iansie.com: blogadoon: little miss triumph

August 13th - August 19th 2001

Sunday Perma-whinge
Saturday On The Beach
Friday Do you...
Thursday Early Barth
Wednesday Aria
Tuesday Cynical and drunk
Monday Brighton Pride

Sunday 19th August 2001

Don't you just love the way people whinge about my lack of perma-links, but never ever have anything concrete to suggest about how I might manage that - on irregularly-archived pages on a hand-coded site on a service-provided server.

For what it's worth, each day here on blog.html can be linked to as blog.html#MONDAY, or whatever; the problem comes when I tear a week off the bottom and archive it as blog37, or whatever...)

Saturday 18th August 2001

I see the Telegraph has braced itself to cover the advice given in the new section of the Metropolitan Police handbook: Don't call gays homosexuals.

Strictly speaking of course, if the Telegraph was to follow its own editor's infamous fatwa, that headline should read: Don't call homosexuals homosexuals. But hey, let's not quibble: sticks and stones.

"Was it homophobia that did for Portillo?"

"Maybe it's just that old thin-lipped Conservatives don't like full Iberian lips"

Can you guess who answered that interview question thusly?

Clue: he also offered his interviewer the chance to use his pool, adding "We have no need of bathing suits here, it is very private."

(And no, before you ask, it wasn't Michael Barrymore.)

I think David Dim has missed something that I bet Kirsty knew, namely that On The Beach was also a popular novel by Nevil Shute, in which Australians contemplate their options when they wake up to discover that the entire Northern Hemisphere has been totally obliterated. Here's hoping Uncle Hedgehog's latest travails aren't quite that bad...

Speaking of bad hair days I guess that, given that someone was good enough to make me a pirate copy of Tim Burton's Planet of the Apes which I got to watch on the same day as the UK premiere, I should probably say a bit more about it.

How does pile of unmitigated shite sound?

And run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and run and runnn.

Friday 17th August 2001

This one could run and run and run:

I have: my health (sorta)
I see: less and less
I hate: Idiots
I miss: Barbados
I wonder: How long I'll live
I find: Suddenly it's raining
I want: To go out tonight
I regret: Rien
I need: A bath
I wish: I knew then what I know now
I fear: Being thought absurd
I hear: That bloody child in the courtyard with his bloody electronic arpeggio that I am going to go down and bloody smash on the pavement if I have to listen to it one more bloody time
I love: The company of friends
I smell: Slightly stale
I crave: Affection
I feel: Lurv

When was the last time you...
Talked to an ex: Longer ago than is proper
Kissed someone: Last night
(but don't ask me what his name was, or what else was in our mouths)
Were sarcastic: Oh please
Laughed: Half an hour ago
Cried: I don't remember
Had a nightmare: Not for ages
Danced: At Brighton Pride last weekend
Smiled: Really I rarely stop smiling
Bought something? Ummm. Beer? Last night?

Last book you read:
I finished 'On Queer Street' by Hugh David last night
Last song you heard:
Some trash at The White Swan last night
Last movie you saw:
The Ape thing, in the comfort of my own home (v. bad)
Last thing you had to drink:
Industrial strength coffee, olé
Last time you showered:
Last night, at the sauna.
(Hey, I'm a Brit, we bathe. Every so often.)
Last thing you ate:
Hmmmm

Do you...
Smoke: Yes
Do drugs: Hardly at all these days
Live in the moment: If distinct dread of any commitment further ahead than a couple of hours is any thing to go by, yes I think so
Sleep with stuffed animals: My ex's teddy-bear collection growls at me from inside a closed wicker basket at the far side of my bedroom
Have sex: Define 'sex'?
Play an instrument: I wish
Had a dream that keeps coming back: Seems that way whilst I'm dreaming them, but difficult to tell
Believe there is life on other planets: Define 'life'?
Believe it's possible to remain faithful forever? Possible, yes. Likely, no.
Consider yourself tolerant of others: With the odd rare but distinct exception
Remember your first love? Oh certainly

Do you...
Have any straight friends? Some of my best friends...
Read the newspaper? Regular readers know the answer to that one, I think
Still love your first love? I am so over him
Believe in miracles: Define 'miracles'?
Have a favorite candy? I used to be partial to a plain chocolate Bounty bar before my teeth got so bad
Wish on stars? Nope
Believe in God: I loathe religion, does that count?
Believe in magic: No
Believe in astrology? Prediction, no. Character, possibly.
Like the taste of alcohol: No, but I love its effect
Hate yourself? Rarely
Talk to strangers who IM you: Sure
Have any bad habits: Pfff
Like your handwriting: when I had handwriting, sure
Collect anything? My past is littered with collections, including bakelite clocks, beach-glass and internet porn. Now, I mostly collect dust.

Do you...
Have a secret crush? Oh, thousands
Have any piercings? Nope
Have any tattoos: Nope
Go to church: Nope
Have any pets: Nope (been there, done that)
Wear hats: Not as much as I'd secretly like
Pray: Only out loud
Believe in ghosts: Noooooo-ooo
Care about looks? Yes, especially the lingering ones
Believe in Satan: Who?
Believe in witches? At least one of my friends is a witch
Have a best friend: Thankfully, yes

Thursday 16th August 2001

If you don't know who this man is, have a guess. Then find out.

"London Transport wish to apologise for the late-running of your service because the kettle hasn't boiled yet."

Ooooh. When you hear the phrase serious sexual injuries do you think what I think?

Yay, Simon: now officially clever.

I see that The Tin Man has bought himself a copy of John Barth's The Sotweed Factor.

When I was about 12, poking around my Dad's bedside cabinet while he was at work, I found a stack of books: The Kama Sutra, The Perfumed Garden, and (hmm, I still don't understand this) John Rechy's Numbers. Maybe books have always held a quasi-erotic thrill for me since then?

Whatever. The Sotweed Factor was also there in the bedside stash and, making the logical deduction, I sat down to look for the dirty bits. (If you've read any John Barth, you'll appreciate the precocious absurdity of this.)

I do seem to recall the odd rude bit (it wasn't nearly as horny as Numbers though) and I quite enjoyed it, though I admit I skipped quite a few pages here and there. (If you've read any John Barth, you'll appreciate that, too.)

Later, I read, and enjoyed, Giles Goat-Boy and The Last Voyage of Somebody the Sailor. I even fought my way to the end of the 'difficult' Letters. Somewhere around the middle of The Tidewater Tales though, I began to think I'd read this all before.

When I saw that Barth has a new book due out this autumn, I hoped it wasn't going to be yet another wordy saga of existential noodling about in boats in the Chesapeake bay. Seems I'm to be disappointed. Shame.

Overheard at the White Swan last night:

"I can't believe I'm sitting here snogging you... I was going to lean over and tell you what lovely eyes you have, all dark... I mean, I could take you into the toilet and suck your cock but I want to wake up next to you in the morning..."

"I have to leave to catch the bus back to Northern Ireland in five minutes."

Ok, so I've used the word 'drunk' 19 times on this site. I've used the word 'David' 34. I leave you to draw your own conclusions...

Zut. Pftui even. If Iain is really going to Paris, it's lucky he discovered the difference between "an equine-length penis" and "frozen like a horse" before he went.

Wednesday 15th August 2001

The night ride home from the Pop Quiz last night was a symphony of sound effects.

As an overture, a conversation between an American couple and the man behind them which started when they made some innocent comment about how long they'd waited for the bus.

The man behind (I couldn't see his face, but he had most unfortunate hair) then launched into an aria about the route taken by the number 38 as opposed to that taken by the number 11, the relative frequency of each service, and the exact divergence in their routes between Aldwych and Liverpool Street.

The friendly smiles on the American faces faded slowly throughout this. There was a pause, and the man turned to his wife and said "Shall we go upstairs?"

After that overture, I travelled to the sounds of the high-hat headphones of the woman opposite, pstisch pstisch pstisch, the rythmic crunch of the apple being eaten by the large black woman behind me, snack - snack, and the coloratura of the Turkish man at the back of the bus alternately humming and singing to himself, la lala lalala la.

I thought about getting out my mobile and adding my own obligato ("I'm on the bus. Nah. Its noisy") but decided that would be too too post-modern.

Tuesday 14th August 2001

Eat your heart out, Mahir Cagri. Move over, Randy Constan. Sharon Adl-Doost ("The Lunch Lady") has her own web site (and a right mess it is too.)

Over at Disturbing Search Requests, Ragabash (aka Ray the Floating Goldfish) is puzzled by a search for London blitz related to sexual orientation and asks "Exactly what does the Battle of Britain have to do with your sexual preferences?"

Tch, don't they teach anything in school these days?

I've been dipping into Hugh David's "On Queer Street" lately, and he's as good a source as any:

"Unexpectedly, the blackout was to do more for the homosexual men who, for one reason or another, found themselves in London [...] Chaos reigned, anything went - and men like John Lehmann and Quentin Crisp were having the time of their lives.

"The Yanks (and the Canadians) were coming and in the perilous darkness the phrase 'Over here' took on wholly new connotations: For most of 1940 London by night was like one of those dimly-lit parties that their hosts hope are slightly wicked [...] As soon as the bombs started to fall, the city became like a paved double bed. Voices whispered suggestively to you as you walked along; hands reached out if you stood still and in dimly lit trains people carried on as they had once behaved only in taxis."

OK, explain this to me please. And go slowly because I'm still only on my second cup of coffee.

Is there some kind of sex-enquiry threshold thing at Google? Like, some kind of qualifying round, only after which do they decide to hoist a huge gamboge flag with calling all perverts writ large upon its fluttering surface?

I don't now how else to explain that I've recently been poked for stoned fuck photo and everybody was stripped and teens in thongs let alone (my favourite) new york marathon urinal pictures.

(And that was before I posted this link.)

Presumably, though, this has nothing to do with what has to be definitely this month's most disturbing search request here at Blogadoon: answer key for O-level maths paper from 2001. I think we file that one under How Wrong Can You Get.

I was never a Baryshnikov fan, but anyone of his age who can appear on the front page of The Independent in a classical pose, wearing spectacles, naked (but for a pair of pants and two linen jackets stuck to his chest with gaffer tape) and still look hot gets my vote.

Baryshnikov

The last time I saw Richard was Detroit in '68 and he told me: "All romantics meet the same fate someday, cynical and drunk - and boring someone in some dark café.

"You laugh," he said. "You think you're immune. Go look at your eyes. They're full of moon. You like roses and kisses and pretty men to tell you... all those pretty lies."

Richard got married to a figure skater. And he bought her a dishwasher and a coffee percolator. And he drinks at home now most nights with the TV on. And all the house lights left up bright...

There are worse ways wake up than with Joni Mitchell lyrics going round in your head.

Monday 13th August 2001

Despite having had Brighton Pride pencilled into my diary for several months, a couple of late nights late in the previous week had made it unlikely that I would be up in time to meet everybody at London Bridge at 10am. But I asked David to give me an alarm call anyway.

And, lo, it came to pass that I found myself hurtling the length of Platform Five, mobile pressed to my ear, shouting: "Yes, yes, yes, I'm here, hold the door... oh FUCK I've dropped my sunglasses and they've fallen on the track... fuck, fuck, fuck, you go ahead, I'll catch the next train, bugger."

Under circumstances like those, I fear the worst. Although I am both adequately foolhardy and just about athletic enough to have lowered myself over the platform edge to retrieve a pair of sunglasses (especially a pair of prescription sunglasses), there was no way I was going to do that in my new bright yellow shorts.

I foresaw a wasted morning of filling in forms in triplicate whilst men in orange safety vests phoned all over the country to halt the national rail network, hordes of angry homosexualists tapping their hissy feet in frustration at not being able to get to the coast, myself the blushing epicentre of an stare-storm of angry evil eyes ("Him. The blind guy in the yellow shorts. Self-evidently.")

Such a drama queen. The little man in the platform supervisor's office couldn't have been more charming or more efficient, hopped down onto the track, hopped back up, and fifteen minutes later I found myself crammed into the 1025 to Brighton.

Although I wasn't as lucky as David, one train ahead of me and apparently seated in convivial company, or as early as Andy, Guy and another David, one train ahead of that, the standing-room-only journey passed uneventfully enough: metropolitan gays don't see much of the countryside at the best of times and the sight of all that greensward seemed to have shocked most of them into a thankfully stunned silence ("No, dear, that's a horse. Cows are the ones with the balloons at the back.")

I followed the happy crowd downhill from the station and mobiled my way to where DAG&aD stood watching the passing parade. A parade which, I must say, was considerably larger, brighter and happier than the one we'd stood watching at Green Park 6 weeks ago.

Drawn by the prospect of off-licenses, we shuffled along with the parade, nodding at familiar faces, dodging dyke elbows, widening our eyes at some of the ugliest naked butts we've ever seen, and peeled off to pick up some beers at a newly crowded Sainsbury's.

I love the way that normally sleepy trains, stations and stores get an instantaneous gay makeover on Pride days, and this was no exception.

The staff looked stunned and the homo-mob had evidently proved a little too much for at least one elderly resident who had collapsed on a plastic chair with his head in his hands. As one of us pointed out, at least he wouldn't go short of a nurse ("Let me through, I'm a qualified medical practioner." "I saw him first, you bitch." "I had a walk-on in Casualty, does that count?")

Preston Park, our destination, turned out to be a lovely site for a party, tucked into a fold in the hills. All the usual tents were there, a Popstars tent, a cabaret tent and one from Wild Fruit (Brighton's biggest club), which is where we eventually spent most of our time.

My frequent complaint about Mardi Gras is that you expect to see every queen you've ever met but end up in the company of newly liberated librarians from Salford. Summer Rites, much missed, was great for seeing people that you know and this was even better: it seemed as if half London was there. I hope the locals like that. They certainly seemed to be enjoying themselves.

On the main stage, at some stage, I saw part of a great set from a woman called Horse (can that be right?) who comes across as a dykier Annie Lennox. And I think I had a frantic little dance to a samba troupe at some stage but things were already starting to get a little fuzzy round the edges by then. And I had had only a few hours sleep the night before.

My personal highlight was when I wandered off on my own towards the edge of the park. Toilet arrangements at Pride parties are always a great excuse to let the inner outlaw out, and this was no exception. Those of us who couldn't be arsed to queue for a portaloo took to the bushes and the steep north-eastern slope soon turned into a hilariously muddy adventure playground, complete with the odd squatting lesbian.

The best bit though was when I walked up and around the bushes to discover that someone had installed a faithful facsimile of a traditional village cricket match, complete with white-flannelled fools, a handful of spectators and a church tower whose clock whose hands stood poised at ten to three.

Standing there under the scudding clouds, with the click of leather on willow ahead of me, the antic giggles of the bushes behind me, the whole overlaid with the muffled thump of the distant disco tents, I made a resolution.

I'm not going anywhere near Mardi Bloody Gras next year. There will be only one Pride party pencilled in my diary: Brighton Pride.

Even the weather seemed a little hungover on Sunday but the Tavern was as packed as ever, ensorcelled by a great show from Dame Edna. I missed the first few minutes, so I can't quote the most offensive bits (Jewish pizza? Naked Hamiltons?).

Non-resident in Stockwell, however, I can advise the Vauxhall Vixen that 'iconoclastic' and 'famous' are not synonymous, despite the fact she is undoubtedly both.

Afterwards, we stood around saying "Did you have a good day yesterday" to each other, spurned the clouded grassy knoll, and headed back into town: karaoke night at the King's Arms, scarey at Comptons, empty at Bar Code.

David took himself home and I wobbled up to Shoreditch to poke a long overdue head into the LA3. Bit noisy for me (though it was nice to see Barry) so I left early and progressed down the road to The Spiral Staircase, which was uneventful to the point of tedium. Some damned flat singing too - what happened to the idea that Sunday was when the best singers sing?

No sign of John, last seen glassy-eyed at Brighton Pride. I saw a somewhat dishevelled David Pollard though, who advises that The Joiners will be ready to re-open by next Monday. I expect he'd want me to point out that its been closed for refurbishment, and not because of a police raid, as at least one person suggested to me over the weekend. I don't think he'd want me to go into any detail as to why he's been away, so I won't. But I'm glad he's back.

And so we say farewell to Art Week, a mildly interesting experiment that turned out, to no-one's great surprise, to be more about me than it was about art. But that's okay, I never said it would be about art, only around it.

To those of you who say: "That's nothing special, I could do that," I offer the traditional riposte of the artist: "Well, good. Please do."

We now return you to our scheduled programming.

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