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...My Mum took me on the train.
My Mum took me up to London.
Three stages of locomotive excitement.
And Phyllis manages to remain calm. How does he do it? I'd love to know. Wouldn't you, dear reader?
Women In Black make a silent protest, just off of Trafalgar Square, about the unwarranted punishment of Lebanese civilians.
I meditate, in the street, for all over two seconds. I've no patience.
We went into Trafalgar Square (several times) and Phyllis was happy.
In tribute to Kids In The Hall (my niece and I used to watch it). I squidge your head. Shame the picture didn't work out.
We met up with my twin sister, Robin. See, we really are twins. We even have matching hair.
We went out with Robin for a pizza. Instead of staying in the same restaurant for our dessert, we minced over to Old Compton Street and devoured some gay goodies.
Here is a close up. I love brown - but this does not make me a scat queen.
After the dessert, we went to a gay bar.
We had lots to do the next day. We started early at Piccadilly Circus. Just round the corner, on Regent Street is the Apple shop.
The Apple Shop is fabulous. All the computers are online. An employee there told Ian that it's London's busiest cyber café - and it's free!
We had a wee browse, looked at a few machines, iPods and other things, Ian took a look at my blog and I took a look at his. Then we took pictures of ourselves with the built in camera in the new iMac and uploaded them onto our blogs. It was totally fabulous.
Ian changed the background image on one of the iMacs from a boring solid block of blue to a fabulous photograph of himself on his fortieth birthday with wee Mary.
After this, we went to the Japan Travel Centre and booked our Japan Rail Passes.
We went on a bus. It was red. All the other buses were red, too.
Back in Trafalgar Square.
I adored these Hindu monks - at least, I think that they were Monks. Their clothing blew my mind, a fabulous shade of orange. Also, most of their bellies were on display. Look at the guy, above, folding his arms. See: belly.
Doesn't Ian have nice teeth?
There's no love, like the future, love.
Come with me.
We went to Brown's for lunch, going via a map store (so Ian might indulge his obsession). En route, we passed the theatre which is staging Avenue Q. I thought of Brian.
I like to go to Parliament Square. We walked there from Trafalgar Square, passing Downing Street. Tony wasn't at home.
Big Ben is actually the name of the largest bell inside Saint Stephen's Tower. I'm full of useless information.
On our way from Parliament Square to our hotel, we passed the London Eye. We didn't go in it.
I like to pull a face from time to time.
Ian likes to pull a face, too.
Just one kiss on my lips was all it took to seal the future. Just one look from your eyes was like a certain kind of torture. Once upon a time, there was a boy.
On my return to the hotel, I found I'd left my mobile telephone on the bed. Gggrrr. I wondered my I hadn't been getting any telephone calls or text messages. How can anyone call me every five minutes when I don't have the damned telephone on me? There were loads of text messages and voicemails waiting for me. My biggest regret was not receiving a text in time from China Blue to meet her. I had a couple of texts from David and a voicemail about meeting him later at the Madonna concert.
Exciting!
Nice to see Our Glorious Leader!
I'm sorry, dear reader. The rest of the photographs were taken using my mobile telephone. Obviously, it's not as good as a proper camera, which I didn't want to take in case I wasn't allowed into Our Glorious Leader's concert.
To make matters worse, it appears I have vaseline on the lens.
Our Glorious Leader was the first star to have her handprints placed in Fame Square. Into which Phyllis placed his own.
As did Minge.
Once inside Wembley Arena, we met up with Northolt Dave.
The concert was fabulous. I took only one photograph on my mobile telephone and then gave up. See above. The quality was beyond awful.
However...
The concert was beyond fabulous!
My favourite parts were:
Future Lovers (during which Our Glorious Leader lauched into I Feel Love)
I Love New York (she said fuck and invited the audience to suck George W Bush's dick)
Music/Disco Inferno
La Isla Bonita
Lucky Star
Like A Virgin
and
Hung Up
Many golden balloons were released from the roof of the arena during the final song, Hung Up. I was not lucky enough to get one, but the lady in the photograph above, was. I asked her if, for my blog, I might take her photograph. She kindly said yes. First of all, she thought I was going to ask her for her balloon. I wouldn't have dared! She said she'd already been offered fifty pounds for it. I would have taken the money.
Our Glorious Leader is in Rome tonight. All the Catholics are apparently offended that she's up on a cross. I'm offended that they say I'll be going to hell. I'm offended that they sentence millions of Africans to death each year by telling them that they will also go to hell if they use a condom. I'm also digusted that the Pope doesn't do as Jesus asked, give up his possessions and follow him. How rich is the Catholic church, actually, and how many poor people could be fed, clothed and watered if they sold off all their priceless artworks, land and artefacts?
My Mum took me up to London...
...And brought me home again.
Anyone remember those fabulous old BR adverts?
Well, dear reader, it seems like it's been a long, long time since my last blog entry.
A lot's been happening:
We went to London
We saw Our Glorious Leader
We've been to the festival parade
and
I've done some painting.
I aim to blog about these topics - any minute now.
I'd better get on with it, I suppose...
...At Fib Sunday time, we let in light and we banish shade.
If you don't know how to play, dear reader, click here.
Last week, the ever fabulous Brian left us with the topic of My undead paramour. My reply:
Cold,
Blue;
Undead.
My zombie -
I can break his heart.
It won't matter as it's rotten.
Next topic:
Gnarls Barkley
It's Saturday, dear reader.
You know what to do.
Click here.
Ok, I lied. My Madonna blog entry wasn't the last for a while, but this one will be, I promise.
I'd like you, dear reader, to do something for Minge...
A while ago, I copied one of Brett's outrageous ideas and I'd like to repeat that fabulous experiment. This is how it goes:
While I'm away, please think of a question or two which you'd like me to answer. I promise to answer each one on my return. No topic, you can ask whatever you like. I will give a full and frank response to each. Well, I might not. If it's totally vile, I might give a, "No comment."
Please leave your questions in the comments section.
We're getting the train to London at lunchtime tomorrow. See you on Friday, hopefully! If you don't hear from me by Saturday, I expect the train will have crashed and we'll be dead.
This will be my last post for a few days.
Phyllis and I are going on a pilgrimage to London to see Our Glorious Leader, live in concert on Thursday. Sadly, we're right at the back. Block D3, row 4, seats 37 and 38.
If you're also going to be there, dear reader, send me a text or something and we can hook up: 07841 831579.
I'm going to get over excited and probably wet my pants. But it will all be worth it. I hope we get to see her hands.
See you on the weekend.
Oh my God! Can anyone lend me some money? Cher is having an auction!
I want:
wigs
dresses
shoes
gloves
handbags
belts
chairs
photographs
paintings
ear rings
Help!
Today is Yorkshire day.
Why do people from Yorkshire think so much of themselves?
All of my family, at some point or another, have been afraid of my Father, usually because of his physical violence.
My Mother's fear ended, simply because, as the years rolled by, she got used to him raising a hand to her. My older brother's fear waned as he grew in years and in strength. In the end, my Father, hereafter known as the old man, was afraid of him.
My fear of the old man ended, dear reader, when I began to see him as a joke.
When I was a child, I suffered with a form of hemolytic anemia. This meant my blood wouldn't clot and I was generally a sickly child. I nearly died when I was two years old. Mum kept me alive on slices of mars bar and ice cubes. But I digress... My condition meant that every time the old man raised his had (or fist) to me, he generally put it back down again. I was not afraid of his violence, more the threat of it and witnessing his physical attacks on others.
During the final few years of his life with us, I began to see a very sad man emerge from a life of hate. He hated other people and people hated him. There was no love in the air. I also saw a hypocrite. I can give two examples, experiences my sister had with him:
With a cigarette in his hand, he told her only idiots smoked.
Whilst having an extra marital affair, he refused to let my Mum take my sister to the GP and put her on the birth control pill.
How can anyone expect to be taken seriously when they carry on like that?
Now, in my thirties, I have no time for people who take the moral highground or set themselves up as sometheing special, something better than me, who, secretly or otherwise, do things as bad as me, or, indeed, worse. These people are fools, and I don't suffer fools gladly, though I wish I did.
I'd like to think I'm not a judgemental person, though it seems that this is exactly what I am.
Nobody's perfect.
I've been in touch with a lot of my old school friends, all thanks to Friends Reunited.
We've been asking each other what we really thought of one another back then.
I've heard:
"I didn't think you liked me."
"You were naughty."
"You were a snob."
"I was too shy to speak to you, although I wanted to be your friend."
"You were into poetry and politics. I didn't understand it and I thought you'd think I was stupid."
"You never wanted to go out after school. Why?"
So I hear these things, but I'm still not sure what people make of me. I guess they knew, early on, as I did, that I wasn't like other boys. Not just because I was gay, but because of everything that comes along with that. The aversion to football, the joy of cooking and prefering to hang out with girls.
I often hear people say, "There's more to me than my sexuality!" Sure, but if you went to the Freud school of thought, we're all sexual beings and everything about us stems from our sexuality. Being gay is what I am. I do gay things. I sleep with men. I don't like F1 racing cars. If that means straight men, who do like F1 racing cars and the only cooking they do is burning cheap sausages on the barbequeue don't understand me, what am I supposed to do? Try to make them understand me or just leave it by the wayside? Straight women and girls also, I think, didn't have a very firm grip on me or understood what I was all about. They couldn't relate to me, although I was more like them than the other boys, because I didn't display the usual straight characteristics they saw in other boys.
I think, though, even if I was straight, I'd still not be like all the other boys. I hate to be part of the herd, one of the crowd. I think, no matter what I was, I'd go through life being minunderstood.
Phyllis was forty on Sunday...
I got up at eight o'clock, which was very early for Minge. Phyllis stayed in bed while I prepared a breakfast for him in the kitchen. He loves a bacon sandwich with brown sauce, so that's what he got, along with a cup of tea and some grapefruit juice. Nothing fancy, just something he likes. If there's any day for indulging yourself, dear reader, surely it's on your birthday?
I made him eat it up as quickly as he could and get a shower in while I took the dogs out to do a quick tiddle. When I came back, Ian was downstairs and ready to unwrap his birthday presents.
I get very excited over the unwrapping of gifts. I whoop and cheer with gay abandon. I'm such a child.
Then came the ceremony of the birthday peg. I think we were gypsies in a former life. Whatever the celebration, we attach a peg to ourselves and, should it be Christmas, we say, "Christmas peg." If it's Easter, we say, "Easter peg." You get the idea.
After the peg ceremony, I went into the kitchen to knock up a sponge cake. I tried a slight variant on the usual Victoria Sponge. Still using six ounces of everything, I tried an Italian twist. I scraped the seeds out from a vanilla pod and put them in with the other ingredients, popped the pod into a quarter cup of double cream and reduced it by half, after which, I added a few drops of balsamic vinegar. The cream thickened as if about to curdle. I then added this to the rest of the ingredients along with a couple of teaspoons of baking powder and proceeded with the all in one method.
The cake was a success. We had an eighth each before heading out for the birthday picnic on Braid Hill.
I love picnics, chiefly, I'm sure, because they're so rare, and rare because of our infamous wet Scottish weather. If they happened every day, they'd be quite dull. I don't like dull. To add to the fabulousness, we had a bottle of Chanoine Frères Tsarine pink champagne. We ate a selection of salads and Ian seemed to enjoy the smoked salmon and cream cheese sandwiches I'd also prepared.
It was a very nice day, weather wise, albeit for the odd grey cloud. Nice in the sunshine, though.
I got quite drunk and nodded off for a few seconds.
The dogs chose to hide from the sun in the shadow of the information point on top of the hill, about fifteen meters from where we sat on the grassy bank.
Then the sun went behind a massive cloud and it turned chilly. Time to go home.
Later on, we headed out, down the road for the bus. We took the number 11 to Toll Cross and to a wee Japanese restaurant called Izzi.
Phyllis loves the bus.
We had a delicious meal, but, as usual, couldn't eat it all.
See that woman in the mauve skirt over Ian's shoulder? She was eating alone. I've never seen anyone eat so fast. She loved the food. But of course, eating on your own is no fun. There is no conversation and the food is eaten in a hurry. But! Once she'd finished, she started talking to the couple sat on the table next to us. She yacked and yacked and yacked, telling those poor people her life story! The male in the filthy hetero stink shit couple had his back to her and continually rolled his eyes. Poor chap.
Still, he was dressed like a tramp, so, im my eyes, he deserved it. His poor wife/girlfriend did, too. She was drinking beer out of the bottle for Christ's sake. Has she never heard of a glass? I'm surprised they didn't ask for chips with their chicken teppanyaki. Philistines!
