Beanz

Have just checked my ebay auctions and notice that my beans have a bid for ninety nine pence! Yay!

I'll be sure to put another can up for sale next week.

Just noticed though, on the can, the label reads HEINZ BAKED BEANZ. Why the Z?

An eye for a dream

What a pretentious title for a post.

Sorry about that.

Today, I'm apologetic Minge.

So, I tried imagining I was Nina, on a gold toilet... It didn't work. My mind was frantic that night. I was due to go for a consultation for laser eye surgery the next day and I was worried I'd be blinded. My worrying and Nina/toilet fantasy had no impact on my dream at all. I know there's nothing worse than listening to people telling you about their dreams, so look away now if you don't want to be bored.

I have two dogs, Border Collies, Meg and Mary. In my dream, Meg had died (and I wasn't the least bit upset!) and left all her money to Mary. She told me that she, as a dog, couldn't spend the money, so offered to take me on a cruise.

Mary looked wonderful in her large hat as we boarded the ship, a scene not dissimilar from the one in Titanic where Kate Winslet boards the ocean liner. We stayed out on deck and the ship soon left the docks. Within ten seconds, I could see our first destination: a small desert island with palm trees. It looked vaguely caribbean. What does it mean?

I have no idea.

Anyway, the next day, I went in to Glasgow for my laser eye surgery consultation. Once in the city, having had a bite for lunch, I called their office to check on their exact location, only to find my appointment had been cancelled due to lack of staff! They called this morning to offer me another appointment on Friday. I accepted, but I might not turn up, just to piss them off as much as they pissed me off.

I'm very worried about it in any case. I mean, I could be blinded!

After the eye people debacle, I went into an artists' supply shop and bought a canvas, paint and some paper. I plan on doing something for my living room. I just can't wait for it to be decorated. It's vile just now and quite depressing.

My dream of a cruise clearly had nothing do do with the previous days antics, but conversely, last night, my dream had everything to do with the events of the day. I was in an artist's studio and painting something very similar to Munch's Scream, although the paints used were only shades of green. I plan on having one wall of the living room papered with a green palm-frond-like design, the other walls with a white/pearl-like design and green carpet. Haven't decided on the curtains or light fittings yet.

Minge and no mushrooms

I've been having withdrawal symptoms (not the Catholic kind) and so feel obliged to post something. As it happens, I do have something to post!

My wee friend Rob of London came up to Edinburgh today for a sojourn printemps, so Phyllis and I went along to a bijoux little café on Broughton Street where all the best poofs hang out. It's so good, I've forgotten what it's called. Sala? Sola? Solo? Salo? Something like that.

Tim, Anthony and Charles were also there and it was great to see them. It's something like an AGM for us. We only see each other once a year, though, shamefully, it's only Robin who doesn't live in Edinburgh.

Sadly, on this occasion, I forgot to take my camera. Really, I'm no pap, am I!? A post without a photograph or picture is like a flower without petals, the Christ-child without a halo or George W Bush without some idiotic comment... So I'm uploading the photograph a nice waiter or waitress took of us last year.

l-r: Phyllis, Charles, Robin, Anthony, Tim, Minge.

We had a nice meal (though no mushrooms were served) and a good yack, then it was time to get on our broom-sticks and head for home.

I mentioned to Robin, in the car, that no-one seemed to change from a year ago, and it's true. I could have lied and said that I'd taken the above photograph this year and you'd have to believe me. The only difference is that last year I'd have been sucking (steady) my belly in and the photograph was taken in daylight. This year, we met under cover of darkness.

I'm so tired. I don't know where the day has gone... But I know I'll not sleep. My mind's still buzzing. I think a spot of telly, a bedtime fag and a wee walk with my daughters is in order before I go to bed and sleep, to dream, I hope, tonight, of something wonderful and fabulous.

I read a book about dreams a while back, interpretations and the like... The author claimed that one's destiny can be shaped by dreams, their positive and negative effects (on the dreamer) can be altered by encouraging and propagating healthy and progressive dreams. The prospective dreamer should concentrate his or her mind on something he or she finds enjoyable before going to bed or willing good things to happen. Tonight, as I lay me down to sleep I shall imagine I am Nina Simone (I've always wanted to sing and play the piano) and that I am sitting on a solid gold toilet (only the rich can afford to do this).

I'll be back with news on how I got on.

Lost

I feel lost with no comments to respond to and may possibly slash my wrists.

Mr Burns

I've just been watching Richard & Judy on Channel 4. I must be well within their target audience as I seem to watch no other channel. Anyway, they had Pete Burns on the sofa. Not literally, of course, this is daytime TV.

I adore Pete Burns, I really do, but watching Rich and Jude interview him made me cringe. And I can't really put my finger on why.

They seemed to treat him like an over-sensitive celebrity, darling. Which he isn't. He also seemed to be ignoring the questions, just saying things he wasnted to get across and overtly displaying his love for Michael in the form of hugs, hugs and more hugs.

Something's wrong and I can't work it out.

Richard and Judy can be a bit patronising sometimes. I still don't know if that was it. This certainly wasn't their best interview nor Pete's best performance. I'm quite disappointed.

I hope the hype of Celebrity Big Brother soon dies down and Pete can create is own, which is completely justified. There's a lot to hype. He's fabulous, he tells it like it is, and Christ, can he knock out a tune.

Prison bitch

What's your prison bitch name?

Click here to find out.

I am The Gerbil!?!?

Am I known for nibbling?

Beans

I've just put a tin of beans up for sale on ebay. This struck me as a tad strange. I think I've gone mad.

Click here to see my items.

Keith Duffy

Boyzone's Keith Duffy was at the Irish Music awards recently. A fellow guest saw him taking a pee in the gents and reports, "Keith has a willy as big as a fire engine hose," and is, "beautiful and uncut."

English

From the age of eleven to sixteen, I attended Oakmead Senior School. Initially, this was an all-boys school known as Oakmead School For Boys (sounds terribly Dickensian, doesn't it!?) and sat slap-bang next to Oakmead School For Girls. In September 1985, the two schools merged and we became co-ed.

Oh, poor Mr Valentine, my English master. He'd taught in an all-boys environment for forty years and really didn't know how to handle girls.

One of the very first English lessons after we'd mixed went like this... Should I change the names to protect those involved from the intrusion of the press? What...!?!? Um, anyway, Juliet put her hand up and asked to go to the toilet. Mr Valentine never let anyone go to the toilet during a lesson and Juliet was no exception. "But, sir," she began, "I've got to go, girls' problems. Do you want me to explain?"

"Certainly not!" was Mr Valentine's response. He let her go.

Next, Nicola put her hand up, needing the loo. In order to escape embarrassment, he let her go, too. Within a minute, Justine wanted to go as well - and she did.

This was at the beginning of the thirty five minute lesson. After half an hour, another girl called Kerry put her hand up. Mr Valentine asked what she wanted. She told him that those three girls had been gone for half an hour and asked if she should go and see what's happened to them. Mr Valentine agreed, and off she went. It wasn't too long before she was back. What a drama! She flew open the classroom door and stood there, agog. The whole class drew in breath, adding to the drama. Everyone was staring at her, waiting for what she was about to say. Then she began:

"Well, you won't believe what I've seen," she said. "The three of them, stood around the toilet bowl. Pencils. Discharge all over the floor!"

Then the lesson bell rang as everyone began to laugh hysterically and pack up their things. Mr Valentine looked like he'd been turned to stone. Our sedate English lessons would never be the same again.

French

Have just been reading about my mate's mathematical ravings. This got me to thinking about my own school days. I didn't care much for mathematics, either, just breezed through it, and like the rest of the class, just took the piss out of our tit for a teacher.

My favourite subject was French, throughout the five years I attended senior school.

The whole five years were hilarious.

In the second year, my French master was, Oh Christ, I can't remember his name...! We called him Prince. Long story. Basically, he was the PE master as well. He liked to run around in shorts showing off his varicose veins. We would sing "Purple Veins" to him in some kind of parody of "Purple Rain" by Prince. You see the connection. Anyway, a Monday morning always consisted of a spelling test. Only ten words, which we had to learn over the weekend. If you got less than four, you got detention. Of course, the whole damned charade of a lesson was carried out in French. If you did indeed score less than four, you had to stand up and say, "Moins que quatre," though actually, all the boys in my class (we were all all-boys school - yay!) actually said wank a cat and the old fart taking the lesson had no idea why we'd roll about laughing. Of course, to twelve and thirteen year old boys, this was terribly rude and quite funny.

Oh dear.

In the fifth year, I was promoted to the top class! Double yay! Our teacher was called Miss O'Hare. Of course, like all the other teachers in the school, no-one used her real name. She was usually Miss O'Hairy Bottom. ROFL! Bottom was terribly naughty! Anyway, she was a bit of a dyke, but in a fabulous way. I actually liked her and had a lot of respect for her. One time, a girl in my class passed me a note. I replied. The note arrived back at its originator and she began to laugh. Miss O'Hare grabbed the note and announced to the class that we should all share the joke. Silly bitch. Without reading out what was actually on the piece of paper, she began to read, "Would you go out with Sarah Edmonds? Only if she's got a cock." The whole class was in uproar and Miss O'Hairy Bottom had a very red face.

Separated at birth?

The evil Gremlin Stripe and musician Sly Stone - separated at birth?

Bed

It's late, nearly one o'clock in the morning. I should go to bed, but I don't see the point. I'm wide awake, my mind's in turmoil... I'll have a fag. That might calm my nerves. They're full of vitamins. Perhaps that's what I need.

I know what I need.

Do you?

Our Glorious Leader (part deux)

Just read this on William Orbit's website:

Q - I heard that you did an Abba song with Madonna, is this the one that is sampled on her new record?

A - No, it's a seperate thing. I recorded a cover version of 'Like An Angel Passing Through My Room' with her in 2000. It was originally on the last Abba album 'The Visitors'. Our version has never been released.

Do you think it will ever see the light of day?

Sounds fabulous.

Rôle play

Alan and I like to indulge in a little rôle play from time to time.

At the moment, Cagney and Lacey is our theme. I'm the glamourous one, he's the chubby housewife type.

Ok, so we've not got very far. We've decided to go out and get a chinese take away, but then changed our minds and I, Christine "Slim McGlamorous" Cagney, have shoved my weapon into Mary Beth "Fatty McPorker" Lacey's chuff instead.

Any tips for us as to where we can go with this without having to have actual sex? I don't think it's appropriate, though it would make for good copy.

Our Glorious Leader

Just seen the video for our glorious leader's new single, Sorry, on Channel 4.

I was a bit disappointed. First, I thought it was a great idea. The video begins where Hung Up left off, but then it all gets a bit ropey. A friend had emailed, telling me that it was based around a fuck truck, as seen in some porn films or similar internet sites. Some men drive around, see a woman, chat her up, have sex in the van and film it. This, I was told, would be a bunch of women picking up men. It did seem to be going like that - until I saw a kiddy in the back! Purlease! Noooo! Phew, the wee boy just did a wee dance. It seems they were actually picking up men to go to some kind of fight club - an homage to our glorious leader's wee hubby?

So, anyway, they fight in a cage, our glorious leader dances a wee bit, they go to a roller-disco and that, as they say, was that.

:(

It's still a great track btw - and I can't wait to get my hands on it for the mixes alone. I've already downloaded two Pet Shop Boys mixes and they're fabulous. Can't wait to hear the rest.

Something must be very wrong with my typing skills. I've recently noticed that whenever I type Pet Shop Boys, I always type Pet SHop Boys - not the capital H. I simply always have to go back and make an amendment. Why is that?

Giant

Oh, another thing... If ever you're in Dorset, you simply MUST visit the Cerne Abbas Giant.

Apparently, if you have it off whilst sat/laid in his testicles, you're guaranteed to get preggers.

Sadly, that's a lie. It didn't work for me.

Darzet

Originally, I hail from Dorset, or Darzet as the locals would say. I miss it, sometimes, not often, just sometimes.

The county has a magnificent coastline, steep chalky cliffs, stunning beaches, picturesque harbours (Poole harbour is the second largest natural harbour in the world after Sydney, Australia) and bays, rolling hills and valleys, choc full of wild flowers and hedgerow fodder. You'll find secluded wee villages full of locals who you'll have trouble understanding, historic towns such as Sherborne, Christchurch, Shaftesbury, Dorchester, Bridport, Wimborne, Corfe and Blandford.

I come from Bournemouth, a Victorian town with no history to speak of, but a few miles out of the town and one is immersed in legend, history - and food! As with anywhere else, the geography of Dorset is reflected in the food eaten. There's plenty of good pasture, so don't look too far for the best cream tea in the world. Dorset clotted cream is perhaps the best you'll find in the United Kingdom. I'm not just saying that because it's my county of birth, I've tasted plenty of clotted cream and never found better, anywhere outside of the county. Take a trip to Shaftesbury, find the cafe at the top of Gold Hill (where the infamous Hovis add - the boy on the bike was filmed) and order a cream tea. You'll think you've died and gone to heaven.

If you like fish, take a visit to Poole Harbour where fishermen land their catch and sell directly from their boats. It's a site rarely seen these days. You can find crabs, scallops, all kinds of other shell fish, haddock, red and grey mullet, mackerel, turbot and sea bream.

For the Hyacinth Buckets out there, a trip on the Swanage Steam Railway is advised. I've never been on it, but I understand they do a wine and dine evening on the train during the summer months and the food is first class.

Of course, the countryside boasts an abundance of produce. In the summer, you'll find the glut of lettuce is turned into soup (really, it's delicious) and by autumn the ubiquitous apple is all around. Lots of them are turned into cider, but with the approach of autumn, every tea-time table will be dressed with a Dorset Apple Cake. Variety among type is alarming, everyone has their own secret recipe. Mine's not so secret:

225g/8oz eating apples
100g/4oz unsalted butter
100g/4oz golden caster sugar
1 egg
1 tablespoon of pure vanilla extract (NOT essence)
225g/8oz plain flour
25g/1oz cornflour
1.5 (one and a half) teaspoons of baking powder
Pinch of salt
Juice and zest of half a lemon
Handful of sultanas
1 teaspoon cinnamon

Peel and core the apples, slice (though not too thinly) and place in a bowl with the juice and zest of the lemon.

Cream together the butter and sugar, then add the egg and beat until incorporated. Next add the lemon juice from the apples and beat again.

Sieve together the flour, cornflour, salt, cinnamon and baking powder and then sieve into the creamed mixture, folding everything together.

Next, add the sultanas, apple, zest and vanilla extract. Fold everything together and bake in a 20cm/8 inch round cake tin at 180C/350F/Gas 4 for 50 minutes to an hour until done.

Serve warm - not hot - at teatime along with your other favourites.

Another of my favourite Dorset foods is the Dorset Knob. Fancy a Dorset knob? Just follow any white bread recipe, but replace an eighth of the water or milk with apple juice. Make sure to use butter and definitely not margarine! Your finished rolls should be somewhere between the size of a golf ball and a tennis ball, so size your unleavened dough accordingly. Once the bread is done, turn the oven out, but leave the rolls in the cooling oven overnight until they dry out completely and become crisp. Serve with Dorset Blue Vinney cheese and some old Dorset ale! Delicious!

Oh, one thing. There's been debate for an eternity as to whether you chould put the clotted cream on the scone first or the jam. I'd say put the cream on first. If ever you've tried spreading the thick mass of the cream on top of flowing jam, you'll know what I mean: bloody mess.

I feel like Delia Smith now, very saintly, motherly, yet virginal. I'll have to do something about it. I think it's time for a bedtime fag. I may also fart.

Baby poo

What a lovely baby!

See more at Rate My Poo.

George

I've found Boy George's gaydar profile!

Look: here.

Paris et l'oiseau

Paris and the ostrich. Notice a resemblance?

Her nose is the most awful monstrosity.

Why does anyone think she's something wonderful. I think she's plain ugly, inside and out.

That woman (more memoirs of a wanker)

Ok, I'll do it. I'm prepared to divulge what happened to me on that boat from Hiroshima to Matsuyama. Though in doing so, I'll be reliving the torment I went through over a year ago.

I might have to make a claim for mental suffering. Where there's blame, there's a claim.

So, we were on this boat en route to Matsuyama. We'd had a look around the boat (Or was it a ship? What's the difference?) and had found a seat. I went up to the shop to buy an ice cream. The woman behind the counter was the same woman who had welcomed us onboard. She was also the woman who gave the safety announcements and, I think, had countless other jobs, too. In fact, she was the only visible employee on the whole vessel. Was she also the captain? Quite possibly! Anyway, I digress... I bought my ice cream and was shocked to see hardcore porn available at the counter. Although shocked, I knew we were in a different culture and didn't really pay it much attention. I had, after all, seen men reading such magazines on commuter trains, groping themselves in front of other passengers with no-one batting an eyelid. We took the ice cream, ate it, went back to our seats and had a sleep. I woke up about an hour later. Everyone else seemed to be sleeping. Ian stirred, looked at me and asked where we were. I said I didn't know. We went to the stairs, which were near the shop, to look at the map. Ian was standing there, trying to work out where we were, I had no idea, so my eyes began to wander. I noticed no-one was stood at the shop counter. Anything could have been pinched - so I went to have a look! When I got to the counter, I could see the shop-keeper through the glass case at the front of the shop, sat on the floor. She seemed to be reading something. It was one of those hardcore porn magazines! Then, what was this, her elbow was moving. Strange, what was she doing...!? Then I looked more closely. To my horror, she was masturbating! Oh my gawd! I nearly died. I went back to Ian and told him. We just couldn't believe what she had done and continued to do!

On disembarking, there she was again at the bottom of the stairs saying goodbye to the passengers and shaking the hands of the few westerners onboard. Oh, Christ! I certainly didn't shake her hand! As I walked past her, I said, "I'm not shaking your hand, I know what you were up to. Your fingers are bound to stink!" I don't think she had a clue what I was saying as she continued to smile at me inanely.

Vile.

Hiroshima

Hiroshima is not only a single by Sandra - it was the first site of nuclear warfare in the world.

It's a harrowing place, but strangely optimistic. Life still goes on it the city, in some respects, as if an atom bomb had never been dropped there. But underneath it all, you get the feeling that the residents are aware of it all the time. The A Bomb Dome is in the heart of the city. Thousands of people must see that permanent reminder every day.

Oh, that photo of Phyllis with those school children... They approached him and asked him of his opinions on war and peace and which was better. They took note of his answers and tried to take a photo of him, but some other child had the camera and wouldn't give it up. I took the photo they wanted and said I would email it to them. I did so as soon as I got home, but it bounced back: unknown. :(

The other photograph here is of me on a boat just leaving Hiroshima en route to Matsuyama. Oh, that boat, that awful woman. Dare I tell the story? I'll just pop out for a fag and be thinking about it...

Shinkansen

Ok, I'm already breaking my promise. More photographs from Japan. Blame Alan. He egged me on.

This is fat Minge stood by the Rail Star, my favourite Shinkansen (bullet train) from the outside, but not the inside. The Rail Star is a bit older than the other Shinkansen you see next to it, which has a fabulous interior. Sorry, I can't remember the name of it. It must have been something fabulous though.

The next photograph is of a couple of mochi, some green tea and another Japanese beverage which I took on the Shinkansen with the nice interior. Look, you can also see Joanna Lumley (I was reading her autobiography) and my Japanese Rail Pass!

Mochi are delicious. I really miss them. Sweet rice balls with a sweet filling. A bit like rice pudding on the go! I recently bought some from an oriental supermarket here in Edinburgh. You have to cook them - they're not the same. :(

Oh, how I love putting those white blobs into my mouth.

The long and the short of it

Ok, I promise, this will be the last... I'll stop publishing photographs of my trip to Japan. But I just wanted to show you this.

The woman was giving me a taste of her freshly brewed tea. It was delicious! But look how wee she is! I'm not tall, only average at 5'10". What the hell was her height?

She was very nice, though, and bowed constantly. She didn't shame me into buying any, though. I just wanted to wander around the food hall of that fabulous department store eating and drinking as many freebies as I could. Shameless Minge! Still, it saved me from buying a meal. I'm such a cheap whore.

Porn

Oh, joy of joys, Minge and the porno days... Alan, Junya and I had just finished the shoot for Onsen: Hot Splash In Japan. We sat around in the water for the stills.

Yes, we were naked! No, I'd never seen either Alan or Junya in the buff before! No, I didn't get a stiffy!

But have you got one now? I bet you have, you mucky bitch.

Memoirs of a wanker

I had such a fabulous time in Japan, the loo and everything is bringing back such happy memories. Just wanted to share this photograph with you. Two Geisha women (certainly not girls) that we met in Kyoto.

One thing I would say about most Japanese people is that they need to visit the dentist.

Des toilettes Japonais

Here are the photographs I was initially loathed to upload. Why I've done it, I'm not sure. Courage? To show I'm beyond shame? Because I'm an idiot. Don't know.

Well, I'm evidently not beyond shame as I am quite ashamed about the photograph of the western style toilet with heated seat and bumwash. Look at the other photograph for the control panel. It was fabulous.

I may delete this post after five minutes, so if you're reading this, you're either lucky, or I've forgotten to get rid of it.

The last photograph is of me on a Japanese style toilet. See what I mean about it looking like a urinal that's been laid down? I don't look particularly upset, but I was. I couldn't have the door shut or be left alone. You may also be wondering where my massive tool is. I tucked it under my shirt for modesty's sake. Shame I wasn't so modest when taking a picture of the western style loo.

I'm so sorry.

If you found this post a thrill, check out Rate My Poo.

Dannii, Arthur and Martha...

It seems Dannii Minogue has been lezzing off in a London nightclub. Read the full article on Sky Showbiz. I still love her, though, even if she doesn't know if she's Arthur or Martha.

I didn't know if I was Arthur or Martha once. Thankfully, a nice policeman told me I was neither. I was Catriona. I didn't like that, though, so I try to put it out of my mind. I think I'm in denial. What do you think, is Minge Arthur or Martha?

Bum wash

According to the news, Toto are about to open a production plant in Mexico to keep up with the surging demand in the USA for heated toilet seats. See the news story.

A home's not a home without one in Japan.

I loved them. I also loved the bidet feature. Getting a bum wash was practically mandatory for me after every visit to the toilet, though, being the sexual pervert that I am, I always had the pressure of the water jet on maximum and aimed it directly at my poop-chute so a wee bit of water would go right up there! Oh, how refreshing!

I loved all the toilets in Japan, all the western style ones, anyway. I did, however, find the traditional Japanese toilets quite scary. They're like urinals laid down on the floor. My palms are sweating just thinking about it.

Anyway, water spraying, heated Japanese bog seats are fabulous and I only wish they were available here in the UK.

By the way, that photo of me is actually quite awful. I'm much fatter then than now. I did find another of me on a Japanese toilet. You can't see my genitals, but I do wonder if someone might complain to Blogger about objectional material - and I could get wiped from the world wide web! That's a horrible thought to go to bed on.

Die

Apparently, I am going to die in 2044. Look at my personal death clock.

Dead Or Alive

I see on the beeb site that Dead Or Alive are back in the charts at #5! Yay!

I'm quite happy about this. Shame they're not at #1 again, would have been nice. I don't know, the youth of today... They don't know when a good thing hits them in the face!

I do, and I suck on it. Oops! Did I really say that!?

Daughters

After my fun in the garden, I took my lovely daughters for a walk in the woods. They love being in the woods after dark more than me. I think they must have been gay men in their former lives.

I just had to upload these photographs. They aren't anything special, but I just love it when they have doggy-red-eye. They look like robots. It's like something out of Doctor Who!

Le jardin

I was busy in my front garden today, pretending to be butch.

I've planted lots of bulbs, added mulch and sat drinking coffee and smoking. It was ace.

I was going to then plant some hardy annula seeds, but it was too windy and getting dark, so I went back in.

The garden looks a right dog's dinner just now, however, as spring comes upon us, all things will change, change, change.

Fleur

I'm currently listening to a selection of hits (ahem) by Ace Of Base. They tell me that life is a flower. Oh? Is it? If so, what flower?

I think it's a rose. It may well smell sweet and look wonderful, but that soon fades and dies and as soon as you grab it, you feel a prick.

Oh, they're now singing, Always Have, Always Will. That's better, buch cheerier. Though how did they get away with it? Who wrote Love Really Hurts Without You and how come they didn't take the writers of Always Have, Always Will to court for plagiarism?

Food

Food has such a symbolic value. You don't need to know what the symbols mean, but, a feast can be like looking at the pictures in a magazine. A gossip magazine especially. You don't need to know the words to understand what's going on. The pictures are everything.

If you see a cake with candles, you know it's a birthday. If you see a Turkey, you know it's Christmas. If you see pancakes with sugar and lemon, you know it's Shrove Tuesday.

We always celebrate with food. I guess we always mourn with food. Food and our lives are as inextricably linked as fish and the see or birds and the air.

Do we eat a huge dinner on Christmas day because it's Christmas? Or is it just an excuse? Of course it is, but it is a celebration. It's also a celebration of itself. Stuffing yourself with food on Christmas day is just as traditional as opening the presents, the tree or singing carols.

That's celebration for you.

Of course, the opposite to that is that we also mourn. And I'm not thinking about a wake, here. We mourn our overindulgence over the Christmas period with dieting. All over the world, right now, people are living on salad leaves, melon and brown rice. Where's the fun in that? There is none. Of course, it's easy for the social commentators to tell us all that dieting is ridiculous, we're sheep and we'll all put it on again, but still we diet.

This January is the first in many years that I have not been on a diet. I feel empancipated.

I had a laparoscopic fundoplication about three months ago. The results are fabulous, but I still have a very small appetite and can't really eat anything too stodgy.

I would love to sit and eat a whole Tiramisú to myself, but I just can't. I would love to have a jacket potato with beans, but I can't. There is still so much which is off limits to me, it's unbearable. However, the things that I do eat make me feel joyous and in a celebratory mood. I adored the boiled egg I had this morning. It was amazing, so much so, that I sat staring at the empty shell for a couple of minutes in awe.

Now, I started to think. Sometimes a dangerous thing, I know, but not today. Am I, in my conscious mind,experiencing, because of my predicament, what we all feel, well, what most of us feel in our subconscious mind every time we eat something? I think perhaps so.

Food is a wonderous thing and should not be something we use to celebrate an occasion, event or date, it should be celebrated for itself, even the most mundane of dishes. So next time you sit down to a plate of egg and chips, think about what you're eating, think how fabulous it is and celebrate it! Food is wonderful!

Bathroom

I've just been to a bathroom merchant to pick out some things for my new sanctuary d'eau.

Jeez, I can't believe it was so difficult to choose. Of course, a lot of it was totally naff, looked cheap or was completely out of my price range, so our choices were limited - but it was still the most bewildering, complex and baffling thing I have done in a very long time.

A white suite with white tiles and a blue mosaic floor are definitely in order. Don't think I'm evading the issue of stamping my personality on the house by going for bland and conventional. I am a bland and conventional person. I don't like gaudy and I don't like personal statements in decor. Accents, I do like, so there will be something weird, strange or wildly fabulous, but as of yet, I don't know what it will be. Any suggestions?

What am I thinking? I'm not bland and conventional, I just don't want to lie in the bath staring at busy patterns or eighteen different colours. I want to relax. I want to meditate. I want solace.

Think about it. The bathroom is perhaps the only place in the house where you can be alone and not be interrupted. Utilise this fact for all it's worth.

Still, the consequence of the end result will be quite the opposite to the bewilderment and confusion felt in the bathroom showroom this morning. It will be great to have a bath that I can lie in without thinking of the scabby cretins who might have used it before, sit on the toilet without thinking who'd had diarrhea there or who might have vomited into the sink into which I'm pouring water to wash my face.

The electric shower, which was installed before we bought the place, is objectionable in the extreme. It's like standing under a dripping tap. The flow is ridiculous. I really can't wait to have a proper shower - and that should be about June. How much am I looking forward to that!?

The bad 80s decor and peach sanitary ware will be right out of the window and replaced with something as tasteful and yet fabulous as a gay man's finances will allow.

I like to be mellow in a bathroom, especially when laying in the bath. No time for rushing. Even having a tiddle or brushing my teeth cannot be hurried. I like warmth, steam, candles and silence. Or perhaps sometimes a little music. On an occasion like this, though, I have no desire for disco music. Perhaps the only time, but definitely not while I'm in my temple mode. My body is a temple and I will worship it. Don't try and stop me! Of course, temple mode requires temple music and although I'm certainly not one for bongs, chants and bells, I think something ambient would suit or perhaps some light orchestral pieces. Definitely something ethereal. I'll leave the corporeal for other rooms in the house.

The bathroom is definitely a place for smells though, but they must be good smells. I don't like the smell of poo or farts at all. I rid them from my presence with an open window or some kind of organic bouquet. I do not like fake smells from a can. They are vile, even more vile than the poo smell I'm trying to mask. Good scents to use while bathing are definitely very gay: lavender, camomile and sandalwood. Even a straight man is a little bit gay in the bathroom - and that can't be a bad thing, can it!?

Mum

This is a wee photograph of my Mum and I. I don't know when it was taken, but it looks to me as though I'm only a number of weeks old, so it must be the summer of 1984.

So why is Mum still wearing those wild 70s specs?

Tense nervous headache?

I need Anadin.

I'm at home, a place where I should feel relaxed. But I'm not. I have so many things I should be doing, but I keep putting them off because they frighten me.

Take for example, the boiler. It keeps failing, and has been doing so for about a week. I should have rung the plumber on Monday, but I didn't, nor did I on Tuesday, Wednesday or yesterday. I've only just done it today. And even then, I rang his office because I knew he wouldn't be there. I left a message. Unfortunately, he rang me back within five minutes.

That's just the tip of the iceberg.

I hate going out, I just feel so uncomfortable in view of the wider world. Anything could happen, and it probably will.

So, if I don't like going out and I'm at home, why do I not relax here in these four walls? I just can't relax because the things I have to do, making contacts with the outside world keep playing on my mind.

I'm going to see Marlene in ten minutes. I'll go the back way, through the wood and fields, get caked in mud, but it's better than going on the bus. I don't have to see anyone. And if anyone does cross my path, they'll see me wearing my iPod, know I can't hear them and leave me alone.

Result.

But I still have to do it. I don't like to, I don't want to, but I can't say, "No." Well, I can say that, but not very often.

Yes, I've been bad, doctor, won't you do with me what you can. I think about it all the time...

I wish I could stay at home, have nothing to do except the things that I want to do, not worry about outside influences and just relax. I'd love to sit in this afternoon, but I can't. I'd love to stay in all afternoon and all evening, paint something or knit myself a nice cardy. But I can't. If I give in to myself now, I know I'll never get a grip.

Bond director 'tried to sell sex'

OMG! I've just been reading the BBC news online and found this juicy little snippet:

Bond director 'tried to sell sex'

He was in full drag and wearing a black wig! At least it went with his eyebrows.

Wicked

I'm so excited! Wicked is coming to London!

It is set in the Emerald City before the arrival of Dorothy and Toto. Wicked tells how the good witch Glinda first met Elphaba, the green-skinned Wicked Witch of the West! And it's a musical! I'm so excited, I could shit!

Who will they get to play Dorothy? If the person is not already a gay icon, will they become one?

Finally, I'll be able to hear the word "wicked" without taking on its street talk connotation. Wicked does not mean good. It means:

1. Evil by nature and in practice: “this wicked man Hitler, the repository and embodiment of many forms of soul-destroying hatred” (Winston S. Churchill).
2. Playfully malicious or mischievous: a wicked prank; a critic's wicked wit.
3. Severe and distressing: a wicked cough; a wicked gash; wicked driving conditions.
4. Highly offensive; obnoxious: a wicked stench.

I had a wicked gash once.

Mass

I recently attended my first Catholic Mass. As the priest was making his way through the church, in full regalia and swinging his insence, I thought, "Nice frock honey, but your hand-bag is on fire!"

That's actually not true.

Blogs

I've just been reading two blogs:

Michèle

and

Fish

Just wanted to share that with you.

True or false?

When I was a younger man, my brother David and I dressed up as ladies and went out for a night on the town in Bournemouth.

We had a fabulous time in clothes we'd bought from a charity shop and fixed up to make them our own. It was about two in the morning, we'd left this night club and were heading to a taxi... A man who was evidently quite drunk approached us and asked us for a threesome. He said we were gorgeous girls. We said we didn't go back to strange men's houses but we would let him stroke our bottoms there on the street.

Well, the three of us got quite carried away and he began to suck on my titty, which was actually an orange! Then he bit it and juice came out. He was surprised and told me I should be at home feeding the baby.

Then we flashed our cocks and he vomited right there in front of us. Dreadful.

This really happened. Or did it?

Decorating

My lounge is in an awful state. Everything in it is vile. So I'm up for a refit. If I could I'd get this man in. He's turned his wee flat into some kind of baroque palace. Can I have it that way?

I hate to say it, but I think the television spoils the look.

Living in such opulent surroundings must make you want to look OTT and fabulous, surely - so why does the wife look like she's bereft of style? She looks like a complete lesbian. If I saw her, I'd shake her, strip of her of her clothes, put her in a feather dress and paint her with mountains of make-up. There's not much you could do with that awful dykey hair style (style?) so I'd have to invest in a wig. Something big and curly, like Dolly Parton in 9 to 5.

Oh, I'm so glad to get that off of my chest. It's been bothering me for seconds.

X

This is a photo of Cesar, my ex-boyfriend. He's the only ex-boyfriend of whom I still keep a photograph.

I loved him so dearly.

I couldn't believe someone as wonderful as him would be interested in someone like me. My disbelief brought our short romance to an end.

Having no confidence can begin a vicious cycle. He said he loved me, but I didn't quite believe it. The thing was, I really did feel it.

I wish I had a time machine. I'd go back and change everything.

Cha cha heels

I love these shoes - and they are original cha cha heels! I wanted them even more after I learned this! I want to be like Dawn Davenport. It's an obsession.

Really, though, aren't they beautiful shoes?

Gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme, gimme cha cha heels!

RIP Smash Hits

I've just heard that Smash Hits is to close, cease publication, die etc.

I'm gutted.

I used to love reading this magazine when I was a teenager. I'd spend nearly all of my pocket money on it and read it from cover to cover.

I used to think that this was the only magazine I'd ever need and would read it until the day I died. Sadly, that never happened and I bought my last copy sometime in the early 90s.

I'd be enthralled to read news about Pet Shop Boys, Sinitta, Dead Or Alive, Kylie Minogue, Bananarama, Madonna, Tiffany, Debbie Gibson... All the pop greats!

I used to love to read the record reviews - though I hated the week Heart by Pet Shop Boys was reviewed. Erasure said it was the best of a bad bunch, the jealous cunts. I also adored the contributions of Mark Frith, now editor of Heat magazine. Is this why the mag is closing? Have all us teeny-boppers moved on? Are we now obsessed more with celebrity than with music?

Remember Black Type!?

I must have written in to the letters page at least one hundred times, but never got published. :(

Of course, one of my idols, Neil Tennant, worked there in the early 80s.

I remember the day they printed a small farewell to a Smash Hits journalist called Neil Tennant, which derided him for calling his band something stupid like Pet Shop Boys and claiming he'd be back within six months.

Will Smash Hits ever be back, back, back, etc?

Records

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

Talking With Myself (Canny Dub) - Electribe 101
The Ladies Who Lunch - Elaine Stritch
Try It (I'm In Love With A Married Man) - Oh Romeo
He Was A Friend Of Mine - Willie Nelson
Turn It Into Love - Kylie Minogue
Female Trouble (Radio Version) - Edith Massey/Thunderpuss
Inside Out - Culture Beat
I Don't Want To Say Goodbye - Teddy Thompson
La Vie En Rose - Grace Jones
Porno Graphique - Mylène Farmer

World's biggest penis

I've just been watching a programme on Channel Four called The World's Biggest Penis.

No-one could mistake it for an educational film, nor its opposite: wank fodder. It was weak, derisory and a poor excuse for journalism. It was, however, mildly entertaining, even if it made the viewer nauseatingly uncomfortable.

The general idea of the programme was to parade men with large cocks in front of the camera, only for you to feel sorry for them. The narrator was a woman, and probably, the film-maker too. Revenge of the feminist? I wouldn't like to make a judgment.

The men were, in all cases, unhappy. Men with large cocks were seen attesting that they could not have proper sex, full penetration, had erectile dysfunction, were made fun of, treated as commodities and life, in general, was tough. I nearly said hard then, but thought better of it.

The programme was largely devoted to Jonah Falcon. See the photograph, above. He's not in such good shape these days, has gained a lot of weight and seemed pretty nervous.

All these men, Jonah included, complained they were treated as nothing more than meat by society, yet loved to show off their impressive size given any opportunity. Jonah complained at the constant attention he was given because of his cock, reminding the viewer that there was more to him than that, yet saw fit to walk the streets of New York in very tight golden lycra pants.

With porn more and more accessible these days and the only visible cocks at least ten inches long, how do even above average men feel when seeing a guy with a massive wanger? Why do guys want to have a massive cock when it clearly brings such misery? To feel that they can better satisfy their partner? I don't think so. I think men want to have a big one simply because of the attention and adulation it brings.

With power comes responsibility. With a big cock comes attention. Be careful what you wish for. There's more to you than your genitals.

Horizon

How do you see beyond the horizon when all in front of you is fog?

How do you walk the yellow brick road when all the streets are filthy?

How do you take heart when there isn't one to be given?

True or false?

When I was a young man, I went out with a bisexual bloke. He didn't tell me he was bisexual. Well, he did, but only because I came in and found him groping my Mother.

I was sickened. Know what I did? I put a large trout in a jiffy bag and posted it to him, second class! Of course, the three days it was in the postal system gave it plenty of chance to get warm and start to stink. I wish I could have been there in his hall as he opened up the package.

Bastard.

Woman

I'm not sure if I'd rather be a woman or not. Sure, I could write about some incredibly interesting things that have happened to me, when my period started, if I missed my period, the weight of my breasts, whether or not to have a perm, how pissed off I was for getting paid less than my male counterpart at work, my aching to get spitroasted or have a DP... But does all this make me a misogynist?

I don't think so.

Life might not be as easy for women as it is for men, but it sure as hell is a lot more interesting.

When choosing new clothes for work, men have basically two options: double breasted suit or not (and I'd always say, "Not!") and which colour. How interesting is that? A woman can wear practically anything to an office, as long as she looks business-like, even a boob tube! I'd love to wear a boob tube! And my blog would be far more interesting if I did.

I wish I could be telling you now that my period is three days late and I'm worried I might be pregnant, moreover, I don't know who the Father is - also that the child could be born black, brown or white. But I can't.

I'm a man, albeit a gay man. Does this make my gender dull? What makes a woman more interesting? It can't be her desire for cock, for if it did, I would be interesting, too. I think women are more interesting than men because they're more mysterious. Men have the habit of laying their lives out on the table for all too see, whereas women keep a little bit back, they're more enigmatic.

But why be enigmatic?

Is it shame? Why does a woman not speak with everyone about having lots of sex, and if she does, why is she a slut, when if she were a man, she'd be a stud? Why would missing my period, if I were a woman, be a thing to be ashamed of?

I think I do wish I was a woman. It would be the best way to understand them.

I still think I sound like a misogynist, but I'm not. Promise.

Haiku

I recently saw Memoirs Of A Geisha at the cinema. I was a little disappointed. The book is much better. However, at the end, Sayuri (Chiyo) says, and I paraphrase: "The heart dies a long, slow and painful death. Like a tree shedding its leaves, leaf after leaf, the heart sheds its hopes, hope after hope, until there is nothing left."

I thought this was a beautifully sad sentiment and wondered how to turn it into a haiku. I came up with this:

Hearts die a slow death
Hopes shed, as a tree sheds leaves:
Baron; all is ice

Then I got on a roll and made up some others. Some of them are rubbish, but I've left them in anyway.

I know loneliness
As does the last autumn leaf;
Lonely, together

I see loneliness
In the last leaf on my tree;
We are not alone

Walking on thin ice
Heavy burdens weigh me down;
Ice cracks and I die

You left me alone
My world has come to an end -
But summer still comes

Oversensitive;
I feel cactus spikes, bee stings
Alas, not your love

Standing in the dark
I can't even see myself;
But I see your void

Icy winter nights
Are tempered by your presence;
This summer was cold

Summer follows spring
And just as absolutely...
I will follow you

Autumn crane flies die
When children pull off their wings
You took my wings; death

Now that you have gone
I only talk with myself;
I say: I hate you

You said you loved me -
Just like the Venus-Fly-Trap
Welcomes a wee fly

The long winter nights
Mean I have longer to dream;
More time for nightmares

Keep your icy heart;
But take me, I beg of you
Lock, stock and barrel

I'm always dreaming
Of how I can get you back;
A valentine card?

It was Christmas day
You were gone and I was sad;
Next year I want you