(posted by noodle vagueness jr)

I was once, briefly, a Trainee Cabaret Singer.

It's like this. Having left my first proper job in the Civil Service by mutual agreement (they wanted desperately to get rid of me, I wanted desperately to get out) I decided that me and steady employment were never destined for a loving, consensual relationship. As I trolled along Park Avenue beneath the trees in warm June sunshine, I realised that walking along in the sunshine with nowhere to go was somehow more satisfying than sitting in an office wearing a shirt and tie and trying to sound interested in the package holiday destination of the woman sat opposite. That was my damascene conversion, the blinding revelation muted to leaf-shadowy green and backed with sparrow twitter.

Of course, the eremitical life is pretty groovy in summer, but less so in November. Not that my resolve had weakened, but after signing on for nearly 6 months I knew I was going to be "encouraged" to start a training scheme very soon. Which was when I saw the card in the Job Centre: "Trainee Cabaret Singer." 10 quid a week on top of your dole. Learn how to make a living on the Club Circuit. So I applied. The suit I handed the card to looked at me as if I was taking the puss. Which of course I was. But he arranged an interview.

Jimmy Pitt is the capo di tutti capi of the club scene in this city. His band, The Deuces, once legendarily supported The Beatles. Tanned, permed, shaded and sovved (and I have too much pride in my cliche-dodging for any of those adjectives to be inaccurate), Jimmy is the model of a Showbiz Survivor. Still performing in his own right, he now spends much of his time coaching and advising a new generation of talent. I ran through "Folsom Prison Blues" at my audition, and apparently it was good enough. Jimmy told me in future to keep me shirt tucked in and to take me jacket off. I was in.

I stuck the course out for a couple of months, during which time I got to perform at perhaps half a dozen charity gigs. I could see how intense and real the whole thing was to the would-be performers, to the extent where I felt guilty for playing at it. I played venues that reminded me of family weddings as a kid. I learned a warm affection for that whole scene - its sentimentality, its lack of pretensions, its beer-and-pie-and-peas-and-bingo-ness. I loved it. But I could never have been any good at it. Apart from being a mediocre singer at best, I lacked the sincerity.

Great pub and club singers are utterly attuned to their audience. There's no knowing campness, no irony, just a pride in performing loved songs well. And a singer or group, no matter how technically poor (and most are very skilled, since they work far harder than a Star ever has to) humanises what they play. Take the sleekest, airbrushed, Hollywood-distant tearjerker from Celine or Mariah or Cherilyn, belt it out through a cheap P.A. in a small club, and watch it become the Best! Song!! EVAH!!!

Half of me lives in that world, can cry with the best of them at Dionne Warwick et al., and knows all the words to "Forever In Blue Jeans". Half of me knows it's a False Memory Syndrome though, the half that read too many books and realised that Mom and Dad were never quite comfortable at those family weddings. I've been educated to escape from me roots, either that or some weird gene in the Vague chromosomes means we'll always lack roots, never quite fit in anywhere, always deconstruct the pleasure we're having as we're having it. Just slightly too sarcy and ambiguous to ever belong to anybody else's Club Land.

This is dedicated to all the talented people I've known who mean it, man.

(posted by Mike, in response to noodle's "Organ Accumulator" posting below, using information gleaned from article FT129 on this page)

So, is anybody up for doing this?

What you need:
1. A good-sized piece of fresh liver.
2. A glass of milk.
3. A digital camera.

What you do:
1. Place liver 10-20cm (4-8in) away from the milk, on a level surface.
2. Measure the precise distance between the milk and the liver.
3. Take "before" photograph.
4. Go away and do something else for 45 minutes (no peeking - it might spoil the magic), or leave overnight.
5. Return to liver and milk.
6. Measure the new distance.
7. Take "after" photograph.
8a. If you have a weblog, post the results (including photos), and leave the link in the comments box beneath this posting.
8b. If you don't have a weblog, e-mail me with the results and photos, and I'll post them here.

Let's prove this one way or the other, shall we?
This is a truly important moment for science.

Update: First (and only?) result now in!

(posted by D)

I hope I'm not too late with my entry in the "melt a plastic fork into a pretty shape" competition... although... I think this is probably what the Waffen S.S. took with them on their picnics into the French countryside in 1939...

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

The explanation for the difference between European and American chocolate is best set forth in Joel Glenn Brenner's The Emperors of Chocolate. It's been several years since I read it, and my copy is hundreds of miles away at the moment, but my recollection is that Mr. Hershey went over to Europe and worked in chocolate factories essentially as a corporate spy, learning their secrets so he could steal them. When he came back to America, he started developing his own methods based on but not exactly the same as the methods he stole. The process he came up with in the end was one in which the milk spoiled ever so slightly. This became the standard taste of American chocolate, and is the reason people from across the pond find our version of the food of the gods so repulsive. Having grown up on it myself, I don't have a problem with it, but, like any sane person, I prefer the taste of European and English chocolate.

Interestingly, the one chocolate made in America using the European methods (and so tasting much better) is Cadbury's Mini Eggs. Cadbury is of course an English company, but the eggs sold in America are manufactured, if I'm not mistaken, by Hershey. The only time we get them is around Easter. Strangely, though, I've had extraordinary trouble finding them in the last few years; I don't know if this is because they're just not common in New York or whether the whole country is turning away from them, in which case I know we are in bad shape.

The other interesting thing is that European and English experts, while generally disdaining the taste of American chocolate, tend to agree that it works very well in combination with almonds--the sourness of the chocolate, they say, somehow accentuates the bitterness of the almonds in an interesting way.

(posted by Mike)

...because none other than Yoko Ono is on tonight's Jonathan Ross show (BBC1). For a taster of what to expect, go and read Sasha's preview - as she was actually in the audience for last night's recording.

Following that, you might also care to download Yoko's newly revamped version of Give Peace A Chance from East/West.

I am also wondering whether Yoko's Walking On Thin Ice will be played at Duckie tomorrow night, as last time I was there in early February, it was introduced as the "Best! Record! EVAH!" So: stalkers, if you have trouble spotting me, I'll be the one dry-heaving along to it on the dancefloor.

Oh, and I'll be wearing an official Troubled Diva T-shirt, as well. Yes - merchandising will be on its way to this site very, very shortly. Building the brand, you see...building the brand...

(posted by Mike)

Purely in the interests of research (see D's Choc an' Awe posting further down the page for background), I have just tasted my first ever Hersheys bar, as purchased at the lovely posh deli which I patronise every lunchtime. ("You're such a dear little deli. Michael likes you very, very much.")

Well, just half a bar, actually. I simply couldn't face the rest. Jesus Freakin' H. Christ, it was REPELLENT.

Now, don't get me wrong. Despite the choc-snobbery on display in the Choc an' Awe comments box, I will quite happily chow down on a nice fat slab of Cadbury's Dairy Milk, if the mood suits. But honestly, this Hersheys bar was quite the nastiest thing I have tasted since K and I tried microwaved-chips-in-a-box in a service station in the middle of nowhere, about five years ago.

And they sell this in my lovely posh deli? An outrage.

(posted by Mike)

Another exciting, thrill-packed weekend in London beckons...in fact, this could very well turn out to be Apotheosis Of Blog (Slight Return). Naturally, I shall once again be spending vast quantities of my time holed up in a shabby old boozer south of the river. Duckie on Saturday night, and the SLAGS fifth birthday bash on Sunday afternoon/evening. See you there, maybe?

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

An organization that develops new musicals is producing a cabaret show of my songs that opens in a week and a half. Since this was kind of a last-minute thing, there's been very little time to promote, and in order to get postcards (to send to my mailing list) in time for them to do any good, I had to buy a vast quantity of them.

I just found out that the producing organization gave me the wrong telephone number for people to order tickets. The guy who gave me the information is dyslexic and switched three numbers.

I now have 5,000 post cards about my show that tell people to call some poor schmuck in midtown to get tickets.

I face one of the more attractive choices ever offered me: get a repetitive stress injury from crossing out "686" and writing "868" 5,000 times, or play to an empty house.

I am going to shoot anybody who tells me to have a nice day today.

(posted by Mike)

Unlike most of the recent Curiosity Boxes, this week's doesn't have much in the way of an overriding theme to it - beyond a certain joyous friskiness, that is. Hey, it's Friday!



Item 114. Mustafa (cha cha cha oriental) - Staiffi et ses Mustafa's (1960)

Housed in possibly one of the greatest record sleeves of all time (wouldn't you say?), this EP - of French origin - was a modestly sized hit all over Europe in the summer of 1960, even managing to crawl as far as Number 43 on the UK charts.

Now, this might just be my addled brain playing tricks, but I swear I can hear something of Adam & The Ants' Prince Charming in this. Please tell me that I'm not imagining this.

Alternatively: grab the nearest waiter (preferably the dirty devil that has been throwing you leery looks all night - ooh, sauce), load yourself up with armfuls of cheap crockery, and kick those legs up high. Mind you don't singe yourself on the chianti bottle candlesticks, though...

Item 115. Kabhi Kabhi (Honey Honey) - Salma & Sabina Agha (1981)

Long-standing friends of the Troubled Diva Curiosity Box, those sweet-singin' Abba-in-Hindi sisters are back once again, with a cover of a track from the Waterloo album (also a Number 10 UK hit for Sweet Dreams in 1974).



Item 116. Fight Fire With Fire - Shay Holiday (year unknown)

From a old compilation album called Southern Soul Belles, this undeservedly obscure track originally came out on the Soul Power label some time in the early 1970s. Beyond that, I know nothing further about it.

I think the word here is "sassy". In fact, the word "sassy" might as well have been invented for this tune, as you will soon discover. Listen up, all you good-for-nothing, lying, cheating dirty stop-outs...you cross this woman at your peril.

Item 117. In The Name Of Love - Sharon Redd (1982)

Time to finish with a Solid Gold Gay Disco Classic, I think...always guaranteed to make me misty-eyed for a Golden Age which I was just fractionally too young to be a full part of. Pass the poppers, and watch out for the fan-dancers in the corner - they'll take your eye out with those things...

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!

(The Who – “The real me” from “Quadrophenia”)

(posted by Mr. D.)

As my weekend is a resolutely keyboard-free zone, this will be my last post.
(Utterly predictable sound of trumpets playing mournfully, off).

Back at the podium where I started, and blubbing with the prescient knowledge that from next Monday my input “will no longer be required, thankyou very much”, I’d once again like to thank the TD for his selfless generosity and magnanimity. (“That’s easy for you to say”. “You can say that again”. “It wasn’t and I won’t”).

The unsolicited link to the MND website was particularly appreciated by the friend who lost her father to the despicable disease.

And if this member of The Infamous Five has had real writers rotating in their crypts (like the alliteration, eh?), maybe that’s no bad thing … It’s been, as they say, a large explosion.

So before putting a face to the name, and perhaps? improving on the ? that the TD bestowed on me in his “Parallel lines” montage, I’d like you to know:

1. It was the last fish of the day.
2. It was the biggest fish of the day.
3. It was the biggest fish of my life (58lb / 26 kilos).
4. It made an inexhaustible supply of fish-cakes.
5. I do not use Grecian 2003.
6. I am not related to any Iraqi dictator, past or present.

And for the fashionistas – the suit is by “Man at Milletts” (it’s a camping shop, Faustus, M.D.)

And my real name? Rudolph Hucker. Say it quickly and remember me.

… dons scuba tank, stuffs regulator into gob and slowly submerges below the surface ….

Mr. D.

(posted by D)



Nigella is modelling the latest product from Acerbia, a trendy black T with the site logo in deep blue emblazoned across her... across... herm... her... um... oh dear, all the blood's draining to parts unknown... (swoon)

(posted by noodle)

When Parky told me about the creeping liver the other week, I laughed. Her mother had once told her that if a piece of liver is placed on a work surface near a glass of milk, the liver will crawl towards it. I said she was pulling my leg. No, she said. Then her mother was pulling hers. She didn't think so, and she thought she'd heard the same story somewhere else. I told her it had to be a myth, a mythtake.

Then today I came across this anecdote (you'll have to scroll down a little to the piece marked FT129). I can't find any other reference to this phenomenon on Google. Has anybody else ever heard this story? Or witnessed it? There's only one thing to do. On Saturday I'm going to buy some liver. In the interests of science, I urge you all to do the same.

(posted by D)

I could just go for a chocolate spoon right now... I'd stir coffee with it and turn it into a mochachino, then give Nigella Lawson the spoon to lick for her studio audience's delight.

One thing I have discovered over years of travelling the world is that there is no doubt, and I can guarantee unequivocally, that Cadbury's chocolate is, to put not too fine a point on it, the best on the planet. No arguments, it just is. No, really shut up. It is. I've conducted exhaustive studies by eating lots of it.

The French like to think of themselves as chocolate connaisseurs, something to do with them being so close to Switzerland no doubt and every March the patisseries and boulangeries are filled to the gunnels with chocolate fish for April 1st "Poisson D'Avril" day where you give people chocolate fish that taste of cr*p (had to remind myself to bleep that) and pin paper fish on their backs. None of this detracts from the fact that Cadbury's is still far supperior to their Côte d'Or, Nestlé and so forth.

Lets not even mention Germany and Spanish chocolate, they're awful, bitter and just plain nasty. The only other contender in the world arena for chocolate would be Hershey's and Mars. Mars doesn't go for straight chocolate products, they usually use it to coat fillings like fluffy hooverbag contents and caramel, or conversely to hide the chocolate away within brittle shells that break your teeth. Hersheys... Hersheys...

Let me tell you about Hersheys...

Its awful. Its so awful that the Yanks don't realise that it is, and it really is. When confronted about how poor their chocolate is they reply that its what they're used to. For a while after I moved to London I would be woken up in the middle of the night by the three a.m. freight train that the landlord hadn't warned me about. I got used to it but that doesn't mean it wasn't annoying. So I guess I feel lucky to be back in a country that understand the principles of making good chocolate and making it all year round.

Plus I love that purple metallic wrapper... and the snap of the chocolate after its been in the fridge for a while... and the way you bite into it and leave teeth impressions... oh man, I need some Dairy Milk now...

For those of you who may face this one day, here’s how to prepare for the onset of Empty Nest Syndrome.

1. Encourage your progeny to bring their friends home. They’ll squat in your garage, smoking “skunk”, so you get smoked grass windows and can’t see when they’ve gone.

(posted by Mr. D.)

An inspiring tale, don't you think?
So, do you fancy having a go for yourself?
Yes, you too could turn something like this...



...into something like this.



Your examples on my desk by tomorrow morning, please.

(posted by Mike)

...from the always excellent It's OK, it's just your mind (a.k.a. Popdizzy). Works even better if read in the style of the late Quentin Crisp. His spirit lives on...

(posted by Mike)

(posted by anna, late in the night, refreshingly sober)

The main differences between roses and spoons

1. Although the basic structure of spoons and roses is similar (-long slender stem, bulbous tip-) spoons seldom have thorns.
2. Giving someone a dozen spoons during courtship is unlikely to get them into bed.
3. It is very difficult to eat anything with a rose. Apart from yoghurt.
4. Spoons are man-made. Roses are not.
   Unless you take 'man-made' to include God, which we won't, on grounds of sexism and agnosticism.
   (Not necessarily male, and probably doesn't exist anyway.)
5. Roses taste better raw than spoons. Unless the spoon is made of chocolate.
6. Although roses are often present at weddings, they are seldom given as a traditional gift.
   Because they would die, and that would not be an auspicious sign.
7. Instead, a wooden spoon is often given as a wedding gift, much more positive in symbolising the handing over the role of disciplinarian from the father to the husband.
   So that's alright then.
8. If you bury a spoon, it will not create new spoons.
9. It is difficult to kill someone with a rose.
10. People dancing Tango never clench a spoon between their teeth.
11. Spoons don't smell nice. Unless they've been somewhere nice.
12. Roses always smell nice. Unless they've been somewhere horrible, like up an animal's bum or something.
13. At the end of a ballet, people don't generally throw spoons at the stage.
    I think they should.
14. People don't wander from pub to pub, selling 'a spoon for the lady, sir?'
15. If you leave a spoon in your coffee, nothing will happen. If you leave a rose in your coffee, it will die, and people will think you're mad and run away from you. It's not nice.
16. The rose is the symbol of several countries, counties and states. It is a fine and noble flower.
17. The spoon is rarely adopted as a national emblem. Because it's a spoon.

(posted by Mr. D.)

I was dubious about seeing “The Fellowship” because I’m old enough to remember being ripped off by the cinema world’s first attempt. We paid to see the cartoon version, knowing that they’d run out of funds and so Parts 2 and 3 would never be made.

But knowing the rest were in the can, I loved this one and The Two Towers.

And sitting here, composing this and coincidentally listening to NZ’s finest, Crowded House, I’m wondering if they’ll hold fast and not bestow a Kiwi accent on Shelob this Christmas.

“G’day Frodo, that’s a fine piece a julry ya got slung rand ya nick!”

Hope not.

Mr. D.

P.S. “Peter” – I took advice on the phonetics.

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

Considering the fact that I'm Jewish, it sometimes seems odd that I am so passionately reactionary about the Christian liturgy. I have a job singing in an Episcopal church in New York that has both the most beautiful acoustic in the Western hemisphere (and the only acoustic I've ever sung in in the Eastern hemisphere that surpasses it is the Lady Chapel at Ely) and the most gorgeous and grand architecture imaginable.

So why the hell are we using Rite II?

I really am baffled by the fact that I care about this, seeing as how, oh, Christianity has been responsible for the death of millions of my people over the last two millenia. And yet every time we skip the Kyrie, my hackles start to go up. If I had my druthers, the whole service would still be in Latin.

But why we're using Rite II isn't really my question, since there's not really anything I can do about it.

My question is about the hymn text "Ye who own the faith of Jesus," which we sang last night in celebration of the Feast of the Annunciation, when Gabriel showed up at Mary's place and said, "Surprise!" The hymn, a pretty dreadful and bombastic piece written in 1906 by one Vincent Stucky Stratton Coles, contains the following line:

Praise, O Mary, praise the Father, praise thy Savior and thy Son.

But here's the thing: if Mary was conceived, as the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception tells us, without the stain of original sin, then she didn't need saving from anything, so Jesus couldn't very well be her savior.

I mean, I suppose one could argue that she sinned during her life, but that seems a little contrived, especially because if she did, those sins were almost certainly venial instead of mortal--I can't imagine Mary committing "sacrilege, murder, adultery, false witness, theft, robbery, pride, envy, avarice, [or] if it is of long standing, anger, drunkenness, if it is persistent, [or] slander," which is the list, according to Caesarius of Arles (writing in 522 A.D.), of mortal sins.

So what gives?

I'm inclined to believe that Mr. Coles was guilty of sloppy theology, but if anybody else has an explanation that allows him to escape such criticism, I'd love to hear it.

Now please excuse me while I put on a yarmulke and go to synagogue.

(posted by Mike, inspired by Mark, and dedicated to D)

1. Cultivate an appreciation of draught beer. Vital, unless you're an Old Compton Street queen (imported bottled lagers) or an Essex girl (Bacardi Breezers).

2. Sartorially, either go for anonymous muted tones from Marks & Spencer (you will think of this as your "classic" look), or else adopt a suitable street-style which "expresses your individuality" in some way.

3. Your sense of humour should be evenly divided between gentle self-deprecation, wry observation and bitter, withering sarcasm.

3a. If you consider yourself to be a person of breeding, then you should also add "hilarious" impersonations of regional dialects to the above list.

4. In conversation, be prepared to hold forth at great length on:
· the weather.
· house prices.
· the appalling state of customer service these days.
· road works, diversions, and detailed discussions of the best route from A to B, quoting full road numbers and motorway exit points.

5. Complain about everything - but never directly to the person or persons who have caused your grievance, because that would be drawing attention to yourself.

6. Never deliberately draw attention to yourself.

6a. Unless you are drunk, in which case the reverse applies.

7. Use any of the following words/phrases:
· Blimey!
· Dearie me!
· Cheers mate! (double points if used sarcastically to someone who is just out of earshot)
· Oh, that's all we need...
· Too clever by half.
· Just a quick one, then.
· Anyway. (used on its own, in an attempt to wind up a conversation)
· I'd give him/her one. (an all-purpose expression denoting a wish to commit an act of sex or violence; meaning differs according to context and gender)
· Here we go! (South of England) / CUMM-on! (North of England)

8. Speak - Very - Slowly - And - Distinctly - To - All - Foreigners.
AND - LOUDLY - AS - WELL - BECAUSE - THEY'RE - PROBABLY - DEAF - AS - WELL - AS - STUPID.

9. Never attempt sexual congress when sober. Because that would just be embarrassing. And you wouldn't want that.

10. Never cry in public, except in the following circumstances:
· Royal funerals.
· Major sporting defeats.
· When appearing on light entertainment shows.

Finally: never win at anything. There is nothing that the English respect more than a noble loser.

Labels: top25

Posted by D

When I came back to Britain after nearly a decade living in Europe with Americans (see, its starting to make sense now, isn't it?) we seemed to be at the height of Cool Britannia. Lock, Stock had made east end gangster movies the height of cinematography (followed by innumerable wastes of celluloid), Oasis were the darlings of New Labour and Blur had dominated underground rock. It seemed to me a very good time to be British.

Only... I never could project that Britishness, that essence of Brit, that je ne sais quoi that personifies Johnny Brit.

Johnny Vaughn's got it. John Cleese too. Tony Blair's a little too slick to have it but I suppose he does by default of being the Prime Minister although the image of those red demon eyes has been etched into my brain. Elizabeth Hurley, Kate Winslet, Nigella Lawson, there's just no mistaking them as anything other than British totty (well Nigella is totty as far as I'm concerned, have you seen her lick a spoon?!)

Now make no mistake, I am not talking about that bumbling character Hugh Grant always plays, the "terribly sorry" type who has a heart of gold hidden behind ineffably stupid clumsiness and verbal dithering. Although tentatively there may be some truth to that Mr Bean-esque Chaplin comical quality; doing something with the right intentions for the wrong reasons.

Did Britain ever recover from losing an empire? And yet its not like we lost it, we didn't suddenly wake up one morning and collectively start looking down the back of the couch... sorry, sofa... or behind the fridge. We did the right thing, for the wrong reasons. We gave the people their indepedence (albeit with a little bit of a struggle) and in return they promised to thrash us at every sport we've ever invented except golf. All it took was a skinny man in a nappy making salt and refusing to fight back to show us the error of our ways.

Tea. What could be more essentially British than tea? There's an art to making tea I learned from Douglas Adams. Still makes tea taste like distilled weeds but my sister seems to appreciate a good cup of char every other minute... its a drug, isn't it? I managed to escape the country during those formative years where you're all put on Earl Grey drips and forced to sniff tealeaves, right? Not that coffee is such a huge leap up the scale, its just soggy ground up beans. I'd be quite happy if Starbucks just sold cups of warm brown sugar water so long as it came with whipped cream and a biscotti.

So I can't emulate our British celebrities, I can't sympathise with our politicians, I can't understand our social order structure or class system (am I upper middle-class, lower upper-class, middle upper-class? Can I look royalty directly in the eye?) and I don't like tea. I think I'm probably just a failure as a Brit altogether. Terribly sorry about that.

(posted by Mr. D.)

Those of you who’ve been kind enough to read my amateur ramblings (thank you Brandon, for your appreciation) may have noticed recurring themes of humour and music.

So in aid of a bit of fund-raising, a challenge.

Throw any girl’s name at me and I’ll come back at ya with a song which contains it.

I promise not to use Search engines or pick an easy one, or one which can’t be validated. In fact, I’ll choose the most bizarre and outlandish and if I beat you, you must donate the smallest note in your country’s currency to either the Royal National Lifeboat Institution or Motor Neurone Disease.

I won’t be fazed by, say, Frances (Lullaby for Frances, Ian Dury, on the “Do it yourself” album, or Chloe or Irene (Chloe and Goodnight Irene by the inimitable Ry Cooder, both on Chicken Skin Music). Ignore the lewd cover, it’s a beautiful album.

So come on then, if you think you’re hard enough …

(posted by noodle "god i need a ciggie" vague)

Of course I didn't mention the perm.

See it wasn't all unremitting bleakness during the mid 80s. On my 17th birthday, my love of all things RAWK!!! led to me getting my hair permed. It caused quite a splash at the 6th Form Dinner-Dance that evening. My mate Paul Conway pointed out that I looked like George Berry:



After a few months I had the top cut, leaving me with that Midlands fashion essential, the Mullet. Unfortunately, this being my teens, my musical tastes were changing rapidly. Having grown out of RAWK!!!, I found meself as probably the only bemulleted fan of The Smiths in history (I'm not counting the States, where the rules are different.)

One Friday night, I was moshing with a couple of Psychobillies during the Alternative half-hour at the Cedar Tree Disco (the only nightlife in my hometown). After we'd finished battering each other stoopid(er) to "Holiday in Cambodia" and "Rock Lobster" they invited me to come and see The Meteors the next time they played in Birmingham. One of them looked me up and down and then, peering out from under his foot-long razor-edged quiff, yelled over Alexander O'Neal "You'll have to get yourself a proper haircut though mate."

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

I have never bitten my nails, but I have picked at them for thirty years. Luckily, they do not keep growing after they come off, which means (as we all know from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode in season four) that I am not a demon. Though I think the kids at school thought I was.

Not that I did myself any favors in that regard.

I once went to a junior high school dance (for those of you on the other side of the pond, that means ages twelve and thirteen) sporting a hideous black and white checked shirt, high tops with neon slinky laces, a bicycle chain, child molestor glasses, and bright green hairspray. When people asked me if I was gay (I ought to have known this would be inevitable), I said, "You wanna find out?"

Cool and uncool kind of had no meaning here. I was simply a pariah from another planet.

Which allowed me, of course, to go about my plans for world conquest unmolested.

(posted by Mr. D.)

I love GMTV. It never fails to uplift.

On the Thursday before the Grand Finale of Pop Idol, when the field had been narrowed down to Will and Gareth, I swear the presenter said:

“And with only two gays to go before the winner is announced ….”

And they recently featured an article about a schoolkid who’d confronted bullying, by setting up a web-site to provide advice to others.

With absolute sincerity, the presenter asked:

“So how many hits have you had so far, then?”

(posted by Mr. D.)

My mate’s got a relative who lives in Beeston. She’s known as Auntie Lovely, because it’s her stock response to everything.

“We’re invading Iraq, Auntie”

“Ooh, lovely”.

Priceless.

(posted by noodle)

I've never bitten my fingernails, except when I'm trying to even one out. At 15, I used to scratch the backs of my hands with a pencil sharpener blade - until one day my dad noticed my (excuse pun) handiwork and went ballistic (I told him I'd fallen into a hedge, so maybe the weakness of my excuse inflamed his always volatile temper some more.) I went through a phase of stubbing cigarettes out on my arms during the early 90s, having had my mind thoroughly blown by sulphate, TNT and Jon Savage's England's Dreaming. I still have these faint circular white scars on my forearms, along with a slightly bigger one where I used a cigarette lighter for extra nihilist bravado. Over the last 18 months, I've had a tendency for scraping my knuckles against brick walls and cutting the tops of my arms with a kitchen knife or, better still, broken glass. But only when very very out of it and very very low - I am not a brave person, I swear.

Am I telling you this for effect? Perhaps I am a little bit, I don't know, but I don't think I'm exceptional or excessive. They're just things that have happened to me, and I figure they're to be described as dispassionately as any of the other accidents of fortune we're all prone to. I wouldn't even say that these territorial claims I've made on my own body are necessarily symptoms of the same motive. At the time, they didn't feel so. That's part of the problem, I don't remember much about how I felt as a child - I just know I didn't like it, often.

In the cool/uncool heirarchy, (which you can only see as a spectrum when you're an adult, can't you?) I was definitely on the side of the uncool. But weird. Jeez, I've just realised I was about to launch into an hour's psychotherapy, and we've got enough to read as it is. I'm practiced, see. I've spoken to professionals, on a few occasions, trying to piece together how a current dysfunction came to grow out of past unhappiness. The conclusion I've come to is - well, if I word it badly it sounds a little paranoid - that my sadness is only a result of having to deal with others' inadequacies. That does sound a little egocentric, don't it? In fact this whole confessional has wormed its way up out of nowhere I expected. Perhaps I should summarise.

Cool/uncool belongs to that horrible phase of life when we give a frog what other people think about us. When we move beyond caring for the judgements of others, we can begin to be ourselves. I'm not completely convinced that this is a good thing.

I'll shut up now, this rush of words could go on indefinitely, and I don't want to be the maudlin drunk who traps you at the bar and batters you round the head with their life story.

Not all at once, anyway.

(posted by the flagrant female, in response to D and mike, below)

I don't actually remember when I stopped. It was some time after school, but I remember my hands as being part of the reason I was never entirely 'cool'.
Ridiculously chewed nails, just the top, because at the bottom of the cuticle, mild exzema meant that the skin rolled into a fat dry lip, with space underneath to see where the nail came from.

It was fine at the time, you couldn't play the piano with nails anyway, as my piano teacher would reassuringly tell me.

But I always envied the nails of my best friend, as I did her hair, posture, grace, intellect.
No, not envy, as such. I was just in awe. I wanted to be more like her, and I had no idea how we'd ended up friends.
Actually, I do. It was the music, we'd roll up to school on a wednesday morning and huddle over the gig lists, me with the NME, she with Melody Maker, circling likely nights out, making plans, and then, a few nights later, getting dressed together, doing each other's hair.
She got A's in everything without trying. She'd get in a huff about something, and I'd spend days trying to get her to be my best friend again.
I wanted to be a music journalist, she wanted to be a lawyer. We'd both be married by the time the millennium came around, and of course would be each other's bridesmaids. She was never short of a boyfriend, or two, and once a man even went out with me in order to get closer to her.
And I didn't really mind, because I could kind of see his point. Who'd want to go out with me with her so nearby.
I wanted to be just like her.
In no way, to my knowledge, at least, did she want to be me.

We're not in touch anymore. I moved away from London, when I was 16, and for a couple of years we kept in touch, sporadically.
I've heard she's married though.
I wasn't there.
And I'm glad we're not in touch, in many ways.

I have a great respect for my friends, and there are many things about them which merit 'awe', but I no longer feel below them.
I no longer want to be them.

I think that's a good thing.

In the 18th century, women of aristocracy would grow the nail on their pinky to an inch or more, just to show they never needed to do manual work, or anything, really, for themselves.
I do, by the way, have an enormous pinky nail.
I don't know if that's a good thing.

(posted by Mr. D.)

The I.T. department that I’m seconded to had a dress-down day for Comic Relief – you know, you pay a quid not to wear a coloured rope around your neck. The ladies wore pigtails.

One of the non-English programmers (sorry, but it’s germane to the tale) entered the open plan office wearing a sweatshirt which, it later transpired, had been given to him as a present. The shirt bore a logo with a two-word legend beneath it.

After hours of innuendo and oblique remarks, he was eventually spooked into realising that all was not well (no-one tells you directly that your flies are undone, do they?).

From 3 feet away, he e-mailed me to say he’d run it through all of the Search Engines and only got “toy helicopters” and “warriors’ swords”.

I confess I laughed ‘til I cried.

Oh sorry – the logo? A large axe.

And the legend? BIG CHOPPER.

I believe it was delivered to the charity shop on his way home …

(posted by Mike)

I haven't heard it yet, as we can't stream music where I am right now - but when I get home, I will definitely be listening to the rough mix of REM's response to the current events in Iraq, as made available via their official website. I've always had a lot of time for that band...

Thanks to my mate - and REM uber-fan - Dymbel for the link. Dymbel has heard the song, and has the following to say about it:

(posted by Mike, in response to the next post down)

Oh, how this resonates for me.

At boarding school, my wit and my music collection kept me linked to the cool kids - but I was ultimately too weird to fit in with them, and they had ways of letting me know this.

Meanwhile, the uncool kids - though generally much easier to rub along with - were also well aware of my remaining toe-hold in the cool camp, and so kept themselves huddled away at a certain protective distance, which could never quite be breached.

I started off aspiring to be with the cool kids, and so held the uncool kids somewhat at bay - partly for fear of being tainted by association. Then I went seriously weird for a year or so, and didn't really associate with anybody at all. Eventually, by the sixth form, when everyone was starting to loosen up and not be so goddammed heirarchical all the time, I fell in with a comfortable mixture of the less cool-obsessed, more interesting cool kids, and the less uncool-beyond-redemption, more interesting uncool kids.

Nevertheless, this experience did leave me with a residual - not to say somewhat resentful - view of the world as being essentially heirarchical in nature. Which in turn brought out a fairly strong egalitarian streak in me. Both traits remain in me to this day, in the sort of paradoxical co-existence which is so typical of my emotional make-up.

I did stop chewing my fingernails, though. Well, they all build in your stomach until you can't swallow any more, and then you DIE.

(posted by D)

When I was younger I would bite my nails. Fingernails and toenails before you ask. It was probably something to do with being "the weird kid" growing up in that space between the cool and the uncool kids. I had things in common with both sides but neither really wanted to pick me for their team. So instead I'd lean against the pebble-dash walls and chew my nails and look menacing and say weird stuff.

Now that I'm older I still chew them, chew them right up, and peel the skin off so that my finger looks like a lychee and seeps strange milky liquids from the raw pink flesh... damn. I still say weird things. And I hope you realise that every eighth character typed (I don't use my little fingers) has been excruciatingly painful for me. I didn't want to be in your gang anyway.

(posted by Mr. D.)

10 years ago, I taped my favourite choons to play at my 40th birthday party. Technology having moved on apace, I repeated the exercise for the upcoming 50th by putting the Tracks Of My Many Years on minidisk (hope bsag will be impressed.)

I narrowed the field down to 173 and not wanting to mar my beloved’s enjoyment of sit-coms like Eastenders, earned myself Headphone rash. (No, not really).

With stunning originality, I decided to record the tracks in A – Z by band name, so that the contributions randomly span the sixties up to the noughties.

Now it’s an accident of alphabet that the Sex Pistols are framed by Seal and Simon & Garfunkel, a bizarre juxtaposition that won’t go unnoticed when the stereo’s sharing its formidable output with the neighbours…

My self-imposed rule of “one band – one track” proved a real test of resolve, though I confess I did bend it by including Waters, Roger “It all makes perfect sense” alongside (metaphorically speaking) Pink Floyd’s “Wish you were here”. Oh yes, and the Blockheads’ “Hit me with your rhythm stick” is nominally separated from Dury, Ian’s “I believe” from his final album “Ten more turnips from the tip” (which also provided the nodding concession to Williams, Robbie with “You’re the why”).

And Python Lee Jackson’s “In a broken dream” is only separated by a minidisk from Stewart, Rod’s “Mandolin Wind” – memories of early bedroom antics come flooding back, every time….

I got dragged by the beloved to see Stewart, Rod at Wembley Arena recently (and didn’t sit down once throughout the gig). His 6’ blonde sax player, wearing a red leather what I’m reliably informed is known as a “fanny pelmet” (British? American?) was mesmerising. And she blew a mean sax, to boot.

But I stuck to my rule with Crowded House and in honour of Tinka (who unwittingly got me here) recorded “Distant Sun” (although “Together Alone” would probably have been my personal weapon of choice).

So – 173 tracks and over 12 hours of “GOYA” music (Get Off Your Arse) to jig to.

And the Stones’ offering? No, not “Dancing with Mr. D.” from Goat’s Head Soup, but “Gimme shelter” – I don’t know why?

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

Here is a picture of my dog with Alan Cumming. Also three of the cheerleaders on the gay and lesbian cheerleading squad. (I may have to post this on my own blog as well, but please take some consolation from the knowledge that you were first.)



I am so jealous of her.

(posted by Anna)

Preparation.
Spend three hours getting ready. Wear the first thing you tried on. Swear there's no special reason for dressing up, even though you look like a cross between first date, kerbcrawling, and engagment party.

Execution
Make sure to execute anyone that turns you down.
No, hang on. Don't. Do that, you'll never get married. (*gasp*)
Smile. Flatter. Thrust Cleavage. Smile.
Have wit, smut and grit all in the same sentence.
Smile.
Cleavage.

Drink spirits and mixers, or bottled concoctions, or shandy.
Don't drink anything straight, they don't like it.
Drink steadily, giggle.

Resolution
Announce your desire but inability to go home alone.
or
Announce the existence of several bottles of wine in your fridge.
or
Announce your desire to have sexual relations with everyone in the room

or
As 'token girl';
Go out, enjoy, flirt, drink, desire, lose desire of, watch, drink, think, sleep.

That would seem, it would seem, to be us.

(posted by Mike)

...er, we're not going too fast for you, are we?

At the end of Guest Week Day One, I have to report that - so far, at least - I'm thoroughly enjoying watching my lovingly tendered patch of turf being trampled underfoot by hordes of unruly strangers. They might make a bit of a racket, but they respect the Original Features and they don't leave litter.

There's six more days of this to come, you know. Why not view it as an opportunity to develop your speed-reading skills?

(posted by Mr. D.)

Did I mention we’re holidaying in Hawaii this year?

To celebrate my 50th and our 30th (it’s “pearl” this year, by the way) we’re going via Pearl Harbour, to visit the memorial. I feel a molluscy-type present coming on, though the beloved is not really a Pearly Queen yet.

Any suggestions? Up to a fiver? Hell, let’s push the boat out and I’ll stretch to a tenner!

Luckily, friends own a coffee plantation on Big Island - http://hawaiicountry.com/ - so with our best friends accompanying us as usual, we six will be watching those glorious sunrises and sunsets, necking mai-tais and generally getting royally wrecked.

And my best mate and buddy (that’s what they call your scuba-diving partner – it’s a support role, nothing else. Ok?) and I will be diving with manta rays.

The beloved’s a Pisces but scared of drowning, so she won’t be going marlin-fishing with us either.

Better up that present threshold to £15...

anna says

Sisters;

Sorry if I'm letting the side down, it would seem that testosterone demands a much higher post rate than I can muster, and the fellas are, it would seem, lapping me.
Not a pleasant sensation, I assure you, I feel like the name of 'woman' is tainted by my absence.

To score double girly points though;
I was abstaining to appear demure.
Playing hard to get
I didn't have time, I was spending three hours deciding what to war...
I mean wear.

(posted by Mike)

Watching the parade of misery on Channel 4 News this evening:

K: You know, I don't think I want to be part of this world any longer.

M: Yeah, but don't forget that we're watching a round-up of the very worst things that have happened in the world today. Because that's what news is, by and large. Plenty of nice things will have happened today as well - it's just that they're not so newsworthy. If reported upon, they might even come across as somewhat cloying.

K: I suppose there's some truth in that...

M (warming to his theme): Just think of all the nice things that must have happened today. A smile will have appeared on the face of a child. A pair of young lovers will have walked hand-in-hand through a meadow. A...

K (sharply, urgently): SHUTUPTHESTOCKREPORTSHAVESTARTED.

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

Yesterday, I attended the Gay and Lesbian Business Expo with the gay and lesbian cheerleading squad of which I am a happy member. Well, I also attended Saturday, but that's not relevant to this story. On Saturday, I saw several people with dogs--these were queers, after all--so I decided to bring my dog, a Maltese, with me on Sunday. Alan Cumming, star of Cabaret and many fine films, was there doing something, and we ran over to him to drool, and then the most extraordinary thing happened.

Alan Cumming called my dog a sweetheart.

Then he had his picture taken with her.

I almost fainted from shock and joy. I've been spending the time since then trying to get my dog to understand how incredibly lucky she is, but I don't think it's getting through to her. However, she is on her way to being able to bark out a passable rendition of "Willkommen, Bienvenue, Welcome," so that next time I will the one Alan Cumming calls a sweetheart.

(posted by jimmy destri)

"It is not from 'productivity' that a full life is to be expected, it is not 'productivity' that will produce an enthusiastic collective response to economic needs. But what can we say when we know how the cult of work is honoured from Cuba to China, and how well the virtuous pages of Guizot would sound in a May Day speech?" Raoul Vaneigem

(posted by Mike)

I know, I know. I should leave Graphic Design to the professionals.
But hey. It's a concept.

So - once again - meet this week's guest contributors, otherwise known as:

ANNA & HER B****ES!

Back row, left to right: Mike, Anna, Mr. D., Faustus.
Front row, left to right: D, noodle.

Apologies for today's yesterday's slow page load times, by the way. I'm fairly certain this was down to problems with YACCS (my comments system), which was horribly slow all day.

(posted by Mr. D.)

This year (this month, in fact) my beloved and I celebrated our 30th anniversary. Aaah.

Our daughter turned 21.

Our son stopped being a teenager. It was the first time for two years he’s been home to celebrate the day, which he shares with his mother. 20 years ago, I’d promised her a birthday present to remember and lying on her back, legs in the air, screaming for mercy, she had to agree with the midwife that it was different.

Come the summer, I reach 50. Can an atheist use the abbreviation OMG?

And today? My current company car is one year old! (An MG ZR 120 for the benefit of the petrolheads).

Parked up on the M25, I mentally calculated that with its previous 10 models stretching back to ’75, and at roughly 100,000 miles per car, I’ve clocked up over 1 million miles.

A one-man global warmer. Sorry, eco-warriors.

(posted by Mike)

For the benefit of the many people who were unable to access Where Is Raed? on account of the underscore in its URL: there is now a more easily accessible mirror site.

I wonder how the Baghdad blogger feels about The Guardian reprinting vast swathes of his blog in today's tabloid section. Do you think they asked his permission first? Do you think that he'll ever be offered payment? Do you think he minds about the vastly increased exposure this will bring to what is essentially an anonymous "underground" site, which could get him into serious trouble? (Note: when Reuters ran a story about the blog in December, the guy took his site down for a while, for his own protection.)

I wonder.

(posted by D)

Amazing the sort of guff that five blokes will come up with in a pub at lunchtime. It must be the combination of sunshine, good pub grub and a pint or two of beer.

"Who would win, right, who would win, in a fight between... an ostrich and a chimpanzee?"
"No, no, better yet, between a crocodile and a great white shark... that'd be a fight worth seeing."
"Depends if they fought on land or in water. Maybe two rounds, one in water and one on land."
"Then the shark's gonna be wasted. How about between a bunch of pitbulls and a leopard?"
"Pitbulls are vicious, they'd tear it to shreds."
"Hyena and... and... a squirrel."
"Squirrel, no contest. They've got those claws and sharp teeth and they can beat other animals to death with their big bushy tails. They're vicious little b*st*rds, they'll mess you right up. How about... a mongoose and a mole?"
"Mongoose has the speed... moles have got that blind Daredevil-radar thing... they can probably do all that slow-motion ninja stuff Matrix-stylee too..."
"Don't be a mong, they've got no room to jump around in, they're stuck in tunnels all the time."
"Fine, what about a polar bear and a rabbit then..."

Focus eventually shifted to the war coverage muted on the screen behind us.

"I reckon Saddam is dead. He must be, they cruise missiled him all the way to high heaven."
"Nah, he's made of stronger stuff than that."
"What, like... he's a robot?"
"Better. A cyborg."
"A cyborg made of asbestos."
"What the US needs is a moustache-seeker missile. Then they just fire them all into Baghdad and that'll solve the problem pretty fast."
"Better yet... they should airdrop mongooses and polar bears into Baghdad..."
"...mongooses and polar bears that've been trained to seek out people with moustaches..."
"...yeah... and even a cyborg-asbestos-Saddam wouldn't be able to beat a pissed-off polar bear!"

I blame the beer.

(posted by Mr. D.)

SM1. Mindlessly awaiting my turn in the barbers, I recalled a queue-related incident which this medium makes it easier to share. You’ll understand. And your gender will determine your reaction…

Some years ago, my beloved was temporarily between two regimes of contraception and I was advised to ‘take precautions’.

So, a nostalgic pilgrimage to the chemists then, where a plethora of old ladies had swarmed, to get prescriptions filled, each discuss several ailments with the very patient pharmacist etc. In MY lunch hour.

Nearing the head of the queue, I resolved to avoid future wastes of my valuable time by buying more than the usual ‘packet of 3’. Hell, I could’ve got through 2 of them in the 10 minutes I’d been there!

And so, eventually arriving at the counter, I manfully demanded a box of Durex.

“What size?” asked the harridan assistant.

“I. Er. Um. I. Um. (pre-empting Gareth Gates by some years).

She let me sweat. Hours passed. Someone behind me muttered “C’mon big boy, I’m on me lunch hour”.

“What size box?”. “25, 50?”. As if there could have been any other answer!

“Oh, 25 is fine” I gushed. “please, take all of this money, and keep the change”.

I legged it. I still redden thinking about it.

(You’ll have to wait for SM2. Hey, I’ve gotta pace myself.)

(posted by one of anna's b****es, apparently)

Before the Number 15 hoved into view this morning quite a queue had congregated. We stood silent and staring uproad, the Monday Morning Mule Train. Despite that I knew most of the faces in line and they I'm sure knew my face too. Later, I saw an even longer mute queue outside the Post Office on the corner of Brazil Street. Nobody was sambaing.

It was irritating, itchy even, to wake up at 3.15 am with the television still blurting and to see so many mediocrities speaking so earnestly about Art, meaning Money. Hollywood occasionally lets Art slip past the studio Pitbulls, but the Oscars are a celebration of every tawdry, dishonest, faux-artistic impulse that the Los Angeles Petting Zoo holds dearest. Great Art is opaque, but to win an Oscar a movie needs to be so transparent, so dishonest, so Hanks-Spielbergundian that you can watch it whilst asleep and still know exactly what's happened.

So I'm tired like every Monday and the sun is shining and I'm haphazardly word-sketching the chestnut eyes of the woman on the bus seat in front of me - dark hair dusted burgundy and a smile that took 10 minutes to appear but will make the rest of today liveable. She was chatting happily to her little boy, which makes her pretty freakin' rara avis round these parts. She gets off 2 stops before me, and then I surf my way down the aisle (3 skips in the road to ride), jump off, and try to forget enough about beauty and wonder that I can be an efficient prole.

(posted by Mr. D.)

Music is such a personal thing, and this being my first blog proper, I’m worried about being aprosexic.
So I’m hoping that the title (and yes, maybe even that adjective?) has got you at least a tad intrigued.

If not, and you’ve already surfed off in the direction of away, one of us has missed an opportunity…

So, Saturday night and another “band to be seen before I/they die” gets ticked off the list. Osibisa, the godfathers of World music, slayed me in ’71 with their eponymous debut album and in the unlikely venue of Cranleigh Arts Center, did it again.

“Music for Gong Gong”, the tribal equivalent of a disco dance floor filler, reeled ‘em in and from then on, they had you by the feet. We were all taught the chorus to “Ayiko Bia” and “Kilele” (as if we didn’t know them anyway!) and no-one held back.

Teddy Osei, “Mr. Africa” and co-founder, struggled to walk onto the stage but played flute, tenor and alto sax, police whistle, african tom-toms and cow-bell with enviable vigour and verve.

Sol Amarfio, the other original member, who looked like he’d been born behind his drumkit, never stopped smiling once throughout the concert and the relatively youthful rhythm guitarist danced his socks off in a space the size of a telephone kiosk.

N.B. TD – you don’t have to trust me on this. They play their last U.K. gig at the Flowerpot in Derby on May 10th. Take K and your dancing shoes and let rip!

(posted, unsurprisingly, by anna)

Firstly, sisters, let me thank my gracious host (mike - a man, but he can't help that...)
(Pause for laughter)
for giving me this opportunity to speak on behalf of the fairer sex this week, if only by default, and thank you, sisters, for allowing me to speak, for, of, and to, You.
(Applause)
In accepting the title of
'Miss troubled diva guestblogger'
I will, alongside my tireless work for world peace and disabled house-pets, accept the responsibility of furthering the cause of All my sex, and will to this end, be;

1. Talking about shopping.
2. Breaking off in the middle of a post to pluck my eyebrows.
3. Wearing pink.
4. On a diet.
5. Propping Barbies and vases of flowers on top of my computer.
6. Bursting into tears for little reason.
7. Giggling about boys.
8. Worrying about the size of my bottom.

I speak not for myself, but for all the girls out there, sitting in front of their computer screens, playing with their hair and thinking about having babies.
Thank you.
(Rapturous applause)

For any readers of my own site, let me assure you that there will be none of the usual nonsense and obscenity, no swearing, ranting, burping, drunkenness, and I will certainly not be referring to my gaggle of co-hosts as 'my b****es'
Thank you again, sisters, my darling girls, and thank you, Mike, for giving me this opportunity to act like the lady...

Also, if this post recieves more than 2500 comments, I pledge not to talk about periods.
Thank you.

(posted by D)

(tap, tap, tap) Is this thing on?

Whoa, where did that cool title graphic come from?! Needs a 1-pixel border methinks...

I'll be back later when my fluffy brains sort themselves out. Thanks to the Malaysian Grand Prix I managed to squeeze a three day weekend into 48-hours. Plus, I've been reading little.red.boat since she started (I've even met the lovely Anna on two occasions) and I'm somewhat in awe of her. Shocked that she was also chosen for this gig, but mainly in awe. Shock and awe... that'd be my general mood at the moment.

(posted by Mike)

In my old wild Trade-babe clubbing days, I was often struck by how melodramatic some of the techno-trance-hardbag-nu-energy music could sound. I used to imagine how great it would be to see a group of fully togged-up Spanish widows in the club, standing on a podium somewhere, in full traditional black lacy garb, complete with those mantilla headdress thingys, white-faced, fans and/or hankies in hands, their faces pictures of studied, theatrical woe, throwing "misery me!" shapes above the anonymous bobbing shaved heads of the crowd, as the light beams swirled around behind them.

(I also used to imagine four headscarved Russian-Jewish babooshkas on another, more distant podium, dancing in a circle, kicking their legs and cackling with witchy glee. God knows what I was on.)

Anyway, I was explaining all this to D from Acerbia, and then he came up with the nifty title graphic which you now see above.

Hurrah for Acerbia!
I © Guest Week!

(posted by Mr. D.)

“…. and I’d also like to thank ……….”

The Phrontistery, who lured me to Tinka’s “Distant Sun” blog (because I’m a “Crowded House” fan too) and of course Tinka herself, who advocated visiting the Troubled Diva, which I did, or I wouldn’t be here today …

(I actually typo’d that as “toady” – thank Microsoft for SpellChecker!) ….

Camera pans back to the podium .. Mr.D. pauses to draw breath, stop blubbing etc.

Picking from the virtual CV which won me this Guest Blog, I’d suggested to mein host that it was like inviting someone to share your “Meal for one” – utterly selfless, but you’re gonna be hungry.

So, without wanting to fawn, dear, I would like to state my gratitude to Mike for this opportunity to share what is, essentially, a very personal medium and hope that my morsels and musings don’t detract you from The Man Himself.

Oh, and, er, yes, Little.Red.Boat is peerless – please read her input if you do nothing else.

Mr. D. (see Track 1 “Goat’s Head Soup” by the beat combo The Rolling Stones).

(posted by noodle)

I feel like I'm babysitting. And I've always been so poor at handling responsibility and all. Must resist the temptation to raid the drinks cabinet and rifle through the wardrobes for pr0nography.

...in alphabetical order...

1. Anna Pickard of little.red.boat.

I am slightly embarrassed to admit that, after all my talk of wanting to achieve a healthy Gender Balance for guest week, Anna turns out to be the token female of the group. Yes: Troubled Diva is set to become a heaving hotbed of pumping testosterone over the next seven days, with only Anna on hand to redress the inequality.

Why so? Well - contrary to all my expectations, it has to be said - I had considerably more male than female volunteers to choose from. Once I had whittled them down to a shortlist, and once I had eliminated anybody who I had ever met in real life (a particularly capricious and brutal rule to apply, but I had to cut the list down somehow), Anna was the last female standing. Simple as that.

Am I sounding a trifle over-defensive here? Yes, I guess I am.

Let's put it another way, then. Remember when I said that I was looking for a Liberty X, not a Hear'say? Well, I think what I've actually done is created a Blondie, with Anna as its Debbie Harry.

(No, I don't know who is supposed to be Chris Stein, or Clem Burke, or, er, the other ones. Because that would be stretching the conceit too far.)

Anna is also the token "person blogging under her own full name". Her weblog is an utter delight, and should be mandatory reading for absolutely everybody in the whole wide world. Bar none.

2. D of Acerbia.

Like the popular 90s rock band Bush, and the popular 80s rock band The Fixx, Acerbia enjoys the peculiar distinction of being a British weblog with absolutely heaps of recognition in the States, but with more of a niche/cult appeal in the UK. (At least if his comments boxes are to be believed. Or maybe that's just American forthrightness and British reserve coming into play.) This is one of the reasons why I wanted D on board: he has a great site, full of knife-edge humour and unpredictable twists and turns, and it's high time that a few more Brits were made aware of his unique talents.

A nominee for "Best European Weblog" in the 2003 Bloggies, and for "Best Humourous Weblog" in the 2002 Bloggies, I guess makes D our token Celebrity Weblogger. He is