A few days ago, Mimi popped into my comments box to say, amongst other things:How could I refuse? Besides, it has been nearly a year since we last had guest-bloggers on this site, so it's high time we threw open the doors once again.

This time round, I shall only be requiring one guest post from each contributor, to be made some time between now and the end of July. Since this is hardly an onerous commitment, I'm hoping for a reasonably healthy number of volunteers.

If you're up for it, then please e-mail me at mikejla at btinternet dot com, stating which of the following three posting "concepts" you would like to work with. I'll then tot up the number of votes cast, and will go with the most popular option.

1. Blogging Consequences.

This would involve the brazen re-appropriation of a concept which Vaughan introduced on his own site three years ago, with quite marvellous results. Basically, each participant has to take the last sentence of the previous post, and use it as the first sentence of their own post.

2. Weblog archive: July 1995.

Imagine that you were blogging ten years ago, when John Major was still Prime Minister, Britpop was in full swing, and 28.8k dial-up modems were the stuff that dreams were made of. What piece might you have written back then?

3. What I Did On My Holidays.

With the holiday season nearly upon us, please regale us with your most memorable holiday anecdote - be it tragic or transcendent, comic or cathartic, sordid or sublime.

Bear in mind that you should be prepared to adhere to whichever theme receives the most votes. Other than that, feel free to interpret the chosen theme in any way you like. Ooh, I'm getting a good feeling about this already!

Hello Quickos, and welcome to the beautiful and historic city of Nottingham! I'm sure you're going to have lots of really exciting adventures while you're here. Please say thank you to Mummy and Daddy for the scrumptious Belgian waffles. We had them with strawberry jam, and they were really yummy.



First of all, we took Quickos to see Robin Hood. Robin Hood was the most famous man ever to live in Nottingham. He took all the money off the rich people, and gave it to the poor people, so that they wouldn't be poor ever again.



(K says he's not sure that's such a good idea, particularly if the rich people are busy making Important Contributions to the Knowledge Economy. Doesn't K know a lot of big words!)



Being photographed with Famous Folk Heroes is thirsty work! So Mike and K took Quickos to Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem for a pint of English beer. Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem is the oldest pub in England, Mike says. Quickos said he hoped the beer wasn't that old!



Here's Quickos, having his first ever pint of English beer with Mike. (Actually, Mike just let Quickos have a couple of sips, because he's not really old enough for beer just yet, and Mike was worried that he might be setting a Bad Example.)



Ooh, yummy! Quickos loves English beer! This one's called "Olde Trip", just like the name of the pub. It makes Quickos feel all silly and giggly. Mike says he'll need a good long sleep tonight!

Quickos is really, really excited, because Mike and K are taking him to the countryside tomorrow, to see the Princess Diana Memorial Garden. And then on Saturday, Quickos is going all the way to Cambridge, to visit Mike's Mummy. Mike says that lots of clever people live in Cambridge, because they've studied really hard at school and done all of their sums.

Quickos loves meeting all his new English friends.

Although I can drone away about the minutiae of pop music until the cows come home - a pithy apercu here, a deconstructed semiological signifier there - when it comes to my other great love, quote-unquote "world" music, I generally clam up. This is because, where "world" music is concerned, I find I have no particular desire to do anything other than simply listen to the stuff, devoid of any background knowledge or cultural context. For me, the music works on an almost entirely abstract level - as pure form and feeling, articulated and embellished by a strong sense of craft and technique.

Thus it is that I scarcely even bother to scan the translated lyrics, choosing instead to wallow in the sound of the voices. Indeed, a lyric sung in English generally comes as an unwelcome intrusion of literal meaning, jarring against my cliché-primed sensibilities. Keep the meaning obscure, and you keep the mystery intact.

I am also well aware that what we middle class white Europeans like to call "world music" is actually a carefully packaged marketing niche, and that the stuff that "world music" audiences rave over isn't always the stuff that goes down best in its countries of origin. Example: the last Youssou N'Dour album (the critically acclaimed Egypt) bombed in Senegal, because you couldn't dance to it. Meanwhile the most popular pan-African artists are probably Sting, Phil Collins, Bob Marley, Eminem and 50 Cent.

In other words, it's easy to fall into a false trap of cultural tourism, where the attractively packaged "world music" album is actually about as representative of that country's culture as the beautifully carved wooden ornaments that you can only find in souvenir shops.

Or consider the situation in reverse, where a native African tells you that he really loves your English music: Kate Rusby, Eliza Carthy, Steeleye Span and Fairport Convention. Which, of course, is not without its adherents (and rightly so) - but it's hardly the stuff which you'll hear booming out of doorways as you stroll down "typical" English streets.

So, maybe for "world" music, it would be better to say "roots" music instead. But then again, I'm no purist. What about all that Senegalese hip hop? Or the contemporary, cosmopolitan influences which Manu Chao has brought to bear on the new Amadou & Mariam album? Or the scratch DJ-ing on the Ojos De Brujo and Miguel 'Anga' Diaz albums? Or Rachid Taha collaborating with Steve Hillage and covering The Clash?

And that's the other problem: reading about "world" music is not only beside the point - but, well, a little bit boring, like a coursework assignment. Better by far to sidestep all the fascinating facts, all the "Is it representative?", "Am I being marketed to?" head-f**ks, all the cultural tourism baggage...

...and just enjoy the music. Which I do, constantly. Especially at weekends, or in the car, or at any other time where K is within earshot. (In the Venn diagram of our musical tastes, the intersection of the circles is marked "world/roots".)

Which brings me to my point. If I'm not going to blog about my love of "world" music, then perhaps it's better if I let the music speak for itself.

In which case, here's Part One of the Troubled Diva Rough Guide To "World" Music: a continuous mix, containing nine songs, and lasting for half the length of a CD. The second half of the CD will be along in a few days' time, and the full track listing will appear a few days after that, along with links to all the featured albums.

In the two mixes, I have focused mainly on albums which have come out in the past 18 months or so, with one or two tracks thrown in for historical interest. About half the tracks are African, with the remainder coming from all over the world.

Here are four Yousendit links, all to the same file, which should provide enough downloads to be going on with. Even if you have no particular interest in "world" music, I would strongly advise you to take a listen anyway; if nothing else, these selections make a great soundtrack for sunny afternoons and hot, sticky nights.

Suddenly, Eurovision seems like months ago. Ah, let's hear it for proper music!

Link one.
Link two.
Link three.
Link four.

...but clearly to no avail. Sheesh, so you can see the Abdominal Jut from bloody Belgium, now? Even with your bloody eyes shut?

I give up. Send for waffles.

Three summers down the line, and our Princess Diana Memorial Garden continues to surprise and delight. For the first couple of years, the garden's appeal was primarily to do with the landscaping. This year, with colours and shapes expanding and melding at an astonishing rate, its appeal has become much more about the planting.

We mulched hard in the spring, getting through a dozen sacks of the stuff, and thereby absolving ourselves from a hell of a lot of weeding. We were also lavish with the blood, fish and bone; sometimes a little too lavish, causing some disproportionate growth and unsightly legginess. But it's all part of the learning curve, and the triumphs well outweigh the disasters.

Last Sunday, we opened the PDMG to the public, as part of the village's Open Gardens Day. This was the cause of a certain amount of performance anxiety earlier in the week, as it seemed as though the garden was caught in a period of transition; a lot of the good stuff had peaked, while not enough of the newer stuff was coming through. However - and following sustained activity on Thursday evening, all day Friday (we took the day off), much of Saturday, and several hours on Sunday morning - we had succeeded in turning the place round.

This was massively helped by the spectacular eruption of the multi-headed white roses known as Rambling Rector, which reached their absolute peak on Sunday. As in the previous two years, these were the most asked about feature in the garden - and as in the previous two years, it was all we could do not to revert to type, and blurt out our preferred semi-private name: Rumbling Rectum. Such sauce!

The alliums also got a lot of attention this year. I think they've become quite trendy. But we were early adopters. (Or rather, our garden designer was.)

Even during Sunday afternoon itself, I couldn't help whipping the secateurs out, and having a couple of quick extra dead-heading sessions on the geraniums. (Or do I mean pelargoniums?) At this time of year, you could spend your entire day doing nothing but dead-heading geraniums, and I did become a little obsessed at times - even seeing the dead-heads behind my eyelids, every time I blinked. Evil! Evil! Snip! Maim! Kill!

Luckily, we had our ever-obliging house guest Slam to help us, and to mediate in times of trial. Unlike most house guests, Slam always leaves the place better than he finds it... and for that, we love him like a brother. (The way to our hearts is through our cleaning products.)

Chig also turned up unexpectedly - tipped off by a mention of Open Gardens Day in my comments box, impressively enough - on his way back from reporting on a somewhat underwhelming Leicester Pride for Gay Times. This all caused great confusion amongst some of the well-meaning Nice Ladies from outside the village, who clearly didn't know which of "the boys" was supposed to be with whom. (It didn't help when I gave them long explanations of the history of the garden, entirely in the first person plural, with my hand casually draped over the back of Chig's chair. The inclusive smiles and nods he got!)

After 6pm, when the gardens shut, K and I hosted the Unofficial After Party, dispensing gallons of chilled rosé to exhibitors and liggers alike. I was also introduced to J.S., a long-standing reader of the blog, who will not be expecting to find herself mentioned. (Everybody say hello to J.S.!) Oh, we're quite the horticultural socialites these days, I think you'll find.

To celebrate our towering achievement, here's a photographic tableau of the PDMG as it looked last Sunday, and very early on Monday morning. Those with fast connections may care to click on the thumbnails to enlarge. Please also note that these have been lovingly hand-coded. Flickr Schmickr! You can't beat the personal touch!

Update: I've fixed those pesky "file not found" errors. My bad, as the cool people used to say.

1. Licentiousness documented: Joe. My. God. reveals himself to be the Jane Austen of the gay baths.

2. Vigilance rewarded: Diamond Geezer reveals himself to be Andrew Gilligan's anonymous source, as the saga of the Bow Road tube station renovations hits the London Evening Standard. Never underestimate the determination of the quiet blogger, as Ian Duncan Smith should have said.

3. Pink power calibrated: Willie Lupin's measured, thoughtful response to the Independent On Sunday's "Pink List" puts yesterday's shallow namedrop-fest in its proper place.

After a worrying patch of collective ennui, I made an extra effort this week, handing in an impressive seven blurbs for this week's Stylus UK Singles Jukebox. However, with my fellow panellists also making extra ennui-busting efforts, and with one of this week's singles being dropped from the article entirely, only four blurbs saw the light of day. These were for Towers Of London (PUNKS NOT DEAD), Royksopp (generic Habitat coffee table), The Tears (better, but still unconvincing) and Charlotte Church (trying to act her age, but still failing).

Here are the three remaining blurbs:

1. Many thanks to Vitriolica for sending me this marvellous (and uncannily accurate) pen portrait, which has replaced that old Gillray cartoon of the Prince Regent at the top of the sidebar. This was one of Vit's many artistic contributions to Big Blogger (still ongoing; still mad; still enjoying it), which she has collated here.

2. It's a shame that I can't find an online copy of yesterday's annual Independent On Sunday Pink List: a list of the 101 most powerful/influential British gay men and lesbians. (But, somewhat inevitably, and for all sorts of reasons, rather more of the former than the latter.) However, I don't suppose it would be too copyright-busting of me to reveal the Top 6: Sharon, Serena, Mandy, Camilla, Emily and Vicky. A little surprising to see Mandy still perched at #3, but at least he retains the distinction of being one of the great comic figures of our age:I suppose that "sabbatical" is one way of describing it...

3. But you'll be wanting to know how many of the Top 101 are close personal friends of mine, won't you? (And wondering why K wasn't included, no doubt. Well, we're in no rush.) OK, so if we're counting people that I have met and spoken to (however *cough* briefly), then four people on this year's Pink List can claim that distinction: Matthew Parris (#80), Jonathan Harvey (#76), Julian Clary (#39) and Graham Norton (#37). Whether or not they remember meeting me is quite another matter.

4. As for the rest: I have seen #100, #67, #56, #38, #33, #25, #22, #2 and #1 on stage (Rabbi Lionel Blue, Neil Tennant, Antony Sher, Angela Mason, Paul O'Grady, Chris Smith, George Michael, Serena and Sharon); I have been in the same bar as #93 (Michael Cashman), #54 (Michael Clark), #47 (Neil Bartlett) and #21 (Stephen Fry); I have been in the same club as #50 (Rupert Everett); I have stood in the same conversational group as both #72 (Nick Partridge) and #36 (Peter Tatchell), without being introduced to either (not bitter); I have been in the same backstage VIP area as #42 (Boy George); I have been at the same party as #16 (Alan Duncan); and I have seen #8 (David Hockney) walking down the street in Cambridge. How über-gay is that? Sometimes, I forget what a card-carrying party member I used to be.

5. Our friend Slam's reaction to seeing the list, yesterday morning over breakfast: "Right, let me find a husband from this lot." And moments later: "Well, that's useless... why haven't they included marital status?"

6. The British blogosphere's very own Tom Coates was probably at #102. I'd give him three more years, maximum.

7. Peter continues my Bay City Rollers theme over at his place; the discussion then spills over into his comments box. I'll be completing the review soon, honest. (He always says that.)

8. Diamond Geezer, in the next comments box down:I couldn't possibly comment. Passive-agressive, moi?

9. Bloggers! You know when you get talking to other bloggers by e-mail, and they then tell you their real name, presumably expecting you to start using it forthwith... well, is it just me, or does this always feel somehow not quite right, and a bit like your maths teacher asking you to call him Steve?

10. Bloggers! When de-linking someone from your blogroll, or when being de-linked from someone else's blogroll, it helps to visualise the blogosphere as a perpetual cocktail party, and the de-linker as the person saying: "Well, it has been lovely talking to you, but there are some people over there who I simply must meet." Because if you deploy this paradigm, then it takes all the silly paranoia out of the situation. (I was originally going to expand this metaphor into an extended "blogging as cocktail party" think-piece... but then I couldn't be arsed. It's the heat.)