Straight from the horse’s mouth, 10 minutes ago at her press conference:
“I’m proud to be a Gay Diva.”
Have to say, it looked as she was having her teeth pulled while she was saying it.
Carola then directed us to this video interview, in which she supposedly sets the record straight on That Controversial Gay Question Which Won’t Go Away, Dammit.
Hmm. A tad edited, isn’t it?
“I… [snip) … love … (snip) … gay … (snip) … people.”
Heh.
Estonia‘s entry is, emphatically, My Sort Of Thing: Scandiwegian pop-rock at its finest, once again delivered by a Swedish performer. (They have a history of doing this.) If you liked “Once In A Lifetime” by Ines, or Sahlene’s “Runaway”, then you’ll like this.
But what is she singing in the chorus?
“Looking through my window, what about the subjugation?” That’s what I thought at the Retro Bar on Thursday. Mmm, kinky!
“Looking through my window, what about the Soviet Nation?” An oblique comment on post-Warsaw Pact independence? That would be nice.
Nope, now that I’ve got my official programme, I can confirm that the lyrics are, in fact, “Looking through my window, what about sun you made shine?”. Dropped definite article and all. Well, of course.
The direct lift from Abba’s “Does Your Mother Know” is a nice touch, and is reflected in the Abba-esque outfits: 1975-style mini-dresses and boots. She’s a bit plastic, but that’s only right and proper. Go Estonia, etc etc.
…only I suspect that the Schlagerboys are doing it from the palatial splendour of the P1-enabled press centre, whereas I’m squatting at the back of the press conferences like a pauper. Not bitter! Not bitter at all!
Anyway, their blog is great, and reading their comments on the same events is like hearing some weird Schlager echo.
Don’t forget the OnEurope Livejournal, either. Scabrously opinionated, which is just the way we like it.
…and they’re fresh out of complementary water bottles, as well. I’m sweating like a hog! But it’s all for YOU, so that’s all right then!
Portugal. Never very strong on yer actual Tunes, are Portugal. This year’s entry makes their most concerted stab in yonks at an Actual Tune, being frothy, boppy, and a leetle bit Motowny. 4 ladies, lots of mini ra-ra skirts, lots of movement, lots of bounce… but, nah. This ain’t gonna break their run of failure, either. How’s about some Fado for next year, huh? I could see Fado going great guns.
The hall was jam-packed for everyone’s favourite homophobic pixie with a wind machine, Sweden‘s Carola: a strong contender, with previous form. Carola brought it home for Sweden in 1991 with “Captured By A Love Storm”, aided by judicious use of a wind-machine – and blow me if the wind machine isn’t back in 2006, now turbo charged to ventilate not just Carola’s rippling blue train, but the ginormous silver flags of her backing dancers. Love her or hate her, this was a rip-roaring, barn-storming performance, and a dead cert to qualify. So she’s a born-again nutter! Deal with it!
I’m getting quite quick at doing this, you know. And the laptop hasn’t played up once. Time to source some fluids. Back later with three Big Ones: Estonia, Bosnia, and – be still my beating heart – Iceland!
I wasn’t really enjoying myself much this morning. Too overwhelming, too much to take on board. Now that I’m actually making myself useful, it feels a whole lot better. Arbeit macht frei!
I’ve just nipped out to watch Portugal, and have returned to find the Dutch ladies still blathering on about “this fantastic opportunity”, yadda yadda yadda.
I’ve also spotted the Question Of Doom, which crops up at every press conference. Some well meaning soul will always pop up and ask the act about whether they see Eurovision as a springboard to an international career, and what plans do they have to tour abroad, etc. Tumbleweed, every time, followed by non-committal mumblings. Hey, let’s not kid ourselves here. We’ve all been around the block.
Lithuania performed to the smallest crowd of hacks that I’ve seen thus far. Was it just the post-lunch dip, or were people staying away in droves because “We Are The Winners” is widely regarded as one of the drossiest Eurovision entries ever?
Fools! Fools! OK, so the song is little more than a terrace chant (“We are the winners! Of Eurovision! Vote vote vote vote vote for the winners!”), set to the tune of the children’s refrain “I’m the king of the castle”, over a basic drum pattern. And OK, so the performers look like a bunch of middle-managers getting pissed up at a company Awayday. But, I’m telling you: you’ve got to watch this one. It has a charm all of its own. This is my current Dark Horse.
(There’s also a great bit where it sounds as if the song is about to lurch into Van Halen’s “Jump”. The moment passes quickly, but it’s a thrilling one.)
Excuse me while I hoof it over to everyone’s favourite homophobic pixie with a wind machine: Sweden’s Carola. Busy busy busy!
If there are any Brits who are looking to spread their loyalties, then Turkey would be a natural choice, as nearly all of their humpy male backing dancers are either British by nationality or residency. (Yes, Chig’s been chatting them up.) They include a former dancer for Bananarama and Crazy Frog (the honour!), and a former member of some Pete Waterman protegés called Pop!, who had a few hits a couple of years ago. It’s the umpteenth lively number in a row, and so might get buried in the rush, but the disco-influenced dance moves are a source of some delight.
I didn’t stay long for Ukraine, but what I did see involved Cossack dancing, and a giant skipping rope. But hey, I don’t want to spoil all of your surprises.
Ah, Finland. Now, this is a one to watch. Think Slipknot fronted by Roy Wood, singing death metal vocals over a 1980s Bon Jovi-esque backing. Most of the band wear scary monster masks, and there’s a dramatic Costume Moment mid-song (involving wings), and there are fireworks. Big, huge, massive f**k-off fireworks. Which I missed, as they weren’t activated until the final run-through.
The guys over at the splendid OnEurope Livejournal are saying: Winner. Me, I can’t be sure – there was something awkwardly static about the performance, pyros or not. Still, the band gave easily the most entertaining press conference thus far, for which much thanks. (It’s been Platitude City, basically.)
The Netherlands press conference is taking place as I type. Deeply honoured to be representing our country, blah blah blah. I might be the new kid at school, but I’m quickly learning the drill. It’s a slight and over-repetitive song, delivered by a cutesome girl trio, with an acoustic guitar and… eek, wah… DRUMS.
Those of you who survived last years DrumFest in Kiev will still no doubt be scarred by the memories. It is therefore my pleasure to report that NO BIG DRUMS AT ALL have crossed the Eurovision Big Drum Embargo this year. Maybe they were all impounded at customs. Nevertheless, the Dutch girls have managed to smuggle in an extensive array of Little Drums. Scattered all over the stage, they are. Bongotastic. I don’t think this one will qualify for Saturday’s finals.
Back later!
So here I am, slightly overwhelmed and bewildered, nervously clutching my complementary satchel and stumbling around the Olympic Indoor Arena, here in sunny Athens. Lots of goodies have been thrust into my hand… shrink-wrapped DVDs which I might never play, press releases, party invites, timetables, etc etc.
Chig (who knows EVERYONE) is being very good, and introducing me to people at the rate of about once every five minutes. I barely recall a single name, but everybody is very nice. It’s interesting how, every time you’re introduced to someone, both of your eyes flicker down to the ginormous laminated passes that hang, medallion-like, somewhere around your navel. Checking each other out: so, where’s he from? Is he P1, P2 or FAN? Subtle hierarchies prevail.
As for me, I’ve been granted P2 accreditation. Full access to the open rehearsals and press conferences, but – alarmingly – NO access to the press centre, with its banks of PCs and modem points. That’s strictly for the higher beings with P1.
So, in order to communicate with the outside world, I am obliged to hunker down in the press conference area, which has a good strong wi-fi signal. It’s manageable, so long as the blessed laptop doesn’t start blue-screening. There’s no rhyme or reason to this: it can work like a dream for hours on end, then it can just start crapping out randomly all over the place. But ever since I uninstalled Norton Antivirus, there has been a marked improvement. Fingers crossed.
What of the rehearsals so far? Today, we’ve got the decidedly stronger second half of the qualifiers, which go out on Thursday night on BBC3.
Russia are represented by a pretty boy called Dima Bilan, with a mullet nouveau and amazing fawn-like eyes. Having (frankly) slobbered all over him in his Gay Times preview, Chig has been informed that his comments have been circulated the length and breadth of Russia, and that they are being taken as a great portent for success on Thursday. So, naturally, he was right down the front for the press conference – and right in place to catch one of Dima’s complementary pillows, branded with his image. Sweet dreams tonight for Mister Chig!
The performance involves rose petals, and a white piano from which a woman’s head mysteriously emerges. At least, I think so. There was a bit of a crush down the front, and my eyes were still adjusting to the gloom.
A word about the arena. It’s not overly huge, so even the folks in the cheap seats should get a decent enough view. The stage is modelled around a classic Greek ampitheatre design, with banks of descending steps that also serve as video screens. I’ve seen fussier stage designs in my time, but this is fairly simple and it works well.
Eek, Lithuania are on in the next room. ‘Scuse me, must dash. Talk to you later.
1. Some light perusing of Slate (my new favourite website, for obvious reasons… see next post) has unearthed an excellent article: The Perils Of Poptimism (Does Hating Rock Make You A Music Critic?, by Jody Rosen. Having read an awful lot of over-inflated guff over the years about so-called “rockism”, its adherents and its “popist” opponents, it’s refreshing to find such a sensible, straightforward exposition of the seemingly never-ending row between music geeks of certain hues.
2. The caption competition! I never gave you the results of the caption competition! After careful consideration, the prize of Super Duper Posh Spa Resort Incense Sticks (Sandalwood flavour) goes to…
…asta, for the caption which made K and I laugh the hardest and longest:
K: I’m sure I mentioned that getting a dog would be part of the contract.
Congratulations, asta. Your prize will be winging its way to Canada in a couple of weeks’ time.
3. Over in Athens, Iceland’s “kooky” Silvia Night is giving it the full Diva treatment: at the start of her press conference, she expressly forbade anyone to look at her while addressing her. This turned out to be no joke, as a hapless journo who breached the rule ended up being thrown out of the room by her personal security staff. Now, that’s the sort of behaviour we want to encourage. The spirit of tATu lives on, etc. etc.
Boarding in half an hour! Still very excited!
Well, this is a novel sensation.
While still basking in the warm afterglow of a wonderful holiday which ended just five days ago, I’m now feeling the giddy demob-happy anticipation of a second holiday, which starts tomorrow morning…
…when I fly to Athens, to spend eight days in the very epicentre of the mad media circus that is…
EUROVISION 2006!
This will be my fifth Eurovision, but the first one where I’ll be enjoying the benefits of press accreditation. This comes courtesy of www.slate.com, for whom I’ll be penning four daily dispatches, starting next Thursday.
The purpose of these dispatches will be to introduce and explain the Eurovision phenomenon to a mostly American audience, who know nothing of its manifold delights. This is particularly well-timed, since the NBC network have recently secured the rights to produce a US version of the contest, in which all 50 states will compete against each other. Let’s just hope they manage to preserve something of Eurovision’s essential charm and character.
My mentor for the week will be Chig, who has been representing Gay Times at the contest nearly every year since 1998. I couldn’t ask for a better guide – or indeed flatmate, as we’ll be bunking up together in an apartment for the duration. (I might also press him into certain fact-checking duties; he’s a notorious stickler for detail, and quite right too.)
The big worries right now are:
1. Will my level of accreditation grant me access to the press centre, which I could do with in order to file my copy? They don’t tell you until you get there. It could get ugly!
2. Will my dodgy laptop hold out for the duration? It’s perfectly well-behaved until I switch on the wi-fi, after which it has a nasty habit of blue-screening at random. My latest wheeze has been to disable the Norton Anti-Virus. Miraculously, it appears to be working a treat… so far.
If the wi-fi inside the Arena permits, then I intend to fire off some rough-and-ready hit-and-run blog posts from the rehearsals and press conferences – along with breathless reports of the parties, of course. (“OH MY GOD I stood RIGHT NEXT to the second Croatian backing dancer from the left! My life is SO GLAMOROUS!”) Well, one must be allowed an outlet for one’s untreated fanboy gush, as Slate are really rather highbrow (SHUT THAT DOOR, BELGIUM’S KATE RYAN!), and I shall be obliged to deploy at least some measure of objective detachment. (GO ICELAND! WE LOVE YOU, SILVIA!)
Yesterday, at the Retro Bar’s monthly “Douze Points” shindig, we watched the preview videos of this year’s entries, and cast votes in the traditional Eurovision jury-based manner. (Luca has the full results.) The winners on the night were Germany, who have fielded a sweet and mega-catchy country-and-western hoedown – but easily my favourite video came from Greece’s remarkably well-preserved veteran Anna Vissi, who served up a gripping mini-drama that had me clutching my sides. YOU SHOW ‘EM GRANDMA!
Despite the aforementioned post-holiday glow, it’s been a stressful rollercoaster of a week in many ways. I only had two days in Nottingham to unpack, turn round and re-pack, before spending two days back in Canary Wharf in advance of Athens. The morning after I arrive back at Gatwick, I’ll then be back in Canary Wharf for yet another full working week. I’ve therefore had to pack work clothes, play clothes and party clothes for a full sixteen days away. Why, I can barely lift my suitcase.
This was also the week that I learnt that I’ll be required to spend most of June working in London as well. I’m afraid that, in the heat of the moment, I might have used some unprofessional language. Yes, let’s leave it right there.
Today was a classic Canary Wharf day: lurching from Dear-GOD-this-is-the-toughest-gig-ever, WHY-did-they-hire-me, I’ll-NEVER-get-up-to-speed, my-brain-can’t-absorb-ONE-MORE-SCRAP-of-information, to oh-NOW-I-get-it, wow-I’ve-actually-got-something-WORKING, you-know-this-job-can-be-quite-FUN-in-a-twisted-sort-of-way. And thankfully, in that order.
Bloody Slate Dot Bloody Com, if you please! I am VERY excited. DJ DAZ TO BRING IT BACK HOME FOR BLIGHTY!
What a year, ladies and gentlemen. What a year.
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:
Do you think there is some kind of Bloggers Code – where bloggers maintain and uphold trust, confidentiality etc amongst other bloggers? And if yes, do you think this is because of some kind of unspoken ethics that exist because of the ‘link-loving’ exchange or do you think it is just down to people wanting their own privacy upheld and therefore respecting others’ in the same way?
I suppose what I’m asking you, is if you think that there is a basis to ‘trusting’ another blogger more than a non-blogging reader.
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:
What’s the key to happiness?
Hah! you didn’t think we were going to ask you easy questions did you?
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:
Please rank the following experiences in order of attractiveness from 1 to 5:
having a tooth pulled
spending eleven consecutive working weeks in London
live-blogging Eurovision from Notts
attending Eurovision in Athens
hot shallow sex
Feel free to expand on any of the alternatives that catches your fancy.
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:
What does it take to become an award-winning blogger with a horde of loyal readers and a throng of commenters?
Also, monkeys or cheese? If one had to go, which would you save?
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.
troubled diva 