Category: Archive

A number of well-meaning souls have chided me for blogging when I should be on the beach. Actually, the beach starts about 10 yards from where I’m sitting, in the shade of the resort’s open-sided bar area. It’s lovely and cool in here, and the resort’s one public laptop is available more often than it’s not.

Earlier in the week, an enormous private yacht appeared in the middle distance, where it hovered around for a day or so. The hull was painted dark blue, and it looked as if you could land helicopters at the back.

K got quite excited. “That belongs to the Number Two guy at Microsoft! I saw something about it on the telly a few weeks ago!”

Sceptical as ever, I sat him down in front of the laptop. We Googled.

“Look, you see? It’s a completely different yacht. Honestly, just because you’ve happened to watch some TV programme… you don’t half get some funny ideas… yap yap… dig dig…”

(Oh dear, what has he married?)

But K remained adamant. “I just know there’s some sort of connection with the Microsoft guy.”

A couple of days later, and we’re at a sunset drinks reception on the beach, talking to a nice woman from the resort’s management team. The late sunlight casts an almost surreal glow on the sand and the sea. Combine this with the tidy clumps of dressed-for-dinner guests, sipping champagne and nibbling on canapes served by uniformed staff, and the effect is eerily reminiscent of a Jack Vettriano canvas.

(Which is slightly bothersome, as I’ve never had much time for Mr Vettriano and his jumped-up greetings-card “art”. Why, I could almost be converted. I said: almost.)

“You do know who that big yacht belongs to, right?”, she asks.

“Well, we thought it might be the Number Two guy from Microsoft, but…”

“No, it belongs to the manager of Chelsea football club.”

“What, R0man Abram0v1ch?”

“Yes… his yacht’s often around here. One evening, his young son pitched up on this beach with a small tent, ready to camp out for the night – surrounded by a ring of half a dozen security guards! We had to say No…”

Later that evening, we Google a second time. Well, what do you know: Abram0v1ch bought the yacht (“Le Grand Bleu”) a few years ago, from….

…yup, the Number Two guy at Microsoft.

If you’ve never seen K’s “vindicated” look, then it’s quite a sight to behold: a very particular kind of Cheshire Cat grin, but based around retracted lips and bared gums. “Smug” doesn’t begin to cover it.

And he can keep it up for hours.

But then we are on honeymoon, hurr hurr.

ADMIN: Apparently, a few are getting your comments rejected by the YACCS spam filters. I’ve just had a little fiddle with the settings. Try it again and let me know if it’s any better, OK?

Something old: My lovely “vintage” (well, they’re four years old) Dries Van Noten sort-of-trainers. (Or the nearest I’ll ever get to such dread apparel, at any rate. I’d join a gym tomorrow, if it wasn’t for the sportswear.)

Something new: I was all-new above the waist, so two items.

1. Canary Wharf may have a lot of clothes shops, but in a place where the identikit Business Casual look dominates, it’s inevitably a tad light on “directional” fashion.

(Aside: having eagerly taken advantage of the Four Business Shirts For 100 Quid offer at T.M. Lewin, I was rather disconcerted to find a good four or five people wearing the exact same blue gingham checked number as me, every time I ventured down to the underground mall for lunch. Sheesh. Remember that little window in the early-to-mid 1980s, when clothing was deemed to be all about expressing individuality? God, how that dates me.)

So, anyway, thank goodness for the new season’s range at Thomas Pink, which has gone firmly down the Exploiting The Brand Name For Maximal Commercial Advantage route. Yup, with pink still (still!) very much the “in” colour with the Canary Wharf Biz Cazh set, Thomas Pink are pushing their pinks for all they are worth. I plumped for their brightest, most vibrant stripes, with some broader scarlets thrown into the palette for contrast. Natty!

(Or at least as natty as you can get when you’re basically living inside a 3D-animated Artist’s Impression. I never did post my Why Canary Wharf Is The Most Suburban Place In London rant, did I?)

2. Having spent the two days before the Big Day working from home, and sweating buckets over a particularly chewy assignment which I had to restart from scratch at the eleventh hour, I finally handed the work over at 16:10 on Thursday afternoon.

Just popping into the office to hand my expenses in, and catch up on a bit of admin, I said.

OK, not strictly true. For I had a Fashion Emergency to resolve.

Now changed into the brand new Thomas Pink shirt and tomorrow’s trousers (see below), I marched briskly up to the counter of Flannels in Bridlesmith Gate.

“I have a Fashion Emergency!”, I declared. “I need to find a jacket to match this outfit, and I need to find it before you close for the day.” (Which was in less than an hour’s time.)

“What sort of jacket are you looking for, sir?”

“I have absolutely no idea, ha ha! I was rather hoping you’d be able to help me!”

OK, borderline hysteria beginning to seep through mask of calm and control. Half the people who have ever served me in this place are gormless wide boys who’d tell me I’d look good in a sack. The other half, however, do know a thing or two about clothes. Fifty-fifty shot.

“Have you thought about cream? There’s this one over here…actually, it’s more of a stone colour…”

Without even asking my size, the assistant is pulling a stone coloured jacket off a display dummy. It looks nice. Really, really nice. He helps my arms through the sleeves.

Oh my God, it’s perfect. Really, really perfect. Nothing like anything I had imagined – more relaxed, seemingly more unstructured – but actually, an understated triumph of tailoring.

“You’ll notice there are no back vents. That makes the effect more…”

“Slimming! I know! And it covers my paunch brilliantly, look!”

“And it really lifts the shirt…”

“Absolutely. It adds an edge to what is otherwise a fairly conservative business shirt. I can’t believe I’m buying the first jacket I’ve tried on…”

(Some people over at the till have turned around to look at me. How gratifying.)

“…but I’ll take it. How much does it cost?”

I have just looked at the inside label. Oh God, it’s Gucci. It’s going to be a small fortune.

Actually, it’s only about two-thirds of what I would have expected to pay for a Gucci jacket. Done deal, then.

(Gucci, ferfuxsake! I’ve never bought Gucci before in my life. Waaaay too bling. And yet this isn’t, not even slightly. My, they have changed since Tom “Grrrr!” Ford left.)

K – who stocked up on a head-to-toe Gieves & Hawkes outfit the previous weekend in Birmingham, the sneaky bugger, so much for who-cares-what-we-wear-on-the-day, we’re-only-signing-a-bit-of-paper – is delighted. No longer shall I be the poor cousin at the altar.

Something borrowed: The outdated trappings of a decaying heterosexist institution, obviously. Oh, I’m still quite the Gender Politics warrior, I think you’ll find!

Something blue: Paul Smith jeans, bought in Birmingham Selfridges in April 2005, on the day of our twentieth anniversary. (Yes, we spent nearly six hours of our twentieth anniversary shopping for outfits in Selfridges. Wanna make something of it?)

Coming up: Those going-away wardrobes in full. Or maybe not…

Paradise is not without its hitches: yesterday at breakfast, there was no Hollandaise sauce with K’s Eggs Benedict. Imagine!

The only reason we didn’t immediately demand a full refund: K spotted that our table tops were hewn from the exact same style of granite as our pastry table in the cottage kitchen. Kindred spirits, and all that. Everyone is allowed one minor lapse. Just the one, mind.

We are amusing ourselves no end with our traditional favourite holiday pastime: inventing bitchy back-stories for our fellow guests.

(Examples deleted. Poor taste, bad karma.)

Evil, evil, evil. But so much more fun than the mundane truths which probably lie behind, ooh, let’s see, a good 70% of our fevered imaginings. It’s being vicious little madams as gets us through.

I have never seen sea water like this before. How do you say “crystal clear” without resorting to cliché? The colours are at their most vivid and complex just before lunchtime. If you lower your eyes to the level of the roiling, white-tipped swells (hem hem descriptive language), the effect is rather like gazing out over fields of half-set spearmint jelly.

For a scaredy-cat non-swimmer, I can be quite the water baby.

For more on That Wedding Legal Union (hey, I was a little drunk), Miss Mish has a write-up and a photo, and Alan has transcribed a text conversation. Incidentally, Alan also has clicky-to-enlarge camphone snaps of That Stag Weekend Girlie Nite Out in Manchester, here and here.

Comedy highlight of the Happy Day: when the nice lady registrar, after double-checking my full name, date of birth, occupation and so on, asked me to “confirm my gender”. Having successfully managed to keep my wedding tackle inside my kecks over eleven weeks of regular attendance at Amateur Strip Night down the White Swan, I was in no mood to whap it out at the registry office, legal requirement or not.

“I’m a man”, I growled, in best butch voice. She seemed convinced.

Greetings card sentiment of the day came from Buni (or maybe from his handsome new-ish partner J), who inscribed – inside a card whose cover read ENJOY YOUR BIG GAY DAY! – the following:“Congratulations on settling your financial arrangements and securing visitation rights.” A necessary corrective. We liked that.

I have noted with amusement the clarion calls for a caption competition, in the next post below. OK, so let’s roll with this.

THE OFFICIAL TROUBLED DIVA LEGAL UNION OF THE CENTURY CAPTION COMPETITION.

There will be a prize of fraganced spa-resort incense sticks, all the way from the sun-drenched Maldives to the person who can come up with the best caption for this photo.

Please leave your entries in the comments box.

Nice talking to you. Back off to the beach now.

OK, the gloves are off, the deed is done, and K is now my legal bitch. Which means that I can now use words like: marriage, husband, reception, in-laws, honeymoon. Such liberation.

It is late, and I am drunk (but he is drunker), and we have to be up in six and a half hours to head off for our honeymoon in the Maldives.

But, come on, I know I’ve made you suffer in the last few months, but did you really think I would bugger off to a tropical island paradise without sharing a few pics of the Happy Day with you lot? Course not!

I guess this means we’re no longer alternative and counter-culture. It’s a small sacrifice to make.

I’M FOOKIN MARRIED!!!

That we should have lived to see the day.

Back in just over a week.

xxx

Caveat: all times are, inevitably, somewhat approximate. Although the Best Fun is Organised Fun, one must allow a certain spontaneity to seep through. Or so I’m told.

18:30 – 19:15: Socio Rehab, Edge Street, in the Northern Quarter. (Map)

Apparently, this is quite difficult to find – but it’s opposite the Market restaurant, and there’s a small sign next to the door. Swishy cocktails in a relatively smart but unpretentious environment will be the order of the day. It’s all downhill from here, then…

19:15 – 20:30: Moon, 20 Tariff Street, at the back of Jackson’s Warehouse. (Map)

Again, this is a bit tricky to find – but I’m sure we’ll all cope. This is where we’ll be eating – and here’s a sample menu.

20:30 – 21:50: Crown & Anchor, 41 Hilton Street. (Map)

A traditional, conversation-friendly pub which doesn’t get too crowded. If we’re not here, then it’s because we’ve got ourselves nice and comfortable in Moon. You know, collective inertia and all that.

22:00 – 00:00: The shrill, noisy, nipple-to-nipple bars of Manchester’s bustling Canal Street. Frankly, we could be in any of them. I’m reserving this section of the evening for Devil-May-Care Spontaneity. It’s a risk, but it’s a risk that I’m prepared to take. Just this once. For a maximum of two hours.

00:00 – ??:??: Essential, on the corner of Minshull Street and Bloom Street.

Don’t even THINK of whipping that camera-phone out. And if I end up plastered all over the “Gallery” section of their website, there will be TROUBLE, do you hear?

Once again, for ease of identification, I can exclusively reveal the details of my outfit for the night, as purchased in London’s bustling Canary Wharf just a couple of hours ago. In a radical break with tradition, I have plumped for:

1. A short-sleeved check shirt (from Ted Baker). Dishcloth-hued red-on-white, in a sort of windowpane check. It’s really quite loud. (Well, the red will match the L-plates.)

2. Pre-faded blue jeans (from Gant). Lowish-slung without being embarrassingly age-inappropriate, i.e. they still sit quite well on my arse, and you can’t see my pants.

My partners-in-crime for the night will be Alan, Chig and JP. Special guests should include Clare, Elisabeth, Stuart… and who knows who else? Once again, all are welcome.

Ooh, I’m that excited. Last weekend of freedom! Hahahahaha!

If you tune into BBC Radio Nottingham tomorrow (Thursday) morning at around 9:10, then you’ll get to hear me taking part in a feature about people who keep diaries.  Blogs being a form of online diary, and all that.  (I won’t physically be in Nottingham, of course – they’re beaming me in from a studio in Westminster, so I shall be conversing with disembodied voices.)

95.5 and 103.8 FM, or you can listen live on the web.  Now, should I go easy on the beer and fags tonight (see next post below), or will a certain raddled croakiness add to my allure?   And will I get the chance to slip in the phrase “online disinhibition effect“?  Only one way to find out!

We’ve been here before, of course. “Good morning Bulwell! How’s it hanging, Arnold? Coming atcha, Top Valley!“

Well, if the comments box attached to the previous post is any measure, then tonight’s London mini-meet will be veering very much towards the “mini” side of the equation.  But that’s cool, as it removes all of that awkward “Excuse me, but I must circulate” nonsense.  Don’t you find that stressful?  I know I do.

For ease of recognition, I shall be wearing a VERY LOUD stripey shirt, in vivid shades of pink and orange.  Really, you won’t be able to miss it.

The Duke of Argyll is at 37 Brewer Street in Soho.  The nearest tube is Piccadilly Circus. Here are some more details, including a link to a map of the area.

I’ll be there from around 7pm.  All are welcome.

1. London, Wednesday April 19th.

If anyone reading this fancies joining me and, um, someone else from my blogroll (how mysterious) for a post-Easter, pre-Civil Partnership, possible-last-full-week-in-London (yeah, RIGHT) drink next Wednesday, then we’ll be in the Duke of Argyll pub on Brewer Street in Soho, from I-dunno-about-seven-I-guess to God-is-it-chucking-out-time-already. The Duke of Argyll is a pleasant and fairly traditional Samuel Smith’s pub, with non-excessive volume levels and plenty of room to spread out. Or at least it was on the one occasion I visited it. Hope you can join us, London readers. Hey, why not “pencil it in”?

The official TD London Mini-Meet After Party will then take place – where else on a Wednesday? – at the White Swan on Commercial Road, just down from Limehouse DLR station, where a selection of very drunk young men will be taking all their clothes off for cash, in a respectful, nurturing and mutually supportive environment. “Show” time typically runs from just after midnight, until just before half past one. Yes, they do spin it out a bit.

2. Manchester, Saturday April 22nd.

Calling all Mancs! Calling all Mancs! Now that the location for my quote-unquote “stag” night (oh, how I cringe at the mention of that word) has been confirmed as Manchester, it would jolly things up no end if the four of us (myself, Alan @ Reluctant Nomad, Chig @ World Of Chig and JP @ Argy Bargey) were to hook up with some of you lot, at some stage during the course of the long, long, LONG evening/night/morning.

Most venues have yet to be decided (and comment-box input would be welcomed), but the general “arc” of the evening could potentially read something like this:

1. Sparkly, giggly, ever-so-slightly vulgar cocktail joint.

2. Somewhere to eat, which won’t cost the earth and take all night. Ideally not much more than an hour or so. “Destination” dining be damned.

3. Civilised pub for grown-ups, with seating and non-excessive volume, preferably a little Bohemian around the edges.

4. Shrill, noisy, nipple-to-nipple gay bar.

5. Another shrill, noisy, nipple-to-nipple gay bar.

6. Hey, have we got time for another…? At this stage, it will probably be touch and go. Hmm, I know a few places in London like that.

7. The Essential club. Or Club Essential. Or maybe just Essential. I don’t know, I’m not local. But hey, where else were we ever going to end up? Flitting, flapping, flirting, frugging, hands in the air and wave them like you just don’t care, going “for a bit of a wander”, talking bollocks to friends and even bollocksier bollocks to strangers, rinse and repeat until the break of dawn. Lovely.

And lovelier still if you – yes, YOU – could join us.

(Clare “Boob Pencil” Sudbery to comments box in FIVE… FOUR… THREE… TWO… GO!)

Go on, ask me stuff. The comments box is at your disposal.

1. Girl asks:

No, I don’t think there is an implicit “Bloggers’ Code” as such. However, it is reasonable to assume that many/most fellow bloggers can basically be trusted in matters of confidentiality etc, as bloggers – even anonymous ones – have online reputations to maintain. If word were to spread that a particular blogger couldn’t be trusted, than their reputation would be badly damaged.

On the other hand, perhaps that’s too much of a cynical “bottom line” viewpoint. It’s fairer to say that bloggers are as much bound by codes of decent, respectful behaviour as anyone else – and if, like me, you start from the standpoint that most people are basically OK, you’re unlikely to come a cropper.

There again, we’re not necessarily in comparable positions here, are we? I would imagine that, as a high profile anonymous sex-blogger with a book coming out, there must be a good deal of speculation surrounding your identity, much of it far from welcome. In which case, I’d be that much more wary of trusting even my fellow bloggers. After all, we can be quite a gossipy bunch, with something of a collective penchant for the Hot Scoop.

Um, so, do you fancy meeting up for a drink next time I’m in London? I am the soul of discretion! 😉

2. Clair asks:

Hah! Buggered if I know! At times like these, the lazy blogger turns to Google. Take your pick from any or all of the following:

K would probably opt for locking the door and not letting people bug the shit out of him. As for me, I’ll settle for The Perfect Latte. Because I’m shallow like that.

Oh! Silly me! That should have been my answer all along: shallowness! I’ve been expounding that particular theory for years.

3. Diamond Geezer asks:

Su Pollard.
When?

Ah. This would be a reference to the long-postponed 2006 episode of the Which Decade Is Tops For Pops? project, which should have run in the middle of February.

Unfortunately, you’re going to have to wait a while longer. What should have been a four-to-six week working assignment in London has now run into its eighth week, with the prospect of at least – at least – three more weeks to follow. (I’m actually back in Nottingham right now, but was in London earlier in the week.)

After which we’re into May, which reads like this: civil partnership registration, a week in the Maldives (NOT A HONEYMOON, and if K catches you saying that there will be BLOOD), four days back at work (NOT IN LONDON, and if anyone tries to force me there will be BLOOD), and slightly over a week in Athens for Eurovision. So, we’re looking at the last week in May at the very earliest. But I might be back down in London by then.

Go on, ask me how I’m feeling about spending eleven consecutive working weeks in London. Go on, ask me that.

4. Tom asks:

Should I give up my job to become a house husband?

Only if you’re motivated by an overwhelming desire to be a house husband, as opposed to an overwhelming desire to give up your job. It’s a subtle but important distinction. Trust me, for I know of what I speak.

5. Right on cue, Robert asks:

In 5th place: having a tooth pulled. Twice in one lifetime (1980 and 1983 respectively) is quite enough for me, thank you.

In 4th place: live-blogging Eurovision from Notts. I tried this a couple of years ago (start here and work up), and found it much, much harder work than I had anticipated. For one thing, it’s impossible to type and watch the screen at the same time – let alone negotiate with the Blogger “publish” function, refresh the screen, check comments, drink wine, smoke fags, etc etc. As a result, I felt at one remove from what was happening on the the TV, and also at a further remove from what was happening in the concert hall itself. There was only really enough time to bash out banal drunken bitch-queen observations (“Ooh, get her in that frock”), before moving on to the next song. It’s not often that such an extended extravaganza of unmitigated shallowness should leave me unfulfilled at the end of the night, but this was one such occasion.

In 3rd place: spending eleven consecutive working weeks in London. Now, the first six weeks were fantastic: new challenges at work, and a vast array of social opportunities after work. Oh, the fun I had. I vividly remember one evening towards the end of Week Four, standing outside a Soho bar and blathering excitedly down the phone to K about what a fantastic time I was having, and how I’d always look back on these six weeks as a special period, and so on and so on. It was a little apotheosis of sorts.

But when the six weeks are up, and you’ve gone through your address book and met up with everyone you know, and the whole arc of your experience feels complete, and you feel ready to get home and resume normal life…

…and your stay gets extended indefinitely (although by no means permanently), and you realise that you’re going to have to work through your address book a second time, only there won’t be anything new to say as all you’ve done in the interim is go out for meals and drinks with other people, and in any case you feel a bit burnt out socially, as there is a limit to the number of consecutive nights on which you can give of your best…

…and besides, your energy levels are slowly depleting, as working and playing and the general effort of being in London are gradually chipping away at your energy reserves, and when you’re not working or playing then all you feel is exhausted, and you’re spending ten hours a night at weekends basically flat-lining in bed, which is a bit of a waste really, and there are all these lists of things to do buzzing round inside your head, and you haven’t unpacked your suitcase in over a month, and you’re so sick of staying in a hotel, because it’s never going to feel like home and you can never truly relax in the way you can at home…

…then the sparkle does start to rub off the experience.

In 2nd place: hot shallow sex. Without giving too much away (although I’m, ooh, this close), I’d say this was the highest climber on the Top Five. Oh, there’s life in the old dog yet, hurr hurr. Never say never again.

In 1st place: attending Eurovision in Athens. Yes, a week at Eurovision still better than hot shallow sex Shockah! Although the two activities are not necessarily incompatible, hurr hurr! Apotheosis Of Shallowness, here we f**king well COME!

6. Hobbes asks:

An award-winning blogger, you say? Well, how would I know, NEVER ACTUALLY HAVING WON A F***ING BLOGGING AWARD IN MY WHOLE F***ING LIFE, THANK YOU FOR REMINDING ME, I MEAN, IS IT TOO MUCH TO ASK BEARING IN MIND MY IMMENSE – IMMENSE, I TELL YOU – CONTRIBUTION OVER THE YEARS, NOT THAT SUCH THINGS MATTER, OH DEARIE ME NO OF COURSE NOT, BUT IF I HAVE TO GRIT MY TEETH AND MUTTER “IT WAS AN HONOUR TO BE NOMINATED” ONE MORE F***ING TIME I MIGHT JUST EXPLODE WITH FRUSTRATION?

And exhale. Goodness, is it really gone midnight already?

As for the monkeys and cheese – if we can simply evaporate the monkey population without causing any physical pain in the process, then I’ll keep the cheese, please. Mmm, cheese.

7. d asks:

Are you going to have traditional wedding music or something more upbeat?

AAAARGH YOU SAID “WEDDING” THERE WILL BE BLOOD BEFORE BREAKFAST TIME.

As there will only be four of us in the room when we sign the pieces of paper (no, we’re not saying “ceremony” either), music would seem a tad superfluous. However, I shall be selecting background music for the evening meal, in the private function room above Merchants restaurant at the Lace Market Hotel. It shall be tasteful, unobtrusive, and probably towards the jazz/world end of the spectrum. Cesaria Evora, Omara Portuondo, that sort of thing.

8. Em³ asks:

How are you feeling about spending eleven consecutive working weeks in London, Mike?

Exhausted at the very prospect, Em³. No matter what you do, and no matter how novel and exciting it might initially seem, everything becomes routine if you do it for long enough. (I experienced the same thing in Paris.) Now, could I have my life back, please?

However, I’m not going to waste the remaining weeks by sighing and moping, and crashing out in front of The Apprentice with room service fish and chips. So who’s up for a drink next week, then?

(Besides, there’s always, always Amateur Strip Night on Wednesdays at the White Swan to look forward to. Oh, it’s quite the home from home these days. See you down there, Ian – usual place, usual time, OK?)

9. Hg asks:

What did you think of Imogen Heap?

Aha, someone who pays heed to the “we’re seeing” section on my sidebar. Your attention to detail is commendable, Hg. I’ve just got back from seeing Ms. Heap perform at The Social, and she was sublime. I’d tell you more, but I’m under exclusive contract to the Nottingham Evening Post – so if my review goes online tomorrow, I’ll link to it.

(This was the quickest review yet; I must be getting the hang of things at last. Unlike my Secret Machines review from two nights ago, written when I was a) pissed, b) knackered, and c) still emotionally overhwelmed by the sheer power of the performance. Paragraph Three has had me cringing to the bottom of my boots ever since. Purple prose, or what?)

Update: It’s online (and in the paper), but somewhat pruned. Check my comments box instead.

10. Saltation asks:

Is it my round or yours?

Immaterial, dear chap. We’re in it for the long haul. It will all even out in the end. Did I ever tell you you’re my best friend? We should do this more often. Love your work! You must come and visit us in the cottage!

Oh, that reminds me. Remember the cottage photo-shoot for Per10d L1v1ng magazine, nearly three years ago? (If not, then do follow the link; it’s one of my favourite TD postings of all time.) Well, now that the rest of the world has caught up with our singular take on New Rustic Minimalism, the photos will be appearing in print very soon. We’re being interviewed for the accompanying article this weekend. Such excitement!

I am a little drunk, in case you hadn’t noticed. Time for bed.

…the turtle doves, the marquee, the gateaux, the watered silk meringues, the weeping great-aunts, and the list at John Lewis…

…but, with our Civil Partnership registration “ceremony” less than five weeks away, I find myself suddenly desirous of nicking, ooh, just one of the great heterosexual traditions. Namely the stag night.

The question is: where to go?

Nottingham’s out, purely on the grounds of over-familiarity.

Birmingham’s a strong contender, but there’s one major snag: on the weekend in question, K will be attending a vets’ conference in the same city. Now, call me old-fashioned, but one simply CANNOT stagger back from one’s stag night into one’s own partner’s hotel room. It’s sick and it’s wrong.

Manchester’s looking good. I can see potential there.

Blackpool’s a possible, but I’m not sure how far I’m willing to stretch the “ironic” aspect of the experience.

London: too big and impersonal?

Amsterdam: too far and impractical?

What do we think?

Well, I say “in full”; this is actually the sub-edited version, which slices off the last couple of sentences.

I only wish that I could link to the following Friday’s letters page, in which a couple of outraged Osmonds fans gave me a right old mauling. (That’s one street in Hucknall which I’ll never be able to walk down again.) K says that the experience has “blooded” me as a journalist.

Yes, I know I’ve been quiet. I’d have caught up at the weekends, but the recurring Man Flu keeps rendering me incapable. Every Saturday morning, I just seem to… collapse. Funny how I’m always better by Monday morning.

Four more days left in London, and then normal life resumes. It’s been fun – hugely so – but after six solid weeks of socialising, I must confess to feeling somewhat conversationally burnt out.

Or maybe I’ve just grown tired of myself as a subject. Which would also partially explain the blog-silence. Hmm. Well, fear not; normal levels of self-obsession are sure to return before too long. It’s the way I’m made.

Right then. Time I made a bit of bloody effort.

Do you know, I’ve never used a laptop on a train before. It’s making me feel awfully professional. If only my fellow passengers knew what drivel I was typing, sitting here in my Business Casual drag, my face screwed up in a suitably plausible expression of deep concentration.

The guy opposite is rather dishy looking. But then, I chose my seat carefully. He’s unusually well groomed, and kitted out in a very natty shirt-and-tie combo, in daring shades of plum and pink, teamed up with a light tan belt which matches the shoes to perfection. Close cropped hair, smart “directional” specs. Wonder if he’s….?

Then again, he sounded Dutch on the phone, or maybe Belgian. Few Englishmen would be turned out so smartly, but this sort of thing is rather more commonplace in the Benelux nations. A hung jury, then.

While I was typing the above, he nipped out to the loo and back. Knowing that he’d be passing this screen on his way back, I opened another document in readiness for his return, so that I could stage a quick tactical Alt-Tab. Well, you can’t be too careful.

The other document in question happens to be a live review of The Osmonds, which I wrote yesterday evening, and which should be appearing in today’s Nottingham Evening Post. A 250 word piece, with a 500 word piece bursting to get out. (Editing does not yet come naturally.) There’s one really good line – about being beaten around the head by a Hallmark greetings card – but sadly, the original observation was not my own. My thanks to MissMish, my companion in the Royal Concert Hall on Friday evening, for granting me copyright clearance. (We like it when our Plus Ones feed us killer copy.) If it goes online, then I’ll link it.

The intention behind this posting was to give a blow-by-blow summary of the past four weeks in London – as a lot has been happening, and I’ve wanted to record it as much for my own sake as anybody else’s. So let’s see how much I can scribble down between here (just south of Leicester) and St. Pancras.

Week One.

Sunday. Horsemeat Disco, with Ian, Marcus, Janne and Pano. I’ve heard a lot about Horsemeat, most recently from my ever-clued-up club promoter mate in Nottingham, who raved about it at the ADULT. (sic) gig a few days earlier. The venue is a gay bar in Vauxhall, just up the road from the Royal Vauxhall Tavern, which used to be a spit-and-sawdust joint called Dukes. It was never anything special, but we used to toddle up there in the old days, when the crush of nipple-to-nipple trollied dollies at the RVT got a bit much, in order to relax in relative peace and quiet over a pint and an agreeably rubbish stripper.

Now reborn as South Central, I was expecting a complete makeover – but no, this is basically still the same old Dukes, with a small dancefloor where the stripper used to prance about, and with a heated patio area out the back. However, the music is great (classic funky disco and 1980s electro-pop) and the crowd is a delight: relaxed, diverse, mature (cough), and as attitude-free as gay London is ever likely to get.

As I walk in and head for the bar, I can’t figure out why heads are turning my way. Oh! Ha ha! I’m being “checked out”! I’d forgotten that happens! (It has been over a year since my last appearance in a gay London venue, and I am a little rusty on its habits and conventions.)

Horsemeat gets busy around 9pm, and stays open until 2am. As it’s my first night in town, I play it sensible, heading off for the last tube connection to Canary Wharf at around 11:30.

Ah, playing it sensible. I remember that. Gosh, was that only four weeks ago? It seems like a lifetime away.

Monday. My first day at The Major Financial Institution, whose London headquarters are a quick five-minute hop from my hotel at Canary Wharf. As in Nottingham, where I can make it from my front door to my desk in just over ten minutes, I am spared the horrors of the daily commute – for which much thanks.

It’s a typical first day. Piles of “induction” literature, health and safety blah, large amounts of new information to ingest in a short space of time, ghastly photo taken for my pass card, general culture shock (everybody seems so damned slick and professional!), lots of getting lost on the way to the toilet, forgetting people’s names, pushing doors marked PULL, basically the usual Mr Bean Goes To The Office syndrome with which I have become so familiar in recent years. (This sort of thing stopped fazing me about five new offices ago. It simply goes with the territory.)

In the evening, with no particular social plans, I head for Leicester Square. There are plenty of films that I’d like to see, so I’ll just turn up on spec and choose spontaneously.

As I turn the corner by the Hippodrome, I become aware of a vast crush of cheering bystanders, interspersed with press photographers standing on stepladders, bulbs a-popping. Really, darlings: I know I mentioned my impending arrival in London on the blog, but there was no need to go to such lengths.

With nothing better to do, I squeeze myself into the throng, who are arranged around the entrance to one of the big cinemas. Turns out that we’re witnessing the stars arrive for a charity premiere of “Casanova”. Cool, never done the whole Leicester Square premiere thing before. Should be a laugh. So, who do we see?

Jeremy Irons, rocking the Daddy Bear look in a big bushy beard. Give him a couple more years and he could be the new Brian Blessed. Those winsome Brideshead Revisited days seem like half a lifetime ago. Oh, so they were.

Sienna Miller, whom I admittedly wouldn’t have recognized had I passed her on the street. Happily, there are hordes of snappers on hand, urging her by name to cast her stellar gaze in our direction. “SIENN-AAAAH! OVER HERE! CAN YOU TURN THIS WAY, SIENNA?” Oh, she’s big box office alright – and the only one of tonight’s celebs whose photo I see in the following week’s press. Which isn’t too surprising, as she looks ravishingly gorgeous, radiating a honeyed glow in her Marc-Jacobs-at-Louis-Vuitton flat-fronted, drop-waisted ivory frock with a hint of 1920s flapper about it.

Natasha Kaplinsky, who gets the highest name-recognition factor from the crowd. Not the biggest star, but certainly the most familiar face.

Some well-preserved middle-aged blonde whom no-one can quite place, until one step-laddered snapper calls out to her. “OVER HERE A BIT, TWIGGY!” Ha ha, yes, of course! Iconic English institution! That Marks and Sparks advert! Doesn’t she look good for her age! Living legend! We all love our Twiggy!

Kelly Osbourne, looking positively svelte. David Frost, comfortable in his natural habitat, strolling down the the middle of the red carpet, doing the whole smiling-and-waving grandstanding thing with the practiced ease of a senior politician. The It Girls: Tamara Beckwith and Tara P-T, working the cameras so thoroughly that poor old Heath Ledger (the actual star of the film, Casanova himself) barely gets a look-in. (Mind you, he doesn’t look his best. At least, not if the Brokeback cowboy look was your thing. Hair’s too long, coat’s all wrong, and he’s chewing gum with his mouth open. Jake wouldn’t have made these mistakes.)

Ah, that would be St. Pancras, then. Smart Benelux dude and I never made eye contact, more’s the pity. Goodness, I’ve changed a lot in the last month. Anyway, more drivel when I next get the chance. Don’t hold your breath or nuffink. (London vernacular, ‘cos I’m all acclimated like that.)

(An edited version of this review originally appeared in the Nottingham Evening Post.)

Having thrilled the Arena last summer on the “Once In A Lifetime” tour, former 1970s idols The Osmonds returned to an equally rapturous welcome. Were all these respectable (if rather flushed) ladies in their forties (with the occasional sheepish husband in tow) really the screaming, fainting teenyboppers of nearly 35 years ago?

As for the four brothers, each had aged differently.

“Joker” Jay, goateed and tightly waistcoated, bore an inescapable resemblance to Jeremy Beadle. “Crazy” Wayne, his parting shifted noticeably leftwards, was the most visibly elderly – but also the most energetic, radiating enjoyment throughout. As for “Distinguished” Merrill, his sleek silvery mane and thick beard brought Kenny Rogers to mind.

With older brother Alan retired through ill health, and with chief heartthrob Donny enjoying a revitalised solo career, the line-up was completed by the artist formerly known as “Little” Jimmy, who hammed gamely through his hokey childhood hits.

Despite a varied stylistic repertoire – from Motown to country, pop to rock, funky soul to schmaltzy balladry – the brothers’ performance style remained essentially pitched at the same level throughout. The smiles never let up for a minute – and, yes, those famous teeth glowed as brightly as ever.

However, this lack of emotional range meant that at times, especially during the challengingly hit-free second half, the effect was rather like being beaten around the head by a Hallmark greeting card. These guys may briefly have been pop stars – but with 49 years of experience behind them, they remain anchored in traditional showbiz values.

Picture this. Berlin, 1983. Aged 21, I’m living in a hippy “Wohngemeinschaft” flatshare with three nice lady schoolteachers in their thirties, who have a radically different concept of personal privacy from my own.

Give you an example. One evening, a couple of weeks earler, the lock broke on the bathroom/toilet door, leaving me trapped inside. Having rescued me, my flatmates treated me to a stern finger-wagging lecture about how I have obviously been living at home for too long, and hence am far too “repressed” about toilet issues. Since none of them ever lock the door when they’re on the bog, why should I be any different?

As a result, my morning dump is now regularly interrupted by Ele, Ulli or Gabi, who have a habit of walking in on me – invariably stark naked – and then lolling in the doorway while they pass the time of day. I’m not a great morning conversationalist at the best of times; still less so when I’m trapped mid-crap, being forced into small-talk in a foreign language.

My university friend J is staying in the flat for a couple of weeks, while she sorts out her own accommodation in the city. She has difficulties with the whole toilet-chat issue as well, her worst moment being when Gabi walked in and gave her a big hug, totally oblivious to her half-undressed defecatory state. It’s just not cricket, is it?

On this particular evening, we’re all sitting around in the small kitchen, nattering over cups of herbal tea. I’m not quite following the conversation, bluffing my way through with nods and smiles. As a result, I’ve not yet twigged what we’re talking about.

“Also, Mike – wieviel wiegst du?”

Ele, Ulli and Gabi are looking at me with polite curiosity.

The question translates as: So, Mike – how much do you weigh?

Except that, to my green ears, the word “wiegst” sounds remarkably similar to the word “wichst”. Which means something very different indeed.

Nervously, I stutter a bashful reply.

“Er, zwei oder drei mal pro Woche…?”

Translation: Er, two or three times a week?

J and the flatmates look baffled. I am forced to qualify my answer. Slowly, the awful truth emerges.

I thought they were asking me how often I masturbated.

Au weia. Thanks for reminding me, J!

Oh cripes. Tonight, I’ve got ten minutes. Let’s go.

Yesterday’s amateur strip night at the White Swan exceeded all my expectations, chiefly due to the extraordinary performance given by “Viola”, a scrawny sixtysomething tranny from Latvia with a limited grasp of English, and indeed reality. Despite being initially received by a more or less stunned silence from the punters, by the time it came to the public vote we had all recovered our bearings enough to give her a massive, sustained ovation.

Disgracefully, this was not enough to prevent Viola from being eliminated from the final vote. Oh you should have heard the boos. This travesty was solely due to the dictatorial whim of Liam Behind The Bar, who decided that, as a former winner, Viola should make way for the Brazilian classical music singer (furry, cute) and The Obliging Straight Lad Who Had Been Put Up To It By His Gay Mates (skinny, endowed).

The final vote being too close to call, the Brazilian and the Straight Lad ended up splitting the 100 quid winnings down the middle, before reprising their acts à deux. The crowd rapidly thinned, and I made the 1:45 night bus with a few minutes to spare.

I just know I’ll be back next week, and the week after, and the week after that, and the week after that. It’s the Reality TV fan in me, you see. Dancing On Ice was never like this.

Right then, I’m off for a posh meal at the Conran joint above the Canary Wharf Waitrose, where I shall be meeting qB (of Frizzy Logic) and her fella for the first time. Once again, vive la difference.

Update (1): Ian from Blogadoon – my fellow voyeur, and weekly White Swan regular – has seen Viola in action before.

Update (2): The password “WHITE SWAN”, when used in the presence of certain members of the serving staff at Canary Wharf’s ultra-swish Plateau Bar & Grill, will guarantee an extra-attentive level of service for the remainder of the evening. More details (plus a photo of the magnificent view) over at frizzyLogic – to which I have appended further comments.

Ach, this just won’t do. I have, hmm, let’s see, about seven minutes to write a post today. But write it I shall, as this Not Posting For A Week At A Time thing is as vexing to me as I’m sure it is to you. Oh yes.

So, what’s new? Last night, due to a shock cancellation, I had my first Night In since coming down to London just over two weeks ago. And a very pleasant Night In it was too. The hotel have upgraded me to a Deluxe Room for a week. It’s exactly the same as a Standard Room, except for the following:

• More carpet space.
• Two slightly larger mattresses pushed together, but with the same unpleasant ridge down the middle of the bed where they adjoin. (The Princess with The Pea has nothing on me for Mattress Sensitivity.)
• A posh wooden headboard.
• A deluxe candelabra light fitting.
• Ten coat hangers instead of four.

Such luxury! Truly I am not worthy.

As a result of my restful and recuperative Night In, I have enjoyed a day free from constant yawning, and the urge to doze off in slack periods. This reached its nadir over the weekend, where I realised I had become that which I have always dreaded: The Middle Aged Man Who Dozes Off In The Middle Of The Day.

Thus restored, I am now fit and ready for a Soho bar crawl with Marcus. Bring it on, Gay Village!

In other news (a phrase I’d normally avoid, but I’m now 2 minutes over schedule, so f**k it, it will have to do), my stay in London now looks like being six weeks rather than the initial four. This is absolutely fine. The exercise bike can wait.

The votes from yesterday have swung in favour of Amateur Strip Nite down the White Swan. I shall do my best. Right then: sushi, shower and shave. Ta-ta!

Updates might be fractionally less sparse, my arse. What can I say? In this newly action-packed capital city life of mine, blogging would appear to be one too many things to think about. But I’ll see if I can’t try harder.

Basically, my life now divides between work – comfortably do-able, neither too stressful nor too dull – and an endlessly complicated social life, which requires all the rigourous planning of a military campaign. In particular, trying to construct a regular programme of social activities is rather like trying to knit with blancmange. What is it with Londoners and commitment? Because if I hear that dread phrase “Let’s pencil it in” ONE MORE TIME, I might spontaneously combust.

As a result, I am constantly juggling “provisional” bookings, swapping and switching diary dates accordingly. I have now taken to issuing standard disclaimers to my prospective evening companions, retaining the right to dump them in favour of anyone who can bring themselves to say Yes for definite.

When I do make it out, to cafés, bars, restaurants or gastropubs, the experience is somewhat similar to being on an extended Speed Dating assignment. Each evening, I sit myself down in front of the next candidate, whom I have invariably not seen in months (if not years), and trot out the same perky little off-pat speeches. Blah blah blah China, blah blah blah K’s business, blah blah blah Canary Wharf, blah blah blah journalism opportunities, blah blah blah blogging… it’s a wonder that my fork ever meets my mouth.

Oh, but hark at me whinging. It’s all lovely, really it is. Being here has reminded me that I know more people in London than anywhere else – even Nottingham. One of these days, hopefully in the not too distant future, we’ll be down here for good, dividing our time between London and the Peak District, and these friendships will form the foundation of a new life. It’s a little glimpse of things to come.

After a weekend split between the cottage and my aunt and uncle in Kent, I’m now here for two straight weeks. This coming weekend, I’ll be staying in town in order to attend the live recording of Making Your Mind Up, which goes out on BBC1 at tea-time on Saturday. Yes, the Eurovision season is already upon us. This year, I’ll be spending the whole week in Athens, armed with official press accreditation, covering the event for… well, more of that in due course.

If I’d had the time and energy over the past fortnight, then I’d have told you about: reuniting with the old RVT crowd at Horsemeat Disco; gazing upon the face of Natasha Kaplinsky (and Sienna Miller, Kelly Osbourne, Heath Ledger, Jeremy Irons, David Frost, Tara Palmer Tomkinson, Twiggy and Myleene out of Hear’say); reclaiming the word “growler” in Exmouth Market; The night of the Five C’s (or: When your oldest friends know you better than you know yourself); Miss Marple-ing in Maida Vale; celebrating 44 years on the planet by having laughing gas shoved in my mouth, down at Alt Dot Gay Dot Gothic Slash Industrial Nite; doing Soho with Mister Stranger (and subsequently freaking him out with a telepathic text message); yakking my bollocks off at the Best Gastropub Ever (Since The Last One); Ain’t Nothing Dirty Goin’ On: the heady delights of Amateur Strip Night at the White Swan (I’ll be back); Actually Having A Proper In Depth Conversation With Luca For The First Time Ever; exposing the thoroughly suburban core behind the gleaming facades of Canary Wharf (or: Don’t let those capacious lobby areas fool you); the peculiar gaydar-jamming properties of the above (or: How to flip a clothing fetish on its head); how David Sedaris kept me sane; and so very much more.

Ah, go on then. Pick one of the above, and I’ll tell you about it. Promise.