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Monday, June 30, 2003
You Have To Understand The Way I Am, Mein Herr…
Just limped into N7 after five days and nights in Prussia, and you expect me to blog straight away about the annual Christopher Street Day hi-jinks in Berlin? Well, shan't. Largely because I can't construct sentences at the moment. So here's a few figures to be going on with: Number of hours spent walking the streets of Berlin for Acceptance Instead Of Tolerance of gay men and lesbians on Saturday afternoon: 4 and a bit Average temperature: 29 degrees Number of blisters on my feet: 2 to the right, 4 to the left Approximate number of bottles of Schultheiss consumed over the past five days: 40 Approximate number of bottles of Sekt shared at the post-march bash with people I will never meet again: 9 Don't ask about the vodka Number of like-minded people marching and dancing with me on the day: 599,999 That's right. More. Than. Half. A. Bloody. Million. Number of hours of sleep lost: 20 (at least) Number of insect bites received: 8 Number of total strangers kissed in not entirely unrelated incidents: 8 Number of people I assured were my best friend, no Liebchen you really, really, really are: 5 Number of these people whose names I can now remember: 0 Number of bars visited: you really do not want to know More to come, but, for now, my dears, I'm to bed. Thursday, June 26, 2003
Put Down The Knitting, The Blog And The Broom
Arrived at sun-up this morning for Berlin's twenty-fifth Christopher Street Day celebrations. It's the only Pride event in Europe which still gets called a demo rather than a namby-pampy parade and climaxes (ahem) in a dance party for the odd half-million in the Tiergarten park. This year we're marching for Acceptance Rather Than Tolerance, and show tunes and free feather-boas for all. I'll be back on Monday, my dears, and then I'll tell you stories. Macht's recht gut, meine Lieblinge, und bis Monntag. Tuesday, June 24, 2003
Radio Blog
If you missed it, there was a brief piece on blogging at 08h25 on this morning's Radio Four Today programme. If the above link's broken, try the main site - they archive things for up to a week. There, my dears. That'll teach you not to tune into Radio Four in the mornings, won't it?
Shower Talk
Passing remark made to me in the showers by a total stranger this morning: "So, do you do musicals? Or just Sondheim?" Whoops, my dears. I think I've just been rumbled... Monday, June 23, 2003
Words. Words, Words
I miss the Charing Cross Road, that thoroughfare which runs up from London's Trafalgar Square to Oxford Street. Once upon a time, you could buy any book you wanted there. Why, they even made a film about it. Not so very long ago, if you wanted the latest best-seller, you'd pop into that upstart, Waterstone's, and wind up leaving with a choice bit of literature under your arm, as well as that best-seller. That quirky unheard-of volume recommended (sometimes invisibly) by one of the enthusiastic new-to-London youngsters at Books Etc. ("You will absolutely adore this, sir, I guarantee it, and, if you don't, then you can come back here and spit in my eye.")? No problem. That forgotten classic you half-remember reading as a kid? Bound to be a second-hand copy in the parade of shabby shops between Litchfield and Newport Streets. And for the ladies (and their ladies) there's Silver Moon, and Collets will take care of the Leningrad Lefties. The arty ones have got Zwemmer's (three of 'em). For the homos there's that seedy little shop by the Hippodrome which sells poppers as well, and the Anoraks love the Fantasy Inn (you can hang the anorak up in the basement if you're into that other kind of Fantasy, sir). Round the corner in tiny Cecil Court, the prima ballerinas will glissade towards Dance Books, and might even dip into that joint which only sells first-editons, as well as the Italian libreria, and that funny New Age place. And, if you can't find what you wanted in any of these places then you'll just have to brave the book-world's very own Eva Peron, purple-haired Christina Foyle, demanding you hand over your purchase to the foreign holiday-worker who can't speaka de Engleesh, and who then writes you out a chit, which you then have to take over to a separate cashpoint (no cheques, no credit cards) to pay and get the chit stamped, before returning to the place you originally came from to collect your tattered tome of Anglo-Saxon poetry. Foyle's is still there, with one branch of Zwemmer's still hanging on for grim life, and a Borders, but the Charing Cross Road, like so much of London, has now been Starbucked, and is rapidly descending into one more homogenised blob of coffee-chains, greasy Italian restaurants, naff and leery bars (both gay and straight), and second-hand bag shops. And, if you want the culprit, look no further than the local Westminster Council who are hiking up the leases of these properties until no half-way individual business of character can even afford to trade and make money there any more. And 84 Charing Cross Road, the former bookshop and address which inspired a heart-warming correspondence and love story, and later movie, between two book-lovers, is now an All Bar One. Don't we love and appreciate books anymore? Saturday, June 21, 2003
Magic Moments
Today, I might choose to join my chums beyond the wardrobe in a world populated by eccentric magicians, fantastic creatures and an evil from the dawn of time. Or just stay in school and take the piss out of Sigismund, Grimes and Kurdling. Or Lyra and me, well, we might peer through an amber spyglass, or take a hike beyond the Misty Mountains to help fight the dragon, or journey over sea and under stone with Great-Uncle Merry. And if I want to know about teenage love, and coming to terms with death, then what better excuse for a day at the seaside with Hal Robinson? And, if I dare to be scared, then there's always the Ladies at Whitby. I also hear that Kirrin Island is somewhere around those parts, so, golly, there'll be adventures galore for everyone! Or what about going even further afield with Mrs Whosit, Mrs Whatsit and Mrs Which in search of Charles Wallace? What I will not be doing, and especially today, is reading even one insipid, uninspiring, fifth-rate, derivative, manipulative, over-hyped, word-processed and manufactured sentence by That Woman. Hogwarts? Hogwash, more like. Thursday, June 19, 2003
Guilty
Rather than go to the Y to work-out alongside my fellow self-obsessed, mid-life-crisis Marys, I opted for a lie-in this morning. (Steady on, Stranger! Slippery slope and all that!) So at 7 a.m. I slipped gracefully (but manfully) out from under my duvet (Jasper Conran) and into my bathrobe (Calvin Klein), before taking a soak (long and leisurely) with some essential oils (Body Shop). After which, I wafted (magnificently) over into my kitchen (well-appointed), to make a cup of freshly-ground coffee (Ethiopian Java). There I sliced a warmed olive ciabatta (Euphorium bakery), onto which I arranged (artfully) cubes of feta cheese (local farmer's market). I then reached for a jar of honey (finest Australian), and drizzled it sparingly onto said feta. And it was with that final, sparing drizzle onto said feta, my dears, that I realised with a sigh that yes, your Invisible Stranger is really nothing more than a label-crazy, and oh-so-wonderfully shallow, Islington Queen. Wednesday, June 18, 2003
Culture On The Cheap
At the National Theatre last night to catch up on His Girl Friday. It’s a take on the classic newspaper comedy starring Cary Grant and Ros Russell, which was, in its turn, a take on the Broadway hit, The Front Page. The press reviews have been overwhelmingly positive, proving there's nothing journalists like more than giving themselves and their profession good copy. In fact, the first act is a clunker, ponderous and only mildly amusing as its sets a back-story of city-hall corruption in 1930s Chicago. Things get pacier in the second half, when we headline the efforts of cynical editor, Walter Burns (Alex Jennings), to smooth-talk his ex-wife, wise-cracking star reporter, Hildy Johnson (a scene-stealingly sexy Zoë Wanamaker) back into both his life and the newspaper business. It's the on-stage snap-crackle-pop of their will-they-won't-they relationship which catapults the production above the so-so, as well as providing some great farcical moments as our two hardened hacks realise they're about to nab the scoop of the year. ("I don't care about Germany invading Poland! This is bigger!") But best of all is the fact that over two-thirds of the seats in the National's Olivier Theatre will knock you back just ten quid, with the remainder going for 25GBP. This is part of a welcome initiative to get bums different to your average well-off, middle-class, Prada-wearing ones onto theatre seats. And about bloody time too. You can already see an acclaimed modern-day version of Henry V here for a tenner, and next month there's the chance to see Kenneth Branagh in his National Theatre debut. (If you do drop by, just remember to switch off the Nokia before the show starts. You really don't want to be on the receiving end of what I had to tell the man two seats down from me who hadn't silenced his. Trust me on this one, my dears. You really do not.) Tuesday, June 17, 2003
Downstairs At Eric's
Every now and then, for old time's sake, I pull on a tight black tee bearing the name of a live-music venue where I used to hang out back when I was a student. Twenty-three years on, I'm chuffed it still fits. At these times I'm invariably approached by a total stranger, who recognises the name and logo across my chest. It's usually a bloke in his early-forties, and, although he might have lived down south for half his life, his Scouse accent comes as no surprise. And then, at the drop of a safety-pin, two men, who should know better, grow misty-eyed with memories of a tatty old basement in Liverpool, across the road from the site of the original Cavern; a dark subterranean den which let you in for less than a quid, and where the manky juke-box blared out the choicest three-chord 45s you'd ever hear; and which sold Snakebites in plastic glasses because sometime during the night you were honour-bound to chuck them at whichever act was on-stage at the time. For four years, legendary Liverpool club Eric's dominated my nights. The venue opened just fifteen hours before I arrived at University; it closed its doors for good, two months before my Finals. But though a fair number of students did pogo on down its rickety stairs, it never was a student joint. It made its name as a punk and new-wave venue, back in that glue-sniffing, pill-popping summer when Rotten and Vicious were Saving the Queen, and the Pistols were one of the first bands to perform there. But in the end what it was really about was good old-fashioned rock 'n' roll. Such was the club's reputation that, though it could hold barely a couple of hundred, even big-name bands felt obliged to come along and play their best on the cramped, lager-flooded stage. I remember catching the Fall and Siouxsie and the Clash and the Ramones and Buzzcocks there, as well as X-Ray Spex, Wayne County and, of course, Those Naughty Lumps, and the Sausages from Mars (featuring Holly Johnson); but missed out on the Damned and OMD, the Boomtown Rats, the Police and - believe it or not - Dire Straits. But the real stars weren't the big-name bands, but the Eric's kids themselves, a dysfunctional yet readily-accepting family of wasters and scoundrels, angels and devils, hard-as-nails scallies with home-made tattoos, and beautiful shaven-haired girls - as well as student tossers like me, trying to be punks two years too late. Wannabe stars, every single one of 'em. (Some of them made it too – The Teardrop Explodes, Echo and the Bunnymen, and Wah! Heat, to name just three.) It was a place where, when Steve Jones and Paul Cook ("the two boring Sex Pistols," as Eric's manager described them to me) turned up for a drink, we all did our best to ignore them, on the grounds they were just too straight. It's hard now to imagine what a club like Eric's meant back then. In the 70s, along with what seemed the rest of the broken-down city, Merseyside teenagers were on the dole, with a Thatcher government practically a dead cert. They had no job, no prospects, no future; all they had was Eric's. Just as with the first Merseybeat explosion in the 60s, music was what would define them, and give them an identity. Eric's was their club, their living-room, their play-pen and recording studio all rolled into one. And which is why fortysomething men still accost me on the street and ask me to name my price for my Eric's tee-shirt. And which is why I'm never going to sell it. Sunday, June 15, 2003
Help
I was going to talk about Speed and Snakebites and the Sex Pistols today, but it's too hot to blog, and I've had too many Stellas already, so instead I'm going to ask a favour. Would someone please tell me how to get listed on the Updated UK Blogs thing? Along with several others, I've already been told off by the Guv'nor for not listing my details, and I do so want to be good. But, after entering my name, blog-title, E-mail address, and URL, even my RSS feed (whatever that may be), for at least five times over the past three months with no results whatsoever, I'm turning into a very Grumpy Stranger indeed. Any suggestions gratefully received. I don't like being ignored, and this is doing my head in. I also ought to add that I have never handled rejection very well. If they don't list me soon, things will get messy. Saturday, June 14, 2003
Sex!
As a kid I went to the local Catholic comp. It was co-educational, of course, and, looking back, it did its very best to be forward-looking, even if most of my teachers were seriously backward. We were one of the first schools in the area to have sex-education lessons. They even showed us a film about how bunny-rabbits were made, and encouraged us to discuss the topic with our parents. When I asked my mum where baby boys came from, and, sensing her uncertainty, suggested you could buy them over the counter at Woolworth's, she was more than happy to agree with me. The highlight of the sex-education lessons was the question-and-answer session. To save our embarrassment, we could write our questions on a piece of paper and pop them into a cardboard box, to be read out and answered by our (female) sex-education teacher at the end of the period. Of course, the girls put in boring questions about love and families and soppy stuff like that. We boys delighted in asking really important questions about pubic hair, and knob size, and how many times you could come in an hour. We also asked about poofters who, apparently, were sad, older gentlemen to feel sorry for, and you had to pray for them, because it wasn't their fault, and, anyway, it was probably a passing phase but, boys, if you're really, really concerned that you might be One Of Them, then go along the corridor and talk to Father Cartmell because it's one of his favourite subjects. We once asked her about masturbation. Well, she huffed and she puffed, and folded her arms and rested them on her enormous breasts, but, to her credit, she did answer the question (after she'd warned the girls this was something they might not want to hear, as it didn't concern them). It was Evil, of course, you'd go right to Hell for it, but a couple of dozen Hail Mary's and a session with Father Cartmell might just help. This was pre-AIDS so, when she was quizzed about STDs, or VD as it was called back then, all she would say is this was something you should see the doctor (and not Father Cartmell) about, because you caught it from "dirty people". For years afterwards I thought that just shaking hands with the chimney-sweep (yes, we still had chimney-sweeps in the Olden Days) would result in me contracting tertiary syphilis. Is it any wonder that for years I was so screwed-up about sex? (Oh, by the way, did I mention that Sister Gabriella-Mary, our sex-education teacher, was a Carmelite nun?) Friday, June 13, 2003
On The Buses
"Yeah, the best, they are, the business. Jump on and off when you want, where you want… Oldest in the garage? Beautiful suspension though. And still quicker than them crap new 'uns, they're bringing in… I mean, they say they're fast, but they hold everything up, don't they?… Like, this bird's been gabbing in the queue for, what, half an hour, and she still ain't got her bleedin' pass out. Or the driver's got to get her change for a tenner. A tenner, would you credit it?… "And these ones, well, they're farkin' safe too, aren't they, what with a conductor and all that, I mean, I wouldn't want my Nan to ride nothing else late at night… You know, giving up the buses was the worst thing I ever did. How long you been workin' then? Won't be another ten, I'll tell you that. European dee-rec-tives an' all that. Born with the buses, I was. Never thought I'd see 'em out…" Riding the 390 into town this morning, I had constantly to turn around to check that the grizzled former conductor lamenting the eventual phasing-out of the London classic hop-on hop-off Routemaster bus was not, in fact, me. Thursday, June 12, 2003
Cocktails At Eight
Last night I met up with a friend from my former clubbing days. He's quite a few years younger than me, the one who, when we first met in the coffee bar at Trade, asked me: "So, Stranger, tell me about the London scene in the Olden Days." Amazingly, we still talk to each other. (And one day I might even talk about those "Olden Days" as well.) We arranged to meet in the G.A.Y bar, on Old Compton Street, on the grounds I needed somewhere to sit down. It’s a huge place, decorated a migraine-inducing fluorescent orange, popular with fresh-faced, just-out-of-school, up-for-it punters who pack it nightly, no doubt drawn by the connoisseur range of alcopops, and the fact the bar sells Mars Bars and tubes of Smarties. Some of these young puppies probably haven't started shaving yet, and neither they, nor their female hangers-on, seem to hold down jobs. Who'd employ anyone with that dress-sense anyway? Baggy bumless parachute-trousers with straps and chains and things hanging and flapping from them; trainers stacked so high they get vertigo wiggling on over to the bar for the next Bacardi Breezer. (And no, I am not being an old fart either; I was young too. Once. And New Romantics never looked that silly.) The walls are lined with plasma screens blasting out the latest pop promos of bands of young people whose faces I don't recognise, and whose songs I'm sure I heard Bananarama singing years ago. I might add the music was so deafening that after the first Smirnoff Ice I insisted we move on. Next stop was a smooth and airy lounge-bar just round the corner. "Gay-mixed", this one, therefore still nelly enough for me, but less noisily so or in-yer-face. Here people "doing drinks" were dressed sensibly - DKNY and Diesel for the media-boyz, Nigel Hall or Paul Smith for the ad-whores, why, I think I even spotted an unstructured Armani although it was probably just a two-piece from Next. And instead of Mars Bars, we could opt to choose from an à la carte menu, and even have the over-priced cocktails brought to our table by charmingly inept bar-staff. It was all so much more mature and, well, sophisticated, compared to the poptastic partying back at the crèche, my darlings. And, as I sipped my third cocktail, I realised I'd been tapping my feet on the parquet to Perry Como and "Magic Moments", not to mention lip-synching to Dionne's "I Say A Little Prayer", for the last hour and a half. So, I think it’s finally time to admit, my dears, that your Invisible Stranger might just be tottering over into that dark and terrifying abyss known only as an utterly pretentious Middle Age. And I'm going down screaming, I'll have you know, with a whisky sour in my hand.
Two Out Of Three Ain't Bad
You've had a Great Workout! But what about your Hair! Win a Free! Hair! Make-Over! (1 for the Guys! 2 for the Girls!) Given that most of the men at my gym boast crops no greater than a Number 2, I suspect at least one-third of that prize will remain unclaimed... Wednesday, June 11, 2003
Diff'rent Strokes
Have I missed something here? Has some major celebrity suddenly endorsed the backstroke as the swimming style of the season? For, out of approximately twenty people in the pool this morning, at least half were doing that particular stroke. Not only that: they were doing it in my lane. Look, my dears, don't you all realise this is the most ungraceful of all strokes? More importantly, it’s also the slowest, which means either you're holding me up, or I'm forced to overtake. And, as you're unable to see where you're so inelegantly going, chances are you'll smash your head against the poolside. Or, as was repeatedly demonstrated this morning, collide into me. And, as for attaining that classic 'V'-shape for the summer, may I remind you that, aerobically, this is the least effective of all the major strokes. And may I also point out that, while Ian Thorpe has a swimmer's body, so does a walrus. And a final word to you ladies of a certain age. Yes, you all look so lovely and swan-like, gracefully holding your heads high above the surface, protecting your perfectly-coiffed hair from the nasty chlorinated water. However, dear ladies, if you are going swimming, you must expect to get your hair wet. Available at the information desk are some perfectly pleasant bathing caps decorated with pretty yellow flowers. Please make use of them. This may all seem trivial, but, at 7.30 this morning, for me it was the Beating of the Butterfly's Wing. Already I have pouted queenily, slammed shut my locker door, sneered at the city gent's purchase of the Sun in the newsagents, and politely and diplomatically informed a cycle courier that excuse me, mate, that red traffic-light f**king applies to you as well, you know. Given these escalating hostilities, I'd stay off Old Compton Street tonight, if I were you. I'm telling you, there'll be blood on the streets of Soho before the day is out. Don't say you haven't been warned. Tuesday, June 10, 2003
Elvis Ooh-Là-Là
One of the bars I drink in, let's call it the French Bar. It's a tiny, blink-and-you'll-miss-it place with a small but excellent wine list, and decent grub, hidden away in a side-street of London's Covent Garden. The place is stuck in a time-warp: empty bottles of Beaujolais '68 (a particularly bad year, by all accounts) swing from the ceiling; the framed and faded Time Out reviews by the mullioned windows date from the seventies; and no-one here has yet discovered a sensible use for Smirnoff Ice. It’s not the place you'd normally expect to find me. A large proportion of the clientele are macho, middle-aged French ex-pats, talking boules or rugby over interminable glasses of Ricard. Either that, or they're boorish big-bellied City Suits with even bigger expense accounts. There is, however, one small hard-core of wayward regulars, enjoying the wine, and holding out against the Suits and rugger buggers. These are actors and musicians, freelance photographers and writers, would-be "entrepreneurs" and cheeky Essex Wide-Boys, even the odd sozzled survivor from sixties Soho with stories to tell. Running into them here can be a refreshing antidote to some of the hung-up homo-haunts of nearby Old Compton Street. Like the song says, it really is good to have a bar "where everybody knows your name". It's even better when it's a bar where, when you're going through a lean patch, the staff let you run up a tab of a hundred or so, as long as you find the readies to pay by the end of the month, or there'll be trouble, mon ami. Because all of us here live our lives slightly at an angle to the respected "normality" of the bar's other customers, there's something of the Mutual Support and Networking Club about us. And it was in that spirit of Mutual Support that I found myself at an after-hours here over the weekend, watching, of all things, an Elvis Presley impersonator. Now, for me, the prospect of being shafted by a red-hot poker is infinitely more promising than listening to someone ape the voice and mannerisms of a man who last made a decent record in 1963. Even the kitsch value doesn't do it for me. But as this was the teenage son of one of our maverick lot, working for his Equity Card in front of a paying audience, there was a moral obligation to cough up our five-quid and go. And you know what? For someone who hadn't even been born when Presley died, he was actually very good, doing a better-than-decent cover of the Viva Las Vegas-era King, before he'd wolfed down one double cheese-burger too many. Dad was obviously pleased, and the Luvvies he'd invited were dancing on the tables, as Luvvies often do, and much to the bemusement of our little French chums, who'd probably have preferred to have seen Johnny Hallyday anyway. The kid needs to think about his act a bit more though. When you're playing to an audience of liberal-minded media-folk and non-saying Frenchmen, perhaps it's not such a wise move to have as your finale, a rip-roaring, flag-waving rendition of An American Trilogy… Sunday, June 08, 2003
Thank You
Just stumbled in from yesterday's Stellas and Thinks, which climaxed in me watching an Elvis impersonator in a subterranean French-speaking bar in London's Covent Garden at 1 a.m this morning (You don’t want to know about that. Oh, you do? Really? Well, I'll tell you later…), to realise that today is the third-month anniversary of Invisible Stranger. In case you haven't noticed, I'm having a ball. So loads of mwah-mwah-mwahs to the blog which got me interested in this nonsense in the first place (you know who you are), and to everyone else who has encouraged me, by reading, commenting, blog-rolling me, and even un-blog-rolling me (and you all know who you are as well). It truly does mean a lot to me, and is really appreciated. (Hey! Relax! Don't panic! I'll be back to my normal insincere self tomorrow.) Saturday, June 07, 2003
The Wonder Of Woolies
I've returned home, feeling ashamed of something I've just done. (No smutty thoughts, you lot at the back - I'm being serious for once.) Ashamed, because it’s something which goes against every single thing I believe in. And also because I did it without thinking. I was waiting to pay at Woolworth's, when two check-outs became free at the same time. One was staffed by a good-looking black girl, tightly-braided hair, luscious lips, cheekbones to murder your coke-dealer for. At the check-out nearest me was a perfectly pleasant but dumpy and pasty-faced girl with a skin problem, the sort you know stays in Saturday night gorging on Haagen-Dazs and dreaming of dating DiCaprio. Now, I don't even fancy girls, for God's sake, but guess which one I headed to? That's right. And while Lady Cheekbones sullenly took my dosh without even a "please" or "thank you", Little Miss Dumpy was all smiles and charm to her customer, cheerily wishing him a good weekend and even commenting positively on his purchases. Leaving Woolies, I knew which one I'd prefer to have as a friend. Which got me thinking: Am I really that unthinkingly superficial, pre-programmed by the media into what is, and isn't, an acceptable idea of female beauty? And that got me thinking even more (steady on now, Stranger!): Do I work out every day at the Y for my health's sake? Or to raise my self-esteem? To get laid? A combination of all three? Or just to conform to the Muscle Mary stereotype forced on me by Boyz and Gay Times and the rest of the fag-mags? Ooh, this is simply too much for a Saturday afternoon, so I'm heading off to the (straight) pub down the road for a Stella and think. And the next time I'm in Woolies, I know who I'm going to get to serve me. Friday, June 06, 2003
Fare Thee Well, My Own True Love
It was here I first kissed a boy, but cold-shouldered the handsome US post-grad with the enormous crush on me; and where I turned down a bit-part in Chariots of Fire because I was having too much fun doing other things. And where I attended my first illegal drinking den, to dance cheek-to-cheek with a pre-op transsexual while the gangster boyfriend looked on; where I ate my first dim sum, had my first funny cigarette, and learnt to like coffee. And football. And where I was a member of the In Crowd (though no-one told me at the time); and where I met Mary Whitehouse, the Sex Pistols, and Pete Wylie, but not all at once. Where I got drunk in the friendliest pubs and classiest gin joints in the world, closed down the local radio station, and thought Deaf School would take over the planet; and where I'd spend nights down by the river chatting to the old men of their long-past seafaring days. Where I was taught a valuable lesson in networking, and then forgot it; where I made friends I thought would be forever and whom I've never seen again; and where I learnt to lie. Where I fell in love with the honest people, their irreverent humour, the grand Victorian architecture and the vibrant culture. And where I made a promise to this city I loved, that, though our paths must part, I would always hold her dear in my heart. And that, yes, like the song said, one day when I returned, united we would be. Callous bastard that I am, it's only now that she's been made deservedly European Capital of Culture 2008 that I realise I haven't been back, or even thought of Liverpool, in fifteen years. Young love, eh? You never can trust it. Thursday, June 05, 2003
I'm A Neanderthal Man
One of the reasons I've never signed up for one of those Most of the questions pose no problem. Colour of eyes (blue). Body definition (good). Type I usually go for (pulse preferable, not essential). I can rush them off without thinking. And then comes the Big One. Hair-colour. Black? Definitely not. Blond? No. Grey? Do us a favour! Brown? Well, no, not exactly, er, I mean, you wouldn't really call it brown... Which leaves me with just the one dreaded alternative in the drop-down list. Red. Yes, that's right. Not auburn, or copper or strawberry blonde; not Titian, or russet or fuchsia; not even burgundy, or magenta or fawn. But red. Red, red, red. And we all know what that really means, don't we? Yes. That's right. Ginger. When I was small, I really was a ginger-headed leprechaun. Nowadays, my hair has matured into the colour of mulched autumn leaves (although with my new Compton Crop you'd never tell). But all the ginger insults still get lobbed my way - ginge, ginger-minger, copper-nob, traffic light, even carrot-top (which is actually green, but never mind). On a woman this hair-colouring is fine. With the exception of Cilla Black, red-headed women have always enjoyed a universal reputation for being desirable and sexy, tempestuous and passionate. Take a look at Rita Hayworth or Nicole Kidman or Jessica Rabbit On the other hand, we red-headed lads have always received a bad press, even when that press was in hieroglyphics. In Ancient Egypt they buried us alive; the enlightened Greeks just thought we were insane. At best, we've been considered untrustworthy, duplicitous and unlucky to know. At worst, we're the flame-haired seed of Old Nick himself (another red-head by the way), and have been burnt as witches before now. Apparently, Judas Iscariot was ginger, and he betrayed Jesus Christ. Napoleon had red hair, and was French, which is a far greater crime. And Les Battersby is, well, Les Battersby. The only consolation we have is that Lord Byron was also One Of Us, even if his reputation of being mad, bad and dangerous to know just confirms the stereotype. And yet there are no support groups for we red-heads, and only one or two dedicated websites. We have no private clubs where we can mix with Our Own Kind, no weekly freesheets, and we'd be jeered even more should we ever take to the streets to demand our Right to be Red. We Reds make up between 2 – 5 per cent of the population. This sort of prejudice and name-calling wouldn't be tolerated against any other minority without voices being raised in Parliament, Peter Tatchell chaining himself to a railing, or, at the very least, Bono doing a benefit concert. There's even some serious scientific talk that, alone among homo sapiens, the Reds have inherited their genes from Neanderthals. Which makes me extinct, I suppose, a member of yet another bleedin' minority. So give us a break. We Reds are every bit as Good As You, you know. And what's more, we're starting to get a little annoyed with all this blatant erythrophobia (look it up) around. And you know what they say about red-heads and their tempers, don't you? Out of the ash (And, before you ask, and to spare you any embarrassment, yes, they are.) Wednesday, June 04, 2003
Poor Little Me
What I'd originally imagined to be the result of the excesses of the weekend – it’s not every day a friend turns up out of the blue from Kosovo, you know, and you need to celebrate in the correct manner – proved to be slightly more serious (no, not that serious, and I'm feeling much better now, thank you very much). So I'm afraid the past couple of days have been spent alternately shuddering with a fever or fitfully snoozing, spread out cadaverously on the zebra skin (don't ask) like a consumptive poet languishing deliciously in a garret near you. Added to the woe is the fact my block has been without water for three days. The highlight of the day is now a dazed stumble with two plastic buckets down to the standpipe. Consequently, I've been unable to cook, clean or even flush the loo properly. But - I assure you, my dears - I've been having the most marvellous time feeling sorry for myself. Monday, June 02, 2003
The Morning After The Night Before
"That tuna was really off know-what-I-mean and I should have checked the sell-by date and maybe cooked it in the microwave a minute longer but what can you do I mean it's probably down to the weather as well isn't it know-what-I-mean and I was in a rush and my leg's hurting too you wouldn't believe how much my leg is hurting and my girlfriend no that sort of girlfriend well she's just come back from Kosovo and there was so much to do and yes of course but there's a mains leak outside the front door and I've got no water anyway and I'm still waiting for them to come round and fix it and they're chopping up furniture outside my flat and I couldn't sleep all night and you wouldn't believe how " "Stranger?" "Yes?" "Does this mean that you're hungover and not coming in to work today?" "Um… well… er… yeah… S'pose so." "Right. Fine. Take care. See you tomorrow." |
