fashion; the audience chose fabrics, colours, shapes and - several hours later - applauded as finished couture creations were paraded before them.
Betweentimes we were treated to a seemingly endless monologue, a thumping performance by Yr Mum, Yr Dad (think Alexi Sayle in red crepe, times two), some performance painting and posing and.. God knows what else.
You can read Paul Burston's critique (not entirely le mot juste; he's quite the fan) of that first show here.
Although I definitely agree that Hoyle is a unique talent, I'm not sure I share Burston's unmitigated adulation: the second and third shows, (consisting largely of conversation with Peter Tatchell and a woman whose name I didn't catch) began to reveal some of drawbacks of the post-Divine David: he has attitude to spare, and deserves buckets of adulation for single-handedly attempting to keep queer culture alive, but..but..but.
I can't avoid the nagging suspicion that what was once, presumably, shockingly refreshing anarchy has turned lazy as it moves into middle-age.
There's a thin line between don't-give-a-fuck and not-giving-a-fuck and Hoyle is stretching it as far as it will go: the third week's theme was advertised as War, but anyone naive enough to expect some genuinely incisive analysis (me!) would have come away empty-handed given that that the night swiftly turned into nothing more than a lengthy advertisement for the Young Socialists.
(Money, apparently, is the root of evil - no mention of the fiver each of us had coughed up to be preached at in this fashion.)
There's still plenty of time for me to be proved wrong, of course.This week's theme is Spirituality, but I shall be worshipping elsewhere. Next week is all about the sex trade and I wouldn't miss it for the world.
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