It's been a hot week, both in terms of the temperature outside and the men!
Three examples of hot in one place: Phyllis and I went to see Superman Returns last night. Brandon Routh is hot (even with his airbrushed dick), the cinema itself was hot and a woman ahead of me in the queue for tickets told her friend that it is going to be 33˚c in Edinburgh tomorrow. We'll wait and see, dear reader.
I'm not about to complain about the heat though, and please don't complain about it to Phyllis. He might slap you...
What else has been happening?
Zona's confidence shone through, Poetry Thursday came and went, secret blogs were discussed, China was revealed to be not vanilla, Brian moved, Ireland became the second wealthiest country in the world, a family was revealed to be loud, ghetto and fabulous, Alan came back from The Ukraine (I saw him and he went away again), I saw the most fabulous pizza in the entire history of the known universe, it was Bastille Day, many played Haiku Saturday, a few played Fib Sunday (I'm not bitter), the lovely Nigella Lawson stared out at me from the screen, Enda died (sort of), I found beautiful men, the passport came through, Hildert came back from the new world, I found a new Italian blog, the plot thickened, nuclear power stations and their implications were discovered to be safer than we thought, I saw the shadow of a tree, Sex seemed pathetic, we got annoyed with Sven-hunters, someone went apartment hunting, Val Kilmer was ogled, I've been trying to work out a very odd dream, television was discussed, I spent a long time looking at the Pet Shop Boys website, Mr Angry was on the bus, and I heard of the sad news of the death of Lucas' Grandmother.
It's been some week! Full of highs and lows.
What will this week bring, dear reader?
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
World War III
I'm scared, no, really, I am. Not hide in the corner of a darkened room, shaking kind of scared, more keep checking news sites and glad I don't live somewhere likely to be bombed scared.
Has World War III started?
Look across the globe:
Iraq is essentially in a state of civil war. North Korea is test-firing missiles (capabale of carrying a nuclear device) like some kind of threat. Syria and Iran are arming terrorists. The Lebanon is being ripped apart. Iran is (probably) making a nuclear warhead. Israel is (probably) aiming a nuclear missile at Iran. Pakistan's nuclear arsenal is (probably) aimed at a dozen different countries throughout the world. India's (probably) doing the same. States are beginning to align themselves. Do they support Israel? The USA? China? Or an Islamic state?
The first ever world war began this way: You declared war on my friend, so I'm declaring war on you.
Yeah, well, you declared war on my friend, so I'm declaring war on you.
And you declared war on my friend, so I'm declaring war on you.
Etc.
It's all kicking off, now. I'm just glad I'm living in Edinburgh and not London, New York, Tel-Aviv, New Delhi, Beijing or Pyongyang...
...However, I'm not glad that I'll be in Tokyo in a matter of weeks. I'm sure that the Japanese capital will be the first target on Kim Jong-il's list.
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Has World War III started?
Look across the globe:
Iraq is essentially in a state of civil war. North Korea is test-firing missiles (capabale of carrying a nuclear device) like some kind of threat. Syria and Iran are arming terrorists. The Lebanon is being ripped apart. Iran is (probably) making a nuclear warhead. Israel is (probably) aiming a nuclear missile at Iran. Pakistan's nuclear arsenal is (probably) aimed at a dozen different countries throughout the world. India's (probably) doing the same. States are beginning to align themselves. Do they support Israel? The USA? China? Or an Islamic state?
The first ever world war began this way: You declared war on my friend, so I'm declaring war on you.
Yeah, well, you declared war on my friend, so I'm declaring war on you.
And you declared war on my friend, so I'm declaring war on you.
Etc.
It's all kicking off, now. I'm just glad I'm living in Edinburgh and not London, New York, Tel-Aviv, New Delhi, Beijing or Pyongyang...
...However, I'm not glad that I'll be in Tokyo in a matter of weeks. I'm sure that the Japanese capital will be the first target on Kim Jong-il's list.
Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
Listening
My favourite song of the moment is A love that will never grow old. It's by Emmylou Harris. I've played it three times today.
It's beautiful.
It's beautiful.
Good idea. Why don't I steal it? Part VI
Alan recently blogged about a fantasy dinner party.
I've given this a lot of thought, and I think I'd like to have several fantasy dinner parties. The number of guests seems to be limited to six, but there doesn't seem to be a maximum number of dinner parties one could hold... Or am I cheating?
For my first dinner party, I'd invite authors.
Quentin Crisp would be a first class choice as a dinner guest. I could just listen to him for hours. And that would be good for both of us. I think, during his lifetime, he was better at talking than listening. But that's not a criticism. Why bother listening if no-one's got anything interesting to say? Do we really want conversations about the weather and the price of fish? You certainly wouldn't get that with Quentin.
Graeme Aitken would be a great dinner guest, too. I have two of his books, Fifty Ways Of Saying Fabulous and Vanity Fierce. I'm not sure if he's come up with any others. I don't think so. I'd ask him why not. We'd talk about what it's like to be gay in Australia and New Zealand. Quentin would show him a fifty first way of saying fabulous.
H V Morton blew my mind with his account of travelling through the holy land between the world wars, In The Steps Of The Master. I'd have so many questions for him, he'd be up all night, long after all the other guests had left. I went to Israel with my Mum in 1999 and much of what we saw was exactly as described in H V Morton's book. I'd like to know how deeply his experiences differered from mine and if his visit changed him as a person. I know it changed Mum and I.
I've always adored Spike Milligan. He'd certainly have all the other guests in hysterics. I'd like to chat to him about his mental illness.
I'd like to know more about his relationship with his daughter, Jane, for whom he wrote:
I cannot tell you in words,
I cannot tell you in sounds,
I cannot tell you in music
How much I love you.
I can only tell you in trees,
In mountains,
Oceans,
Streams.
I might be heard to say it
In the bark of a seal on moon misty nights.
It can be heard on the hinges of dawn.
Tho' my muse is slain,
All else says I love you, Jane.
Michael Carson is the author of the first gay book I ever really enjoyed. I think I loved Sucking Sherbet Lemons so much because I could relate to it. Ok, so my Mum was alive and well and I'm not a Catholic, but I was a weird homo. It was good to know I wasn't alone.
Parts two and three of the Benson trilogy deal with the lead character going to University and then out into the big, wide world. Michael tells the story with such gentle realism, yet with such grit. It's an amazing work.
I'd like to chat to him, at length, and hear questions from the other dinner guests, about these books and how much of himself is hidden there (or jumping out) in between the lines.
My sixth dinner party guest would be God/Jesus/The Holy Ghost. We'd talk about plagiarism and I'd cook a dinner of pork, shellfish and blancmange. We'd soon find out if Jesus is Jewish or Christian! He might even be Hindu!
Other dinner parties would consist, in multiples of six, or the authors of the blogs I read on a daily basis. I'm sick of order and alphabetical lists, so would put all names into a hat and draw out six at a time.
For another dinner party, I'd invite Judy Garland, Lorna Luft, Liza Minnelli, Neil Tennant, Chris Lowe and Madonna. We'd have a fabulous time and Chris Lowe would flash his meat and two veg.
I've given this a lot of thought, and I think I'd like to have several fantasy dinner parties. The number of guests seems to be limited to six, but there doesn't seem to be a maximum number of dinner parties one could hold... Or am I cheating?
For my first dinner party, I'd invite authors.
Quentin Crisp would be a first class choice as a dinner guest. I could just listen to him for hours. And that would be good for both of us. I think, during his lifetime, he was better at talking than listening. But that's not a criticism. Why bother listening if no-one's got anything interesting to say? Do we really want conversations about the weather and the price of fish? You certainly wouldn't get that with Quentin.
Graeme Aitken would be a great dinner guest, too. I have two of his books, Fifty Ways Of Saying Fabulous and Vanity Fierce. I'm not sure if he's come up with any others. I don't think so. I'd ask him why not. We'd talk about what it's like to be gay in Australia and New Zealand. Quentin would show him a fifty first way of saying fabulous.
H V Morton blew my mind with his account of travelling through the holy land between the world wars, In The Steps Of The Master. I'd have so many questions for him, he'd be up all night, long after all the other guests had left. I went to Israel with my Mum in 1999 and much of what we saw was exactly as described in H V Morton's book. I'd like to know how deeply his experiences differered from mine and if his visit changed him as a person. I know it changed Mum and I.
I've always adored Spike Milligan. He'd certainly have all the other guests in hysterics. I'd like to chat to him about his mental illness.
I'd like to know more about his relationship with his daughter, Jane, for whom he wrote:
I cannot tell you in words,
I cannot tell you in sounds,
I cannot tell you in music
How much I love you.
I can only tell you in trees,
In mountains,
Oceans,
Streams.
I might be heard to say it
In the bark of a seal on moon misty nights.
It can be heard on the hinges of dawn.
Tho' my muse is slain,
All else says I love you, Jane.
Michael Carson is the author of the first gay book I ever really enjoyed. I think I loved Sucking Sherbet Lemons so much because I could relate to it. Ok, so my Mum was alive and well and I'm not a Catholic, but I was a weird homo. It was good to know I wasn't alone.
Parts two and three of the Benson trilogy deal with the lead character going to University and then out into the big, wide world. Michael tells the story with such gentle realism, yet with such grit. It's an amazing work.
I'd like to chat to him, at length, and hear questions from the other dinner guests, about these books and how much of himself is hidden there (or jumping out) in between the lines.
My sixth dinner party guest would be God/Jesus/The Holy Ghost. We'd talk about plagiarism and I'd cook a dinner of pork, shellfish and blancmange. We'd soon find out if Jesus is Jewish or Christian! He might even be Hindu!
Other dinner parties would consist, in multiples of six, or the authors of the blogs I read on a daily basis. I'm sick of order and alphabetical lists, so would put all names into a hat and draw out six at a time.
For another dinner party, I'd invite Judy Garland, Lorna Luft, Liza Minnelli, Neil Tennant, Chris Lowe and Madonna. We'd have a fabulous time and Chris Lowe would flash his meat and two veg.
Woody
I see that someone just found my blog by searching for Woody Drummer Greenock.
The curious thing is that I actually know a guy called Woody, who, if he doesn't actually live in Greenock, lives near it. Whether or not he's a drummer, I don't know. I do know, though, that he's a tattoo artist.
I have never mentioned this guy on my blog before, yet someone found me, I'm sure, because of him.
Spooky, innit!?
The curious thing is that I actually know a guy called Woody, who, if he doesn't actually live in Greenock, lives near it. Whether or not he's a drummer, I don't know. I do know, though, that he's a tattoo artist.
I have never mentioned this guy on my blog before, yet someone found me, I'm sure, because of him.
Spooky, innit!?
Mes filles
I've just come back from a walk with Meg and Mary.
It's such a lovely day, very hot and hardly a breeze.
I took lots of photographs of my dear daughters, but had to delete most of them. I prefer the natural looking/action shot to the staged/portrait type. Sadly, they move so fast, by the time I've pressed the button on the camera to take the photograph, all I'm left with is, at best, a tail, at worst, a bare patch of grass or a few tree trunks.
Walking through the wood was quite beautiful. I love the dappled light that the high canopy produces.
Without much effort, Meg can look very regal.
My dear darlings totally adore one another, dear reader. They have a love for one another that most people only dream of.
I confess
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti vobis fratres, quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo, opere, et omissione, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.I once stole chocolate from my brother's coat pocket.
I am a slothful glutton.
I was once consumed with avarice.
As a teenager, I would masterbate, at length, many times a day.
I have known vanity. And pride. I thought I needed no-one and that I couldn't fail. I was so wrong.
I've been known to tell people I like them, whereas, if the truth be known, I've hated their guts and sometimes wished them dead.
I am envious of people with hair. Lots of hair.
I've been known to have lustful thoughts.
I am greedy.
I say Christ a lot. In a bad way.
I've been shopping on a Sunday.
By my consumption of animal products, I am guilty of murder.
I have disobeyed both my Parents.
I have been shoplifting.
I've spread gossip.
I was jealous of a very popular boy in school and coveted his very smart, very fashionable, trousers and blazer.
What is a blog?
If the diary is fundamentally about loneliness, is the blog all about changing that? Reaching out from loneliness and solitude in the hope of finding like-minded individulas who share a common interest or have a mutual understanding of one another?One keeps a diary for several possible reasons, including:
1) The inability to converse in the topics one details within it.
2) Secrecy.
3) The lack of relationships or known people with whom one could offload.
Conversely, then, blogs, surely must be about:
1) The desire to exchange ideas and offer thoughts profusely.
2) The overt exposure of one's soul, moreover, to be an open book.
3) The seeking out of other people with whom one might find the ability to discuss ones personal life at length, without fear of being judged, or without being judged by anyone who matters.
Furthermore, after reading several blogs that I've stumbled across and some thoughts that I've scattered throughout my own, anonymity plays a very large part in the blogging culture.
I, for one, stuff my blog with personal thoughts, if you'll excuse the pun, with gay abandon. I'd include more if I thought no-one I knew read it. I'd include no personal information at all, and perhaps even give this up, if I thought my family had a handle on what I was up to here.
So, it seems, in blogs, as in in diaries, it remains: that sense of loneliness and isolation, dear reader. Blogging has the air of the confessional, though we're still careful about to whom we confess.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Sunday, July 16, 2006
Oh, I wish it could be Fib Sunday everyday!
Hey, baby!It's Fib Sunday!
Love Sundays? Love Fibs?
Fib Sunday is for you, dear reader!
Yes, yes, yes!
If you're unfamiliar with Haiku Saturday, check this out. Fib Wednesday runs along similar lines.
1) I take the topic as given in last week's final entry, write a Fib and give a new 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) The next visitor replies with a Fib on the newly given 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.
Knock!
Knock!!!
"Who's there?"
"Come on, run!"
He never found out.
Fear. Heart attack. Dead. Childish prank.
Next topic: Early readers.
Alan
We drove through to Armadale yesterday evening to see Alan, dear reader. He's just come back from the wilds of Eastern Europe. The poor soul looked terribly washed out, so we didn't stay very long, just enough time to catch up and hear all his news and any gossip.
We'd have come away sooner, but my mouth ran away with me. I can certainly yack, dear reader.
In the end, to get me to shut up and for us to leave, Ian had to drop several hints:
"Alan will be wanting his bed."
"Alan looks ever so tired."
"What unholy hour of the morning do you have to get up again, Alan?"
I felt so ashamed - and I wasn't even drunk! Oh, and not one puff on his cigarette did I take!
The photograph above in the spot from where Alan's Mum, Rebecca, sells her delicious cheeseburgers. Sadly, she's not there of a Saturday evening, or I'd have called in to nibble on her big, milky-white baps.
If you want to see a photograph of Alan's fabulous Mama, please click here.
The journey there was quite pleasant. I love the coolness of a Summer's evening, just as the sun starts to set. There's something quite fabulous about it: the memories of good weather, the welcome drop in temperature, relaxation and the kind of sigh one lets out, not through stress or relief, but through gratitude.
Taking photographs in a moving car at 70 mph is a mistake. The shutter opens and closes when it wants to, not when you want it to.
And taking photographs at 30 mph isn't such a good idea either. The camera focuses on what it wants to focus on, not what you want it to focus on.
Alan's house is the most fabulous building in West Lothian. I'm not saying that because he's my friend or because I want him to lend me some money, no. I'm saying that because, in my humble opinion, I believe it to be true. Alan knows all about the building's history. I know very little. Perhaps he'll mention it on his blog someday. I'm surprised it's not mentioned in the Armadale page on Wikipedia. If I knew what to say and how to do it, I would, but I don't and I can't, so I won't.
Alan's brothers, Robert and Barry were at his place when we arrived. Sadly, they didn't stop long. They wanted to get home to bed as they too have to be up early in the morning for the family trip to fabulous Las Vegas.
We should have gone when they went to let Alan get to his bed. I feel so ashamed.
Before his brothers left, Alan showed us a leaving gift his fellow workers had given him to remind him of his stay in Ukraine. Isn't it fabulous!? It's not often that Alan is to be found plucking away at something between his legs.
So, my wee sister is off to the USA tomorrow. He's a lucky bastard, isn't he!?
It was three months ago that we were in his home last, saying goodbye to him, although it only seemed like yesterday. And there we were again, saying goodbye once more.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Haiku Saturday
Hey lady, it's Haiku Saturday!Click here to play. Go on, you know you want to!
In other news:
Phyllis and I went to the beach today. It was a bit nippy in the breeze, though, so I sat with my t-shirt on and a towel wrapped around me. I could have sobbed. A five minute walk away from the sea, and we were back to blistering temperatures.
I have no confidence and I don't see why I should.
This evening, we are going to visit Alan. I'm going to do my level best not to smoke any of his fabulous cigarettes. He's back from his Ukrainian expedition, but only in the country a day before jetting off to Las Vegas. He has a small opening tonight, so we're off to West Lothian to see the wee lad.
Lose your way, dear reader, and I will follow.
Pet Shop Boys
Pet Shop Boys are scheduled to visit the Orpheum Theatre in Minneapolis, MN on Saturday, 28th October 2006.Tickets currently go on sale Monday, 24th July 2006 at 11:00 Eastern/10:00 Central.
Visit their website for information on other dates in their North American tour.
It's going to be fabulous.
If I had the money, I'd get a ticket myself and be on a plane to Minneapolis as soon as I could. But I can't. And that makes me sad.
Could someone please volunteer to go in my place? Would you go, dear reader?
Friday, July 14, 2006
A list
I've nicked this from Alan, who, in turn, nicked it from the fabulous Alessandro:
My ex was... selfish, emotionally and sexually retarded.
My family is... opinionated. No. Self-opinionated.
Maybe I should... get a life.
I love... with all my heart and soul, and hate with the brute force of my steel toe-caps.
I don't understand... why anyone would vote Tory.
My favourite colour is... purple.
I lost my... virginity far too early in life.
Walking on... sunshine is a hit by Katrina And The Waves.
I want to... scream at times.
People would say that I'm... an obvious homosexual.
Love is... a stranger in an open car, to tempt you in and drive you far away.
Somewhere, someone is... lying in the bath, slashing their wrists.
I will always... battle with my weight.
Forever is... a long time, and that's how long I'll love you.
I never want to... have a heart attack.
I think the current Prime Minister is... easily led.
When I wake up in the morning, I... look at the clock, roll over and go back to sleep.
Life is full of... surprises.
My past is incredibly... dull.
I get annoyed when... the press and television media go on and on about asylum seekers.
Parties are for... birthdays.
I wish... that I could wave a magic wand and bring people back from the dead.
Kisses are worst when... you're saying goodbye to an old woman and her false teeth fall into your mouth.
Tomorrow, I'm going to... get the tent out of the garage.
I really want... to be slim, trim and muscular.
I have a low tolerance for people who say... "Send all those bloody foreigners home."
If I had a million dollars... I would buy a farm and operate it ethically, employing as many so-called no-hopers as I could.
Guys are... best when they're queer.
Girls are... all potential fag-hags.
My ex was... selfish, emotionally and sexually retarded.
My family is... opinionated. No. Self-opinionated.
Maybe I should... get a life.
I love... with all my heart and soul, and hate with the brute force of my steel toe-caps.
I don't understand... why anyone would vote Tory.
My favourite colour is... purple.
I lost my... virginity far too early in life.
Walking on... sunshine is a hit by Katrina And The Waves.
I want to... scream at times.
People would say that I'm... an obvious homosexual.
Love is... a stranger in an open car, to tempt you in and drive you far away.
Somewhere, someone is... lying in the bath, slashing their wrists.
I will always... battle with my weight.
Forever is... a long time, and that's how long I'll love you.
I never want to... have a heart attack.
I think the current Prime Minister is... easily led.
When I wake up in the morning, I... look at the clock, roll over and go back to sleep.
Life is full of... surprises.
My past is incredibly... dull.
I get annoyed when... the press and television media go on and on about asylum seekers.
Parties are for... birthdays.
I wish... that I could wave a magic wand and bring people back from the dead.
Kisses are worst when... you're saying goodbye to an old woman and her false teeth fall into your mouth.
Tomorrow, I'm going to... get the tent out of the garage.
I really want... to be slim, trim and muscular.
I have a low tolerance for people who say... "Send all those bloody foreigners home."
If I had a million dollars... I would buy a farm and operate it ethically, employing as many so-called no-hopers as I could.
Guys are... best when they're queer.
Girls are... all potential fag-hags.
June 3rd & 4th
Last month I dressed up prettilyWhile I was staying by the sea
A big blonde wig
Full o' curls
Was all I needed
To be one of the girls
We danced and sung
a song or two
I got a gift:
"Just for you!"
I unwrapped it very carefully
Saying, "Now, could this be just for me?"
And people wished me all the best
Because it was my birthday
And when the dancing night was done
My niece and I, we had some fun
We had a laugh
We had a joke
And with my fag
She took a smoke
Her boyfriend said
He loved me best
I think he's queer
I do not jest
I heard the clock chime twelve o'clock
"Oh, Chris!" I said, with her in shock
"Now it's time to wish you well!"
Because it was her birthday.
I'm no poet, and although I once had the accent, I cannot now master the Dorset dialect, but the above was a tribute to my favourite poet, William Barnes.
My sister's birthday is the day after mine, we always used to celebrate together or at least have a follow on celebration. It was always like a forty eight hour birthday. I wanted to express this, somehow, in a poem. I've been trying for years. Although I've not mastered it yet, I just wanted to share.
I'll know when I've done it, I'll know when it's right. And when I do, I'll tell you, dear reader.
When I was growing up, everyone I knew spoke like Worzel Gummidge. Everyone. But as I passed through senior school, I heard it ebbing away. It's very sad. When I go back to Darzet now, most people seem to speak with a very generic south-of-England accent, which is quite sad. It seemed to me that in the early to mid eighties, people became ashamed of their accent and/or dialect and seemed to drop it in favour of the bizarre mockney. I've never understood why one would choose to amend one's accent with something commonly perceived as working class or hard, when one could have chosen to speak with a more refined accent. It all boils down to shame, again, I should think, that having money or status is to be frowned upon, whereas having a criminal record or being poor is to be lauded.
Bizarre.
A brief lesson in west-country:
Aright my bird? - How are you, madam?
Where be ye, little maid? - Where are you, young lady?
Izzu allus gunner av it bard, cock? - Will you always sport facial hair, Sir?
Git aff my traacter! - Kindly leave my farm machinery alone!
If you're interested in reading some of William Barnes' poetry, just google him. You're bound to find some, dear reader.
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Competition
It's competition time, dear reader.Please take a look back at my previous six blog entries (not including this one). They all point to one thing. But what? If you know or think you know the answer, please leave it in the comments section. There will be a prize.
Birthday
Phyllis is going to be forty years old very soon. I hope to God that I will look as good as he does when I'm forty. However, that's not going to happen. He already looks younger than me.Check out his birthday countdown on his blog.
The poor lad doesn't want a fuss made of this mile stone. He didn't want a party or a wild night out. Instead, I shall bake a cake, we'll go out for a meal and have a drink or two.
I don't know where we'll go out to eat yet, but I'd better hurry up and get a table booked. Time is running out. There are some lovely restaurants in Edinburgh, so I guess we can take our pick. It'll probably be that fabulous little Japanese place on Lothian Road or one of many Chinese, Indian or Italian restaurants. However, it would be nice to try something different, different cuisine or a different take on eating altogether. If you have any ideas, dear reader, please
email me!
He does know what kind of cake he wants, though: a simple victoria sandwich with cream and raspberry jam. I'll do my best.
I don't know how I'd feel about an impending fortieth birthday. I simply have no idea. All that I do know, is that by the time you're our age, birthdays, sadly, are just like any other day.
How I long for pre-teen birthdays, party food, cake, games, hats, raucous laughter...! Those days are long gone. It's good, though, that we still know some children of that age. I hope we get an invite to their next birthday parties.
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