Plot twist!



In the city, we mostly like to look smart and sleek and au courant. Contemporary urban slickers, that's us. Over at the cottage, different rules apply. Freed from these sartorial pressures, we'll generally slob around in any old shit. Which, in my case, means an endless parade of old button-down check shirts, as left over from my Gay Stereotype days in the mid-nineties.

Yes - the cottage is where button-down check shirts go to die. And here's the first of them. Sporting the "Gallagher" label (and how mid-nineties is that?), this was bought in the very heartland of the Gay Stereotype: the American Retro shop on Old Compton Street.

From the fleshpots of London to the fields of Derbyshire: this shirt (and its many, many compatriots) has been on quite some journey.

Buni, me old mucker - guess what? You are now...Off The Project. See you later.

Is this flag HOT or NOT? (via Sarah). Does exactly what it says on the tin. Unaccountably addictive stuff.

In a desperate attempt to get this page to load a bit quicker, I have now done the following:

• Moved the images off Blogspot, and onto my personal web space.
  
• Reduced the number of days' entries on the front page from 10 to 7.
  
• Ditched Blogamp.
  
• Ditched the "recent referrals" list.
  
• Reduced the amount of code on the sidebar (in particular, I've shortened the URLs for archive pages to the bare minimum).

To me, it all looks a bit quicker now. How about you?

A hang-dog expression, for a real dog of a hangover. Oh God, were the three of us really dancing on a podium to Liberty X? Yes, I think we were. Maybe no-one noticed...



This is the oldest shirt in my collection, dating from a Paul Smith sale in 1989. The sale in question was of ancient old stock from the warehouse, meaning that the actual date of manufacture was probably a few years earlier. (A friend who works for the company once told me how to use the product codes on Paul Smith garments in order to tell which season & year they belonged to, but that skill seems to have deserted me now.)

As fashionistas seem to have taken to calling everything over ten years old "vintage", I think I can now make the same claim for this garment. Oh yes - it's Vintage Paul Smith, actually.

The reason I have hung onto it? It's exceptionally well made and comfortable, with a lovely thick, soft, creamy cotton. Upon first seeing it, K christened it "The Perfect Shirt" - a name which has stuck to this day. Well OK, I probably haven't worn it all year - but it's still nice to know it's there, right at the very back of the rack.

And now it's time I cleared up a possible ambiguity in this here Project.

Maybe some of you have been wondering whether K and I co-own some of these shirts. This would certainly make practical (and economic) sense, as we do take exactly the same size as each other. However, the answer is a firm No. We almost never borrow each other's clothes. His stuff stays on one rack, my stuff stays on another, and ne'er the twain shall meet.

Which, now I stop to consider it, may seem a trifle strange. So what's the explanation?

I guess it's because we share the slightly precious notion that the clothes we choose are, in some sense, extensions of our separate, distinct identities. Therefore, if we borrowed each other's clothes, then this would feel like we were borrowing each other's identities. This wouldn't feel right at all. Actually, it would even feel very slightly creepy. So we don't share.

I trust this sets your mind at rest on the matter.

1. The Damned (1979)

Prior to that evening’s gig at Cambridge Corn Exchange (which was fantastic, if you forgot about the sieg-heiling skinhead contingent), The Damned made an afternoon in-store appearance at one of our local indie record stores (And The Beat Goes On). After two consecutive hit singles (Love Song and Smash It Up), the band were riding the first of their two waves of demonstrable commercial popularity. The single I Just Can’t Be Happy Today had just been released (with a fun cover of The Sweet’s Ballroom Blitz on the B-side), and so all of Cambridge’s teenage part-time punks were out in force to get their copies autographed.

This involved squeezing your way round the small shop, where each of the four band members (Dave Vanian, Captain Sensible, Rat Scabies and Algy Ward) had taken up separate positions. Vanian had the neatest signature – Sensible the scruffiest. However, Sensible was having fun by adding extra slogans alongside his name – my friend Andy getting something rude about Thatcher scribbled on his picture sleeve. Maybe his tweed-jacketed public school uniform had triggered something. Anyway, I was terribly jealous. Meanwhile, Rat Scabies was cheerfully - very cheerfully - fielding loads of requests from fawning punkettes who wanted various parts of their bodies signing. Ah, the lot of the rock star…

2. Sheena Easton (1981)

Back in the early days – well before Sugar Walls and the whole Prince connection – Sheena Easton was still being marketed as an impeccably wholesome middle-of-the-road artiste. Next to oor Sheena, even Bucks Fizz and the Nolan Sisters looked positively cutting edge. And so it was that her record company had arranged a lunchtime signing session to promote her debut album…in the local Woolworths store. Oh, the glamour of it all.

At the time, some of my fellow students and I were going through a whole “ironic” phase of Sheena-worship. Part of the “irony” involved never, ever admitting that Sheena was actually the very apotheosis of Naff, who made rubbish records. Instead, we would earnestly discuss the inherent dialectic of her oeuvre: the contradictory juxtaposition of the independent spirit of Modern Girl (“She don’t build her world round no single man…”) with the almost masochistically housebound figure of Nine To Five (Morning Train), and the eventual resolution of both positions with her third hit, One Man Woman. Honestly – students, eh?

So, of course, we had to make our pilgrimage. In fact, I went so far as to buy the whole bloody album, merely in order to get it autographed for my “Sheena Shrine”, back in the halls of residence. Meanwhile, my friend Tim brought along a home-made cardboard cut-out of Sheena, which used to stand on the top of his shaving lamp (thus illuminating it from below, rather fetchingly). Sheena liked this. She took the cut-out, stood it up on the counter, cocked her head to one side as she admired it, and then signed it with extra kisses. Once again, I was terribly jealous.

3. The Three Courgettes (1982)

I had already missed the Three Courgettes’ actual in-store signing appearance, at the old Selectadisc store on Bridlesmith Gate. Although to tell the truth, I don’t think that the event had been exactly mobbed. When I called in the next day, there were still heaps of pre-autographed copies of their debut (and only?) single sitting in the racks, at the knock-down price of 99p. An autograph is still an autograph, I thought to myself, as I handed over my cash.

So who were the Three Courgettes, anyway? Well, they were a three-piece vocal harmony group, two of whom went on to become the slightly better known Jungr & Parker (of Sticky Moments semi-fame), and one of whom went on to become the respected jazz chanteuse Barb Jungr. At the time, they were supporting Kid Creole & The Coconuts on tour, hence their Nottingham visit. Theirs was a jolly enough single, but destined for instant obscurity none the less.

4. Hazell Dean (1984)

Again, I missed the actual signing (at Nottingham’s Part Two club), as I was living in Berlin at the time. However, my loyal friend Steve procured the autograph for me instead, and posted it to me as a birthday present.

The actual encounter went like this. Steve was sitting at a table in the upstairs lounge area, when Hazell Dean’s “people” approached him. Would he mind vacating the table with immediate effect, so that Hazell could meet her public? Steve’s terms were simple. They could have the table with pleasure - in return for a signed photo for his friend Mike.

I got lots of kisses on that one.

5. Jesus Jones (1990)

Jesus Jones were due to play Rock City that evening, supported by Soho. Soho had just gone into the charts with the single No Hippy Chick, rather embarrassingly at a higher position than Jesus Jones had ever managed to reach with any of their own releases. We therefore noted with amusement the deliberate “nobbling” of Soho’s sound quality at the gig, which suddenly and miraculously improved the moment that Jesus Jones took to the stage.

This was another lunchtime in-store signing at Selectadisc, with all five band members lined up behind the sales counter, and a long queue snaking out of the shop and down Market Street. I had nothing better to do that lunchtime but join the queue, despite only having a mild passing interest in the band. In fact, I had no idea what they looked like. The lead singer (Mike Edwards) was easy to spot, though. In conspicuous contrast to the rest of the band (four anonymous geezers who looked as though they couldn’t believe their luck), Mike Edwards had Charisma. You just knew that he had to be the singer.

Autographs aren’t so good when they’re tucked away inside CD booklets. Especially not when they’re signed with felt-tip pens, and the booklets are printed on glossy paper, and the ink smudges when you close the booklet.

6. Steve Reich (1998)

We had just finished listening to Steve Reich’s Music For 18 Musicians, as performed by the London Sinfonietta, with the composer himself in the audience (he had also been “sitting in” on rehearsals during the preceding week). It was an exceptional, spell-binding, extraordinarily powerful performance which had left my senses reeling. I was still almost punch-drunk as I stumbled up to the Great Man to get my programme signed.

“I’m still in a bit of a state”, I managed to splutter (finally engaging one of my autographers in some semblance of conversation).

“Well, that’s a good thing to be after hearing my music”, he reassured me. In a kind voice, but with a slightly wary look on his face.

He was 61, but still undeniably dishy in his own way. Being a ground-breaking genius didn’t exactly detract from his appeal, either.

No kisses this time, though.

7. Jonathan Coe (2001)

The scene: a book-reading in Waterstones, as part of Comic Relief week, with a 1970s themed buffet thrown in (cold sausage rolls and warm Liebfraumilch – yummy). Coe was on hand to promote The Rotters’ Club, which had just been published in hardback. As his chosen excerpt demonstrated, he was clearly of the same generation and pop-cultural background as myself, the prog-rock references in particular being suspiciously spot-on. I recognised something of a kindred spirit.

When my turn came to have my book signed, I seized the initiative. We launched straight into an enthusiastic discussion of the long-forgotten prog band National Health, and their antecedents in the slightly better known Hatfield & The North (one of whose albums gave Coe’s book its title). By the end of our discussion, we were quoting relevant lines from Monty Python sketches at each other (specifically: “Your Majesty is like a cream doughnut. Your arrival gives us pleasure; your departure merely leaves us hungry for more.”)

I didn’t need kisses from Jonathan Coe. Oh no. For we had communed at a much deeper level than a mere row of X’s could ever have indicated. Oh yes. Oh yes indeed.

Question: What autographs do you have in your collection?

21. Lace Market Hotel
29-31 High Pavement, The Lace Market, NG1 1HE
(official site)

First, a quick declaration of interest: we’re friendly with the guy who runs the place. But oh, what a great job he has done since he took it over. The Lace Market Hotel is one of those rarities: an unashamed “boutique hotel” which actually delivers on its promises – with substance as well as style, and with nary a whiff of soulless corporate blandness. It is therefore no wonder that the Good Hotel Guide 2003 has just nominated the place as one of its top ten “cool city hotels”. It’s also the place where the celebs stay when they’re playing Nottingham Arena (which is only a few hundred yards away), and it’s the place where K puts all of his business visitors. And no, I’m not getting paid for writing this.

The rooms are, frankly, gorgeous. The bar has graduated from Flash Trash Central to being a comfortable and civilised meeting place. The restaurant (Merchants) has improved beyond measure, especially the once hopeless service. In other words – we like.

22. Laguna Tandoori
43 Mount Street, NG1 6HE

The Laguna is one of the two best Indian restaurants in town – the other being the Saagar, up the Mansfield Road in Sherwood. However, while the Saagar is let down by perennially surly service, the Laguna extends the friendliest welcome imaginable. Over the years, we have consistently eaten there more frequently than at any other restaurant in town, and the place has never let us down yet. And if you live nearby, they’ll also do home deliveries. What utter bliss.

Within the next few days, the Laguna will be facing stiff new competition from a large, slick looking outfit called “4550 Miles From Delhi”. This is actually opening up right next door to it, on the site of the old Hearty Goodfellow pub (which used to have a gay bar in the basement, permanently marked with a sign saying “Private Party”). Two or three doors further down Maid Marian Way, there’s also the equally large (and not at all bad) Mem Saab restaurant, complete with live cocktail lounge music on selected nights. However, we know where our loyalties lie – and the Laguna is a place which does inspire loyalty amongst its long-standing regulars. As such, it really shouldn’t have too much to worry about. At the end of the day, quality is sure to win through.

23. Lakeside Arts Centre
University Park, NG7 2RD
(official site)

An art gallery, a recital hall and a small-ish theatre, with a café and a surprisingly OK restaurant attached – all situated on the Nottingham University campus, down by the lake. Standards are high here, with very little pandering to bums-on-seats popularism – and yet, the seats remain permanently bum-filled. High culture has clearly found its niche here, and hurrah for that.

24. Limeys
58 Bridlesmith Gate, NG1 2GP

Our favourite clothes shop in town – not for the casual stuff on the ground floor (which is all a bit too “Armani Jeans” for my taste), but for the superb collection of dandified clobber on the first floor. The people who work up here are that rarest of breeds in Nottingham clothes shops: people who understand and care about the goods they sell. If something works, they’ll tell you. If it doesn’t work, they’ll still tell you just the same – and they’ll tell you why it doesn’t work, and if you like, they’ll make sensible alternative suggestions. Which is, of course, the smartest sales technique of all. If you can inspire trust and confidence, then repeat business will look after itself. That way, we’re all happy.

25. The Lincolnshire Poacher
161-163 Mansfield Road, NG1 3FR
(official site)

Sadly, most of Nottingham’s best Real Ale pubs are situated on or around the Mansfield Road, between the Victoria Centre at the bottom and the Forest at the top. I say “sadly”, because this just puts them out of comfortable walking distance from Diva Towers, meaning that we don’t spend nearly as much time in decent pubs as we used to in our Sherwood days. Of these pubs, the Lincolnshire Poacher has to be the most popular. In fact, it can sometimes be too popular for its own good. As a result, I tend to prefer it for “early doors” drinking on weekdays, when you can still get a seat, and half the clientele are still quietly reading their newspapers on their own. You can get a particularly nice drop of Bateman’s in here.

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Labels: mynottingham

Thirty-one shirts, and still counting. God, but you must all think I'm such a shallow materialist by now. The very thought!

This is an ancient white button-down shirt from Blazer. Remember Blazer? They were a rather conservative mid-market chain from the Storehouse group (Habitat et al), who folded a few years ago. Very handy for cheap-ish work shirts in the early-to-mid 1990s. Anyway, the reason that I've hung onto this one is that I don't have many plain white shirts to my name - and you never know when you might need back-up.

...is here. (No, honestly. Trust me.)

(Actually, this is just an excuse for fiddling about with pop-up windows. Time I taught myself a new skill. The cartoon is still amusing, though.)

(Oh, and I've set up one of those Blogamp playlist thingies as well. It's at the bottom of my sidebar. Quite the tech-geek today, me.) Nah. Too much Javascript, and my sidebar is quite long enough already.

16. Gray & Bull
5 Pelham St, NG1 2EH

Our favourite opticians in town. The best selection of frames, and the best service. The only drawback: a lot of the good frames are in the window display, which makes trying them on a rather more complicated process than it needs to be.

17. Hart’s Restaurant
Standard Court, Park Row, NG1 6GN
(official site)

Despite mounting opposition (from Merchants, World Service, The Victoria Club and Hotel Des Clos in particular), Hart’s can still be considered as Nottingham’s best restaurant. And as the venue for my fortieth birthday party back in February, it will always have a special place in my affections. Particularly good at lunchtimes, when the light pours into the main dining room and the mood is more relaxed. Not cheap, but you do pay a fair price for the quality that’s on offer. We await the construction of the “boutique hotel” next door with interest.

18. Hotel Des Clos
Old Lenton Lane, NG7 2SA
(official site)

Situated in the most unpromising of locations (buried amongst the semi-industrial sprawl underneath the A52 flyover), the restaurant inside Hotel Des Clos actually turns out to be one of Nottingham’s best kept secrets. The smallish dining room is smart and comfortable, and the service has personality, wit, and a refreshingly unforced charm. The young chef (who started out in Ashbourne before winning the Roux Scholarship in 1999) is clearly a rising star, so this is your chance to catch him before he goes Michelin-mega.

19. The Irish Centre
2-4 Wilford Street, NG2 1AA

The traditional student stomping ground for many a long year, The Irish seemed to be attracting a somewhat older crowd when I re-visited it not so long ago, after a gap of around 15 years. Other than that, the place hadn’t changed one bit. I don’t think there had even been so much of a lick of paint. Which was reassuring, but also rather eerie.

Essentially, The Irish (an unapologetically back-to-basics, spit-and-sawdust kind of joint) is the very embodiment of unchanging timelessness in a world of ever-shifting certainties. It’s good to know that there will always, always, be at least one dancefloor where the rugby club will still be stomping their feet in an extended circle (Come on, Eileen ta-loora-aye…) and student nurses will still be squiffily sashaying along to the strains of the Grease Megamix (Tell me more, tell me more, did he get very far...)

20. Just The Tonic
The Old Vic, Fletcher Gate, NG1 2FZ
(official site)

A long-running Sunday night comedy club with an excellent reputation, which shows up Jongleurs as the joyless corporate hell-hole which it truly is. All the best names in stand-up play here sooner or later (and one of these days, I really am going to catch that Johnny Vegas before the gig sells out). Particularly good for pre-Edinburgh warm-up gigs over the summer.

As for the Old Vic itself: it’s a fine old venue with an ornate Victorian interior, which over the years has played host to some of the best performances I have seen in the city. Who could forget The Bhundu Boys, or James in the early "indie" years, or Dagmar Krause singing Brecht & Weill, or the Trio Bulgarka, or the Joan Collins Fan Club, or Henry Rollins doing one of his spoken word shows…or indeed, DJ Mike doing one of his legendary benefit nights in the late 1980s?

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Labels: mynottingham

Yeah, yeah, yeah. What with the Paul Burrell saga, and the entertaining spectacle of watching Ian Duncan Smith repeatedly pressing the political Self-Destruct button, I don't think the news has been quite so much fun in a long, long time.

More wacky Comedy Faces from Madcap Mike! Crazy site, crazy guy!



Another Marks & Spencer "Italian Collection" business shirt which never gets worn any more. Doubled-cuffed, it went superbly well with my Charles Rennie Mackintosh cufflinks (the design being a grid of tiny purple squares). Although I'm basically a sleeves-rolled-up boy, I do miss wearing cufflinks sometimes.

Lyle, would you now step forward please.

Destruction For Dummies, you say? Well, Lyle...far be it from me to call you a Dummy to your face (for I would never stoop to personal invective, as you know), but you have certainly pressed that Self-Destruct button now. Lyle, you are now...Off The Project. Farewell.

"sixties brit girls, american teen queens, female northern soul and more"If you're within striking distance of Manchester this coming Saturday night, then there's really only one possible destination: SLOW FIZZ.

This is a one-off club night at the Waldorf, promoted by Elisabeth of I'm Hip To You. Elisabeth will also be providing a special live PA. There had better be photos...

Honestly, it all sounds just too unbelievably pacey and "in set" and Now! In fact, it will probably be the spaciest freak-out of all time!

Full details of the night are available here.

At the time of writing, there are just nine more records left to go in Chig's "Fifty Number Ones Project" (a countdown of his readers' favourite UK Number One singles from the past fifty years).

As the record at #9 can easily be guessed from yesterday's Cryptic Clue on the site, here's my prediction for the final eight - based on no inside information whatsoever, I hasten to add.

1. Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen
2. I Feel Love - Donna Summer
3. Imagine - John Lennon
4. Voodoo Chile - Jimi Hendrix
5. Brass In Pocket - The Pretenders
6. Don't Speak - No Doubt
7. Praise You - Fatboy Slim
8. Tainted Love - Soft Cell

Other possible contenders: Waterloo - Abba, Hey Jude - The Beatles, Firestarter - The Prodigy.

Uncannily accurate, or hopelessly wide of the mark? Time alone will tell.

Item 62. Valerie - All My Heroes Hate Me (2002)



We're going a bit Riot Grrrl this week. Valerie are three gals from Manchester, who I saw supporting Le Tigre at The Social earlier in the year, and this is the lead track from their only release to date - a 7-inch EP on Switchflicker records, which comes with its own fanzine. Valerie may not be the greatest musicians in the world, but Stereoboard and I still loved them dearly. Whatever It is, they had It...in abundance.

You can find out more about Valerie here.

---

Item 63. Voodoo Queens - Supermodel-Superficial (1993)



(Click on the sleeves above for the full size versions - including the lyrics on the back sleeve)

A Riot Grrl classic from nine years ago, and another limited edition 7-incher. As fresh & angry & sassy & pertinent today as it ever was.

---

Item 64. Kevin Ayers - Town Feeling (1969)

Finally, a complete change of style and pace. Last week, I gave you the best known and most popular Kevin Ayers track. This week, I give you my own personal favourite. This is taken from his debut album, Joy Of A Toy, which he recorded immediately after leaving the Soft Machine in 1968.

One of the wonderful things about Kevin Ayers: no two songs of his sound remotely similar to each other. However, each is distinctive and memorable in its own way. He really should have been massive.

Further links:
Allmusic.com's profile of Kevin Ayers.
Lyrics to this song, and to the rest of the Joy Of A Toy album.
Lengthy, accurate review of Joy Of A Toy.

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!

For my mother's 60th birthday treat in October 2000 (dinner and overnight lodging at Raymond Blanc's Le Manoir Aux Quat' Saisons), I thought I ought to wear something sleek and glossy and expensive and fabulous. Thus, after spending the best part of one afternoon in Flannels on Bridlesmith Gate (having collared the one sales assistant in there who seemed to actually understand and care about clothes), I duly emerged with an entire Prada outfit. Jacket, trousers, shoes - and this plain brown shirt, made of a mixture of 75% cotton and 25% nylon, with a very slightly elasticated feel to it. And yes - on the night itself, it all looked great, and I felt great.

I had yet to make an important discovery about Prada clothing. Shoes aside (for they are the most perfect, gorgeous shoes I have ever owned or am ever likely to own), Prada clothing turns out to be overpriced tat which doesn't last. It is aimed at, and bought by, the sort of people who would never dream of wearing it more than once or twice. For the rest of us (who might want to do deeply uncool things like cleaning it), the clothing soon loses its seductive initial sheen. After the first dry-clean (yes, dry-clean!), this shirt ceased to shimmer. The surface became more matt, more ordinary - and the buttons started loosening as well, on their fine golden threads. It's stuck at the back of the closet now, only worn very occasionally, when I feel that I should be getting some more wear out of it for my money.

Prada, then. Great for premieres, no doubt. Sadly, not so great for Real Life.

Things that I have been too poorly to blog about, summarised with as much brevity as I am able to muster:

• Opium. Smart new Chinese restaurant on Warser Gate in Nottingham's Lace Market, which has been open for just over a week. Ground floor: bar/pub. First floor: attractively laid-out and spacious restaurant, with high ceilings and a stylish-yet-comfortable atmosphere. There is also a great-looking private dining room (holding up to 15 or so round a large table), and a smaller, more intimate "Jade Room" (cue much quipping from K and I about the Jade Room being the place to go for Chinese-style kebabs - a gag which will mean nothing to non-UK readers). The menu reads unexceptionally - standard anglicised Chinese fare - but once you accept the lack of authenticity, then the food is actually excellent (and good value). There was a pleasing freshness and lightness of touch to all of our dishes. Eating earlier than usual (19:30), we noticed that our fellow diners were suprisingly young and well-heeled, making us the oldest people in the room by some distance - until after 20:30, when people of our generation and above started rolling in. Service was effiicient, enthusiastic and eager to please, if a little slow - but you could see that everyone involved was still on a learning curve, so you wished them well. Tucked away above the restaurant on the second floor, there is a really lovely little quiet bar, which we could imagine using with some frequency in the future.
  
• The Streets / Blackalicious, Rock City. This was also broadcast live on Radio One last Thursday. Live hip-hop is always a problem area, but the five-strong Blackalicious (one DJ, two rappers, two great backing singers) came across better than most. Likeably "old school" in style, they reminded me most of all of the "conscious" rappers of the early 90s, such as A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, PM Dawn or Spearhead. Clearly very talented, and with an open, engaging performance style, they went down a storm with the overwhelmingly young, white crowd. And The Streets were just magnificent. Mike Skinner makes it all look so effortlessly easy, but there was an impeccable precision behind his leery Geezerness, as he delivered his lyrics exactly as you wanted to hear them. The songs transferred well to being performed by a full band (drums, bass, keyboards and another rapping Geezer), with a tight, punchy, full sound to them which was quite unlike their shambolic Top Of The Pops appearance the following evening. The crowd seemed to know just about every word, making me realise that Original Pirate Material is one of those rare albums that some people take to their hearts and play over and over again, to the point of complete familiarity. They saved Weak Become Heroes till the end, and they played the video on the screen at the back of the stage, and "we all smiled, we all sang", and it even made me cry a little bit, so I went home very happy.
  
• Monsters Inc. If you're feeling poorly, then this is the one to rent out. An utter delight from start to finish. Yet another kids' film which is intelligent and knowing in the way that so many adult films fail to be.
  
• Enigma. Bad choice: too slow, not enough action. I fell asleep. K liked it, but scarcely recognised the plot from the original Robert Harris novel.
  
• Bend It Like Beckham. Another perfect rental choice. A sweet, charming, heartwarming, vaguely inspiring little movie which left me with a misty, benign glow from top to toe. Even though I have almost no interest in football. Highly recommended to all but the flintiest of hearts.

A remark on Secret Kings about secret language codes suddenly reminded me of the following.

When K first started travelling extensively on business in 1989, he naturally invested in that year's copy of the Spartacus International Gay Guide. After all, what point would there have been in visiting all these far-flung exotic places, without the opportunity of standing forlornly underneath multi-coloured rope lighting, drinking nasty Budweiser from the bottle, and watching Madonna videos flickering on the screen above the bar? This was also before we realised that Spartacus was, in reality, hopelessly inaccurate and out of date, with a distinct lack of fact-checking on the part of the publishers. The terseness of most of its listings also made it almost impossible to tell the teeming hot spots from the empty, seedy dumps - as K repeatedly discovered to his cost.

But I digress. The most fascinating entry that we found in the guide was for Cuba, where homosexuality was illegal and gay venues non-existent. Instead, the guide offered the following bizarre and intriguing set of instructions for anyone visting Havana. (Sadly transcribed from memory rather than from the guide itself, which has long since vanished from our shelves.)

"On Saturday evening, around 18:00, stand outside the main entrance of the Hotel XYZ in central Havana. In front of you, you will see an ice cream van. Join the queue for ice cream, and strike up a conversation with the other people in the queue. They will then tell you where that night's private parties are to be found."

This got us thinking. Maybe there was a Cuban equivalent of the famous gay handkerchief code, based on what ice creams people ordered? Vanilla for both of us, obviously - but maybe there was a whole semiology based around the number and positioning of the chocolate flakes? And we could just imagine the Cuban queens nudging each other and muttering: "You wanna watch 'er - she's raspberry ripple."

I'd love to know more about this, but Google throws up nothing. Urban myth, or fascinating sub-cultural reality?

OK, I'm fed up now. I've had this bloody bug since Friday, and it still shows no signs of going away, and I'm sick of feeling tired and crabby and lazy and STUPID the whole time. Especially the latter. There seems to be a direct correlation between clogged sinuses and clogged synapses, and I do not like it one bit.

I'm back in the office now, despite having next to nothing important to do, and even though my presence or absence seems to go entirely unnoticed. And do you know one of the main reasons why? Because broadband is still stuffed up at home, and I've got this nice high-speed access in the office. Tragic, huh?

Actually, this whining self-pity is not particularly characteristic: I make a pretty good invalid, on the whole. I think this is because I interpret mild illness as an official licence for indolence. Therefore - and provided that no outside demands come along to threaten this indolence - I can be as docile as a lamb, stretched out on the sofa in sweet surrender.

But not for five days. Indolence does have its limits. So can I have my brain and my body back now, please?

Golden October has come a month late this year, but it has still been worth the wait. Here's this morning's view from my window. Over the course of the day, it has done a good job of cheering me up.

Other than that, I have spent most of the day slumped in front of the home PC, feeling like shite, muttering and spluttering to myself, and cursing BT Openworld Broadband for stuffing up on me (56k dial-up feels like such a come-down after seven months of uninterrupted high-speed access).




And here's a close-up...

Remember that boring blue Christian Dior shirt from last Thursday? The one that made me yawn? Well, this is exactly the same shirt, in fawn. It's possibly my least favourite shirt of all.

Dave, would you now step forward please. Just a couple of paces, though. I'm more phlegmy today than ever before, and I don't want to splatter you.

Dave - the more this cold progresses, the more benign I find myself becoming. This whole Ann Robinson act I've been doing? Bah, forget it. I'm not feeling cut out to be nasty right now. Maybe when the phlegm goes, then the bile will return. We shall see.

Anyhow...Dave, you are now...Off The Project. Ta-ra.

Still got that stinking cold. Don't come too close...



My first ever Banana Republic shirt, bought in San Francisco in the Spring of 1993, a day or so before our chance visit to the "Tales Of The City" house.

This was probably the first button-down checked shirt to enter my collection - and it turned out to be the first of many. By 1995-96, I was wearing virtually nothing else. Button-down checked shirt, Levi 501s, biker boots or Timberlands, and a petrol blue, zip-fronted, nylon Schott jacket - that was my uniform.

Gay Stereotype? Oh, undeniably. Maybe that was the whole intention.

For a long time, this particular shirt was my absolute favourite - mainly because it was also my "lucky" shirt. If I wore it out to certain types of establishment, then delightful consequences tended to ensue. This pattern was set on the very first time I wore it: to San Francisco's legendary Endup club, the scene of Michael "Mouse" Tolliver's victory in the underwear contest. So named because sooner or later, all of gay San Francisco would "end up" there.

I can never quite bring myself to chuck this shirt away. Too many happy memories. I cling onto it as a faded society beauty might cling onto her debutante gown. As an emblem of my Glory Days...