troubled diva

Earlier in the week, I linked to an old photo gallery on Hydragenic, containing some magnificent views of the centre of Nottingham.

Hydragenic’s latest Nottingham photo gallery tells quite a different story.

I have a bit of a head today. I know, I know, nothing new there – but this is a different kind of head. Thicker, blunter, stupider. And I only even had half a glass.

Getting ahead of myself already. Let’s backtrack.

K has lunch at the Man Ho restuarant about once a week, as his business partner has been a regular there for years. (Word to me homies: top of Hockley, where it meets Pelham Street. Yeah, that one.) So when the subject of my imminent business trip came up, the manager’s wife kindly offered to lay on a special “Hangzhou menu” for the two of us, comprising local specialities that don’t appear on their English language menu.

(Incidentally, I do love it when Chinese restaurants grant you access to their “Chinese only” menus. They sometimes take a little persuading, as they tend to be of the opinion that no English person could possibly want to be so adventurous – but if you’ve got to know them over time, then you’ll stand a better chance.)

All I can say is this: if I eat even half as well when I’m over there, then I’m in for an extended culinary treat. (Although judging by some of his blog postings over the past few weeks, I can hear my colleague JP’s hollow laugh from here.)

Our three main courses were as follows:

• Tung Pau Yuk: Chunks of belly pork fat, slow-cooked for five or six hours until they become all soft and tender and caramelised and sweet and gooey, with the most heavenly concentration of flavour.
• Sunn Hou Kok: deep-fried garlic ribs with five-spice seasoning.
• Shanghai Noodles: long, fat, slippery and glistening, tubular in shape, and served with strips of meat and steamed vegetables.

While we ate, the manager and his wife took it in turns to come and chat to us. The manager’s wife had brought a photo album along to show me, consisting of photos from her trip to Hangzhou and Shanghai over the spring. This afforded me my first glimpse of Hangzhou’s major tourist attraction, the West Lake. It looked beautiful, dotted with pagodas and bridges, and with mountains in the background.

K looked up at me with wide-eyed amazement. “I had no idea that where you were going was so beautiful. You’ll have a wonderful time. I love the Far East. Wish I was going with you.”

(Did I mention that we looked into this? But with K’s company entering a crucial stage of its development, the timing isn’t right.)

The manager wrote down the names of our three dishes on a piece of card, so that I could point to them in restaurants. What with this and the “flash cards” that we’re issued with, to show to taxi drivers when we want to get to the office or to our apartments, I’m going to be doing a lot of pointing.

A quick language lesson ensued. As a result, I can now say “hello”, “how are you” and “thank you” in Mandarin. (Or was it Cantonese? Nope, Mandarin. I’ve got a lot to learn.) But only if I get the intonations right, of course. God knows what vile oaths I might be uttering otherwise. I bet that puns are big in China; there’s so much scope.

At the end of the meal, an elaborately cut bottle of rice wine was produced, still in its presentation box, and complementary glasses were poured for us with some degree of ceremony.

“Very strong!”, we were told. “50 percent! Very special flavour! It stays with you!”

About ten years ago, in the flock-covered dining room of possibly – hopefully – the last hotel in England which still subscribed to the Fawlty Towers management style (dinner at 7pm sharp, fixed menu, no choice of dishes), the ex-military owner served us with bowls of a “Chinese kidney soup” which looked and smelt exactly like hot urine. It was quite the most disgusting liquid I had ever tasted.

This was worse.

“I can’t drink this!”, I hissed at K. “They’ll be so offended. What can I do?”

“Wait till their backs are turned, then swap your glass for my empty one. I’ll polish it off. I actually quite like it.”

“You like it?”, asked the manager, collecting the empty glasses. “Give me the card, and I’ll write the name down for you: Wu Liang Ye. Now you can enjoy it wherever you go.”

Oh, bloody great. I know exactly how this is going to pan out when I’m over there. I’m going to end up with a bloody cocktail cabinet full of the stuff, aren’t I?

By this time, K was pie-eyed and burbling. I don’t think I have ever seen anyone get drunk quite so quickly. Christ, I felt bad enough; and that was just from the half glass that I’d managed to force down without gagging.

We staggered home, talking shit and giggling, as the vile flavour of the wine “repeated” itself in my mouth, bringing fresh waves of nausea with every gastric lurch.

Four cigarettes later, and all I had to show for my efforts was a mouth like an ashtray, and the same bloody taste, undimmed by my attempts at flushing it out with a cocktail of carcinogenic toxins. Very special flavour; it stays with you. Sheesh, they weren’t wrong.

It is now almost exactly forty-eight hours until my plane takes off. (Perhaps by then, the taste will finally have left my system. Yes, even as I type.)

None of it seems real yet. I can’t get my head around it at all. But I’m glad that last night at least gave me a hint of what’s in store.

1. Can’t Take My Eyes Off You – Andy Williams.

I’m giving the brides – let’s call them Maureen and Doreen – strict instructions to start playing these three CDs EXACTLY four hours before chucking-out time at the Polish Centre. Also, the CDs MUST be played in the correct order, and NOBODY is allowed to fiddle around with them once they’ve started playing.

(You know those annoying bossy people at parties who commandeer YOUR hi-fi, and start skipping tracks halfway through, in order to find some “proper music”? Well, we’ll have none of that here, thank you. I might be on the other side of the world when all this is going on, but I can still exert some control. After all, the BEST fun is ORGANISED FUN. Oh yes.)

So, providing that my instructions are followed TO THE LETTER, this should serve as Maureen and Doreen’s official First Dance. Everybody say Aah…

2. Love Is In The Air – John Paul Young.

…after which the floor will slowly fill with soft-shoe shufflers, surrounding the happy couple as they daintily step out to this middle-of-the-road “guilty pleasure”. How ever so romantic.

3. Don’t Go Breaking My Heart – Dame Elton of John, and not forgetting the little lady with the big voice, Miss Kiki Dee.

Keeping it smooth and sweet, and gently funky in a Port And Lemon At The Rotary Club Dinner Dance stylee.

4. I Only Want To Be With You – Dusty Springfield.

DYKEON ALERT! DYEKON ALERT! ALL LADY-LOVING LADIES TO THE DANCEFLOOR NOW!

5. Mamma Mia – Abba.

A wedding disco ain’t a wedding disco without Abba, so let’s get them out of the way nice and early. I rejected “Dancing Queen” for being, as Grandmaster Flash used to say a “used groove”, so have opted for something perky and bouncy and up-beat instead.

6. Sunday Girl – Blondie.

These are all light, breezy, tuneful selections, designed to entice people off their seats with the minimum of duress. Nothing too full-on as yet; it’s still early, and we fortysomethings have to deploy our energies sparingly.

7. Brown-Eyed Girl – Van Morrison.

Some Real Music for the Dads, who have been nursing their first after-dinner pints for long enough. At do’s like this, you need good strong recognisable intros, to drag people up on their feet without having to weigh up the Pros and Cons.

8. Let’s Stick Together – Bryan Ferry.

“And now the marriage vow is very sacred…” I’ve gone for Blindingly Obvious Lyrical Relevance in a major way with these mixes. Well, you can’t have any heartbreak songs on a day like this, can you?

9. I Believe In A Thing Called Love – The Darkness.

Hello, Young People! We haven’t forgotten you! The first song to be taken from the last 25 years brings us bang up to date with today’s modern chart sounds. Well, as far as autumn 2003, at any rate. For a wedding disco, that’s positively upfront.

10. Rebel Rebel – David Bowie.

OK Young People, you can sit yourselves down again. Thank you for your valued contribution.

11. Step On – Happy Mondays.

In which ex-raver uncles hunch their bodies forwards at disc-slipping angles, and throw interesting “shapes”, of the big-fish little-fish cardboard-box Ooh Missus Where’s Me Maracas variety. Ee, that Bez on Celebrity Big Brother, national treasure or what, yeah I went down the Hacienda in 1991 it were Top, etc etc.

12. Rock DJ – Robbie Williams.

Ah, Robbie Williams: one of those acts which only the general public seem to like. My partner’s parents’ best friends employed him in their shop as a Saturday Boy, you know. Yes, thought you’d be impressed. I’m doing a slow tempo-build here, leading nicely into…

13. Rock Your Body – Justin Timberlake.

Back in the public consciousness, thanks to its performance by fresh-faced obedient twink Shayne out of X-Factor. (Prediction: he’ll come second, do exactly what he’s told for 18 months, and have four or five hits before slipping away into the twilight world of reality TV renta-celeb-ism.)

14. You Sexy Thing – Hot Chocolate.

You have to have this one. It’s the law. This was considered quite cheeky at my 13th birthday party.

15. December ’63 (Oh What A Night) – The Four Seasons.

Another statutory must.

16. The Tide Is High – Blondie.

Momentary optimism from the Young People: “Oh wicked, Atomic Kitten.” Nuh-uh, fooled you. Index fingers ready for the “Number One” bit, boys and girls!

17. La Isla Bonita – Madonna.

“Last night I dreamt of some Dago… young girl with eyes like potatoes… tropical the island breeze… something something something Spanish lullaby.”

18. Killer – Adamski.

Sudden change of pace SHOCKAH. A special request from the brides, this one. “Racism amongst future kings can only lead to no good…” Oh, it’s that weird slow bit in the middle. Quickety-quick, mix straight into…

19. Groove Is In The Heart – Deee-Lite.

I’m seeing a packed dancefloor for this one. Ever seen it clear a room? No, thought not. It’s one of those “smash and grab in case of emergency” type tunes.

20. Manic Monday – The Bangles.

Actually, this could all too easily clear the floor. What on earth is this one doing here? Well, too late to change now: the CDs are burnt and wrapped – with strict DO NOT OPEN UNTIL THE DAY ITSELF instructions – and I’m handing them over to Maureen (or is it Doreen?) in ten minutes’ time.

21. When The Going Gets Tough, The Tough Get Going – Billy Ocean.

Hot Chocolate, Billy Ocean… why, it could be Larry Levan at the Paradise Garage. Disco will never die!

22. The Only Way Is Up – Yazz & The Plastic Population.

One for the “Stop Clause 28” crowd who used to come to my club nights in 1988 (and there will be several in attendance), where this ruled the floor for weeks. Don’t forget to punch the air in the right place, folks. “The only way is up… *PUNCH*…” Oh, we haven’t changed a bit actually actually I think you’ll find. Stand Up For Your Love Rights!

23. In The Middle Of Nowehere – Dusty Springfield.

Otherwise known as the theme tune from Smack The Pony, this brings Disc One to a close.

To be continued.

Today, I was going to post a list of Troubled Diva’s Most Clicked Links of 2005 – or more exactly from March 7th onwards, which is when I installed MyBlogLog. However, it’s such a boringly predictable list that I’m not going to bother after all.

(OK, just one: the most popular link was Big Blogger 2005, which notched up 619 clicks.)

Instead, I have selected 16 links which have only been clicked once – generally because they were posted prior to March 2005 – in order to give them a second chance.

These have all been hand-picked for your re-enjoyment, and should therefore be clicked upon by absolutely everybody.

The list is arranged in no particular order of preference.

1. Conservative Pop Music? The Top 40 of the Top 40.
The text of a bizarre speech, which selects – in all seriousness – forty “conservative classics from the rock era”, with full explanations for each choice. Who says the Devil has all the best tunes? Or something.

2. The Search For Love In Manhattan: In the lesbians’ bathroom. (Thursday February 06, 2003)
In which Faustus M.D. recounts his experience as a sperm donor, via the medium of popular song. (I know a similar story about this, involving one of K’s ex-girlfriends and one of his ex-flatmates, but it’s sadly not mine to tell. Ask me about it the next time I see you.)

3. Welshcake: Dear, dear Johnny…
In which former thesp Duncan recounts a couple of choice anecdotes about the late Sir John Gielgud.

4. Mixmeister Express 6: free trial download.
Ever wondered what software I use to make those podcasts and megamixes? Here it is. Full purchase highly recommended.

5. Heinrich Hoffmann’s Struwwelpeter.
A web-enabled version of the classic compendium of lurid cautionary tales for children, complete with original illustrations. (As a little lad, I used to read these over and over again, absorbing their stern moral messages as I went along.) If pushed for time, then The Story of Little Suck-a-Thumb gives as good a flavour as any.

6. Gayle – Gay South African Slang.
Sure, you’re fluent in Polari – but what about its even camper South African equivalent, where every word is rendered as a girl’s name? Read and digest, and then you too will be able to tell your Cora Doras from your Olga Pandoras.

7. Hydragenic: Nottingham Gallery, October 2002.
Gorgeous images of my home city, as taken by former resident Stuart Hg. Start here and follow the links…

8. Jenny Holzer: Believe?
A collection of slogans from the American conceptual artist, some of which were issued as stickers by The Face magazine in the 1980s. (I used to have “Abuse Of Power Comes As No Surprise” on my 12-inch singles DJ box.)

9. Civil partnership: legal recognition for same-sex couples.
Contains everything you need to know from the official point of view. For more information, I recommend the current (December 2005) issue of Gay Times, which is most thorough on the subject. (For instance, did you know that a civil partnership registration will render your existing will null and void?)

10. Alan Duncan MP: The Legalisation of Drugs.
Arguments in favour of legalisation, from the Shadow Secretary of State for Trade and Industry. My only criticism is that he misses a couple of extra points.

11. LeftLion: Nottingham Culture Online.
Online version of the groovy local freesheet, aimed at the hip young gun-slingers of the East Midlands.

12. Psychology of Cyberspace: The Online Disinhibition Effect.
A classic text, full of wisdom for would-be “confessional” bloggers, which seeks to explain just why we are so tempted to let it all hang out in front of a potential audience of millions.

13. Sierra Leone Web: Krio Proverbs And Stories.
Krio is Sierra Leone’s equivalent of Creole/Patois/Pidgin, with some marvellously expressive proverbs all of its own, and here are some examples (sadly in PDF format).

14. London Review Of Books: Classified Personals.
The legendarily witty and inventive Personal Ads column is still going strong. Makes a refreshing change from GWM WLTM similar w.GSOH ALAWP no timewasters fatties femmes or freaks.

15. The World, Backwards: The Trap Snaps and That’s That.
“The eyes always averted, a brief glance and then set dead ahead. A torment I’m so inured to that the pain is all but theoretical. I know I’ve nothing to offer, beergut and sweaty forehead and eyes the wrong side of wild.” Confessional blogging at its finest, from TV’s Mr. Noodle Vague.

16. They’re Made Out Of Meat, by Terry Bisson.
So old it’s got whiskers on, but no less wonderful for all that. Sooner or later, everyone on the Internet stumbles across this one. Now it’s your turn.

“I’m just going off to find someone to f**k. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Ee, we’re such classy bitches in the East Midlands.

This little meme-ette was apparently doing the rounds during the autumn, as initiated by Cliff at This is this. It’s a simple concept, which should need no further introduction.

Update: Hmm, it seems that I should have spelt the concept out in more detail after all. For each entry, the word count should match the age. At least according to your word processing package of choice.

1
WAAAAH.

2
Hello, sister.

3
Happy little cherub.

4
Teach myself to read.

5
Youngest pupil, at girls’ school.

6
Why can’t we have au-pair BOYS?

7
Top of the class, teacher’s pet; precocious.

8
Two years younger than all my classmates; prodigy.

9
Whistle blower on the “show us your willy” scandal.

10
The last days of our idyllic “Janet and John” existence.

11
Mother moves out to re-marry; grandmother moves in to house-keep; devastated.

12
A crush on the headmaster’s daughter causes temporary blurring of emergent sexuality.

13
A crush of infinitely greater magnitude at boarding school causes blurring to cease.

14
Hormonal frenzy during Long Hot Summer of 1976 causes disappointing exam results. Father re-marries.

15
Obsessed with punk, hideous collection of shit brown polo-neck sweaters notwithstanding. Tensions with step-family accumulate.

16
Annus miserabilis. Wracked with self-consciousness, no friends at school, family scapegoat, many wounding rows at home.

17
Slow re-construction of identity commences. First sexual experience, bringing more pain than pleasure. Leave home for London.

18
Selling tourist tat at Hamleys toyshop, saving for solo rail trip round Europe. Doomed attempt to study law.

19
Flunk law, switch to German. Living in cheerful communal squalor. Fantastic social life; barren sex life. Something’s gotta give.

20
Something gives: namely my fear of entering gay society. First date, first gay friend, first boyfriend (not the same person).

21
Experiments in bottle-blondeness. Move to West Berlin. Flatshare with three right-on schoolmistresses in their thirties. Become a “creature of the night”.

22
“Vacuum created by the arrival of freedom, and the possibilities it seems to offer.” Having just found my feet, leave Berlin reluctantly.

23
After Berlin, Nottingham feels drab. Strategy of only dating unsuitable people fails spectacularly, when I fall in love with K. Escape deferred indefinitely.

24
Redundancy from first shitty job comes as a blessing. Our crappy rented flat becomes the “matt black dream home”, all chrome and lacquered ash.

25
Working for the council, not eating meat, sitting on Equal Opportunities committee, spinning house and rap at “alternative” lesbian/gay night. Impeccably PC or what?

26
My club nights become the focus for the “Stop Clause 28” crowd. Constant comparisons with The Proclaimers force me into contact lenses. Bye bye, “cruise shields”…

27
Promotion at work feels like a breakthrough. The “social lynchpin” years reach their zenith, our house becoming everyone’s speakeasy. K commences seven years of intensive foreign travel.

28
Although life is certainly fun-packed, we’re pulling in different directions. K is stressed and needs space; I’m bored and need action. Our social circle has exceeded critical mass.

29
See above. At our local gay flea-pit, I’m quite the Belle of the Ball on Saturday nights. It’s an achievement of sorts. Wild times in New York and Amsterdam.

30
Moving house cures us of Perpetual Host Syndrome, but K is now abroad every other week. We’re quite the style queens, with our minimalist décor and our labels. Sweedie. Darling.

31
The mass cull of family members gathers pace, with the death of my father having particular impact. Correspondingly, my taste for hedonism steps up a notch. The hardcore clubbing years commence.

32
The jet-set years peak, with holidays in California, Barcelona, Scandinavia and Burgundy. Work is pants, but energies are focussed elsewhere. See God on a dancefloor in Clerkenwell, re-emerging with a convert’s zeal.

33
Swap the poofy labels for standard-issue Schott, Sherman, Levis. Volunteer for the local Gay Switchboard. Tenth anniversary party, relationship crisis, resolution. Join the Internet: omniscience at the touch of a button. Hello, world!

34
On said Clerkenwell dancefloor, I’m quite the regular celebrant on Sunday mornings, with the sexy Leicester boys and the gurn-along gang. After seven years in a job I hate, make long overdue sideways move.

35
The dutiful, card-carrying, Gay with a capital G years reach their culmination over Pride weekend: my Apotheosis of Queer. Having ticked off everything on my shopping list of experiences, one question remains: what next? Hmm…

36
Actually, why not work through that list one more time? Might as well. Over recent years, this single-minded dedication has narrowed my focus. Who needs other interests? Frankly darlings, I’ve become a bit of a bore.

37
After the seventh family bereavement in seven years, something inside snaps. Poor timing, as I experience major New Job Jitters, free of the council at last. Text-book midlife crisis kicks in, big time. Worst year since adolescence.

38
Miraculously, K concludes lucrative business deal, allowing us to purchase weekend bolt-hole in the Peak District. Priorities re-arrange themselves, instantly and dramatically. On the weekend we move in, I say my final farewells to the Clerkenwell dancefloor. Closure.

39
Spend six knackering months playing weekend hosts to all our city friends, whilst furnishing the cottage from scratch. Start collection of Gillray caricatures. Social anxiety around posh “county” types. Win 200 quid on quiz show. Change job. Start blogging.

40
Project from Hell, marooned in a Portakabin in the industrial North East. Unexpectedly re-introduced, via blogging, to London gay scene. Play with fire, get burnt. What I took for an epiphany is actually closure of a different kind. Nuff said.

41
An all-new garden for the cottage is commissioned and built, leading to uptake of age-appropriate new interest. In surprise role reversal, commence several months of intensive business travel: several weeks in Paris, then six other European cities. Re-evaluate priorities, and reluctantly quit blogging.

42
Start blogging again. After slow start, have established solid network of valued friends in the village, which now feels more like home than Nottingham. No longer scared of middle age. Tough holiday in Peru causes sequence of illnesses, leading to depressive relapse.

43
Twentieth anniversary of relationship with K. Blogging leads to radio interview, national press coverage, lecturing engagement. First piece of paid journalism appears in Time Out. Start course of cognitive behavioural therapy. Opportunity arises for three weeks working in China over Christmas. Optimistic? Very.

Please feel free to try this at home. Warning: it’s tougher than it looks.

I’m going to say this quickly, before I change my mind.

Perhaps it’s worth explaining that I’m not altogether feeling myself today; the flu-like after effects of yesterday’s typhoid jab have left me feeling floaty, free-form, vaguely delirious.

So if what I’m about to say causes a shit-storm, then these are my mitigating circumstances.

(Yeah, nice try Mike. It’s the old “you wouldn’t hit a man with glasses” line, isn’t it? They’re not going to buy that one in a hurry.)

(See what I mean? I’m talking to myself in public.)

(Oh, just get on with it. You said you were going to be quick.)

(Well, that would be a first.)

(SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP.)

Anyone who has spent any time surfing the UK blogosphere over the last month or so will already be aware of 2005 Blogged: Dispatches from the Blogosphere: a newly published anthology of postings from over 100 British blogs, spanning the period from November 2004 to October 2005.

Now, we bloggers can be an awkward, stroppy bunch of buggers when we want to be, and many of us are never happier than when we’re having a good self-righteous rant, or constructing elaborate conspiracy theories from thin air, or wondering just Where It All Went Wrong, because it was Never Like This In My Day. And so, inevitably, the 2005 Blogged project started coming in for criticism well in advance of the book hitting the shops.

“Sticking a bunch of blog posts in a book? A BOOK? That’s ABSURD.”

Not if you’re curious about this whole blogging business, but don’t have the time and determination to sift the nuggets from the chaff. Because, let’s face it, that can be a pretty severe uphill struggle for a first-timer.

And not if you hate reading large amounts of text on a screen, either. I know plenty of people in Real Life who don’t bother reading Troubled Diva for just that reason.

“But all of this stuff is already available on the Internet, for FREE.”

Yes – but I would contend that £8.99 (or £5.39 on Amazon) is a perfectly reasonable price to pay for getting Tim Worstall (the book’s editor) to wade through over 5000 weblogs on your behalf – and presumably all in his spare time, to boot. I can’t even begin to speculate how long that must have taken him.

“And they haven’t even paid their contributors, the money-grabbing bastards!”

Which does rather assume that there’s money in the pot to make the payments in the first place. 2005 Blogged is the product of a small new independent publisher; it will only have a limited print run; and its time-specific “almanac” nature means that it will probably only sell in reasonable numbers for the next couple of months. So what’s less than 1% of next to nowt? Scarcely worth the price of a stamp!

Besides, none of these pieces were commissioned for the book. They already existed – and still exist – on the web, for free; and most of them were probably knocked up in an hour or so, maybe two at the most. Better to pay whatever you can to the people who have undertaken work especially for the book, surely?

And they did ask everybody nicely. And people who said “No” weren’t included. And everyone gets a free copy.

(And I’ve almost convinced myself. People, we live in a micro-payments age. These things are easily arranged.)

But really, none of the above is even any of my business, is it? Especially since I wasn’t even included in the sodding thing. DON’T THEY KNOW WHO I AM?

BIG MISTAKE. BIIIIIG MISTAKE.

(See, I told you. He’s delirious.)

Okay. So far, so reasonable. But, speaking as a punter, who purchased it with his own money in Waterstones earlier in the week, here’s where my issues start.

Firstly, the “blogosphere” which is represented in this book bears virtually no resemblance to the blogosphere which I have been inhabiting for the past four years.

“Oh, he’s just pissed off because his mates didn’t get in.”

No, it’s not that. Besides, quite a few of them did: Acerbia, Blogjam, Green Fairy, JonnyB, Naked Blog, Saltation, Scaryduck, Willie Lupin. Great pieces from all concerned. But my particular beef with Tim Worstall’s selection is this: that the overwhelming majority of pieces come from the “political” wing of the blogosphere.

Politics, politics, politics, for page after page after page. Opinions, arguments, “fiskings“, polemics, rants, rebuttals – most of which concern events which are well outside the real life experiences of the writers concerned.

Sure, that’s a blogosphere. A large one, an influential one, a worthwhile and effective one. Active citizenship. Keeps the self-serving buggers in Parliament and the lazy hacks in the national press on their toes, and Hooray for that.

But it’s not, as this book seeks to represent, the blogosphere.

Because the vast majority of UK weblogs are not political.

And it’s most certainly not my blogosphere, or that of my regular readers and fellow writers.

Okay, so that’s partly because – as Graham Norton once said – I have all the political depth of a puddle. ‘S boring innit?

But it’s also because what many of us look for in a good blogger is not an ability to pronounce on the national issues of the day, but the ability to let us into their lives. Their hearts, their minds, their hopes, fears, dreams, sorrows, triumphs, frustrations, ambitions… their very selves.

Oh dear, I did warn you.

But there is so much great writing out there: oozing personality, full of truth, warmth and wit, packed with illuminating, beautifully expressed observations on people’s everyday lives – sometimes moving, sometimes hilarious, sometimes…

Yes, well.

What I’m trying to say is that, leafing through 2005 Blogged in the order in which it is presented, I’m not getting a sense of the true diversity of British blogging. I’m not even getting much of a sense of the diversity of political opinion, at least not far beyond the respectful divide between the erudite gentlemen of the so-called “pro-liberation Left” and the equally erudite gentlemen of the libertarian Right.

After a while, it all becomes rather homogenised; as if the same writer is jumping about from blog to blog, frantically swapping hats. In this context, the tiny number of admittedly very well chosen “personal” posts comes as sweet relief – but somehow, these also jar against the prevalent mood. Yes, that’s it: they feel like light relief, a snack between the main courses. This doesn’t serve them well.

Consequently, there’s an overall dryness to the selection. This is detailed, insider-ish stuff, for people who spend more time on the op-ed pages than the lifestyle sections. Okay, so I’m shallower than most – but is this really the book that’s going to explain blogging to the general public? I can’t help but feel that an opportunity has been missed here, which could potentially have shifted many more copies. A lighter, more personal, more anecdotal and more writerly selection would have made a great stocking filler for those friends and relatives who still arch an amused eyebrow whenever blogging is mentioned in their presence.

There again, Tim Worstall has, perhaps wisely, stuck to the part of the blogosphere that he knows best. If someone from my neck of the woods had attempted a similar compilation, then the howls of “Oy! What about us!” from his lot would have rung out loud and clear.

And anyone who is prepared to stick his neck out in front of his relentlessly opinionated peers, risking snarky demolition jobs like this one, from people whom he has never met, for scant financial recompense, deserves applause and respect.

(So I won’t bitch off about that ghastly caps-locked ZX81 typeface. OK?)

I nearly finished there. However, before I collapse into a perspiring, feverish, Paracetamol-crazed heap, there are still a couple more issues that I’d like to raise.

1. Since the political blogosphere is overwhelmingly male, it therefore follows that there are almost no female bloggers represented. I can’t really accept any good excuses for this, as it’s not as if female bloggers are any minority in terms of sheer numbers. A large proportion of my blogroll is female. A couple of weeks ago, 75% of the nominees for my Post Of The Week were female; this week, the percentage is again over 50%. So let me tell you, my inner Equal Opportunities rep is going mental right now.

(Why, I’ve had to physically restrain myself from typing “What a disgracefully white heterosexual able-bodied male selection… totally sickening… typical of the patriarchal power imbalance at the heart of yadda yadda yadda…”)

2. Most blog posts are bashed out in haste at odd moments, squeezed out through the cracks of the daily routine. As such, they bear all the characteristics of unedited first drafts. On the screen, as part of the daily cut and thrust of the blogging world, where people whizz through as many posts as they can on their coffee breaks, this doesn’t matter a jot. In fact, it’s part of the essential character and charm of the medium.

However, when you copy and paste these essentially transitory pieces onto cold, hard paper, any stylistic weaknesses become cruelly exposed. Suddenly, we’re reading these words through different eyes, and holding them to altogether more rigorous levels of scrutiny.

(For instance, if I thought that the words I was writing now would end up on paper, I’d be spending a good deal more care and attention on them. Oh, you already worked that one out for yourselves.)

3. Hence, all the matey pseudo-conversational informality of the blog post runs the risk of coming across as an amateurish saloon bar rant on paper. And in certain cases, I’m afraid that this is precisely what has happened here.

4. Which means that a good deal more attention should have been paid to the proof-reading. I’ve spotted many spelling, grammar and punctuation mistakes, which could and should have been picked up at the editing stage.

Yeah, like Tim didn’t already have enough to do, in the frantic rush to get the blasted thing out in time for Christmas. But come on, we’re playing by different rules here. I don’t mind. I’m a blogger too. I make allowances. But if I’ve spotted it, then they will spot it – and they will be a darn sight less forgiving. This is our shop window, remember?

I’m going to end this ramble on a positive note: thank God that this book hasn’t lumbered itself with a preface which makes embarrassingly grandiose claims for the medium. You know the sort of thing: Blah blah blah new generation of writers blah blah blah challenging the established order blah blah blah paradigm shift, etc etc etc. Don’t you just hate it when people do that? So Hurrah for editorial humility.

F**k, is that the time? OK, I’m done. Hand me my Lemsip, and let me lie back and watch the shit start flying.

Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been a total bitch. It’s just that I love this medium, and I feel these things strongly, and I needed to say this. Really, really needed to say this.

Update (1): Here’s Tim Worstall’s response.

Update (2): Tim’s weekly BritBlog Roundup – which served as source material for much of the book – can be found here.

Older readers might remember The Naked Novel, in which a selection of bloggers took it turns to write successive chapters of a piece of modern fiction. (I was responsible for Chapter Three.) Sadly, the project ran aground after Chapter Seven, due to a succession of exponentially bewildering plot twists, more characters than anyone could reasonably keep tabs on, and various uncorrected inconsistencies which rather destroyed people’s motivation to continue.

(Still older readers might remember a similar project called “Chapters”, which foundered for broadly similar reasons.)

However, I’m sure that a similar fate won’t befall Blogstory: a promising new “bloggers club together and write a novel” project, as organised by Vitriolica. Indeed, I’m still kicking myself for not volunteering my own services in time. Chapter One, by Clare “Boob Pencil” Sudbery – a published author, no less – has just been published, and it’s a terrific opener.

Here’s the full list of participants. What’s more, each chapter will be hand illustrated, by a crack team of leading lights from the Hand Illustrated Weblog Movement. How’s that for Added Value?

There will be bonus points for the first person to spot Clare’s cheeky little homage to Troubled Diva, buried away in Chapter One. Points, but not prizes. Do you think I’m made of mugs?

I have just spent several hours stressing out over what could be so awful about my Goldfrapp blurb for Stylus Magazine’s Top 50 Singles of 2005, that they hired someone else to re-write it. Was it too personal? Too critical? Too laboured? Too obvious? Too facile? What? What?

TELL ME DAMMIT, WHAT?

Have I ever mentioned that I don’t deal too well with rejection?

Back on the home PC in Nottingham for the first time since Friday, I have just checked my “Sent Items” folder.

Well, whaddya know? Turns out that I sent Stylus THE WRONG F**KING WORD DOCUMENT. Not the one containing my two blurbs, but the one containing my votes, which I had already successfully sent a few days earlier.

So maybe I’m not a shit writer, just a dizzy klutz. At least I get to swap one form of self-flagellation for another. That’s something, isn’t it?

Because I abhor waste, here’s that unpublished Goldfrapp blurb in full.

Ooh La La – Goldfrapp.

At first hearing, this felt like such a crass reduction of past glories: all the tease, the sleaze, the ice-maiden freeze, squashed and squeezed into one blatant shot at the big time. And oh, did we really need to hear that tired old electro/glam schaffel beat again? Weren’t “Train” and “Strict Machine” enough? And did you really need to ram your point home by nicking the riff from “Spirit In The Sky”? We thought you were arty!

However. When “Ooh La La” hit the Top Five, and stroppy old Alison became pop’s new sweetheart, everything started to fall into place. What felt like a mere dilution of Goldfrapp’s craft revealed itself instead as a concentration of their very essence. (Über-Goldfrapp! Ur-Goldfrapp!) What looked like a blank space in place of a chorus revealed itself as the most thrillingly effective use of a single-note refrain since “Ca Plane Pour Moi”. Furthermore, what seemed like a poorly sequenced opener to the Supernature album – setting all the wrong expectations – revealed itself as the exultant, triumphant conclusion of the band’s live show.

Congratulations, Goldfrapp. Now you have your defining anthem.

This is where we were on Saturday morning.

(Photo via K’s moblog)

Yup, at a hunt meet. Or at least at the little drinkies-and-snackettes “do” beforehand, while the horses and hounds gathered in the yard.

That’s not “hunt meet” and not “hunt meat”, obviously. Because that would be Illegal and Wrong.

No, this was a drag hunt – and therefore, provided you can banish the image of distressed Emily Howard types, girding up their petticoats and fleeing across the Derbyshire countryside, absolutely Legal and Humane and Actually Perfectly OK I Think You’ll Find.

Not exactly very rock and roll though, is it? I used to be edgy! I DJ-ed at Miners’ Strike benefits! I had badges! I was at Red Wedge and everything!

Bearing in mind the imminent business trip to China (the visa arrived today), an ever-diminishing part of myself would still quite like to play the good little self-denouncing Maoist. (I’m a Class Traitor! Flog me! Flog me now!) However, this does rather skirt over the fact that I was actually born quite posh. So maybe this is merely a reversion to type. One simply can’t escape one’s roots.

Besides, I had a perfectly lovely morning: sipping mulled wine at 11am (reason enough!) with most of our friends in the village, admiring the beautifully groomed horses, and trying to steer K’s attention away from the beagles. But for me, the moment of epiphany came when the hunt set off, streaming out of the yard and up the lane.

You know how, whenever the subject of hunting is debated on the TV or radio, some posh old buffer from the Pro lobby always croaks out something along the lines of “Yesh, but ishn’t it a marvelloush shight? The sheer magnifishence of the shpectacle is shuch a wonder to behold… etc…”?

Well, the thing is this.

(Oh God. I’ve posted some heavy-duty confessional stuff on this blog in my time, but nothing quite so excruciating. Well, here goes.)

A full assembled hunt really is a marvellous sight. Maybe it was just the mulled wine meeting the hangover half way, but the sheer magnifishence of the shpectacle quite brought a lump to my throat.

All is lost. I’ll be making superior remarks about the ignorance of “townies” next.

Cripes. Troubled Diva would appear to be a finalist in the Best Poof category for something called The Weblog Awards 2005. Now into their third year, The Weblog Awards have emerged from the political wing of the US blogosphere – more specifically, the Conservative/Republican right wing – and this is inevitably reflected in the lists of finalists in most categories. Not least my own, which contains only one blog which was previously known to me.

In fact, looking through my fellow Best Poof nominees – virtually all American, current affairs based, politically Conservative, and slathered in almost identical advertising – I find myself increasingly amazed to have made the final fifteen. Not in the customary “Oh My Gahd, I’m So Not Worthy!” sort of way, but more in a “What The Hell Am I Even Doing Here?” sort of way.

But hey. A popularity contest is still a popularity contest, and you know how much I love popularity contests. Hard-wired for hierarchy, that’s me.

So, if you do feel like casting a vote for Tro-Di, then I’m not about to discourage you. (Please admire the delicately double-negatived understatement of this blatant plea.) However, you will need Macromedia Flash Version 7 in order to participate. Best – and might I say weirdest – of all, you can vote once per category every 24 hours, from now until December 15th. Yup, multiple voting is totally allowed! It’s a whole new concept of democracy, folks! Awesome!

Casting my beady eye over the other categories, I’m pleased to see a few other familiar names making the final cut. From my blogroll, we have:

• Petite Anglaise and Vitriolica Webb’s Ite, in the Best European Blog (non-UK) category.
• Our Man In Hanoi – Best Asian Blog.
• Guyana – Best Latino, Caribbean, or South American Blog.
• JonnyB’s Private Secret Diary – Best of the Top 1001 – 1750 Blogs (according to the Truth Laid Bear Ecosystem).

(Of course, what happens next is that every one of the 550+ finalists will make giddy, breathless “Oh My Gahd I Can’t Believe It VOTE FOR ME!” posts, which will sit somewhere near top of their blogs, thus obliging the diligent voter (well, you never know) to read 550+ posts on the same topic. The combined effect is curiously homogenising. Oh, and you’ll soon know those BlogAds off by heart. Go on then, off you trot. Work to do.)

Update: If you visited here between Thursday evening and Friday morning, you might have been treated to a triple-column version of Troubled Diva. It looked a little something like this.

Your regular two-column service has now been resumed. We apologise for any distress and inconvenience that the experimental layout might have caused.

Well, it does seem a shame to waste all that perfectly good white space on the right hand side of the screen.

(The old two-column layout is here.)

Now that my time working for the car manufacturer is drawing to an end, I shall be working in our company’s Chinese office for three weeks over the Christmas and New Year period.

I’m travelling out to Shanghai on Saturday December 17th, and will be returning on Saturday January 7th. I won’t actually be living and working in Shanghai, but in the city of Hangzhou, which is three hours away by car to the south-west.

While I’m there, I’ll be interviewing staff for the Hangzhou office, as there’s a big recruitment drive going on there right now. I’ll be living in a company flat, within walking distance of the office. And yes, don’t worry: I’ll be blogging, just as my colleague JP is doing on a daily basis.

Excited? You betcha.

All Chinese travel tips will be gratefully received.

Yes, of course this is displacement activity for the final part of the f**king never-ending Walking The Forest Path series of posts. (See below. And, eventually, above.) Hey, you should know me well enough by now.

1. Via new-to-me (but actually going for ages) Nottingham blogger Lisa Rullsenberg, some howler fun which made me howl: Actual Analogies and Metaphors Found in High School Essays. Oh, I’ve just Googled and this one is plastered all over the Internet. Doesn’t make it any less funny, though.

2. Just in via e-mail from Miss Mish: Dork Tower, on the subject of de-linking. “Saw this… and thought of you“, she says. Whatever does she mean?