If you're going to the cinema in the next few days, and the trailer for Road To Perdition flashes up, then take my advice. Ignore it. Turn your head away from the screen. Talk to your friends over the top of it. Bury your head in popcorn. Whatever it takes.

Two reasons for this. Firstly, it makes the film look like a pile of mawkishly sentimental schlock - which it's not. Secondly, it gives away huge great dollops of the plot, which you would be far better off not knowing. In other words: the trailer will either put you off seeing the film, or else it will seriously spoil your enjoyment of it.

I discovered this when watching Insomnia last night. Great film, innit? Pacino as strong as ever, Robin Williams completely reborn as a watchable actor all over again, Hilary Swank well cast and nicely understated in her performance.

And tonight's entertainment? Singalonga Sound Of Music. I shit you not. Details to follow over the weekend.

11. I have stopped wearing a watch.
Firstly: they irritate my wrist, getting me sweaty under the strap.
Secondly: when I wore one, I used to look at it constantly, like a nervous reflex reaction. If someone was talking to me at the time, this could look terribly rude.
Thirdly: when I wore one, it gave me an overly heightened sense of time and urgency. I needed to chill out a little more.
Fourthly: I have a good instinct for knowing what the right time is anyway.
Fifthly: There are clocks everywhere.
Sixthly: You can always ask someone.

12. I can be quite prudish.
Another one of my self-contradictions, as I also have a highly developed sense of smut. On that score, I actually rein myself in quite severely on this site. Not an appropriate medium, and all that. Trust me though – when I want to be, I can be filthy.

But only when I want to be, mind. If I think the occasion is not suitable for smut, then I can be the most censorious, purse-lipped prude on the planet. Plus, I cannot bear witless smut. Smut for its own sake, whose intended humour merely rests on the fact that it smutty. Like audiences who giggle just because the performer has said f**k, for instance. If, however, there is genuine wit and purpose behind the smut, then fire away. Be as rude and crude as you like. Just remember though: carefully chosen euphemisms can be a whole lot funnier.

13. I've never been upside down on a roller coaster.
Have I talked about this before? I always used to refuse, point blank, to take any roller coaster rides at all, until my old mate Stex and I went to Blackpool for the weekend in 1991. Down at the Pleasure Beach, knowing full well what I was like, Stex pointed out the entrance of a fairly harmless looking ride – a series of old fashioned carriages with wooden seats, with a well-behaved party of children climbing on board.

“That’s one of the old traditional rides,” he said. “It dates back to the 1930s, I think.”

How could anything from the 1930s possibly be scary, I thought to myself, as we climbed on board and the carriages started trundling away.

“So what happens exactly?”

“Well, just at the very beginning, it’s a little bit roller-coaster-ish. Then it flattens out and becomes a nice easy ride.”

We were actually riding The Grand National, one of the best known roller coasters in the country. Best known to everybody except me, that is. He’s a sly one, is that Stex. We climbed and climbed and climbed – and plunged down. I screamed and screamed – and suddenly realised that a certain amount of controlled fear could actually be fun.

After that, we went on all the roller coaster rides that the Pleasure Beach had to offer. Each time, nervously eyeing them up, I would ask Stex: “So, what’s that one like?”

“Oh, not nearly as bad as The Grand National.”

“Might as well go on it, then.”

There was just one exception: the roller coaster ride with the 360 degree loop. Oh no. Not me. I’m not turning myself upside down for anybody. And that’s the way it has stayed to this day.

14. I can be very quiet or very talkative.
Sometimes, you can’t shut me up; I’ll be bursting over with words. Other times, I’ll just sit there, letting the conversation wash over me, convinced that I have nothing useful or interesting to add. Sometimes, I will swing from one to the other and back again in the course of an evening.

Although this all depends to a large extent on the company and the situation, it’s still very difficult to predict which way I will go. Most of the time, however, I strike a happy medium. Just bear all this in mind, if you ever meet me.

15. I get very cranky when I'm hungry.
Just ask my boyfriend, the cook. He’ll gladly tell you all about it. At length.

16. I can be a drama queen.
We both can.
Stop being such a drama queen, will you?
I’m not being a drama queen, you’re the one who’s being the drama queen…
Et cetera, et cetera.

17. I am finally happy with who I am as a person, but there's a part of me that always strives for more.
And cue Whitney. Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of…
Ugh. Always hated that song.

18. The few things I'm ashamed to have said still make me flush with embarrassment.
There are things that I said in Nineteen Bloody Eighty that still, to this day, make me flush with embarrassment. Actually, scratch that – I’ve just remembered something I said in 1974, when I was twelve years old. Colouring up as I type. Oh, the horror! Will my demons never leave me!

19. I don't wear jewellery.
Well, it’s poofy, innit? I used to wear a chunky pewter (?) ring on my middle finger, until one hot day when my finger swelled up and I couldn’t get the thing off, and I started to panic that I would never get it off.

20. I could read by the time I was 5.
I don’t quite know how I managed it now, but I taught myself to read before I went to school. I can still remember reaching the last page of Kitty And Rover, and running excitedly downstairs, shouting “I can read! I can read!”

Next 10.
Previous 10.

Labels: 100things, myself

I was slightly perplexed to find myself buying both versions of the new Suede single (Positivity) yesterday. I haven't heard it yet, I won't be rushing out to buy the new album, and my general interest in the band has dropped off dramatically in recent years. However, back in the day - from The Drowners right through to Coming Up - I was a huge fan. Suede ruled - and one of the many reasons why they ruled was the quality of their B-sides. Every single that they put out always had a clutch of ace B-side tunes, that would never end up on any album despite being every bit as good. So, naturally, I was a completist - carrying on all the way through the disappointing releases that came in the wake of the reasonable-but-under-par Head Music album in 1999.

By this stage, each Suede single came out in two versions, with two brand new tracks on each. That's four new tracks per single - and as there were four singles released off the back of Head Music, that meant sixteen extra non-album tracks to collect. Unfortunately, most of them were pretty rubbish. I probably only played them once each - although I did eventually compile them onto my very own Head Music B-Sides CD. That was the most fun I had with them, in fact; I got to write down the track listings on the sleeve, and everything. Never played the CD afterwards, of course. What would have been the point of that?

So, the reason why I bought two copies of a single which I haven't even played yet? Because: if I didn't, then it would in some strange way invalidate my entire Suede collection. It would no longer be a complete set. My poor little babies, neatly filed away in strict chronological order under S on my singles shelves, would no longer have a reason to be.

In short then: I did it for the sake of the children. Gee, I guess I got it bad, don't I?

A memorable quote from Giles Smith's Lost In Music comes to mind:I suppose I really should play the single now, shouldn't I? OK - here goes.

Oh!
Not bad!
Well, there's a thing!

Earlier today, I was talking to someone who has been unexpectedly contacted by an old schoolfriend from many years ago. They were close back then - as close as two friends could be. At school, they were known as the wild ones, the daredevils, the risk takers. Since then, their lives have taken radically different courses.

One of them wised up, fought back, struggled, made sacrifices, got qualifications, got a career, got a direction - found themselves, saved themselves. Doesn't want to look back.

The other grew ever wilder, lost all sense of limits, got into hard drugs, got into crime, did time, came out, did more hard drugs, did more crime, wrecked their health - lost themselves, maybe irretrievably so. Doesn't know where to look. Wants to get back in touch now, all these years down the line. Wants to rekindle something of the old friendship.

The one that doesn't want to look back - the one that sees in the other the destiny that might have been - asked me for advice. Remembering my counselling training, I explained that I didn't do advice. Instead, I assisted in defining available options and possible outcomes. A decision was duly made.

And then, a short while later, with uncanny serendipty, I found myself confronted with this extraordinary piece of writing, which touches on the very same themes, and illuminates them unflinchingly, movingly and courageously. It's not your typical blog posting. It's far more than that.

---

In any case, it's time I talked a little bit more about East Coast/West Coast (especially since I've been their "link of the day" since about last Sunday, and it's time I showed a little gratitude for it, dammit).

For those who have never been to visit, the East/West USP is simply this: you get two bloggers for the price of one. These two divide their page down the middle, one column each, and blog independently of each other. Choire is in New York, Philo in San Francisco. Confusingly, Choire (East Coast) blogs on the left, and Philo (West Coast) blogs on the right. I don't know why they have chosen such a geographically illogical arrangement. Maybe they are making a stand against complacent Northern Hemispherist assumptions. It's as good a theory as any.

Anyhow. They're pretty well known in Blogland, and so, fuelled by curiosity, I started drifting over there from time to time. At first, it was Choire (on the left) who grabbed me. He tends towards a shorter, snapper, pithier style, which appealed instantly to my short-attention-span, impress-me-in-the-next-10-seconds-or-else-I-click-off mentality. He's razor sharp, and can be very funny. Accordingly, amongst the torrents of prose that pour out onto the site on an almost daily basis, I started off by cherry-picking the Shorter Funnier Ones on the left. I hadn't yet fully realised that there was actually a whole lot more to Choire than than this. Plus, I had something of a crush on him (what am I saying, had?) So why would I click right and read that other guy's stuff?

Nevertheless, I did start reading some of that other guy's stuff. Unfortunately, in one of the first pieces I read of his, Philo unwittingly pressed my one Big Red Button. There is one subject, and one subject only, which is guaranteed to set me "off on one" - and no, for the purposes of this article, you don't need to know what it is. Anyhow, I waded straight into his comment box with my own subjective interpretations (how dare he?), without knowing the first thing about the guy, or where he was coming from. I duly received my just desserts, in the form of a passionately articulate follow-up article. Mortified, I slunk back over to the safety of the left hand side of the page, and carried on cherry-picking the Shorter Funnier Ones for a while longer.

Thankfully, I ended up hanging around long enough to start casting the occasional sneaky peek back at those generally longer, chewier pieces on the right hand side. Eventually, I realised that the writing on the one side is a perfect complement to the writing on the other side. To fully "get" East/West, you really need to be reading both. What's more, the West Coast dude on the right turns out to be the most amazingly gifted writer, every bit the equal of the foxy little East Coast minx on the left (whose longer, less instant pieces I am now devouring in equal measure).

In short: I started off a Choireboy, but now I'm a fully paid-up Philophile too.

Mind you, having said all this: sometimes, in all honesty, I haven't got the faintest idea what they're banging on about. At the end of the day, the USA is as much a foreign country as anywhere else, with its own inward cultural references. When I read most of my favourite UK blogs, I like to fancy that I'm picking up on all the implicit nuances in the prose. Sometimes, I can even hear the writer's speaking voice rattling round inside my head. Well, on East/West and other US blogs, I can't always do this quite so readily. I'm not complaining though. Stands to reason. Adds a little bit of extra exoticism and mystery. Anyway, I bet they all feel the same way about our own impenetrable Anglicisms.

Yes, yes, I know I'm always banging on about other peoples' blogs, but the whole genre remains a constant source of fascination and wonder to me, and East/West is one of the best there is. Okay, I'm done now.

Maybe it was just me, but I don't think so. All the Big Issue sellers this afternoon had a distinct air of urgent, wild-eyed desperation about them, bordering on hysteria. And when I say "all", I'm not falling into the trap of over-generalisation here; during my short walk past the shops, I saw this no less than four times over. The guy outside Virgin, the guy outside McDonalds, the guy outside WH Smiths, and the guy outside HMV. All of them feverishly repeating the same mantra over and over again, without pausing, and in a weird quickfire delivery:

Excuse-me-sir-madam-can-you-help-me-out-and-buy-a-'gisshoo- PLEASE -okay-thank-you-very-much-anyway-have-a-nice-day-now-excuse-me-sir-madam...

As a sales patter, it was hopelessly ineffective, probably scaring off any potential purchasers. Few people want to buy into such naked, panicky, all too visible need. Particularly unsettling is the way that they always effusively wish you well on your way, as you scuttle past them without making eye contact. You can almost detect an underlying sarcastic hostility...but, infuriatingly, not quite.

Why this sudden ratcheting up of intensity? Are they all caught in a vicious spiral of dwindling sales and increasing desperation? It's certainly true that I haven't bought a Big Issue in two, maybe three months. Maybe I liked the sellers better when they quietly, dutifully, unobtrusively stood there, exuding that air of getting-back-on-my-feet-again enterprise and initiative that made me feel good about my purchase. That warm little shot of righteousness, as I smilingly handed over my change. I guess that was always going to fade away at some point - compassion fatigue, and all that. Hence the dwindling sales and the desperation, I guess.

Maybe the 'Gisshoo needs a new plan of action. I dunno. Dunno, don't care and I gotta go mate...

On the newly re-designed and re-animated Kookymojo: a wonderfully vivid account from a former employee of the Hustler empire.

From The New Scientist, September 16: Gay flies turned on by heat.I love the ideas of flies having "agendas"; don't you?

Oh, so it's next week...

Maybe it’s just because I’m a sucker for lists, and the comforting way that they appear to make order out of chaos, but I found myself getting absolutely hooked on The Yankee Blogger’s “100 things about 100 bloggers in 100 days” project. Some of the lists described fascinating, complex, sometimes even faintly disturbing characters. Other lists were, inevitably, banal in the extreme; but even then, their very banality had something about it which still gripped me.

So here’s what I did, in my all too frequent compulsive-obsessive, don’t-do-anything-by-halves kind of way. Looking through each one of the “100 things about me” lists in turn, I selected one item from each list which also applied to myself. Restrictions: nothing too obvious (like “I am male” or “I am British”), no repetitions, and nothing that hadn’t already appeared on my own “100 things” list.

I did this partly in the idealistic belief that, out of 100 wildly varying individuals, there would always be at least one thing that we would have in common with each other. Because, y’know, we’re, like, all connected to each other, right?

Here goes, then. 100 things about other bloggers which also apply to this blogger. Plus, to make it more interesting and less of a dry read, I have added some of my own annotations. Also, to prevent complete boredom setting in, I shall be releasing these in bite-sized chunks over a period of time.

1. I am a gossip.
(adopts Alan Bennett style Yorkshire housewife accent) I says to her, I says…No!, she says…Yes!, I says…Well!, she says…Really!, I says…Ooh!, she says…

2. I prefer to sleep in the nude.
Pyjamas are the Devil’s work, and sleeping in any clothes whatsoever is horribly constricting. I wake up feeling sweaty and grubby, and in desperate need of an immediate shower.

3. I prefer briefs to boxers.
…although when it comes to nether garments, I find that I need the comparative constriction of a snug pair of briefs. Boxers offer too much freedom, and lead to me continually making rather alarming looking “adjustments” throughout the day. Going commando, while undeniably thrilling, results in far too much laundry at the end of the day.

4. I don't know my blood type.
There’s not much point, since – as an active homosexualist – I am still prevented from donating blood, “just in case”. I didn’t know this rule still applied, until I attended a one-on-one pre-screening session with a young and inexperienced nurse at my old workplace. Although she tried her best to mask her embarrassment, this was clearly the first time that this particular “issue” had come up for her.

5. I talk out loud to myself if I’m on my own.
…like a complete and utter lunatic, I’m afraid. You wouldn’t believe the crap I come out with when no-one can hear me. Funny noises, comedy voices, bizarre dialogues with myself – the lot. A bit like one of those scary people you try and avoid when you see them walking down the street towards you.

6. I'm not capable of anything useful, like plumbing or carpeting.
My talents are more, ahem, cerebral than that. Well, that’s the polite way of putting it. K might occasionally express it in more...robust terms.

7. I love champagne.
I’m convinced that champagne must have some unique psychoactive ingredient that distinguishes it from all other alcoholic drinks. It gives me a very particular sense of well-being: enlivened, yet benign. Plus the decent vintage stuff tastes gorgeous: fragrant and floral, or deliciously biscuity, and wonderfully complex, and, and…oh, stop.

8. I hate sports.
All of them, almost unreservedly, both as a spectator and a participator – but with the following exceptions.
a) Wimbledon fortnight, in small doses.
b) The World Cup, when England are playing; three or four football matches every four years seems healthy enough to me.
c) After five years at boarding school, with a table in the common room and repeated practise, I eventually managed to drag my table tennis skills up to “almost average”. Still can’t put a spin on the ball, though.

9. Have never really hated. Really.
I realise that, semantically speaking, this stands in clear contradiction to #8 above. But I am a man of many contradictions. Besides, the essential difference lies in the word “really”. I could say that I hate Celine Dion, for instance (which I most assuredly do) – but I don’t really, truly, loathe and detest her from the bottom of my very being. You see what I’m getting at here?

10. I like being called first.
Me! Me! Choose me! I want to be first! One of the advantages of having a surname starting with the letter A.

Next 10.

Labels: 100things, myself

From the "Terms and conditions":
Winners will be announced on or after Thursday September 19, 2002 and contacted by email.

Guess what? There's no mention at all of the Best British Blog competition in today's Guardian Online supplement. The tension mounts...

The following images were all taken by K during our recent Vietnam trip, using a Minolta Dynax 8000, with Fuji Provia slide film (100 ASA) for maximum colour rendition. I do words; he does pictures. That's our little arrangement of complementary skills...

Click on the thumbnail for a full size version, or hover over the thumbnail for a caption.




















Jump to next post.

Labels: vietnam

As I’ve already explained, public expressions of strong emotion are generally not to be found in Vietnamese society; self-control is everything. This morning, however, when confronted with the durian that K has brought along for the journey, our coach driver’s face is a picture of horror, fear and disgust. There is no way that he’s going to allow that stinky fruit on board – not even in the suitcase hold down below. “But I thought we could all try some later on!”, wails K, as the rest of us sigh with relief and clamber on board.

It’s a tough day: twelve hours on the bus, with few stops along the way. Along with most of the group, I have finally learnt how to catnap (something which I have always loathed doing). In fact, Gabriel Byrne is practically never awake; the rest of us can only marvel at his seemingly infinite capacity for slumber.

Few tourists ever reach the site of the My Lai massacre; it’s too far away from anywhere else that might be of interest. Partly for this reason, there remains something raw, potent and real about the place, to which we are the morning’s only visitors. It has not been turned into a sanitised theme park, where slick guides recite the same old scripts, and your emotions are marshalled according to a pre-defined plan. There is a roughness, and there is a strange, unexpected beauty. At the front of the site, a traditional garden has been planted, with many plants and shrubs donated by US veterans’ associations. It helps to set the mood of contemplation and remembrance.

Our young guide is beautiful and elegant, standing there in the pelting rain in a full-length pale blue gown, with water pouring off her coolie hat. She is local, and lost many of her own extended family in the massacre which became the most notorious atrocity of the American War. She speaks quietly, eloquently (with perfect English), and with a controlled passion which occasionally seeps round the edges of her words, as she describes a particularly extreme horror. She probably doesn’t get to give this talk too often, and so her words remain entirely fresh and genuine.

Slowly, she leads us round the site where one of the villages used to stand. Here are the foundations of the houses, marked by plaques listing the names and ages of each of the murdered inhabitants – from the very youngest to the very oldest. Here is the long ditch, into which the US troops pushed dozens of villagers – men, women, children and babies - before opening their machine guns and slaughtering the whole lot of them in cold blood. Here is a large stone statue depicting the massacre, sculpted by the husband of one of the very few survivors. The area is deathly quiet, except for the sound of pelting rain and the soft voice of our guide, calmly and precisely detailing acts of barbaric savagery which still beggar the imagination. There is an earnestness and slight urgency to her strictly factual delivery; it still matters greatly that the simple, unadorned truth be told to all who come and visit. Let no-one try and deny what has taken place here.

I didn’t know how I was going to react to all of this. I thought I might completely lose it, and break down in tears. This does not happen, and I am thankful for it. Instead, our reaction, though no less powerful, is more considered. As we walk through the exhibition rooms (stark, haunting photos, taken while the massacre was actually happening), I ruminate on what circumstances could have led a bunch of ordinary kids (young, uneducated, bewildered, terrified, brutalised, brainwashed, drugged up, hopelessly lost) to commit such terrible crimes. In the whole platoon, there was only one dissenter, who shot himself in the foot rather than participate in the slaughter. In the same situation, would I have been the lone dissenter, or would I have been one of the killers? Do we all have this capacity for savagery buried deep within ourselves? These are awful questions to contemplate, and this is not the place for finding answers to them. This is a place for bearing witness, and for ensuring that some events are never forgotten about. Ultimately, and unexpectedly, it feels like a privilege to be here.

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam

Now then. The question is: how well can I blog with four pints inside me? Let this be an experiment, then. (Oops - two thens, already. Come on now - concentrate.)

Culturally speaking, this has been an exceptionally good evening. First off: a free preview of the new Sam Mendes movie, Road To Perdition, starring Tom Hanks, Paul Newman and Jude Law. This was a cracker of a film. Set in the world of 1930s prohibition-era gangsterland, it was a superb exploration of morality, notions of family and loyalty, vengeance, redemption and spiritual ruin. Like all the best films, the viewer was entrusted to do a lot of the work - piecing together the motivations of the key characters, and forming interpretations. Although the film didn't particularly touch me emotionally, it worked powerfully on many levels (although I'm too drunk to tell you exactly what levels these might have been). There were a lot of killings, but the violence was never gratuitous (and frequently, it took place off camera) - everything was there for a purpose. In particular, Hanks and Newman delivered beautifully judged and subtle performances, as brutal, murderous gangsters who nevertheless retained an awful awareness of the moral abyss in which they had inexorably chosen to operate. On full release in a couple of weeks, and highly recommended.

Straight on to the ground floor bar of Rock City, for two superb bands. First up: The D4, from New Zealand. Based on my prior knowledge of both acts, this was the band I most wanted to see. God, but they were RIGHTEOUS! Straight up, hi-octane good time rock and roll, with influences that I could clearly pinpoint: Strokes, Andrew WK, Ramones, Damned, Johnny Thunders. Short sharp punky numbers with titles like Rock & Roll Motherf***er and Party. Currently championed by John Peel, they could go far in today's musical climate.

Next: The Bellrays. Interob had seen them at one of this Summer's festivals, and had come back raving about them - good enough for me. Heavy rock which drew on early 70s blues-rock roots (Free, Led Zep), with enough contemporary punch and bite to draw in the nu-rock Kerrang crowd. Their USP: a female singer who looked more like a soul diva than a rocker. Think Marcia Hunt / a young Tina Turner / Janis Joplin / Robert Plant, only heftier, and with an outsized back-combed afro. Actually, the closest physical resemblance was to the lead singer of D-Influence, if anyone remembers them. She had what can only be termed as a Belter of a voice: enormously powerful, if a little restricted in emotional range. The songs - in so much as I could work them out at all - were the sort of songs where teacher rhymed with preacher, alibi with testify. You gotta BELIEVE! It was, uh, intense. Most of the numbers ran straight into one an another without any breaks, which only added to the all-out physical assault. In fact, to be honest, I spent the first twenty minutes or so thinking: hmm, this is all very well, but it's not exactly my sort of thing. The early tracks were complex, abstract, difficult - and (like Mudhoney last week) skull-crushingly HEAVY. They were received politely, by a slightly dazed and bemused looking audience.

But then, about halfway through the set, it all snapped gloriously into focus. The music got catchier, more direct, more inviting. The sheer physical pull became impossible to resist. Limbs started twitching. The cheers grew louder. By the end, we were all tuned in - In The Zone. By the very end, The Bellrays could do no wrong. Then, in the middle of the last song, the singer dropped down into the audience. "Bring it down. Bring it right down. DO YOU HEAR ME? Bring it DOWN!" Her gimlet stare bore into the moshing front ranks. Suddenly, almost the entire audience dropped to their knees, still clapping along all the while to the breakdown, while Lady Soul hollered and testified over the top of us. These were scenes which I had not witnessed since the golden days of Oops Upside Your Head at student discos. An extraordinary coup de theatre. We stayed crouching down until our knees could barely take no more, then - BAM! The band kicked back in, we all jumped up, and mayhem ensued. Fan bloody tastic. ROCK ON!

One more observation: the best received tune of the night, Blues For Godzilla, is one of the three tracks available for download on the band's official web site. Its recognition factor was even higher than the current single (You Glued Your Head On Upside Down), which can't be getting much radio play outside of the specialist evening shows. This made me wonder: are free downloads from official sites the way forward for non-mainstream bands to promote their music? The overheads, after all, are infinitely cheaper than pushing a loss-leader single which could never chart. Makes sense to me.

I'll do the links in the morning. Hope this hasn't been too much of a boozed-up ramble. Good night.

Morning postscript: Links now added, but I have resisted the temptation to make further adjustments, beyond a couple of small factual points. Some slightly odd turns of phrase up there, I grant you, but on the whole I seem to be a reasonably articulate drunk.

Damn that Fopp Records! I knew it was a mistake to walk up King Street this lunchtime. Every time I go in, it gets me. Perfectly selected back catalogue CDs, for £3, £5 or £7 at most. A table full of all the pop culture non-fiction books that I’ve never got round to reading, for equally daft prices. If there isn't a branch near you, then consider yourself blessed and cursed, in equal measure.

This lunchtime, I got away relatively lightly. Firstly, for three quid: Lost In The Funhouse: The Life And Mind Of Andy Kaufman. We rented Man On The Moon (his posthumous bio-flick) from the village shop on Saturday night, and while K dozed off, I lapped up every minute of it (who knew that Jim Carrey could be so good?) Suddenly, I want to know all there is to know about that craaaazy Kaufman guy and his astonishing, envelope-pushing wind-ups. A new role model for Troubled Diva, in its more peculiar moments. Hey, STEW week was nothing…!

Secondly, for a fiver: Banana Productions: The Best Of Kevin Ayers. I can’t believe that I’m going to see the great man himself in Sheffield next month. I only hope that he puts in a better performance than he did the last (and only) I time saw him: at the Rainbow Theatre in 1980, supporting the Little River Band (fer chrissakes – talk about a mismatch). Back then, his shambolic, indifferent performance seriously shattered my illusions. Now, I’m ready to have my faith restored in my erstwhile musical hero.

Some time soon, I’m going to start hitting you with some Ayers MP3s, so that you too can have a chance to sample his God-like genius. I already have the sense that this might be something of an uphill struggle, though. Ayers is a “man out of time” if ever there was one, and I cannot imagine what his music will sound like to fresh 21st century ears. We shall see.

Back in July, a blogger called Burningbird bid farewell to her site with words which included: I need to walk among forest paths with thoughts other than "I must remember to post this". (Of course, she soon came back to the fold - a good half of them always do.)

On Naked Blog, Peter's reply stuck in my memory: Me, I want to walk the forest path. And then - if it's within my range - I want you to walk it with me.

Thus it was with the best of intentions that I had planned to tell you all about our lovely stroll through Lathkill Dale on Sunday afternoon. In a welcome break from the usual slurry of popular cultural references, I was going to describe what we saw so vividly that, why, you could almost have felt the breeze on the back of your neck. Oh yes I was.

I was going to tell you about the birds in the nature reserve. I was going to tell you about the coppery colour of the trees, that were just starting to change colour. I was going to tell you about the extraordinary Virginia creeper on one of the cottages in Upper Haddon: vivid, vibrant red on the left hand side (where the sun shone brightest), gradually morphing into pure green on the right hand side (where Autumn had yet to arrive).

I was going to tell you about the two handsome, neatly groomed, close cropped late thirtysomething guys who walked past, and how they greeted us with considerably more friendliness than any of the other walkers we passed, and how they were followed about twenty paces behind by two children and a straggly, care-worn looking woman who didn't look up, and of how it brought to mind Cal, Martin & Fiona, or Tommy, Gad & Mim.

I was going to tell you about how my mental fog finally lifted, blown away by three hours of physical exertion, natural beauty, and K's reassuring company by my side. I was going to tell you about the insights I reached - about how I reached a clearer understanding of my natural urge to procrastinate, and how I came up with a fully rationalised course of preventative action (which is still all about maximising pleasurable impulses, at the end of the day).

The Troubled Diva Nature Notebook, no less. It could have been delightful, couldn't it?

A pity, then, that I left it all too long (now, what was I just saying about procrastination?) That selective short term memory of mine can be a right bugger at times.

Anyway: we went for a walk, in and around Lathkill Dale. The sun shone, the birds sang, the trees were just starting to go brown. We got lost for a bit, meaning that a planned nine mile walk ended up being a six mile walk instead. We started the walk in a stroppy mood, and ended it feeling exhilarated and renewed. We finished off by sitting outside the Lathkill Hotel with our pints (Marston's Pedigree for me, Hartington Whim for him), watching a hot air balloon passing overhead and reminiscing about our own balloon trip in Cappadocia two years ago.

Oh. Hang on. I don't appear to be completely incapacitated by incipient Alzheimer's (or is it Retired Raver's Mind-Rot?) after all, then. How reassuring.

Sasha asked: What is the difference between a party and a partAY?
And I replied thus.

Not much in the way of actual new content today. I'm too busy behind the scenes, twiddling and tweaking, sorting those blessed archives out yet again, checking links, weeding out the chaff, getting my house in order. Well, you never know who might be stopping by. Yes, it's that week, already.

Sick of hearing about it? Hey, just wait till Thursday comes around. We're only just warming up...

As Gert recently put it - I am now Pro-Plus (Blogger Pro and Blogspot Plus).

Result - my Old Curiosity Box can now be expanded to hold four MP3s at any one time, rather than the usual two. Rejoice!

Item 45.
Fruit - The Queen Of Old Compton Street (1994)

Who cares where's there love, mister, when there's sex to be done? Oh do him, do him, do him - have you had enough fun? I've used this entire city, and sucked it all dry, and the cottages are open, so i'll see you on the rack tonight...

Fruit was the solo side project of Patrick Fitzgerald, who was better known as the front man of the late lamented Kitchens Of Distinction. Openly gay indie singers were an even rarer commodity in the early 1990s than they are now, and so Kitchens Of Distinction were duly clasped to many a queer indiekid's pale, heaving bosom. Personally - and I'm sorry if this sounds heretical - I always thought they were (whisper it) rather overrated. Sorry.

However, this little gem of a tune is a different matter entirely. As far as I know, it was only ever released as a limited edition 7-incher, as part of the Rough Trade Singles Club series, and seems to have been almost entirely forgotten about since. Which is a shame, as this is a wonderfully acerbic side-swipe at the sexaholic mentality of the London gay scene, which is as relevant today as it has ever been.


Item 46.
Disco 2000 - One Love Nation (1988)

Yes, it's another KLF rarity (and there are still more to come). Disco 2000 were a KLF side project: a female duo who were probably Bill Drummond and Jimmy Cauty's attempt at "doing a Mel & Kim" and creating a successful hi-energy pop single. This was the second of their three releases, the others being I Gotta CD and a cover of Stevie Wonder's Uptight. All three failed spectacularly, which probably makes me love them even more. There's something endearingly gauche and ham-fisted about the way in which this tune a-l-m-o-s-t succeeds as a Stock Aitken Waterman soundalike, but ultimately just falls short. When it comes to music, I do like my heroic failures.

I can still remember watching "the girls" running through an enthusiastically sweaty, unpolished, rough-n-ready PA in a small dance tent at Pride 1988 (Brockwell Park, was it?), and I can still remember being surprised that Drummond and Cauty hadn't groomed and "conceptualised" them further. Clearly, the KLF masterplan for world pop domination had yet to begin in earnest.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

Reasons against linking to this MP3:

1. Apparently, that ghastly Chris Moyles chap has been playing it a lot on his Radio One show.
2. It’s all a bit “six weeks ago”, which is obviously an eternity in the fast-moving, cut and thrust world of The Internet.
3. It’s only funny for the first couple of listens.

Reasons in favour of linking to this MP3:

1. It really is quite funny for the first couple of listens, if you’re familiar with the act that is being referenced.
2. Almost nobody else has linked to it (apart from that site which is somehow (and I have my suspicions) always near the top of the GBLogs “recently updated list”, even though it only gets properly updated once a day).
3. I bet you don’t listen to that ghastly Chris Moyles chap anyway.

The Ayes have it. Prepare to be, um, moderately amused.

Oh, the sweet feeling of release! After the intense erotic tension that came to characterise Stylistic Tic Eradication Week (STEW), I can once again breathe out (and put some fresh clothes on). My relief at making it through the week without even so much as flopping my tits out is palpable.

I have also discovered that I am far more fond of my particular stylistic tics than I had realised. They are, indeed, part of me. I embrace them. I welcome them back.

Come to me, my little tickadees!