troubled diva

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Week One.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As for the four brothers, each had aged differently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Also, Mike – wieviel wiegst du?”

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

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

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

Nervously, I stutter a bashful reply.

“Er, zwei oder drei mal pro Woche…?”

Translation: Er, two or three times a week?

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

I thought they were asking me how often I masturbated.

Au weia. Thanks for reminding me, J!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Such luxury! Truly I am not worthy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

…now that the laptop is back from the repair shop, and here with me in Canary Wharf, where the hotel bar has wi-fi access. As I have just confirmed. Whoop-di-doo!

Why is it that whenever life gets really interesting and blog-worthy, the time available to write about it shrinks to nearly nothing? I had this in China. And Barcelona, and Vienna, and Amsterdam, and Cologne, and all the rest of them.

It’s been an action-packed week. Mind you, I’d need a third secret-secret blog in order to write about some of its most action-packed moments. Please pause a moment, as you visualise my secretive faraway smile.

Many thanks to everyone who helped me celebrate the start of my forty-fifth year on Friday night. 48 hours later, and I’m still not entirely free of the after-effects. No pleasure without pain.

Speaking of which: as requested, K has bought me an exercise bike, in order to while away those midweek evenings in Nottingham. Totally cardiovascular! I shall have endorphins to spare!

Anyway, sliding quickly into predictability: I believe I’m up for another of those blog-award thingies.

[Checks the site, with its risqué URL that fell foul of the web censors at my new clients. Bright scarlet warning screen, to match my burning cheeks. That’ll learn me to ego-surf in snatched idle moments.]

Oh. Tant pis. Always the bridesmaid, etc. Petite‘s great, anyway. Yay for Petite. And thanks to the 25 nice people who voted Diva.

As I tap, I am surrounded by smug, braying, respectably inebriated business analysts and/or software consultants, whooping it up on expenses in London’s glamorous, thrusting, and terrifyingly soulless Canary Wharf. Misanthropy is rising. Bed is beckoning.

Apologies for the radio silence. I’ve been working behind the scenes on the proposed Post Of The Week site; the working party is in full flow, and the rest of the volunteer editorial team will be contacted in due course.

I’ve also been writing gig reviews for the Nottingham Evening Post. The first one was spiked, but the second one appeared in yesterday’s print edition: page 23, I believe. There will be more to come – but only after I get back from London.

Which is where I’ll be for the next four weeks or so – maybe a little more, maybe a little less. This is inevitably going to impact on the amount of updates to the blog, as I shan’t have much in the way of after-hours web access, and in any case I intend to be Out And About as much as possible.

(By the way: if we’ve met before, and you fancy meeting up while I’m in town, then please text or e-mail. I really don’t want to be spending any evenings holed up in the hotel on my own, if I can possibly help it.)

K’s off to Los Angeles on Tuesday, returning on Friday. Goodness, we do get about. There’s also an oblique reference to his company in today’s Observer Woman magazine, buried in an interview with an actress. See if you can spot it.

I’ll be in Horsemeat Disco this evening, down Vauxhall way, with some familiar names from the Good Old Days. Ooh, Sunday clubbing. It’s been a while.

Time to go and catch that train, then. Speak to you when I can…

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

Now almost three years old, The Liars Club has built a reputation for hosting some of the most cutting-edge acts around. Franz Ferdinand, Bloc Party and the Scissor Sisters have all played there, on their way to major success.

Tonight was the turn of two bands with a similar take on twisted, punked-up electro-pop: Battant from London, and ADULT. from Detroit.

Following a successful tour supporting Ladytron, Battant are quickly building up an insiders’ buzz. Their greatest asset is vocalist Chloe: a waif-like ice maiden, with a steely stage presence. Comparisons with Siouxsie Sioux are inevitable, and deserved.

Greeted with whoops of recognition, the band’s stand-out track was Jump Up: a jerky, new-wavey number, evoking memories of the wonderfully batty Lene Lovich and Nina Hagen.

Headliners ADULT. – former darlings of the short-lived electroclash scene – took the same formula, and pushed it to new extremes.

With her vocals shrouded in heavy echo, it was impossible to discern what Nicola Kuperus was singing about. Instead, one searched her bizarre, witch-like performance for clues. Eerie, unsettling, slightly mocking, performing almost to herself, she wailed and chanted above the raging squall of the backing track and bass guitar, scarcely moving her lips throughout.

Unfortunately, ADULT.’s limited box of tricks was soon worn out. The audience divided. While the glowstick-waving Nathan Barley types at the front shimmied and swayed, those towards the back stood motionless and puzzled.

Sure, it’s good to be confrontational. But without any substance to back it up, it’s all too easy to wind up looking rather superficial in the process.

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

The last time that Computerman played Nottingham, their audience numbered just twelve. This time, despite an early start, they drew a healthy crowd of supporters, who were clearly not just there for the headliners.

Which is just as it should be, as the five-piece band was based in Nottingham, before moving to London and landing a record deal. Their current single, No More Broken Hearts, is a good representation of their live sound: fast, furious, and dramatic.

Vocals are shared between bassist Adam Pickering – a natural rock star, with a touch of the Tim Burgess about him (bet he hates that comparison) – and bespectacled guitarist Mark Sykes, whose voice was reminiscent of James Dean Bradfield from the Manics. The two singers had an endearing habit of mouthing each other’s words when they weren’t singing, as if they couldn’t wait to join in.

Computerman are back in Nottingham on February 17, playing Trent University. They deserve a bigger crowd still.

Following such a well-received support set, The Fallout Trust battled to keep the audience on-side. As time went on, the chatter at the back of the room threatened to drown them out entirely.

This was a shame, as they are accomplished musicians with a lot to offer. Singer Joe Winter gave an intense, committed performance, jerking around like a man possessed. The music was at its most interesting when it steered away from generic NME-approved rock, towards a more melodic, structured sound.

The potential is there; all they need now is the right audience.

(Because I like to run a tidy ship.)

A while back, Em³ asked:

You receive an email which claims to be from yourself, ten years in the future (and there’s some proof of the sender’s identity in the email).

Do you follow the instructions?

I’d start by experimenting with the lottery numbers. If they came up trumps, then it would be very tempting to obey the other instructions.

On the other hand, wouldn’t that take away some of the essential mystery of life? Remove that sense of an open-ended future, rich in possibilities, and what would you have left? Wouldn’t this kind of slavish obedience reduce me in some way?

Nah, bollocks to that. I’ve always veered towards the easy side of the street, and I often quite like it when choices are made for me. Provided I can trust the person making those choices, that is – and who better to trust than The Future Me?

The answer is a Yes, then.

Andre asked: If you were to run the bloggie awards – would you do it any different?

1. I would expand the “I want to be a judge” section of the voting form, adding check boxes for each of the categories, and asking would-be judges to tick the categories which they would feel happy to judge. (To a minimum of 10 categories.)

2. I would then issue bespoke long-lists to each volunteer judge, based on the categories which they had chosen. Each individual would only have to judge five categories, rather than the current ten. This would be harder to set up and administer, but I’d give myself more time to do the necessary work.

3. Before issuing the long-lists, I would check the nominees, removing duplicate URLs and any sites which didn’t match the categories. Again, this would take more time, which I would factor in.

4. I would remove the Podcast category, as a) podcasts are only tangentially related to weblog culture and b) they take too long to evaluate properly.

5. I would remove the “Best Tagline” category.

6. I would re-introduce the “Best Music Weblog” category.

7. I would introduce a “Most Original or Innovative Weblog” category, for blogs which have pushed the boundaries of the format in some way over the previous 12 months.

8. I would introduce a “Best Non-Profit Weblog” category, which would be restricted to ad-free blogs.

9. I would introduce a “Best Original Artwork” category. Photography would be excluded from this category.

10. I would introduce a “Weblog Post Of The Year” category, for the best individual posting.

11. In order to keep the number of categories to thirty, I would remove the “Best Group Weblog”, “Best Topical Weblog” and “Best Craft Weblog” categories.

12. I would sever the link between announcing the results and the SXSW Festival, thus bringing the announcement date forwards in time.

guyana-gyal asked: Do you feel that you have everything you want in life, or is there more, something else you’d like?

Although I suppose this comes with old age – indeed, I must have witnessed it many times over – I cannot yet imagine reaching a stage in life where I felt that I had everything I wanted. Isn’t this part of what keeps us going, during the active part of our lives? I’m not talking about a negative feeling of unfulfilment – of lack – but more of a positive desire for greater fulfilment.

On the other hand, if your question refers purely to material wants, then I’d say that I’m not so very far away from reaching that stage – and certainly much nearer than I was in my thirties, when my outlook was a good deal more materialistic. Simply put: shopping for pleasure no longer does it for me – unless it’s shopping for presents, which I still adore.

OK, let’s be more specific. Number One on the list would be a house with a south-facing aspect. In the whole time that we have been together, K and I have never lived anywhere which enjoys a decent amount of direct sunlight indoors. It has been our constant gripe for years.

That’s it, I’m done. No more questions!

I’ve got some time on my hands, so please fire away in the comments box. Any question, any topic. Trained operators are standing by to take your call.

By the way, I still need two judges for Post Of The Week. Please e-mail if interested.

1. Girl asks: Any nice plans for the weekend Sir Mike?

Why, indeed we have. We’re travelling to Cambridge tomorrow morning, to visit my mother, to exchange belated Christmas presents (both of us having being abroad on the day itself), and for me to receive an early birthday present (it’s a fortnight today).

I have two presents for her:

• A nice spice grinder from the David Mellor factory shop, which looks similar to a pestle and mortar, but with more of a hem-hem sculptural appeal (and can I just say, before you all faint at the price, that the factory shop offers a substantial discount). Incidentally, I wrote about the trip to the factory shop last November. Although the trip was rather overshadowed by the purchase of The Bobbly Fruit And Pillows.
• An amateur watercolour (dated 1907) of the house in which she grew up, which I bought off eBay and have had framed. This was meant to be a fantastic surprise – except that I foolishly blogged the painting, thinking that she wouldn’t see it, as she doesn’t own a computer. Of course, what I forgot about is that she has friends who own computers, and sometimes looks at her blog on those computers. Quelle twit. (One day, she’ll stumble upon this place. Once she hits that sidebar, I fear my days will be numbered. Parents: always the last to know, aren’t they?)

2. Lynne asks, with spooky synchronicity, just as I was adding a few extra sentences to my previous answer: Aren’t you a bit buggered if your mum reads this, Mike?!

Indeed I might be. But only if she pops round to a friend’s house between now and tomorrow lunchtime, asks to use their computer, works out how to use one, discovers Google, types in my name, finds this site, and reads it. I walk such a narrow tightrope.

3. Dymbel asks: How’s the f**s* ***e* coming on?

T***i***. P***r***i***i** *n* **a* **i** *o** *e ** *h*** d***l* **b***e, *** g***t ***n* ** n** *n***h ** *r** *y***f ***m **. *h* **s***, o* **u***, i* ** J*** D* **. B** *h** *h**’* t** *n***r ** *o ***y ***n**, *n* ** a***e* **i** * h*** s***t ***h ** *y ***e ***e***d** *a***n* ** h***. H***e *** t***a**. *e**, *o* **d ***.

Update: Major respect to Clare for decoding the above, and only getting four words wrong.

4. Making his first visit to my comments box since April of last year, A Reader asks (with a certain degree of thematic consistency): What’s your favourite Take That song?

First of all: welcome back to Troubled Diva, A Reader! You have been anonymously with us almost from the start, haven’t you? Loyalty: we like that in our readers.

It’s an easy and obvious one. My favourite Take That song is Back For Good, followed by Pray, followed by Could It Be Magic, followed by Relight My Fire. (“Cue Lulu!”) Roll on April 26th at the NEC…

5. The newly relocated Jack of Pandemian (née Green Fairy) asks: Interesting ways to die: would you rather be smothered in plum jam and buried up to the eyebrows in a termite nest or stretched flat and squeezed very slowly between two ginormous weights?

Strewth, do I have to choose? Is this a case of: you choose or you die?

I’d opt for the quickest method, but I can’t decide which it is. Do termites eat flesh? There’s nothing on Wikipedia which suggests that they do, so maybe I’d just be tickled while I suffocated.

Yes, rapid suffocation trumps slow squashing. I choose the jam and termites.

Also, I’ll make a better corpse: either fully intact (if a trifle sticky, but that would wash off), or else neatly bio-degraded, depending on dietary habits of said termites. I wouldn’t wish my weight-squished carcass upon any funeral director. Far too undignified.

At least I’d die with a nice taste in my mouth. Mmm, plums.

6. MissMish asks: What will you be wearing on your birthday m’dear?

Oh, do you mean my birthday that takes place exactly two weeks from today? That birthday? The one I mentioned earlier? Lovely!

My daytime wear will depend upon the dress code of my new clients, down in London’s vibrant Canary Wharf district, where I shall have been working all week. It has not yet been confirmed whether this dress code is “smart casual” or “business casual” – and yes, Virginia, there is a difference. Mainly in the trouser department. However, we can safely assume that a nice smart shirt will be a given.

As for my evening wear: what does a self-respecting middle-aged homo wear to a gay/bi/trans gothic/industrial night, without risking cries of “Mouton!” from the pierced-and-tatted throng? Last time, I stuck my glow-in-the-dark Camembert Electrique T-shirt over my vintage 1991 Paul Smith leather kecks, mainly to hide the fact that I could no longer fasten the top button of the kecks. This is not a look which I am prepared to risk a second time.

Probably the same T-shirt (as it’s my one remaining sartorial concession to “rock and roll”), teamed up with some dark jeans and my nice Prada shoes. (Five and a half years old, and they still look box-fresh. Best swanky designer buy EVER.)

7. Apropos the previous question, Siobhan asks: Ooh, and have you any fashion advice for a young-girl-about-town who wants to tag along?

Goodness. How do you dress an almost award-winning Lancastrian transvesite for an alt.gay.goth-slash-industrial “nite” in the upstairs function room of a real ale pub down the bottom of Hockley? I am quite out of my depth.

In lieu of a useful answer, can I give you a Fun Fact about the night in question? Last time I went, the organisers had laid out little Occasional Bowls on each table (white plastic, nothing fancy), each bowl containing a lollipop and a sachet of lube. Now, that’s what I call thoughtful.

8. Martin R asks: Far be it from me to question your divine status. But why “troubled”? You seem to be a pretty happy man these days!

Yes, but would Self Satisfied Diva work so well on a coffee mug? No, no, brand consistency is all.

9. Waitrose David asks: How have the fellow bloggers whom you have met in person differed from your expectations ? You don’t need to name names of course. I suppose water will be muddied if you have exchanged e-mails with them separately as well.

I’ve just been trying to locate my favourite observation on this subject, which I think was left by Gert in an old comments box, circa February 2003. (But I might be wrong.)

Anyhow, the observation went something like this. When you meet a fellow blogger for the first time, they’re never exactly as you imagined – but on the other hand, they’re only slightly different. It only takes a few moments to re-align your expectation with the reality, after which you can continue as normal.

I’d also say that, in general, you can sidestep a few of the usual tentative getting-to-know-you stages and checking points which occur on first meetings. You will often (but admittedly not always) end up feeling as if you have known each other for ages. It’s a weird but pleasant sensation – and the more often you experience it, the less weird it gets.

Have I ever met a blogger who has been nothing like I imagined they would be? I’m concentrating very hard here. Yes, I can certainly think of one. No, two.

(That’s not different-in-a-bad-way. Just different.)

As of now, there are no more outstanding questions to answer – so that’s it for this week.

(Oh dear, did we only make it to nine questions again? I guess those Shanghai stories will have to wait a while longer.)

I recommend the large size. (via)

Troubled Diva Proper is like the front room at a party, with everyone making polite – if rather strained – conversation on the couches.

Troubled Diva Xtra is like the kitchen at the same party, where all the juicy trash-talk is going on, and no-one gives a damn because they know the host so well.

(Except that there aren’t any comment boxes on Troubled Diva Xtra. At which point the analogy collapses, and I become more tempted than ever to add comment boxes to Troubled Diva Xtra, just to save the analogy. God, you think this stuff is planned?)

So.

Yes.

That’s an awfully pretty sidebar, isn’t it?

Yes, isn’t it.

…

Have you visited the archives recently?

…

…

Excuse me, I’ll be right back.

I’ve left a comment at Gordon’s place, attached to this post, where he talks of wanting to make a clear distinction between “pro” blogs and “hobbyist” blogs. The comment makes more sense in context, but I found that while writing it, my own thoughts on the subject of pro-vs-am blogging finally clarified. So here it is:

My take on it is this: we would do better to think of a “blog” as merely a description of how a website is formatted. If a website is built around reverse-chronological dated entries, it’s a blog. End of.

The problems occur when people try to load this neutral descriptive term with their own subjective interpretations of what blogging should be “all about”. There is no such thing as “the true spirit of blogging”. A blog is the end result of a number of content management systems, and that’s all.

Pro-blogs represent one subset of blogs. Personal blogs represent another. Very occasionally (eg. Dooce), the categories might overlap. But in any case, as with genres of music or literature, the category boundaries will always be blurred around the edges. Therefore, while thinking in terms of categories can be a useful shorthand at times, it’s dangerous to let that sort of thinking take over.

The problems occur when ANY group of bloggers start thinking and acting as if their own particular paradigm is “what blogging is all about”. Personal bloggers do this; pro-bloggers do this; political bloggers do this possibly most of all.

It’s a neutral descriptive term for websites with reverse-chronological dated posts. The rest is up to the blogger. Live and let live. Peace and love.

Yeah, it’s an off-the-cuff ramble, which could use a little editing, structuring and expanding. But then what am I, some sort of professional blogger?

Just under a year ago, I compiled a small list of Nottingham-based blogs of note. For reasons which may or may not become apparent, I’d like to conduct the same exercise again. So if you either write or know of a decent local blog which should be included in this list, then please let me know in the comments box.

• 1000 Shades Of Grey
• A Cloud In Trousers
• Argy Bargey
• Barnze’s Muses
• bytheseashore
• CollyLogic
• David Belbin
• Drama Queen, Fag-Hag, JAP
• EatNottingham.com
• Fear & Loathin’ on the River Soar
• MovieBuff
• Niles’s Blog
• PigPog
• Reluctant Nomad
• Rullsenberg Rules
• Skytower
• Swiss Toni’s Place
• The Bargain Basement
• Your mind and we