August 5th - August 11th 2002
Sunday Brighton
Saturday Wrong!
Friday Right?
Thursday Like 2 Meet
Wednesday Skinfest
Tuesday No comment
Monday Slags
Sunday 11th August 2002
The day starts the night before: you're sharing your apprehensions with colleagues, you're receiving last minute text messages expecting confirmation, you're cautiously checking weather forecasts on the net and finding big yellow unclouded suns in every box. So you know it's going to rain, and rain, and rain. And you decide, sod it, that yes you can spare the time for a pint or two at the Swan rather than hastening home for an early night.
And six hours later, you're crash-woken with a splitting headache, and you creep to the curtains and squint out at the grey street and the grey sky and you look in the mirror and you have a tongue and complexion to match.
Are you going to Brighton? Do you have to go to Brighton? Must you? Can you face ringing round at least five separate sets of people to find if they're going to Brighton? At ten o'clock in the morning? So you go back to bed.
And the first text message reaches you and it says "On my way to the seaside. See you there!" And then there's another that says "Leaving now!" And one that says "Just passing Haywards Heath and the sun is shining! Bizarre!!"
And you yawn, and frown, and stretch your limbs beneath the duvet, and sigh, and reluctantly embark on your wardrobe crisis.
By noon you're at London Bridge. By five past you're on a train, scanning your fellow-passengers for signs of incipient festivity. You decide, as you always do, that the ugly ones are tourists and the cute ones are the ones that are going to Pride. And there are two, count them, two cute ones. And that is not a good omen.
And from further down the carriage you can hear a loud familiar voice talking about itself in the third person. And you realise the drunken fag-hag that you always avoid at your neighbourhood bar is also on the train. And that is not a good omen, either.
But then you pass through Haywards Heath. And the sun is shining. Bizarre.
Jonce is at least two hours ahead of you, The Dane an hour and a half. Andy is, supposedly, 15 minutes behind you. So when you get to the station you wait for the next train, but he's not on that and then you get a message that says he won't be there for another hour.
And you overhear two lesbians asking themselves how they're going to find the park and you, somewhat over-confidently, tell them to turn left, walk all the way down the hill and then follow the parade to the park. And they thank you and walk off, and you realise that the parade started at least two hours ago, so their chances of their finding it are not high.
So you leave a discreet pause before turning left and walking all the way down the hill.
And you're walking towards the park, and indeed there is no sign of any parade, just a slowly thickening stream of homosexuals and the odd pink balloon under a grey sky and then you feel the first drop of rain.
And you trudge on as it rains a little harder, and then you decide to shelter under an awning until it passes, and ten minutes later you and a least a dozen people (none of them attractive, some of them certifiably insane) are still there under the damp disconsolate awning.
You re-re-consider what it will be like in the park. And then re-consider it some more. You phone a friend, or two, or three. And Andy is just getting off at the local station nearest the park but isn't actually there yet, and The Dane is stuck in a car in traffic.
And Jonce says "We're having lunch at Havana in The Lanes, Duke Street" and you say "Tempted to forget the park and come join you" and he says "Come!" and just then the rain eases slightly, and you think sod it, and you turn and start trudging back into town.
And there's A and Alex, hoping for pizza before the park, so you tell them Andy should be there by now, and make sure they have your phone number so they can file a progress report. And you phone Jonce for directions, which you almost understand, and you're back down by the Pavilion and the drizzle turns back into rain again.
And you dodge into a doorway, and it rains harder, and you dodge into another doorway and it rains harder still. And there is thunder. And lightning. And you laugh, and run to look for more substantial shelter. And there isn't any. And you laugh harder, despite the fact you're soaking wet.
And you eventually squeeze into a throng huddled under another awning and you turn to the little old lady next to you and say "I come to Brighton for the swimming" and she says "I was never much of a one for swimming."
And when the rain eventually eases, from cloudburst to mere downpour, you dart back into the flooded streets, hopping from puddle to puddle and you eventually get directions to The Lanes, one of the oldest parts of Brighton and therefore devoid of effective drainage and therefore literally streaming with water.
And eventually, eventually, you find Havana and walk in, dripping wet, to find Jonce and four others sitting on a sofa sipping champagne.
Jonce and Mark have brought two men friends, somewhat confusingly named Jonathan and Marcus. Plus, the odd man out on account of her not being a man, Jacquie. All of whom ply you with champagne so that in short order you are sitting, steaming, in a very cheerful frame of mind.
But outside the rain still rains. And you collectively decide, with virtually no debate, that there is no way on God's muddy earth that you are going to go to the park.
And start planning a bar crawl instead, in between harassing the cute Czech waiter (Kurt) and the stern German manageress (Kurta). And when Marcus pays for the champagne his debit card gets refused which puts him in no end of a good mood. So he and Jacquie go shopping.
Things brighten considerably as you head towards some bar opposite the pier and you see the sea, a vast body of water which seems strangely surreal under the circumstances. That will be why they call it the seaside, presumably.
And this first bar has lots, lots and lots and lots, of cute young men which is a Very Good Thing, even if one of them seems a little too aware of the fact that, actually, he plays the medical interest on Watchdog, a rather bizarre role given that he looks barely more than eighteen. And Jonce is looking him up on the internet with his PDA. And none of you are at all sure what he will do with any information if he finds it. But you fear the worst.
And then Jonathan, noticeably drinking coffee by this stage, decides he'll go for a little walk. And the remains of you head up the road to another bar. Which is a bit like walking into a crowded kindergarten, but very jolly. And you wonder whether anyone went to the park?
And the rain has finally stopped and Marcus and Jacquie have finished their shopping and found seats on the terrace, and you sit there, and drink, and... the sun comes out. And everybody immediately starts exclaiming about how hot it is. Which it isn't really. But you know what they mean.
And you try to get hold of The Dane, but his phone isn't working. And there's a message from Andy saying you're hard to get hold of and that the park is very muddy but they'll stay there for a bit and, as you're getting the next round in, you see Alex and Richard and Matthew in the distance but when you go to look for them you find Roger the minicab driver instead, and he's looking really healthy and really happy and that's nice too.
And then you move next door to another bar which has slightly less attractive people in it which doesn't stop Marcus finding, for the umpteenth time, but by no means the last, at least two people of whom he can pronounce "I would drink. His. Bathwater."
And you're trying to get Jacquie to fess up to what sort of woman floats her boat, indicating possibilities, and she's just being Such a Lesbian, comparing each and every one of them, detrimentally, to her absent girlfriend.
And then Jonathan returns from his walk having bought two shirts and two ties that he can wear to his mother's eightieth birthday and Jacquie stares at him and says "Jonathan, are you Jewish?", which is slightly bizarre, and then you realise that she's Jewish too. So you tell them about your grandparents who lived in Stamford Hill, and how your mother's maiden name is very common amongst Jewish women who married out, but they don't look very convinced.
But that's okay because, Lord knows, there's enough social subgroup bonding going on as it is, what with every other conversation you overhear going "Him in the red" and "Him over there in the blue top" and "Him standing by the door in the muddy jeans."
And as you move off to yet another bar, you meet Karl and his friends and you ask them if they've been to the park, and they gesture at their muddy jeans, and yes, that answers that question.
And then you're standing outside another pub in the sunshine, with a message from Andy saying they're about to get the train home, and Marcus is embarking on an extended fantasy about a whelk-seller. Which somehow doesn't seem at all bizarre. Which is bizarre.
And then you're standing in line at Harry Ramsden's and then sitting at a pavement table outside and before long you feel you can actually hear the protein, such as it is, absorbing the alcohol and you actually feel a little, just a little, bit more sober.
And then you're standing in an alleyway outside yet another pub in the last of the evening sun. "The tall one with grey hair..the skinny one in the flowered shirt..a whelk-seller or, failing that, someone that mends fishing nets.." And somewhere in the near distance, you can hear a loud familiar voice talking about itself in the third person. And you don't care.
And this is supposed to be the last pint before heading for the station, and Jacquie and Jonathan do actually leave, but you and Mark and Marcus and Jonce decide to go for one last, really one final, final, pint.
And then you're talking about Follies with a tall Scotsman in the most delicious drag who turns out to be Donald of Beautiful Bend. And Marcus is staring at somebody muttering "I would drink. His. Bathwater." And someone offers you a free umbrella, which you disdain because when you look up at the sky there is not a cloud to be seen.
And then you're heading for the station, only you're not, because you're standing in an extremely crowded pub singing along to some hugely amplified pop-cheese thinking "Him iz the gree shir..tall mizxhed race bloke..little guy with green hair." And you go "Bathwater?" And you decide it really really is time you headed for the statzion.
And then, and only then, you remember that the single worst aspect of Brighton is that the train station is at the top of a hill, a hill that, since you arrived eight hours ago, someone has deviously re-steepened, such that you have serious doubts about ever making it to the top.
And then Mark is buying more beers for the journey. And you're on the train. Asleep. Haywards Heath. Victoria. Home.
And you never did make it to the park.
Saturday 10th August 2002
Wrong!
Friday 9th August 2002
I've been looking forward to tomorrow for the last six months. And there's plenty enough to do and see in Brighton even if the park itself turns out to be a quagmire. So my vote is to go to Brighton Pride tomorrow, come what may. Right?
What is it with celebrities and drowning their friends?
First Michael Barrymore, then Art Malik and now (always the last to catch a trend) Chris Evans.
Kinda makes you want to think twice before accepting that next party invitation.
(PS: a date for your diary, Michael Barrymore gives evidence at the Stuart Lubbock inquest on September 9th.)
Lord knows why you should care, but everyone and their aunt seems to be blogging about it, and I was never one to resist a trend: I bought Lord of the Rings on DVD last night. For around £17. From Tesco, of all places. (At three hours, or whatever it is, I really don't feel a burning need to hold out for the extra thirty minutes...)
I wrote before about my own particular bizarre version of Charles Bonnet Syndrome - the one that provides endless amusement by supplying me with surreal versions of newspaper headlines. Today's is one of the the best yet:
I will eat rare brain tumour says John Major's son-in-law
Thursday 8th August 2002
Mike and Jonathan and David have written about this week's big gay edition of Would Like To Meet which, since I generally agree with all of them, saves me saying much about it.
Nice to be able to point out though that, despite my worst fears, the team faced up to the fact that their subject was looking fer lurv in a milieu that operates on quite different lines to the one that they're used to - and that they did this in a totally non-judgmental way.
"Would Like To Meet" (which I seem to have watched far more than is good for me) is that lucky thing, a tv documentary that's virtually guaranteed a happy ending - take a complete klutz, embarass the hell out of him or her for their own good, then sit back and watch as he or she rejoices in his or her new-found post-klutzy superpowers.
Nice, also, to see so many familiar London venues featuring: upstairs at The Village, downstairs at The Yard (which gives me a chance to mention that my Gay London pages are still being quietly kept up to date, should you find yourself in need of a venue for that dream date.)
But, to finish on a characteristically sour note: it seems that the relationship between Richard and (pant, pant) Seth turns out not to have blossomed quite as well as one might have hoped.To quote Richard on the update page: "We stayed in contact, but have realised that things won't really be going any further."
Sniff.
Wednesday 7th August 2002
Question:
Is this:
A: Suits-only night at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern?
B: Hitherto unreleased footage of Pim Fortuyn's funeral?
C: Brokers at Lloyds of London after shaving their heads to raise money for charity?
Tuesday 6th August 2002
A couple of people have taken me to task for not having a comments system here on Blogadoon, and I guess I owe them an answer.
It's about feedback, nuh? And two types of feedback at that.
From my experience of comments systems (and, yes, I do make use of other people's, if only occasionally) the most common comments comes in a warm fuzzy flavours: "I so totally agree with this!", "You tell em, hon" and so forth.
Nice as that is, I was trained to believe that part of being a writer is to have the solipsistic stoicism to broadcast straight into the empty ether, never knowing quite how well or badly what you say is being received and never stopping to tailor what you say to what people want to hear.
(That's pretty fancy talk for someone who's writing something as trivial as a blog, but you can maybe identify with the aspiration.)
So if I want warm fuzzies (and I do! I do!) I prefer to get them from my friends, in meatspace, where they have to stare me in the face as they speak. And if they disagree? Let's be frank: unless they're really close friends, I'd rather not know.
The other, more legitimate, function of a comments system (can we call it a Cmx please?) is to open a topic for general discussion, brewing - at best - a rich cloud of informed opinion from one small seed of suggestion.
There are some styles of blog in which this works very well. But Blogadoon is not one of them. For reasons doubtless buried long deep in what passes for my pysche, I prefer to lob a controversial comment into the conversation and then retire, as fast as possible, in the opposite direction. I know it's not pretty, but what can I say?
Those are my abstract objections to Cmxs. I have more pragmatic reasons for mistrusting them too.
Like, where do you people find the time to read your reader's responses!? I find it challenge enough to write this opinionated nonsense in the first place, let alone keep up with what my favourite bloggers are saying on their blogs. Even with my leisured lifestyle, I don't think I can spare the extra time to scan, argue, and answer. (I'd no doubt think differently if I was in full-time employment...)
Call me old-fashioned, but I've always believed that half the battle of good writing is to edit. Edit, edit, edit.
Readers who care enough to email me with a cogent and considered response will, of course, always be taken seriously. I may even quote them and deign to respond. But this is my blog; if you need to blow off in public, go get your own. Here on Blogadoon, the editor's decision is final.
And, pah, half the time Cmxs simply don't work anyway.
In keeping with my general design philosophy, Blogadoon maintains a deep distrust of each month's add-on wing-ding. ("Everything should be as simple as possible. And no simpler!") The last thing I want is a Cmx that takes several valuable seconds to open all sorts of windows that merely take you back to where you first started.
And one final thought: above and beyond the commentators who are simply posting in order to boost their own hit-rate, there's a whole breed of respondents out there that you really really really don't want to mess with.
This is one of just hundreds of emails that a woman sends out on a weekly basis to a mailing list of over 100 newspapers:
Dear Editor/FBI AGENT ! Having heard that the Hollywood actor SYLVESTER STALONE / RAMBO - one of the copies of my ex-father PAUL Mac Cartney from GERMANY and ALEXANDRIA- has taken part in the film "MEN in color=#000000>BLACK", where he fought against an EXTRATERRESTRIAL LADY in order to DESTROY her, I decided just to notice, that it is QUITE IMPOSSIBLE to be done in the real environment, for at least FOUR main REASONS (in this case) such as: 1. He is just a COPY, but not an ORIGINAL, as far as he was born by a PROSTITUTE, but not by a humane mother; 2. His close relatives originate, as those of the ITALIAN BLACK LEG SILVIO BERLUSCONI, from the region of TRUN - a town in Bulgaria, well-known to the US RANGERS; 3. His PROTECTOR is the GREAT FAT BUDHA, installed in FULL SCALE at his LARGE HALL, but not my SWEET BABY BRANDON LEE or similar; 4. Since his INDIAN brain is not still adequately DEVELOPED, so that he to be able to study such sophisticated subjects like HISTORY OF FINE ARTS, for example, just like of the BRAIN of the WILD Japanese CHIMPANZEE JOKO ONNO - the EX-spouse of my beloved BROTHER JOHN LENNON !! Regards, TRINITY / QUEEN CLEOPATRA + BRUCE LEE / GOD OSIRIS (THE MATRIX)
Pray she never finds your comments button.
Monday 5th August 2002
Hitherto
Whoah: top weekend socially - though I'm suffering for it now.
Rather than even attempt to quantify the comings and goings, the ins and outs, the seamy and seedy interconnectedness of it all, first at Steve and Sean's party on Saturday, and later throughout a great evening at the RVT - with, amongst others, a whole bunch of gay bloggers - I offer you some extracts from a review that I found myself reading, appropriately enough, in some other man's bed at some bizarre hour of the morning:
No review of The Sexual Life of Catherine M. fails to mention that by day she lives and works comfortably in the world of intellectuals. We are in the thought world of 'paradoxical solitude' among the writhing bodies, of jouissance, and the orgiast's existential desire to achieve 'annihilation of the senses'.
Certainly she is a very rigorous, not to say humourless, libertine. She acts out her paradoxical freedom paradoxically by being completely available, by refusing nothing and seeing herself as a heroine of abjection. Everything is permitted and pleasure is not in itself a goal.
Even though she spends her nights servicing queues of men in the Bois de Boulogne, she does not like to be confused with a 'debauched little bourgeoise' or, to freely translate, a slag.
A slag is someone who will let anyone do anything they want to her, do anything for them, and do it for nothing. She belongs round the back of the bike sheds, her hair is lank, her eyes are usually dull, and she is not expected to be a high-achiever academically. She's dumb and she's easy and she's not just cheap: she's free.
Catherine M. will let anyone do anything they want to her, do anything for them and do it for nothing, but no one could say she's thick. I think we're back to the old duality. If sex is just a bodily event, that's slag: if you think or better still write about it, that's freedom.
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