In honour of Zoe's marvellous book (available in the shops NOW, and they really do make such marvellous gifts), based on the marvellous blog of the same name, it gives me great pleasure to host a one-off revival of that marvellous 1970s game show (revived somewhat less marvellously in the 1990s)... Mr & Mrs!!!

The aim of the game is simple. How well do Zoe and her twatty boyfriend Quarsan really know each other? In order to find out, I'll be asking them each ten questions: five about Zoe, and five about Quarsan. They will be answering these question in strict isolation, with no conferring, secret winks, sign language, telepathic mind control etc etc.

For every pair of matching answers, I shall be awarding one point.

If Zoe and Quarsan agree on all ten of their answers, they will have achieved maximum compatibility.

If they disagree on all ten... well, maybe we won't be surprised.

OK, Let the game commence!

---

Zoe, will you please approach the witness stand. My, you do scrub up well. Firstly, I'm going to ask you five questions about yourself. Are you ready? Bonne chance!

1. If your house was on fire, which ONE object would you save? (Please note that the object must be inanimate, and carryable.)

What does inanimate mean? Oh right, I've looked it up.
Just the ONE object? Ermmmm - my laptop.

2. If you were obliged to perform karaoke in a public place, which song would you pick?

I would never, ever sing in public - I think people deserve the right never to hear me sing. But IF I really had to, it would be 'Perfect Day' had I thought about it, but I just know I'd end up singing 'Bohemian Raphsody'. Or however you spell it.

3. Which is your favourite post on the acclaimed and award-winning My Boyfriend Is A Twat weblog?

Probably a guest-blogger's. Or one of the 'Twat's Quotes of the Day'.

4. Your household has been described as “a mixture of The Osbournes, Absolutely Fabulous and My Family” – but which character do you resemble the most?

• Sharon Osbourne (played by Sharon Osbourne)
• Edina Monsoon (played by Jennifer Saunders)
• Patsy Stone (played by Joanna Lumley)
• Susan Harper (played by Zoe Wanamaker)

Edina Monsoon, I'm afraid.

5. Which ONE item of Quarsan’s clothing would you most like to destroy?

His poncy-poofy-tracky-trainers, without a doubt.

Thank you for your answers, Zoe. We'll be talking to you again later. Now please stand down.

---

Quarsan, will you please approach the witness stand. Ah, I see that you're wearing your favourite hooded sweatshirt. The one with gibbons on it. No, you haven't got time to make a political speech. OK, is Zoe wearing her headphones in the isolation booth? Then we may proceed.

Quarsan, here are five questions about Zoe. Please answer them truthfully - and remember: each matching answer that you give will earn you one point. Once again, bonne chance!

1. If your house was on fire, which ONE object would Zoe save? (Please note that the object must be inanimate, and carryable.)

This is impossible. She'd be running round like a badger with it's arse on fire. She could pick up anything, anything at all. I'll go for her laptop or failing that a hairdryer.

As you both said "laptop", you score ONE POINT!

2. If Zoe was obliged to perform karaoke in a public place, which song would she pick?

She would sing Bohemian Rhapsody. Loudly and badly. She would also fail to get the words right. This has happened frequently. Next time i'm going to put it on You Tube.

Ooh, tricky. You both said "Bohemian Rhapsody", but Zoe's first answer was "Perfect Day". However, as Zoe said that she "just knows" she'd end up singing Bo Rhap, I shall give you the benefit of the doubt, and award you a SECOND POINT!

3. Which is Zoe’s favourite post on the acclaimed and award-winning My Boyfriend Is A Twat weblog?

Dunno. Probably one of the guest posts, probably yours.

Ah, how you flatter me. In which case, as you both said "guest post", you can have a THIRD POINT! How long can this lucky streak last?

4. Your household has been described as “a mixture of The Osbournes, Absolutely Fabulous and My Family” – but which character does Zoe resemble the most?

• Sharon Osbourne (played by Sharon Osbourne)
• Edina Monsoon (played by Jennifer Saunders)
• Patsy Stone (played by Joanna Lumley)
• Susan Harper (played by Zoe Wanamaker)

Ih give me a chance here. She's as bossy as Sharon, as batshit as Edina, as pissed as Patsy. But out of the shower she looks just like Susan, so i'll go for Susan Harper.

QUACK QUACK OOPS! As Zoe went for Edina Monsoon, you earn your first fail. Tant pis! Chin up!

5. Which ONE item of your clothing would Zoe most like to destroy?

My tracksuit bottoms. They're excellent made by small asian children for Mr Ron Hill. Suitable for all occasions, combning comfort, practicability and style. For some unaccountable reason Zoe takes exception to them and tries to tear them up at every opportunity, even when I am wearing them. In a restaurant.

Well, that one was always going to be an easy lob, wasn't it? Congratulations, Quarsan and Zoe: after the first round, you have scored an impressive FOUR POINTS OUT OF FIVE.

---

Now, let's see how you fare on Round Two. Quarsan, please enter the isolation booth. Zoe, welcome back. Here are your five questions on Quarsan.

1. What is Quarsan’s most annoying habit? (Please note that you may only pick ONE answer. Nobody said this was going to be easy.)

His farting. Light a match and this house would go up in flames. He is also capable of farting so loudly during the night that he wakes me up.

2. As an ex-pat Brit living in Belgium, which ONE aspect of British life does Quarsan miss the most?

Mountains. Do they count? If not, then bacon butties.

3. And which ONE aspect of Belgian life annoys Quarsan the most?

Shops being shut on Sunday. This isn't fair - just the ONE?

4. Many otherwise sane and well-balanced couples have instigated an exemption clause known as the “Celebrity Bye” into their relationship. This permits each partner, should the opportunity arise, to enjoy extra-marital physical relations with ONE previously named celebrity, on ONE occasion, with no fear of sanction. If you and Quarsan were ever barmy enough to instigate a “Celebrity Bye”, which lucky celebrity would Quarsan nominate as his Bonk of Choice?

That goes without saying: Kylie bloody Minogue.

5. Finally, and in the interests of balance: which is Quarsan’s ONE most lovable quality?

His ability to make me laugh so much.

Merci bien, Zoe. You did good.

---

Quarsan, let's see whether your answers match Zoe's. Here we go...

1. What is your most annoying habit?

I have no annoying habits. I have innocent habits that Zoe, in her unreasonable way, interprets as annoying. She'd probably have to decide between bottom burps and my ability to totally ignore her, something many have tried but few achieve. It's a bit like tuning out the static in your head when listening to Radio Luxembourg. I think the gastrinal aerobics.

Ooh, we were on the edge of our seats with that one, weren't we, readers? But you got there in the end, Quarsan. Farts it is! ONE POINT!

2. As an ex-pat Brit living in Belgium, which ONE aspect of British life do you miss the most?

Bacon. And mountains. And mountains of bacon.

Well, you both said "bacon", and you both said "mountains". That's almost worth two points! But let's not get carried away here.

3. And which ONE aspect of Belgian life annoys you the most?

The fact that there are three seperate languages/ governments/ nations in Belgium and this causes confusion and an almost apartheid system. I've said that Belgium mostly resembles Rwanda with an economy.

QUACK QUACK OOPS! Ah, y'see? If you go dragging politics into the equation, then you're bound to come a cropper where Zoe's concerned. Nul points for this one, I'm afraid.

4. Many otherwise sane and well-balanced couples have instigated an exemption clause known as the “Celebrity Bye” into their relationship. This permits each partner, should the opportunity arise, to enjoy extra-marital physical relations with ONE previously named celebrity, on ONE occasion, with no fear of sanction. If you and Zoe were ever barmy enough to instigate a “Celebrity Bye”, which lucky celebrity would you nominate as your Bonk of Choice?

Apart from Kylie, you mean? Actually, she is beginning to look a bit odd, what's that thing with the pernamently raised eyebrow? I'm seriously considering turning my attentions to Konnie Huq.

Again, an easy lob where Kylie is concerned. (I know what you're thinking, but I won't stoop so low.) Have another point.

5. Finally, and in the interests of balance: which is your ONE most lovable quality? (Please note that you may only pick ONE answer. Nobody said this was going to be easy.)

I can catch spiders.

QUACK QUACK OOPS! Or maybe the way you catch spiders is in itself mirth-inducing? Well, maybe we'll find out in the next book.

---

OK, you two. Shall we look at the final scores?

Well, sacré bleu, zut alors and chouette: you have scored a combined Compatability Quotient of...

... (dramatic pause) ....

70%. How healthy and functional is that? Many congratulations! No, you haven't won a car! Cue credits!

(Enjoyed the show? Then BUY THE BOOK. I've read it! It's great! And I don't even read books! What greater endorsement could there be?)

Labels: blogs, books, questions

Since it has been an astonishing eight months since the last Open Mike session (which was directly instrumental in the launch of Post of the Week, as it happens), I'm going to widen the scope somewhat. Thus, instead of the usual quickfire, first-come-first-served, question and answer format, I'd like you to suggest proper post titles for me in the comments box. I shall then pick the ten most stimulating titles, and spin a few choice bons mots around them.

As we've got some holiday time coming up later in the week (11 days of it, to be precise), and as we can hardly expect the weather to be conducive to sun-worship, this should make for a handy little holiday assignment.

OK, fire away. As ever, my box is at your disposal.

Labels: questions

Mike answers: Actually, my head has been fairly scarlet over the last couple of days - as I hadn't realised that The Guardian's Saturday "The Guide" section has just started a new feature, in which well-known people are asked a series of questions in the form of song titles. (Indeed, "Where's your head at?" was even one of this week's questions.)

The unfortunate consequence is that people will be thinking that I've ripped the idea off the newspaper, when - but of course! - I was first on the block with it, years and years ago actually actually I think you'll find.

Apart from that, my head is feeling somewhat done in by the demands of the season, as is customary.

Labels: questions

Mike answers: My thanks to Clare Boob Pencil, who points out that I have a piece of spinach stuck in my teeth. Lately, I have been fighting a losing battle with recalcitrant foodstuffs, to the extent where my hygienist has - just two hours ago - fitted my problem cavity with a periodontal chip. Before doing so, she was obliged to extract several goodly chunks of semi-masticated bacon from my lunchtime sandwich - which then she held up in front of me for inspection.

What does one say at times like these?

"Ah yes, the Atlas Deli, awfully good place. I expect it's locally sourced."

"Ooh, can I keep that? We're having bubble and squeak tonight."

(I tried to go for a lovably roguish, devil-may-care, what-can-you-do shrug, of the Hugh Grant rom-com variety - but being flat on my back at the time, I fear it lost a little in the execution.)

Labels: journal, questions

(And, oh dear, this was one of the Guardian Guide's questions from two Saturdays ago.)

Mike answers: It all depends upon your definition of "falling in love". From my early teens until my early twenties, I suffered my share of unrequited romantic obsessions - but with the benefit of hindsight, I'm not sure that any of them counted as being "in love". Love's a vibration, man. You send it out, and it returns to you. Loving someone without their reciprocation - or, hell, even their knowledge - is something else entirely. So I'm answering the question in the negative.

Labels: love, myself, questions

Mike answers: Do I think I'm sexy? Hmm, tricky. I have occasionally had the s-word said to me - but usually to fairly specific ends, and at a time and a place when certain people (and why am I even being gender/orientation non-specific about this, I mean GAY MEN of course) will say most anything to achieve those ends. So we can count them out for starters. The mercenary little scallywags.

There again, there was that one time in Finland, in the summer of 1994, when that awfully good-looking chap picked me up at a gay disco on a boat, and whisked me away to a wooden cabin on the edge of a pine forest, way out of town - and as we tumbled amongst the freshly-laundered linen while the soft magenta fingers of dawn stole through the shutters, he leant his face close into mine and, with that same disarming, shining-eyed, sincerity that had so won me over, breathed these words:

"You're beautiful."

(slight pause)

"But you're not sexy."

A harsh judgement, but then I'm not sure that I've ever really pulled off Sexy to any great effect. The sexy people - the truly sexy people - are the ones who are comfortable within their own skins, with an understated yet unmistakable confidence which allows them to forget about themselves and to concentrate on you. Well, that was never me. Back in my glory days - those ten years or so when my physical attributes were at their peak (and I'll admit to not being at the back of the queue looks-wise, which must have helped) - my strongest suits were flirting, and teasing, and exuding a sense of fun that could sometimes rub off on others. But these were milder, lighter, more diversionary powers, fit only for their limited and transitory purpose. Under the right sort of lighting, and in the right sort of outfits, and provided that it's-ten-to-two-you'll-do desperation hadn't set in, I could generally approximate a certain template of urban gay male foxiness. But true sexiness required a cooler eye and a steadier hand - and I knew the limits of my range, my scope and my aspirations. Flirting, teasing and mucking around suited me just fine.

As for these days - these days when I don't even bother putting lenses in for an evening out, and when I'd rather be chatting in the corner than making an exhibition of myself on raised surfaces - sexiness barely enters into it. As Molly Parkin once put it, the post-sexy experience feels rather like being unchained from a lunatic - and I don't miss that needy old tart one little bit.

Labels: confessional, gay, memoir, myself, questions

Mike answers: Preparing for the arrival of K's family - for on Christmas Day, after a couple of years of ducking out of the occasion altogether, we shall be playing hosts to them for the first time. I like the way that we have varied our approach to the holiday season over the years, never settling into a fixed pattern. It gives us the freedom to opt in when it feels right to opt in, and to feel comfortable about lying low when that's all we want to do.

I bet we all get right pissed on the Sunday night, though. Pacing? What's that?

Labels: journal, questions

Mike answers: To know what I want - what I really, really want - and to be guided by that knowledge.

Labels: myself, questions

...and, yes, I think that the rattle must have rolled underneath the sofa. No, that's fine, I can reach it from here...

Good. Now that the pram has been fully re-furnished with Items of Play, we can bring this popular little series to its conclusion.

Lucie enquired after my holiday reading. Well, since we were only away for five nights, I only completed the one novel - but that in itself is a rare achievement these days. Tell you what: let me list all the books which I have read (and, crucially, completed) this year.

1. Me Talk Pretty One Day - David Sedaris.

Lent to me by J, my flatmate in Hangzhou. Loved it. Hysterical. Howled my head off.

2. Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim - David Sedaris.

Bought and consumed immediately upon completion of #1 above. Lunchtimes in the sandwich shops of Canary Wharf wouldn't have been half so much fun without it.

3. A Short History of Tractors in Ukranian - Marina Lewycka.

Nice retro-style cover art, which meant that it kept catching my eye in the tube. (In the early part of the year, it seemed as if all the nice, I-could-imagine-being-your-friend people on the tube were reading this book at the same time. You know, like Captain Corelli before the film, and that Donna Tartt book from the early 1990s.) Terrific stuff. Finished it on our not-a-honeymoon in the Maldives, and then embarked upon:

4. Johnny Come Home - Jake Arnott.

An early 1970s period piece, with references to gay London life and the commercial end of glam rock - but it was also clear that the author was fractionally too young to have had any of the experiences from himself, so everything felt a fraction too stylised and at one remove. Readable, but ultimately slight and forgettable. Also, the biographical details of the fictional glam rock star were based far too closely upon Gary Glitter (with a dash of Alvin Stardust), which betrayed a slight lack of imagination.

5. Girl With A One Track Mind - Abby Lee.

But of course! Haven't we all! I've said it before and I'll say it again: like reading a travel guide to an exotic, far-off destination which you know you'll never visit. In a word: educational.

6. Nul Points - Tim Moore.

In which Tim Moore, a man with no particular prior interest in Eurovision, sets himself a mission: to track down and interview all of the artists who have scored "nul points" in the contest since Jahn Teigen brought it home for Norway in 1978. The results are a good deal more absorbing, illuminating - and sometimes profoundly disturbing - than he could have imagined, and it is interesting to see these darker undercurrents reveal themselves, subverting the originally intended light comedy, and wiping the smile off Moore's face. You don't have to be a Eurovision fan to enjoy this one - and as such, it stands head and shoulders above anything else which has ever been written about the contest.

7. The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger.

And this was the one which I actually read on holiday in Marrakech. Not having genned up on it beforehand, I hadn't actually realised that it was about, er, a time traveller and his wife. Whoda thought it? Some very clever plotting towards the beginning (I frequently found myself gasping with wonder at the sheer boldness and complexity of it all) eventually gives way to a more conventional - and, to be honest, rather anti-climactic - love story. Fascinating throughout, but some of the later scenes felt as if they had been written on auto-pilot, and the book could have done with more concentration and concision. It felt as if the author had rather knocked herself out in the first half, and couldn't sustain the required momentum for an equally dazzling second half. But I'm niggling. It was good.

Seven books in one year? Actually, that's not bad going for me these days. I know, shocking...

Labels: books, questions

Of course, when you pledge to answer any question that your readers might throw at you, there is always a danger that some nutter (in this case, basil) will ask you something like this:

so did jimmy saville ever say jingly jangly er uh er uh er uh er uh?

I despair, I really do.

(Incidentally, there's only one "l" in "Savile" actually actually I think you'll find. It's a common enough error. So don't go beating yourself up about it, basil.)

To answer your question: I should have thought it fairly unlikely. Although the catchphrase "Er uh er uh er uh er uh" was often heard to pass his lips, I have no recollection of Savile ever using the phrase "jingly jangly" - which was merely an onomatopoeic description, applied by others, of the legendary disc jockey's ur-bling taste in jewellery.

More interestingly, did you know that Savile has been credited as the first person ever to play records in public using two turntables and a microphone, back in the 1940s? (I gathered this fact from reading one of the best books ever written about popular music: Last Night a DJ Saved My Life, by Bill Brewster and Frank Broughton.)

(Slightly less interestingly, K and I used to know someone who appeared on Jim'll Fix It in the mid-1980s. Her particular dream-come-true? To sing backing vocals with Paul Young. As dreams-come-true go, it does rather smack of the cut-price. Maybe that's why they had her on the show.)

Labels: celebs, questions

Cliff asks: Name your 5 cities INCLUDING songs to go with them.

Working on the assumption that Cliff was looking for a list of my five favourite cities...

1. London.
Waterloo Sunset - The Kinks.
Need you ask why? Gets me every - and I mean every - time.

2. Barcelona.
Barcelona - D.Kay & Epsilon featuring Stamina MC.
Because it was a hit while I was working there, and it reminds me of some good nights out in the old town. My boss at the time liked this, and he was a nice guy, so it all ties together.

3. New York.
Peace (In The Valley) - Sabrina Johnston.
The Saint at Large Halloween Party at the Roseland Ballroom, October 1991. It was my first ever big night out in New York City, and I had accidentally stumbled across one of the major events of the gay social calendar. Sabrina Johnston sang this on stage at around 3am. One of those sometimes-life-is-just-like-the-movies moments.

4. Amsterdam.
Amsterdam - Peter Bjorn & John.
I'm looking forward to a few more visits in 2007, as my good friend Alan @ Reluctant Nomad will be working over there for 12 months, starting in January. I'm going to miss him horribly, of course - but at least there will be compensations along the way.

5. Stockholm.
Once In A Lifetime - Ines.
Fond memories of the Best! Eurovision! Disco! Ever! at the Tip Top club, Spring 2000, the year that "Fly On The Wings Of Love" won. Ee, the tales I could tell about that weekend...

Runners-up: Hanoi, Paris, Berlin, San Francisco, Boston, Marrakech, Riga, Shanghai, Lisbon, Istanbul.

Labels: myself, popmusic, questions, travel

patita asks: Any interest in ressurecting postoftheweek.com?

Now, that takes me back. Remember the lively discussion we all had about this in February? Volunteer judges made themselves known, a working party was set up, a site design was implemented... and then... in early May, it all ran out of steam. Mainly because, for my part, Real Life got in the way, big time.

However, now that Real Life is basically back on an even keel, it would be good to pick up where we left off, and to get the site properly launched. To this end, I have just put out a call to re-convene the working party. If all goes well, then I'll be re-recruiting volunteer judges in the near future - and I'll be contacting last February's volunteers, to see if they're still keen.

It could be a whole heap of fun - it could be a disasterous flop - but unless we give it a bash, we'll never know, will we?

Labels: postoftheweek, questions

Kate asks: Have you read Birdsong?

No, Kate. No, I haven't. But it's worse than that.

Many Christmasses ago, I bought the debut novel by Sebastian Faulks - The Girl at the Lion D'Or, newly published in hardback - as a present for my mother. She loved it, and duly complimented me on my selection. We don't share many cultural interests, and so she must have been delighted that, for once, we had been able to forge a connection.

The only trouble was: I hadn't read the book, nor indeed anything else by Sebastian Faulks, other than his weekly columns for the Independent On Sunday. It merely had been inspired guesswork on my part. The cover blurb looked promising, the artwork was nice, and I couldn't readily find any sex or swearing in it. It had said "quality middlebrow read" to me, and so I had taken my chances.

Unable to bluff my way through the literary discussion that my mother seemed intent on initiating, I gently fessed up. No problem. She seemed fine about it.

A few years later, as part of my birthday present, my mother gave me a paperback copy of Faulks's third novel, Birdsong. She had read it, loved it, and was keen to share her reading pleasure with me. As I appreciatively scanned the back cover, she offered up a brief introduction to the book, and expressed the hope that I would enjoy it as much as she did.

I got about thirty pages in, before giving up. Not because of any deficiencies in the writing, but simply because I am a lazy reader with a tiny concentration span, and had put the book aside for slightly too long. In other words, the moment had passed. It happens quite often.

The next time we met, a few months later, my mother brightly asked me how I had got on with the novel.

Shit. I had completely forgotten, and was totally unprepared. I mumbled something about not having finished it, and quickly changed the subject.

She concealed her disappointment well.

I still wince when I think about it.

Labels: books, family, memoir, questions

z asks: Mike, honey, what makes you so Good? Not in the saintly sense of course.

Plenty of fresh food in my diet, the love of my man, nice socks, a sunny disposition and an enquiring mind.

OR...

A ready smile, a cute bum, a focus on the other person's needs, and a great snogging technique.

OR...

Guilt, shame (or the lack of it), displacement activity, a neurotic fear of criticism, a competitive, heirarchical mindset and an ego the size of Leeds.

OR...

Peter Pan Syndrome, Olympic levels of denial, Molton Brown moisturiser and a resolute belief in Nirvana through Shallowness.

OR...

Let me take you by the hand, and lead you to my previous answer.

I'm warming up now, amn't I?

Labels: myself, questions

An Unreliable Witness asks:

Since getting out of medical chokey, I am completely and utterly and dreadfully uninspired by blogging. If I had something better to do with my time, I would do that. But I don't. So help me, O Diva of the Troubled! What's inspiring you in the world of blogging (I refuse to say blogosphere, or I may vomit copiously) these days? What should I be reading? What can I simply not miss?

Alas, alas, this is one of the perils of being Ancien Regime; for the days when I used to be able to spot Hot New Blogs before they Made It Big are long gone. These days, I'm more like the clapped-out old rock star who says things like "I'm getting into this great new band called the Kaiser Chiefs, have you heard of them?"

Consequently, all of my newest reads are the same ones that everyone else has been getting into: that chap who takes photographs of a bathmat, that unemployed lady who posts pictures of simian life-forms, that bloke who gets pissed off a lot... all very Hive Mind, I'm afraid.

(But do any of these "inspire" me? No, that would be the wrong word. Many, many blogs have inspired me over the years - not least because I'm a right old imitative bastard at heart - but currently, the bar for UK personal weblog writing is being raised so high that I'm finding myself rather over-awed by it all.)

(I'll tell you what the above three new-ish blogs do make me feel, though. They make me feel nostalgic. Nostalgic for the days when I was still discovering, on a daily basis, just what I could do with this medium - fired up with energy and enthusiasm, on a roll, breaking rules, taking risks, posting like a madman, and building my audience. There's a particular phase which a lot of blogs go through, somewhere towards the end of their first year of existence or thereabouts, where it all comes together and you can feel the buzz in the air. It's a lovely phase, and I enjoy bearing witness to it.)

On the music front, I've been enjoying the weekly "In The Dock" feature on The Art Of Noise, which is currently deliberating over whether Birmingham has a musical legacy which is worth defending. It's particularly refreshing to read a group of people talking about music without ostentatiously parading their knowledge, and without seeking to score points off one another.

However, if I am to target my recommendations specifically at you, dear Witness, then - having briefly paused to check your links page (and I see that Bathmat Boy, Monkey Lady and Furious Fella are already present and correct) - might I direct your attention to The Overnight Editor? I suspect that this will be Your Sort Of Thing... and indeed, many other people's Sort Of Thing besides.

Labels: blogs, cliquey, linkage, questions

Pam asks: What is the most embarrassing story you know about somebody else?

It has to be the one about the secret underwear fetishist who forgot to lock the bathroom door at his party. However, if you think I'm going to wantonly violate the Unwritten But Tacitly Accepted Bloggers' Code in order to peddle a few cheap laughs... well bless my soul, what do you take me for? Away with you, temptress!

(But really, over his head? In front of the mirror? Goodness, how outré.)

Labels: confessional, questions

Milady de Winter asks:

Mike, as a gay man well versed in the modern world and this being World AIDS Day and all: what is your opinion on the archaic and, in my opinion, homophobic rule regarding gay men and giving blood? I've been on my soap box about this all day at work as the blood doners are coming round and I'm boycotting them.

Oh, lawks. This was supposed to be a bit of light-hearted fluff for a Friday - and now here I am, mentally knackered at the end of a rather trying Tuesday on the mainframe, and faced with the prospect of knocking out another extended essay on a Major Issue. You've got me confused with a Deep and Knowledgable Authority Figure Slash Spokesman For His Community, with carefully evaluated opinions on stuff that actually, you know, matters! Hay-ulp!

Although I have always rather shied away from making AIDS-related posts on December 1st (a.k.a. World AIDS Day), this doesn't mean to say that the day ever passes unremembered. Far from it. However - and perhaps this is surprising for someone of my generation, who came of Gay Age in 1982 - my direct personal experiences with the full-blown illness have been few and far between - and for the most part, they have occurred at one remove. I have never lost a friend to AIDS, and I have never been to the funeral of someone with AIDS. There have just been the occasional slight acquaintances, and friends of friends - and, OK, there was that one guy I slept with after a New Year's Eve party in the early 1990s, but we only ever met the once, and... you know how it goes, right?

Naturally, I have known (and indeed had sex with) a few HIV+ people over the years - and obviously many more whose positive status has never been made known to me - but (and how can I best put this?) their status has only ever hovered in the background between us: as an abstract piece of information, rather than as a tangible reality which has ever required a more direct personal engagement.

I have always, always practised safer sex, and have never been tempted to lapse. Not that this has been too difficult, given my historic lack of enthusiasm - in either role - for that particular act which is so often held to be virtually synonymous with gay male sexuality.

(In fact, that handy little phrase "Sorry, I don't have any condoms" has saved me from several potentially awkward situations over the years - and so, if anything, the global tragedy has worked very slightly in my favour. Talk about Survivor's Guilt.)

And so, as a mere remote observer, I have never quite liked to claim the disease for my own by dredging up some tangential reminiscences, seasoning them with a few well-meant homilies, offering them up on this site, and standing by for compliments in the comments box. It would feel a little stretched, a little forced - and even slightly exploitative. Such matters are best left to those with stories which are truly worth telling, and memories which should never be forgotten.

However, I do have a vivid memory of the screening interview which I attended about six years ago, at my previous place of employment, with the intention of donating my blood - and of the awkward surprise and embarrassment on the face of the rather ill-briefed young nurse, as she falteringly tried to explain why my blood could not be accepted. And yes, I remember feeling a sharp pang of wounded embarrassment of my own. After all, I prided myself on being clued up in such matters. So how could I not have known that all gay men - or indeed any men who had ever had even one same-sex experience, of any nature, no matter how long ago - were still being barred from donating blood, even though all donations were now being screened for possible infection?

Did I feel unfairly discriminated against? Hell, yeah. Any straight person who had ever had unprotected sex could donate, whereas Lil' Ol' Goody Two-Shoes Me couldn't. Where was the fairness in that?

Was it - indeed, is it still - evidence of institutionalised homophobia? In the light of all the recent legislative changes in this country, it is a viewpoint which has progressively become more and more untenable. Not so much homophobic, as hyper-cautious - maybe excessively cautious.

But is this caution truly excessive? Reading the explanatory document "Why we ask gay men not to give blood", as produced by the UK Blood Transfusion Service, I cannot help but feel that their case is, by and large, a sound one. Yes, all donated blood is screened - but this is not a perfect process, and infected blood can still slip through the net. It's a tiny risk, but a real one - and so, arguably, any measures which can significantly reduce that risk should be followed, regardless of the feelings of unjustified exclusion which they might cause. After all, what's more important here: sparing hurt feelings, or saving lives?

Of course, I could always choose to treat this exclusion as evidence of my continued status as a member of an Oppressed Minority - but in this case, I have actively chosen not to do this. In my experience - and counter-assimilationists amongst My People may commence hissing here - the less that we gay men consider ourselves to be marginalised victims, and the more that our social interactions spring from the assumption that we are already fully integrated and equal members of society, then the less that straight society will marginalise and victimise us.

I might be missing some important facts here, and my lurking inner Peter Tatchell would actually quite like to be proved wrong - so, if you know of any compelling counter-arguments which I might have missed, then (ahum) please deposit them in my box. (Now, that's an invitation you won't ever hear me issue lightly.)

Labels: confessional, gay, health, opinion, questions

Dearie dearie me, I really do seem to be losing the power of written expression altogether. Evidence: I spent over an hour and half yesterday evening, penning a mere 120 word blurb on one of my favourite singles of the year, for the forthcoming "Best Singles of 2006" round-up on Stylus. And that's not counting the time I spent doing the research, either.

So, yeah: the plan was to answer all ten of your questions over the weekend in a fairly quick-and-dirty, rapid-fire manner - but the aforementioned Failing Powers got in the way of doing this. This wasn't helped by the gargantuan nature of Question Number One, either - in which jo asked:

Has the proliferation of alternative sources for finding and hearing new music such as music blogs, YouTube, Myspace, etc., helped or hindered the populace in the quest to find new music?

Do you think these alternative sources are allowing smaller acts who might not have caught the attention of music scouts or writers previously to promote without the backing of giant label conglomerates - and if so, do you think this has led to a dearth or a surplus of quality music?

Is it simply nostalgia for previous decades that causes us to feel that music from *then* was, in general, better than whatever is *current* - or is it that we simply manage to blot out all the crap that was around *then*, and create a rosy post-image?

Blimey, jo! And, er, Naughty jo! Not only did I say "one question per person only", but I even said it in bold type, so that no-one could miss it!

OK, so let's try and answer this one without turning in a 5000 word dissertation on The General State Of Popular Music In 2006. Yeah, fat chance. Brevity has never been my forte.

I'm not sure that I can speak for the general populace, but YouTube and Myspace in particular have certainly made it easier than ever before for people like me to access new music with a minimum of effort. For instance: the last time that I posted a list of my favourite tunes, I was able to add helpful illustrative YouTube and/or Myspace links for all of them - and in 11 cases out of 20, I was able to supply both. This wouldn't have happened 12 months ago, and I most certainly welcome it.

These days, I regularly use both sites in order to decide which gigs and albums I should review, or whether it's worth turning up early to catch the support act. If I read of a new song or act on a website, or a message board, or in the print media, I can be listening to that song in seconds - and because the content is being streamed rather than downloaded to my hard drive, nobody seems to mind. This makes for a more reliable - and more ethically defensible - alternative to peer-to-peer file-sharing sites, which I only access in cases of dire need. (Compare and contrast with the trigger-happy days of Napster and Audiogalaxy.)

All of this has to be set against my declining interest in old media - both print and broadcast - as reliable sources of information. Radio One is a hyper-active, unlistenable racket; I'm still (just) too hip for Radio Two; and as I don't own a digital radio and can't stream live audio at work, 6 Music has yet to become a regular listen - even though it is clearly the station which most closely matches my needs. In fact - and in a highly unexpected reversal of roles - it's now K who relies on the radio for most of his new CD purchases, as he is a long-standing fan of Radio 3's Late Junction, and he frequently uses the "Listen Again" service in tandem with the archived playlists on the show's website.

Meanwhile, Top of the Pops and CD:UK have vanished, Popworld is as nothing without Simon Amstell at the helm, and I can never get it together to set the Sky box for all those late-late-night Channel 4 music shows. Which just leaves Jools Holland's Later, which will occasionally - very occasionally - throw something new in my direction.

As for the music press: Uncut and the NME are shadows of their former selves, Q and Mixmag are comics for people who don't really like music, Mojo is overly heavy on the retro, The Wire is impenetrably "difficult" for a shallow soul like me, Straight No Chaser is indiscriminately nice about everybody and everything, which makes it an untrustworthy guide... which leaves Plan B (excellent in its way, but mostly far too indie for my personal tastes), The Word (trendy vicar stuff for the most part, but I have long since learnt to live with my inner Mark Ellen), The Guardian on a Friday (but please don't get me started on the questionable merits of Alexis "Man at C&A" Petridis) and the Observer Music Magazine once a month (probably my favourite read of the lot, despite having its own fair share of horrors: that "Record Doctor" of theirs should be struck off the register forthwith, for instance). Oh, and there's always fRoots and Songlines - both excellent in their way, but somehow they have never become essential purchases.

All of this means that, thanks to the likes of the ILM message board, webzines like Stylus and MP3 blogs like the ever-reliable Fluxblog, the web is now by far and away my main source of information regarding new music - and I should imagine that applies to many thousands of others. Do I think that's a healthy, democratising, liberating shift of emphasis, which enables people to make a freer set of personal choices? Absolutely. Much as I regret the passing of the Top 40 as a mass-consensus barometer of popular taste, I'd rather have things this way round. Maybe that's partly why my tolerance for music radio has diminished; why should I endure five consecutive crap songs in order to discover one good song, when I could be assembling my own playlists instead?

Has all of this helped smaller acts to flourish? Absolutely. I cannot recall a time when live music in this country was in such a healthy state - or maybe it's just a local upswing, and I'm just lucky enough to have access to six excellent venues, catering for all sizes of audience, and all within 15 minutes walk from my front door.

Has this led to a dearth or a surplus of quality music? A moot point. It has been a particularly rubbish year for the singles and album charts, with the intelligent and innovative new pop and R&B of the first half of the decade increasingly giving way to identikit faux-rebellious "corporate indie" bands, dreary singer-songwriters, and a iredeemably fossiled slurry of creatively bankrupt commercial dance tunes. So, in order to get to the good stuff, you really do have to make a bit of an effort - but once you do (and really, it's not that great an effort) - there's as much good stuff out there as ever.

As for jo's "are we just giving in to rose-tinted nostalgia, or was music really better in the old days" question: it's problematic, as...

a) The popular music of our formative years will generally cut deeper than anything we will ever experience in adult life, for reasons which shouldn't need spelling out.

b) Old music tends to feel more "significant" than new music, as it accumulates depth and weight over time.

c) I genuinely do believe that the singles charts were objectively at their best between 1964 and 1984, with "golden ages" from 1964 to 1966, and again from 1979 to 1982. But that's just the singles charts. Once you look beyond the commercially popular, the seemingly "good" years and "crap" years even themselves out to a much greater degree.

Extended ramble over, or else we'll be here all night.

Labels: media, opinion, popmusic, questions, web

PB Curtis asked:1. "You know those 10-inch acetate singles which you had pressed in New York in 1964?

The ones which you never told anybody about while you were alive, except my late stepmother (who stashed them under the bed) and my stepsister (who told me that you used to refer to them as "my pension")?

The ones which my stepmother made sure weren't auctioned off with the rest of your record collection?

The ones that came in an envelope addressed to SELTAEB, which was the Beatles' short-lived US merchandising company?

The ones where the typewritten word SELTAEB (spell it backwards) has been subsequently blocked out with black marker pen on each of the labels?



Are they really lost recordings by one of the Beatles, which you obtained during their debut 1964 visit to the States, when you were part of their entourage?

(It's OK by the way; we've found the other acetates - the ones of their press conferences and radio interviews. They're amazing.)

Only, to be honest, they don't sound much like any of the Beatles - although I do realise that they would have been singing "out of character" on these, as they're clearly just a bit of fun - and if I had to make a bet on it, then I'd probably say they were sung by Paul.

But then, if they weren't by one of the Beatles, then why would you have sworn my stepmother to secrecy about them? After all, you were always such a stickler for accuracy."

2. This guy. James Hamilton, former DJ at 1960s Mod Mecca The Scene in Wardour Street, whose Disco/Dance news/review section ran in the back of Record Mirror from 1975 to 1991.

3. "Yes, Mike. They really are lost recordings by Paul/John/George (delete as appropriate). Sorry about the lack of communication, but I'm afraid that I'm not exactly in the best position to help. Look, why don't you ask some of those people you know on the Internet? They'll probably know people who know people. Only you've been hanging onto these records for the best part of three years now, and it's about time you did something with them.

I'll tell you what. Why don't you make a short medley of the three tracks, and publish it on the Internet? Let's see; what were they called again? Down On Your Knees, You Turn Me On, and, oh yes, that old Reverend Gary Davis tune, Cocaine Blues. (By the way, don't you just love the way that the the lyrics have been cheekily updated to include references to marijuana and amphetamines?) Yes, I think that you should do that."

Well, People Off The Internet? Take a listen for yourselves. What do you think?

Labels: questions

Zed asked:
If you could live anywhere else in the world, which country would it be?

At the risk of coming across as a depressingly myopic Little Englander, my immediate answer is: nowhere. Horizon-broadening be damned; for all its glaring faults and myriad irritations, I like it here.

However, given the somewhat improbable choice between transportation or death (or serious maiming at the very least), I suppose I would have to plump for San Francisco.

I am, of course, well aware that San Francisco isn't actually a separate country in its own right (much as many of its citizens might like it to be - although, come to think of it, that must be part of its appeal), but it is the one and only place which I have visited, and thought: yes, I could quite cheerfully unpack my bags here, and never leave.

What a blessed relief it is that Zed omitted to append the increasingly ubiquitous "...and why?" to her question. For I'm not sure that I can meaningfully translate SF's appeal into words. There was just something in the air over there. Particularly one sunny afternoon on Russian Hill...

Labels: questions

Zed asked:
Would you like to take up journalism as a full-time job?

Ah, pipe dreams. Well, it would depend heavily on the type of journalism.

Give me a cosy little opinion column in the second section of a "broadsheet" (can we still say that?) and I would merrily churn away at my copy until the cows came home. Give me some Cultural Artifact to dissect (gig, play, film, album, restaurant, exhibition) and I would bash out my pithy aperçus with gusto to spare.

However, give me anything in which competition was involved - scoping out a hot new story, fighting for an exclusive, pitching my wares/whoring my ass to every editor in town, schmoozing and charming and networking with anybody who might be "useful" - in short, situations in which the actual writing part of the gig would amount to no more than a fraction of the whole - and I fear I might flounder miserably. You may laugh, but self-promotion doesn't come easily to me. No, seriously, it doesn't.

Labels: questions

Zed asked:
What do you see yourself doing in 10 years time?

...and, tellingly, I delayed answering for over a week. Feel free to draw your own conclusions.

Originally, I was going to cop out of this with a joke answer.

"My castaway this week is a writer, broadcaster, actor, comedian, art collector, bon viveur, philanthropist, style icon, and much loved national institution. After the runaway success of his first novel, "Memoirs of a Troubled Diva", he was famously cast as himself in the Academy Award winning film of the same name - a film which brought him firmly onto the international stage. A string of best-selling books later - not to mention the newpspaper columns, the one-man stage shows and the television series - he still finds time to update his weblog, Troubled Diva, at least once a day. He is - of course! - Mike Troubled-Diva."

But that would be cheating. It would also be a somewhat laboured extension of a self-parodying comic persona of which I am becoming increasingly weary.

Which leaves me with no option but to attempt an honest answer.

Essentially, I have always shied away from specific long-term aims/dreams/desires. In fact, I find the whole notion slightly oppressive. This is probably because I have never really known what I wanted to do with my life; instead, life just seems to happen around me. Which, despite an astonishing run of good fortune, particularly in the last four years, is far from ideal - and, as I touched upon in an earlier answer, a recurring source of stress. Particularly at present, if truth be told. But that's not something which I have the slightest desire to discuss here. Let's just say that I'm actively working on turning a particularly sharp corner.

So the best that I can do is offer an answer in vague, general terms. In ten years time, I see myself as having successfully built on the groundwork that I started laying down in my early forties, following the extended pleasure-spree that characterised most of my thirties. I definitely see myself writing, hopefully with some measure of financial reward for doing so. I also see myself deriving a noticeably larger proportion of my identity, and sense of self-worth, from what I do, rather than from what I enjoy.

Labels: questions

Demian asked:
(a) Do you remember the showering naked couple sculpture in the Arndale Centre in the 1970s and (b) what did you think about it as a young un?

Here, Demian is referring to the huge, gold coloured "Adam and Eve" statue-cum-water-feature that was situated in the middle of the main concourse of Doncaster's Arndale shopping centre (now the Frenchgate centre), when it first opened at the end of the 1960s. (Indeed, not having properly visited Doncaster since 1986, I had only recently learnt, with some mild dismay, that the statue had been removed.)

I suppose that, with hindsight, shoving a gigantic sculpture of two naked people having a shower together into the middle of a shopping centre was quite a racy gesture for its day - though a lot less racy than the soft pr0n film titles (Naughty Knickers; She Lost Her You Know What) which regularly adorned the front of the Odeon cinema on the High Street. But I was too young to snigger. As far as I was concerned, this was simply a depiction of Mr. Adam & Mrs. Eve, innocently pleasuring themselves in the Garden of Eden.

And oh, what a garden of delights was to be found in our gleaming new Arndale Centre! Along with the new tower blocks at the edge of town, this was the clearest sign yet that Doncaster, like every other progressive, forward-thinking city, was busily transforming itself into the Space Age Metropolis of my dreams. For me, in thrall to everything that was smart, sleek and systematised, this transformation couldn't come quickly enough. Tear down the Ancient; make way for the Modern. Chairman Mao would have been proud.

So, while more seasoned eyes saw only tawdry tat, which would date faster than the "unisex" fashions in the newly opened C&A, I viewed the Arndale Adam & Eve as a thrilling symbol of the unstoppable march of modernity, heralding an endless series of ever-brighter new tomorrows.

We weren't to know.

Labels: questions

Anna asked:
Are you happy? Could you be happier?

The short answer: Yes, and Yes.
The full answer: Christ, we'd be here all night.
The medium-sized answer, then.

As I've said a few times before, mine is an essentially contradictory disposition. Not only am I able to hold two equal and opposite opinions at the same time (if one can fairly call this an ability); I can also pull off the same trick with states of mind.

Thus, on the one hand, I'm a chirpy optimist, blessed with an uncommon degree of good fortune, who can never quite believe his luck. A sunny disposition, one might say. As difficult situations always seem to turn out right in the end, I tend to proceed through life in the cheerful assumption that they always will. Dangerously delusional, you might say; prophetically self-fulfilling, I would suggest. You are the architect of your own karma, and all that.

As someone who takes little in his life for granted, I will regularly experience sudden surges of pure joy at the circumstances in which I find myself. Particularly at weekends, in the cottage, or outside in the garden - places which feel as if they have been expressly designed to deliver utter calm and contentment.

(To say nothing of the happiness of being in a long-term, settled relationship with... but, as you know, we don't do slushy. Take it as read.)

On the other hand, there's an anxious, self-critical, fearful streak in me, which can see the downside to most things; self-subordinating, resisting change, missing opportunities. All of my happiness is therefore underpinned by a nagging sense of under-achievement, of doubt, of feeling that all of this has been fluked rather than earnt. That I am a passenger in my own life. Could do better.

Ironically, the greatest source of stress in my ridiculously cushy life is the fact that it is almost entirely stress-free. Karma's a bitch like that.

Labels: questions

Anna asked:
Post-it notes; should we object to anything but the 'natural' small, rectangular and yellow? Are novelty ones just Wrong?

Novelty post-it notes are most certainly Wrong. Not for any particular aesthetic reason (after all, the "classic" design is hardly a object of beauty), but for the simple reason that people are obliged to pay for them with their own money. Like biros and envelopes, all post-it notes should be either provided by - or swiped from - offices (or similar public institutions).

Labels: questions

Anna asked:
If you could write yourself into any novel and affect its outcome, which would that be?

I would dive into the middle of one of the early volumes of Armistead Maupin's Tales Of The City series - maybe the scene where Michael "Mouse" Tolliver wins the "Hot Buns" dance contest at the Endup - and would introduce myself as Someone From The Future.

"Look! I can prove it! Here's a magazine from The Future! Look at these photos of Cher on her Farewell Tour! OK, OK, bad example. Well, let's see what's in the news section. Look, here's your state governor, Arnold Schwarzen..."

"No, I have NOT been at the Angel Dust. Actually, I need to have a word with you about that shit as well, but... oh, I know, look what I've got in my pocket! It's a tiny portable phone! Isn't that amazing? And you can type little messages onto it, and it will even guess what word you're typing! And it can take pictures as well! Neat, huh? You believe me now, right?"

"What? Yes, of course it's got a built-in pocket calculator. Why do you ask? What's the big deal about... oh, right; pocket calculators are still the Big Thing round here, aren't... look, can I just get to the point? There's this huge epidemic just around the corner, and you guys all need to start wearing condoms every time you f**k - immediately, do you hear - or else many thousands of you will be dead within the next fifteen years. Including your new lover, Michael. Yes, I'm serious. Serious as a heart attack, baby. Now, what exactly are quaaludes? Are they fun? Do you have any?"

(Yes, I'm assembling one of those questionnaire thingies. More info below.)

Labels: questions