Category: Archive

(posted by D)

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

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

(posted by Mr. D.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

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

I am so jealous of her.

(posted by Anna)

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

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

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

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

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

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

(posted by Mike)

…er, we’re not going too fast for you, are we?

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

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

(posted by Mr. D.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

Better up that present threshold to £15…

anna says

Sisters;

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

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

(posted by Mike)

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

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

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

K: I suppose there’s some truth in that…

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

K (sharply, urgently): SHUTUPTHESTOCKREPORTSHAVESTARTED.

(posted by Faustus, M.D.)

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

Alan Cumming called my dog a sweetheart.

Then he had his picture taken with her.

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

(posted by jimmy destri)

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

 

(posted by Mike)

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

So – once again – meet this week’s guest contributors, otherwise known as:

ANNA & HER B****ES!

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

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

(posted by Mr. D.)

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

Our daughter turned 21.

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

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

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

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

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

(posted by D)

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

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

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

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

I blame the beer.

(posted by Mr. D.)

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

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

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

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

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

“What size?” asked the harridan assistant.

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

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

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

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

I legged it. I still redden thinking about it.

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

 

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

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

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

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

(posted by Mr. D.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(posted, unsurprisingly, by anna)

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

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

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

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

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

(posted by D)

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

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

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

(posted by Mike)

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

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

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

Hurrah for Acerbia!
I © Guest Week!

(posted by Mr. D.)

“…. and I’d also like to thank ……….”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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