July 29th - August 4th 2002
Sunday Vicar porn
Saturday Tebbit
Friday Extract
Thursday Blogpop
Wednesday Foreign
Tuesday Shadowed
Monday Pants
Sunday 4th August 2002
Now here is a story that's got it all: a female vicar, a gay teacher, a 14 year old boy and - for extra sophistication - a webcam.
Saturday 3rd August 2002
Much innocent amusement to be had from watching Tory commentators falling over themselves to be blasé in the face of Alan Duncan's revelations about his sexuality - oh, that, yes we always knew, no big deal, some of one's best friends etc etc.
Typically, though, they always manage to strike just precisely the wrong note, failing to notice the difference between 'it's not an issue' and 'why did he even have to mention it?'
None more so than ex-chairman Norman Tebbit writing in The Spectator, in characteristically loutish mode:
Alan Duncan's totally unsurprising announcement that he is 'gay' has on [Tory voters] the impact of a powder puff flung at an elephant. Britain is a very tolerant country.
The great mass of us have no desire to emulate Mr Duncan's activities under his duvet; we do not think it our business exactly what he does do there; we do not wish to join in; we just wish profoundly that he would not bore us with his sexual problems.
Tebbit insults the intelligence of his audience by so openly attempting to have his cake and eat it, professing disinterest at the same time as he brandishes his quote marks, his gratuitous (and curiously Edwardian) 'powder puff' and his unquestioned assumption that being gay is the same as having 'sexual problems'.
Does anyone seriously think that this kind of crap helps the Conservatives in their professed aim of being more inclusive? Further evidence that the party is on the brink of total moral meltdown comes amidst coverage of the welcome news that the Labour Party is reviving plans to repeal section 28.
You might think that the invidious homophobia that lies behind that notorious legislation is reason enough to want to excise it from the statute book, but the The Daily Telegraph has a far superior conspiracy theory: Labour are doing it because they want to embarrass the Tories.
As if that arsehole Tebbit wasn't doing a perfectly good enough job on his own.
Friday 2nd August 2002
Thursday 1st August 2002
Hence
After three very dull pints in the Edward earlier, the first thing that David and I noticed as we sauntered into the almost-empty Ram Bar was that they've installed themselves an internet link since the last time we were there.
Do you imagine us scampering straight over to it, giggling peals of nerdy glee? Think again: we waited, ooh, all of five minutes before availing ourselves - and discovering that their browser, predictably enough, is set to show Gaydar as its homepage. Which passed a few amusing moments.
Then I made David show me a little more about the Alexa toolbar - a concept which has been worrying me slightly ever since Fraser started manipulating its data to produce his increasingly-popular Blogpop rankings.
Fraser has been the first to point out that by restricting Blogpop's polling base to Alexa-users, he is producing a list with its own in-built bias. He's also been quite candid in admitting that he's far from certain what kind of bias that is.
My conclusion, for what it's worth, is that Alexa is used mostly for its ability to trace related websites, making it especially popular with semantic-web-heads, people who like the idea of tracing a meme through all of its various twists and turns across the infosphere.
So it seems to me that, parallel to the way that Daypop will show you the sites that everyone-and-their-aunt is currently linking to, Blogpop will give you a working definition of everyone-and-their-aunt.
It spots sheep, rather than goats?
Whilst I find myself in this brief (and deeply uncharacteristic) dweeb-space, here's a potential solution to another enigma that's been perplexing a few propellor-heads: The Google Dance.
Meanwhile, back in the world of boys and beer, David got a text msg from Andy and Kevin which mentioned that they'd been to the pictures and were now having a drink in Bar Fusion.
Which, as you may know, is only a few streets away from the Ram Bar.
Which meant we were able to appear in front of them just a few minutes later. Like genies from a bottle.
Mobile phone much powerful ju-ju.
Elsewhere in the queersphere, he was making busy work. Down below.
(Admit it, half the time you haven't the faintest idea what I'm on about.)
Wednesday 31st July 2002
Thus
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that I seem to be the only person whose first thought about the (yawn) coming-out of Tory shadow cabinet minister Alan Duncan was "Hmm, Ben Bradshaw".
Ben Bradshaw (an 'out' Labour MP) was, until earlier this year, a junior minister at the Foreign Office.
Alan Howard's designated area of expertise? Foreign affairs. (Something Peter Mandelson knows all about, too.)
Kinda adds a new angle on British prime ministers' traditional suspicion of the Foreign Office, eh?
Oh well. Maybe not.
Tuesday 30th July 2002
Once
I promised to tell you about The Shadow Lounge.
And, in truth, there's not that much to tell, especially if you're not a gay man living in London; those of us who are, however, have been mildly intrigued by this venue, not least because it's difficult to tell from the publicity whether it's a bar or a club.
It's open late, it flaunts its exclusivity and it gets regular plugs in the gay press (so it's a club). But it's situated right at the heart of Boystown (on the same block as Village, Rupert Street and Prowler), advertises regularly and makes no mention of a door charge (a bar).
And, because the space itself is below ground, when you saunter past its roped-off be-bouncered entrance on Rupert Street itself, trying not to gawp, the only thing you can see is a tiny reception desk groaning beneath a gigantic flower arrangement (a massage parlour).
You might ask why any of this matters (especially if you're not a gay man living in London.) But the point, one of the points, about a bar is that anyone can, and does, get in; a club, by contrast (and by definition), reserves the right to look you up and down, frown slightly and say something to the effect of "I'm sorry, mate, but..nah." And, as you know, we gay men have issues with rejection.
Plus, of course, there's the matter of the door charge.
July 4th was that rare thing for me, an evening without friends. Wending my solitary way from one bar to another, I found myself just a pace or two behind some muscle mary as we drew level with The Shadow Lounge and, from the corner of my eye, I got to watch him stride confidently up to the bouncer who promptly whisked the rope away to wave him in.
So, aha, I thought, it's just a bar with attitude. Well that's okay, I feel mildly attractive this evening, I can cope with attitude. Bring it on, in fact. But maybe I'll have another beer first.
(I formed a theory early on in my clubbing career that the very worst thing you can do when lacking knowledge of a venue is to hang around outside, visibly plucking up the confidence to go in. If the door whore's watching - and he/she will be - you'll immediately identify yourself as a punter, a pervert or, worst of all, a prat.)
Half an hour later, I strode confidently up to the rope. The bouncer stopped me, looked me up and down, frowned slightly and said, "Are you on the guest-list, sir?".
Fool that I am, I should have prepared for this. Various answers presented themselves. Calling what might be his bluff with a simple 'yes' was attractive but risky. A sardonic smile and a remark about heads rolling in my personal entourage should I prove not to be listed might be worth a try. Or I could try the old favourite, looking slightly startled and saying "Do you know, I really don't know."
I settled for cool-but-harmless in the end. "I'm afraid I'm not." Hearing drum-rolls in my head, I watched as the burly bouncer summoned up a piquantly contrasted elfin figure from behind the reception desk, a wispy twelve year with a clipboard who scurried across to whisper... "Are you on the guest-list, sir?"
Summoning every last ounce of insouciance (and, for fuck's sake, it's only a bloody bar...or club...or massage parlour) I repeated my previous answer. "In that case, I'm afraid I'm going to have to charge you..(drum roll)... three pounds."
"Fine," I said, and strode in.
(More of this nonsense later. In the meantime note that The Dane told me that when he went to The Shadow Lounge a few weeks earlier they charged him ten quid. So, really, we're no nearer plumbing the depths of the mystery of the door charge.)
(And, yes, I do now know there's a web site. But sometimes it's just more fun not knowing, y'know?)
Monday 29th July 2002
In today's Independent, John Walsh interviews the couple who run Agent Provocateur, and asks them if they have plans to get into designing sexy underwear for men too:
"There's no point. Straight men won't buy it, they'll be the last to pick up on it. Gay men would be into it immediately, but those guys have already got enough special underwear. They just don't need any more."
If I was a professional queen, I guess I'd drawl "Daaarling, you can never have enough special underwear." But I ain't, so I won't.
It does, however, put a neat twist on a conversation at the office last week:
"What are you doing with your holiday, Mark?"
"Dunno. Probly just sit around in me pants."
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