July 8th - July 14th 2002
Sunday Foof
Saturday Bar none
Friday Gay mafia
Thursday Pooh
Wednesday -
Tuesday Badge of shame
Monday Sadly
Sunday 14th July 2002
Do you find that keeping a blog adversely affects your everyday conversations?
At best, of course, you're well supplied with chatty snippets to fill in awkward pauses ("Yes, the only suit I ever loved was my Hugo Boss, and it turns out he made his fortune tailoring for the Nazis.")
But all too often, once I've blogged something, it's all so neatly wrapped and packaged that I find myself extremely reluctant to repeat it all again out loud or, if I have to, I find myself having to apologise for all the added frills and stylistic tricks that have, by that stage, become inseperable from the basic content.
And if I haven't blogged something, it all just spills out like an oil slick, as when The Dane asked me how I was today and I heard myself say: "Well, what with all my friends away I wasn't sure I could be arsed to make the effort to get to the RVT today just to stand around like Billy NoMates, but on the other hand I've worked almost every night this week so I did feel the need to get out, so I thought if I didn't wake up in time to get down to Vauxhall I might go to Shoreditch later on, except that I'm on a very tight budget and the LA3 could turn out a bit pricey even though I had a great time there last week so in the end I decided to just let it all hang on what time I woke up, and, lo and behold, I woke up at 430 and in quite a good mood so I thought I'd better make the effort, what with it being the week after Pride and the sun shining, but I just missed a couple of trains and by the time I got to Victoria it was 545 and then the bloody tubes aren't running so I had to get a bus and that took forever of course but when I got there I could see there wasn't even a queue which cheered me up no end except that I then discovered they weren't letting any more people in till after the show, so I eventually decided stuff that and went to get a quiet pint in Dukes only they were having one of their BearHug meetings so the garden was full of plump men with facial hair, which is not really my scene, so I thought I'd come back into town to meet you only, of course, there are no bloody trains so I ended up sitting on a bus waiting for ever for Ken Livingstone's sodding traffic lights to change and now I find the West End's rammed with tourists milling around like sheep, so..foof."
Saturday 13th July 2002
When I first came back down to live in London on a permanent basis, seven or eight years ago, I spent almost every night going out to gay bars and clubs.
My ex had been a designer of bars and restaurants so I treated it all as something of a research project, discovering which clubs worked and which didn't, learning where I fitted in and where I didn't, working out what were the best times to be where, polishing my standing-in-a-quiet-corner skills. All by myself.
Occasionally, but only occasionally, I'd get chatting to somebody, sometimes -gosh- even talking to the promoter himself (as when Patrick Lilley turned to me at Queer Nation one night and said "How did you get in?")
But it wasn't ever really about meeting people; I've always been pretty cynical about the prospects of that.
Later, when I got closer to actually running a bar, I learnt a lot more about actually talking to people. (I also learnt some useful lessons about whom to value - in this area as in any other, the basic rule that ninety per cent of everything is shit holds true, in my experience.)
These days though, thanks to my wide and varied social circle (God bless you all), I hardly ever go anywhere by myself.
But I still find it surprising when some of my more intelligent and attractive friends get annoyed when I turn up late because they can't cope with standing at the bar on their own.
I still quite like standing at the bar on my own. After I'd learnt, quite early on, that every bar, every club, is a little theatre space where everybody's staging their own performance I enjoyed doing my Man Who Sees routine, Hamlet with a pint, observing and being observed, reading and being read, friendly but detached.
All of which is merely a very lengthy preamble to talking about one night last week when I finally got to venture into The Shadow Lounge.
Of which, aha, more at another time...
Friday 12th July 2002
Points to ponder as we head into the weekend:
What would a straight Graham Norton be like?
How would things work in a Gay Mafia?
Why do brokers say things like "I would love to put one up their bottom"?
Thursday 11th July 2002
Never did trust that bloody bear: Pooh kills child
Tuesday 9th July 2002
If you've come here in search of elucidation of Graybo's comment as to the regrettability of people using their heterosexuality as a badge, I fear I can't help you.
If, on the other hand, you simply want to know what went down with a load of noisy gays over the weekend, you'll find the Mardi Gras coverage archived here.
Monday 8th July 2002
Sadly, not all memories of a place are good
sadly, you have sex on the brain
sadly, life is beautyfull
Sadly, We Have Few Problems
Sadly, Hysterically Funny
Sadly, Drug Laws Stay
Sadly, Our Next President Is Going to Be a Boy
Sadly, I must resign the Hegemonship
Sadly, I'm the only Atheist I know in reality
Sadly, ArmadilloWorld has come to an end
Sadly, It's Liza with a Zzzz
sadly, in the name of mere entertainment
Sadly, most of these links are dead
sadly, appears to have been abandoned
Sadly, most things have not
Sadly, the lawn would be gone
Sadly, I see things like this frequently
sadly, I'm used to it
sadly, you've said it all
Sadly, It's a Game of Chance
sadly, it wasnt my favorite outcome
Sadly, It's All In The Timing
Sadly, there's no happy ending to this story
Sadly, nothing is forever
Sadly, not this time
......previous entries