Questions 13 to 15.

Three questions from Lyle:

13. What do you want to be when you grow up?

AAAUUURRRGGHH NO DON’T ASK ME THAT QUESTION YOU MUST NEVER ASK ME THAT QUESTIONANY QUESTION BUT THAT MY PILLS MY PILLS I CAN’T FIND MY PILLS…

…and calm.

Shall we indulge in a little dream scenario? Oh, I see no harm in that.

The Guardian, October 13 2009.

Writer, columnist, critic, patron of the arts – and, on the eve of his much anticipated screen acting debut in the self-penned Forty In Forty Days, potential movie star in waiting – Mike Troubled-Diva greets us at the door of his surprisingly modest Barbican apartment. (“Most of our clutter lives in Derbyshire” he explains, his characteristically self-deprecating smile never far from his lips, as he leads us through to the tastefully appointed sitting room.)

Mike shares both his city and country addresses with K, his partner of nearly twenty-five years’ standing. Best known for his groundbreaking work in the field of animal cancer diagnostics, K has recently begun to scale down his day-to-day business interests, in order to devote himself more fully to the couple’s shared passion for seeking out and championing the freshest talents in the world of contemporary painting. (Mike and K’s Troubled Arts gallery, less than ten minutes’ walk from their apartment, continues to go from strength to strength.)

It is difficult to believe that, just five years ago, Mike’s creative output was known only to the readers of the Troubled Diva weblog, which he continues writing to this day. (“I’m afraid that the content has been a bit sparse over the last couple of weeks”, he mutters, distractedly stirring the freshly brewed pot of Earl Grey.)

So, you know, realistic goals and all that.

14. PDMG – a thing of wonder, or more bloody hassle than it’s worth?

This might sound horribly haughty, but what the heck.

Since our decision to have a garden was freely entered into of our own volition, tending the PDMG rarely feels like a hassle. One particular motivating factor: since both the design and the construction are of such an exceptional quality, we feel a certain sense of duty to the original creative vision, and to the people that were responsible for implementing it. To let the garden slide into an unkempt, weed-strewn wilderness would be a wanton act of vandalism that we could never countenance.

(Besides, since almost all the garden is visible from one point or other in the surrounding streets, the disapproving clucks at Gardens Open Day would be too much to bear. We are an essentially self-regulating community.)

Furthermore: the exercise and fresh air are good for effete drawing-room fops such as ourselves; the regular tasks have a certain therapeutic quality; the learning curve forms a pleasant ascent (give or take the odd bump); and regular physical contact with the constituent parts of the garden allows us to acquire a deeper knowledge, and thus to forge a deeper bond.

(Observe, if you will, how hearty son-of-the-soil words like “forge” and “bond” start creeping into my prose at times like these.)

In fact, so enamoured of the PDMG are we that we have just commissioned PDMG #2: The Nottingham Version. With the building plans already completed, that familiar anticpatory tingle has already started to kick in.

15. Will we ever see Mike TD entering Eurovision for the UK?

One of these days, I’ll record and post an MP3 of me wheezing and croaking along to the instrumental version of “Ooh Aah… Just A Little Bit”. Then you’ll have all the answer you need, matey.

The Professionals.

From 1977 to 1978 (The Boarding School Year Zero Maoist Punk Rocker Walking Oxymoron Years), I kept a series of diaries in small hardback notebooks, written in a light-hearted, semi-public manner. Proto-blogs, if you will. These I referred to, in an early flash of the faux-pompousness that would in later years become my defining global hallmark, as my “memoirs”.

Since, like so many other of the Chaps in the Dorm, I was still BIG on clever-clever Python-esque surrealism, the fourth volume of the memoirs bore the Deeply Satirical title The Exciting World Of Accountancy.

(Yeah! People with jobs = brainwashed sheep! Of course, I didn’t know then that I would end up working for 13 years in local government IT. Ah, how the heady idealism of youth is dashed upon the rocks of the pragmatism of adulthood. Or something.)

Round about this time, the British army was running a series of recruitment advertisements with the slogan: The Professionals. If you’ve got it, we’ll bring it out. This provided all the inspiration I needed for the back cover art of The Exciting World Of Accountancy.

Despite being thrown into the garbage by my wicked stepmother in the Great Cultural Purge Of The Early 1980s, the memory of this back cover has for some reason remained with me ever since. Having recently reconstructed it for Demian’s Guild Of Guestbloggers Fortnight, I am surprised – and somewhat disconcerted – at the accuracy of the resulting image. Like looking at an apparition from a bygone age.

This is FAR too long a build-up for a piddling little doodle. But then, to my eyes, it’s a rather poignant little doodle.

profess400

Question 12.

Clair asked:
If you could play any film character, who would you be and why?

venicetI’d like to have a bash at playing Gustav von Aschenbach in Death In Venice, please.

Although the cross-generational aspect of his unrequited, hopeless desire is not something to which I personally relate, Aschenbach’s doomed plight struck a major chord with me many years ago, when I was still in the grips of my own similar obsession. Now that I am approaching the appropriate age for the role, I find that I rather fancy the idea of slowly rotting away in a deck chair, hair dye oozing down my forehead, to the strains of Mahler. Elegant, ridiculous decay, at once sublime and absurd: there’s something really rather delicious about it.

(The fact that Bjørn Andresen’s Tadzio bears a disquieting resemblance to the object of my own desire, and that Dirk Bogarde’s von Aschenbach bears an equally disquieting resemblance to my first boyfriend, only serves to heighten the perversity.)

Come back and finish what you started, Part 2.

Closure. That’s a healthy state to aspire to, isn’t it? Therefore, and since I’m feeling re-inspired by Anna’s current “You ask, I answer” exercise – which was in turn inspired by my own long-abandoned effort – I shall once again attempt to answer the questions which you asked me five months ago.

OK, hit me.

Question 9.
Vaughan asked (with rather more topicality at the time):
If you could choose one British pop act of the past decade to represent the UK at Eurovision, who would it be – and why?

Aha! An easy lob. There can only be one answer: the MIGHTY Girls Aloud. But only on condition that their entry was written and produced, like nearly all of their singles to date, by the pop genius that is Brian Higgins of Xenomania. The hooks, the looks: oh, it would be a stroll in the park for the lot of them.

Question 10.
Vaughan also asked (with seemingly as little topicality then as now):
Would you and K consider offering photographic greetings cards for other times of the year apart from Christmas?

(If you’re wondering what Vaughan means by this, then look here and here.)

How timely you should ask.

Last Christmas, we had fully intended to issue a photographic greeting depicting the two of us staring forlornly into space at opposite ends of the bench on the village green, adorned with the caption “We’re the only Gays in the village.” But, you know, pressure of deadlines, blah-di-blah.

You can therefore imagine our outrage at discovering, only this week, that Sky One will shortly be screening a reality TV series called The Only Gays In The Village, in which comedian Scott Capurro and three other as yet unidentified Urban Celebrity Poofs are sent to live in a farmhouse in rural Derbyshire for a few weeks – with the inevitable Hilarious Consequences, no doubt.

Yes: our entire existences have been pitched – pitched, I tell you! – and turned into mass entertainment.

So no, there will be no more photographic greetings. At least, not without full international licensing deals.

Question 11.
Finally, Vaughan asked:
From your extensive music collection, what five CDs would you save in the event of some natural disaster striking your home?

Firstly, let’s assume that the same natural disaster has also wiped out the country’s entire CD manufacturing and distribution networks, while still leaving the rest of our infrastructure intact. Because, love them as I do, I have never become sentimentally attached to a CD in the way that I was once attached to vinyl. A vinyl album or single is almost a living, breathing life-form in its own right (and my, isn’t the CBT therapist going to have a field day with that one), whereas a CD is just an inert – and entirely replaceable – software delivery system.

(Besides, which home are we talking about? Rock/dance/back catalogue lives in Nottingham, whereas soul/funk/jazz/world/latin/acoustic/downtempo stuff lives in Derbyshire. When we moved out there, I actually went through my entire album collection, separating them into “Urban” and “Rural” categories. Well, wouldn’t anyone?)

I’m playing for time, because this is a nigh-impossible question.

Hmm.

OK.

Well, I wouldn’t have much time to think about this, would I? So, in the spirit of the Mad Dash that would ensue, I’ll give you five off the top of my head.

Kevin Ayers – Joy Of A Toy.
The The – Soul Mining.
Leonard Cohen – I’m Your Man.
Ultramarine – Every Man And Woman Is A Star.
Maxwell – Maxwell’s Urban Hang Suite.

Something for most occasions there, I think.

Guild of Guestbloggers.

Over at Guild Of Ghostwriters, Demian is running a quite wonderful Doodle-Blog Guest Fortnight. Contributors range from leading lights of The Hand-Illustrated Weblog Movement (oh yes) to those who “claim they can’t draw”.

Into which latter category I would firmly place myself. Well, why not judge for yourselves?

(There’s also a full-sized version here, if you can handle a 250k image with no problem.)

guild-tdiva700

(*) – see footnote.

stawmAlthough absent-minded at the best of times, my levels of scattiness now appear to be going through the roof. Especially in the mornings.

On arriving at work yesterday morning, I realised that my mobile was still sitting on the chest of drawers in the hall, and that my pen was sitting by the PC in the study. Having administered a suitably painful self-kicking, I then booked a taxi (at 11:40) for my dental appointment (at 12:05). Remembering last week’s unfortunate little debacle (actually, let’s not), I repeatedly reminded myself about this all morning – and, miraculously, managed to get myself out of the office on time. (Even if this did involve walking out halfway through a complex technical dicussion which I myself had instigated just five minutes earlier.)

However, my sense of triumph was somewhat dampened when, upon presenting myself at the dentist’s reception desk, I discovered that I was a full day early. The appointment had been correctly entered in my diary; my only problem was being unable to differentiate between the “Tuesday” and the “Wednesday” sections on the same page. (Do you ever get that? No, thought not.)

In the bathroom this morning, I started the day by cheerfully moisturising my entire face with hair cream. (Wella “polishing cream”, to be exact. Awfully good stuff. For the hair. On the face, it causes a mild stinging sensation. To say nothing of clogging up the pores.)

In the kitchen, I added milk to my tea from the half-emptied carton, poured out my cereal (Special K, as always), then calmly went back to the fridge, took out and opened a fresh carton, and poured that onto my cereal. Only then did I notice both cartons on the work top, gazing at me with that peculiar baffled expression that milk cartons sometimes have. (We’ll get to the delusions in another posting.)

Naturally, this left me so traumatised that I left the house without my diary. The diary which contains the time of today’s dental appointment. Which, equally naturally, I had already forgotten. Thank God I remembered my phone, then. (Although remembering the phone also required an extra-special effort of conscious will, so determined was I not to repeat the mistakes of yesterday morning.)

It usually gets better after lunch.

This morning, I think I might some need extra help. Tell you what: if you read this posting in time, and if you have EITHER my work e-mail address OR my mobile number, then PLEASE E-MAIL ME OR TEXT ME AT 11:30 (UK TIME) TO REMIND ME TO GET THE BLOODY TAXI ALREADY!

Thank you, my little online support group. Thank you indeed.

(*) I also – and I swear this isn’t a contrived stunt – forgot to give this post a title before posting. Quod erat demonstrandum, and all that.

Update for a concerned Karen: I made the appointment 15 minutes early, and eventually saw the dentist 15 minutes late, giving me ample time to catch up with the fascinating world of men’s lifestyle magazines in the interim. I’ve gone off my dental practice; they’ve been taken over by a national chain, whose overriding motive is pure profit. All the nice folksy “don’t eat sweets, kids!” posters have been taken down in the waiting room, and replaced by pictures of glamorous young models saying things like “Teeth whitening is so easy! I only wish I’d done it earlier!” And my reassuring, diligent old dentist has been replaced by a shifting stream of perky new dentists in their mid-twenties, who obviously see the place as a staging post on the way to greater (i.e. non-NHS) things. Also, these perky new dentists don’t see fit to sully themselves with mundane tasks such as scaling and polishing any more. Oh no. Instead, they farm that sort of stuff out to a separate (and private) hygienist, who charges 30 quid a session and “recommends” that I visit her every three months, if you please. It’s all part of a VAST PLOT by EVIL CORPORATE HOMOGENISING BASTARDS who are SUCKING THE… sorry, should I be saving this stuff for 10pm on Friday nights?

Patience rewarded.

“I may sulk and not post for two weeks. It has been known.” – Me, on Monday.

Oh dear, and that was just supposed to be my Little Joke, not some Awful Premonition. That’ll teach me to tempt fate.

Several times over the last few weeks, I have come, ooh, that close to going all Teengoth Livejournal “Impale Yourself Upon The Jagged Shards Of My Pain” on you. Because a) it’s one of the few remaining classic blogging styles which I’ve never attempted, and b) it might have been, y’know, cathartic or summat.

However, I have successfully managed to restrain myself on each occasion. Because – and regular readers can repeat this after me on the count of three – misery is not my muse. To say nothing of the potential for squirming social embarrassment when meeting friends in Real Life who actually read this thing (and there are plenty).

Other times, I’ve thought: come on, blog some meaningless crap about pop music to cheer yourself up. But then, as I said on Vanessa’s blog: Sometimes, the gap between the front and the reality grows so wide that it becomes scarcely possible to maintain the front. (Although arguably, it might sometimes be desirable.)

Yes, readers: I am still wobbling. This week more than most. Although today, hardly at all. Must be that Friday feeling.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, and without quite realising it, I was maintaining a stoic Keep It To Yourself strategy. Then, over lunch with Buni one day, I unexpectedly found myself talking about things. And realised that this was the first time I had properly opened up in a long, long time. And further realised that this was, on balance, a good thing; a necessary thing, even.

So, since then, I have been cautiously following an It’s All Right To Talk About It With People So Long As You Don’t Get Completely Self-Indulgent About It strategy. Which, so long as I bear in mind the second part (after all, nobody wants to be a bore), has served me quite well. Something to do with distance, objectivity and perspective, no doubt. Helps to prevent me getting bogged down in those ghastly, isolating, internal monologue feedback loops. (As does the oh-so-controversial St John’s Wort, which is starting to kick in.)

Yesterday I went to see my GP, and opened up a little further. (We are fortunate enough to have a local state-of-the-art health centre which is widely regarded as one of the best – possibly the best – in the city.) I had several worries about doing this. Firstly, that I would make a complete hash at describing my symptoms. Secondly, that she would dismiss my problems as not worth bothering about. Thirdly, that she would merely write me out a prescription for something which I really wouldn’t want to take – and which would in any case not deal with any of what I see as the root causes.

She listened; she asked pertinent questions; she showed appropriate concern; she respected my position; she took me seriously. I shall be returning next week for a full 30-minute appointment, so that she can begin to assess my situation more thoroughly. There will probably be several such appointments. She was bloody good. It helped. I’m lucky.

So. In the absence of Teengoth Angstblogging, and in the absence of Cheering Inconsequential Crap… let us instead re-open that Old Curiosity Box, and deliver the third of the ten re-picks which I promised you in June.

As requested by groc and noodle, here’s another chance to hear:

Gina X – No G.D.M. (Dedicated To Quentin Crisp) (1979)

(Click here to read what I said about the track last time round.)

This should set you all up nicely for the weekend. Have a good one, y’all. I certainly intend to.

Three- sentence diary.

Monday 30.

Visited the Alstonefield Scarecrow Festival. Y’know, for the kiddies, like. Marvelled, non-patronisingly, at the rich untapped seams of ingenuity and creativity to be found in rural communities etc etc etc.

Tuesday 31.

Early train to Newcastle. Best day’s work in ages, as I was reminded of what it feels like to be working in a team. Finished the evening in a gay bar called Switch, alternately staring dumbly into the middle distance at the teenagers bopping around on the carpet, and plaintively texting ex-Newcastle resident Alan for moral support.

Wednesday 1.

Left Newcastle with renewed sense of professional purpose. While changing trains at dreary old Chesterfield, discovered a waiting room adorned with really rather decent C20th paintings, on loan from the late Duke of Devonshire’s collection at nearby Chatsworth House. These raised my spirits enormously.

Thursday 2.

This sums up what I like best about George’s bar on Broad Street: one moment, you can be earnestly discussing contemporary Japanese cinema with a published author, then the next moment you can be giggling about blowjobs with Alan and David, while the author graciously waltzes with a gorgeous tranny to Ella Fitzgerald. But most importantly of all – and this is where so many of us go wrong – you can STILL switch back to other more elevated topics of conversation whenever you wish. I consider this to be the defining hallmark of a truly Bohemian environment.

Friday 3.

I swear that my mother is looking younger with each passing year; maybe it’s the new shorter haircut. Anyway, it gives me immense hope for the future. Our favourite country pub is unexpectedly one chef down in the kitchen, meaning a long wait and our first ever disappointing meal there (their “Greek lamb” tasting suspiciously like shrivelled, stringy beef to us).

Saturday 4.

With four of the country’s top display teams competing to show off the very best of their work, the Shugborough Festival of Fireworks provides me with the most intense and sustained set of visceral thrills since I stopped going to Trade – especially when beat-synched with split-second precision to Darude’s Sandstorm. Seriously, none of us have ever seen fireworks quite like this before. Next year, we’re dragging along everyone we know.

Sunday 5.

The perfection of the morning (glorious sunshine, breakfast in the garden, thick scent of honeysuckle, pale pink fuschia busting out all over) is punctured by the horror story blaring from the front of both newspapers; impossible to reconcile the two.

After a pub lunch of some eccentricity, we attend the horticultural society’s prize dahlia auction in the memorial hall – the ginormous orange and lemon blooms looking like the sort of hats that Princess Margaret might have worn in 1973.

On the phone later, our journalist friend hopes he didn’t overstep the mark with his gently teasing wind-ups of my mother (“I wanted to make her feel included, to treat her just like everybody else“) – for my part, I was delighted that for once, we weren’t all treading on eggshells around her.

Monday 6.

The consistently splendid Richard Griffiths gets all the best lines in the delightfully bawdy Stage Beauty – a worthy successor to Shakespeare In Love.

Thence to George’s, and the aftermath of a gay version of an Ann Summers party (I particularly liked the cockring with the orange plastic teddy bear attached; very Alessi meets Philippe Starck), where some of the remaining guests are lustily singing along to early Beatles hits (although it’s far from being a gay venue, I like the fact that if George feels like hosting a gay sex toy party, then she damn well will).

The night finishes at Peter “Sleaze Sister” Martine’s first-Monday-in-the-month-is-homosexuals-night @ Faces in the Lace Market, where the reigning Mr. Gay UK (the one who won that reality TV sports thingy on Channel 4) treats us all to his debut single (a cover of We Are Family – really, you don’t want to know) … a night which is entirely redeemed in three minutes’ flat when they play The Shapeshifters’ transcendent Lola’s Theme (“I’m a different person,
yeah, turned my world around…“)

Tuesday 7.

I don’t mean to pry, but what was up with Franz Ferdinand’s drummer at the Mercury Music Prize awards? Because in the winners’ interview at the end, he looked pale and green and really Not At All Well. Oh, and he was openly yawning … the ingratitude!

Wednesday 8.

Couldn’t really get into PJ Harvey’s show at Rock City tonight; it was all a bit tame and polite and inconsequential, and I was certainly expecting more of a “performance” from her. Maybe she’s just not suffering enough these days? Verily, contentment is the enemy of Great Art…

Thursday 9.

Finished off my from shuffle to schaffel megamix (13 tracks, 15 minutes, 17.88mb) and posted the link on ILM. If you haven’t heard of schaffel yet, then I dare say you soon will: basically, it’s dance music with pairs of dotted crotchets and quavers (CHUNK-A CHUNK-A CHUNK-A CHUNK-A) instead of steady four-to-the-floor beats (DOOF DOOF DOOF DOOF), which evolved from shuffle blues through 1970s glam-rock and the short-lived electoclash phenomenon. How FABULOUS that after all these years, dance music should FINALLY discover a new rhythm; whatever will they think of next?

Friday 10.

Haircut in 35 minutes, so I’d better dash. Private viewing of Lewis Noble’s new stuff this evening. Bottle of wine and Will & Grace to follow (always the best night of the week).

Saturday 11.

No plans. Peace and quiet. Just the way we like it.

Sunday 12.

Buni and I will be attending the free screening of Eisenstein’s Battleship Potemkin in Trafalgar Square, with a new score by the Pet Shop Boys, accompanied by the Dresdener Philharmonik, with staging by Simon Burney of Theatre de Complicité. If you’re going to be there, then please shout out in the comments.

Later on, we’ll be heading to the very epicentre of Haute Swish: DTPM @ Fabric; Buni has already invested in those shiny almost-clear sunglasses that they all wear, so he’ll fit in fine, but I’m still stuck in Outfit Indecision Hell – honestly, nobody knows how I suffer.

The Pitfalls of Wobble-blogging, or yet MORE sodding Meta in Lieu of Content.

Blogging your wobbles; it’s problematic, isn’t it?

Firstly: a fleeting snapshot is all too liable to be read as a definitive portrait. (Particularly when one flounces off for a few days offline, leaving the posting in question dangling morosely at the top of the page.)

Secondly: for this blogger at least (although this is manifestly not true for others, whose grace under pressure I humbly salute), wobbles are the enemy of free creative expression. For, lo: even as the well of inspiration runneth dry, so doth the reservoir of confidence evaporate. And with neither inspiration nor confidence, I am as nothing.

When confidence runs out, perspective starts to skew. Support is mistaken for critique; friendly advice as intrusive nag; seasonally tumbling stats and capricious de-linking as lofty judgement.

In spiralling Benny Hill circles, bony, stunted little words fruitlessly chase after the big sexy, ideas that will flesh them out and make them whole.

As energy returns, so inspiration trickles down and through. Order is restored, as the currents are reversed: the ideas once again starting to generate and shape the words that will best express them.

Some words and ideas, however, are best expressed – can only be expressed – far, far away from here. So expect something of a sporadic, spluttering service for the time being. An occasional spiritual spittoon, if you will.

Honestly though, I’m OK. Sweat not.

Homage à Spellcnut.

Like him (but unlike her), I’m bored of August now. It’s been dragging on for far too long. Not nearly enough going on. OK, nothing going on. This office: a hub of inactivity and empty desks. (We’ve just done a head count: eight, in an office which has been known to hold forty.) My clients in Europe have all buggered off for the duration, as Europeans are wont to do. What’s the Cost Code for Thumb Twiddling? Can’t do much until the Big Database Cheese comes over from Holland next week. In the meantime, I’ve perfected my “don’t interrupt me, I’m concentrating on something VERY IMPORTANT” look… whilst all I’m really doing is hitting Refresh on this thread and this thread on I Love Music. Or else beefing up my Freecell stats (21 wins in a row and counting, I’ll have you know). Although my neighbour has just told me about the double-click thingy on Minesweeper, so I might be shifting my allegiances. August and January are K’s favourite months, as the streets are all empty and he can enjoy the relative peace and quiet of the city. I’m with him on January, but not on August. Especially as September is possibly my favourite month of the year: every sunny day feels like an unexpected bonus, and there’s a feeling of rebirth and renewal in the air, as everybody gets stuck back into their lives and the world begins to move on once again. Plus the blogs stop being crap, obviously. At least, this one does. Severe prolonged mojo-loss, in case you hadn’t noticed. Beyond tedious. But then there’s no point pushing it, if the words won’t come. I spent about an hour last Friday fiddling around with an attempt to describe last Thursday night’s goings on in George’s bar (and beyond) – at least, the publishable stuff – but had to give up, which I almost never do. Brain like concrete. Mind you, stopping up after 3am on a school night hardly helped. (Give you a clue: there’s that evergreen gag which we ‘mos never tire of telling, which bears the punchline “five pints of lager“. A convenient fiction, I’ve always thought. Note past tense.) Anyway, Mish described the first half of the evening far more ably than I ever could: go take a look. We’re doing it all over again this Thursday: the guest blogging dream team, that is. Minus the elusive Nixon, although he’s more than welcome to join us (20:30 onwards in George’s). And thence to Stealth, where The Fiery Furnaces and Sons & Daughters are appearing at Club NME. He‘ll be there, and he‘ll be there, and he‘ll be there. K still hasn’t chopped those bloody awful tufts off, so I’m still intermittently chuffing… but I sense we are moving onto some sort of endgame at last. His parents celebrated their Ruby Wedding last weekend, so the extended family were on a three-line whip; we all met up for lunch in a pub in Cheshire, which was full of a very particular type of flash git, of the sort which you only really find in Cheshire. The lunch was lovely, though; I had sirloin of roast beef, and it was Yum. K and his sister handed over a bottle of Burgundy as a present, thus following the Ruby theme – except that the Burgundy wasn’t really the present, but more of a Big Clue, in the style of 3-2-1 with Ted Rogers . It was fun watching their faces when they realised they had actually won a Luxury Holiday For Two! In beautiful and historic Burgundy! With wine tastings galore! And lots of Daily Telegraph readers for company! Meanwhile, the cottage garden is looking fookin lush after all this rain, especially the lawns, which have never looked greener or thicker. Although I’m sick of pruning the sodding geraniums all the time. The bottom’s much better though (yes, you CAN ask) – I can even walk down the twelve flights of steps in this office, which is the ultimate test as far as I’m concerned. Not so much as a twinge since the back end of last week. I’m back on the SJW’s though – as of this morning, in fact – but only after careful and prolonged consideration, so don’t all go wagging your fingers at me. No further background info, as it’s not that sort of blog. (Misery is not my muse, etc – see Troubled Divas passim.) Athough I will share with you my Quote Of The Week, courtesy of that veritable fountain of considered wisdom, Ms. Julie Burchill, in last Sunday’s Observer: “Depression is the most extreme form of vanity.” Which, once you filter out all the surrounding layers of deliberately provocative Burchill-ese (and there are plenty), contains a useful nugget of truth. No? You don’t think? Well, suit yourselves. K’s slides of Peru are back from the developers, and they look lovely, but they haven’t as yet been transferred to CD. When they are, I’ll publish the best ones on here. Who knows, I might even get round to writing up the whole trip. Stranger things have happened. While we were away, Chig read on Ceefax that dozens of people had died of extremely cold temperatures in the Peruvian Andes – not mountain climbers, ordinary people, including tourists. So he texted both of us immediately, but got “undelivered” messages 24 hours later, and so seriously thought we might actually be, you know, DEAD. The reality: my mobile isn’t Triband so doesn’t work in Peru, and although K’s does work, he had it switched off to avoid business calls. I ought to upgrade my mobile, but phone shops scare me; I’ve only ever been in once, to get the original phone. We’re not always as quick on the technological uptake as people might think; we only rented our first DVD last week. Touching The Void – absolutely fantastic, including the DVD extras. First time I’ve ever watched extras on a DVD; yes, I thought you might be shocked. Last night we rented Secretary, which is a little bit too stiff and stylised (the dialogue in particular), and faintly naff round the edges – but which, like Eyes Wide Shut before it, somehow worked for me, against all the odds. In my London clubbing heyday, I met quite a few S&M queens, and I found myself wondering what they would make of it; I suspect that most would basically approve, but then I’ve never exactly Entered The Mindset. Sometimes I think that I credit S&M with too much false mystique. I wonder what long-time Damned fan Gina Snowdoll makes of the track on the new Dizzee Rascal album (Dream) which samples Captain Sensible’s Happy Talk? Because I thought I was immune to being surprised by unlikely musical combinations, but this one has really thrown me. Do we like last week’s UK Number One single, Baby Cakes by 3 Of A Kind? I’ve only just caught up with it, and find myself strangely charmed; I think it’s that certain gormlessness in the vocal delivery. Couldn’t find the Fierce Girl single in Selectadisc or Virgin, and I badly NEED to hear it, because – on paper at least – it sounds like My Sort Of Thing. This afternoon’s rain storm has stopped, and there’s a nice – no, make that a beautiful – rainbow hanging over the Victoria Centre, starting at the Cornerhouse and dropping back down into the Lace Market. Ooh, such positivity all of a sudden! It must be the placebo effect.

Bent Copper Bean Count.

From the Public Agenda section in The Times:

In an attempt to improve inclusiveness, the police are to ask all officers and civilian staff in England and Wales to declare their sexual orientation by the end of 2004. They will be sent questionnaires in which they can say whether they are heterosexual or gay ***, or decline to give a preference.

Read the full article here.

*** Yes, I’m wondering about bisexuals and transsexuals as well. Not to mention my concerns about well-intentioned but misguided attempts to codify sexual preferences into rigid, immutable categories. But let’s not even get into all of that for now; we’ll be here all day.

The cynic in me is first to pipe up. Surely this is nothing but shallow window-dressing, merely designed to re-assure those troublesome gay lobbyists that Something Is Being Done. After all, how difficult can it be to knock up a questionnaire and feed the results into a spreadsheet? Talk about following the path of least resistance.

Where my inner cynic leads, so my inner Irrepressibly Chirpy Little Pollyanna is sure to follow. For is it not also perfectly conceivable that the results of this survey might usefully reveal a significant under-representation of gays in the police, thus furnishing a powerful justification for introducing more pro-active recruitment drives, and more challenging anti-discrimination initiatives? (My inner Pollyanna can be quite the jargon-spewing tub-thumper when she wants to be. You dismiss her at your peril.)

Sadly, my inner Pollyanna is in sore danger of blinding herself to a major potential flaw with the whole initiative. Namely, that the recipients of the questionnaire are still at liberty to “decline to give a preference”. This threatens to skew the results in two directions. Firstly: many closeted officers will surely balk at answering truthfully. (After all, what’s in it for them to fess up?) Secondly: those rather more antediluvian elements in the force who are bound to view the questionnaire as intrusive PC nonsense (sic) are liable to refuse an answer on principle – and one cannot help but suspect that their number might be significant. In these ways, the survey is in danger of being rendered utterly meaningless.

But what are the alternatives? Making the question mandatory? Or proceeding from the perfectly justifiable assumption that yes, gays and lesbians are under-represented in the police force, so let’s get on with doing something useful to redress the situation, rather than fannying about with silly pieces of paper that are only liable to needlessly scare some and irk others?

My inner Pollyanna will get back to you on that one.

The PDMG: a (somewhat overdue) clarification.

In case you were wondering otherwise (perish the very thought!) – no, of course our esteemed cottage garden designer had nothing, repeat nothing to do with the ill-fated Puddle Of Doom in Hyde Park. (Sadly, complications over funding meant that his proposed garden never went ahead.)

All of which leads me to wonder whether K & I should stake a claim to being the only safe, fully functioning, family-friendly PDMG left in the land. Just imagine the coach parties! The ensuing boost to the local economy would surely be immeasurable.

On the other hand, one simply shudders to think of all that ghastly cellophane from the Floral Tributes, stacking up outside the egg depot and gusting into the paddock over the road. An ecological minefield, to be sure. So, upon mature reflection, perhaps not.

Advance notice. Coming soon to a residential district near you: PDMG #2 – The Urban Remix. More details as they happen.

Four-fifths of the Guest Blogging Home Team bid you a fond farewell.

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Left to right: Ben, Alan, Miss Mish and Buni. Sadly not present: the elusive Nixon.

More pictures are here (courtesy of Mish), and full write-ups of the evening are here and here.

Continue reading “Four-fifths of the Guest Blogging Home Team bid you a fond farewell.”

In Which I Nervously Limp Back Into The Blogosphere, Clutching My Bag Of Souvenir Alpaca Finger Puppets.

I’m back. But still a tad lagged, my chickens. Lagged like an old boiler, indeed. So please bear with me, as I slowly find my bearings.

Peru was… an Experience. As opposed to a “holiday” in the more conventional sense of the word. In fact, “endurance test” might be nearer the mark. But more of that as it comes, no doubt. I’d hate to spoil the plot.

My warmest thanks to Alan, Ben, Buni, Mish and Nixon for keeping the place spick and span over the last two and a half weeks (although I’m sure I don’t remember those particular fag-burns on the carpet). I’ve been keeping a watchful eye from various Peruvian cyber-caffs along the way, and have been mightily entertained. Especially by Alan’s “gay rut” (been there myself, several times), Ben’s “dream team” (my vote would also have gone to La Burchill), Buni’s “lost weekend” (or should we make that fortnight?), Mish’s “grand tour” (actually, Ha Ha’s are retro-chic these days; you mean to say you didn’t know?) and *cough* THAT Nixon piece, and its ensuing comments (I might return to this subject in the near future).

Small steps for now, though.
(In a literal as well as a figurative sense, but we don’t have to go there.)

It’s good to be back.

In Which (whispers) we haven’t gone yet…..

(Posted by Miss Mish)

Just a teeny little aside here.

We’ve just taken a lot of the cushions down into the wine cellar and are hiding out, drinking our way to freedom.

There’s already a squabble as we can’t decide if we should be drinking alphabetically (absinthe, bacardi, brandy, cointreau etc) or chronologically (the 1953 Chateau Lafitte, the 1954……)

We thought we’d leap out upon them and shout “surprise!” when we they get back all jet-lagged and fit and toned. And also to get first dibs on the souvenirs and duty-free.

Now excuse me, but I think we’re upto to the 1963 Gordons. I really, really must go……….

In Which It’s Time To Go……..

(posted by Miss Mish)

Picture the scene:

An aging Drama Queen is standing by herself in the ballroom of Troubled-Diva Towers. It is late, her luggage is piled up by the front door and she is already slightly drunk.

Dressed in her going away outfit of travelling suit and hat, she meanders, gin in hand, dropping cigarette ash upon the marble flooring. Stumbling ever-so slightly, she tearfully bids farewell. Taking a deep breath, she approaches the door and begins to sing …………

“And now the end is near
And so I face the final curtain
My friend I’ll say it clear
I’ll state my case of which I’m certain
I’ve lived a life that’s full
I traveled each and every highway
and more, much more than this
I did it myyyyyyy wayyyyy”

“Oh to hell with this. I’m not going”

(Seriously, gentlemen, it’s been great fun and I love you all. Now if only people had actually read it while they were away……… Mwah! Mwah!)

And, now it’s time to leave…

(posted by Alan)

While I’ve read a lot of ‘professional’ blogs before, Mike’s was the first personal one that I read and what a great one it is too. And, through his links to other excellent personal blogs, I’ve become quite an addict. So, being asked to guest-blog here has not only been great fun, but it’s been a privilege too. Now that my time as a guest-blogger at Troubled-Diva has come to an end, I’ve come to realise two things, one of which is a ‘good thing’, the other, probably not.

Firstly, I’ve come to realise that I really like Nottingham.

Until recently, when asked what I feel about Nottingham, I’ve always said something along the lines of, ‘It’s alright’ or some other non-committal comment lacking in enthusiasm. The main reason for that is my bias against most English cities and towns that developed after having fallen in love with Newcastle-upon-Tyne, a place where I spent 2 great years until January last year. Contrary to all expectations before arriving in Newcastle, I grew very fond of it within 2 months of arriving there. So, rather irrationally, all other places that I’ve been to in England, have been compared with Newcastle and they’ve all compared unfavourably – Nottingham just didn’t have a chance! But, writing about the place over the past 2 weeks has opened my eyes a lot and I can now admit that despite its failings/short-comings, I’ve really enjoyed myself here and I can honestly say that I’ve grown very fond of it.

However, in case you are wondering, Newcastle is still my favourite city in England!

Secondly, the blog-writing bug has bitten me.

This can’t be a ‘good thing’ as not only will it make me spend more time at the computer at the expense of ‘real life’ but it’ll also mean inflicting myself on a larger audience than the poor souls that know me already. Actually, while liking the idea of having my own blog, thinking of how to approach it isn’t that easy as most of the best personal blogs seem to have a theme/topic around which the personal stuff hangs. In Mike’s case, it’s music; in Ben’s, football. But, there are others like Mish’s that are just as compelling without having a definable topic that brings it together. For the moment, I can’t think of a theme/topic that I’m sufficiently interested in so my blog would have to rely on something much less definable, an altogether more difficult approach, it would seem, to interesting blogging.

But, watch this space – you’ve been warned!

Anyway, it’s been fun being here and I really look forward to meeting the other guest-bloggers tomorrow night. And, as it will be my second meeting with Mish, we may yet cohabit.

Mike, thanks for letting me soil your pristine home with my ramblings and, once you’ve picked up the pieces, washed the sheets and glasses, and cleared the rubbish, I hope to see you soon.

And now, the end is near…

(Posted by Ben)

Well, my stay at Diva Towers is coming to an end, and I’d just like to thank my fellow guest bloggers (with whom I will be rendezvousing tomorrow night), you the lovely TD readership, my producers, my parents, God, Allah – but above all Mike for entrusting me with a set of keys in the first place.

A couple of bottles of Dom Perignon have gone walkies from the cellar and there’s a dubious stain on the drawing room chaise-longue, but apart from that I hope you’ll find the place pretty much as you left it, Mike.

So, without further ado, adieu.