December 24th - December 30th 2001
Sunday Tantric Sex
Saturday Him again
Friday Bogarde
Thursday Boxers
Wednesday Caganers
Tuesday Very merry
Monday Crypt creep
Sunday 30th December 2001
One (just one!) of the things I loathe about this season is the way that the papers are full of so-called Reviews of the Year; as if everybody has just woken up from a twelve month snooze and needs to be told what they've missed.
That said, I did spot one thing (just one!) that made me laugh, and which is worth sharing. It's the Blessed John Mortimer talking about Tantric Sex:
"It's very slow. My favourite is The Plumber. You stay in all day and nobody comes."
Saturday 29th December 2001
Lots and lots of people at The Swan after work last night, possibly because Pam Ann was on but perhaps also not unconnected with The Spiral being closed for the festive season.
Andrew, the primary school head teacher was there. I think he told me he's now Acting Secretary to the Primary Schools Association or some such, but it was difficult to tell because he was, as usual, totally off his gourd.
And Adam, having a row with someone, as per.
And - well, it had to happen, sooner or later - Him.
He said: "I keep asking myself if I really fucked up again the other night."
I said: "Oh no, it was just a... wavelength thing."
Sometimes I'm so nice I could shit.
Friday 28th December 2001
I enjoyed "The Private Dirk Bogarde" the other night, just about the only thing worth watching on tv this Christmas. (Almodovar is all very well, but once you've seen one, the only thing worth waiting for is the inevitable cock.)
I thought the two-hour Arena special was skilfully done, blunt when it needed to be but sly, also, especially in the editors choice of material.
Like: the photographs from the family album, showing Bogard and Forewood posing in swimsuits like something from Physique Pictorial.
Like: the early footage from Forewood's 16mm home movies, where his camera - ostensibly focussed on Bogarde in the foreground - kept edging away to concentrate on cute boys in the background.
And, especially, like: the montage shot of the 50s film buff magazine, demonstrating the image created for Bogarde by the Rank publicity machine, flipping through the pages, past "Tall dark and handsome, yet he's still a bachelor", to end on: "And now let's meet - Rock Hudson."
Thursday 27th December 2001
At some time in the last few days, I woke up with a very clear image of the back-page of QX magazine in my head. "BOXERS," it said, "Boxing Day at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern - an underwear night."
And I smiled, because I remembered that somewhere I have a pair of boxer shorts patterned with sprigs of holly. I even got as far as planning to wear a jock-strap underneath them, given the Vauxhall Massive's tendency to yank down anything elastic.
As I became fully conscious, I realised that, though I knew it wouldn't be like that, I really had no clear idea of what the up-coming Boxing Day festivities at the RVT would be like.Well silly, it's just like the usual Sunday. But with knobs on.
I always mean to eat before I go to the Tavern, but somehow I never manage it. This time, thanks to a late Christmas lunch with all the vegetables (courtesy Andy'n'Alex), I arrived feeling stuffed to the point of immobility. Apologies to anyone to whom I appeared standoffish: I just thought it would be a good idea to try and keep some distance, in case I exploded and showered everything with half-digested christmas pudding.
Right up until the beginning of Edna's show, it looked as if the Tavern would be comfortably emptier than usual. And then, as often happens, the place was suddenly rammed. The crowd seemed particularly restless: no matter where you stood, the churn and jostle kept you constantly in motion. Over-lunched as I was, the last thing I needed was motion-sickness.
The usual mix of familiar faces and shocked strangers thronged around (at least one of the latter yanked on my chest hair as he passed, explaining "Well, you didn't have your shirt off before...")
Dame Edna did one of his omnibus shows, featuring the best of the year's songs and quips, its scatological content not neutered one whit by the presence of his mother, royally seated at her own special table on the balcony.
What with yesterday and last Sunday, with next Sunday and New Year's Eve still to come, I foresee a grave danger of being totally RVT'd out by the dawn of next year. Detox for 2002?
Wednesday 26th December 2001
I admit it, I was quite chuffed with my festive illustration.
How incredibly annoying then, to start some belated catching-up with outdated newspaper supplements this morning and discover this in last Sunday's Independent:
"They always do things differently in Barcelona.. On the face of it [Christmas is] all fairly conventional.. Thing is, Catalans often like to add some of their own brand of Christmas imagery. And that's distinctly scatological.
"Look closely and you'll see a little man tucked round the corner taking a dump. He's a kind of folk hero in Catalonia. That's El Caganer, or, as the Catalans put it "l'homme que fa les seves feines". Roughly translated, that means "the man who's doing his business"...
"Some people say he's fertilising the ground so the family can be well looked after in the year to come. Other people say it's because his take on the greatest mystery in the world is he couldn't give a ... Either way, he's much loved.
"He's even in a museum. For that you have to travel to Figueres, home town of that other famous scatologist, Salvador Dali. The director of the Toy Museum there has been collecting caganers for over 40 years.
"Traditionally, the caganer is a Catalan peasant with a red beret and his pants down, but you'll find caganer nuns, one-legged caganers, even caganers with mobile phones."
Armed with the correct terminology (the name translates, literally, as "the shitter"), one turns to the interwebnet and discovers not only what looks suspiciously like the original source material for the above-quoted article, but hundreds and thousands of caganers, up to and including shitting santa clauses in finnish and, my favourite, Holmes at stool. No shit, Sherlock.
Tuesday 25th December 2001
No sleigh bells on this estate; only the sporadic toots of premium-priced mini-cabs, summoning single parents turned grandparents to Essex to spend the day with their children, their children's children, and The Video Bloopers Christmas Special.
As I lay sulking under the duvet, struggling with a plate of re-heated pasta and the Oxford University Press Jumbo Cryptic Crossword ("Novel conclusion to hairstyling? [3,4,2,3,8])", some sixth sense told me that one particular toot belonged to the son of The Harridan Next Door. Some seventh sense told me what would happen next.
And, sure enough, there was another, longer, toot, followed by the sound of his weary feet trudging up the staircase. Pause. 2, 3, 4, then: "If you can't fucking wait for me I won't fucking come!" Followed by his footsteps receding, and some frenzied banging of pots and pans in her kitchen.
Another traditional East-end Christmas.
Monday 24th December 2001
I'm not a great one for monitor-furniture, but one of the few things I've kept close to my keyboard for a while now is this little figurine, bought at a Christmas market in Barcelona several years ago. I was told it's a Catalan tradition that no nativity scene is complete without a representation of the fool who crept up to the crib, crapped and crept out again.
Merry Christmas, readers.
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