Monday 1 July 2002
Lassitude (n.) The scientifically calculated scale against which the degree of femininity in women of Lancashire is judged.

The World Cup is over and I am glad to say that I neither know nor care who won.

Tuesday 9 July 2002
Cynosure (n.) a small nostril plug, generally made of cork.

I do apologise for the breakdown in diary updates but I've had a bit of a hectic time lately, what with last week - amongst other things - having to break into a certain premises in order to knock the head from Thatcher's statue. I was a bit disappointed with the workmanship. She looked as if she should have a football shirt on and a big metal bar poking out through her sides. Apart from that it only took one whack with a small mallet and there she was, headless. I'm sure one of Michaelangelo's more politically acceptable statues would have taken five blows at least.
I met up with my mates Glyn and Trevor and their respective other halves last Friday in 'The Bar Aquda', a hostelry previously unknown to me. Having not been out on a Friday night for a while I was introduced to the bizarre spectacle of massed gay men waiting, mobiles in hand, for text messages to arrive with the news of whether Evil Adele or Mouthy Jade had been evicted from the Big Brother House. At 8.50 pm a hundred phones trilled in unison, followed by a kind of synchronised finger thing as everyone battled to get the message first.
'It's Adele!' said Trev's friend from 'Up North', a very nice man who looked and sounded oddly familiar. Apparently he felt the same way so either we were star-crossed lovers in a past Ancient Egyptian life or we had a drunken shag in some forgotten moment.
It will have to remain one of Arthur C Clarke's Great Mysteries.
We celebrated Adele's eviction in a suitable style.
Glyn, bless him, gave me a copy of a novel called 'Aberystwyth Mon Amour', a Chandler-esque detective novel set in... er... Aberystwyth.
I went home and fell asleep, where I dreamt about pies and Number 73 buses.

Wednesday 10 July 2002
Gastronome (n.) A steam-driven device used for regulating the tempo of a piece of music.

Yesterday a nice Irishman turned up to fit a satellite dish to the front of the house. We now have about a hundred channels of bizarre channels to choose from, but alas, not a sign of 'Days of Our Lives'. I have however discovered 'Another Life', a daily soap on The God Channel. There's rather too many of these religious channels for my liking. One of the digital radio stations which is also included with the package is 24 hour Bible readings, which, as yet, I have been loth to experience and may never do so, although I'm holding it in reserve to use as a weapon against visitors who overstay their welcome.
My first visit to 'Another Life' featured a clinic where patients were seen in curtained cubicles about the size of your average passport-photo machine while a glum selection of people-to-be-seen looked on in sullen silence from the waiting-room.
An excitable and clearly insane patient turned out to be the man who had molested the new receptionist in the local park. There were of course some looks of shocked recognition, a lot of screaming and a tussle after which the miscreant went on the lam!
This made one of the Doctors very angry indeed!

Thursday 11 July 2002
Zeitgeist (n.) A German portable toilet system.

Regular readers will know that my neighbours are engaged in something of a feud. Neighbour A (a nice girl with a young baby) does not get on with Neighbour B (a woman I've only said 'hello' to, and is allegedly possessed of a somewhat fiery temperament). The two have made complaints and counter-complaints about each other and neighbour A asked me if I'd go to the Housing Trust with her and testify to her good character. That was fair enough.
It was all fine until the Housing Officer met us and said 'Hello, Neighbour A. Is this your Dad?'
It's possible I could be, in terms of age that is. I've met her mother, and she's a nice woman, but the thought of my fathering her children never entered my head, nor I suspect, hers.
It made me feel very old. I later realised that if I were her father I'd also be a grandfather. That doesn't bear thinking about. I may well revise the Socialist Republic's policy on plastic surgery.

Friday 12 July 2002
Acumen (n.) Generic term for the male residents of Acua.

In 'Another Life' the traumatised receptionist has taken to the shed, unable to face the world without a novelty knitwear item. Meanwhile, sundry and various black-hearted villains are plotting various schemes and the Doctor is still very angry indeed.
I discovered a curious fact the other day. Alex, the pedantic, camp, fastidious and cringingly bone-thin model from Big Brother has exactly the same voice as Johnny Rotten, or John Lydon as he is now known. In a related incident, I realised some time back that the Emperor Palatine in the first Star Wars films has exactly the same voice as Mr Grainger, the doddery old assistant from 'Are You Being Served'.
I suspect some form of conspiracy.
There was a knock on the door this evening and it turned out to be Neighbour A's boyfriend with a bottle of wine for me as a thank-you for my witnessing to his girlfriend's good character with the Housing Trust. I suspect there was an element of sympathy in the gift for my having been mistaken for his father-in-law.
'This is for you, Barry,' he said. He's been getting our names mixed up for the last two years so I've given up correcting him now.
It was nice of them. I tried to dissuade him but he must have seen the glint of alcoholic lust on my face and insisted I take it.
That's revived my faith in Human nature.
I cooked Kung Pao Chicken, we drank the wine and watched strange American comedies all night

Saturday 13 July 2002
Intransigent (n.) An undecided transsexual.

Life is full of unanswerable questions. Why are we here? What is the function of a tie? What does Tara Palmer-Tomkinson actually do? Who are the people who reply to spam e-mail? Why should anyone want to watch forty-eight hours of 'Changing Rooms'?
The last question is apposite since the UK Style channel are indeed screening a complete weekend of Changing Rooms, and so far I've seen most of it.
I wish they'd show more of the New Zealand and Australian ones. Compulsive viewing is New Zealand's Donald, a camp Kiwi designer for whom everything is 'fibulous' and who regularly flirts with the NZ Handy Andy ('Oh Andy! Those shorts are something illse!'). The down-under shows are more notable though for the Antipodeans' taste in interior decor, which makes Laurence Llewellyn Bowen's creations seem positively mainstream.
'What fresh Hell is this? ' I thought as one of the designers unveiled a room, the walls of which had been pasted with with green gingham check fabric. Checks and tartans covered every other available surface. For once, I was, and still am, completely speechless.

Sunday 14 July 2002
Apogee (n.) A small Indian starter course, composed of curried chopped onion, a baby carrot and a slice of lemon clenched in a metal scissor-like apparatus.

Critic and columnist Brian Sewell has condemned Tim as a vain idiot. He told the Big Brother website Tim was the housemate who was most disliked by the public. Sewell says he is a "humourless wimp with no sense of fun." He says Tim's behaviour when he was on his own on the rich side exposed him. "He proved to have no intellectual reserves of any kind and was, almost literally, bored rigid," says Sewell. "It was the action of an idiot to think that Big Brother would not see him tucking bottles of alcohol into his bed."
Sewell also criticises Tim's vanity. He says: "He is, moreover, extraordinarily vain, constantly consulting mirrors, constantly grooming his dyed hair with a pat, a pluck, a stroke, murmuring the word "bouffant" to it from time to time, as though he were Prince Charles encouraging a cabbage.

I love Brian Sewell.

We began redecorating the hallway today, which mainly involves me scrubbing the walls down with sugar soap and touching up me hieroglyphs while the Ugly One paints the woodwork a very Imperial shade of red.

Monday 15 July 2002
Lachrymose (adj.) A state in which one is prone to mammary milk leakage.

It is getting very warm here in West London and I am pleased to report that many workmen have abandoned their shirts and are proudly displaying their bodies to their world for the benefit of all.
The Republic of Free Hairy Men salutes these selfless exhibitionists and calls upon citizens everywhere to thank any half-naked man they see in the street for contributing to the general happiness of the workman-loving members of the population, one of whom, I am proud to say, is me.
Oh... and my mate Tom from Chester.

Saturday 20 July 2002
Tasmania (n.) The compulsive and inexplicable desire to put the connection-point of a battery against one's tongue..

I went on a pilgrimage today to darkest Forest Gate. My mate Anita was having a visit from my other mate Val - who I stupidly lost touch with for a few years - and decided to invite me over as a kind of furry surprise gift. I shaved my head specially and on reaching Forest Gate and finding myself a little early went on a tour of the local shops.
There I was gazing into the window of a wig-shop, gauging the cost of the Tina Turners, when I realised that I was the cause of some mirth for somewhat obvious reasons which did not immediately occur to me. To cover my embarrassment and kill time I took myself off to the local hostelry 'The Princess Alice' - which was not a little scary - where I had a half of Fosters and several nerve-calming cigarettes.
Then I made for Anita's house, and in a brilliant exhibition of timing, managed to reach the front door about thirty seconds before Anita and Val.
We had a really good evening. Anita took us to a Thai Restaurant where one not only takes one's own wine, but one's own music too.
'What would you like?' Anita asked a bemused group of diners, clutching CDs aloft in each hand. 'You can have 'Sunset Ibiza' or 'Led Zeppelin''.
Val and I voted for the Zeppelin but the diners, who we'd earlier reckoned to be repressed Zeppelinites, plumped for the Ibiza. I think they were bullied by the stern-looking woman on their table. If she'd had a bit of Zeppelin instilled earlier in her life she'd have felt the benefit later.
We then returned to Anita's house, a little more drunk and with a golden cardboard crown I'd swiped from a bin. After a broccoli cheroot Val and I ate all of Anita's Belgian chocolates while she slept in her armchair. At one point Anita shouted 'Oooh... look at the meercats!' before returning to her snoring.
We went to bed at about 4.30 am.

Sunday 21 July 2002
Nicotine (n.) A substance obtained from the lymph-glands of otters which was used in the preparation of paint during the Renaissance.

I wasn't at all well this morning. Val and I had a few restorative coffees in giant mugs while sitting in Anita's garden. I had blisters from wearing my Doctor Martens and a bad case of post-Thai belly. The girls fed me Immodium and I found some plasters in the bathroom.
I did not stop at the wig-shop window on the way back to the station.
The Ugly One and I have been tarting up our Egyptian hallway a bit. My hieroglyphs had gotten a bit grubby and needed a set-to with the old sugar soap.
This was followed by the strategic placement of bits of masking tape enabling the Ugly One to paint the skirting-board and door-frames.
One thing inevitably led to another though, and with the discovery that the nicotine on some of my more inaccessible picture glass was deeper than Dale Winton's tan, I was shocked into cleaning all those as well.
This could go on for weeks.

Monday 22 July 2002
Incredulous (adj.) Studded or bedizened with fabulous jewels or precious metal gewgaws.

My fingers are now peeling.
This may be a reaction to the sugar soap or to my Mother's revelation that not only does she fancy Alex, the tattooed surgeon from 'Holby City' but carries a long felt want for Lennox Lewis too. That makes me feel strangely queasy, and oddly and unaccountably jealous. If Lennox is shagging anyone in our family, it's going to be me.

Tuesday 23 July 2002
Gewgaw (n.) A noisy Australian bird.

I met the Ugly One in Earls Court and we went to Homebase as we needed to get paint for the doors and some additional co-ordinated paint for the kitchen. For some reason my other half trusts my colour sense, reasoning that as I am an artist of sorts I will know what colour will go best with what. To a certain extent this may be true, but he may not have considered that 95% of my artwork tends to be black and white, so maybe my colour sense isn't all it's cracked up to be.
However, I gave my opinion, whatever its worth may be and we bought some gloss paint for the doors (which is called - and was a reason I nearly refused to buy it - 'Ruby Fountain').
We got some paint to go with the 'Mango' for the kitchen walls and then called in at the Tescos Superstore in Earls Court.
It's the gayest shop in London! The fine wine aisle was jam-packed, which is always a good pointer. Then I noticed a gaggle of men gathered around the fishmongers looking pensively at the monkfish and all doubt was removed.
'Hide the 'Ruby Fountain'' I told the Ugly One. 'We don't want our colour-schemes hijacked.'

Friday 26 July 2002
Delilah (v.) To let down - by extracting the air - an inflatable sunbed.

The original Rainbow characters Bungle, Zippy and George have been returned to their owner after being abducted three days ago. The costumes of the three characters from the well-loved children's TV show were posted back in a large box with a note saying simply: "Sorry."
Former Rainbow presenter Geoffrey Hayes is said to be 'ecstatic' and relieved at their return.


Monday 29 July 2002
Lens (adj.) belonging to Len.

Some Gay Tory Politician (or a GTP as it's known in political circles) has come out of the closet and announced his homosexuality to the world. What gives it that particular whiff of satisfaction is that it is one of Anne (F/X Thunderclap. Sound of horses whinnying in fear) Widdecombe's lackeys. The lovely Anne - who has been known to froth at the mouth and make the sign of the cross when the word 'gay' is mentioned - declined to comment and went off to present a Cup on 'Watercolour Challenge'.
Hooray for this lamentably forgettable gay person. No-one has ever heard of him before (nor, I suspect, will we ever again) and I'm tempted to think of this as a cynical ploy to burn his name into the retina of History, but Hooray for him anyway... whoever he is.
Whatever his motives, it hasn't worked. He remains unnoticed, which is maybe a good thing. It's a step on the way to a society where being gay is about as much an issue as whether someone has blue eyes or not.
For me, the interest lies in the phrase 'Gay Conservative', the most mind-boggling contradiction in terms I've heard since the Carnivorous Vegetarian and the Thin Star Trek fan. Yet these people exist. No-one can remember their names or why they should exist, but there they are.
Blimey!