Category: Guest Weeks

(Posted by Ben)

In Mike’s absence, I feel that it falls to one of his guests to keep regular readers up-to-date with regard to The Tufts, and I’m more than happy to shoulder this responsibility.

You might recall that on Thursday Mike alerted us to a feature which was due to appear in the following day’s Nottingham Evening Post, in which K would be bigging up the Cock & Hoop pub on High Pavement. Those of us lucky enough to be able to purchase said newspaper were promised a sighting of the aforementioned Tufts, and in colour too.

Well, when I duly bought my copy and flicked through to find the appropriate page, I couldn’t help feeling a little disappointed.

(Lacking access to a scanner, I’m afraid I’ll just have to describe to you the photo accompanying the piece.)

K is pictured leaning on the bar, pint in hand (ale of some kind, if I’m not mistaken), beaming straight face-on at the camera, with the consequence that The Tufts are as obscured from view as they possibly could be (at the photographer’s suggestion, perhaps?).

HOWEVER, we are afforded a tantalising glimpse of some rogue hair jutting down behind the left ear and looking as though it may encroach over the shirt collar. Frustratingly, there are no other photos taken at different angles by which this suspicion could be confirmed.

More impressive than any hint of Tuftage, though, is K’s choice of tie – a marvellous dark brown number with diagonal criss-cross pattern which I can only imagine was stolen from Richard Whiteley’s wardrobe.

Incidentally, I have to commend K on his choice of pub. Though I’m not a regular, the Cock & Hoop is a fine establishment – not a swanky and pretentious bar like most of those around it, but a proper pub which nevertheless manages to be smart and stylish at the same time. Good beer, good food and lots of rich wood panelling which makes you feel like you’re in a coffin. But in a good way.

Posted by Buni

I was going to make my first entry sooner but things didn’t turn out as planned. I’d planned an exceptionally quiet weekend, just doing domestic chores, eating comfort food, maybe sort out the rubbish that my friend J had left in my spare room while he was making his move to London, eating comfort food and watching weekend TV, oh yes, and eating more comfort food.

5pm Friday couldn’t have come sooner; the working week had been especially demanding and I was totally looking forward to the activities listed above and not much else. I headed straight to my local Co-op to stock up on wine and comfort food; a rich full bodied Cabernet Sauvignon, mushroom pate, houmus and pitta bread, Doritos and Salsa dip, quorn goujons and BBQ dip; you get the picture.

So there I am that evening chilling out, drinking my wine and enjoying the peace and tranquility of one’s own residence and I decided to go on Gaydar to see if any friends fancied a chat in-between cruising for their weekend trade. A few guys messaged me; “Nice profile and pics mate! Fancy hooking up?”, “Read your profile, you sound a nice guy. What are your plans for the weekend?” Basically the usual lines. I opened up the java applet that allows me to enter the chat rooms and I scanned the guys in the room (you can do this without actually entering the room), and after a while I notice him; height, body, profile description everything, just what I’m looking for. Mr Right now.

I enter the room and he’s gone, so I send him a message: “Isn’t that just typical; I see a nice guy with an interesting profile online and when I enter the bloody room you’re gone! Message back if you’re up for chat.  Cheers B x” Two minutes later and ‘defined fit lad’ is in the room and we get to chatting. Seems he’s a really nice guy with interesting things to say, discrete questioning to fathom me out, and a sense of humour. Oh, and he’s a damn hunky chunky to boot! After a couple of hours chat we decide to meet up the following evening and head out for a few drinks. I call up J1, a friend who’s just opened a new nightclub and organise entry and VIP passes for B + 3; just in case there are any unforeseen additional guests.

Saturday comes and by 7.30 I’m at the station awaiting the arrival of my new found friend. He arrives and I’m pleasantly impressed by his welcoming smile and laughter at something that had happened on the train. We get back to my place where he drops off his things and we crack open a bottle of wine and get to know each other. The phone goes and it’s J2, another friend, who wants to know what I’m up to that evening. I tell him I have a date but if he wants to come to the club with us later I have guest list for an extra couple; namely him and his girlfriend, A. He’ll call me later after he finds out what A wants to do.

The evening goes really well with the wine flowing, conversation not stalling or uncomfortable in any way, and he has this way of paying me attention while not being overly attentive. We leave my place at about 11.30 and walk the 10 mins to J1’s new club. We go in and are immediately given complementary drink tokens to get the evening even more socially lubricated. By midnight I get a text and J2 and his girlfriend A are standing outside as the guy on the door doesn’t understand that they’re on my guest list. It turns out that J2 has bought his brother and a couple of his mates; good lookers too! We head for the VIP lounge where I bump into J1 again and this time it’s not drink tokens but a couple of pills to ’get the evening pumping’. I took a couple for my date and myself and thanked him for his generosity, after buying him a drink with one of the drink tokens he gave me! Then J2 and A come off the dance floor and also hand me a couple of pills for getting them all into the club. Then J2’s brother comes over with S, whom I already know and he passes me a couple for old times sake. By now the evening is well and truly oiled, as are we, and we all retire to the VIP lounge for drinks and a cool off. I’m in the middle with J2 on one side and J2’s brother and all his muscles on the other side. My date is over the way chatting to J2’s girlfriend and having a great time. I chat to J2 about my date and I’m informed that he doesn’t think he’s good enough for me and that he’s ugly. I kind of guessed this already but I was so up for it that I didn’t care.

I then turn to J2’s brother and all his muscles for a quick chat before going off to the loos. I’m in there for a while queuing when in comes J2’s brother with all his muscles. By now we’re standing in our own queue, just the two of us and he’s going on about his girlfriend and why she’s not out that night. Turns out they’ve been bickering and he fancied a break. It’s now my turn to go in the loo but as it turns out, someone has a different idea. I go to head into the loo and J’s brother pushes his way in too. I stood there waiting to see what he was up to then he leans over and kisses me. Needless to say I’m a little stunned. The moment passes, J2’s brother mentions I can’t tell about this to anyone, leaves me and I return to the lounge where everyone is still sitting about chatting with no idea of what’s gone on.

The evening progresses some more and after a while I’m standing in the corner chatting to S. He’s a nice enough fellow; a little immature sometimes and quite rude to his girlfriend when ‘the lads’ are about. He starts to tell me about things that are going on, the ecstasy fuelling his openness, he starts to say how much he enjoys being around me and would I like to come back to his place after the club (he doesn’t know I’m out with a date) for……………..? This, I wasn’t expecting as I’d know S for quite some time. By now I realise that the evening is becoming quite fuelled and strange. My date is also beginning to look over as he’s feeling left out of it a bit. We agree to leave the floorshow and head back to mine.

I sleep in until stupid O’clock, get my date scrubbed up, fed and off home and settle down to write this, feeling ever so floaty. So, that my dear readers is why I hadn’t had my peaceful weekend and why I hadn’t made my first entry as earlier than planned.

Well hello there. Apologies for my tardiness, but I gather it’s fashionable to be late these days.

Anyway, without further ado, in the words of Austin Powers, allow myself to introduce myself. I’m Ben, author of the lesser-spotted blog Silent Words Speak Loudest. A native of the North-East, I moved to Nottingham in 1997 in the pursuit of enlightenment through education, and have been resident in Robin Hood’s fair city for the last seven years, thus just about qualifying as a Local.

Ever since my own illegitimate and malformed blog offspring popped into this world coughing and spluttering nearly two years ago, Mike has been like a benevolent uncle, always on hand with a kind word or a Werther’s Original.

However, and despite being a regular reader of Troubled Diva, I must confess to being only an infrequent commenter here. For some reason, leaving a comment to one of Mike’s posts always feels like trespassing on an immaculately trimmed lawn. And now he’s only gone and left myself and my fellow Locals the keys to the manor house!

So, for the next couple of weeks, while Mike’s away in search of small bears with a penchant for marmalade sandwiches, I’ll be squatting in these palatial environs, leaving grubby fingerprints on the furniture, running up an enormous phone bill, drinking all the wine in the fridge and producing the occasional brilliantly witty post. (Though I’m less confident about being able to manage the latter.)

What fun!

 

We have a weekend guest. Mr H, who has taken a sabbatical from the hard slog of the civil service to visit pre-historic sites, standing stones, circles, underground chambers and the like around the UK. (We offered him the chance to look down the cellar  here in Nouveau Basford but he declined).   Attempting to be good hosts, we asked him what he would like to do while he was in Nottingham.

And so Saturday afternoon saw the three of us upon top of the Castle walls, looking out over the city. It seemed ages since we’d been up there.  Despite it not being particularly old, or castle-like anymore (Ducal Palace with Victorian restoration) it still has an air of grandeur and despite the hordes of badly dressed tourists wandering around and the detritus of the open-air Shakespeare productions on the castle green, I enjoyed the visit. It somehow seemed … fitting… in a nice, middle-class genteel sort of way to wander  up and down the shrouded shrubbery walks,  to wander through the Museum and for  the three of us to eat ice creams,  on a bench, in the  slight chill and the drizzle.

The two of them decided to round off the visit with a trip down Mortimer’s Hole. No, darlings,  not a euphemism for smut at all but one of the secret passages  with which the castle is riddled. And the one that Roger Mortimer, lover of Queen Isabella  escaped through when wanted for the  heinous murder of Edward ll. Ohhh yes, that  particularly nasty murder. But really, they should have seen it coming. That marriage was never going to work from the beginning. She being 14, Edward  being gay…..

Being dressed in heels and a silk frock, I’m not quite dressed for wandering up and down cramped sandstone passages and steep crumbling steps and so I arrange to meet them in Ye Olde Trip To Jerusalem (I’m sorry about the extra ‘e’,  but it really is there….) the pub carved into the  walls underneath.

They arrive, buoyant with the  trip and the history,  although our visitor, being more used to Bronze Age tunnels and passages,  is inclined to dismiss this 600-year-old  antiquary as a mere parvenu.  But all in all, Nottingham gets the official  seal of approval from him.

But then he does live in Birmingham.

(posted by nixon)

Hello Divalings! So Guest Week is off to a slow start. I was waiting for the other guests to make the first move although it seems they were doing the exact same thing.

Perhaps I should introduce myself- my name is Nixon and I’m unemployed. I spend my days contemplating bankruptcy and swallowing a twice-daily drug regimen of Prozac and Effexor.

(that was my attempt at a dramatic opening- good eh?)

Nottingham is horrible city where the sky is always grey and the people eternally miserable. I’ll be telling why I hate it over the next few days.

OK, I’m done.

(Christ, why am I even SITTING HERE?  This is CRAZY.  There are SHIRTS TO BE FOLDED.)

In my absence,  please welcome a crack team of five guest contributors – all of them “local” – whose names you’ll find listed above.

I’ll let them introduce themselves, shall I?

Actually, given the appalling lateness of the hour, there isn’t really any alternative.

See you all again in early August.

(posted by asta)

Time to pack up and go, but not before thanking Mike for his generosity.

Lyle, mentioned this before, but I think it bears repeating. It takes a particularly brave soul to hand over the keys to his carefully and artfully arranged digs for such an extended period of time– especially to someone like me — one of the blogless. He had no idea what I’d do to the place and welcomed me anyway. Lovely man. I tried not to make too much of a mess of it.

I took Mike up on his offer mainly because I felt that after being entertained by him for more than a year as a reader, it was the least I could do.( I should have realised there would be plenty of first-class applicants, and that he had no real need of my services, but no matter) More importantly, I now have a much greater knowledge and appreciation of all the work and effort that goes into building such a fine home. I’m also going to make an effort to be a better reader, which means offering comment more often, even when I think it isn’t required. There are some blogs I read regularly where I’m sure I haven’t left a word. I now see the important part feedback plays in the energy of the enterprise.

I was also keenly aware of the quality of his readership–many of them top-notch bloggers in their own right. I apologise to all of you. Regular service will resume shortly. (Must you cheer that enthusiastically?)

Will I start my own blog now? I confess I’m tempted. I discovered I had much more to say than I thought I would, and that the experience was more personally rewarding than I ever imagined. But I’m going to step back from the whole idea for some time. I tend to throw myself into new pursuits only to give them short shrift once the novelty wears off. I wouldn’t want a blog, if I couldn’t make it a good one- and that includes the mechanics, about which I know next to nothing. (ask Mike, I’m sure I drove him mad)

So thank you all for your patience, and a special hug to Mike. And Mike, if you don’t see a thank you bottle of Cristal in your fridge, well, I’m not saying anyone nicked it, but….

(posted by Gordon)

I’m sure Mike mentioned, in his email inviting me to guest here, that he expected a minimum of 5 posts over the 7 days…

So this is my rather late attempt of doing just that. But what to write about? There have been so many good posts here this week that in an effort to try and sum up things I’ve learned, ideas that have been changed etc etc I kind of get lost…

I suppose half of the enjoyment in reading posts here, and on other blogs, is that they are written by real people, with real experiences in the real world. I know that sounds a bit daft, but in an age where kids grow up imagining spending their late twenties in a coffee house in New York, where couples wake in the morning and snog (does ANYONE do that?) and all the other ideas that are thrown at us from TV and film, it is refreshing to hear things as they really are.

It’s also refreshing to have frank discussion about sexuality. Which, let’s face it, still isn’t really the ‘British’ thing. I’ did hear a comment last week (can’t remember where – possibly on Clive Anderson’s Sunday morning show?) that the internet was ‘helping’ inform people about all sorts of sexual activities that they wouldn’t normally be aware of, and the next day my local paper had a front page story on couples arranging, via the internet, to meet for sex.

Are these truly liberating times? Are we now more accepting of our own and each others sexual needs? Who knows. All I can say is that on Friday night, I had the great pleasure of watching my wife enjoying her snog with another woman.

So, it’s has been a pleasure, and education and a bit of a giggle this week, I’ll be adding several sites to my blogroll and I’m off to try and figure out if the well groomed couple, driving a silver peugeot 206 convertible, are gay or not. Can I borrow anyone’s gaydar?

(posted by Danny)

Don’t wanna bore you with the gory details (now there’s a first) but I’ve been proper poorly since Thursday. I was grovelling to Michael on the phone this morning (worse than phoning in sick to your boss, I’m telling you; he can be a stern little madam at times) and he’s agreed to let me carry on guesting for a couple more days. Praise the Lord and pass the Nurofen! More later, with luck…

(posted by Martin)

After lunch, we go back to the hotel room. We run to the room with indecent haste, undress each other quickly, and make love in the shower. It’s cramped, oppressive. I like the feeling of closeness, his breath on my neck, his chest hair tickling me, the wicked look that plays across his face as he reaches down and feels stubble. He pulls me close, tells me what he wants to do, and I simply say ‘yes’. He isn’t gentle. That’s fine. It’s an intense feeling. Later, as I lie in his arms, I play with his nipple ring while he calls room service. We share a bottle of wine, and I give him a massage that becomes a caress, that becomes something more. And then I fall asleep in his arms.

This is what I have needed all week. It’s not about sex. It’s not about climax. It’s not about Cal chasing Michael through the flat, pinning him against the wall in the bedroom and making him whimper. It’s about intimacy and closeness. It’s about two people who are so close that they almost become one, but it’s about more than that. It’s about companionship, but it’s about more than that too. And this, I think, is where I’ll stop. We’re going out for dinner tonight. Little place we know, just off the Champs Elysées.

Thanks to Mike for the opportunity to do this. It’s been fun. And, sometimes, thought provoking.

Goodnight and take care,
Martin

 

(posted by Venus)

Hello again all you out there in blog-land. I’ve decided to take the day off yesterday in celebration of TD’s birthday. My congratulations go out to Mike for sticking to this for so long. What a commitment.

A thought or two on promiscuity

The wonderful Gordon has caused quite a riot of ideas with this question and I would like to add my two cents. The first thing that came to my mind is the different definitions of “sex” you would get if you asked men and women how they would best describe how the experience makes them feel. I get the impression that for men, sex is more like a drug fix. It feels good, and then it’s done. For women (of at least myself), I think our bodies go into the nesting mode afterward, sending out all these funky hormones that convince us we’re “in love.” We fantasize about that man we caught and don’t want to let him go. It’s a high that’s much more than that of orgasm only. Now, I have been clinically depressed since I was thirteen years old and I have some experience with hormones and how the right or wrong ones affect not only your mood, but personality as well. I’m blabbing on…the conclusion: Nature has programmed females to stay with their man, yet has programmed men to move on without the whole emotional setback. Who knows, though, right?

My second thought on the subject was about traditionalism. Women have been brought up that you should be a good girl while men are not disencouraged to romp about. Even in my group of friends there are the gay men who are the sl*ts, the lusty drunks, the couples with “rules” etc. There’s a structure for every social situation, I suppose.

Happy Halloween to all you trick-or-treaters out there!

(posted by Martin)

I’ve been swapping e-mails all day with Hugh, who lives in Falkirk, and helpfully points out that there are plenty of late buses back, but I’m welcome to stop over if I want. He looks a bit like Pete Sampras, and I’ve seen eight pictures of him that appear to be genuine. Some are more intimate than others. I don’t think I’ve got the guts to go and see him.

Today, I went to the St James Centre at about three o’clock. I went to the washrooms that are tucked away just behind there. I made eye contact with a number of men who were there looking for mid-afternoon entertainment, but I didn’t take it any further. I wasn’t really in the mood, and it all felt just too seedy. Plus there was nobody there worth getting to know further.

My internet friend could be my new best friend within a matter of hours. I don’t know whether I’m going to go through with it. He knows that. I’ve been honest with him. But I haven’t walked away yet. Every e-mail feels a little more like commitment, a little more we have in common, a little more like we’re already together and performing indoor acrobatics.

Thanks to gills, for reminding me that I don’t have to cheat on Hari. But, as gills says, the idea is in my head. It’s like an itchy catchy tune that I need to scratch. The more I ignore it the worse it gets.

Michael now knows that I know about him and Cal. This has made things even more awkward between us somehow. I think it’s because he now knows that I know that it was him screaming out for more the other night. Every look he gives me is laced with tones of “Martin knows what I sound like when I’m enjoying the company of a male friend”. Or maybe it’s just because he wanted me to think that he was straight, or a top, and now I know he’s neither.

I’m looking at the pictures in my e-mail box. It’s very, very tempting. And Hari doesn’t mind. Very, very tempting.

(posted by asta)

I’ve been trying to put to together a witty and insightful piece on the popularity of Halloween in Canada. It’s not going to happen, because in truth, I don’t get it.

I understand why the kids think it’s the best day of the year, next to Christmas.
With unidentifiable hordes of them knocking on doors after dark and being handed all the candy their parents never let then have any other time of the year, what’s not to love?
It’s the adult complicity in this sugar shock-fest that stumps me.
In late August the specially designed packages of miniature chocolate bars, and rockets and kisses start showing up on the shelves along with the requisite bags to put it in. A bag of 50 bars, each the size of a hotel pillow chocolate, will cost anywhere between 7 and 15 dollars. Handing out one pathetic looking little chocolate bar to a “trick or treater” will most assuredly result in you becoming the recipient of a trick (involving toilet paper and shaving cream at its most benign) or in the part of Canada where I grew up, something much more expensive.( Don’t ask me why tipping cows, and setting bridges on fire is so popular. I told you. I don’t get any of it) Figure on shelling out at least a dollar a kid. It’s not unusual to have more than 100 little darlings come knocking at your door.
But it doesn’t stop there.
Once upon a time, (cue up cranky ol’ bat music here) it was enough to buy a pumpkin, carve out a rough approximation of a scary-face, place a lighted candle inside and position the wonky jack-o-lantern in the living room window. The house was now decorated. Not anymore. Halloween decorations now rival those of Christmas on the expensively tacky scale. Don’t believe me?
Did you see how many items are sold out? Madness.
Even worse is the politically correct Halloween. Look, handing out colouring books or toothbrushes is just stupid. Either participate or don’t. Or do what I do.
Hand out treats to any child below eye level. They’re the first to arrive since they have earlier bedtimes. They are the first wave. It lasts about an hour. Then I turn off the lights and arrange to be elsewhere. Works for me. The coven is putting on a really fab do this year.

(posted by Gordon)

Mike, mind I use your site to rant? No? Wonderful (such a lovely man…)

I’ll preface this by saying that I know one day I will be old(er), but I will never be a woman, and this is about “wee old wummin”.

I nipped to the shops at lunchtime to pick up my Halloween costume, and then zipped into Marks to buy some sandwiches. I picked up my items (3 of them) and joined the ‘express’ queue for 5 items or less. In front of me in the queue were two “wee old wummin”, you know the type – slightly hunched, shortsighted (but wouldn’t lower themselves to wear glasses), with tight white hair, 5 cardigans and a heavy coat.

They shuffled forward carrying a basket between them, at a glance I could tell there were more than 5 items in there.

They get to the checkout and tell the young lady that the shopping is split between them and they don’t think they have more than 5 items each… as they tell her this, they pull and prod at the shopping like a child who hasn’t yet learned to count.

The next checkout is free so I step forward.

If you have shopped in Marks you may have noticed some of the tills display, not only the amount due, but the number of items purchased. The first “wee old wummin” was paying for her 7 items as I got to my checkout, and as I was receiving my change I heard the second “wee old wummin” pip up… “I think you’ve got my change wrong dear”. I glanced across and noticed she had purchased 8 items. (You can see where this is heading, can’t you…)

The checkout girl checks the change, and apologises for her error, handing “wee old wummin” number two her extra 5p.

Queue Gordon, in a probably too loud voice:

“Ohh you CAN count then!”

Followed by a swift turn on my heel, a snatching up of my shopping and a fuming, glaring exit from the store.

My point? Wee old wummin get away with bloody murder!!!! Yes I was brought up to respect my elders, but only when they are worthy of it. It was quite obvious to me, and from the tuts, sighs, and pointed looks being thrown their way by other members of the queue, quite obvious to everyone else*, that these two ‘old dears’ were at it.

I should possibly point out that this is out of character, I had had less than 5 hours sleep (always makes me grumpy) and less than 10 minutes before had lost out on a parking space because another “wee old wummin” had gone the wrong way round the car park to get to it first. Petty? Yes, but I was in a bad mood and didn’t really need an excuse. Not big, not clever either, blah blah blah…

Wisely enough, the man collecting for the Sally Army outside the store didn’t rattle his can in my direction. I may very well have told him where to put his donation!!!!

* I must’ve missed my ovation in my rush to get out of the store.

(posted by Martin)

I’d just like to thank the people who took the time to write to me, especially those who sent photographs.

– Owen, I’m afraid that although you’re charming and literate, and almost worryingly local, I’ll have to turn you down, as your pictures suggest that you’re not ‘my type’.

– Barry, while your pictures suggest that you definitely are ‘my type’, I’m not looking for a relationship. Good luck with that.

– Paul. You’re definitely ‘my type’ too. I like the fact that you’re not looking for anything in terms of commitment, but I’m not in a position to fly over to New York, no matter how big your apartment is, and no matter how adventurous you are in bed. And if you fly over here, I suspect I’ll be freaked out and hide in a corner.

Thank you all.

(posted by asta)

This is a tangent on Gordon’s thought-provoking post (and TD reader comments) just below. Ok it isn’t really, it’s just an excuse to happily splash about in the shallow end of the pool.

I watch a lot of tv, and living in Canada, I get to choose from the best of three worlds- British, American and Canadian productions. I get programming from France too, but the French don’t understand television, are unable to claim it as their own creation, and so are doing their very best to destroy it altogether with shabby Vegas rip-off variety hours and deep discussions by obscure intellectuals on the significance of dryer lint. So we’ll forget about them, ok?

Each country excels at different types of programming.
Canadians are crackers at documentaries and anything having to do with Anne of Green Gables.

The Americans have the rest of the world beat when it comes to crime, guns, blood or death.

The British own period pieces and explorations of class differences. I also think Brits produce the best comedies.
There I’ve said it. Reams have been written about the difference between the British and American senses of humour and how Canada fits somewhere in the middle ( twas ever thus). I don’t care. When BBC Canada was made available on digital cable I was first in line, so I can say with full conviction the American ‘Coupling’ was excruciatingly awful and deserved to be yanked from NBC’s schedule. Why?

Casting and the inability of the actors and/or directors to understand the material (the American version aired with verbatim scripts. The only changes were of the beer vs. pint variety). And it’s not just them. The critics didn’t understand the show either.
A quote from a pertinent paragraph:

All six “Coupling” characters suffer from an overconfidence and self-centeredness that renders them virtually unable to converse with anyone else, except to make reference to the great sex they’re having or could be having. Perhaps the promised edginess of the series is that the trivialization of sex is something American audiences are still uncomfortable with.

Americans want to be loved. They want all characters to be realistic and sympathetic. ( As if any sitcom character is realistic) It’s in the delivery—

When Gina Bellham – UKJane says,” He works in pizza delivery, which just answers all your prayers, doesn’t it? Man, motorbike, has own food.”, she’s speaking from her tiny little heart. When Lindsay Price-US Jane speaks, it’s with tongue firmly planted in cheek – a ‘hey I’m not this shallow and stupid I’m just having you on’. Falls flat.

Likewise every other cast member. Chistopher Moynihan( US Jeff) acts as if he doesn’t understand the meaning of the words he utters. Richard Coyle (UK Jeff) understands every word. He’s thought about these things. It’s taken hours, sometimes years for him to make sense of the world around him. He knows he’s still confused about a few things, but he figures he’s making progress on such topics as breasts and brains.

“I don’t mean individual brains, obviously… I mean, not a brain each. You know, I like intelligent women, but you’ve got to draw the line somewhere… I think breast brains would be over-egging the woman pudding.”
I’m just saying.

(posted by Gordon)

I’ve been trying to formulate a post for the past two days, but I keep going round in circles (both directions), then editing it so heavily it makes no sense.

Instead, I’ll give you the jist and coherent points and you can take it from there – hell it will probably make more sense that way anyway, and will be a damn site more entertaining if it doesn’t…
—
My initial thoughts were prompted by Danny’s.. err… exploits, and got me thinking about gay stereotypes. This is where I stopped to consider my phrasing and the order in which to put forward my thoughts. I don’t want to offend and I’m am truly not being judgemental, I’m just very curious (not THAT kind of curious.. well maybe a bit…).

See, I’m tying myself in knots just trying to write a synopsis… so how about I put the P.C. terms aside, show my ignorance of these matters and blunder on forward (I mean, why break the habit of a life time).

So. (Deep breath).

Why does it seem that the gay ‘lifestyle’ involves a lot more promiscuity than a straight ‘lifestyle’?

Is it just that gay men more comfortable with the fact that they have sex, and are more willing to talk about?
Do I just have a blinkered view of the society in which I live?

Obviously this is all limited by my own personal knowledge. I have sex, very good sex thank-you-very-much… hang on, that’s it, isn’t it!

Having ‘come out’ and faced society’s views, doesn’t it make sense that gay men, having had to face up to their own sexuality (OK, didn’t phrase that right), are more comfortable than hetero men? And hence, are more comfortable elaborating about their ‘exploits’?
—

And that’s where I stop, I’m not sure what my point is, or if I even have one at all? Maybe it’s just curiosity in a different lifestyle? Maybe it’s because I enjoy ‘playing it camp’ (particularly around some work colleagues who are VERY homophobic)? Maybe it’s because the phrase “I have gay friends” makes me sound like I’m trying to be ‘correct’? Or maybe I’m gay and in denial.

Answers on a postcard please (or just the comments, it’s cheaper, faster, and much easier for everyone else to read)

(posted by Martin)

I didn’t think I’d have much to write about this week. I thought I’d be going ‘cool, so-and-so wrote a really great post, and in the mean time, here’s my shopping list’. But I’m getting increasingly screwed up as the week goes on, and I hope that you’re all enjoying it.

For a couple of days now, I’ve been seriously considering cheating on my boyfriend. Now, I know it’s not so much cheating when he’s actively endorsing it, but somewhere in my mind it’s cheating, and that’s part of the problem.

But there’s more to it than that – and thanks to Danny, I think I’ve put my finger on it. Random sexual encounters are awful. Be it retrieving your clothes from a stream of unwelcome liquid, fishing a coat-check ticket out of a pool of unspecified liquid, or finding that your new best friend has fallen asleep at an unfortunate moment, there is a lot of very, very bad sex out there.

This wasn’t a problem when I was out and about more often. I’d have a large number of encounters, and the good ones more than made up for the bad ones. And there were some very bad ones.

One in particular involved a member of the Lufthansa Cabin Crew. We met in a bar. He was on stopover, and he was charming, funny, and very attractive. We completely misread each other’s signals. I thought that we would go back to his hotel room, we’d “make out”, and there would be some fairly conventional activities involving erogenous zones. He thought I looked like a dominant bit of rough, and anticipated fun with ropes, and some activities that are best not performed outside on a sloping rock with your clothes folded neatly downstream.

As I say, not a good evening, although I got over my pee-shyness, much to my new best friend’s delight.

So anyway, I’m thinking about the best places to go if I’m going to have a random sexual encounter, in order to reduce the risks of this sort of thing happening. Bars are out, largely because they’re too public. The sauna’s a possibility, mainly because most of the guys you meet there are really, really grateful. But the last time I went there, I brought back a few unwanted friends. And these days, the internet is too scary. Everyone online is apparently between twenty and thirty, and everyone exaggerates at least one point about themselves. You know what I mean.

So I’m thinking about going to a bar in Glasgow instead. Meaning an overnight stay or a night bus home. I need to think about it a bit more.

Anyway, I’m still not sure I want to. I’m still not happy with the ‘open-ness’ that my relationship is suddenly facing. I’m not comfortable with the rules. Danny seems to have it sussed… have awful sex with strangers so that your boyfriend can dine out on it for years. I don’t think that’s me, though.

And if I do cheat on Hari, and it’s awful, should I give myself a second chance so I can get it right?

(posted by Venus)

Once upon a time, long, long ago, in a place far, far away (A five hour drive is pretty far, isn’t it?) there was a little vacation village by the name of Tulameen. And a very beautiful village it was. People drove in from all around the province to spend their time off at the cabins by the lake. There was a annual parade for these vacationers during the week of “Tulameen Days.” Motorboats growl on the lake towing waterskiers or tubers behind. The song of a child’s laughter floats along with the breeze.

And then it was invaded by a creature some call the “teenager.” As soon as darkness fell, they came in droves with keys to their parents’ cabins or just tents. They pitched camp in backyards, in the woods or on the beach. Wherever they was room. The locals are used to their strange behaviour. Loud, unfamiliar melodies drifted from the cabins and tents, the roads were full with pedestrians feeding off beer and chain smoking. In Tulameen, this was just a part of life. Some ended their day and went to sleep, awakening to the bright sunshine the next day.

But for that strange race, the day had just begun.

I was one of them, somewhat of a leader. My Tulameen was a town of darkness, friendship and community. Never have I seen so many cliques of people my age get along so wonderfully. In a life dictated by rules imposed by all the major players in our lives, this was our one taste of freedom. And it was sweet.

The town was ours. Wander to the lake and someone will be out swimming, possibly skinny dipping. Throughout the woods people were scattered, if you were lucky, you could find a game of “Capture the Flag” in progress. It was always fun to move the flags and mess up the game. It’s a given that there will be more than a few couples making noises in the tents. We had it all. Travel back to our cabin for another drink and people packed wall to wall. Someone was always wondering where their pillow went. Someone was always sick in the bathroom. And another unlucky stranger had been talked into taking shots of my friend’s dad’s moonshine. Good times, good times.

But then one day something strange happened. Everyone fell asleep. I was walking back to the cabin and stopped to light a cigarette. Wait. Something was very odd. I can’t hear any voices. Pushing open the cabin door, I froze. It was like being in an amusement park funhouse, but it was deserted. Quiet and desolate. Every little sound echoed causing somewhat of a microphonic effect. I found myself alone, my friends sleeping to restore their exhausted souls. What had happened?

I went to the bathroom and locked the door. There wasn’t even anyone crashed in the bathtub. This is like a twilight zone. At this moment in time, I felt lonelier than I ever had in my entire life. I wash my hands and glance in the mirror. Wait, who was that? Me, of course. But something’s different. The tears in my eyes turn them into a piercing green. I watched the tears trickle down my face and drop into the sink. I see something. I see something in my eyes I haven’t ever seen before. Immediately, I feel comforted yet continue to watch that girl in the reflection cry. I see her looking at me, deep into my eyes as I stare into hers. Nice to meet you, I think.

I awaken the next morning with a sore neck because I didn’t have a pillow. Where did it go? I look around at my friends. Talking, laughing, complaining about hangovers and I suddenly feel like I don’t belong. I never really did belong. For the first time in my life, I felt like I knew myself. I needed to get out of here.

That day I caught a ride with friends and slept the whole way home. I found out later that they watched my go, saying “That was the last time we’ll ever see her.” And it was true.

I am still friends with most, but that was the last time they ever saw that naive and careless girl with tears in her eyes. And they do still go to Tulameen. They take their children swimming in the lake and help them build a sandcastle. They go to the General Store (Restaurant / Gas Station / Drugstore / Grocery store) for breakfast and complain about the grumpy, scary looking teenagers with the bags under their eyes who look like they’ve been up all night. Where are their parents, anyway?

To this day I have never been back.