1. I Don't Feel Like Dancin'.

The brilliance of this song, currently the Number One single in the UK, is to a large extent due to the way that it is made up entirely of "good bits". What's more, each seperate "bit" is so good that, even as you're enjoying it, a part of you is tingling with anticipation for the next "bit". And it has two consecutive choruses, which is something of a masterstroke.

This is possibly the first single since Deee-Lite's "Groove Is In The Heart" to enter that select canon of unassailable, Everybody To The Dance Floor Now, You Can't Possibly Go Wrong, Wedding Disco Classics - and as such, expect it to be soundtracking Happiest Days Of Our Lives for at least the next thirty years. It's also destined to be the hit for which the Scissor Sisters will always be remembered: their standard, their show-stopper, maybe even their albatross.

(That debut album, as fine as it was, was rather short on tracks which stood up as hit singles in their own right. Maybe that's why we all got to the point where we couldn't bear to hear "Take Your Mama Out" one - more - bloody - time - thank you.)

As the lead track from the album, "I Don't Feel Like Dancin'" also sets a false trail. None of the twelve tracks which succeed it aspire to quite that level of unabashed celebratory glee (the plaintive melancholy of the lyrics notwithstanding) - or indeed, and let's get this pesky little term out the way right now, campness. (Sigh.)

2. She's My Man.

Which isn't to say that some of them don't come close. Stylistically, this is pitched somewhere between the Elton John of Don't Shoot Me I'm Only The Piano Player/Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, and that shortlived strain of "rock disco" which popped up in late 1983/early 1984 (Michael Sembello's "Maniac", The Pointer Sisters' "I'm So Excited", that sort of thing). As indicated in the title, there's also a healthy dollop of gender perversity - but you'll search in vain to find much more in the way of obvious queerness during the rest of the album. Like The Hidden Cameras with Awoo, the Scissors appear to moving away from the arguable limitations of the sexual-orientation-specific, and towards a more general universality. Timid sell-out, or natural progression? Oh, I know which side of the fence I am with that one.

3. I Can't Decide.

And with the crisply enunciated line "f**k and kiss you both at the same time" in the first verse, Ta-Dah automatically crosses itself off the list of nice jolly albums for the kids to sing along to during the School Run. Now who's being timid?

As with so many songs on the first half of the album, there's a yawning chasm between the carefee jauntiness of the music (here enlivened by a twanging Jews Harp, and Graeme Garden's son on barrelhouse piano), and the bleak miserablism of Jake Shears' lyrics. ("My heart feels dead inside; it's cold and hard and petrified.") As already alluded to in interviews, some deeply personal shit-storms are clearly being documented here. Unfortunately - and here's another parallel with the Hidden Cameras - they're sometimes couched in such private, personal language that it's difficult to work out just what's going on. However, the bitter vitriol on display here is hard to miss.

4. Lights.

An absolutely ravishing pastiche of mid-tempo Seventies-style pop-funk ("Couldn't Get It Right" by the Climax Blues Band springs to mind), enlivened by sassy brass stabs from Bob Funk and Larry Etkin of the Uptown Horns, and lifted into another dimension by the immediately recognisable guitar/bass contributions of longtime Bowie collaborator Carlos Alomar (there are clear echoes of "Fame" in the opening bars of "Lights"). Alomar picks up a co-writer's credit for his efforts, and it isn't the last that we'll be hearing from him.

5. Land Of A Thousand Words.

A surprising choice of future follow-up single, if the sticker on the front of the CD case is to be believed, as this is a big production ballad of the "Mary" school. It's tedious to harp on about the Elton John comparisons - but really they're inescapable here, both stylistically and in terms of Jake Shears' vocal phrasings.

Once again, there's a pronounced juxtaposition between words and music. While the music carries all the stock certainties of the Big Ballad, the lyrics describe a relationship whose future sounds far from certain. Shears and his lover appear to be hanging on by the skins of their teeth, not ready to give up just yet, but straining in opposite directions none the less.

Trouble is: this kind of material works best when everyone can access the emotions they describe. (Think "Victims". Think "Angels". Think "Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me".) The impact of this song, lovely as it is, is severely diminished by its lyrical obtuseness. So we're probably not looking at a second consecutive Number One.

6. Intermission.

In which the previous track's tastefully restrained string arrangement from Joan Wasser (aka Joan As Policewoman) is cruelly superceded by the sumptuous orchestration on display here, as provided by no less a figure than Van Dyke Parks. Now that they are in a position to do so, the Scissors are choosing their famous collaborators wisely.

Speaking of which: here's Dame Elton of John on piano again, fresh from tinkling the "old Joanna" on the album's opener (and picking up another co-writing credit along the way, the greedy bitch).

For all the heavyweight talent on board (not to mention some glorious piano work from JJ "son of Graeme" Garden, rapidly emerging as Ta-Dah's unsung hero), "Intermission" styles itself as just that: a short, frivolous distraction, with vaudevillian nods to the likes of "When I'm 64", Lou Reed's "New York Telephone Conversation", and some of Freddie Mercury's camper (sorry!) moments on A Night At The Opera. And that would have been that, were it not for the continued bleak bite of the lyrics, which peak with the jaunty refrain of "Tomorrow's not what it used to be, we were born to die, happy yesterday to all, we were born to die".

It's a turning point, of sorts.

7. Kiss You Off.

Actually, if Ta-Dah does have an interlude, then this is it. Scything through all of Jake's accumulated angst over the first six tracks, pistol-packin' mama Ana Matronic gets her one shot at a lead vocal: and she ain't pussyfootin' around, neither. Working an amusingly extended lipstick analogy, she declares "I'm gonna buy me a new shade of man", and "it's standing room only for a piece of my pigment". You Go Girl, etc etc.

However. The Goldfrappy schaffel-stomp of the rhythm track is watered down to the point of inspidity, the song overruns by at least a minute and a half, and Matronic, deeply lovely as she is (we've met twice, and I adored her on both occasions) simply doesn't have the requisite vocal authority. Occupying a similar tonal range to her co-vocalist, Matronic cannot help but come across as Shears Lite.

Maybe mindful of this fact, Stuart Price has been drafted in, fresh from the triumph of Confessions On A Dance Floor, solely to provide something called "additional vocal production". Hmm. It might have worked for Madge, but all the "treatments" in the world can't supply the presence which "Kiss You Off" inescapably lacks.

(God, I feel horrible for saying that.)

8. Ooh.

Having reached the pits of despair, and with Ana having crisply dispatched the source of the problem on Jake's behalf (she's good to him like that), we're now climbing up the other side, and back into the light. And so, at last, here's a straightforwardly happy party tune, free from any contradictory undercurrents. It's nifty, it's frisky, it's funky, it's the Bee Gees with a dash of Prince, and it's Ta-Dah's nearest equivalent to "Filthy/Gorgeous". F**k art, let's dance, etc etc.

9. Paul McCartney.

Actually, scratch that thought immediately: with its speedy two-note electronic bass throb, this is Ta-Dah's nearest equivalent to "Filthy/Gorgeous". (I told you that these were rough tasting notes.) Carlos Alomar and the Uptown Horns are back, although their presence isn't quite as keenly felt as earlier.

Shears, you sense, is getting his shit together here. "There's an urgency I'm feeling for the first time", he tells us, in the song's opening line. "Do we dream about each other at the same time?", he muses, with a giddy optimism that is sustained for the rest of the song.

None of which explains its central mystery: why, pray, is the song named after Mister Fab Macca Wacky Thumbs Aloft? "Intermission" I could have understood - but not this one, not at all. Someone needs to ask, don't they?

10. The Other Side.

Now, what was I saying about other sides? The soft disco chug of the guitar echoes "Comfortably Numb", just some of Jake's phrasing echoes that of Roger Waters - but that's where the comparisons end. Instead, this is a tender declaration of love, made all the more tender by the lower, more confidential register that Jake adopts, in one of the album's best vocal performances. There's still a sense of distance between the singer and his lover - between the Big Star and the Ordinary Guy, perhaps? - but unlike "Land Of A Thousand Words", Jake is trying to accommodate the inevitable gap, and to bridge it as best he can.

Oh, and if we're going to invite our new famous friends along for the ride, then we might as well go the whole hog and rope in Judy Bloody Garland, sweedie. Yes, you heard. 500 extra Camp Points duly awarded. Oops!

11. Might Tell You Tonight.

The natural companion piece to "The Other Side", this continues in much the same vein of tender romanticism, with Shears retaining that same intimate lower register, and now plucking up the courage to declare his undying love for his new-found beloved. The effect is genuinely touching (or at least it is if you're an old softy like me), and the song has enough directness and universality to be adopted as an "Our Tune" for any number of courting couples, of any orientation that you might care to mention. If they wanted a change of pace for the second single, then maybe they should have gone with this one instead. (Or maybe they're holding it back for Saint Valentine's Day. I wouldn't put it past them.)

12. Everybody Wants The Same Thing.

With our emotional journey complete, all we need now is the Big Anthem at the end - and this number, first performed at Live 8 in 2005, duly obliges in spades. Having learnt his life lessons, Shears now turns to face us, his audience - and he's got some Big Questions to ask of us, hoo yes indeed. Yup, it's a Message Song - and hence maybe not to everyone's taste, but I find it rather uplifting, in a self-helpy Pick Up Thy Bed And Walk kind of way. Then again, I'm easily led like that.

Bonus Track: Transistor.

Oh, please. Do you want me to do all the work for you? Our friends have arrived, and it's time to go and make them feel welcome.

But if you're still wondering whether to purchase Ta-Dah on Monday lunchtime: Mike Troubled Diva, he say Go For It. This is going to be inescapable over the next few months, so you might as well start getting used to it.

"Show me your motions, tra la la la la..."

Yes, well. Let's just leave it there, before too many thoughts of brown wotsits in the ring intrude. One wouldn't want to Go Too Far.

Just be grateful I didn't start riffing on this weekend's other crap pun:
Partum Perineum (The Gentleman's Relish).
Look, it was FUNNY IN THE PUB, OK?

Yes, it's the inevitable Contractual Obligation holding post, written at great speed, purely to avoid the ignominious fate of being cast as Clapped Out Has Been in perpetuity.

A bitch of a day, redeemed in just two ways. Firstly, my mood has lifted immensely after popping in for Early Doors at the Red Lion at Hognaston, en route to the cottage. Early Doors (#65) + Marston Pedigree (#6) + first sight of village (#5) = Temporary Abatement Of Self-Invented Angst. A simple equation for a simple soul.

Secondly, I am now the proud owner of an official advance promo copy of the new Scissor Sisters album, Ta-Dah. I've just played it for the second time, and fear not, 'tis a good 'un. I was hoping to blog some rough tasting notes for you this evening, but time constraints mean it ain't gonna happen just yet. In the meantime, you can listen to it for yourselves - legally, mind - via the band's Myspace page, available via the link on the right. K says he's disappointed with it, but I think he's wrong.

OK, dinner's on the table. Ooh, dressed crab. I'll have me some of that!

Catch y'all on the morrow, peeps.

1. Paul Smith shirts.
2. Fat buds on roses.
3. BLTs with slices of hard boiled egg, and plenty of mayo.
4. Audrey Hepburn.
5. The first sight of the village on Friday evenings.
6. Marston's Pedigree.
7. K's cooking.
8. Clambering into freshly laundered bed linen.
9. Trashy tarty looking men, who aren't quite aware of it.
10. The puppy-dog enthusiasm of young posh people.
11. Crossing the threshold with a Bridget Riley.
12. Saint-Véran and Viré-Clessé.
13. Fast wireless broadband.
14. Doing a really good beat-mix on Mixmeister.
15. Pub fish and chips.
16. The perfect communion of shared laughter.
17. Introducing the right people to each other, and watching them hit it off.
18. Re-reading an old blog post, and discovering that it still stands up.
19. Man cleavage.
20. Shaved backs of necks.
21. Pruning the geraniums.
22. Agas.
23. Contemporary ceramics.
24. Semi-abstracted landscapes.
25. Thirst-inducing tulips.
26. Blowsy dahlias.
27. Salacious gossip, safely shared.
28. Al fresco sandwiches at Cast Deli.
29. Hitting Send on a gig review.
30. The comforting orderliness of iTunes.
31. Meeting other bloggers.
32. Jon Ronson's column in Guardian Weekend.
33. Boiled eggs on weekend mornings, with Gentleman's Relish on toast.
34. Powell & Pressburger.
35. Choosing presents.
36. Active listening.
37. The total elimination of homophobia as acceptable behaviour in mainstream British society.
38. Everything neatly put away.
39. Art fairs.
40. Dressing up for a smart meal.
41. The creative brain-fizz of a happy hangover.
42. Being a good drunk.
43. A catchy tune with a good beat to it.
44. The rolling twenty-year echo in my head.
45. Making social plans in London.
46. K in his best clothes, leaving the house for a meeting.
47. Getting in on the guest list.
48. Dancing round the kitchen to my new favourite song, knowing that no-one is watching.
49. Discovering things before everybody else does.
50. Spreadsheets.
51. Making people laugh.
52. Snappy phrases which appear from nowhere.
53. Serendipity.
54. Fulfilling a fantasy, then ticking it off.
55. The equidistance of being in one's forties.
56. Finding common ground with a bright, eager teenager.
57. Finding common ground with a gently subversive pensioner.
58. Freedom from desire.
59. Empathetic feedback loops.
60. Ridiculously tenuous name-dropping.
61. Pop trivia quizzes.
62. An unexpected compliment from someone you admire.
63. Friday nights in front of the fire, decent telly and a good bottle of red.
64. The Social and the Rescue Rooms.
65. Friday early doors.
66. David Sedaris.
67. Classic Al Green.
68. Flirting.
69. Harvest moons.
70. Five-star luxury with a human face.
71. Being a pair of right snarky little madams, knowing that no-one is listening.
72. Cracking the surface of a foreign city.
73. Being in the right place at the right time.
74. Good manners.
75. People who don't claim to have all the answers.
76. Doing a really good poo, with a cup of tea and a newspaper.
77. Molton Brown (talk about guilty pleasures).
78. Everyhit, YouTube and Wikipedia.
79. Innocent smoothies.
80. Six Feet Under.
81. Horse Meat Disco.
82. Tate Modern.
83. Eurovision.
84. CBT.
85. Seven-mile hikes.
86. Pho for breakfast.
87. Umami.
88. Freshly grated Parmesan.
89. Being the centre of attention.
90. Being part of the gang.
91. Sitting back and letting everyone else do the talking.
92. "I Don't Feel Like Dancing".
93. That secret blog that I'm not allowed to tell you about.
94. Friends becoming successful.
95. English wit.
96. The trash aesthetic.
97. The love of my man.
98. The hunky plumber off Desperate Housewives.
99. Bursting into tears during Desert Island Discs.
100. An extra hour in bed.

(I meant to post this yesterday, but no matter. One day's delay shouldn't make too much difference, in the overall scheme of things.)

The band sounded more like Dymbel's cup of tea than my own: well crafted, neat and tidy US college rock, and the sort of thing that Uncut magazine were big on at the time. If you liked REM, Wilco and Big Star, then you'd probably be into them. Dymbel loved all three acts - still does, for that matter - and so we decided to give them a punt.

It felt odd, and strangely inappropriate, going out to a gig on the night after the news event which had locked us all in front of our TV screens for hours on end, in slack-jawed, dumbfounded horror. Especially since the band were American themselves. Far too early to contemplate a rocking good night out, surely. But what else were we to do? In any case, the tickets were already purchased. Might as well, then.

The Social was far from full. A subdued smattering of diehard music geeks, mostly male, stood around, making quiet conversation. Everything felt slightly unreal. We were all still in that initial, shell-shocked, calm-eye-of-the-storm phase: trying to absorb the enormity of what had happened, but still some distance away from being able to analyse the background, predict the implications, super-impose our own world-views. It was enough, at this stage, to feel the loss.

The band took to the stage. Unassuming, non-starry, dressed-down, regular guys, with solemn, somewhat distracted expressions.

The singer grasped of the microphone, and said something like this.

"Obviously, we've been thinking all day about the terrible events that took place yesterday, in our home city of New York, and trying to make contact with our friends and families over there. We don't want to say anything more about it, though. The only thing which makes much sense to us right now is our music. So all we really want to do is play our music. Thank you. And if anyone's buying, mine's a Jack Daniels."

Within the first few bars of the opening song, a member of the audience had placed a glass of Jack Daniels at the front of the stage. Every time that it was emptied during the set - which was more than a few times - a new glass materialised.

Having vaguely expecting some sort of Major Statement, I couldn't help but feel a guilty twinge of disappointment. This wasn't the sort of music that fitted a tragedy of these dimensions. Too polite, too constrained, too rooted in seemingly small, everyday concerns.

The band played on, brows knotted, eyes to the floor. The crowd applauded, in diffident moderation. The bar did a steady, roaring trade.

Slowly, the mood of the crowd and the mood of the band converged. An intensity grew in the room, of a nature that was over and above the material being played. Something was passing between us, that could not be expressed in words. Words were immaterial.

Towards the end of the set, someone shouted for a song off the new album. The singer dismissed the request with a quick, momentarily appalled shudder.

"No, there's no way we can play that tonight."

The set ended, to sustained, fervent applause. Everyone in the room was steaming drunk - but drunk in a contained way. Like at a wake.

"F**k it, let's do it anyway."

The encore commenced. It soon became clear that this was the song that was requested earlier. The lyrics were about someone dying in a plane crash. It was jarringly inappropriate and yet horribly pertinent, like that heartbreak song on the radio which wasn't exactly about you, but which you related to anyway, because you needed to universalise your pain.

The song concluded - but the band played on, seizing its basic chord patterns and jamming on them, with steadily increasing noise and ferocity, losing themselves in the music. With every repetition, they moved further and further away from the neat-and-tidy college-boy politeness, and out into something quite other, above and beyond themselves.

The singer bent himself double over his guitar, his face contorted and crimson, thrashing furiously yet purposefully. His thick, nerdy spectacles fell off the end of his nose, toppled onto the stage, and remained there. He didn't even seem to notice.

The jam drove ever onwards. This no longer felt like a gig. It was a communal catharsis; a doomed exorcism, which could only hope to hold the demons at bay for as long as the band kept playing. Perhaps they would never stop.

In a squall of feedback, stepping back from the brink, they stopped. And humbly stepped straight off the stage, and into the sparse crowd, who tentatively edged around them, still roaring their applause, but not wanting to intrude too far.

Behind me, sensing my hesitation, a tall stranger nudged me forwards.

"Go on, mate! They f**king deserve it!"

I smiled, but stayed put, keeping a respectful distance: drunkenly dazed, but keenly aware that we had witnessed something unprecedented - and hopefully never to be repeated.

I doubt that the band would want to be remembered for this, so I shan't mention them by name. You probably wouldn't have heard of them anyway.

Besides, it was, in a strange way, private. Just between us.

Exactly five years ago, plus the one day.

Labels: top25

Ach, what the hell: have another podcast. Probably not as good as the second, but definitely better than the third. There's also a little nugget of non-musical content in the middle, which may be of interest.

Fingers crossed that the del.icio.us feed works properly this time...

Update: Aha, sussed it. You'll need to subscribe to a new feed, I'm afraid. This is it:

http://del.icio.us/rss/troubleddiva/system:filetype:mp3+divacast

Aargh, I've just discovered another reason to be paranoid. (Finding reasons to be paranoid being one of my major life skills.)

I've just discovered that, in certain circles, failure to greet a new commenter with a quick "Hello and welcome" is regarded as a breach of blogging etiquette. Now, I've often observed other people welcoming newcomers, and I think it's a dead nice thing to do and all that - but I've always taken it as a matter of personal style/preference, rather than as The Correct Thing To Do.

It could well be generational, and informed by the perspective of a relative old-timer, stuck in his original paradigm. When I started blogging nearly five years ago, the rules of engagement were somewhat different - and I don't recall anyone doling out the Meet & Greets as a matter of course. (Peter, maybe?) Indeed, you could make a sound case for arguing that blogging was a good deal more aloof in those days, and a good deal more community-minded these days - but that's a think-piece for another time.

In any case, I have certainly never expected my comments to be automatically replied to. Rather, instead of feeling snubbed when a comment is ignored, I tend to feel a mild ripple of pleasure when someone chooses to acknowledge it - because I have said something which has been deemed worthy of further discourse.

I do frequently reply to comments, and always by name. However, the fact that I have replied to some and not others should never be seen as favourtism, or cliquiness. It's merely because some comments inspire further thoughts on my part, and some comments don't. And it has certainly never occured to me that new readers might end up feeling excluded.

What about you? What's your policy?

Update #1: Based on various people's comments, I've added some follow-up thoughts of my own, in which I surprise myself by taking quite a severe line.

Update #2: For what has to be the definitive statement on this whole malarkey, you are strongly urged to read this excellent post from Status Anxiety.

K and I have just enjoyed an exceptionally tasty dinner. Since the recipe was of K's own devising, and since we've got a bit of time to kill before Capote starts on Sky Box Office, I thought I'd blog the details for you. It's cheap, it's nutritious, it's quick, it's easy, it's delicious, what's not to like, well exactly.

Penne pollo con zucchini.
Serves two.

Ingredients:

• 100g penne pasta.
• 1 large courgette, cut into match-sticks, approximately 0.5 cm wide.
• 2 chicken breasts, cubed, approximately 2.5 cm wide. (I reckon they're a bit smaller than that, but chef says not.)
• 2 cloves of garlic, chopped.
• A pinch of dried chilli flakes.
• A lump of Parmesan cheese.
• Olive oil, salt, pepper.

Boil the penne until al dente, drain it, and leave it to one side.

While the penne is boiling, fry the chicken in olive oil over a high heat, to get the surface golden brown. This should take about 5 minutes, maybe slightly less.

Throw in the sliced courgettes and stir, in order to brown and soften them slightly. Allow about 2-3 minutes for this.

Reduce the heat. Add the garlic and the chilli flakes, season with salt and pepper, and cook for a further 2 minutes.

Add the drained penne to the pan. Mix it in, until the pieces are coated in oil and have integrated with the chicken and courgettes.

Serve, from pan to plate. Add freshly grated Parmesan over the top, and an extra twist of black pepper.

Go on, try it. You can't go wrong.

I've been feeling listless, melancholy and generally out of sorts today. These photos - none of which I've looked at in several years - cheered me up a bit, in a wistful sort of way. In particular, I had forgotten just how young I looked for my age, for a brief spell in my late 20s and early 30s. Still, that painting had to come down from the attic some time.


London Pride, Jubilee Gardens, 1990. The chap on the far left is Grocerina, who first introduced me to K. The chap next to him was his partner for ten years - they got together two weeks after K and I became a couple, and the four of us held a joint 10th anniversary party in 1995. He moved to New Zealand with his new partner in the late 1990s. The chap standing next to me wrote the UK's biggest selling single of 2000.


Oh God, white denim. And beaded "ethnic" baseball caps. (That one came from Camden Market, and I was very attached.) O tempora, o mores.

A picnic excursion to Calke Abbey. We flew kites, and someone played wildly inappropriate grunge music on a ghetto blaster. The lady next to me was our lodger for a couple of years, during which time she met her future husband. The two of them acted as witnesses for our civil partnership registration in April.


Back in those days, the Derbyshire Peak District was a place to wander about in for a couple of hours on a Sunday afternoon. Any longer than that, and I started getting city withdrawal symptoms, longing for the womb-like embrace of the buildings and the cheering glare of the street lights. In this picture, I defy all known medical science by giving birth, feet first.


Our New Kids On The Block tribute act never really got off the ground...


Stumbling towards the North Norfolk coast, somewhere in the vicinity of Burnham Overy Staithe, in whose windmill we were sojourning.


Such innocent pleasures. The hardcore all-night clubbing phase had yet to kick in...


Photos of people dancing are great, aren't they? Inside the aforementioned windmill, nearing the apex of one of the most gleefully debauched weekends that any of us had ever enjoyed. (We booked the same windmill a year later and tried to repeat the experience, but it wasn't quite the same.)


Adored and explored. A-hum. Every dog has its day.


A friend brought me back this Keith Haring T-shirt from New York; I think it was printed especially for that year's Pride parade. Naturally, I treated it with the reverence normally reserved for holy relics.


London Pride, 1991. Photo taken by Chig, who scribbled a caption on the back: "I always flare my nostrils when I'm having a w@nk..."


Chig's caption: "Yes, you in the shades, there is a camera pointing in your direction!"

Next to it in the photo album, there's a "candid" long-lens photo of a shirtless hunk, who is revealed to be deliberately sucking his stomach in. Oh, how we giggled. The cruelty of youth, etc. I'd scan it and upload it, but the photo doesn't have ME in it, so what would be the point.


I was about to say: Chig looks even younger than I do. But then, he was. And still is, for that matter.

I do miss the home-made charm of those older Pride festivals. Not a sponsor's logo in sight.


Yes, I know what you're thinking. But there's a perfectly innocent explanation!

Chig had been cast as a gay dad-to-be with a penchant for rubber wear, in a Birmingham "community drama project" or some such frippery. The wardrobe department had duly sanctioned the purchase of a singlet and shorts from the local Clone Zone, and Chig had come over to Nottingham to "get into the role", method-style, down at our local club. (That would have been Nero's on Saint James Street, then.)

Naturally, an early evening photo-shoot ensued - and naturally, I couldn't resist squeezing myself into the gear, and having a mini-prance round the living room...


...and pretending to be K's trashy trade, in another shocking mis-representation of our power dynamic. Oh yes.


My "Mogwai" dance was legendary, and here's a rare sighting.

Compare and contrast with the distinguished "man of letters" figure that I cut today...

(These tips appeared in print yesterday.)

1. Don't be scared by the technology. Anyone can get a basic blog up and running in less than ten minutes, with no technical knowledge. What's more, it's free. Try www.blogger.com - it's a great starting place for novices.

2. Always be aware you're writing for an audience, even if it's only for family and friends. Put yourself in their shoes, and imagine them reading what you have written. If you're only writing for yourself, then keep it to yourself.

3. When writing about other people, always assume that they will one day discover what you have written. This isn't just a faint possibility - it's a distinct probability. You'd be surprised.

4. If you want to be rude about someone, stick to celebrities and politicians. That's what they're there for.

5. If you're blogging about work, then be extra-careful. Even if you're blogging anonymously, what you say might be seen as damaging to your employers' reputation. If in doubt, leave it out.

6. Although a small number of blogs attract thousands of readers a day, most blogs have much, much smaller readerships. So don't blog for the fame and the glory, and don't start worrying about who's bigger and better than you. Remember: nobody loves a bitter blogger.

7. Tell us something we didn't know before. If you've got specialist knowledge of something, then share it - you'll soon attract like-minded souls.

8. Failing that, tell us about yourself: funny stories, sad stories, even what you had for lunch, if you can make it entertaining. We're nosy, and we like to know what makes people tick.

9. Start building a list of your favourite blogs. Read them regularly, leave them comments, and link to them. You never know: they might link back. (But if they don't, then it's bad form to pester them about it.)

10. Your blog can be anything you want it to be. So don't be afraid to break a few rules.