FACT OR FICTION

Say it with flowers

2007-04-27T13:37:00.000+01:00

Never mind worrying if there is enough fruit in your childs diet... are there enough narcissus?
Mr P Morressey addresses the nation's youth

King of the Child Frontier

2007-04-26T12:07:00.000+01:00

Mr Ant helps enlighten a generation of British children
on make-up and cross-dressing, animal imagery and symbolism,
not to mention how economic recession
impacts upon the fine arts

Moulin Rouge

2007-04-25T00:39:00.000+01:00

...sublime dashed to pieces by cutting too close with
the fiery four-in-hand round the corner of nonsense...

Potty!

2007-04-24T23:56:00.002+01:00

(PHOTO REMOVED!)

Yes, he does look cute, gentle reader, but what a bizarre arrangement in the background, and what is it he sits upon? At his age, it cannot possibly be a... what is the politically correct term? A toilet trainer? A receptacle for infant unpleasantness? A potty?

One considers he is a bit young for this, and certainly too young to be expected to remove their own pants! Why, X experienced difficulty unbuttoning his own jeans well into his thirties ( he also experienced difficulty standing upright after he'd been out drinking) one has fond memories of a particular night when he collapsed on my bed at dawn, incapable of movement but capable of pleading to help him undress and engage in violent love-making. It was quite hilarious, gentle reader... no, really!

In any case, returning to the embarrasing moment at hand; what is my best friend thinking, placing a potty on the kitchen table- it can't be hygenic! And does she want this child to develop vertigo? Don't get me started on that table cloth; can there be such a thing as curtain material it doesn't clash horribly with? What kind of colour sense is the poor child going to have, hmmn?

Imagine what the neighbours or the family will think, calling around for a nice cup of tea only to find... perhaps this explains everything; it's an avoidance strategem!

Alternatively, perhaps it's some new-age fad: associate natural bodily functions with performance on a stage, applaud upon delivery... Well, some conceptual artists made a living from that kind of thing in the last century, but one cannot have my namesake becoming a 21st century Leigh Bowery... one hates being upstaged!

Cardigans are sexy

2007-04-24T23:35:00.000+01:00

I've half a mind to tumble down to prose
But verse is more in fashion - so here goes
One can instinctively accessorise
By living, set new trends : to my surprise
Under my patronage, the beloved cardigan
Becomes the height of fashion once again
Proving good taste better than bad taste
And bad taste preferable to no taste

Gentle reader, this month one aims to achieve a Renaissance in fine art and poetry

Your next bold move

2007-04-23T19:01:00.000+01:00

Coming of age during the plague of Reagan and Bush,
watching capitalism gun down democracy
It had this funny effect on me, I guess

I am cancer; I am HIV; and I'm down at the Blue Jesus Blue Cross Hospital
just lookin' up from my pillow, feeling blessed

The mighty multinationals have monopolized the oxygen
so it's as easy as breathing for us all to participate:
yes, they're buying and selling off shares of air
and you know it's all around you, but it's hard to point and say "there"
so you just sit on your hands and quietly contemplate
your next bold move
the next thing you're gonna need to prove to yourself

What a waste of thumbs that are opposable
to make machines that are disposable
and sell them to seagulls flying in circles around one big right wing

For the left wing was broken long ago by the slingshot of Co-intel-pro
and now it's so hard to have faith in anything,
especially your next bold move
or the next thing you're gonna need to prove to yourself

You want to track each trickle back to its source
and then scream up the faucet 'til your face is hoarse
becausee you're surrounded by a world's worth of things you just can't excuse;
but you've got the hard cough of a chain smoker
and you're at the Arctic circle playing strip poker
and it's getting colder and colder everytime you lose

So go ahead; make your next bold move.
Tell us, what's the next thing you're gonna need to prove to yourself?

Your Next Bold Move, Revelling/Reckoning, Ani Di Franco (2001)

Sego... Sarko... it must stop!

2007-04-22T01:39:00.001+01:00

Anyone prepared to run for President should automatically, by definition, be disqualified from ever doing so. If experience teaches us anything at all, it is this; a good politician, under democracy, is quite as unthinkable as an honest burglar. In fact, political parties ought to be outlawed on the basis that, like football matches, and other team sporting events held in stadiums, they attract the least desirable members of society. Being a politician is quite like being a footballer, come to think of it; you’re required to be smart enough to understand the game, but have to be stupid enough to think it’s important.

Admittedly extremist notions… so it wouldn’t be at all surprising to find some of you urging me to stand-in as a replacement candidate for Mr Sarkozy in the French Presidential election. (Why not, indeed... for it does seem anyone can get themselves elected as a President nowadays)

One trusts you have all been following the first round voting in the French Presidential elections, gentle reader? It is important to engage with what is happening in the world around us; one considers activism as a rent paid for the privilege of living on this planet, hence my deciding to share my thoughts on what has been happening in France… an idiots guide, as it were.

One has been introduced to the current state of affairs in this country by my good friend G: all his adult life, he has been an active member of the Socialist party. It was through him one first became acquainted with Ms Segolene Royale, earlier this year when she was still being considered as a candidate for nomination.

Instead of repeating his lengthy discourse on the respective skills and experience of the three candidates put forward by the Socialist party, suffice to say that in G's considered view, Ms Royale was the least capable of those on offer… and yet, it appeared, the most likely candidate to lead the Socialist party to victory in a national election. This might strike those of you unfamiliar with the world of politics as paradoxical; but if you bear in mind that in recent times all politics have been based on the indifference of the majority and the cult of celebrity, you will follow his reasoning.

For you see, the leading opposition candidates for the Presidency were likely to be middle-aged or elderly male gentlemen; the other prospective candidates from the Socialist party were both elderly male gentlemen, which meant that if selected Ms Royale would have the distinct advantage of being the first female candidate for the position, with the additional advantages of being young and photogenic. In itself, this would generate media interest capable of buoying her campaign, as likely to get her elected as ability, which has fallen out of fashion, it appears.

While G recognised the symbolic importance of having a female head of state- something he viewed as a positive, let me assure you- from the outset he was troubled by Ms Royale’s socialist credentials... or lack thereof. She blatantly styled her campaign on the New Labour approach that brought Mr Blair to victory in the United Kingdom (try shouting his 1997 soundbyte 'Education, Education, Education' with a French accent, and you have her favourite battle cry) a tactic which must pose a legitimate concern for any true socialist. Another worry was the lack of ideology, and the depth of her commitment to any issue, in particular gay rights and social justice for minority groups: to illustrate, until a year ago Ms Royale had been ‘pro-family values’ in the conservative sense; not at all gay-friendly, before ‘having a sudden change of heart,’ or as those cynics among you might remark, changing tack when she realised this position would marginalise a subgroup of prospective supporters.

Despite those grave concerns, in recognition of the importance of uniting behind one candidate (avoiding fractious divisive in-fighting which ordinarily occurs, diminishing the chance of a socialist candidate wining) G cast his vote for Ms Royale. That might surprise you... but gentle reader, kindly appreciate there is a serious risk of France electing a dangerous little victim-bashing, immigrant-expelling, minority-hating, authoritarian extremist by the name of Mr Nicolas Sarkozy as their next President; in such circumstances, with no other candidate with any real prospect of challenging him, who would you vote for?

Every politician is emphatically a promising politician, and at the outset Ms Royale appeared to be competent as her rivals when it came to the gentle art of getting votes from the poor and campaign funds from the rich by promising to protect each from the other. Intent upon following her progress, one tried to engage by reading publicity materials and her manifesto en francais only to find it was quite impossible to make any sense of what was being said. On more than one occasion, having looked up particular words in a dictionary, the actual meaning of expressions was lost upon me.

Bearing in mind that political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind, perhaps this was not so surprising. After all, the press conference is a politician’s way of being informative without saying anything: should he or she accidentally say something, there is usually a press officer standing by who immediately explains it away by ‘clarifying’. But this was being taken to an alarming new extreme in the early campaigning of Ms Royale... another sign of Mr Blair's influence, of course, and yet another cause of distress to her increasingly worried party. For while Mr Sarkozy also tends to disguise his extremist tendancies, he does at least produce palatable statements of discernible meaning, concrete and comprehensible to the masses, not merely soundbyte or spin.

Unhappily, next came a series of embarrassing gaffes on the part of Ms Royale, which her main rivals, in particularly the contemptible Mr Sarkozy, latched upon with glee. She knows nothing but thinks she knows everything, he taunted, sounding like the school bully he is. ‘Knows nothing, but thinks she knows everything?’ Why, any career guidance teacher would remark that points clearly to a political career.

In the course of the campaign, both Sarkozy and Royale demonstrated a certain degree of cunning when it came to manipulating the media effectively; with the former portraying himself as a strong and decisive candidate (the implicit corollary being that she was weak and indecisive, thereby summoning up as much latent sexism as it was possible to) Earlier in the campaign, it had become apparent that overt sexism was used to the advantage of his rival (given that it is considered unacceptable to betray such prejudices, however truly, madly and deeply they are held) with Ms Royale using her wiles to score points whenever journalists directed questions along the lines of ‘who’s going to be at home looking after the kids’

At times, the campaigning became rather tawdry, oft childish, as happens in politics all over the world: inevitably the rusty artillery of abuse got wheeled into action when political ammunition ran low; caricatures of Sarkozy depicted as a vampire, with Royale soaring past on a broomstick. Inevitably, the politicians blamed the media for any criticism of the campaigning, which is a bit like the captain of a sailing ship complaining about the wind.

To the bitter end, still engaged in vigorous canvassing, my friend G's concerns intensified ; in recent months, while Ms Royale appealed to the centre voters, she was isolating grass-roots Socialist supporters, and there was a serious risk of a sway in favour of a third candidate (thereby dividing the left vote, leaving the race open to be dominated yet again by right-wing candidates, a la 2002)

But today, after weeks of speculation, it came time to vote... and we find that it will be 'Sarko' and 'Sego' in the second round.

A cause for celebration? Hardly.

G's views on Mr Sarkozy have not changed, nor are they likely to; he strikes fear into all civil libertarians. Bbut equally great are G's concerns about what will happen should Ms Royale actually win. If elected on the unreasonaly high expectations of her own creating, proclaiming that she is going to change the way politics are done in France, should her Presidency flounder, it would probably destroy any chances of the Socialist party returning to power in his lifetime.

How to reassure a friend in such unfortunate circumstances, gentle reader?

One has reminded him that he did the only thing he could in voting for Ms Royale; at the end of the day, we all know that the successful candidate will not be chosen on the basis of policy, but rather personality. One has told him that France, like all other democracies, will simply have to choose between the least worst alternative.

He has asked for my consdiered opinion on the outcome; alas, one suspects that the winner will be the candidate who says what the majority is thinking most often in the loudest voice.

Bearing in mind that the majority do not often think of politics at all, or if they do, it is reactionary, and neither considered nor insightful....

Time for another revolution, perhaps?

Romantic

2007-04-21T23:19:00.003+01:00

Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art-
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors-
No- yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
To feel forever its soft fall and swell
Pillowed upon my fair love’s ripening chest
Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear his tender-taken breath
And so live ever – or else swoon to death

You can depend upon the great Romantics poets if your mundane existence requires a touch of melodrama, gentle reader… not to suggest it does, of course!

Just the other day, one perused Mr Keats’s letters to Mr Shelley (copies, alas!) and it brought a smile to read these immortal lines:

“There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to me, and do so in a lingering hateful manner, therefore I must either voyage or journey to Italy… My nerves at present are the worst part of me, yet they feel soothed when I think that come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bed-posts.”

In his letter, Mr Keats went on to consider ‘Poetry, and dramatic effect’, which even a reader of your limited abilities will appreciate has been a pervasive concern throughout the creation of my humble bloguette. He wrote:

“A modern work it is said must have a purpose, which may be the God – an artist must serve Mammon – he must have self concentration;, selfishness perhaps. You I am sure will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your magnanimity and be more of an artist, and ‘load every rift’ of your subject with ore. (Sounds a tad risqué, does it not? Loading every rift of your subject with ore… whatever can Mr Keats mean?) The thought of such discipline must fall like cold chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furl’d for six Months together… My Imagination is a Monastery and I am its Monk- you must explain my metaphysics to yourself. I am in expectation of Prometheus every day.”

But I digress, gentle reader… or do I?

G1

2007-04-21T23:19:00.001+01:00

Rome, the eternal city… on the first night of my visit, naturally one was inclined to promenade the network of narrow streets around Piazza di Spagna, one of the most exclusive areas in the city, drawing droves of tourists and Romans to the elegant shops around Via Condotti. The square and its nearby coffee houses have long attracted those who want to see and be seen.

In the 18^th century, the area was full of hotels for frivolous aristocrats doing the Grand Tour, not to mention artists, writers and composers, who took it all much more seriously. When Mr Dickens visited in the 19^th century, he remarked that the Spanish Steps were crowded with 'models dressed as saints, emperors, and Madonnas, hoping to attract attention'... so imagine my distress upon discovering that in the 21^st century, the area was over-crowded with impressionable Roman sylphs in varying states of undress, perhaps inspired by music videos featuring La Cicada... even off-season!

It goes without saying that however desperately one was seeking attention, one certainly did not stoop to that level. Nor did one feel remotely inclined to join a long queue of badly-dressed tourists outside Caffe Greco (once frequented by Goethe, Byron, Liszt, Wagner… and, last but by no means least, Mr Keats himself) waiting to pay an exorbitant sum of money for a cappuccino. In its time, one suspects this venue will have had a certain quiet charm, but long, long ago, before appearing in every guidebook that has ever been printed, featuring in every tourist’s itinerary. How bewildering to cast a glance through the window at a room crowded with miniature tables, packed so close together that there was barely room for the impatient and over-worked waiters to squeeze through and slap down your order before demanding a generous tip. One stood in wonder, asking oneself what impels the general public to take leave of their common sense before leaving home.

Instead, as one wandered the streets of northeast Rome, lonely as a… suffice to say, one's mind continued to linger upon the lives of the great Romantics; how could it be otherwise, standing in the shadow of the house where Mr Keats wrote his last passionate letters before his untimely death?

In this day and age, particularly among members of the Gay League, there is little in the way of romance: an original approach before an indecent proposal is probably about the best one can hope for. Gone are the days when one might reasonably expect to be courted... although one ought not complain, having a swashbuckling pirate queen prepared to defend my lack of honour at a moment's notice; but still, one sighed to learn that on display at the little museum inside Mr Keats’ home, among his most treasured possessions, there is a lock of hair that belonged to his beloved Fanny Brawne (what an unfortunate name!)

Have any of your suitors ever proffered a lock of hair, gentle reader? One thought as much- and a friendly drag queen inviting you to try their wig is not quite the same thing. Certainly one wonders if Ms Brawne's personal stylist advised her that a hair sample is best obtained from those regions of the female body that, for those unfortunate enough to live in the northern hemisphere, rarely see the sun... but I digress!

Romance, gentle reader! First-class passengers like it very well, printed and bound in neat little Mill & Boon or special weekend-away travel guide books; but one does not speak of such quirks and turns, the loves and doves they dream; goodness, no! Send me a man like Robbie Burns to sing the Song o' Steam, I say! One has certain needs: one needs certain things... not just to be loved, wanted, cherished, sought after, wooed, flattered, cosseted, pampered. One requires sympathy, affection, devotion, understanding, tenderness, infatuation, adulation, idolatry… that isn’t much to ask, is it?

In the midst of all this melodramatic rambling, one continued my nocturnal stroll, past Babington’s Tea Rooms (founded by a couple of English spinsters, a cruel reminder of my own situation) While sauntering gaily, one started to appreciate that quite a lot of attention was directed in my direction- what balm to relieve my inner anguish! For Italians, as they walk along the most fashionable streets in the city, suffice to say that the male of the species (no need to distinguish gay male and heterosexual male varieties; they are one and the same in this advanced culture) take full advantage of the opportunity to observe fellow citizens of the eternal city… to ‘check one another out’, to put it bluntly.

So imagine my reaction to find a particularly well-formed gentleman (in the process of locking his moto-scooter, or whatever they are called nowadays; speeding death-traps, if you ask me) allowing his steady eyes - unfathomable, dark brown pools in which it was impossible to see anything but one's own reflection - to linger long enough to be called a gaze. With a broad stride and a winning smile he approached, ready to take the liberty of introducing himself... the first of many liberties! His handshake was warmly and firmly returned, gentle reader; one was quite pleased to make his acquaintance, let me assure you.

For the purposes of this anecdote, we shall refer to this gentleman as G 1 (not to be confused with my good friend who features in the cast) After a quick and ready exchange of introductions, we established the existence of a mutual fluency in English and Spanish; the former ideal for the purposes of clarity, the latter ideal for the purposes of seduction.

After a few preliminary enquiries as to the reason for my sojourn in his native city, G 1 proposed escorting me to a nearby place for a quiet exchange. Never coy, having established that the location in question was merely three minutes away, his kind and generous offer was gladly accepted... an impulsive decision; would it subsequently be regretted?

Previously listening to

2007-04-21T23:18:00.000+01:00

Le Tigre

Who took the Bomp from the Bompalompalomp?

Who took the Ram from the Ramalamading dong?

Your lyrics are dumb like a linoleum floor

I'll walk on it

Where is Raed?

2007-04-16T01:16:00.000+01:00

No one knew who he was: those who knew him never suspected the risks he took. Indeed, Salam Pax could hardly have taken a greater risk; more than 200,000 people had gone missing under Saddam Hussein's oppressive regime, many for far lesser crimes than the open criticism voiced on a blog used to communicate with his friend Raed. Perfectly aware of the dangers (no less than four of his relatives had gone missing; one friend, for no apparent reason, summarily executed), he even wrote openly about his homosexuality, a frank admission that still presents a significant risk to his life. One of the first people to link to his blog said, "It is all about a guy who risks his nuts to tell us he's a pervert and his friend likes to watch"

From idle chat to startling reportage, his internet outpourings delivered the most compelling description of life before and during the illegal war on Iraq, with a simple but honest descriptions of life in his home. He talked equally freely about the soaring price of tomatoes and the sudden arrival of the feared Ba'ath party militia setting up a gun position in an empty house on his street, his writing was remarkably free of sentimentality even as the approaching war becomes inevitable. Reports of his writing began to filter into the newspapers in Britain and the US where his voice, recognisably human and authentic, received considerable attention at a time when the only voices from inside Iraq to which the Western world had access got filtered through an unreliable network of newspapers and television networks, who appeared to have loyalties and sympathies of their own and were clearly struggling to cover what was happening on the ground. For a while, some readers doubted that Salam existed, preferring to believe he was an agent of Iraqi or US intelligence; his allusions to David Bowie and Hollywood movies seemed unusually familiar, so his identity was questioned, the doubters unable to accept that an Iraqi in Baghdad could share their interests and write on them eloquently and with humour.

At one point during the war- by now 20,000 people were regularly reading the most linked-to blog on the internet- when he was still able to access the internet and send his writing, the Arabic radio services of the BBC and the Voice of America ran stories on him. When his father heard the reports, for the first time guessed that that it was his son they were referring to. Not only was he risking his own life, he was risking the life of his family and everyone they associated with. In the final weeks before the impending conflict, he feared Iraqi intelligence agency were on to him... and all of his readers feared for him.

It's quite possible he doesn't appreciate what impact his blog made; he probably doesn't even know about how his writings were displayed at an art exhibition in the Centre de Cultura Contemporanea, Barcelona (CCCB) back in 2004, which is how I initially heard about the Baghdad Blogger; the first blog I ever encountered, and it remains the only blog I have ever read compulsively. It would not be an exaggeration to say I remain quite, quite infatuated with the brave and dashing Salam.

Over nine months have passed since his last post, his silence the source of much consternation. When I read something like this, I fear the worst... but allow myself to hope that silence is a prudent measure on his part.

Baghdad Blogger

2007-04-16T00:09:00.000+01:00

My name is Salam Pax and I am addicted to blogs… It is slightly voyeuristic, especially those really personal blogs: day-to-day, mundane... [but] glimpses of lives so different, and so much amazing writing. No politics, just people's lives; how they deal with pain or grief, how they share their happy moments with anybody who cares to read.

And I cared. We had no access to satellite TV, and magazines had to be smuggled into the country; through blogs I could take a peek at a different world. Satellite TV and the web were on Saddam's list of things that will corrupt you. Having a satellite dish was punishable with jail and a hefty fine because these channels would twist our minds and make us do bad things. They spread immoral values. Of course he and his buddies were incorruptible so they could watch all the satellite TV they wanted.

With internet access from home, life changed...Of course, the [regime] blocked certain search terms and they did actually have a bunch of people looking at URL requests going through their servers.

With attention [to my blog] came the fear that someone in Iraq might actually read, since it had entered warblog territory. But… if [the authorities] knew about it I would already have been hanging from a ceiling being asked about anti-governmental activities...

By the end of January war felt very close and the blog was being read by a huge number of people. There were big doubts that I was writing from Baghdad, the main argument being there was no way such a thing could stay under the radar for so long in a police state... The questions people were asking me became more difficult and the amount of angry mail I was getting became unbelievable. People wanted coherence and a clear stand for or against war. All I had was doubt and uncertainty.

I just felt that it was important that among all the weblogs about Iraq and the war there should be at least one Iraqi blog, one single voice: no matter how you view my politics, there was at least someone talking. I was sometimes really angry at the various articles in the press telling the world about how Iraqis feel and what they were doing when they were living in an isolated world.

A divine guide to Good Behaviour

2007-04-15T00:43:00.000+01:00

A divine guide to Good Behaviour indeed... one hasn't been able to put it down! Such pearls of wisdom; it would be a shame not to offer something to my swine

"Disguises of normality only made me look unconvincing... My friends were
anyone who could put up with the disgrace; my occupation, any job from which
I was not given the sack; my playground, any cafe or restaurant
from which I was not barred or any street from which
the police did not move me on."

"Dressing as I did did not make me 'happy' necessariy, but it unified me,
and that is what we must all do with our lives. [If the image you present is]
the genuine you and not some affectation (a distinction which may take years
to sort out) then you must be what you are, honestly and bravely, with all the taste
and inteligence you can muster. Life will be more difficult
if you try to fulfil yourself, but avoiding this difficulty
renders life meaningless."

Quentin Crisp, Manners from Heaven (1984)

Previously listening to

2007-04-15T00:37:00.000+01:00

Amy Winehouse - Back to Black
What kind of fuckery is this?

Fishy?

2007-04-14T23:34:00.000+01:00

Capybara is a species of fish, according to the Roman Catholic Church. It's semi-aquatic, you see; provided it was regarded as a fish, then it was permissible to eat during lent. A reasonable proposition, wouldn't you say?

So, this week's feeble excuse for neglecting my humble bloguette is that one has been on a workshop to study animal behaviour. Don't ask why, gentle reader; as the aforementioned example illustrates, the repeated use of reason will only lead you astray.

When most animals aren't sleeping, they most devote their time to foraging, socialising and mating... shopping and fucking, in other words. A week's observation has helped one to understand certain human behaviours, although one's opinion of humankind has deteoriated in direct proportion to one's insight; our society demonstrates a greater degree of injustice, violence and inequality than the social units of all primates.

Like most zoological gardens, a no-contact policy operates for all staff, on the basis that such animals would never be touched or handled in the wild. On first consideration, that appears to be a reasonable proposition... until one considers the obvious fact that these animals are not in the wild. A number of studies in recent times have demonstrated that particular animals in captivity, who by necessity must become accustomed to aural and visual contact with humankind, adapt more easily to their changed circumstances if they experience a little handling; even five minutes a day for the duration of a week made a difference. Reading this, a no-contact policy struck me as being most cruel indeed, the equivalent expecting a human who has always lived in a country village to adapt to a foreign city as if by magic, continuing to make the same choices and demonstrate the same behaviours, despite this tremendous upheaval.

Yet it appears that a fictitous premise is what the majority of animal conservationist still prefers; just pretend it's not really happening, as it were. Our ability to reason directs us to the strangest of paths, convinced we're heading in the right direction, while our head remains stuck firmly in the clouds.

Reclining, declining, nude

2007-04-08T14:28:00.000+01:00

A reclining woman turns, directing her naked body away from her husband towards a viewing audience, thighs opening, breasts splayed in different directions (one defying gravity, or so it would appear) In the near disance, something rises between the couple; a high-rise tenement, one of those nasty constructions, quickly made with cheap building materials, while dark storm-clouds gather overhead: a structure unlikely to last, some would say, quite like their relationship; a phallic symbol- belonging to which of the two?- others would remark.

Returning to the woman, surely the most immediately striking characteristic is her physical strength, in particular that chiseled jaw, those muscular arms and legs. She tries to look natural and relaxed, although one can almost feel her stiffness, her rigidity, the artificiality of her pose. A harsh brightness strikes her upper body, as if a spotlight were constantly turned upon it, leaving parts cast in shadow, throwing a hint of shadowy green to her shoulder and making parts of her flesh look almost gangrenous. As for those legs, do they not appear to belong to another, younger woman?

Harsh is the first word that springs to mind when describing her facial expression, and yet there is something desparate, something weak and pleading in her eyes... but what is she trying to express? Please buy my new DVD,please buy my next record, perhaps?

Who is this stealing through a drab grey curtain (not a lush, green-coloured one, please note) to lay a thick paw on her over-aerobicised thigh?As for the man in the background, looking at her in blank adoration... well, 'blank' is perhaps the best way of describing the oafish expression of that hulking , yet somehow inconsequential, neanderthal figure, left in the disregarded shadow that she has cast. For the woman does not want his attention; it is YOUR attention that she wants, anonymous public viewer.

So, gentle reader, what do you think of Peter Howson's latest portrait, on display at the Gatehouse Gallery in Glasgow? Who could it depict?

Apparently, the main subject of this piece is an avid collector of the artist's work; one tends to agree with Ms Marina Hyde, that if someone was painting pictures like this of you, you'd be removing them from the market, whatever the cost.

Veni Vidi Vici

2007-04-07T23:17:00.001+01:00

Fashionably late, that is how one ought to arrive at a social engagement: one ought to do so on principle, the principle being that punctuality is the thief of time.

Unfortunately, it is a truth universally acknowledged that to voyage on a moderate budget requires use of an inexpensive airline, which in turn necessitates punctuality, that is to say, allowing plenty of time for unexpected delays on getting to and from the airport, not to mention getting through security. One does advise removing any recreational drugs from your luggage (in this day and age, concealing them inside a used sex toys no longer ensures that you won’t have them confiscated… what is the world coming to!) Certainly, you do not want to find yourself in the difficult situation once faced by M, my first boyfriend (the Australian, for those of you who for some reason haven’t been giving my bloguette your undivided attention.) Undoubtedly, as he prepared to be thoroughly and roughly manhandled - by security personnel, at this stage in my story- before boarding a flight from London Heathrow he was in the throes of ecstasy, knowing that yours truly (sex-starved, one might add; in those early days, ne’er a day went by without the two of us managing to get ourselves into a new sexual position) was impatiently awaiting his return to Amsterdam: but imagine his consternation, gentle reader, upon discovering that he was carrying a tablet of ecstasy in his jeans pocket. Fearing arrest, M took the only available option, surreptitiously swallowing as quickly as possible. Once safely through the check, his concern returned, exacerbated by the knowledge of what awaited, for one had strict views on recreational drug use back in the days when one hadn’t experimented oneself.

But I digress!

To my not inconsiderable annoyance, the departure of my Easyjet flight from Paris Orly to Rome Ciampino was delayed for several hours, resulting in an unreasonably late arrival at my destination. Having taken the precaution of reserving a room in a private apartment, one begrudgingly flicked through a travel guidebook before nodding off to sleep... which leads me neatly to a description of my lodgings; one was attracted by the name; ‘sleeping’ was all that one intended to use the room for, while ‘beauty’ was appropriate for obvious reasons.

It might come as a surprise to learn that one has never pre-booked accommodation online before, and despite their pleasing website, one worried that the profile of a gay-friendly boarding house might operate on the same principles as a profile on a gay-dating website, using enhanced images of the rooms, taken from a flattering angle several years before.

Suffice to say, upon being ushered to a bright and spacious room, tastefully furnished with large and ostentatious pieces that included an upholstered sofa and a giant king-size bed, not to mention having an en-suite bathroom and a view of San Giovanni in Laterno, one creased oneself in delight.

One assumes that all readers know that in the most civilized of countries, it is standard practice to encourage members of the general public to enjoy a mid-afternoon siesta, so all restaurants close after luncheon; hence it was necessary to hasten from my fabulous room without stopping to attend to toilette, throwing myself at the mercy of the nearest Italian waiter. In most cities, this would be highly dangerous, and while Rome is a city with an ignoble and chequered history, never let it be said that her citizens don’t know how to cook.

Seated at a convenient table, all of my attention was devoted to the chalkboard on the nearest wall (not a glance wasted upon the tourist menu) so that when the waiter returned, one addressed him immediately (in perfect Spanglish – sufficiently similar to Italian) with two pertinent questions; was their gnocci store-bought? (to which he responded with an astonished blink, as if to suggest anything but homemade was unthinkable) and was their calamari fresh? (eliciting a similarly indignant response) whereupon one embraced him and placed an order.

Let me spare you a full account of that meal, gentle reader… that would be cruel, would it not? For one assumes that the vast majority of you are not within reach of a decent Italian restaurant as you read... any more than I am.

Finishing my sumptuous banquet, upon finding oneself quite fatigued by the day's travelling, one retired to enjoy a brief siesta at my nearby fabulous apartment…

…and just as well, gentle reader!

For one could never have anticipated what was going to occur later that same evening; no one, least of all oneself, could have imagined all of the carnal pleasures that awaited on that first night in Rome; how all of one’s physical, mental and emotional energies were to be quite exhausted by the end of the experience.

Yes, gentle reader, my first encounter with an Italian gay gentleman... a Roman who came, saw and conquered, although not necessarily in that order!

1,2,3,4...

2007-04-06T23:49:00.000+01:00

In the summer of 1992, with a threadbare rucksack, a crumpled Interail pass that approached its expiry date, not to mention insufficient funds (as a result of squandering Swiss francs on cheap liquor with a member of the Austrian medical profession, who later relieved me of the burden of my virgin innocence… but that’s another story) to cover anything more than the most meagre of provisions (one can survive on water and fresh baguette; pirates, take note) one made a first visit to the birthplace of the Renaissance.

It was not quite love at first sight. One has fond memories of gelati, but little else.

Arriving in Venice, one recalls being tossed backwards and forwards in a sea of camera-wielding tourists; cafes charged exorbitant prices, particularly if their private quintet happened to be performing a piece as you sat out on the terrace, waiting for winged vermin to descend. Next stop was Rome: returning from a packed day of sightseeing, distressed and disgusted by the tasteless extravagance on display inside St Peter’s Basilica, one paid the price of neglecting to check linen at a penzione; trailing black hairs and smudged fingerprints from the last occupant awaited… somehow, one managed to sleep. Continuing to Florence, unpleasant at the best of times but insufferable on a hot, humid sweltering afternoon, when even Florentine flies seem desperate to escape from over-crowded streets and a sewer-river under a ramshackle, tourist-ridden bridge, where one was unable to afford the admission for Michelangelo’s David… can you imagine my distress, gentle reader?

Suffice to say that almost a decade passed before my second visit to Italy (accompanied by a charming gay gentleman of Italian extraction with whom one had a flingette) which was much more agreeable. Together we flew to Naples (with Go Airlines... a decent budget airline; how one mourns their passing) and having eaten our fill of pizza we spent a couple of weeks exploring the ancient ruins at Pompei, the splendid beaches of the Amalfi coast, the romantic hilltown of Ravello where one of my favourite authors, Ms V Woolf, used to vacation… wonderful food, wonderful weather, all quite, quite wonderful!

But despite all of that, it was not until my third trip to Italy that my love affair began in earnest.

Stepping back further still, gentle reader, in my student days one lodged at a residence with two little girls- Lilliputian, they were- from the sun-drenched shores of Sicily. Suffice to say that even my words cannot begin to do justice to the meals produced in their kitchen; for several years, one awoke salivating at the mouth, plagued by a recurring dream that involved a particular sauce, made to a traditional family recipe handed down from one Italian mama to another (it was made using four cheeses, nothing more; the secret lay in how to correctly proportion those ingredients) And don't get me started on the subject of Sicilian pastries…

So it was that in 2003, still desperately in love (with one another, obviously) X and I spent three weeks backpacking around that wonderful island. Pleasure beyond all imagining, gentle reader… the ruins at Siracuse, the Renaissance churches in Noto, the temples of Agrigento, the hilltown of Enna, with breathtaking mosaic floortiles at the ruins of a Roman villa nearby… not to mention the Aeolian islands; sulphuric mudbaths on Vulcano, ascending the volcano on Stromboli. While there, one celebrated a birthday (for unlike X, one does still celebrate those... and one doesn't lie about ones age!) and for once he surprised me with a gift... a Sicilian cookery book. Given that we lived together at the time, one suspects he may have had reasons of his own for offering that particular gift, but since our passions coincided, it was gratefully received and it remains one of my most treasured possessions... and the most memorable gift he ever gave me (gonorrhoea doesn't count)

Two further trips to Italy followed, but that holiday was to remain unmatched; the romantic town of Bergamo, surprisingly picturesque, unexpectedly delivered the best meal I’ve ever eaten (fresh gnocci in a creamy cheese sauce, with fresh basil) on a weekend trip, which preceded a not-so-fabulous trip the following year. As anticipated, X and I found rugged and unkempt landscapes on Sardinia; as forewarned, we encountered plenty of stodgy food; both of those we were prepared to endure, but unhappily we were also cursed by miserable weather for the duration of our visit.

Looking back, my fondest memories are of a fine pizzeria in Alghero (where street-signs are sponsored by the Catalan facistas) and a penzione where we stayed. It was run by a middle-aged widower ; a cultured woman, who had led an interesting life, her English and her Spanish impecable. She made us feel completely at ease in her home- that cannot be said of most establishments- and we were the only guests lodging in her beautiful apartment. During our stay, she confessed that loneliness was one of her reasons for taking guests; in the morning she occasionally joined us for breakfast, her presence welcome and thoroughly enjoyable.

Before leaving, on a particularly wet Sunday, we rented a motorcycle; with X holding on tight behind, squinting into the rain, we ventured along the coast to the lighthouse at Bosa, an old mill town, with a bitter wind driving at us throughout. On arrival, we stopped at a cafe on the deserted beach for much-needed refreshment; it had a fine open hearth fire, and we were reluctant to leave, but just before returning to our vehicle, the clouds parted for a fleeting moment and blessed us with a touch of summer warmth… only for a moment, but all the more magical in the bleakest of circumstances.

But I digress!

Gentle reader, you’ve been waiting to hear about my recent jaunts in Italia, haven’t you?

One does apologise for making you wait…

Love Sonnet 87... to Cap'n Dyke

2007-04-03T00:34:00.000+01:00

Cap'n Dyke, thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou know'st thy estimate:
The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting?
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thyself thou gavest, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gavest it, else mistaking;
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgment making.
Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,
In sleep a pirate queen, but waking no such matter.

Going Underground

2007-04-02T14:12:00.000+01:00

If only one lived in London
with a choice of joining CastOff for their knitting sessions
on the District and Circle Underground Line
or London Bitch and Stitch

One might learn how to make a fabulous hat to accessorise
with a delightful skull and crossbones sweater that one bought in Zara

Going back

2007-04-02T14:06:00.000+01:00

You sit there in your heartache
Waiting on some beautiful boy to save you from your old ways
You play forgiveness
Watch him now, here he come
He doesn’t look a thing like Jesus, but he talks like a gentleman, like you imagined

They say the devils water it ain’t so sweet
You don’t have to drink right now
But you can dip your feet
Every once in a little while

We’re burning down the highway skyline
On the back of a hurricane that started turning
And sometimes you close your eyes and see the place where you used to live
When you were young

When you were young, from the album Sam's Town, by The Killers, 2006

Previously listening to

2007-04-02T14:04:00.000+01:00

I'm from Barcelona

It's like having Brotherhood of Man trapped inside your head...

and it was playing too damn long

Narcissus

2007-04-01T23:57:00.001+01:00

My favourite flower, gentle reader... for obvious reasons

Primera Delmes

2007-04-01T23:45:00.000+01:00

April is the cruelest month; mixing memory with desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain, and all of that... hence a perfectly appropriate time for my return, don't you think?

Undoubtedly all of my loyal readers have been bewildered by my absence over the last weeks, keenly anticipating an account of my sejourn in the bleak miserable nether-regions of the Emerald Isle, not to mention my jaunt around northern Italy, followed by a road trip with my beloved X... all in due course; suffice to say that one has several stories to prepare and share!

But in the meantime, one understands that it is customary to mark the first day of this particular month with a little anecdote to which the reader must apply his or her limited intelligence, in order to discern what is Fact and what is Fiction... and far be it from me to disregard such an honourable tradition.

So, gentle reader, consider the following:

Might there be extenuating circumstances for my delay in returning to the bloguette?

Is it possible that in addition to holidaying, one has moved from a fabulous penthouse apartment to another fabulous home in another European country?

What possible reasons could there be for such upheaval: is it possible that Paris has gone out of fashion, or that one tired of the most beautiful city in the world, or perhaps one decided to change location simply because one could?

If you come to the conclusion there must be an element of fact to the above, it is inevitable that you will ask where one has moved to? It will be obvious to anyone who has glanced at these pages that it would be a city and that one would not have left Europe... and most certainly would not have returned to Ireland.

Bearing in mind that one's bloguette is a reflection of one's character, and that one is a single gay gentleman who enjoys social intercourse, a discerning reader might reasonably conclude that one would only sejourn to a country where French, Spanish or English were spoken: it would be safe to assume that not having lived in an English-speaking country for several years might make Britain a tempting option...

To conclude, one suggests a moment's pause to consider why one refused to clarify the position. If a combination of profession and location jeopardised one's anonymity when mingling with other members of the gay league. with an excruciatingly high risk of being associated and identified with my humble bloguette, surely the most sensible course would be to conceal my present residence and pretend that one continued to be located in Paris, n'est-ce pas?

Skye

2007-03-20T13:01:00.000Z

Gentle reader, after a fortnight in Italy, a little respite on the west coast of Scotland with X was in order... regular service will resume soon.

In the meantime, I suggest that you enjoy adventures on the seven seas with Captain Dyke

La Dolce Vita

2007-03-05T02:05:00.000Z

How are you, gentle readers? How desperately have you all missed me?

Well, you will have to go on missing me... for one writes a hurried message en route to Paris Orly; by the time most of you awake, one will be enjoying La Dolce Vita in Rome... before moving on to Bologna, Firenze, Venezia, Milano... if you happen to be in the neighbourhood, do please say hello.

It was my noble intention to prepare a series of fabulously revealing posts to entertain in my absence... alas, one has been having too much fun.

But do check back in an hour or so... or a day or so... or a week or so...

Arrivederci!

Previously listening to

2007-03-05T02:03:00.000Z

Sufjan Stevens

Invites you to Come on feel the Illinoise

For one last 'woo hoo' before we go

She's Lost Control

2007-03-05T01:57:00.000Z

Introduction – A few words from the bride
You could have it so much better by Franz Ferdinand
Just a girl by No doubt
Love me like you by The Magic Numbers
Firecracker by Ryan Adams
Joe’s head by Kings of Leon
Six Days (Remix Ft Mos Def) by DJ Shadow
Every day I love you less and less by The Kaiser Chiefs
Reptilia by The Strokes
PDA by Interpol
Excuse me Mister by No Doubt
Paranoid by Garbage
Moving by Supergrass
No choice in the matter by Aimee Mann
Hotel by Broken Social Scene
Holy Matrimony (Married to the firm) by Foxy Brown
Rebellion (Lies) by Arcade Fire
Yellow by Coldplay
That’s just what you are by Aimee Mann
She’s lost control by Joy Division

Take this pink ribbon off my eyes. I’m exposed and it’s no big surprise. Don’t you think I know exactly where I stand? I’m just a girl living in captivity. I’ve been moving so long the days all feel the same: got a low, low feeling around me, and a stone cold feeling inside. Moving, just keep moving, when I don’t know why. I just can’t stop messing my mind up. I’m wasting my time. Nothing to say ! Nothing to do! What I’ve succumbed to is making me numb. I’m sick and tired of staying in control. I think I’m paranoid and complicated. Tomorrow never comes until its too late. At the starting of the week I’ve got to get this off my chest: I’m about to crack. You could be sitting making lunch, and it hits you like a punch: its only Tuesday. You leave me no choice in the matter, the message light just blinks away and while I’m here you won’t push play, and now every time that I look at myself in the mirror, the room is on fire and she’s fixing her hair. This world is forcing me because I’m just a girl, all pretty and petite; yes, take a good look at me, just your typical prototype. You’re always telling me it’s my turn to move, when I wonder what could make the needle jump the groove. Bend me, break me, prop me up with another pillow; I won’t fall for the oldest trick in the book, so don’t sit there and think you’re off the hook by saying there’s no use changing because that’s just what you are. What the matter with the truth? Did I offend your ears by suggesting that a change might be a thing to try? It’s not like you will lose some critical piece if somehow you moved from point A to point B. Don’t care what you say, so just say it anyway. You cannot safely say that while I am away you will not consider sadly. So cute when you’re frustrated dear? Well, you can look, but you can’t touch, because I don’t think I like you much. You’re turning into something I detest and everyone says you’re a mess; I can’t believe once you and me did sex. Oh yes, I’m stressed, I’m sorry I digress, but please don’t slow me down if I’m going too fast. We could talk and talk until I’m blue in the face, but we’ll arrive at the very same place; with you running around and me out of the race. In our endeavour, we are never seeing eye to eye. It’s almost as if I’m tied to the tracks and I’m waiting for him to rescue me: funny thing is, he’s not going to come. What should I do? It’s only Thursday. The last message you sent said I looked really down and that I ought to come over and talk about it. Well, I wasn’t down; I just wasn’t smiling at you. For most love comes for free: they don’t pay the high cost of mental custody. Ignorance without the bliss. Now there’s some grinning goon on my TV screen telling us all that it’s alright because she wears this and he said that, and if you get some of these it’ll all be alright, but oh no it won’t be alright, unless you get up, come on and get up. Sleeping is giving in, no matter what the time is, so lift those heavy eyelids. Are you alive or are you dead? Your rule of thumb makes me worry some. But we have two hundred couches where you can sleep tight! People say that your dreams are the only things that save you: come on, baby, in our dreams we can live our misbehaviour. People try and hide the night underneath the covers. My apologies, what I’ve become is so burdensome. You’re no longer laughing. Tell us a story. You know I’m not boring. Look at the stars, look how they shine for you, skin and bones turned into something beautiful. You know I love you so.

Slan go foill

2007-02-21T03:16:00.001Z

Those of you paying attention will recall that one returns to Ireland tomorrow morning, so it is time for us to part!

One imagines this is distressing for you, gentle reader… but do imagine how much more distressing it is for me! Please try to amuse yourselves in my absence, but not so much that you don’t miss me most dreadfully… a deluge of Calling Cards to that effect will be expected upon my return.

One does welcome the opportunity of catching up with friends, particularly my best friend, who is struggling to adjust her habits to acommodate full-time child-raising. This is quite understandable: except for under the most adverse circumstances - such as homelessness, unsafe living conditions or lack of spouse and child care - it was not meant to be a full-time activity. Until the middle of the last century, no developed culture on earth had ever deployed one woman per child without simultaneously assigning her such major productive activities as weaving, farming, gathering, temple maintenance and tent building. The reason is that full-time, one-on-one child raising is not good for women… or children. Home life is no more natural than a cage is natural to a cockatoo.

Recognising her need to escape from what must be an ordeal, one proposes to distract her with champagne and social outings… yes, of course we’ll bring the child, for one is quite looking forward to bonding; one might even change a diaper.

In tribute to all those who endeavour to remain sane while working full-time in the home, one presents a selection of carefully chosen tracks, providing a soundtrack for a day of the working week… known as the Desperate Housewives Collection.

Please enjoy!

Trapped in a box

2007-02-21T03:14:00.000Z

Introduction – Queen of the Crime Council
Ode to Oren Ishii by Vince Tempera & Orchestra
Trapped in a box by No Doubt
Long time woman by Pam Grier
A chicken with its head cut off by The Magnetic Fields
Cvalda by Bjork
S. O. S. by ABBA
Tu Mira by Manuel Lole
Kiss me like you mean it by The Magnetic Fields
She wants to marry by The Beverley Sisters
You’re with stupid now by Aimee Mann
Woo Hoo by The 5.6.7.8.’s
You’re so bad by Tom Petty
Love Resurrection by Alison Moyet
Bedtime Stories by Madonna
Stabbed in the heart by Jim White
Time enough for rocking when we’re old by The Magnetic Fields
Smile by Lily Allen
Super Trooper by ABBA
In the musicals by Bjork
Bang Bang (My baby shot me down) by Nancy Sinatra
Sunday morning by No Doubt
Heaven of my heart by Jim White
Green hornet by Al Hirt

Sappy pathetic little me, sick and tired of everything, head in the oven, but wicked like Medusa and with crazy killers that would slice right through you: no wish but to cut your day short like the winter solstice, darling, but I’ve been trapped in a box of tremendous size and it distorts my vision and closes my eyes. I’ve never been on my own this way, just sat by myself all day; I’d trade places with you any day. My sister got lucky, she married a yuppie and took him for all he was worth. All I do is sleep and sleep and sing in a world gone mad. Where are those happy days? They seem so hard to find. Been locked away so long I’ve forgotten my crime. Don’t know what time of day or what colour of clothes I’m wearing: I cannot decipher this arithmetic, and there ain’t nobody around to please; got unnatural feelings like a bad disease. My mind rides and slides as my circuits are fried. When I feel this way, I think I’m going crazy, so what can I do to make light of this dull, dull day? What switch can I pull to illuminate the way? Reality gone with a single click; I just hope that the switch won’t stick. I know I’m not alone; I know others with a box as their home, but I don’t know how to manufacture sturdy bones with a hairline fracture; a warm injection is all I need to calm the pain. Lets get unconscious, leave logic and reason to the arms of unconsciousness. Yes, I found a light in the tunnel at the end: this is a musical, and there’s always someone to catch me if I fall. For the longest time I’ve sat here trying to remember why do I love him so much? What kind of magic is this? How come I can’t help adore him? Why I’m floating… then the memory returns as the pain comes flooding. Still trapped in a box, with no room for thought: watch the world as it flocks to life’s paradox. This is not enough for a human to grow, so today is the last day that I’m using words, because they are useless, especially sentences: they don’t stand for anything. They’ve worn out, lost their meaning, and don’t function anymore; how can I explain how I feel? Trapped in a box, my life becomes void: all I thought for myself is now destroyed. Controlling my mind, what to eat, what to buy: subliminal rules, how to live, how to die. So imagine I was glad to hear you’re coming: suddenly I feel alright; when you’re near me, darling, can you save me, S.O.S! Why, he is my Lord, he is my Saviour, and he rewards my good behaviour. He is my light and my salvation; he’s always right, he’s always patient. It’s going to be so different when I’m on the stage tonight. Eligible, not too stupid: knowledgeable, but not always right; salvageable and free for the night. I pinch myself; it’s like I’m dreaming. There’ll be time enough for talk in the nursing home, darling; time enough to write an epic poem, and we can rock all day in rocking chairs of gold. There’ll be time enough for sex and drugs in heaven, when our pheromones are tuned up to eleven; tonight, we don’t have to be stars exploding in the night or electric eels under the covers; I think I’d rather just go dancing. All that you’ve ever learned, try to forget. I’ll never explain again.

People in Hell just want a drink of water

2007-02-21T03:10:00.000Z

Mrs. Tinsley, intensely modest, sensitive and abhorring marital nakedness, suffered from nerves; she was distracted and fretted by shrill sounds as the screech of a chair leg scraping the floor or the pulling of a nail. As a girl in Missouri she had written a poem that began with the line “Our life is a beautiful Fairy Land.” Now she was mother to three. When the youngest girl, Mabel, was a few months old they made a journey into Laramie, the infant howling intolerably, the wagon bungling along, stones sliding beneath the wheels. As they crossed the Little Laramie Mrs. Tinsley stood up and hurled the crying infant into the water. The child’s white dress filled with air and it floated a few yards in the swift current, then disappeared beneath a bower of willows at the bend. The woman shrieked and made to leap after the child but Horm Tinsley held her back. They galloped across the bridge and to the river’s edge below the bend. Gone and gone.

As if to make up for her fit of destruction Mrs. Tinsley developed an intense anxiety for the safety of the surviving children, tying them to chairs in the kitchen lest they wander outside and come to harm, sending them to bed while the sun was still high for twilight was a dangerous time, warning them away from haystacks threaded with vipers, from trampling horses and biting dogs, the yellow Wyandottes who pecked, from the sound of thunder and the sight of lightening. In the night she came to their beds many times to learn if they had smothered.

People in Hell just want a drink of water, Close Range, Annie Proulx

One

2007-02-19T23:29:00.001Z

To speak in the third person might strike a gentle reader as odd, irritating, or a little cold, perhaps?

One first heard this antiquated style used by the Queen of England addressing her subjects, and you might imagine that a child growing up in a former colony didn’t appreciate her tone. It sounded forced; by association it was considered false, artificial and insincere.

In later years, one discovered that it also made an appearance in books written before one was born. In such cases, ‘one’ was used by those of propriety whenever referring to themselves, or alternatively to convey standards held by an imaginary upper-class member of society who must know exactly what ought to be done in any given situation. A moral imperative and a sense of superiority were implied, along with distain for whatever one was not, which helps understand why use of the term was reassuring for those who felt included and so provoking for those who did not.

Although perhaps ‘one’ is not quite so reassuring as it first appears, for its use necessarily implies the existnce of ‘them’ as well as ‘us’. What if you suffered from self doubt and weren’t sure to which group you belonged?

There is a certain distance implied whenever 'one' is used; certainly a distance from those who are not one, but also a certain distance from oneself. Whether the speaker is acknowledging a distance that already exists, or choosing to impose a distance, can often be implied by the context.

Returning to the Queen, arguably it was more honest and appropriate for her to acknowledge social and geographical distance by adopting a formal tone.

It is not so difficult to imagine why someone might want to impose a distance, whether between oneself and others, or oneself and one’s public persona. For some, it’s a form of self defence; keeping at a distance, or keeping things at a distance, can be a way to feel safer.

Another curious thing about ‘one’ is how unity and wholeness are suggested whenever the word appears. There is a tendency to speak of the individual's character, despite all contractions and idiosyncrasies, as forming a single complete whole… not something fractured or broken. There is a tendency to speak of a singular entity when reference is made to the ‘gay community’, which invokes a notion of a homogenous group, capable of being identified and represented.

So many interesting aspects to my much-used little word.

One… it is also the loneliest number that you’ll ever do; much, much worse than two.

It does have limitations, of course. I am perfectly aware of that. Let me assure you, no one speaks like this in the place where I grew up, and before returning, there are a few words that I would like to say.

Sincerely grateful to those who return to visit my humble bloguette, in particular those who have taken trouble of emailing or commenting on occasion, I would simply like to say... thank you for reading.

Well, it's too late tonight to drag the past out into the light

2007-02-19T23:28:00.003Z

Did I disappoint you, or leave a bad taste in your mouth?
You act like you never had love, and you want me to go without

We're one, but we're not the same
We hurt each other, then we do it again

One
We're not the same
But we get to carry each other

One, U2, Achtung Baby 1991

Drole De Monde

2007-02-19T23:28:00.001Z

A delight, gentle reader!

Cirque du Grand Celeste have extended their season of this until 4^th March

If you are in Paris and need an excuse to laugh at yourself or others, it's well worth checking out

Laurent Drelon

2007-02-19T22:57:00.001Z

Last Tuesday, Laurent Drelon (36 years old) presented a claim of discrimination because he was refused permission to donate blood.

On 16^th November 2004, in response to a campaign asking the public to come forward and donate, he attended Saint Louis de Paris Hospital. He was given a health questionnaire to complete, following which he had an interview with a member of staff because of his refusal to complete a section detailing his sexual preferences. He replied that it related to his private life and the doctor concluded he was homosexual; he was refused permission.

On 9^th August 2006, almost two years later, he decided to try again. This time, he ticked a box, indicating he was heterosexual. Staff challenged him, whereupon he was informed that a file existed allocating him a reference - ‘FR08’- which is a code used to signify ‘member of the gay community’

Director of Medical Science at EFS (l’Establissement francais du sang) defends the decision on the basis ‘the risk of HIV is about sixty time higher than the general population; because that poses a grave risk to patients, donation of blood by homosexual patients is refused.’

To rely on the fact that homosexual males are more likely to test HIV positive can hardly be a legitimate basis for what amounts to a discriminatory practice. Imagine the outcry if a sexist or racist employer relied upon statistical evidence showing a higher rate of crime among a particular minority or that women took more leave from the workplace to refuse consideration of job applications from that group

One assumes that all donated blood is thoroughly screened before use?

La Nuit Blanche

2007-02-19T22:56:00.007Z

Gentle reader, exploring the streets of Paris by moonlight… what could possibly be more delightful?

On the night of the full moon in October, the city celebrates ‘La Nuit Blanche’ (The White Night) by keeping public museums open to midnight or beyond, with several private galleries and exhibition spaces open until 7am, all completely free of charge.

Concerts, contemporary dance, street theatre and art events are staged: many venues open impromptu café bars in their courtyards, serving mulled wines or hot chocolate.

One of the best ways to explore is by hiring a bicycle at one of the several locations set up around the city.

The result? An invigorating atmosphere with young and old alike…

...worth visiting for!

Sergi Lopez

2007-02-19T22:56:00.005Z

How vexing!
Mr Sergi Lopez arrives in Paris to perform
a monologue at Theatre du Rond Point... just as one departs!

What classic movie are you?

2007-02-19T22:56:00.001Z

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

And this is the result, gentle reader: surprisingly accurate, don't you think?

Although the head of a dead horse turns up in a stranger's bed halfway through... something to worry about?

Mrs Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala

2007-02-18T17:23:00.000Z

One in four of the inhabitants of sub-Saharan Africa lives in Nigeria. Most of the 130 million population live on less than 1 euro (1$ or UK 60p) per day; one in five children does not reach the age of five. A country with the largest oil reserves in Africa, it ought to be the powerhouse of the continent, yet for decades it has languished, paralysed by military dictatorship in a slump of corruption; and until 2003, it rejoiced in the unenviable reputation as the most corrupt place on earth.

But something has changed… for the better; not an awful lot, but something, thanks to a single woman, Mrs Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala.

Now 51, she had worked at the World Bank in Washington DC, U.S.A. as an economist, where she lived for 20 years along with her husband and children. But in 2003, under a UN scheme designed to repatriate Africa's best brains to help resolve economic problems on the continent, she took charge of the finances of Nigeria.

Predictably, Mrs Ngozi saw corruption as her number one problem, with the worst sector undoubtedly the oil industry. She must have been daunted at the task before her, but something had to be done; talking in vague terms about making a change wasn't going to work.

For those who prefer vague terms, one suggests leaping to the next posting.

Mrs Ngozi’s first move was to get President Olusegun Obasanjo to sign up to an international scheme called the Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative - under which oil and other companies agreed to publish what they pay.

Her next move was to ensure that the government opened their accounts for inspection by voters; she also audited the oil sector and put the results on the internet to reveal exactly how much the country produced and earned.

Then, in 2004, she gathered all of these detailed figures, breaking them down to what the federal government paid to each regional state and published this in Nigeria's national newspapers.

What did all of this achieve, gentle reader?

Transparency… information flowing freely, available to all members of society… accountability.

To illustrate: if the local hospital in village x receives four annual instalments of y$, it’s no longer possible to persuade villagers that the local hospital is so under-resourced by the central government that they cannot provide services.

That is why she has made so much information public. Availability of these figures became so popular that the President ordered they be published in a volume every year; column after column of figures, it must be the most boring best-seller every produced.

Mrs Ngozi also identified another key anti-corruption area - government contracts, costing almost five times as much as those in neighbouring countries. So she set up a unit known as Due Process to audit value for money on those contracts; it saved Nigeria the equivalent of $3bn in three years.

One of the other things she did was to remove the link between government spending and oil revenues. She based her 2004 budget on a very conservative oil price - $25 a barrel, when the price was actually more than $40- and she then announced to Nigerians how much she had saved each quarter.

Then there is the small print, as it were: she privatised loss-making steel plants and removed restrictions on telecoms, producing an increase from just 450,000 landlines to 16 million. She reduced import tariffs. She increased civil servants' pay but slashed their perks. She introduced reforms in banking, insurance, pensions, income tax and foreign exchange.

All of which doubled economic growth in Nigeria to an average of 7.6%, cut inflation from 23% to 11%, and achieved exchange-rate stability.

Not least of these achievements was the deal Mrs Ngozi secured to get $18bn of Nigeria's $30bn debt wiped away. In the past, the country was excluded from all debt deals because of its oil, but Mrs Ngozi argued with the rich world's finance ministers that while an oil-rich nation, Nigeria was not a rich nation, but rather a poor nation. In an unprecedented deal, she persuaded them to allow her invest billions that should have been used for service payments in health, education, power and water programmes.

All this has made our friend Mrs Ngozi powerful enemies. A smear campaign was launched to discredit her, implying that the fact she continued to be paid her old salary (by the UN, please note; that is how the transfer scheme operated) was improper, claiming that she bought herself a swanky house in Washington D.C. with ill-gotten gains she acquired as Finance Minister (in fact, she had owned that house while at the World Bank; details of her mortgage were publicly available) There were wilfully dishonest attacks on the internet, which included printing her home address, where her husband and children continued to live (she sees them for only a few days each month) Her family received death threats, gentle reader… from other Nigerians, after all that she had done.

Mrs Ngozi remained undeterred. So passionate was she about staying the course, last year she gave up the $240,000 salary and now earns $6,000 like other Nigerian ministers; two of her children, whose tuition fees she was paying, dropped out of college to make it possible.

And given her solid reputation, the smear allegations didn't take.

Across Africa many are again looking to Nigeria to become what, four decades ago, it was predicted to be - the giant economy of the continent. Of course, the danger is her reforms will be set aside when she leaves office, but now there is an appetite for openness, it will be hard to stop the information flow.

Transparency… information flowing freely, available to all members of society… accountability.

When people know what is happening, it’s harder to get away with injustice. The internet is a great ally in our fight; provided people make a choice to remain informed and do something about what they find out, free-flowing information enables individuals to make a real difference to help improve respect for human rights around the world.

How? Accountability… by shouting and screaming at the appropriate body of officials.

Individual people can make a difference, as Mrs Ngozi proves…

… and so can we, gentle reader.

So read the next posting.

Please.

Nigeria Fails Obligations to Fundamental Human Rights

2007-02-18T17:15:00.000Z

Nigeria’s criminal code (chapter 42, section 214) penalizes consensual sexual conduct between adults of the same sex; the penalty stands at fourteen years’ imprisonment, while Sharia penal codes (since 1999 introduced to northern Nigeria where the population is largely Muslim) continue to criminalize what is termed “sodomy"

Laws criminalizing homosexuality act as a licence for torture and ill-treatment. Amnesty International considers the use of ‘sodomy’ laws to imprison individuals for consensual same-sex relations in private to be a grave violation of human rights, including the rights to privacy, freedom from discrimination, freedom of expression and association, all of which are protected in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights.

The Nigerian Federal government is considering new legislation that, if passed, will bring further criminal penalties in contravention of Nigeria’s obligations under international and regional human rights law.

On 19 January 2006, Minister of Justice Bayo Ojo proposed legislation to the Federal Executive Council, with broad sweeping provisions that could lead to the imprisonment of individuals solely for their actual or imputed sexual orientation, and for a number of other reasons, including consensual sexual relations in private, public expression of their sexual identity, or public advocacy in support of the rights of lesbian and gay people. It would introduce five years imprisonment for any person who "goes through the ceremony of marriage with a person of the same sex" or "performs, witnesses, aids or abets the ceremony of same sex marriage." And if that is not shocking enough, the law would provide five years imprisonment for any person who "is involved in the registration of gay clubs, societies and organizations, sustenance, procession or meetings, publicity and public show of same sex amorous relationship directly or indirectly in public and in private." The draft bill also prohibits the registration of gay organizations, any public display of a "same sex amorous relationship," and adoption of children by lesbian or gay couples or individuals. In addition, it would invalidate same sex relationship formally entered into or recognized in foreign jurisdictions.

The bill already received its first reading in the Nigerian Senate on 11 April 2006 at which the provisions were widened further still. It is now proposed that any individual who witness, celebrates with or supports couples involved in same-sex relationships would also be subject to a prison term.

Reinforcing the existing provisions with new legislation displays an intent to intensify prejudice based on sexual orientation. By criminalizing acts of peaceful expression or association in defense of LGBT rights, the bill would strike at the fundamental freedoms enjoyed by all individuals in Nigeria’s long-vigorous civil society. By institutionalizing discrimination, these laws act as an official incitement to violence against lesbians and gay men in the community as a whole, whether in police custody or prison, on the street or in the home.

Even before the bill has been passed or even submitted to the National Assembly for consideration, reports from human rights activists in Nigeria suggest that some individuals are already interpreting the draft legislation as a signal that the government will not prosecute people who assault or otherwise intimidate LGBT individuals, which may lead to a situation of impunity for attacks on LGBT individuals.

This bill would also impede effective HIV/AIDS prevention efforts in Nigeria. While the prevailing pattern of HIV transmission, as elsewhere in the continent, is overwhelmingly heterosexual, the government will damage its own prevention efforts by driving populations already suffering stigma for their sexual conduct still further underground – not only making it more difficult for outreach and education efforts to reach them, but potentially criminalizing civil society groups engaged in that vital work. (For what it’s worth, Nigeria’s AIDS prevention programs have previously been criticised by their neglect of the particular risks facing men who have sex with men)

Discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation contradicts fundamental freedoms under the Nigerian Constitution and is prohibited under other international human rights treaties to which Nigeria is a state party.

The African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights affirms the equality of all people, with Article 2 stating: "Every individual shall be entitled to the enjoyment of the rights and freedoms recognized and guaranteed in the present Charter without distinction of any kind such as race, ethnic group, color, sex, language, religion, political or any other opinion, national and social origin, fortune, birth or other status." Further, Article 3 guarantees every individual equality before the law, and Article 26 prescribes that "Every individual shall have the duty to respect and consider his fellow beings without discrimination, and to maintain relations aimed at promoting, safeguarding and reinforcing mutual respect and tolerance."

The International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR), to which Nigeria acceded without reservations in 1993, protects the rights to freedom of expression (article 19), freedom of conscience (article 18), freedom of assembly (article 21) and freedom of association (article 22). It affirms the equality of all people before the law and the right to freedom from discrimination in articles 2 and 26.

States cannot curtail the enjoyment of human rights on the basis of sexual orientation: the UN Human Rights Committee has urged states not only to repeal laws criminalizing homosexuality but also to enshrine the prohibition of discrimination based on sexual orientation into their constitutions or other fundamental laws.

This proposed legislation is contrary to Nigeria’s obligations to all people in Nigeria. It not only contravenes internationally recognized protections against discrimination, rights to freedom of expression, conscience, association, and assembly, but also undermines the struggle to combat the spread of HIV/AIDS. Under international human rights law, the country has the obligation to respect, promote and protect the human rights of its population, without distinction of any kind.

WHAT YOU CAN DO

Transparency… information flowing freely, available to all members of society… accountability.

Gentle readers, in the knowledge this is happening, to remain silent is to be complicit. All of this information is available on Amnesty International's website, but the email feature to send your complaint has not been updated; please consider sending a letter, in English or your own language, to the appropriate authorities. (In addition to the President, there are several other figures that it will help to lobby: addresses here)

For your convenience, one provides a sample letter (based upon AI suggested format) Please adapt to your own style, particularly if you have any relevant personal connection with Nigeria, as it lends a certain persuasiveness to your concern

Open letter... to His Excellency Olusegun Obasanjo

2007-02-18T17:14:00.000Z

His Excellency Olusegun Obasanjo
President of the Republic
The Presidency
Aso Rock
Abuja
Nigeria

Dear President Obasanjo,

Nigeria – Failure to honour fundamental Human Rights obligations

I am a insert personal information; gender/age/profession/race if you will, presently living in location.

Reason for interest: eg. In recent years, having travelled on several occasions to Africa, I follow international news coverage of events in Nigeria.

Like many international observers, I have been greatly impressed by improvements and progress made under your government, particularly economic reforms to combat corruption introduced by one of your apointees, Mrs Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala. Across the continent and around the world many look to Nigeria, anticipating the country will become the most powerful economy of the continent; the example set by your government is an important one.

I write to express concern that your government proposes legislation that will move Nigeria backwards, failing to protect a vulnerable minority in your own country and damaging your own government’s international standing, by discrimnating against people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual or transgendered.

As you are no doubt aware, the majority of countries in the world have decriminalised homosexuality. All people are equal, and I believe that all governments are obligated to ensure that the human rights of every individual are fully respected, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity. Laws that criminalise homosexuality act as a licence for discrimination, torture and ill-treatment; the proposed legislation introduced by Minister of Justice Bayo Ojo give official sanction to this behaviour.

I urge your government to act in accordance with Nigeria’s obligations under international and regional human rights law and withdraw this bill. In addition, I ask you to consider repealing Chapter 42 (section 214) of the Nigerian criminal code, and equivalent provisions in the Sharia penal code, to decriminalise homosexuality in line with international human rights standards.

Your government is obligated to ensure that the human rights of every individual in Nigeria are fully respected, regardless of their sexual orientation or gender identity. potentially criminalises not only gay men, lesbians and bisexual people in same-sex relationships, but is vague enough to permit the prosecution of individuals for activities such as campaigning for LGBT rights or anyone providing sexual health information or services. No-one should be imprisoned or detained solely for their real or perceived sexual orientation or gender identity for sexual relations in private between consenting adults, or for advocating LGBT rights.

Discrimination on the basis of sexual orientation contradicts fundamental freedoms under the Nigerian Constitution and it is also prohibited under other international human rights treaties to which Nigeria is a state party, in particular the African Charter on Human and Peoples’ Rights and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights, which affirm the equality of all people.

The proposed legislation could be used to prosecute individuals who are campaigning for this law to be reformed or providing sexual health information or services; this is clearly unjust and detrimental to civil liberties. In particular, it would also impede effective HIV/AIDS prevention efforts in Nigeria, damaging your government’s own work by driving populations already suffering stigma for their sexual conduct further underground, not only making it more difficult for outreach and education efforts to reach them, but potentially criminalising civil society groups engaged in that vital work.

I further call on you to publicly commit to ensuring that national, state and local laws prohibit all forms of discrimination based on sexual orientation or gender identity. Anyone imprisoned or detained solely for their real or perceived sexual orientation or gender identity should be released immediately and unconditionally, including those detained for consensual sexual relations in private between adults and those held for advocating LGBT rights.

Thank you for your consideration of this letter. I would be very grateful for any response to the concerns I have raised.

Sincerely,

Ni hao, China!

2007-02-17T20:03:00.000Z

Bejing, Xian, Mudanjiang, Changsha, Jinan, Anqing, Zhongxiang... regular and irregular daily visitors from all... One confesses it is intriguing! Admittedly, one spent two months travelling in your fabulous country, but one didn't even have sexual intercourse with THAT many gay gentlemen!

While appreciating that in a population so large, it is inevitable that there will be some discerning gay gentlemen who appreciate my unique take on the world, can any of you please shed light upon what draws so many Chinese people to my humble bloguette?

My first worst sexual experience

2007-02-17T18:48:00.000Z

One hardly knows whether to thank or blame JoeMyGod for encouraging one to cast a backward glance and consider what was one's worst sexual experience.

One of the first things it brought to mind was a friend of mine called A, who kept an encyclopaedia on STDs on her bedside locker, to eliminate the risk of failing to practice safer sex (an effective device for those who find it difficult to change unhealthy behaviour and discuss putting on a condom) For if there is anything more unpleasant than contemplation of a photograph of someone with genital warts or syphillis, it is one's worst sexual experience... quite guaranteed to kill the mood. One does reccommend this tactic whenever someone finds oneself on a date that is going nowhere.

But you want to hear about one's own worst sexual experience, one expects? Very well.

On 1st January 1992, aged 20, shit together in many respects- completing a University degree; good grades; working to support oneself; sociable, likeable, devastatingly handsome, but acutely aware that one had not accepted one’s homosexuality- one made a resolution to change one's life... for the better, obviously.

Despite living in the Republic of Ireland's third largest city, there was no place where gay gentlemen and lesbian ladies gathered to socialize, so one’s options were limited.

Answering an advertisement of a personal nature in Hot Press (to anyone fortunate enough not to be familiar with Ireland, that is a music magazine; the only publication in the country that carried such advertisements, at the time) one corresponded with a gay gentleman who was resident in the capital city. His name was Paul, a gay gentleman in his early 30s which I considered positively over the hill.

One remembers little about our correspondence, except that I didn't like his tiny spindly hand-writing, and yet one still looked forward to receiving each letter.

Paul sounded sane, so I considered him to be a rare find among those with homosexual tendancies, and so I (insanely) agreed to travel to meet him, making arrangements which inevitably involved spending the night.

No photo had been exchanged, there had been no discussion of what could or could not happen... nothing!

One lied to all friends and family about where one was going on Friday February 13th (ominous date, I know) and arrived outside Connolly train station on a typically dark grim night, the city smelling as miserable as it always does and always will, with rain spitting down... as you would expect. Arriving early, one was not yet nervous, although one certainly wasn't excited, sexually or otherwise. Already, call it a sixth sense preminition if you will, one had a sense of being on the verge of doing something that one had to get out of the way and move on from.

Paul arrived wearing a green bomber jacket. He was short, balding and had a mangy beard. Suffice to say, we recognised one another at once.

After we spoke for a few minutes (he had a slight and effeminate voice that one didn't like at all) one realised that if attraction could be measured on a numerical scale, mine registered in the minus figures.

Gentle reader, do not expect this anecdote to explain what possessed me: that comes with an understanding of twenty years of past-life, not to mention hundreds of years of gay repression in my country.

One cannot altogether blame Paul, for although he had plenty of experience before that miserable night and he knew my own circumstances, he had also grown up in the same fucked-over country, and he had a problem of his own, so one makes allowances for him on the basis that he didn't twist my arm much.

Yet in his shoes, it must be said that things would have been different: one would have sensed reticence in the other, younger, more vulnerable person and not allowed things to go any further.

Which they did, sadly.

Few first sexual experiences are pleasant, from what I've been told. In my own case, it was nothing more than clumsy half-hearted mutual masturbation, so it could have been more scarring and unpleasant than it was.

When Paul undressed, it was the first time one had ever seen another man naked. Erect, his penis measured smaller than one’s thumb, perhaps the size of a champagne cork; one genuinely didn’t know quite how abnormal it was. One felt like a freak of nature by comparison.

At that stage in my development, one had never fantasised about kissing a man; it wasn't a simple question of "that's something you can't do with another gentleman", it was something so far beyond the realms of possibility that it wasn't even possible for me to imagine. So one never kissed him, or any part of his body. Masturbating with another man's naked body was the full extent of my fantasy, so that's what we did together. Suffice to say, that it wasn't a fantasy fulfilled.

One could tell you so much more... if only you didn't want to know.

But to end upon a positive note, one spent the remainder of that night, and all of the following morning, happier than one can ever describe.

For the next morning, not only was it liberating to be out of that room, not only had one proved to oneself (yet again) that one could suffer just about any pain or degradation without letting else anyone know how I felt... one was happy to find oneself in the safe and loving arms of a bittersweet delusion.

For you see, at some point that dreadful night- for which one was responsible- one had convinced oneself that this all meant one had been mistaken. For in my understanding, a gay gentleman was a sexual creature capable of enjoying any sexual contact with another gentleman, while I'd hated every excruciating moment of my experience, therefore one couldn't possibly be what one most dreaded that one was.

How fucked up is all of that, gentle reader?

Beyond a doubt, that was my worst sexual experience... and however unpleasant things get in the future, one believes it will never be surpassed.

Worst sexual experience 2 - on a lighter note!

2007-02-16T23:42:00.001Z

Still innocent and naïve, the summer of 1994 was spent in the great and pleasant land where the majority of my own gentle readers reside.

Possession of a finely-tuned Irish accent made seduction of the local gay gentleman easier than usual, and given one worked as a bar-back at a gay venue called Napoleons in Boston, MA (one anticipates a cult following, after revealing that) one had plenty of opportunities.

By far the worst of my disappointing sexual experiences that summer involved a handsome gay gentleman named Ken, who invited me back to his admittedly fabulous apartment and offered to share himself in a king-size bed, replete with a giant mirrored headboard, neither of which would have been out of place in a Southern bordello before the civil war.

When our sexual interaction commenced, one was distracted and perturbed by his insistence on talking on and on… and given Irish people- oneself included- have a tendency to while saying nothing at all, this really was rather a lot.

Most of his enquiries pertained to one’s schooling; had one attended an all-boy’s school? (no, one had not) were there other boys in my school? (yes, there were) did we wear a uniform? (yes, a drab nasty thing) had we gotten changed together before and after playing sports? (yes, we had) had one fantasised about fucking those other boys? (er… no, one most certainly had not)

Suffice to say, all the while Ken was indulging in fantasies about having sex with an admittedly young and boyish-looking gay gentleman, he kept checking his own appearance in the mirrored headboard. One quickly realised what was going on.

Despite one's own desperate need for a little man on man action, there was no alternative: one pointed out that his little fantasies were just that - his fantasies - and had no relation to the person he had invited back to his fabulous apartment. They were best enjoyed in the pleasure of his own company and his mirror, since this exchange involved offering me no pleasure whatsoever, and so one duly left.

Worst Sexual Experience 3 - The bigger, the better

2007-02-16T23:41:00.005Z

You ain't a baby no more, baby
You aint no bigger than before
I'll rub that cheap gack off your lips, baby; take a swallow, as I spit

My skin tonight is a blazing, baby
But I don't think you're my type
What I need tonight's the real thing; I need the real thing tonight

The bigger, the better?

Bang, bang, bang -the bigger, the better
Yeah yeah yeah

Oh, come on

As a fuck... son, you sucked

Bang, The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, 2001

No longer innocent, but still somewhat naïve, one also recalls a sexual encounter from 1998, pissed as a newt in a gay venue called ‘Midnight Shift’ on Oxford Street, Sydney, Australia.

A gay gentleman spent a long time with his hand inside my trousers before we went back to my place for an intimate exchange: one hasn’t realised quite why this man was so interested in the contents of my trousers (well, one expected a certain degree of interest, but really with so much more on offer, such obsessive behaviour seemed inappropriate)

Suffice to say, and it would have been obvious to anyone with experience who was not inebriated, this gentleman was a size queen- not something one approves, not something one finds repugnant... except when a gay gentleman allows this single physical attribute to exclude of all other considerations, which is quite puerile.

It has to be said that his own appendage was distressingly oversized. But bigger is not necessarily better, gentle reader: whale sharks do not impress me any more than the goby Trimmatom nanus. Somewhat old-fashioned in one’s ideas about what is attractive in other gay gentleman, one has never been impressed - or put off- by size or girth alone.

Granted, one had invited the gay gentleman back to my place for the most superficial of reasons, but one had certainly not invited him back to do nothing more than wonder over the size of my cock and wonder over the size of his. One expected something more... so did he, but we were not expecting the same things. He wanted to re-enact porn; and that was all very well and good, but one expected to be treated like a human being, with a little respect, preferably with a social interaction before, during and after.

When this gay gentleman discovered that on a first night, one had no intention of letting anything that didn’t fit comfortably inside one’s mouth anywhere else, he became rather impolite… rude… aggressive, even.

Before one had a chance to tell him to leave, he left.

Worst sexual experience 4 - Last but not least!

2007-02-16T23:41:00.003Z

After a period of self-enforced abstinence (a two year relationship, a one year hiatus while backpacking in Asia) one returned to Europe and started to make up for lost time, while residing in London.

Attending a gay venue for Popstarz (the last night of before it moved to La Scala) one found oneself dancing in close proximity to a couple of attractive gay gentlemen, who at first appeared to be a couple, but then appeared not to be a couple, who also appeared to be flirting with me.

Confused, one waited until approached at the bar, by the shorter of the two gentlemen (who happened to be, in my humble opinion, the more desirable of the two)

It transpired G & M had been a couple, and while no longer together, occasionally they invited people to join them for a threesome.

One had partaken of such arrangements in the past, but one expressed a genuine disinterest in a threesome, while admitting that one found both of the individuals concerned attractive, G in particular.

G seemed pleased at this news, and in due course we departed for a night of violent lovemaking at his fabulous apartment. Suffice to say, we were both so inebriated that upon arrival (it was almost dawn) we both amused ourselves by kissing and touching, with no significant bodily fluids exchanged. We made up for that early the following afternoon, with jets of steam rising from underneath the navy-coloured sheets (a significant detail, gentle reader; unlike that detail about the threesome, which although perfectly true is quite insignificant, undoubtedly included because of my own insecurities about remaining single) and after a long, vigorous and pleasurable session of mutual masturbation, we came simultaneously in a darkened room, with most of our respective bodies hidden.

Upon rising to refresh oneself, one discovered… to my great consternation, a bloodbath. Further investigation revealed that my hand, my torso, my sexual organ, G, the sheets, the mattress… everything was covered in fresh blood. For a brief moment, it seemed one or both of us had been ejaculating the substance.

But then, to my great distress, one discovered that in the course of vigorous masturbation, a tear had appeared where my foreskin was attached to the head of my exquisitely formed sexual organ (while strangely sensitive, it did not hurt) and although at first it seemed inconceivable that such a tiny cut was capable of producing so much blood, so it was.

Apologising profusely, one rushed to the bathroom… incapable of coherent speech.

Imagining the cleanup operation taking place in the next room, one felt mortified and distressed, and not only that; in the circumstances, one imagined that G would be –understandably- quite traumatised by the whole affair, and find it difficult to imagine a renewal of sexual activity with oneself in the future.

But in fact, G handled the situation with aplomb (a credit to upbringing, if you ask me)

When one emerged from the bathroom one found he had made me a nice cup of tea (with sugar, quite necessary after such a great blood loss, he assured me) and we had a very late breakfast together, laughing about the whole experience.

One duly invited him to dinner, by way of an apology… and so it was that we dated for two months, until the affair reached a pleasant and natural end.

So you see, gentle readers, one can find something of beauty, and not just a story, even in the worst of one’s sexual experience! Never let it be said that one considers a half-full glass to be half-empty... while waiting for it to be topped up.

A new saviour is born?

2007-02-16T23:41:00.001Z

Madonna wants to be like Gandhi?

Who does that old fraud think she is fooling?

Does she mean Indira? Presiding over a third world country while she lives in unabashed luxury?

No, it's Mahatma, apparently: obviously, La Cicada fancies a new look with sandals, spectacles and a wrap-around white sheet... sorry to disappoint, but Mama Teresa already beat you to it.

Never mind, though: if you really want to try, why not make a start by donating all of your wealth to the world's poor and needy... then one might stop pissing oneself with laughter about your latest publicity stunt, perhaps the most pathetic and desperate of your career.

Did she actually have the gall to say on live radio (Sirius Radio in the US) "I want to be like Gandhi and Martin Luther King and John Lennon... but I want to stay alive." Well, she can't be accused of guile!

Oddly enough, one finds credible another part of the interview where she adds "For me, the best thing in the world is to see something or hear something and go 'damn, I wish I did that, damn, I wish I could do that."

See something like acting? Or hear something like a voice singing in harmony, perhaps?

But it got worse! For that was not all the Material Girl had to share in order to enlighten us. She followed this pile of horseshit with the following remark (clearly, she has been reading my bloguette, and intended to get on my delicate nerves)

"We all need to be Jesus."

Er, I beg your pardon, but don't you mean SNOG a statue of Jesus in a music video to promote an album?

No, apparently:

"We all need to BE Jesus.... we all need to be Jesus in our time... Jesus' message was to love your neighbour as yourself"

Amen... and thank you for sharing your profound insights with us all. One must suppose you're the next best thing to Jesus, if you're Madonna. How many comings have you had? No, that's not what I mean, you dirty old tart... I mean incarnations, of a non-immaculate nature... oh, never mind! For those of you retching, in lieu of the nearest available sickbag, one reccommends a Madonna album sleeve... and still she went rambling on:

"I'd like to think I am taking people on a journey... not just entertaining people, but giving them something to think about when they leave."

One isn't surprised that she'd LIKE to think she's entertaining... and as for her audience, those capable of thought after listening to her shriek are probably wondering what the hell they were thinking, paying so much money to watch a 48 year old has-been in jodhpurs, slithering on a greasy pole.

To conclude, in another interview with People online, La Cicada sucked up to the gay league... or, as this intrepid journalist described it, "shed light on her friendships with gay (gentle)men"

"Gay men are... perfect men for girls who are tough. They're not threatened by strong women, and they're usually very in touch with their feelings and pay attention to details. I've always had an affinity with gay men."

Careful attention to details, but not lyrics; and sadly, many have never been very discerning when it came to recognition of musical talent. But they are renouned for having a sense of humour and being able to recognise a cheap attempt to win them over. Surely -please, somebody- the gay league are able to recognise this for what it is, and have sent out a hit squad to smash the new Messiah's glitterball, before this gets any worse?

Christian Hatred 10

2007-02-16T22:55:00.007Z

Oh, yeaaa!
Yeaaa! Yeaaa! Yeaaa!
Look, boys and girls... come look at this!
They've made it really nice and simple... for really sick kids, like me

Christian Hatred 9

2007-02-16T22:55:00.005Z

A Calling Card from a Christian, gentle reader!

What? You expected one to reject publication of a perfectly good Calling Card? Good heavens, no! It is a form of attention, after all… what one craves most. And as I keep repeating, there is nothing quite so satisfying as a love/hate relationship with one’s audience.

It has come from someone who is 100% Catholic, apparently. How intriguing! One wonders if one starts life as a 0% Catholic baby, leaping to a full 100% upon baptism and later losing percentage points along the way, although of course your score can be topped up with a visit to confessional. Or perhaps a child only achieves 100% after several years of indoctrination, when hormones finally kick in and (s)he is capable of actually appreciating what it’s all about? Or then again, maybe you have to sin and repent in order to achieve a full score?

One ought to ‘respect all religions’, apparently. Well, one certainly hopes my 100% Catholic reader does not respect all religions! If so, (s)he hasn’t been paying attention to the literal interpretation of the second commandment: since those who make a free choice to worship other Gods are sinning, surely it follows that it is wrong to respect their decision?

More importantly, this Calling Card implies that someone has not been paying careful attention to ALL of the postings upon my bloguette… no, one most certainly does not respect all religions; in fact, one does not respect any religions; as even an undiscerning reader ought to have noticed, none of the religions respect gay gentlemen; and even if they did, one would continue to pour scorn, for reasons to do with the misogynistic creed of such religions, their lack of reason, and their inherent philosophical weakness.

And yes, for the record, one does have a tendancy to overreact to an innocent comment from a Catholic: one does have a large chip upon one’s shoulder… how very observant of you and how incredibly kind of you to enquire if you might assist with its removal! However, one is perfectly used to the weight and quite comfortable carrying that large chip around, thank you very much; therefore, gentle readers, be advised to resign yourselves to a particular disrespect of all things Catholic: forgive me if you can, but one is always agitated and outraged to recall how the Catholic Church was complicit to the Nazis in order to remain active in Germany, turning a blind eye to the six million people sent to concentration camps in the Second World War- mostly Jews, but including other vulnerable minority groups, such as those who were disabled, those of a different ethnic background, and gay gentlemen and lesbian ladies – not to mention how the Catholic Church continues to advocate a policy on condom use that contributes to the spread of a preventable epidemic in Africa, another holocaust that no one seems to care about.

But, of course, none of that will make any difference to a 100% believer: there is no reasoning with a religious individual, for they have faith, which by definition is to believe without reason. Perhaps that’s the most annoying thing about those who are so blessed, their ability to believe what is unbelievable; in the absence of good grounds for belief, any old grounds at all will do.

Which must explain why they persist in ignorant refusal to do a teeny little bit of research on their own religion… even when relevant information appears on an offending bloguette. For who needs to understand facts about religion to believe?

Nevertheless (sigh) one does suggest that anyone aspiring to be a 100% practitioner of any religion looks at the history of all religious texts relied upon to justify particular beliefs- they are so often misquoted- before looking at the history of the religious institutions themselves… just to ensure that one’s high percentage score can never be disputed. And if research should reveal that your own religion’s beliefs and practices have changed over history at the convenience of those with power, or that those who preach often do not practice, do not feel unduly concerned: this useful exercise serves to demonstrate a hypocrisy inherent in all religious institutions, and practitioners who associate with them, something of which a well-informed 100% practitioner must already be aware.

One confesses that it thrills and delights me to think that in the ever-expanding internet, almost a microcosm of the universe itself, the existence of my own little bloguette- barely a speck of existence- is an upset to Christians who already have so many little specks of their own. Indeed, one never ceases to be amazed at how faith drives them on in the hope of obliterating all dissenting specks, in the misguided belief that one day, everyone in the universe will come to look at things their way.

If you’re still out there, gentle 100% Catholic reader, please feel tempted to retort with a naïve statement such as ‘but you’re focusing upon all of the negative aspects of religion, when there are so many positive aspects that makes the whole world a better place’

Bearing in mind, as far as you are concerned, we are discussing a religion based upon the notion of a benevolent God who creates mankind with an inherent design flaw, so that mankind must feel guilty and suffer for enjoying all of the beautiful things created; a religion that offers limited roles to half of the world’s population- on a pedestal as a virgin, or down in the gutter as a temptress/whore; a religion that throughout history, incites such fervour in practitioners that it is responsible for- and continues to justify- social repression, censorship, colonisation, torturous inquisition and war.

Having gotten that off my chest, one does hope my Christian readership is not dissuaded, for one does so enjoy receipt of their Calling Cards…

Although one must add it’s much more diverting when the Jehovah Witnesses call to the penthouse: turning down the lights and throwing on a dark satin cloak, one fetches a sharp kitchen implement and slips on a recording of a goat bleating in anxiety before tiptoeing to the front door.

“Excuse me, can we interest you in a copy of The Watchtower?”

“No,” one cackles. “Satan is my master!”

Why, it makes their little eyes pop out every time… bless!

Addendum

2007-02-16T22:55:00.003Z

Yes, gentle reader; one appreciates that instead of “a recording of a goat bleating in anxiety” in the posting above, one might have typed “Madonna singing Borderline”… but it’s funnier this way, don’t you think?

Open Letter... to hair-stylists

2007-02-16T22:55:00.001Z

Dear Hair-stylists, or whatever you prefer to be called nowadays,
To begin, one acknowledges the role you perform in society; of paramount importance, for image would be impossible to maintain without your careful assistance.

Alas, almost seven weeks have passed since my last consultation with a member of your profession, and one approaches what some might describe as a desperate need for a decent trim. But one finds oneself unable to trust in your professional capabilities, because on my last two visits, despite my express stipulation that one did NOT want a short haircut, one was practically sheared like a sheep.

Admittedly, there is a lot to be said for having short hair; one can roll out of a stranger's bed in the morning and dash for the nearest exit without pausing before a mirror. However, one has reached a time in life when one no longer desires the same short-cropped clone look of every other gay gentleman on the planet... and yet that is what you insist upon giving me, despite repeated insistince that it is NOT what one wants.

All one -firmly, but politely, in four European languages if necessary- requests is that you continue to demonstrate efficiency with scissors.

One does NOT require that you provide value for money by hacking off as much hair as possible.

NOT SHORT means NOT SHORT!

NO! STOP! STOP!

STOP CUTTING!

Insincerely,

Ms C Quisp

She's dead... wrapped in plastic

2007-02-15T14:36:00.005Z

Approaching 17 years ago... hard to believe

Welcome to Twin Peaks

2007-02-15T14:36:00.003Z

Dearest readers, in addition to being fabulous and gentle, one trusts you are loyal, patient, semi-literate, duly attentive and discerning... on occasion.

It will not have escaped your notice that that several ‘blanks’ upon by bloguette remain to be filled, certain promises one has made remain to be fulfilled, that certain off-hand remarks and links await further explanation… such as this link, one of the first upon my humble bloguette, and for a good reason… although one didn’t appreciate quite how good the reason was oneself until a few nights ago.

Before exploring Inland Empire, let us first make a little trip down memory lane, as they say… let us make a visit together, to a peaceful little town populated with sweet, kind, simple, gentle folk (nothing like any of us, obviously)

Where exactly is this mysterious place located, you may ask?

Well, one has told you quite enough about oneself; for this exercise, use a little of your own imagination.

Suffice to say, this town is located in a place… considered by some to be beautiful and serene, the middle of nowhere by others. It is not actually nowhere itself – that would be something, indeed- oh no, it is merely somewhere, and that is what makes it so excruciatingly dull, because there are plenty of other places that are also somewhere; as it happens, one suspects many of you were born somewhere yourselves.

Some would say that nothing whatsoever ever happens in somewhere, but that is not altogether true: after all, how can nothing at all happen? Certainly, there is not a lot of interest happening… or so it appears.

Gentle reader, let me explain how it all began.

One happened to overhear a conversation; ordinarily, in a place like somewhere, there was not much worth overhearing, and it was quite commonplace to hear other residents express disapproval of something or other, or their inability to understand something or other.

On this particular occasion, they were talking about someone, a male individual… who was ‘just trying to be different, ‘just doing it to shock’

Well, for obvious reasons, one was quite thrilled… for it appeared their attention was directed at me! But that was not so; these people were discussing a scene in a television series… in the third episode, to be precise.

Despite my initial disappointment, further particulars of this strange discussion interested me… and one resolved to investigate further.

As it happened, since the town in question was (and still is, presumably) located in close proximity to the border (between the Republic of Ireland and another similarly exotic country referred to by some as part of Ireland and by others as part of the United Kingdom, but for the purposes of the townspeople it was ominously referred to as ‘the North’) which meant that one was blessed with two one-sided streams that connected with the outside world- not only national television network RTE, but also the BBC… relevant insofar as this meant the series in question, ‘Twin Peaks’ was about to commence screening on the other channel.

On the night in question, one sat in front of the television (with the rest of the family gathered around, agog at the sight, poised to enjoy my critique of what foolish nonsense people who had nothing better to do with their time watched) And so it began again, gentle reader… a television series that told the story of a peaceful little town populated with sweet, kind, simple, gentle folk; why, the similarities were uncanny; there was not even a lot of interest happening… or so it appeared.

In Twin Peaks, one of the inhabitants had just washed up dead on the shore of a nearby lake, wrapped in plastic, but apart from that it was all quite ordinary... and one was not remotely infatuated. Yet recalling that overheard conversation, which sprang from the third episode, one persevered… and was duly rewarded.

For in that third episode, the central protagonist of the series retired for the evening… and discovered himself in a fabulous red-draped room with strange saxophone music in the air, along with a little man… and the dead girl, of course. What’s more, they were all sdrawkcab gnikaeps.

So, the dead girl… what did she have to say for herself?

Asked to confirm her identity, she replied:

“I feel like I know her”

One quite liked that line. While still scribbling it down on a scrap of paper for future use, she said something that made me stop in my tracks.

“But sometimes... my arms bend back.”

Did they indeed? Strangely enough, one understood exactly what she was trying to convey.

If this was not quite fabulous enough, the Little Man leaned forward to add:

“She’s filled with secrets. Where we’re from, the birds sing a pretty song and there’s always music in the air.”

Oh yes… filled with secrets... one was quite intrigued. One was also quite filled with secrets. And what was that about birds and a pretty song? Did you mean bluebirds singing? Was there a whiskey spring nearby? Always music in the air, you say… one had heard of this place... one so wanted to visit!

Gentle reader, before one knew what was happening, one engaged in a dialogue with these surreally credible but entirely fictional creatures… yes, indeed! In fact, when the Little Man proceeded to dance in a strange fashion around the table, one got up at once and started to dance just like him… as did my brother, my mother, and even the family dog. In fact, for days afterwards, we all walked backwards around that house, exchanging cryptic messages… which we had been doing for years, while walking forward.

And the rest, as they say, was history.

Red Room

2007-02-15T14:36:00.001Z

A large, windowless, well-lit sparsely furnished red-draped room.
A table and three easy chairs.
DALE COOPER, twenty-five years older, sits in one of the chairs.
A LITTLE MAN, three and a half feet tall, in a red suit, stands shaking violently.
A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG WOMAN sits across from Cooper in another easy chair.
The LITTLE MAN stops shaking, turns to Dale Cooper and claps his hands, once.

                                   LITTLE MAN
   Let's rock!

The Little Man sits in a chair beside the Beautiful Woman.
The Little Man closes his eyes and rubs his hands slowly together.

The Little Man hold hands with the Woman, they look at each other.
Then they look at Dale Cooper, smiling enigmatically.
The Little Man rubs his hands slowly together again.
The shadow of a bird passes above them.

Both the Little Man and Woman's speech is oddly stilted.
We see sub-titles under them, with the correct words.
Throughout, Dale Cooper sits still, watches and listens.

                               LITTLE MAN

               I've got good news. That gum you like is going to

               come back in style. She's my cousin, but doesn't

               she look almost exactly like Laura Palmer?

                               COOPER

               But it is Laura Palmer. Are you Laura Palmer?

                               WOMAN

               I feel like I know her, but sometimes my arms

               bend back.

                               LITTLE MAN

               She's filled with secrets. Where we're from, the

               birds sing a pretty song and there's always music

               in the air.

Strange saxophone music filters into the air.
The Little Man hops off the chair.
He begins to dance a strange dance around the table.
The Woman rises, goes over and gently kisses Cooper on the mouth.
She softly whispers something in his ear.

                                                     CUT TO:

INT. COOPER'S HOTEL ROOM - NIGHT

Cooper shoots up out of bed, waking from this strange and disturbing dream.
He fumbles for the phone and dials.

                               COOPER

               Harry, it's Cooper, meet me for breakfast, seven

               o'clock, here at the hotel. I know who killed

               Laura Palmer.

He hangs up.

                                                     FADE OUT:

                               THE END

Georges Rouault

2007-02-14T00:25:00.002Z

One is quite vexed to discover
that one erred to recall that the Rouault exhibition
at the Musee d'Art Moderne concluded on Sunday11th... quite vexed

P (1)

2007-02-14T00:25:00.001Z

Gentle reader, like most stories worth telling, mine is a long one that requires considerable editing… especially since it involves other people, who in turn must be told about. And how to tell such a strange tale?

But to start somewhere, let us go back… beyond the date of one’s first posting, beyond the date when one assembled a cas t for my bloguette and determined this story would have to be told… to exactly one year ago today. For it is important to remember and acknowledge significant dates, don’t you think?

Before going further, allow me to state categorically that this had nothing to do with Valentines Day: if that has crossed your mind, please go to jail at once (if you should pass go, do not collect 200$) because one most certainty does not partake of a festival promoted by greeting card companies in the seasonal lull after Christmas, involving the exchange of giant hearts and cuddly toys... although one does partake of the traditional Sant Jordi celebrations (one expects a book AND a rose)

But I digress!

It is a truth universally acknowledged that some readers spend a great deal too much time reading my bloguette, wondering how it is possible someone quite so fabulous as moi happens to be single. Well, that in itself is a story, and not for the faint hearted. (Needless to say, since it involves X, all of the goriest details will be disclosed in due course) But for the time being, suffice to say that at the beginning of last year, whenever one glanced at the nearest mirror, one reflected an individual who, rather like the namesake of my favourite flower, was divinely content to be in the company of his own fabulous reflection; an individual who had become complacent with a consummate socialite's hermetic lifestyle, with no significant relationships beyond those that were physically fulfilling, and so it remained… until inconvenienced by an art-house film concerning the perils of livestock-management on a mountain… more on this topic, at a later date.

In consequence, one re-attempted to find oneself a gay gentleman with integrity, discernment and taste for the purpose of… ‘connecting’

But how does one go about doing that, gentle reader? For since the Industrial Revolution, not only have moral standards been in decline, established practices for finding and establishing oneself with a life partner have disintegrated… a change for the better, we must all agree; but with what have the moral standards and established practices been replaced? While technological development has brought about changes to make communication with other people easier (it is also easier to meet them, if you should choose to) and this is helpful for the purposes of casual sex and commerce, to what extent does it benefit individuals who are looking for something else… who want –as Ms V Woolf used to say, only- to connect?

To further complicate a situation already over-complicated by verbose prose, hand in hand with these societal developments, technology has contributed to the spread of a dangerous epidemic: the brainwashing of both educated and uneducated masses with nonsensical notions… about love, in particular. Apparently, it is commonly believed nowadays two people who are compatible identify one another at first sight, going on to find complete self fulfilment and emotional satisfaction in one unique and irreplaceable relationship, which matters more than anything else in life (than life itself, some would argue) And somehow, this mystical bond is expected to transcend all boundaries, including education, life experience, social background… one could go on, gentle reader: suffice to say, such ideas – described by those infected as ‘romantic’- are anything but!

They are idiotic. They make one nauseous. They are a load of old bollocks.

Gentle reader, if you are feeling lost, do not be unduly concerned… for in due course, one proposes to discuss romance and the demeaning truths about love.

But I digress, again! All of that is for another posting!

To begin again… for that, after all, is what we are concerned with. Early last year, one placed a carefully-worded advertisement upon a suitable webpage used by gay gentlemen for the purposes of dating: this is how one became acquainted with the fabulous T… and the quite unforgettable P.

For the purposes of dating, it might surprise you that one considers there is nothing much to be gained from the exchange of detailed information by email or telephone, or the exchange of photographs: after all, many are literate, most are capable of coherent speech, all are capable of being photographed. Such measures help to separate wheat from chaff, no more: in the end, everything depends upon that unquantifiable, indefinable element of mutual interest, and so my own approach is as follows: take a chance and meet, in the knowledge that it is highly unlikely anything will come of it.

Here is what one knew about P upon first meeting: he was one year younger than oneself, he lived in Paris (hence initial) and he spoke excellent English. That is all. For a quick drink, we agreed to rendezvous at a mutually convenient place, a telephone booth outside a café named ‘La Bastille’ at the end of Rue de la Roquette, and before setting off from his office, P called to describe what he wore. His general attire was described accuracy and with an attention to detail of which one approved: what he failed to adequately describe, however- perhaps he was modest, perhaps he was incapable- was his physical appearance.

In truth, even a year later, while an array of nouns and adjectives present themselves, one struggles for words… for all fail to do him justice. Suffice to say that despite an overwhelming sense of one’s own desirability, upon meeting P, one felt oneself quite out of one’s league. Here is a careless attempt at vague and clichéd description, gentle reader: make of it what you will.

Short raven-black hair he had, and although his mouth suggested a harsh character, a welcome smile was offered. Good health glowed in his clean-shaven visage; in his eyes, the colour of bluish slate, there was no harshness, looking out at the world with the impression of a man ever alert to greet a redeeming feature in others, but often disappointed.

There you have P… or a version of him.

Are your imaginations running wild, gentle reader? Good.

Suffice to say, one’s own imagination was running wild, at the time… for all the wrong reasons.

Something did happen on the night we met (obviously- otherwise, we would not be discussing this, would we?) Suffice to say, it was not a quick drink. There was an intimate exchange… and not of the kind you might imagine.

After a quick introduction, to our mutual surprise, P and I engaged in a raw conversation, a free and open exchange of ideas… talking, gentle reader, at first. For we discovered that despite different cultural backgrounds and despite fundamental differences in our respective characters (which surfaced early in the conversation) we had something in common. For in truth, to use borrow another perfectly appropriate cliché, it turned out P and I had grown up in the same dysfunctional house, with one important difference: at the earliest opportunity, one had clambered out of a rear window, sliding down a handy drainpipe and breaking into a run on the moment my glass-slippered feet hit the ground, while P, sadly, had remained locked inside that house, to that day.

Difficult though it is to convey the full impact of this discovery, one must attempt; it was strangely distressing and unsettling, and yet it was also shatteringly beautiful, for this enabled us to –only- connect.

Having established a certain intimacy, conversation quickly moved to a discussion of what had prompted both of us to meet, and it emerged that P had been in the closet until a short while before. When disclosing his reasons for tiptoeing out, P told me something, a motive so strange that one fully expects you to label it as fiction, and so one is absolved of breaking confidence.

P had not realised he was a gay gentleman; he had been informed he was a gay gentleman, by a helpful psychic. No, not a psychiatrist… a psychic medium, a fortune teller, a clairvoyant. And no, one does not mean to imply that he became aware of something he already suspected with the help of a psychic… he had been informed he was gay, in the same fashion that people are conscripted to join armed forces during a war. Because of his implicit trust in the psychic medium, P had accepted that he was a gay gentleman, on that basis alone.

One was not surprised to find that P was reticent to share this information with most people, in particular other gay gentlemen he met. While one considers oneself, drawing upon a broad range of incredible life experiences, to be somewhat open-minded and liberal, and quite beyond shock, one was taken aback by this revelation.

Gentle reader, do not jump to the conclusion that one is altogether dismissive of the services offered to society by psychic mediums. While the majority are peddlers and frauds (another time, please remind me to share a particularly memorable story involving a psychic medium and a girl called Lisa, who my best friend brought back to sleep at our apartment in Boston MA, back in 1994) there are others who do possess a genuine gift. One is certain of this: on one memorable occasion in 1998, one visited a psychic medium in Katoomba up in the Blue Mountains, near Sydney, Australia: it was a strangely pleasurable experience; and not only that, the psychic medium shared insights and set out specific facts about my past and future that were all astonishingly accurate.

So, returning to P’s revelation, it was not the encounter with a psychic medium which left me taken aback. It was the fact that everyone has a certain understanding of one's own character (whatever about insight, whatever about understanding of the character of others) Therefore, how was it possible to believe P’s claim that he hadn't even suspected he was a gay gentleman before that revelation?

Some discerning questions established to one’s own satisfaction that P was indeed a gay gentleman. It did not require tarot cards or a crystal ball, with all of the usual signs demonstrated by someone who has just come out of a closet: a complete lack of sexual attraction to women, replaced by an intense longing for intimacy with men, inevitably accompanied a worrying discomfort with the notion of sexual activity.

In the course of our bizarre conversation over our not-so-quick drink, it became apparent P had recently engaged in sexual activity with men, and quite a lot of it (this was unsurprising, given his obvious charms and that he had to make up for lost time) Because we had just met, it did seem inappropriate for one to pry too much, so one wasn’t given any specifics: one is holding nothing back, gentle reader… not yet.

All the while bonding, it was getting rather late. Despite the fact that one was a short walk from one’s own apartment and perfectly comfortable in one of my favourite places (Café l’Industrie), at length it was my suggestion that he depart for the last metro (although P wore a wrist-watch, and hadn’t glanced at it himself)

What happened next, you might ask?

Gentle reader, believe what you will: one would never have made a move in the circumstances; his vulnerability, his beauty, not to mention my own intimidation by all that was vulnerable and beautiful about him, were obstacles… albeit not quite insurmountable. For one must confess that even as one sits typing about that night, one is sexually aroused… and so it was on that night, sitting opposite P at that table, wondering what he was going to do.

When P asked to come back to my apartment to spend a night with me, he actually said ‘please’

Needless to say, one acquiesced.

Together we walked briskly through the streets, still without having touched, up the bare stairs to my small but fabulous apartment… and it is here the story gets so strange that one expects to lose you completely.

Alone in a small, dimly-lit room, there was an awkward pause before, observing that my companion was more than a little unnerved by physical intimacy, one placed arms around him in a hug… and this embrace was welcomed and returned.

One attempted to be reassuring; one extended no pressure upon him; and one was successful, to the point that P was more honest than he had been with any of his previous lovers.

In a few softly-uttered words, one tried to compliment P, expressing how physically attractive he was. In response, P whispered that this was something he had been repeatedly told and yet… his voice dropped lower still, to reveal that whenever he looked into a mirror, he saw reflected was the image and likeness of another man, who was also considered handsome; his father, his torturer.

Still holding one another, there was nothing uncomfortable in our pause.

One waited for him, with him.

At length, P asked if one proposed to kiss... and there was a certain something about the way he pronounced the word kiss that made one realise this was not a good thing.

Men had kissed him before, apparently: P confessed that on all of his previous sexual encounters, men had insisted upon it. But in truth, he didn’t enjoy this experience; he went so far as to say that he hated to be kissed. And yet he accepted that others wanted to kiss- in particular, that they wanted to kiss him- and that it was considered a pleasurable activity, to be expected in such an exchange… and so if I insisted, kissing was to be tolerated.

Does one need to set out how one responded, gentle reader?

One quietly assured P that one had no interest in kissing anyone who didn’t want to be kissed. One quietly assured P that one had no interest in doing anything to anyone that wasn’t mutually pleasurable. And one told him that he should never feel pressured by anyone- or by any notion or sense of expectation- to do anything he didn’t want to do… in the bedroom, in the ballroom, in life.

And then?

Well, one asked P what he wanted to do, right then and there… and when he answered, that is what we did.

We undressed ourselves, talking all the while- about such inconsequential things as the music one played, and the general fabulousness of my apartment - and then we clambered into a particularly uncomfortable futon (it was not my own apartment, so one couldn’t get rid of the damnable thing: for six months, it almost broke my back) Yet it was not so uncomfortable on that occasion, oddly enough.

Remembering that night, one’s overwhelming impression is the intoxicating smell, of the man lying under the sheets in my arms: natural, fresh, unique.

Neither of us had intended to end up in that place; neither of us intended to talk- nothing more, gentle reader- until 6am the following morning… at which point P had to depart for work, and one – after a little hurried, overdue, hand-relief- blissfully drifted off into a contented asleep.

A reason to visit INLAND EMPIRE

2007-02-14T00:23:00.000Z

One will provide several reasons to consider, in due course
But for now, Mr Justin Theroux... another reason to visit INLAND EMPIRE

Needless to say, it is Mr Theroux's abilities as an actor that one recognises and admires;
why, one hardly fluttered an eyelid when he appeared in Mulholland Drive, and it certainly takes more than the macho sexed-up cameo in this film to impress... and one is duly impressed

Do not feel concerned, gentle reader: in the past, one has been accused of suffering attention deficit disorder when it comes to infatuation with gentlemen... this infatuation will not last

Previously listening to

2007-02-13T00:13:00.001Z

Kate Bush - The Sensual World

Slipping out of the page, into something a little more comfortable

Love Gods Way

2007-02-12T22:39:00.003Z

"One of the most dangerous ways homosexuality invades family life is through popular music"

Fabulous!

Wrong-Eyed Jesus

2007-02-12T22:39:00.001Z

Way down south, I know a girl who is blind
She walks alone along a lonely highway each day
She dreams that one day a man will pull up in a car
He’ll open up the door, she’ll climb in, and he will say:
“Hey babe, whatcha know? I hope you’re ready to go,
because today’s a perfect day to chase tornados.”

What about that preacher man on the run from the law?
He killed a girl in Memphis and ran ’till the dogs tracked him down
They shot him by the river and as he lay dying in the mud, someone asked him;
"Hey Preacher, where’s your soul going now?"
And Preacher said;
“Well, I do not know, but wherever it is I’ll gladly go,
because today’s a perfect day to chase tornados.”

Sometimes, I think that the sky is a prison and the earth is a grave.
Sometimes I feel like Jesus, in some Chinese opera.
Sometimes, I’m glad I built my mansion from crazy little stones.
But sometimes I feel so goddamned trapped by everything that I know
And I wish it wasn’t so
because the only thing that anyone should ever know
is that today’s a perfect day to chase tornados

Yeah, when the wild wind whips around your head you know,
that you have found a perfect day to chase tornados

A Perfect Day to Chase Tornados, Jim White, 1995

Lilliputians

2007-02-11T17:02:00.001Z

One agrees with Friedrich Wilhelm Neitzsche that the thought of suicide is a great consolation. By means of it, one gets successfully through many a bad night.

According to Cyril Connolly (in The Unquiet Grave) many dare not kill themselves, for fear of what the neighbours will say; suffice to say that if this is true, one is most certainly not to be found in their number.

Considerable thought has given to all of the relevant issues; when considering suicide, the question ‘who’ might strike you as being rather obvious… but who should have to clean up the inevitable mess?

That is not the least of one’s concerns: in addition, one ought to enquire ‘when’ (not while in one’s prime) ‘why’ (ennui… an adequately good reason, if you ask me) ‘where’ (best to keep that a surprise, don’t you think?) and ‘how’… which one hasn’t quite decided. Natural gas has gotten so expensive, and a gun is so much more stylish than a single-edged razor blade… drugs are too risky: one might miscalculate the dosage and just have a good time.

But I digress!

When one realises that life is worthless, one either commits suicide or travels. Given one is still alive- technically, for after all, existance is a virtual construct in this case, wouldn't you say?- one proposes to share what one has been doing all weekend… what do you mean, you haven’t missed me?

One has been continuing composition of my magnum opus, entitled Travels into Several Remote Regions of the World (to be published under a pseudonym, Lemuel Gulliver: one has even created a biography for this alias, a middle-aged and (shudder) middle-class gentleman, first a surgeon and then a captain of several ships, with a talent for languages… yes, someone who actually enjoys travelling) In order to research, one travelled to Tourcoing… and one is hardly surprised that you haven’t heard of it, gentle reader; suffice to say that it is one of two lesser-known but distinctly separate cities adjacent to the city of Lille, although for the benefit of the local residents, one must emphasise their separate identity. (Strict definition of a city’s boundary appears to be a national characteristic: eg. Montreiul, linked by the Paris metro system, borders upon the city of light and yet fatally falls outside where the city’s defensive walls were located centuries ago… therefore most certainly not to be confused with Paris)

Returning to the subjects of Lille and Tourcoing, in this instance (one has forgotten the name of the third city, but let us call it Belfuscu, for reasons that are obvious, although not to you. One travelled northward to visit a couple of friends, who shall be called 2M & 2J (since the most appropriate initials have already been allocated) Who are they, you might ask... more pertinently, why do they not feature in the Cast

After a chance meeting upon the longest unbroken bus journey ever undertaken (from San Andres de Los Andes to El Calafate) we bonded over a llama at a service station in the middle of Patagonia (me speaking Spanish, the service station owner not speaking very much, they speaking French, with the llama making loud grunting sounds; it was a scene from… well, think Eraserhead meets The Lawnmower Man) after which friendship blossomed. Our travel itineraries for the following months in South America were tweaked to coincide, memorably over an excellent bottle of Medoc in Ushuaia, with another night on pisco sour in Arequipa to celebrate my birthday before trekking down in the Colca canyon, a drink with the devil in the silver mines of Potosi before departing on a four day Yunga Cruz trek (accompanied by a donkey with a better sense of direction than our guide) during the annual national strike that paralysed Bolivia back in 2005… and then there was that drunken night in Lima before one went to meet a friend who had been unjustly sentenced to life imprisonment back in the 1980s during the government's crackdown on the Shining Path… but that’s another story.

Upon my return to Barcelona, 2M & 2J came to visit me, resulting in a horribly drunken night as one invited them to a homemade paella before taking them on my infamous Raval pub crawl, calling at ‘Manchester’ (run by Chileans… a bad omen) ‘The IT Bar’, ‘Benidorm’, ‘Bar Marsella’, ‘La Concha’, ‘El Cangrejo’ (note to self: absynth, whiskey, beer and dancing do not mix… although one still blames that damn pisco sour at the start of the evening)

But I digress, again!

One had long promised to visit 2M & 2J in their new home, and news of 2J’s pregnancy provided a fabulous excuse to celebrate… without alcohol.

Suffice to say, it was delightful to catch up. Together we discussed the state of European government, the petty differences between religions, and whether to crack open our soft-boiled eggs from the little or big end… before inquiring into whether men are inherently corrupt or whether they become corrupted, and the merits of inrockuptibles while considering whether we simply suffer the bias applicable to all those our age, or whether the best CDs in our respective collections really were all released over fifteen years ago… while 2M & 2J tried to broaden one’s musical horizons to include La France. (Suffice to say, one has skipped through tracks on the latest offerings from Joseph D’Anvers, Arthur H and Mickey 3D, in favour of the delights offered by Zebda’s ‘Essence Ordinaire’)

We also visited several of the non-famous museums in the area (including La Piscine… wonderful building, shame about the ‘art’) ate pasteurised cheese (for obvious reasons) and laughed about old times. One met with several other mountaineering friends, including B and M3 (no longer together, sadly) : odd indeed, for one had been introduced to them on a previous occasion after a mountain ascent, and so their images have been etched on one’s memory… one almost didn’t recognise M3 with long-hair, makeup and a dress, not to mention a clean-shaven B looking… quite shaggable.

Over dinner, they entertained with tales of M3’s mad mother (who, fearing that her offspring will fight over family heirlooms, has taken to concealing post-it notes behind items of furniture, indicating who she intends to inherit what: little does she realise that B and the others have amused themselves for years by rearranging the post-its) and stag night plans for a friend who manages a local bank (they are seriously considering buying fake guns and some Segolene Royal/Nicolas Sarkozy face masks, in order to carry out a prank heist) As expected, they tried to persuade me to steal the Blefuscudan’s fleet, and when one refused they threatened to have me sentenced for treason, blindfold and held prisoner by gay gentlemen who were not brobdingnagian (measuring only six inches)

Upon discovery that one had some semblance of reason (used to exacerbate and add to the vices nature has given me) one was considered a danger to their civilization and expelled. But one does reccommend Lille itself as a daytrip: a curious place, oddly reminiscent of northern England with it’s small red-brick terraced housing, although with alarmingly unnaturally sized windows and doors… to admit more light, presumably… yet doesn’t it get cold? if not, why hasn’t that architectural feature been adopted in Thurso?

Indicentally, gentle reader, please do not read anything whatsoever into that little rambling aside at the start of my posting. One had no intention of doing anything drastic... until Chapter 65 of my magnum opus Pride and Partiality appears: you will have to endure until then, but not a day longer.

Upon that note, a word processor and a fine malt whiskey await...

Pierre Seel

2007-02-09T14:16:00.000Z

Homosexuals were among the victims of the Holocaust. According to the Nazi’s own archives, between 1933 and 1945 over 100,000 lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people were arrested under paragraph 175 of the German Penal Code which- dare one say ironically?- condemned people for ‘committing acts against nature’.

More than 10,000 were sent to concentration camps, where a hierarchy of four groups was established: political adversaries, members of inferior races, criminals and ‘associates.’

Is it possible to consider certain forms of torture as more degrading to a human than others? According to the text before me, it is; and the most degrading tortures were reserved for the last and lowest of those groups fell lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people; female sterilisation, castration, scientific experiments which required subjects infected with typhus and malaria.

During the Second World War, the French government at Vichy passed a law to criminalise homosexuality, and after the war under Charles De Gaulle, legislation classed homosexuality as a ‘social flaw’ (in 1968, the World Health Organisation still classed homosexuality as a mental illness): it was not until 1981, when Francois Mitterand removed the legislative penalties, that the situation in this country improved.

Back in 1940, Pierre Seel was among a number of people arrested at a drag show in Mulhouse. One year later, when the Alsace region was annexed by the Nazi’s, the Gestapo used a police file to trace him. On 3^rd May 1941, he was arrested again: after two weeks of interrogation and torture, he was deported first to a camp at Schirmeck, and then to Struthof, after which he was sent to the Russian front, one of many conscripted labourers: at least 210 people from the three regions annexed (Bas-Rhin, Haut-Rhin and Moselle) were deported.

Many years passed before Pierre Seel came forward: he was not the only French citizen deported on the basis of his sexuality to survive, but he was alone in speaking publicly about what he suffered. He fought to have the French authorities officially recognise the fact that he was deported for his homosexuality. He also fought with the organisers of commemoration services for the French deportees, who tended to overlook the fact that lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people were among their number.

Unlike other cities like Berlin and Amsterdam, to this day France does not have a monument to commemorate those who were deported: in fact, it was not until 2002 that the pink triangle symbol used by the Nazi’s to distinguish ‘associates’ was added to the other triangles at the Holocaust monument on l’Ile de la Cite, Paris. In 2005, after years of lobbying on the issue, President Chirac became the first President de la Republique to acknowledge that nationals had been deported for their sexuality. On 25^th November of that same year. 2005, Pierre Seel died in Toulouse, aged 82.

By speaking about his personal experience, Pierre Seel changed the way history has been rewritten. At a commemorative ceremony on 17^th June 2006, public officials in the city of Toulouse declared their intention to re-name a street to honour his memory, and while one does support this, one feels that a public thoroughfare is a little like a phase in one’s life or a period of history… one passes along, on the way to somewhere else.

Is it not also appropriate to commemorate in a different fashion? Something more permanent… and yet what is permanent in this ever changing world? Perhaps it is for each of us to determine how best to commemorate: one believes it is not so difficult to always carry a name in the back of one’s mind.

Monsieur Pierre Seel, a man who deserves remembering, don’t you think?

Pierre Seel

Deporte francais pour homosexualite

“I want others like me, who were deported for their sexuality, to be remembered;

to ignore, to forget, it is an acceptance of the Nazi’s crime”

Devoir et Memoire

Postcards from the Pugbus

2007-02-08T23:46:00.000Z

One feels inadequately unfunny, all of a sudden.
Click here

Queer As Pop

2007-02-08T22:54:00.002Z

There is nothing like dancing, gentle reader. One considers it as one of the first refinements of polished societies; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world: every savage can dance. So it was that one danced like there was no tomorrow at Queer As Pop... although that is rather an odd name for what their promotional materials describe as ‘indie rock’, don’t you think?

Two live bands appeared, supposedly to entertain the audience. Suffice to say that both failed, miserably. Does the expression ‘The Waves Pictures’ mean anything? Does it not strike you as having no significance whatsoever, not to mention sounding quite ungramatical and uninteresting? If you say the words ‘The Waves Pictures’ aloud, does it not sound discordant? In that case, it is a perfectly apt name for the first of the two groups. As for New Rose Hotel, one would elect to withdraw thorns from the rectum of an angry hippopotamus rather than endure the squat female lead-singer of that group damaging my eardrums with her shrieking into a microphone again.

One encountered the usual problem at an indie night, whether straight or gay; with Mr DJ playing rebel to the bourgeoisie of the paying public, by offering a selection of the dreariest, most deservedly obscure, b-sides from his collection... all in an effort to bolster his personal credibility, one assumes. Like other afficionados in the audience, one would appreciate this as a form of entertainment in the comfort of a living room, but the fact remains it is quite annoyingly unsuitable for the purposes of gentle flirtation while dancing.

Glaz’Art is a pleasing venue, the only one in Paris where one has danced until dawn (last spring, in the company of X, G and D) although on this occasion eligible gay gentlemen were outnumbered by under-age drinkers who had smuggled half-bottles of cheap vodka to mix with cheap rum, with the objective of passing out in a puddle of their own vomit alongside the only toilet in the building that was not backed-up... all of which detracted somewhat from the splendour of the evening.

But despite all of the above- not to mention arriving alone, having to queue for admission, having to queue for my coat and hat on departure and departing alone- there were some mildly diverting moments, with a selection of indie-pop treats from Interpol, Ladytron, The Go! Team, and The Kaiser Chiefs, to name but a few.

There you have it, gentle reader; all the glamour of the alternative gay scene, brought to life for you!

Previously listening to

2007-02-08T22:53:00.000Z

Justin Timberlake - Futuresex/Lovesounds

Go ahead... be gone with it

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

2007-02-07T00:34:00.000Z

After seventeen years of careful plotting, one was quite amused to read how Ms J Rowling, upon completing the last installment in the Harry Potter series, indulged in a little spontaneous vandalism of her suite in The Balmoral.

One has particularly fond memories of this particular hotel. On the occasion when I stayed there with X, back in 2002, we awoke on a Sunday morning (with a godawful hangover) to the reckless shrieking of a fire alarm.

In those circumstances, what does a self-respecting gay gentleman do? Dash to the nearest emergency exit, without any concern for his toilette? Certainly not! Having quickly dressed and rushed to the nearest mirror, one had almost left the room when it occurred to me... where was X? Still in bed.

My first thought was that he hoped one was going to sweep him in my arms and carry him from a flaming building, or that a team of burly firemen were going to burst into the room and recussitate him. But no; his in-built smoke detector convinced him that it was a false alarm... which it was, nevertheless it seemed a tad reckless to lie in bed until engulfed by flames of a non-passionate nature.

But I digress!

Like many others, one awaits publication of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows on 21st July 2007 with a strange mixture of feelings.

Initially sniffy about anything so commercially successful, one has has read all of the Harry Potter series to date (out-of-sequence) and gives Ms Rowling due credit for an excellent story. In my humble opinion, we should all be grateful to her... for anything that requires a child to concentrate and remain silent for a period of time. In addition, she has encouraged a generation of children to read something other than text messages... and despite what the critics say, her own style is challenging:use of overblown adverbs, use of cliche, a tendency to hyperbole... distinctive in its own way, and surely it must be a source of encouragement to all bloggers that something so badly written can sell so well?

On numerous occasions, one has used Harry Potter to bond with a younger audience, for one gets immediate and undivided attention from anyone under twelve by expounding on a theory about the remaining Horcruxes, and whether or not Snape is a swinger on the dark side. And if you're ever at a loss for words in the company of a seven year old, persuade them you're an Animagus.

So, 163 days to go, gentle reader. One confesses that one is curious to know whether it all comes to a bitter end... and rather hopes it will.

Boulangerie-Patisserie

2007-02-06T22:58:00.003Z

Many of the earth’s marvels are buried beneath the dust of habit, gentle reader.

While living out of a backpack or a suitcase, habits cannot be formed; one must be ready to cope with just about anything, from noise pollution to absence of unfamiliar foods, from having to sleep on buses to doing without sleep altogether, not to mention doing without sex. All routines are sacrificed without a word of complaint because one recognises there is a price to be paid for living in the moment. But whenever settled in one place, there is an irresistible tendency to compensate for an erratic, ever-changing lifestyle by allowing day-to-day habits form.

Arriving in Paris last year, with so much to discover and rediscover, with so many joyous memories of the place (for one had visited with family, friends and with all of my former partners… so many occasions that one has quite lost count) there seemed no danger of losing sight of the fact that one lived a charmed life in the most beautiful of cities. It seemed quite unimaginable, and yet one must confess that lately, it has all been taken for granted.

Allow me to illustrate.

My first humble apartment in Paris was located on Rue de la Roquette, in the 11eme arrondissment, and having visited all of the boulangerie-patisserie nearby, one became a regular customer at the best. Every morning, after a vigorous swim at Piscine Georges Rigal, followed by a delightful run in the Jardin de Plantes (where the city’s firemen exercise between 9am and 11am… a stimulating sight, for those who lack motivation to get in shape) one stared longingly at the freshly baked treats on display.

Understandably, for the first week there was experimentation, and then one discovered croissant aux amandes.

From then, it became difficult to choose anything else. For while there was always the possibility of discovering something even more delightfully delicious, why take an unnecessary risk? Why not continue to indulge in what satisfied quite perfectly?

Before one realised, it was a routine.

Swim, run, croissant aux amandes… Swim, run, croissant aux amandes… and one was perfectly unaware of being watched until one day upon my arrival, a frank-mannered and talkative girl behind the counter, her grey eyes with a shade of wicked green in them, glanced at her watch and said:

‘Sorry, no croissant aux amandes, Monsieur.’

‘Excuse me ?’

‘No croissant aux amandes’

Distracted by her companion’s playful laughter, it took a moment to notice a tray of croissant aux amandes on display.

‘What are those?’

‘Croissant aux amandes… but not for you.’

‘I see... Tell me, how do you know that I wanted croissant aux amandes?’

Both girls made a sound, one of those wonderfully expressive sounds that the French so delight in making, a sound suggestive of truths universally acknowledged- that the earth moves around the sun, that France is the greatest country on earth, that La Cicada is a talentless wench… that I was already anticipating how one of those croissant aux amandes was going to melt in one's mouth.

Gentle reader, if this little exchange had taken place in my native tongue, no doubt one would have responded with something brilliant and witty, but in the moment it took to recover one’s composure the taller girl, looking quite stunning with her dark brown eyes and her parted lips, stepped into the fray.

‘So you don’t want croissant aux amandes?’

‘Er… no, that’s not what I meant…’

‘In any case, you can’t have any. Look at all those pave au bastille, brioche, pain au chocolat, pain au raisin, sable chocolat… hmmn, delicious. Look at all of those poor neglected tartes... Go ahead, try something else! Surprise yourself.’

Well, one was quite taken aback! Never had it crossed one’s not-so-innocent mind that the pretty girls noticed any of their regular customers (it was the last time went to the boulangerie-patisserie without showering after my run, let me tell you!) and it certainly had never crossed one’s not-so-innocent mind that they needed a little attention from a gay gentleman to distract from the monotony.

A little harmless flirtation to brighten their day? A little frivilous conversation? Needless to say, one was only too delighted to oblige.

One became quite attached to my little tete-a-tete with the girls: for six months, one sought advice on gourmet patisserie and offered compliments in return, delighted by the taller girls fabulous collection of hoop earrings and her companion’s habit of threading feathers into her hair; usually a brightly coloured selection, but bright white on a particularly good day. We discussed French men, we discussed the weather, we discussed whatever strike was taking place at Bastille that week… and they laughed at my bad jokes, made worse by my perfectly flawed French.

Whenever in the neighbourhood, one returns for a visit… and a croissant aux amandes. Best in Paris, and I should know.

Is there a moral to this little story, gentle reader? Probably, but one can't quite work it out. To my mind, all it proves is that you can take an Irish gay boy out of the village and put him in a city, but he still turns into his mother.

Italia

2007-02-05T22:52:00.004Z

For several weeks, my deranged mother has been sharpening kitchen knives. It is highly probable that she drags a fatted calf away from one of the local herds even as we speak: for despite having been- repeatedly- told that her prodigal son is vegetarian, it will make no difference; there are certain rituals an Irish mother must adhere to, and upon my return to the village in less than three weeks, one expects to find my favourite meals from seventeen years back, with my little bedroom exactly as it was seventeen years ago and my whole family gathered together… any one of the above is quite enough to remind me why I left in the first place.

Ordinarily, one depends on binge drinking with friends to help recover from this ordeal: however, given my best friend has recently given birth, that must inevitably put a damper on social activities.

So one has made alternative arrangements… a little trip to Italia, departing in four weeks time!

Gentle reader, it will astonish you that one has never (yet) entertained an Italian gay gentleman: one has never (yet) come to the throes of ecstasy inside anything Italian, with the exception of decadent pleasures inside a Sicilian bakery, although one expects that is about to change… if all else fails, one proposes to visit the Sistine Chapel.

Mind you, there was a little incident with Marco… an Italian student, among those on Erasmus exchange to a university in the Low Countries, back in 1994.

It was difficult not to notice anyone with such a striking resemblance to Michael Hutchence (not just long dark curls that draped in a teasing fashion over his handsome bronzed visage; he really did look like Michael Hutchence) All of the female exchange students, whether the came from Latin America or Latvia, observed this; listening with unfeigned interest to tales of Marco's disappointment about not being selected for the Olympic swimming team despite his medal-winning performance in the national championships… offering him more than a shoulder to cry upon.

One was hardly surprised when one of the Irish female students, a feisty blonde filly who we shall refer to as Y, was added to his long list of conquests… but one was duly impressed when Y reined him in. In due course, she was flown to meet his family in Sicily, feeling a little out of her depth upon discovering that the family villa was located on its own little island, more than a little unsettled by the security boats on patrol… until she discovered that his father was a famous magistrato (that means he was a judge, gentle reader… not Mafia)

Sadly, it never worked out between them: nothing to do with me, nothing at all… although one never spoke to Y about that night we all spent at a humble family dwelling of a mutual friend in Paisley, recovering from the drunken excess of a Scottish Hogmany.

A kindly simple woman, the mother of our mutual friend was in her late fifties, and quite unsettled at the sight of the Italian stallion (he was rather large… one speaks of height, not girth) with his rough laughter, his general ease of manner, his tactile nature, his magnetic charm… all of which contributed to her deep unease at the thought of her daughter sharing a bedroom. She hastily proposed that the two not-so-innocent girls, who she certainly hoped were not thinking about what she was thinking, sleep together- while those two tall boys- who couldn’t possibly spend a comfortable night in one of her little single beds in the girls room, gracious no!- share a double bed...

If it crossed her mind, gentle reader, she must have believed that with both boys raised in a good Catholic family, nothing untoward could possibly happen! Ah, the innocence of the poor woman!

Suffice to say that Marco and I undressed, hastily... Slipping underneath the covers, innocently flirting for a long, long while we talked before… one of us made a move... and it wasn't me.

Yes, gentle reader, Marco tried it on... and no, it wasn’t just a little peck on the cheek.

Can you imagine my reaction? Was he or was he not dating one of my best friends who was in the next bedroom? That is all you need to consider: indignant outrage… that was my reaction!

Actually, one exaggerates: certainly, one felt indignant... among other things! But a pretended laugh is a more accurate description of my reaction, after which one pushed Marco back to his side of the bed in a playfully provoking fashion, whereupon he tried again to kiss me and we continued pretending to laugh…and so nothing happened.

Alas, laughter seemed to be the most dignified way out of the situation, but certainly one was not laughing later that night, struggling to recover one’s composure and requiring a great deal of willpower to finally getting to sleep... nor is one laughing now.

Gentle reader, one hopes it goes without saying this would have a happy ending if it were in any way fictional…

Joni Mitchell Tribute Album

2007-02-05T22:52:00.003Z

"Free Man in Paris," Sufjan Stevens
"Boho Dance," Bjork
"Dreamland," Caetano Veloso
"Don't Interrupt the Sorrow," Brad Mehldau
"For the Roses," Cassandra Wilson
"A Case of U," Prince
"Blue," Sarah McLachlan
"Ladies of the Canyon," Annie Lennox
"Magdalena Laundries," Emmylou Harris
"Edith and the Kingpin," Elvis Costello
"Help Me," k.d. lang
"River," James Taylor

Track listing for the upcoming Joni Mitchell tribute album, gentle reader... one is quite incandescent with delight! To have Sufjan Stevens, singing a melody written by one of my Icons... about a Free Man in Paris! Why, it's clearly a coded message to moi:

"I was a free man in Paris: I felt unfettered and alive... If l had my way,
I'd just walk through those doors and wander down the Champs Elysees,
going cafe to cabaret, thinking how I'll feel when I find that very good friend of mine...
You know, I'd go back there tomorrow,but for the work I've taken on
stoking the star maker machinery behind the popular song"

What can one say to that?

Open letter... to Sufjan Stevens

2007-02-05T22:52:00.001Z

Dearest Sufjan,

One appreciates that you are recording a new album of bird song, which one eagerly awaits. But can you please forget about stoking the star maker machinery: your very good friend in Paris has machinery that's in need of a little lubricating.

Sincerely,

Ms C Quisp

Moving

2007-02-03T18:31:00.000Z

For the first seventeen years of my life, one ‘lived’ in a little terraced house, hidden away in a little village.

If that were not cruel enough, fate determined it was to be located in a cultural wasteland, populated for the most part by ignorant and hypocritical bigots; an impoverished third world country, masquerading as a developing nation; a grey and miserable place whose limited charm can only be seen at a great distance.

Another seventeen years have passed since leaving; suffice to say, one lived.

But it was recently brought to my attention (by an acquaintance of the same age who complained about having to relocate for a third time in his adult live) that since 1989, wherever unpacked for longer than three months has been considered home, and to most, 29 residences in 18 years is rather a lot… bearing in mind that for two years in that period of time, one - literally - backpacked across five continents.

In calculating those figures, one observed that the longest period of settled residence was for 21 months, while the shortest period of settled residence was for three months: the most ‘unstable’ period occurred between August 1997 and August 2000, when one lived in a total of 9 different locations. In addition, when last ‘settled’ in permanent contractual employment, one was required to fly around and reside in hotels (all four star… how dreary!) for a third of the year.

Gentle reader, all of the above has become a tad worrying of late. For one begins to suspect it is reflective of many things in one’s character.

Does all of the above have any bearing upon my inability to remain consistent in my narrative voice?

Or my inability to remain happy and settled in a relationship?

While living, has one been over-indulging oneself… over-compensating for lost time… and running away?

A Place Called Home

2007-02-03T18:25:00.000Z

Well, it's not hard to see; anyone who looks at me knows
I am just a rolling stone, never landing anyplace to call my own
It seems like so long ago, but it really ain't you know
I started out a crazy kid; miracle I made it through the things I did

Someday I'll go where there ain't no rain or snow; until then, I travel alone
And I make my bed with the stars above my head, and dream of a place called home

I had a chance to settle down, get a job and live in town,
and work in some old factory, but I never liked that foreman standing over me
I’d rather walk a winding road; rather know the things I know,
and see the world with my own eyes: no regrets, no looking back, no goodbyes

Kim Richey, A Place Called Home, 2002

La femme qui pleure (Picasso Museum, Paris)

2007-02-02T22:06:00.002Z

Ms Dora Maar, gentle reader… looking a little incongruous, don’t you think? One speaks of her ladylike appearance– that mane of well-groomed hair, that neatness, and that tidy hat- when compared to the fractured animal of her features- those hulking green hands, those broken teeth, that desperate bewildered expression in her eyes.

Into a crumpled handkerchief she weeps, a jagged whiteness that fails to hide her true feelings. She is incapable of artifice, her fractured face a reflection of how all that matters in her life has fallen to pieces.

Of course, it is hardly surprising to find a little darkness and despair pervading the work of Picasso in that period; his native country was being torn apart by a civil war, with all of Europe drifting inevitably towards another destructive world war.

A generation of grief, impossible to abstract and represent, without reference to a particular instance.

Helms Deep

2007-02-02T22:06:00.001Z

What do you mean, you don't know what this is?
It is an example of the workings of a deranged mind, gentle reader
Click here

Michel Vanden Eeckhoudt

2007-02-01T15:02:00.000Z

Gentle reader, Michel Vanden Eeckhoudt... my latest protege. Discovered quite by accident; lost in a fascinating city like Paris, one never knows what one will find.

On my way to Cimetiere Montparnasse this afternoon, one noticed a little art gallery named Galerie Camera Obscura, a name that caught my attention because D is a graphic artist experimenting with camera obscura... et voila.

To my annoyance, my favourite images - taken in Sicily and taken at zoos across Europe - do not appear online, so unless you are fortunate enough to find an exhibition in your own neighbourhood, peruse these images from his book DUO at your convenience

Open Letter... to Ms J Timberlake

2007-02-01T14:59:00.000Z

Dear Ms Timberlake,

One writes to express regret… for having ignored your second album.

After hearing ‘Sexy Back’, one browsed Futuresex/Lovesongs at a listening post (because one has been known to purchase a little something silly for the purposes of dancing in the comfort of my fabulous penthouse) and upon perusal, suffice to say that one certainly did not consider purchasing.

Given my influence upon the general public, slating your best endeavours led to disappointing sales, with the result that last week, one discovered the album in a bargain-bin at half price, and in a moment of desperation and weakness, invested in a copy.

Imagine my surprise to discover that only several of the tracks are rubbish, with the remainder, while starting in a sadly predictable fashion, actually becoming rather bad… in the 1980’s Michael Jackson sense of the word, although perhaps a Prince comparison is more accurate given how shamelessly his earlier work has been ripped off. Hardly future sounds, Ms Timberlake, but since one was rather fond of all this in my adolescence, one has no hesitation recommending your reduced-price album to those in search of a popped-up funk nostalgia.

But a word of advice: it is unwise to allow tracks to run seven minutes: next time, keep all songs under four minutes, and introduce interesting funkedy variations in the first thirty seconds. Bear in mind that the general public, in particular the gay league, have a short attention span… and yes, that will also apply to your career.

Insincerely,

Ms C Quisp

Previously listening to

2007-02-01T14:58:00.000Z

Lily Allen - Alright Still

I can see the crack whore, but where's the pimp?

My fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country

2007-01-30T23:33:00.001Z

Dearest Andy,
One should neither be a borrower or a lender: I am neither.
However rude, I am shamelessly thieving this image
from your blogue as it is simply so good!
Insincerely,
Ms C Quisp