Seven things

Seven things I love about myself:

My nickname
My ability to stay up late
My ability to sleep at the drop of a hat
My knowledge of vile jokes
My hairy toes
My love for animals
My curiosity

Can you state seven things you love about yourself, dear reader?

Vile

Someone's just found my blog by doing a search on mucky minge.

I kid you not.

Oh, and staying on topic, check out the Chav of the month. Always good for a laugh. I'm thinking of nominating Spiral, Aisleyne, Glyn, Mikey and Imogen from Big Brother.

Whadya think, dear reader?

Seven ways to love

The past week, as far as the news has gone, has been all about war and extreme weather. In other news:

Alan is still away, Mayon volcano erupts, I found out that I'm abstract sequential, someone wanted love sauce spread on their face, Brian wanted to know what to put in his back pack and his brain hurt, it was time for a new mix (and a new style for the blog), someone asked if they were in a blog ring, someone asked what comes to mind when we think of Portugal, decisions were made, two girlfreinds were thought to be the same woman, Graham took his camera out for a walk along the prom, I thought I saw a monster, we saw Anton, Jay wondered when he first knew he was gay, Moncrief went back to the lake, I found Jake's sister, Dan geeked out, we took salt 'n' sauce, we discussed the sex issue, we compared hotel rooms, Dmitry Chaplin went, China Blue joined the Z list, we read about ungrateful kids (and do you know what kids are...?), Voix leanred the truth, Jo caught a cold and Zona did an out of ten list.

These people are wankers:

John Humphreys
Gordon Ramsay
George W Bush
Laura Bush
Spiral
Ehud Olmert
John Prescott

What's in store for us next week, dear reader, and who will be next week's seven wankers?

This is the seven times table:

7
14
21
28
35
42
49
56
63
70
77
84

The seven most recent songs, according to iTunes, that I've heard:

Thinking of you (Ramp remix) - Sister Sledge
A song for Eurotrash - Antoine De Caunes & Kate Robbins
Shut up (YMCA mix) - Sin With Sebastian
I love your smile - ShaniceTotal eclipse - Rosenstolz
Love's gone mad - Seventh Avenue
It should have been me - Yvonne Fair

Seven web sites of note:

BBC News
Pet Shop Boys
Wikipedia
Bubbels
100 Words
William Barnes
Play

Seven things I'll never eat:

Chitlings
Sweetbreads
Liver
KidneysBrawn
Rabbit
Guinea Pig

Seven things I don't like about my body:

My lack of hair (on my head)
My weight
My pink nipples (why can't I have brown ones?)
My height (I'm average - I hate average)
My puny biceps
My freckles
My small hands

What's another year?

I've been waiting such a long time, looking out for you, but you're not here.

What's another year?

Eurotrash

After posting my last list, my top twenty Eurovision songs, I hooked out a semi-obscure CD from my collection entitled Sing A Song For Eurotrash. It was basically put together by the guy behind Eurotrash itself, Antoine De Caunes and features some of my favourite songs from Eurovision, covered by some of my favourite artists:

Dubstar (whatever happened to them?)
St Etienne
Sinéad O'Connor
and
Bananarama

Why did Ireland never send Sinéad to Eurovision? Why did we never send Bananarama?

Anyway, one of the songs on the CD isn't a Eurovision cover at all, more a tribute to the Eurovision song, a song the artists, Antoine De Caunes and Kate Robbins, would have liked to have entered themselves. I think it's fabulous. It's called A Song For Eurotrash and here are the lyrics:

You get me so excited, I just can't believe it

Sing a song for Eurotrash

C'est si bon
C'est si bon
Yeah
Yes, I like it.
Oh, c'est si bon
C'est si bon

Oh yes!
Do you like it, too?
I do
Let's do it, now

Well, I believe in unity
And I believe in nudity
Oh yeah
And we believe the world could be
At least twenty
Or thirty per cent better

You know, my friend
The world is like a bouillabaisse
What's that?
There's room enough for every taste
So spread your love-sauce
On my face
And we'll sing a song
Together
One time
Forever
Two time

Sing a song for Eurotrash

Ah, oui!

C'est si bon
C'est si bon
Mmm
Yes, I like it.
Ah oui, c'est si bon
C'est si bon

Oh, yes!

Do you like it, too?
I do

Ah, tu est belle

Like this?

Oui. Tu est bonne

If you want change
Then take a stance
If you want freedom
Don't wear underpants
But listen
If you want peace
Then come
Stroke my olive branch
And we'll sing a song
Together
One time
Forever
Two time

Ah!

You know, I am very famous in France
Yes, yes, yes

Can I have your autograph?

Oui, hold if firmly.

Oh yes!

Oh, I like, when you lick it.

Lick what?

C'est si bon
C'est si bon
Oh, yes!
Do you like it, too?
I do.

It's strange
It looks like you have a moustache
Ja
You have such a deep voice
Ja
Hup!
Ah, oui.
Oh, why not...

It's fabulous.

I've never done this before, and I do feel slightly naughty, but if you want to hear the track, click here. In an attempt to redeem myself, I feel I should say that if you really like it, buy the album. It's called Sing A Song For Eurotrash and was released in 1998 through EMI/Channel4/Rapido TV!

Eurovision

I haven't made a list in a while. I was getting withdrawal symptoms. You know how I love lists, dear reader...

My top twenty Eurovision songs (in no particular order):

Come Back - Jessica Garlic
Eighties Coming Back - Ruffus
No No Never - Texas Lightning
Every Way That I Can - Sertab Erener
Boom Band-a-bang - Lulu
Ding A Dong - Teach-in
Fly On The Wings Of Love - Olsen Brothers
Let's Get Happy - Lou
I Can't Live Without Music - Corinna May
One More Night - Esther Hart
Hold Me Now - Johnny Logan
Love Games - Belle And The Devotions
One Step Further - Bardo
On Again, Off Again - Julie & Ludwig
Minn Hinsti Dans - Paul Oscar
Making Your Mind Up - Bucks Fizz
Better The Devil You Know - Sonia
Je T'Adore - Kate Ryan
Waterloo - Abba
Teenage Life - Daz Sampson

Quick question

If you met me, dear reader, say, on the street or something similar, would you call me Minge or Roy?

Calendar

I've often wondered why, here in the UK, our tax year starts on 6th April.

After having checked out the Wikipedia article on the Gregorian Calendar, I have the answer.

25th March was traditionally New Year's Day here in Britain, so the tax year, naturally, began on the same day. Then, in 1752, we adopted the Gregorian Calendar. 25th March magically became 5th April! Then it gets confusing... A 12th skipped Julian leap day in 1800 changed its start to 6 April. It was not changed when a 13th Julian leap day was skipped in 1900, so the tax year in the United Kingdom is still 6 April.

It's not clear when we adopted 1st January as New Year's Day.

I thought this was really interesting. Imagine, no-one here in the UK would have had a birthdate of, for example, 28th March 1752!

This leads to all kinds of weirdness. Was 20th April 1394 really 20th April 1394 or was it 9th April? Or was it 1st May? See, now I'm confused! Are you, dear reader?

This would be a fabulous basis for a Doctor Who story. The TARDIS materialises in London. The on-board calendar tells The Doctor and Martha that it's 2nd April 1752. Everything seems fine at first, but of course, it isn't...!

And do we celebrate pre-1752 dates in their Gregorian or Julian form?

Why are we here?

What's the meaning of life?

Waiting

Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.

F**k me, it's hot!

It's Summer, so it's time for a fabulous new mix.

Click here to learn more. You'll be glad you did, dear reader. I know I am!

1970s

I was born on 3rd June 1972. From that, I'm trying to work out when the above photograph was taken. That's me as a wee babe with my brother, Mark. I've got my hood up and I look to be a bit more than six moths old, so it must be Spring 1973.



This is my brother wearing one of the many cancer wigs we had in the house. You see, I wasn't the only one with a penchant for dressing as a girl. If transvestism is contageous, I caught it from Mark.

I have no idea, though, when this photograph was taken. I might not have even been born. I do remember that television, though, but not when it was in the living room, as above. It ended up in my Christine's bedroom when we got a colour television. Although I don't remember the black and white set being down stairs, I do remember when the colour television arrived. It was made by Ferguson and had four push-in channel buttons that would clunk as they were changed. Although there were only three television stations at the time, the final button was labelled ITV2. Strange, as Channel 4 was eventually the fourth channel to broadcast in the UK. ITV2 only launched a couple of years ago. We later used the ITV2 button to play those early computer games. Remember that tennis game with the two white lines and the white dot for a ball, dear reader?



Above, l-r: me, Audrey, my Father, Mark, Ray, Paul.

This photograph was taken in our next-door-neighbour's front garden. Audrey and Ray were a lovely couple, very kind hearted. Their son, Paul, had Down's Syndrome. He was very important to my family, a real treasure. Poor Paul couldn't purse his lips, so giving you a kiss was simply him patting his lips together like a fish on your cheek. We still give each other Paul Tiller kisses now and laugh, affectionately, of course. His parents died about ten years ago. Although they left all their money and property to their only other child, a daughter, on the condition that she looked after him, Jane put Paul away in a home for the mentally disabled and hardly visits him. I haven't seen Paul since 1999 and it breaks my heart. He was, no, is, such a funny guy. Always cracking jokes and taking the piss out of people without being cruel. If only the world was not so cruel to him.



Now, the photograph here is my cousin Sue and I. Remember I talked about her here?

We've always adored one another. She's the most wonderful cousin anyone could wish to have.



Gosh! This is Mum drying me off after a bath. Or is she dressing me? I only look a few weeks old. It's strange to see her wearing her old wedding ring. It's on my finger, now.



This is Tina and I. Tina is another cousin of mine, Sue's sister. Tina got married a few years ago and is trying for a baby. She's been trying for a while. I hope it all works out for her. She's always dreamed of being a Mother. Ian and I wore kilts that we'd hired to her wedding. I was a kilt virgin before this - but I was soon hooked!



The last photograph, above, is Auntie Winnie, me and Mum. Auntie Winnie wasn't really an Aunt, she was my Mum's cousin and best friend.

Auntie Winnie died about fifteen years ago from a stroke. She'd only been married less than a year.

The poor woman stayed in Guernsey during the Second World War and fell in love with a German soldier. There was no one, really, for her after he was taken to a prisoner of war camp in 1945. She married Guilbert in 1990 after her first of many strokes. They met in an old folks home. She had a very sad end to a very sad life - but I loved her dearly. She was always so kind and thoughtful. She'd send me boxes of chocolates through the post, and adult chocolates, to boot, give me a shilling as she'd say, though it was really five pence, to take turn after turn on those wee rides that kiddies like, usually found outside supermarkets.

Happy days.

Colour

At ten I left the Odeon
The rain: pouring down
Rescued by a lesbian
Umbrella: brown

Man of God unrobed me
Said: "It isn’t true!"
Christ already told me
Politics: blue

Started project “Scandal”
Secret ink: unseen
Pushed down on the handle
Faces: green

Returned to the cellar
Bed: a sack
I see forever now
Future: black

Confused

It was almost two in the afternoon and I was still sat there in my bra and pants. Brenda did in fact call, though she needn’t have bothered. I just wanted my clothes back. I had no desire at all to listen to her anti-English rant.

“Listen Jean, have you read that book yet?” she asked, knowing I hadn’t.
“No, “ I said, “I don’t like the picture on the front,”
“Well, really, did your Mum never tell you not to judge a book by its cover, Jean?”

Well, yes, she had, but I ignored that advice, as I did all advice from my Mother. She was a selfish egotistical little bitch. She’d have read it, but that just goes to show how different we are.

I asked Delores what she made of it.
“Baron Marrow?” she asked. “I know nothing of these things. I’m a Catholic girl!”

Anyway, Brenda went on and on. She thinks the English have too much of a hold over Ireland.

“If you hate England so much, why don’t you fuck off back to Cork?” I asked her.

Really, Liverpool is choc full of her sort. She says she’s thinking of moving to Scotland. She’ll have to get a decent job first. All her clients want is sex. Mine are a far superior sort. They just want a pretty young girl on their arm for a night at the opera or charity function. It says on my card, I don’t do pubs. They don’t want sex.

Brenda says men are all the same, they just want one thing. Tits, arse and the other. I don’t know what she means by the other. I’ve asked her several times and all she does is laugh. No, most of my men are very nice, quiet and respectable chaps. They tend to talk about their Mothers a lot, which can be good sometimes, because I have a lot to say about my Mum, too. Some of them still live with their Mothers! Some even into their forties! Madame Gina says that sort appreciate me. By that sort, she means the cultured type. My radio’s constantly tuned to Radio 3!

I was only in the bathroom for ten minutes. When I came out, everything was gone. I heard a commotion, but I just thought Mr Pemberton had his “Wizard Of Oz” club members round again.

Brenda said he lived beyond his means. Perhaps he did. He never drank sparkling wine at parties, always the real thing, Asti something-or-other. It’s Italian for Champagne.

The man from the bailiff’s office told Brenda he can’t find my lemon dress with the sweetheart neckline in the bags. He found lots of other dresses, which is baffling. Mr Pemberton is one of my few clients who doesn’t live with his Mother. What does he want with dresses?

I remember once finding a powder puff in his blazer pocket. I was looking for my specs and couldn’t tell his jacket from mine. Anyhow, I asked him what he was doing with it and did it belong to his Mother? He told me no. He has a lot of things to cover up. I suppose he meant he has a big birthmark, scar or some such thing on his body, which he powders to conceal from other folk.

I think I’ll ring Gina again soon and ask if Brenda’s left yet. She’ll either bring me one of her dresses or get round to that bloody bailiff’s office and get mine. Anyway, one of her smocks would be like a tent on me. She’s always eating chips. I never touch them. Mr Pemberton recently introduced me to spaghetti on returning from a holiday in Italy. He said it was fabulous there. A girl could do anything she wanted. I think he was hinting that I should have gone with him. I could never be so brassy as to invite myself. I just told him I’d go next time.

It’s a good job I’ve got such a good memory. Whenever I say that round at Madame Gina’s, Lil always says, “You mean mammary!” – I must remember to look that up. Yes, I know Madame Gina’s telephone number off by heart. I’ve just mastered Mr Pemberton’s too. It’s a shame I know no one else with a telephone. I could remember their number.

I’m often impressing the other girls with my memory and number skills. Brenda says the only number she needs to remember is sixty-nine. I popped into her favourite Chinese take-away the other day. Number sixty-nine was jumbo prawns chow mein. I don’t understand it. Brenda says she hates fish.

Naïve

It was a nice room, as I remember. Quite feminine, though not womanly. Mum always said a bedroom should be feminine. It’s restful, you see. What do you think of when you think feminine? Most folk might say their Mother, though I wouldn’t. Boots and a donkey Jacket isn’t exactly a girly thing. But most folk, would. Anyway, think of your old Mum, the next thing you think of is being rocked to sleep. Well, I wouldn’t. She was out so often with that many Uncles, not Uncles to her of course, I lost count. I was always left alone or with a neighbour. But most folk would think of being rocked to sleep by their Mother. Sleep and femininity go hand in hand. What else is there to do in a bedroom?

I don’t like harsh looking bedrooms – and I’ve not seen the inside of that many, but a few men I’ve known have wanted me to take a peek, just for my advice on décor I think. Goodness! Sometimes have they needed it! I knew a man once, Mr De La Coeur, had no taste whatsoever! There were that many colours in his room, I thought I’d stepped into a rainbow! Talking of rainbows, I think a Judy Garland picture in every room was a little over the top. I told him to replace the majority of them with Royal portraits, though avoiding Princess Margaret.

No, that room, almost a cell, as I remember was very pleasant. Dusky pink walls, paisley print curtains and a gorgeous brass bed. Never quite understood why there were ropes tied at each corner, the thing was quite sturdy. I should know. I had to bounce on it often enough, make as much noise as possible. “Faster! Harder!” he would cry. Child at heart I suppose.

I sat there, with all those hours to kill, thinking of being locked in my own room at home, and I use the term home very loosely.

That man Gerald was around again. Mum called him the rent man in front of everyone, but when they were alone, he was Gerald. This time he brought Bert. Bert was a bony little man with a colossal nose. Mum said she liked men with big noses. You could tell a lot about them. I suppose she meant they’d be good in a gas leak situation. They’d be the first to know. Anyway, Bert was the last through the door.

“And what do you do, so young?” he asked.
“Do?” I enquired.
Still soliciting an answer, Mother intervened. “She doesn’t do that!”

I asked her later what that was. Massage, like she did?
“I don’t do massage!” she came back. I’ll tell you when you’re old enough to understand.”

She never did tell me.
Mum must have been massaging Gerald. I was always sent up to my room every time he came around. From up stairs I could hear moaning, the occasional, “aah!” or “harder!” and sometimes a scream!

Mum must have made a lot of money out of massage.

“They live like Royalty!” Uncle Henry, Mum’s elder brother, would say. “It must be all her massage work.”

Of course Mum always replied with the “don’t do massage,” phrase. Everyone else always thought different.

It’s true, not many women that spent three mornings a week behind the counter in a toy shop could afford holidays on a Greek island and drive a Bentley. Well, she said toy shop, but when I asked her to get me a tea set for my friend's daughter, she said they didn't sell those kind of toys. Then, last week, I asked her to get me a doll. She brought home this huge blow-up woman. It was completely the wrong thing. What would little Betty want with an inflatable person, 5'6" tall?

Old

I was just looking back through some old blog entries and found this. It really made me chuckle, especially after reading the comments.

I just wanted to share.

I like to live in the past, dear reader.

Nuclear

Members of a Kenyan religious sect believe nuclear war is coming, dear reader.

Click here to read all about it.

Could World War III be just around the corner?

Dubya and the S word

Yes, dear reader, it's all true. George W Bush really did say, "Shit..."

Click here to see/hear him do it.

I read the entire transcript of the conversation in The Independent yesterday. People used to think Margaret Thatcher handbagging her ministers was a joke until it was revealed to be true. Now, people will finally really know that Tony Blair is Dubya's poodle. A better analogy, perhaps is this: Dubya is the head boy, and Tony is his fag. Of course, I mean fag in the public schoolboy-slave sense, not in the North American homosexual sense. Though having said that, Dubya does call Tony honey and he also thanks Tony for the gift of a sweater. They do seem to be cooing at each other like a pair of Love Birds, don't they!?

Do you think they're having it off?

If they are, who's the top and who's the bottom? Or are they both versatile?

Word of the day

Lamentation.

Fat Minge

They say television makes one look ten kilos heavier. I think my camera has the same problem.

I'm not looking for comments like, "Oh, you're not fat at all..." I don't want my ego massaged, I just wanted you to see, dear reader, that I am not proud.

Not the best man

It was January 1963. Oh no it wasn't. That was something completely else.

It was the week before Christmas 2004. My brother was going to the USA to get married to a darling girl he'd met in one of the Carolinas whilst he was on exercise there. He's in the Royal Marines.

Mark, my brother, asked me to be his best man. Delighted at being asked, I accepted.

He'd been married before and the ceremony was outwith the UK on this occasion, too. The first wife being Norwegian and he being British, they decided that getting married in a third country would be best. If they married in Norway, they might put some British noses out of joint, if they married in the UK, some Norwegians might get pissed off.

No, they went off to The Bahamas.*

Throughtout his teenage years and his early adulthood, he always said he'd like me to be his best man if and when he married.

I must admit to being slightly sad that I couldn't fulfil my rôle, but it was for the best.

The marriage didn't last and they were divorced within a few years.

Better luck next time.



On accepting this invitation, Ian and I booked return flights for ourselves and my Mum to Pittsburgh, which was the nearest international airport to our final destination, Rivesville, WV.

Our flight was very early in the morning and, I think, we had to check in at something like 06:00. My poor Mum is not very good on her pins, and forty eight hours with very little sleep was not an option, so the night before, we checked into an airport hotel, along with my brother. He's yet to pay me for that accommodation, but that's a whole other kettle of fish...


The next morning, we headed off on our first flight of the day, to Chicago.



It was a fabulous flight. BA really look after you very well indeed. Coming in to Chicago was unreal - the expanse of water, a few very tall buildings very close to one another... It all seemed quite futuristic.

We changed aeroplanes in Chicago for Pittsburgh and Mark lost his pith helmet (he was getting married in uniform), blaming everyone but himself. Tempers were beginning to fray already.

We arrived in Pittsburgh with my brother in a complete stress over his helmet. He went straight to the lost property office, ignoringMarci, his girlfriend, and Buck, his Father-in-law-to-be, to ask if the helmet had been handed in to the lost property office in Chicago airport. It hadn't.

It never turned up.



So, anyway, Marci and Buck were there are the airport to meet us. They seemed very nice people.

Buck is a Methodist Minister. Ever so slightly worrying for a gaymo. He offered to put Ian, Mum and I up during our stay. I told my brother that if there was the slightest chance of trouble, he should tell us now and Ian and I would book into a hotel. My brother told me everything was cool (how I hate that word). Not only was Buck and Nancy, his wife, ok about Ian and I, they were putting us in a double room (albeit on a fold out sofa). It really wasn't an issue. And there wasn't a hotel.



Rivesville wan't a very nice place to be frank. It was tiny, rough and scary. It looked like something out of Boys Don't Cry and the Matthew Shepherd story kept playing on my mind. Indeed, a neighbour of Buck and Nancy's invited us in for a bite to eat. They were complete rednecks and seemed to make their obvious lesbian's daughter a living hell. She was as butch as you like, a fireman (her own words fireman and not fire-fighter) and single. "She's not got a boyfriend, yet," the grandmother said.

The whole place made my flesh creep. I'd have thought such a working class town would be heavily influenced by Democrat politics and be quite liberal. I was wrong. All of them seemed to think Dubya was a hero. They were narrow minded, right-wing biggots.

Yet Marci's family seemed strangely different. Something wasn't right.

My sister, her husband and two children arrived a couple of days after us, having spent a week in New York City. They were at each others throats in the shopping mall where we met them. Things hadn't gone too well in New York. Everybody wanted to do different things and they're all as mean as you can get. Not a very happy combination.

However, Emily, my niece, seemed jolly and up-beat. She's learned to deal with her viscious bitch of a mother over the years and nothing really gets her down. You can see her in the photograph above with one of Buck and Nancy's wee dogs.

My sister and her bisexual husband don't know how to make a good impression. He told the Americans lots of racist jokes, mostly about Chinese people and my sister said, "I didn't like New York. The shops could have been better. They were mostly for blacks."

A couple of days before the wedding ceremony, we did a run through, a rehearsal, if you like.

Ian and I were groomsmen, a concept I'd not heard of before, and am still not sure if Americans know what a Best Man is... Anyhow, Ian was stood next to me. Todd, Marci's brother, said he should be standing next to me as he was more important than Ian in the wedding hierachy. I was puzzled by this statement. It didn't make sense. I was the Best Man. My partner was standing next to me. Who else should be standing next to me other than my partner?

After said rehearsal, my brother asked Ian and I to go out and buy some presents to give the Mothers, which we did, taking my niece and nephew with us.

One of the things I like about America is all the free drinks you can get in a restaurant. I had my fair share at a Subway outlet, I can tell you. I must have drunk two litres of root beer in twenty minutes. But that's another story.

My Mother is fabulous. Marci's Mother was not fabulous. She was quite rude, in fact... She constantly told me what she needed me to do. For the love of Christ, hen, did no-one teach her any manners? "I need you to go into the woods and collect some pines," is rude. "Would you be so kind as to go into the woods and collect some pines?" is polite. She needed the soap. She needed me to get her a chair. She needed this, she needed that, thank God she didn't need the other.

This could all sound quite petty, but it was not, and is not. For much worse was yet to come.

In-between the rehearsal and going out to the mall in Morgantown, there was something of a wedding breakfast rehearsal. Buck introduced the locals to Mark and his family. I was his brother, Lorraine was his sister and Pete was her husband. Ian was our friend. Not even my close friend, simply a friend of the family.

I asked Mark if he was sure that Buck knew about Ian and I. "Oh, yes!"

Ian mentioned to my sister, Lorraine, that he was slightly upset. He wasn't included in anything and only referred to as a friend of the family, like some waif with nowhere else to go.

She responded, "Perhaps he can't handle it. I know I can't tell anyone I have a gay brother and I certainly don't tell anyone he has a boyfriend."

Later that evening, we went to bed. Marci has a lovely sister called Buffi who has two adorable children. Buffi is not married. Her Father is a Metodist Minister. He didn't speak to his own daughter for seven years. You get the picture. Anyway, one of her children burst into our room at eleven o'clock and said we were supposed to be sleeping somewhere else that night, "Only ladies are sleeping here tonight!"

I wasn't getting up for anyone. But I was awake now. I laid in bed, thinking.

Next thing, I hear my sister and Buck talking outside our room.

"They were supposed to go out and collect the pines. Instead they went shopping," said Buck. "But what else do you expect from people like that?"
"I know," replied my sister.

I know???

People like that??? Like what? Is the word gay so terrible that you can't even say it, you cunt???

"I heard all that!" I called out.

The next morning, my sister was very off with me. She knew she'd been rumbled, couldn't look me in the eye and was very snappy.

"Come along, Michael," she said to her son, "All the men are at the hall putting the tables out. You run along and help."
"But Lorraine, all the men aren't there. I'm here with you and Ian is in the bathroom."
"Don't bloody well start with me!"
"Don't speak to me like that!"
"Don't fucking well speak to me like that -" and then began the most vile, foul mouthed tirade I'd heard in a very long time.

I'd had enough at this point. Ian and I went into our room, quietly packed our things, put our cases into the car we'd hired and left.

Oh, yes, just let me get this off of my chest, too. Not only has my brother never paid me for the night he stayed in the hotel, he's never paid me for his share of the hire car. He was at pains to tell everyone he'd paid for half of the rental and he was going to use it, whether Ian and I wanted to go out or not... Gggrrr! Don't big yourself up, dn't bully people and don't swagger about mouthing off, when, deep down, you're nothing but a lying coward.

Ahem.

We'd already reserved a couple of rooms in New York for a few days after the wedding. It was going to be a lovely trip away with Mum. Obviously, then, that wasn't now going to happen. We'd have to go to New York alone.

We drove back to Pittsburgh that day, had a look around the city, stayed in a motel over-night and headed off to NYC very early the next morning. The roads were a complete mess. There had been heavy snow and we could only drive very slowly. But we got there nonetheless, safe and sound.



We tried to have a good time in New York, although deep down inside, I was a wreck, very upset, sometimes shaking.



Ian and I had given kilts to one another for Christmas (early) with the itention of wearing them to my brother's wedding. I wasn't going to bring my kilt all the way to the USA and not wear it! So I did - as did Ian. We went out into New York City wearing our kilts. Not sure if it was such a good idea. I've not known such cold in a very long time. Now, dear reader, you know what a true Scotsman wears under his kilt? I know... It shrivelled up and died. I really thought the poor thing was going to drop off! I can't remember exactly now, but it must have been about -10˚c.

It was quite funny, though. We did get a few comments and a couple of people actually wanted their photograph taken with us. Hilarious!



We went to the top of the Empire State Building again. I was just as frightened as the first time. Phyllis wasn't bothered.



Ice-skating in central park was fabulous! I used to love it as a teenager and would go to the local rink religiously, every Saturday afternoon.

I thought ice-skating would be like riding a bike. It isn't. Once Ian and I had the hang of it again, it was time to go. But it was still fabulous. I'd always wanted to go ice-skating in Central Park. It was something of a dream come true.

We also went out to see The Producers and had a couple of really lovely meals.

We also boughtabout a dozen CK briefs at Macy's, paying as many dollars as we would pounds in this country! A bargain!

Christmas shopping in New York City could have been wonderful, but the events of the past few days hung over my head like the blackest of clouds.



New York loooked wonderful by night. Ian and I stood in Times Square and sang New York City Boy, "Where Seventh Avenue meets Broadway..."

Then it was time to go back to Blighty.

We drove to Pittsburgh, returned the car, and went to the check in desk at the airport.

We were going to spend Christmas in Rivesville with Mark's new family, but that was obviously out of the window, so we changed our tickets at the cost of £150.00 each, to arrive in the UK on Christmas eve.

The leg of our flight from Pittsburgh to Chicago was not with British Airways, but with, I think, American Airlines. They had no record of our booking. We'd done it over the telephone, so there was no paperwork we could show them. They told us we'd need to contact BA. Why couldn't they do that? We found a public telephone and Ian called them. He was on the line for AN HOUR before he got through to someone. A complete nightmare. They'd really ballsed up the booking, called me Roy Phillips and Phyllis was called Ian Tapping. And, they'd only changed my booking, not Ian's, the lead passenger. Confusion wasn't the word.

The flight was a non event. We were stressed and very sad. I don't even remember changing planes in Chicago.

We went down to Bournemouth from Heathrow to spend Christmas with my other sister, Christine, and her family. They did their best, but it was one of the worst Christmases I've ever had.

*I've been trying to think of countries beginning The. I've come up with:

The Lebanon
The Gambia
The Ukraine
The Czech Republic
and
The Bahamas

Can you think of any others, dear reader?