Pervy images of Walliams

Check this out, dear reader!

Enter minge

Check this out.

You won't be disappointed, dear reader.

Don't worry, it's not vile. Well, not really.

Fib

Announcement:

Jif became Cif, Marathon became Snickers, Immac became Veet and now Fib Wednesday has become Fib Sunday.

Come back for the close of the weekend, dear reader! Don't forget, or Minge might have to spank you on the bare bottom. And, yes, with a wet hand!

This week

It's been a funny old week...

Weight loss, web superstars, daughters, mysteries, old photographs, Haiku, arguments, overdue babies, scrubbers, lucky bitches, drag queens, Doctor Who, childhood memories, hot boyfreinds, Lulu, the neighbourhood, teabagging and watersports, pornos - and Phyllis is back!

What's in store for us next week, dear reader?

Euro Pride

Euro Pride is in London this year.

It's set to be a very hot and sticky weekend in the UK's capital city.

I hope you, dear reader, have a very hot and sticky weekend yourself.

Penis pumper

You need to read this.

Basically, a judge has been flashing in court while using a penis pump.

I want to say only in America, but I won't.

Why can't things like this happen in Edinburgh?

The 80s ARE coming back!

The 80s ARE coming back, dear reader!

Well, according to Q magazine, anyway. Isn't this fabulous news?

By the way, I'm selling the August issue on ebay. Check it out.

As you may or may not know, Lorraine are supporting Pet Shop Boys this Summer for their live gigs. They (Lorraine) appear on the free CD given here with Q magazine. They sound rather splendid.

Records

This week, according to iTunes, I have mostly been listening to:

Marc Almond - Like a prayer
Pet Shop Boys - Fugitive (Richard X extended mix)
Machine Gun Fellatio - (Let me be your) dirty fucking whore
Morrissey - Come back to Camden
Matia Bazar - Messaggio d'amore
Texas Lightning - No no never
Rapination featuring Kym Mazelle - Love me the right way
Billie Ray Martin - Don't believe a word
Sinitta - I don't believe in miracles (Magical mix)
KMFDM* - Material girl

*Killing Mother fucking Depeche Mode = KMFDM - and, as the delicious Fee tells me, it doesn't actually stand for that. It's German for 'no pity for the majority'.

Thanks, Fee! You're a doll!

Poor little Minge

I've just come back from taking Meg and Mary out for their last trot of the day, as I usually do at this time of night.

Nine times out of ten, I meet a man who lives somewhere around here and his wee mongrel, Jasper. The guy usually wants to chat to me at length and throw a stick for Meg and Mary.

This evening, he began to tell me how he'd started his Christmas shopping.

I know. It's June. He's started his Christmas shopping.

As incredulous as this was, and as desperate as I was to understand why anyone would start their Christmas shopping in June, all I wanted to do was get away. The man was not boring. He did not smell of fish. He didn't moon at me. No, but I was being bitten to death by bloody midges! I could feel them crawling all over my head. I could hear them buzzing in my ear. I was also aware that they were bloody well biting me!

Aaaggghhh!

Then, thank the Lord, it started to spit with rain. I made my excuses and left.

I couldn't get his Christmas shopping out of my head. La la la la la la la la.

I've not done any Christmas shopping yet, and don't plan to, until at least October. When do you start your Christian pilgrimage to the shopping centres, dear reader?

The Christmas experience for children is so far removed from the adult experience. For adults, it's a time of stress, money worries and bickering. For children, it's full of charm, excitement and wonder.

When I was a small boy, Christmas was always fabulous. It might have never snowed, but the delight of the season seemed to either mask my Parents' constant rows or soothe them into getting along with one another for a short while. If they did fight, I didn't notice.

The morning always started with my dear Mother having to come and wake me because all my brothers and sisters were desperate to open their presents, and no-one was allowed to do so until we'd all had breakfast and sat around the pile of gifts by the plastic tree in the living room.

Most children would be up at the crack of dawn, desperate to see what Father Christmas had brought them. It would take a lot more than an old man in a red coat with a beard to wake me before ten o'clock when it wasn't a school day.

Some things never change.

I still love my bed.

On one occasion, I woke to find a scooter actually on my bed! The sound of the door closing had stirred me from my sleep. I saw it close. But hey, it was still dark. I put my head back on the pillow and that was it until the next morning. I remember being slightly annoyed at not being able to stretch my legs out because the scooter was on there. Don't think I was a spoiled brat, I wasn't, dear reader! No! But my sleep was more important than anything else to me.

The next day, I told my Mum that I'd seen Father Christmas leaving and that he'd woken me up. Nothing was ever left in my room again. Poor Mum. I expect she loved doing that, too!

Another time, I wrote to Father Christmas and asked for a Grifter bike. They were all the rage at the time. Christmas morning came. As usual, Mum brought me downstairs and into the living room. No bike. My heart sank. Father Christmas had forgotten poor little Minge. Mum could see I was down-hearted.

"Perhaps it's in the kitchen?" she said.

There was a bike in the kitchen. But it was no Grifter. It was a girl's bicycle. And the saddle had a rip in it.

My Father was a mean peice of shit.

He could afford £300.00 for a wig (which was an awful lot of money in 1980) but couldn't afford to get me anything other than a second hand girl's bike for Christmas. I'll never forget that.

Another time, when I was a much younger boy, Father Christmas brought me a wee doll! I had asked for one, after all. Mum spent most of Christmas afternoon knitting clothes for it. She was such a dear. I didn't have a pram or a cot for it, but I wasn't bothered. Then, Mum had a brain wave! Under the stairs was my old push chair! She got it out for me, brushed the dust and cob webs off of it and, voila (or is it voici?) - my dolly (who was soon Christened Suzie under the tap in the toilet) had wheels!

Later, that evening, our darling cat, Smudgie, was found curled up in the push chair with Suzie! I wanted Dad to take a picture of the wonderful sight, but he said it was a waste of a photograph. Tight sod.

I have next to no photographs of my pets as a child.

Smudgie loved the push chair. He even let me put one of Suzie's bonnets on him and take him for a ride up and down the alley. He was such a lovely pussy.

Smudgie came to be called so because he had a white and ginger face with a black mark over his nose, just like a smudge. Curiously, the smudge shape went all through his body, on the roof of his mouth and on his tongue! I adored him for this, but mostly, I adored him because he was like Bagpuss. He was a big old thing who would let me pick him up, put him on my head, let me take to bed and stay there, slyly eat my unwanted dinner (as I passed it to him under the table) and follow me around outside as I played with my wee friends.

I loved him so much!

Then he was involved in an accident with a car and died. My brother Mark found him. Screaming, he took Mum and I to the road where he laid. The image that sticks in my mind is of his tongue hanging out - far too much. It seemed far too long. Later in life, I see that this is what happens to people after they've been hung. I don't know what happened to the poor cat that made this happen to him, but it did upset me greatly when the penny dropped.

Our lounge was usually decorated with wallpapers left over from jobs that my Father had done in other people's homes. He was a builder and decorator, you see. One wall might be flowers and leaves, another patterned with Roman soldiers on chariots while the other two walls had something plain. There was a short period where all four walls were different. The zig-zags, stripes, dots and swirls made visitors sick, so that soon had to be amended.

So, you see, dear reader, Christmas decorations didn't add much to the ambience of our living room. It was always wild and vivid as it was. The foil chains and pendants largely went unnoticed. Until Mark and I made some decorations with old baked bean tins! He did get in trouble for using the drill, but we were applauded for our artistic bent! About fifteen cans were strung together, knots keeping them well apart, after being wrapped in various different patterned Christmas wrapping paper. Mark put his Six Million Dollar man in the middle can. He wore a simple red hat (made from the finger of an old glove) and I made him a beard by cutting out a paper shape, colouring it in grey and sticking it to the bionic man's face with about fifteen feet of cellotape. No-one commented that it should have been white. Mark liked to swing the bizarre decoration around the room. Everyone laughed, until it hit Mum's friend in the face.

Another reason for loving Christmas was the warmth in the living room. It was perhaps the only day of the year when the fire was on all day! I loved it. Central heating is so municipal, so clinical. Bring back fires, I say!

Another Christmas, I asked for a xylophone. I got it, too. I took it to school in the new year. Mrs Flemming put together a band with a few children who had their own instruments and a few that didn't. The school posessed a piano (which the Deputy Head Mistress played - and rather well), a drum, some recorders, a triangle and a set of maracas. Our Christmas gifts brought my xylophone, a guitar, a flute, a banjo and two battery operated organs into the picture. Our sound was amazing and we played with gusto as the children sang hymns and songs during assembly. I felt great, separate from the other children, yet included. It was a feeling that made me feel warm inside. I'd never felt it before.

I still love that feeling of inclusion. The thought of being ostracized fills me with horror.

Incidentally, the story of the word ostracize is a very interesting one. In ancient Greece, the people would vote on who to eject from the city once a year. Of the two candidates, one was chosen by whomsoever had most pieces of broken pottery in their alloted pot. In ancient Greek, a broken piece of pottery was called an ostracon (don't quote me on the spelling!)... Interesting, innit!?

Lordy! Look what I've just found! Click here.

Christmas came to a horrible end when a school teacher told the class that Father Christmas didn't exist. She told us our Parents put the gifts at the foot of our beds or around the tree. She said children shouldn't be lied to.

Bitch.

Oh, gosh, I've been rambling again.

Sorry!

Call Marj

Looking for a new web celebrity?

Marjorie Rattsinger, secretary for Dare School, takes all her calls live for everyone to see. Call her, she's wonderful!

Click here.

It's fabulous. It really is.

If, when you get there, the office is closed, click on The best of Marjorie. It's hilarious!

80s coming back

Are the 80s making a come back?

I just love this song... Rufus - 80s coming back:

You thought you had it coming
But now you really really just don't know
It seems you make a deal far too big outta this
You thought that you'd done it
Yeah you thought that you had heard it all
But the state of things is putting you down now just because

You know they say it's just the eighties coming back
Can you feel it? It's the eighties coming back
Oh I know it's just the eighties coming
Eighties coming eighties coming
Eighties coming eighties coming back

You said "Let's do it"
"Let's take it out and dance all night"
But those deep synthesizer sounds freak you out
Wo!
And now you wake up in the middle of the night
In terror and all you do is cry
Cold sweat a cup of tea no nothing seems to help you through the night
My god!

Now it feels just like the eighties coming back
Can you feel it? It's the eighties coming back
Oh I know it's just the eighties coming
Eighties coming eighties coming
Eighties coming eighties coming back

Yeah you thought you had it coming
But now it looks like you didn't know shit*
But everybody's wearing their hair hair the way you did fifteen years ago
And it makes you wanna cry

Rufus represented Estonia in the 2003 Eurovision Song Contest (the best in many years).

What did you love about the 80s. I loved everything, the vile political climate, the pop stars, the fashions... The 00s are relatively boring, in my humble opinion, dear reader. The world is full of boring people. It's vile.

These days (just saying that makes me feel old - my Mum says it a lot) - criminals are just thugs, not glamorous at all. Pop stars are shallow and all come off of a production line. They're as thick as pig shit. Record companies are scared that if they show any level of intelligence, it will ruin their careers.

Where is all the originality and fabulousness?

Sure, in the 80s, we all followed fahion trends (some of which, I hope, will never be repeated), but everyone had a sense of originality. Every youth looks the same these days! They all wear the same clothes and sport the same hair style, especially the chavs/neds/schemies/cackers/white trash.

Roll on 2010. Perhaps some originality will seep through the gloom by then.

Oh, aren't I just a miserable sod today, dear reader?

I remember the Red Hand Gang. Do you? Check out this funky list.

What else do you remember from the 80s? Thatcher? Rubik's cube? Mr T? Transformers? My Little Pony? Bronski Beat? New Romantics?

Ah, nostalgia...!

*There is much debate as to whether they guy is singing this or shit. I think he's quite clearly singing this. However, he may have written shit as the lyric but been forbidden to sing it.

Kinky boots vs cha cha heels

These boots are made for walking, and that's just what they'll do. One of these days these boots are gonna* walk all over you.

Gimme*, gimme cha cha heels!

Kinky boots vs cha cha heels... In a fight to the death. Who'd come out the winner, dear reader?

I hate using words like gonna and gimme but feel I have to under the circumstances. Going to and give me would be my preferred option.

1980 me

Think of one thing you remember from 1980 and tell me in the comments section.

I remember the USA boycotting the Olympics because the USSR had invaded Afghanistan.

Oh, the irony.

Vapid

When I grow up, I'd like to be vapid.

Big Brother

Big Brother's getting a bit dull...

The housemates start to bicker. Just when I think a huge ding-dog is going to kick off, they get all chummy again.

Gggrrr!

"Wankers!" as Pete would say.

I wish I could get a message into the house. Or have some influence on the housemates.

If I was Big Brother, I'd give Pete a rubber sheet and a bottle of baby oil and tell him that the housemates' shopping budget will be doubled if he manages to get Richard to take part in a naked wrestling match with him.

The outcome could be delicious.

It would be the talk of the town!

The word on the street is that Pete is a very big boy.

This evening, on Big Brother's Big Mouth, Russell Brand revealed that Pete has eleven massive inches!

I don't doubt why he's so popular!

Share the love

Oh dear reader, don't think of this as a task, think of it as you sharing the blogging love...

Take part if you want to, don't if you don't want to (you miserable sod).

Take a look at the right hand side of your wee screen, here. See where it says outrageous et fabulous blogs und links? The first twenty-two items are blogs that I read every day. Wouldn't it be fabulous to pop over and leave a comment on each and every one of them?

Go on, share the love. You know you want to.

Fib Wednesday

Shall we have a Fib Wednesday, dear reader? Shall we?

If you're unfamiliar with Haiku Saturday, check this out. Fib Wednesday will run along similar lines.

1) I will supply a topic.
2) Your reply to the topic is in the form of a Fib in the comment section.
3) You then supply the next topic.
4) Next visitor replies with a Fib on next topic and then provides a new topic and so on...

A Fib is a six line, twenty syllable poem with a syllable count by line of 1/1/2/3/5/8. The only restriction on a Fib is that the syllable count follow the Fibonacci sequence. An example of a classic fib:

One

Small,

Precise,

Poetic,

Spiraling mixture:

Math plus poetry yields the Fib.

So, we begin:

Knife,
Fork
And spoon -
Tablecloth;
Could it be the food
Or the sun that makes a picnic?

Next topic: Winter.

Talk about bollocks

News

Seven items of news that I think are of note today, dear reader:

1 Robert Carrier is dead
2 Kirsty Young is the new Desert Island Discs presenter
3 The cost of having a Royal Family has gone up
4 The womb makes men gay
5 Beckett said, "Fuck!" to Blair
6 New Blue Peter presenter
7 AIDS in 1969

New lad mag

What if feminists took over the editorship of magazines like Nuts and Zoo?

Click here to find out.

It's quite good, actually.

Ink blot test

Thanks to the ever fabulous Alan, I decided to take an ink blot test. Have a wee look at Psyche on his blog to see his results. Mine were:

Your Unconscious Mind Is Most Driven by Imagination.

You have a deep desire to use ideas to change the world around you. This drive influences you far more than you may realise on a conscious level. You love to brainstorm and imagine new possibilities.

The world is a fuller, richer place because you can contribute new ideas to any experience. Your natural curiosity inspires those around you and encourages them to come up with ideas they wouldn't have discovered without your help. Your psyche is very rich; the more you learn about it, the more you will understand who you really are...

Lordy!

This is very true:

You love to brainstorm and imagine new possibilities.

What could you see in the ink blot above, dear reader? I saw two dogs, gossiping at a dance. Perhaps not dogs, but some alien creature with the head of a dog. Nice, gentle creatures, something out of Star Wars. Sadly, that wasn't an option in the test.

Personality test

Disorder	Rating
Paranoid:	High
Schizoid:	Low
Schizotypal:	High
Antisocial:	High
Borderline:	Moderate
Histrionic:	High
Narcissistic:	Low
Avoidant:	High
Dependent:	High
Obsessive-Compulsive:	High
-- Personality Disorder Test -- -- Personality Disorder Information --

Little Minge and the rooms

Our house, a council house, was on the north end of the town.

Behind us, there was a service road, used by the bin-men to take our crap away or for residents to park their cars in their garages. We called it the alley. My Protestant friends and I would play in it, running up and down it or riding our bikes along it, up and down the hill. Mum said I should go no further than the flats. If I couldn't see the house, I'd gone too far.

The Catholic children weren't allowed to play with us.

We weren't stopped from playing with them, but they weren't to play with us.

At the front of our house was the common. It had a name, Turbary Common, but only people who didn't live along Turbary Park Avenue called It Turbary Common. They didn't belong to it. It wasn't their common. If you lived in Turbary Park Avenue, you were special and had certain privileges, like calling it the common and not Turbary Common. My brother, Mark; Rexy, our dog and I spent most of the daylight hours there in the Summers of 1976 and 1977. In 1978, Mark got too old to play with me. Instead, he sat in his room with his friends, listening to seven inch records and playing cards.

I say his bedroom, but it was in fact our bedroom. We shared sleeping quarters from 1978 until 1981 when our sister Christine got married. I then got to have my own room. It was small and cold. Although it was mine and no-one else's and I didn't have to put up with my brother's restless sleeping, farting and other annoying habits, I missed him and I missed my room.

From our room, I could see my beloved common; the grass, trees, shrubs, the bicycle track and wood. Memories would flood into my mind as soon as my eyes were cast in front of me from the window.

From my room, I could see the airport, the rooves of houses in the roads behind us and the bloody school. Thoughts of school upset me. I'd rather be looking out from the front of the house.

Our room was better.

My room was shit.

When I left our room, Mark covered the walls with posters from pop magazines and his own sketches. He was putting his mark on it. It wasn't our room any more. He even started sleeping in my old bed.

My room still felt like Christine's room. I could smell her perfume in the curtains. I switched her lamp on when I went to bed. Her books were still on the shelf above me as I went to sleep. Her broken television was still on top of the wardrobe with no door. Her records were still in a pile under the window.

My pens and pencils, pads of paper and school books would usually be scattered across the floor. It was my floor at least. Until Mum told me to tidy up. Then everything was shoved under the bed. It went back to being Christine's floor. She'd chosen the carpet with my Father three years before. It was only an off-cut, cheap as chips, but it was her carpet.

Nothing was mine.

So I changed all that. With some help from Mum.

We found some material in the attic and made new curtains. I put the television in the bin. All her records and books went into boxes and the boxes went into the garage until she picked them up. Mum and Dad had new carpet in their bedroom, so a square was cut from their old carpet and put down in my room.

I filled it with the books that I'd started collecting, paintings that I'd done at school and gifts that I'd been given for birthdays and Christmas. Mark even made me a new lamp of my very own at woodwork class in school! It finally felt like it was my space. My room.

But I still missed our room and that wonderful view.

Machiavelli

I just took the Machiavelli test.

My results:

The Machiavelli personality test has a range of 0-100 Your Machiavelli score is: 73 You are a high Mach, you endorse Machiavelli's opinions.

Most people fall somewhere in the middle, but there's a significant minority at either extreme.

Perhaps I should have kept that to myself.

Aye TV

I want this!

I'd never have to leave my bedroom!

It's Aye TV! Actually, it's Eye TV, but I think the former is much better than the latter. Don't you, dear reader?

Walk

On our return from the meal with Aunty Juny and Ian's Father, we went for a wee walk with the dogs.

Phyllis loves it in the woods.

Meal

We went out for a nosh up last night, to a place called Juniper Lea, in order to celebrate Ian's Aunty Juny's birthday. We were accompanied by Ian's Father.

Note my absence from la table. I took the above picture.

Ian's Father is a strange one. To say he lacks tact would be the under-statement of the century. He's the most inconsiderate man I've ever known, he's rude and thoughtless. Sometimes, I think he actually hates me - and then he'll go and give me a hug.

I just can't work some people out. So I don't bother trying any more.

We had a nice meal, a huge portion - and everything counts in large amounts. I do love a large portion. How I managed to eat all the dessert, I'll never know. It was my favourite part. I do love a nice creamy finish.

Poppy

This is the first poppy to come out in my garden.

I love it.

Poppy was the second nick-name I ever had for Ian.

God?

This is a view of the sky, taken the night before last at around 21:45, as seen from my bedroom window, dear reader.

Simply glorious.

If I were a religious person, I'd say how wonderful God's creation is. But I'm not. So I won't.

God?

Life is a mystery. Everyone must stand alone, sweetie.

Entertainment news!

Boy George is due back in court. He's going to find out how he's going to be punished... Click here.

J K Rowling is being tight lipped about how the Harry Potter series comes to a close. Click here.

Nicole Kidman, the idiot, got married again. Will she never learn? Click here.

Dead goldfish

Click here for a larger view.

If you still can't see the image...

Image 1: Morning Nancy! What are you doing there?

Image 2: "Sob." My goldfish died! So I'm burying it.

Image 3: Ha ha, you silly girl! That hole is far too big for a goldfish!

Image 4: That's because he's inside your fucking cat!

Quick poll

Do you wear pyjamas or night-wear, dear reader?

Answers in the comments section, please.

Haiku Saturday

It's Haiku Saturday!

Come and play, dear reader.

Haiku On A Hill Stood A Lonely Goatherd!

Click here! Go on, you know you want to!

Pyjamas

I know it's not very sexy, very hip or trendy, but I just love my pyjamas!

I've slept in the buff for about twenty years. I loved my pyjamas when I was a very young boy, but when those teen years came around, I started to rebel. I hated the way I'd wake up in the night with my pyjamas twisted all about me. So, one day, I just took them off. Liberation!

Hang on, if I was so liberated, why did I hide my naked shoulders under the covers when Mum came in the room?

A pyjama free night was a good night, in my humble opinion.

A good night's sleep was a naked night, that is, up until October last year.

On going into hospital for my laparoscopic fundoplication, I decided pyjamas were in order. I didn't want nurses and other patients seeing a naked Minge! So, off to the shops I skipped and bought myself some fabulous Ted Baker pyjamas. Grey ones. Almost brushed cotton. Like a t-shirt. I had a duvet cover like them once. The manufacturers claimed it was Jersey material - though it was nothing like a jumper...

Anyway. I took the pyjamas with me into hospital. In the absence of my blanky and sicky clothes, my pyjamas became a real comfort. I felt warm, safe and secure.

I've never been out of them since I came home.

I wash them, dry them and I'm wearing them again the next night.

Summer's here. I should be sweating through the night. But I'm not. I refuse to sweat. I can't be without my pyjamas.

I haven't had my blanky or sicky clothes out for an age! What's wrong with me? If I'm feeling down, ill or only mildly under-the-weather, I'm usually found with my sicky clothes on and my blanky wrapped around my shoulders.

My sicky clothes are a pair of Boy London weight-lifting pants/trousers and a grey sweat top (with a small mark from a gold marker pen) which is far too big for me, along with a pair of black slipper-socks. My blanky is a blanket which I crocheted about three years ago in shades of blue. Lots of stripes! I feel so much better with my pyjamas on, or wearing my sicky clothes with my blanky around me. Why is that? They're better than any pills or medicines.

Do you have any rituals or rites that you perform, dear reader, when you're ill or down-in-the-dumps? Or do you wear certain items of clothing? Or do you play a special CD or read a particular book?

A perfect time-for-Minge day would be thus:

It's Winter and lashing with rain outside and very cold. The sound of each rain drop hitting the window is quite audible. The coal fire is burning like a furnace. I'm sat on the floor, on several large, downy cushions, my back against the sofa. Or davenport. I'm wearing my pyjamas. I've also got my goonie on (very Arthur Dent) and my blanky wrapped around my shoulders. I've got a flask of coffee on the floor next to me and my favourite BA cup. I also have a large box of very expensive Belgian or Swiss chocolates and a pot of custard. One of the dogs is lying alongside my legs, the other is on my lap. I'm watching Meet Me In St Louis on the television and have other DVDs lined up for when that's finished: Female Trouble, The Exorcist and Nighty Night (series one and two).

When it gets dark, I'll put the light on and fall asleep watching TV, eating chocolates and drinking coffee. When I'm sound asleep, someone will carry me up to bed, without stirring me from my deep slumber, take off my blanky and goonie, put me into bed, plump up the pillows around me and pull the goose feather duvet up around my neck.

If I do wake, I'll soon drift off to sleep again and dream about warm summer days, lying in meadows, feeling the sun on my face, holding hands with my friends, making wishes on dandelion seed heads, laying on my back and watching the fair-weather clouds roll by, making daisy chains and watching birds dart in and out of the long grass, singing as they go.

Perfection.

Food blog

I sometimes watch Food Uncut on UK TV Food.

Guess what their master class was today? How to make a blog! Yes! I couldn't believe it.

You can check out their example by clicking here.

It's fabulous.

Yes

I wrote this nonsense when I was drunk, years ago when I still lived in Bournemouth, perhaps 1989 or 1990. I just found it in a scrap book which I'm about to parcel up, having sold it on ebay.

You'll find me, if you look
In a corner, brooding, yes.
If you shut your eyes
You'll know who I'm fooling, yes.

If you plug your ears
You'll hear my whispered words, yes.
In the back of your head
Flying 'round your mind like birds, yes.

Don't say anything to me
I'll know what you bloody mean, yes.
Your shower scene was viscious
And the lament: keen, yes.

Now taste the liquids
Streaming from my body, yes.
A flithy gush of bile
To show what we've become, yes.

Just thought I'd share.

I think I was having a Kate Bush moment. I used to confuse what was important with what was impressive.

Sexual Health Action Group

Either someone at Eastbourne NHS Trust has a great sense of humour or they've been incredibly stupid.

The Trust has recently launched a new action group on sexual health. They've called it the Sexual Health Action Group.

Think about it.

Comin' out/comin' back

Brian wanted to know my coming out story. Every gay has one. Even if everybody knows the person in question is gay, there comes a time when that person has to say those immortal words, "I'm gay."

I have to be the exception. During my coming out period, I never once told anyone I was gay.

I'll start at the beginning. The very beginning.

One of my earliest memories of school is taking my Mum's lipstick to Show And Tell. How many straight boys do you know who would do that? Don't know what Show And Tell is, dear reader? Primary school. Monday mornings. Each child brings something to class and gets to talk about it for a short while. Tommy might bring his action man, Rachel might bring her doll and Johnny might bring his cowboy hat. I brought my Mother's lipstick.

It was a dusky pink colour. I loved it. I remember telling the other children in my class that I loved the smell and taste of it. My Mother would give me a kiss goodbye when she went out for the evening, the smell and taste would linger, making me feel warm inside. It made missing her not so tough.

I had such a strong association between that lipstick and my Mum. We were never apart when I was very young, largely due to my illness, but that's another story. School wasn't so traumatic because essentially, it wasn't a choice. I had to go. But Mum's rare evenings out were a choice. I'd get very upset when she went, especially if I was left alone with my Father. I was genuinely scared without her, but the taste of her lipstick on my mouth gave me the notion that she was coming back.

I must have taken a million things to Show And Tell, but I only remember the lipstick. I do remember, though, that I never once took a cowboy hat or an action man.

An even earlier memory is of my sisters dressing me up as a girl. I never objected. In fact, I quite liked it. I had the cancer wig, Lorraine's baby-doll nighty, Christine's patent leather shoes and either a hand-bag or a red toy dog. It had a zip on it's belly into which Lorraine would insert her night-wear on a daily basis.

My Mum would often have friends to the house for coffee, usually of a morning. If it was a Saturday, or, for some other reason, both my sisters were at home with me during the week, they would lead me down the stairs, in full drag, announce to the kitchen that Mary was here and into the kitchen I'd explode. The gathered women would applaud and greet Mary. It was fantastic. Sometimes, if we had notice of an impending arrival, I would hide in the larder, then burst out once said woman or women had arrived to a similar greeting.

Growing up, I loved all the old films that my Mother was into. If they were black and white and starred some Hollywood actress big in the 1930s or 40s, we watched them. We especially loved the weepies. Sometimes, Mum and I would do rôle play afterwards. I loved to be Ingrid Bergman. I thought she was fantastic.

Was it any surprise, then, that I turned out gay? It certainly was no surprise to me. I never pretended to be straight, I didn't tell anyone I was straight, I didn't take a girl-friend, I didn't play football or hang about with boys. Most of my friends were female. Fag hags, if you like.

Then, one Summer, must have been about 1985... Seven of my female friends came knocking at the door, asking if I wanted to come out. My brother-in-law, Pete, who was staying with us for the week with my sister, opened the door to them.

When I came back, I was bombarded with the most bizarre comments:

"You've got a lot of girlfriends!"

"You're a hit with the ladies."

"Which one do you fancy most?"

What was going on? Had I slipped into some parallel universe where I was some kind of straight ladies' man?

No, I hadn't.

Someone obviously thought I was straight. Who else might think this?

I was thirteen at the time and had some kind of boyfriend. His name was Lee. He certainly didn't think I was straight. No-one else at school thought I was straight, either.

I wasn't straight. But I also wasn't about to tell Pete that I was a raving poof. It was the first time in my life that I felt being gay was inferior to being straight. I have no idea why, but I did. I had no desire to tell anyone that I wasn't as good as them, so said nothing.

I might have had these feelings after an earlier conversation with my Mum, but didn't. I think I was ten or eleven years old at the time. My Mother was reading the newspaper. There was a very tragic picture of a man staring out at us. He looked very ill indeed. The first paragraph of the newspaper informed us of his death. I asked Mum why he'd died. She told me, "That's what happens to men who sleep with other men."

The man in question was Terrance Higgins.

Mum's revelation really meant nothing to me. At that age, even though I knew I was gay, I had no understanding of the concept of sex, heterosexual, homosexual or otherwise. Furthermore, sleeping with someone wasn't something I ever did. I'd only ever shared a bed with my Mother if I was sick or frightened. Phew. I wasn't going to die.

I never wondered why sharing a bed with another man might kill me, though. I suppose, as a child, my only thoughts and concerns were with myself. I'd never slept with another boy and saw no reason why I would do so in the future, so never considered the consequences.

The few years at senior school passed me by without much drama. I had a few boyfriends. I had sex for the first time. It was ok, nothing special, but I did it.

In 1986, my nephew, Spencer, was born. Mum and I went up to London to see my sister after she'd given birth. What a lovely baby! My sister's husband, Graham, took me to the shop in the hospital to buy a drink. Now, I had no idea this was coming and am astounded, even to this day. Right out of the blue, he looked me in the eye and said, "If Spencer grows up and turns out to be gay, it'll be fine. It's not a problem for me. When I was your age, if I'd told my Dad I was gay, he'd have thrown me out on the street."

Then he just looked at me, waiting for me to say something. I didn't. I was so taken aback, I had no idea what to say, what I should say or what I shouldn't say.

But I knew why he was saying it. I just wanted to give him a hug. But I couldn't do that, either.

I never had a problem with bullying at school. Sure, there were people who tried, but it really was water off of a duck's back. Incidentally, J K Rowling would be pleased with my use of clichés. But I digress... Senior school was boys only, well, it was, up until 1985, when we mixed. The girls' school which was next to us and my school joined forces in the battle for equality. Boys could cook, girls could do wood-work. It couldn't be more fabulous. A few gay boys and girls made themselves known to each other and we somehow stuck together. Strength in numbers.

I hope J K Rowling is reading this.

I left school and took a summer job in a cosmetics factory (how queer is that!?!?). I met my first proper boyfriend. A week later it was my birthday. The boyfriend, Ray, sent me a card.

It read:

Dear Roy

Happy birthday

With love from Ray

xxx

I thought nothing of it. However, my Mother did.

The evening of my birthday, I'm at Ray's house. The doorbell rings. It's my Mother, waving said card in the air, asking, "What's this?"

I couldn't believe she was asking me this question. I'd told her about Ray. I presumed she knew he was my boyfriend.

But that wasn't it.

She had no idea I was gay.

She cried, I cried, Ray cried. Mum and I went home.

Mum was very distant on the way back, about a thirty minute walk and hardly spoke at all. When we got in, she told me I wasn't to see Ray any more and, furthermore, if I went out after dark, she'd call the police.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. What had happened to the liberal, free spirited woman that was my Mother? Mum had had gay friends, worked with gay men - it was never a problem before.

I thought that there wasn't much I could do but obey her commands. The legal age of consent for gay men was twenty one in England and Wales at the time. I was only sixteen. I had visions of being sent to jail, Ray too. I didn't want that.

A couple of weeks went by. I was cracking up inside. Whether Mum could see this or not, I don't know, but she offered me this: "Why don't you ask Ray to come round?"

I had no idea what it was all about and didn't ask through fear that she'd change her mind.

Ray did come round, and , hey-ho, within a few weeks, things were just the way they were before. I went out of an evening. The police weren't called.

Ray and I didn't last. He was a control freak. I had to ask him permission to do everything. I wanted to go to Wales to visit my sister. He said I couldn't go. I went. I came back. He punched me. We split up.

Things were still never right between Mum and I. I had a few boyfriends after Ray. I brought them home with me and Mum was invariably rude to them. She was invariably rude to me.

It was time I left.

I'd been going to a gay youth group in Boscombe. One of the men there knew of a house in Southbourne, shared by some gay men. There was a room going, so I went to have a look. It seemed fine, the other people seemed fine. I took the room.

Mum didn't want me to leave. She cried and cried when I left. I remember seeing her, stood at the door, sobbing, as I drove off with my pal in his wee van with my few bits and pieces. I'd never felt so bad, so guilty in my whole life.

I think I was there for about six months. One of the guys there, Pushkin, seemed to have a thing for me. I was forever getting notes under my door, telling me how much he loved me. He'd leave a bottle of chanpagne at my door or send me flowers. I told him I didn't feel anything for him other than friendship. He didn't get the message. It was time to move on.

I was working at the Post Office in Anchor Road at the time. The two bedroom flat above the PO had just become vacant. I wanted it! Another guy from the gay house-share, Andy, said he wanted to leave as well. I told him about the flat aboue the PO, asked if he wanted to share with me. He jumped at the chance and we took the lease. We had a fortnight to organise it all, get our deposit together, give notice to our current land-lord and arrange the move.

Gosh.

The night before we were due to leave, Pushkin came to see me. He didn't want me to go. He got very upset. I didn't know what to say to make him feel better. I don't think there was anything I could have said, unless I was prepared to lie. I wasn't. Andy came in, drunk. Pushkin began begging me to stay again. Oh dear. Andy got very irate and started trashing the place.

Shit, shit, shit.

The police came, took him away. I never saw him again.

I moved the next day. With only my meagre wage, and not two, I had no idea how I was supposed to pay the rent on my flat and live. I'd have to take a second job. Which I did. I was an attendant at an amusement arcade.

I'd start work at the PO at 08:20 and work through until about 18:00. I'd usually not have time to eat anything before riding my motorbike into the caravan park where the amusement arcade was, somewhere in the wilds of Hampshire. I'd be there until about 01:00 or 02:00 and get home an hour later. Then, up again for my day job at 07:00. I was knackered!

I lived there for about a year. What made me leave? I was working in the PO one morning, just a normal morning. Until the armed robber came in. I don't really want to go into that just now, but, to cut a long story short, I couldn't stay in that flat any longer. I was frightened to death is it was. I mean, the place was haunted. Things moved, there were smells, noises. Just awful. As if that wasn't bad enough, I'd lie there at night thinking someone could be breaking in, take me hostage...

Mum told me to come back and stay with her for a while.

I gave notice on the flat and stayed with Mum.

We had a long chat one evening, and, I guess, that's when I really came out, when she accepted it. She said she was sorry for the way she'd treated me. I apologised for the way I'd treated her. She said she was my Mother and I was her son, she loved me no matter what, unconditionally. She loved me the way I was - but she just didn't know what to do when she knew, for sure, that I was gay. She was frightened.

I'd never been so happy.

It's never been a problem since and she behaves with me now, the way I always expected she would. My sexuality just isn't an issue. It's never really been an issue with me and, touch wood, never has been an issue with anyone else.

So that's how I came out. I still don't really see it as coming out as I've never been in. But there you have it.

Sorry it was so long winded. If you've made it to the end of this dull tale, dear reader, you deserve a medal!

Rambling

I've just been looking through some random blogs. I found something which I thought was quite interesting, so pinched it. I'd give the original author a link, here, but I closed the damned window and now can't find it!

Anyway...

We're all used to bigging ourselves up these days, the glass is half full, not half empty and all that. Time to switch. Five negative words which describe me:

Vindictive
Spiteful
Foul-mouthed (is that one word?)
Lazy
Greedy

So, there we have it.

Can you think of five negative words to describe yourself, dear reader?

It's not even dark outside yet, and it's presently 23:50. It was the longest day yesterday, so the nights will be drawing in, now. I can't believe the year is more than half over. Where does all the time go?

I love the Summer, but the only down side is that for two or three weeks at this time of year, it doesn't actually get pitch black at night. The globe of the sun will disappear behind the horizon, but she still leaves a glimmer behind. Before you know it, she's back in the sky again. Have you ever tried going to sleep, dear reader, when it's not dark? It's not easy.

I shouldn't complain though. I'd rather have it this way. In the depths of Winter, the sun doesn't come up until about 09:00. By 14:30, the lights have to go on again. Not fun.

I think I'd like to live on the equator. There are no wild seasonal variations there. The horrid down-side to that is, though, that there's all of nature's experiments-gone-wrong to contend with. Deadly insects, massive spiders, hurricanes... We have none of that here in bonnie Scotland, thank the Lord. It would be nice to have the weather, though. How fabulous would it be to not have to own a coat?

I have lots of coats. I could give them all away to charity. I'd keep one. Just the one. For sentimental reasons. I could look at it and remember the days when I used to have to wear a coat.

I could get rid of all my hats, too.

Oh, perhaps not. My lack of hair means the top of my head can get burned. I'd need to keep a sun hat.

Of course, climate change could mean that one day, I can get rid of all my coats and wooly hats. Or, it could mean that I'd have to buy a pair of snow shoes! Just because the Earth is warming up, does not necessarily mean that Scotland will get warmer, too. I saw something on the TV a while back. I'm not too hot with all matters scientific, so this may not make much sense. The rise in global temperatures may mean rainfall is dramatically reduced in northern Europe. Therefore, rivers and streams won't be sending out as much fresh water into the Atlantic. If this happens, the salinity of the north-eastern section will be increased, the gulf stream may change course or stop altogether and this, in turn, will mean north-western Europe will get much colder. Apparently, it will be like living in northern Canada.

So, dear readers, this is my appeal to you: Please turn off your lights when they're not in use, don't overfill your kettle, don't leave your TV on stand-by when you go to bed, turn your central heating down by 1˚c, don't leave your tap running when you're brushing your teeth*, use energy efficient light bulbs and use public transport as much as possible.

Please do these things or I'll end up freezing my tits off.

*Water is pumped by means of electricity. How do you think it gets up hill? If you use less, your water company will cut down on the amount of electricity it uses, less fossil fuels will be burned, less carbon dioxide will be released into the atmosphere and global warming could be slowed down.

Sorry for rambling.

Oh, just one other thing... If you've made it this far, a few more sentences won't bother you:

The Euro - €

Why can't we, here in the UK, have the Euro?

I think it's a fabulous idea.

Firstly, put simply, I'm an internationalist. If we all considered ourselves international people (which, basically, we all are these days) and didn't speak of nationality et al, we'd all get on a lot better. We'd not worry about putting up a flag in case it offended someone if the whole world only had one flag. An Israeli wouldn't offend a Palistinian simply by virtue (virtue?) of his or her nationality. See where I'm coming from? If there was a world currency, everything would be fabulous. I wouldn't have to worry about getting Bank Of England notes when going down to England through fear of someone looking strangely at me in a shop and asking their supervisor, "Do we take Scottish notes?"

My other point might make me look like a capitalist. I'm not, but, here goes:

We in the UK trade mainly with our other EU partners. If we had the same currency as them, we'd save money by not having to exchange currencies left right and centre. If UK businesses saved money, they could either employ more staff, pay their employees more or make more profit. In any case, the treasury would make more money in tax, the government would have more money to spend (on us) and we'd be a lot happier.

Wouldn't we?

Again, sorry for rambling, dear reader.

I'm off to bed now (once I've checked a few more blogs and had a wee look to see if I've got any comments).

Pet Shop Boys - live!

This is fabulous:



Pet Shop Boys perform Minimal in Stockholm!

This is also fabulous:



Pet Shop Boys also perform The Sodom and Gomorrah show in Stockholm!

Yay!

The gay prayer

This is the gay prayer:

Hail Judy,
Full of fabulousness,
The gays are with thee.
Drunk art thou among icons,
and blessed is the fruit
of thy womb, Liza.
Holy Judy,
Mother of debauchery,
pray for us queers now,
and at the hour of disco-dancing, smoking and drinking.

Amen.

Big bust-up

I'm an avid fan of Big Brother on Channel 4. I love it.

What I don't love, though, is the lack of bust-ups in this years shenanigans. I keep waiting for it all to kick off, but it doesn't! Big Brother gives the housemates booze, antagonizes them and continually throws spanners in the works, but does this provoke them into a huge ding-dong? Does it hell!?!? What's wrong with them?

So, in the absence of a massive barny on the television, can we have one here, dear reader?

Go on, you know you want to.

Call me a bitch, a dirty pig or a catty queen. I'll respond. Someone else can have a dig and we can all call each other f**king c**ts!

Come on!

Sonnet 94

William Shakespeare's Sonnet 94 is fabulous, and is my favourite.

What's yours, dear reader?

They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow,
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed outbraves his dignity:
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.

Hair

This was the best hair style, dear reader, in my humble opinion, I ever had.

Things which made me smile today...

1 Kylie Minogue is to begin the Australian leg of her Showgirl tour which she postponed over a year ago after she was diagnosed with breast cancer.

2 Reese Witherspoon is not pregnant. I pity any child she ejects from her nether regions.

3 I didn't wake up wanting a fag.

4 I took the dogs for a quick walk this morning. A car drove past as I was crossing the road into the wood. Psychological by Pet Shop Boys was pumping out of the car's stereo. Could another fan live around here?

5 Saddam Hussein has gone on hunger strike.

Things which made me frown today...

1 The eighteen month old girl next door climbed up my fence and promptly fell off, from the top (it's about two metres high from her side). Where was the Mother? Inside, watching television. The Mother came running out to the sound of the child's screams, only to shout and swear at it, telling it off for climbing up the fence. Why wasn't she watching her child?

2 It seems we (in the UK) are definitely going to replace Trident. Click here to see the news item. Wouldn't that money be better spent on other things?

3 Insurers have withdrawn the cover on their virginity taken out by three sisters in the event of the second coming of Christ. Apparently the Catholic church complained.

4 The debate over the Blu-ray/HD DVD formats goes on. Why go through all this? It'll be just like Betamax and VHS. Half the population will have obsolete equipment within two years. All that wasted money...

5 Mary refused to eat her breakfast.

Lonely...

Old photographs (part IX)

My Mum, through the ages, so to speak.

I am the baby, by the way.

Ross Kemp?

Which former Eastenders star was fingered by a cast-mate behind the bar of the Queen Vic once during filming?

Please, tell me it wasn't Wendy Richard.

Tragedy of the week

David Gest, the creepy Judy Garland loving ex-husband of Liza Minnelli, has been signed up for a forthcoming celebrity reality TV show here in UK.

Old photographs (part VIII)

My Dad and two of his brothers were in World War II.

#1 Roy (my Dad) in the Navy.
#2 Wally in the Navy.
#3 Douglas in the Royal Air Force.

Don't they all just look as camp as knickers?

Wally In The Navy sounds like a good title for a book.

Old photographs (part VII)

This is Ian with his dear Mum. I'm not sure how old he is, but he looks about three or four. It was taken on the boating lake in Moffat.

Old photographs (part VI)

#1 My 1st birthday.
#2 Minge in the sink.
#3 MY brother, Mark, and I.
#4 I was a pseudo-goth.

Again, sorry about the quality. I've been taking photographs of photographs with my wee digital camera.