March 17th - March 24th 2002
Sunday Ban women
Saturday Looser
Friday Betwixt and betrothed
Thursday One of those days
Wednesday -
Tuesday And his dog
Monday Quotes
Sunday 24th March 2002
Something to consider as one wends one's way to the Vauxhall this afternoon:
Gays say: ban straight women from our clubs
"The Manchester gay scene has effectively been destroyed by let's-take-a-peek straights, and that's going to happen here unless we do something."
If you're not already familiar with this email:
"You are a fucking looser. Why don't you stop waisting your time and get a real job/hobby, you cunt?"
ask yourself:
Which pop star fathered the 16 year old son who wrote it?
To which topical debate is it intended to contribute?
Which side of the debate is it intended to boost?
Which school's high English standards does it exemplify?
And how did the school react?
And, talking of innocent schoolboys, did you see this story about the 30 year old television producer who was forced to apologise to his teachers and schoolmates when it was revealed that he'd spent eight weeks with them successfully pretending to be 18?
This strengthens my resolve: henceforward, should anybody ask, I'm 29.
Cousin Claude's Advice to the Closeted:
If you're not entirely out to your friends or colleagues, and the conversation turns to the pop charts this week, and the likelihood of Gareth Gates getting to number one, and someone says something about "Will Young and George Michael fighting for the number two slot," try very hard not to murmur, "Now there's a thought."
Friday 22nd March 2002
Robbie Williams has conducted a friend's wedding after he became a priest with the non-denominational, Illinois-based Universal Ministries whose website announces: "Welcome! We ordain online all that come to us for free."
The bridegroom, a bass guitarist, was impressed. "Robbie wasn't nervous," Morrison said. "He's good at using those big words you use to get married - like betwixt and betrothed."
My emphasis.
Good news, bad news, no news at all:
Thatcher told to stop speaking
Scientists grow goldfish muscle in vat of foetal bovine serum
Indians discover washing machine that talks
Earl of Wessex burns hand cooking steaks
Thursday 21st March 2002
And speaking further of The White Swan, and unsuitabilities, guess who else was there last night?
Yes indeed - the Date from Hell. Whom, fool that I am, I spoke to. And who managed, in reply, to mutter "You're such a facile middle-class arsehole" and "I'd really like to be in bed with you" all in the same breath, thereby confirming - were confirmation remotely required - that he has... well let's be polite and call them Issues.
Speaking of the Pop Quiz, when a question (or, more precisely, an answer) about their new album came up, I got some very funny looks from certain parties when I suggested that Pete Shelley and Howard Devoto looked like Morecambe and Wise.
Well, here (reproduced from the Sunday Independent without permission) is my evidence:
Just to prove that I'm not infallible, however, I must point out that I was in error (or drunk) (or both) when I suggested that Pete Shelley was working, and touring, with Clive James. Silly me, I meant Pete Atkin.
Did you notice I didn't have anything to say yesterday? Did you? Did you?
The last time I posted was around lunch-time on Tuesday. In the forty hours or so since then, I have:
Lain under the duvet for a couple of hours, attempting to somewhat diminish the small mountain of newsprint that seems to have taken over the other side of the bed. (Diminish by reading, that is - I guess I could try chewing it up to make papier-maché models but my bedroom's unsightly enough as it is and, in the highly unlikely event of my ever getting to persuade some stranger to share my bed, I really don't need yet another décor feature to apologise for.)
Shopped locally for various meal-makings: eggs, cheese, potatoes, broccolli, bacon and a shoulder of new season's lamb that I already know I will be heartily sick of by the eighth day (by which stage it will be reduced to a gluey mass of meat shreds swimming in what was once garlic onion and tomatoes.)
Eaten something so unsuitable that I have resolutely forgotten what it was. (Hamburger, probably.)
Resisted with clenched teeth the temptation to follow my usual pattern of sleeping after eating because, by that stage, I needed to be out of the house in a couple of hours and, besides, I'd already managed, unusually, a full nine hours sleep the night before (despite the best intentions of my mad noisy neighbour.)
Slept.
Awoken not knowing quite what time it was, nor quite where I was supposed to be (but utterly convinced that I was late for it, whatever it was.)
Discovered that I was, in point of fact, only ten minutes late (provided I could manage to get washed, dressed and transported halfway across London in one and a half minutes.)
Attended the last half of an incident-free Pop Quiz followed by a further coupla-pints at Bar Code, feeling, if not looking, rather like Sleeping Beauty (sans Prince ça va sans dire.)
Exercised various obscure muscles at the Shoreditch Health Club for six or seven hours (none of which I wish to unveil here.)
Returned home, against the tide of commuter traffic, ate and slept (astonishingly, for another eight hours.)
Arisen in a timely fashion and gone to work for five hours for a shift that passed entirely without incident, not even including any memorable remarks by the non-native English-speaker (who last week waved away a persistent fly whilst muttering, "These damned midgets are everywhere.")
Rushed out into the night to get to The White Swan at around midnight in order to mingle with the green velvet monkeys (and meet a certain someone who reads this blog, and is consequently not going to be talked about. At all.)
Walked straight home (with no interesting visits to late-night garages or other insalubrious sites.)
Cooked something so unsuitable that it makes all the other recent insuitabilities pale by comparison (but, if I am found dead of food-poisoning within the next twenty four hours: blame the fish.)
Slept for a further four hours and dreamt that..(but no, I am resolved to never tell a dream on here.)
So: I make no apology for not posting yesterday.
It was just one of those days...
Tuesday 19th March 2002
I guess Commander Paddick may have some time on his hands, now that's he's been transferred away from Lambeth to New Scotland Yard. So here's a tailored reading list:
Cannabis? Rather old hat darling. These days we're all busy doing 2-(2-Chlorophenyl)-2-(methylamino)- cyclohexanone
How to deal with the police when caught cruising
And two potentially collision-prone reactions to the outing-before-last: one from The Independent and one from The Telegraph.
Such an amusing drug...
That's Princess Margaret (allegedly) doing her best to share what passed for the high-life, backstage at a Rolling Stones concert in 1967.
I have my doubts personally - such a cheesy quote for one so (allegedly) sophisticated, the kind of line adolescents practise under their duvet as they wait for their lives to begin.
On the other hand, given that the closest thing to a hobby that Mrs Queen and Margaret ever shared was a predeliction for watching corgis fuck dachshunds, who knows?
Three rabbits live with a fearful mystery... That's David Lynch. trailing one of his three pay-to-view Internet movies. Obviously.
I'm back. I'm posting... That's ill-fated Commander Brian Paddick returning, after his holiday, to the bulletin board where his postings (allegedly) led the powers that be to first question his fitness for office. Paddick is currently under investigation for (allegedly) allowing his boyfriend to smoke dope at home, and has been moved from his job in Lambeth in the meantime.
(You might think that this is all just a means to cover up senior policemen's embarassment at not knowing how to make small talk in the showers to a man who has no problems with his homosexuality, but I couldn't possibly comment.)
No homosexuals in Uganda... That's President Museveni accepting an award for his country's efforts to combat AIDS. (Surprisingly enough, the Guardian appears to agree with him.) Museveni has a short memory: less than two years ago he was ordering that Ugandan gays be rounded up and arrested.
Or maybe he believes that a short sharp shock is all it takes to make someone reconsider their sexual orientation - who can puzzle the moral depths of the average African dictator?
Most certainly accept the result... That's Robert Mugabe, current world favourite for the biggest bitch-slap ever for his bare-faced cheek in clinging on to power. All down to an earlier incident in the showers (allegedly).
Monday 18th March 2002
As you've no doubt worked out for yourselves, a week on Blogadoon where the level of quotation from outside sources rises above average is a week where I'm too scared, depressed, jaded or busy to grapple with real life at first-hand.
Leaving you to guess which of the four adjectives applies to my last seven days, I offer a little quiz. Who said:
Ah, cocaine. Such an amusing drug, don't you think?
In a nameless city, deluged by a continuous rain, three rabbits live with a fearful mystery.
I'm back. I'm posting. End of argument.
We don't have homosexuals in Uganda.
I will most certainly accept the result, because I will have won.
......previous entries