Tuesday 1 October 2002
The Tao that is seen
Is not the true Tao-until
You bring fresh toner.
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I went down to the Bush of Shepherds, my mind enlivened by the thought of
Jeffrey Archer being assaulted with a portion of hot curry (Vindaloo rather
than Korma I imagine), the latest trauma in poor Jeffrey's anguished prison
life. I'm a bit miffed with Jeffrey, and not for the usual reasons. Apparently
he's been offered something in the region of £600,000 for his prison diaries,
and I bet they're not a patch on mine.
No one's offered me so much as a sniff of the printer's apron.
It is a cruel and unjust world.
Wednesday 2 October 2002
Stay the patient course.
Of little worth is your ire.
The network is down.
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I began the painting of the kitchen today. It's a vivid shade called Mango,
but so far I'm rather pleased with it. Nothing at all of any note happened
today, which can be a good thing, especially if you are me.
You're not me, obviously, but if you were, you'd know anyway.
Thursday 3 October 2002
You step in the stream,
But the water has moved on.
This page is not here.
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Despite my regular protestations of atheism and scepticism (I have a healthy
disrespect for professional stage mediums such as the late Doris Stokes, whom
we haven't heard a peep out of since she died, and her Living TV contemporary,
Colin Fry) I have always had an interest in tarot cards. I don't believe they
can foresee the future. I once did a course in Astrology and Tarot reading
when I was going through my mystic Pagan phase. I read a few people's cards
and some things actually came true, but I put that down to the law of averages.
Something is bound to be right.
My interest lies more in the designs, the symbolism and the philosophy that
lies behind them. No-one really knows where the cards originated. Some say
India, some say Egypt, and contemporary thought seems to suggest that they
are a visual Bible of the tenets of the Cathars (whom I've had cause to mention
before), a medieval Christian heretical sect who believed (amongst other things)
that the God of the Old Testament was actually The Devil.
I'm inclined to agree with the Cathars on that one. I suppose if you're going
to be heretics anyway, you might as well push the boat out.
Anyway, now and again I get the urge to design my own set of cards, a practice
which a) keeps me off the streets and b) keeps me sane.
I've been doing some research and making some notes, and have found that lots
of other people are doing the same thing, though their source material is,
in some cases, a trifle bizarre.
I've discovered an online set of Tarot cards based on the characters from
'American Gothic', the US TV series in which the sheriff of a small town was
actually Satan himself.
Another has designed the cards around the BBC TV series 'Blake's Seven', the
tale of revolution and derring-do in an evil Galactic Federation of the far
future. Mmmm.
And I'm reliably informed by The Wise Woman of Wigan (who is a major authority
on these sort of matters) that there is an 'X-Files' set as well.
I think I may now design mine around the imagery and characters from the Crossroads
Hotel.
I am still painting the kitchen. There are peculiarly inaccessible areas which
I can only reach by lying flat on the draining board, which I'm worried may
give my neighbours the impression that I've died in the sink.
Friday 4 October 2002
Out of memory.
We wish to hold the whole sky,
But we never will.
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By five o'clock I was covered in orange paint and looked like some Gay Hare
Krishnan.
Tonight we watched the show 'Faking It', the premise of which is that they
take an individual from a particular background and take two months to train
them to work undetected in a completely unfamiliar position or lifestyle.
They are deemed to have 'won' if they can fool certain experts in the field
in which they have been placed.
The first in the new series featured a tough ex-naval sergeant who had two
months to learn to be a drag queen under the expert tutelage of seasoned drag
veteran Dave Lynn. I was a bit dubious about watching it at first. Most of
my experience of 'professional' drag consists of those performers who dress
up in a frock, go on stage and mime to a song or two, or - even more bizarrely
- to vocal sections of films or comedy performances. What the Hell is all
that about?
Dave Lynn, thankfully, is a real professional, sings his own songs, writes
his own material, and despite his rather intimidating stage persona, seems
a very likeable and somewhat reserved man.
The butch Navy fellah - to facilitate his drag training - had to go and live
with Dave in his house in Brighton, and despite his reservations, he took
to his new role with a laudable determination. It was heart-warming and somewhat
uplifting to see his initial discomfort and nervousness when faced with openly
gay men slowly change as the relationship between he and Dave strengthened.
By the end of the show, during which we had seen 'Britney Ferry' - as the
ex-sailor was now known - fail spectacularly in a trial on-stage performance
at Brighton Pride, we were on the edge of our seats as she entered a Drag
Queen showcase event, judged by elements of the Gay Press and Booking Agents.
Would the fake be spotted?
The judges were told - after the performance - that one of the entrants was
a fake, and asked who they thought it was. We cheered when they almost unanimously
decided that the fake was a rather skeletal drag queen called Vanity Case.
None of the judges spotted 'Britney'.
The most fascinating element of this programme, however, was the sailor's
frank admissions as to his feelings and misconceptions about gay people and
how they changed as the experiment progressed. At the end of the show it was
great seeing the Navy Sergeant genuinely sad to be saying goodbye to his new
drag queen best friend.
I bet Vanity's spitting chips, though.
Saturday 5 October 2002
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The document you're seeking
Must now be retyped.
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Due to the pressures of lying in the sink with a brush in my hand, I have
had no chance to go to the shops and spend my birthday vouchers. Boo!
Thankfully, the Wise Woman of Wigan turned up later to marvel at the magnificence
of my half-finished kitchens and to give us joint birthday presents (the Ugly
One has a birthday toward the end of October). Wow! I got a 6 CD set of readings
of Edgar Allan Poe performed by Vincent Price and Basil Rathbone. I rubbed
my hands in a Mr Burns sort of way and said 'excellent!'. I also got a Shania
Twain singing keyring, and some magic sticky paper that you can print things
on and turn them into tattoos, and we both got a Tony Hancock DVD and a box
of chocolates, which we opened straightaway.
I am awed by the WWoW's skill in choosing presents for me, which is always
an impossible task. In future, please ask her first before buying me anything.
She may charge you for this service.
The Ugly One got a magic electric whisk thing for frothing milk and sundry
other precious things. Hoorah!
We adjourned to the Connie Francis Memorial Chinese Restaurant where a Scottish
couple at a nearby table had obviously been at the Tiger Beers. He fell asleep
and was snoring into the soy sauce condiments set. She woke him up with an
ancient Scottish snarl and we watched with dread as they negotiated the stairs
on the way out, fearful for the safety of a big houseplant which would be
in their direct path should they tumble in their stupor.
Upon our return we had pink champagne (again, courtesy of the WWoW, bless
her) and watched 'Monsters Inc'
Hoorah!
Sunday 6 October 2002
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All shortcuts have disappeared.
Screen. Mind. Both are blank.
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I got up and made tea for us all. The WWoW is always unnaturally kempt and
sprightly in the mornings after she's stayed over. I always look dog rough,
though no doubt some will argue - before you start writing in - I look like
that most of the time.
We watched some of Tony Hancock - a brilliant comedian, but like many comedians,
mad as a plank. After creating a huge body of excellent work, and at least
one successful film, he went off to Australia and killed himself. It's only
the good comedians that have really serious mental problems though, isn't
it? You wouldn't find Jim Davidson or Bernard Manning or Norman Wisdom flying
to Australia and killing themselves. It is a cruel and unjust world.
Monday 7 October 2002
Deliquesce (n)
The term for a female assistant who works in a posh meat shop.
I took a trip into the West End today to Waterstones' flagstone bookshop at
Piccadilly to use up my birthday book vouchers. I saw the man who wrote 'Gosford
Park' trotting along Piccadilly, looking very dapper. I have no clue what
his name is. He's done a bit of TV work but is one of those actors whose face
sticks in the memory but whose name goes over one's head like a badly-aimed
custard pie.
There was a very cute man in the Horror section. I tried to catch his eye
but Stephen King (sadly) turned out to be more interesting than I was.
Don't you hate it when that happens?
So, I got my books (Greg Egan's 'Diaspora', Richard Morgan's 'Altered Carbon'
and Sheri S Tepper's 'Grass' for those of you who like to know these details)
and had a wander through to Charing Cross Road past the gay bar CXR-C3PO (or
whatever it's called) where another cute man sitting outside gave me a smile.
'Hello?' I thought, and smiled back, but realised as I did so that he wasn't
a customer. He was the vendor of an adjacent stall selling postcards of London
and little bears dressed as Beefeaters.
I returned via a circuitous route to Piccadilly and took the bus home.
Tuesday 8 October 2002
Aitken (n) From the Anglo Saxon, meaning
'mouth of ordure' or, more literally, gobshite.
'Pop producer Pete Waterman says many of his biggest hits were inspired
by classical music. Waterman, currently a judge on ITV1's Popstars: The Rivals,
told BBC Music Magazine that songs by Kylie Minogue and Steps were among those
with a classical influence. He said that Minogue's first chart-topper, I Should
Be So Lucky, was inspired by Pachelbel's Canon.'
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/music/2306337.stm
It's been suggested lately (mostly by Stock and Aitken,
the other two members of the Triumvirate of Evil which - in the Eighties -
dragged British music down to a level normally only inhabited by giant squid
and blind luminous worms) that Waterman had no part in the writing of these
songs. Why anyone should actually want to claim credit is unclear.
It seems grossly unfair to start blaming Pachelbel after all this time. After
all, he's not alive to defend himself against such scurrilous charges.
Wednesday 9 October 2002
Ostensible (n) A large runcible container
in which to pulverise beetroot
We're very disappointed to discover that the England Rugby Team aren't bringing
out a naked rugby calendar this year either. Boo! Shame on them! What's the
point of having rugby players if you can't get to see them in the nudey buff
once in a while? It may be, however, that other teams are producing their
own, so if you manage to find one, let me know, or better still, buy me one
for Xmas.
Last year, someone was kind enough to send me half-naked Geordie firemen.
Fully naked Geordie firemen (or naked apart from their yellow hats) would
have been better but buggers can't be choosers, so the Ugly One and I would
be grateful for any calendar that features men from a particular profession
with at least some of their kit off.
Thursday 10 October 2002
Prescient (adj) knowing or predicting
how one's ironing is going to turn out.
I have discovered through my website statistics that people are reaching
these pages via circuitous and strange routes. One of those is the web-search
engine Google, and interestingly, my web-page stats give me the search criteria
they typed in from which they found the site.
Some seem feasible, such as 'footballers' wives showers' which no doubt refers
to the TV programme 'Footballers' Wives' and not descriptions of Victoria
Beckham soaping up. Others, well...
I was a bit bemused by 'naked stag night pictures men shaved' by which someone
somehow managed to find this site. I tried searching for that myself and found
no reference to the republic of Free Hairy Men, but enjoyed the search immensely.
One that did work was 'Iraq leather whip'. I have to stress that these three
words are employed quite separately and in an altogether different context
to what mucky minds might be imagining. I'm wondering who it was that was
searching and whether they ever found one.
Friday 11 October 2002
Quaff (n) The small triangular patch of hair which often grows just
above or over the coccyx, also known as the arsebush or the George
W
I treated myself to a bottle of wine, and as the Ugly One was out a-wassailing,
invited a gentleman caller round to share it with me, and very nice it was
too. We were going to go up The Camden Passage but as the weather wasn't too
clement it was thought best left for a more auspicious occasion.
Saturday 12 October 2002
Recrimination (n) The act of re-enacting
a heinous crime, sometimes applied to people attempting Celine Dion karaoke
performances.
I took a walk down to the Bush of Shepherds, and on traversing the underpass
discovered that the old busker is now singing 'The House of The Rising Sun'.
Not very seasonal, since we haven't seen the sun at all for the past couple
of weeks. On the other hand, the song is actually about some form of bordello,
of which I imagine The Bush of Shepherds might boast one or two.
Talking of Shepherds Bush bordellos, the mucky sauna is alas, long gone. It's
been replaced by a Kodak Processing outlet. Where's the fun in that?
I spent a quiet day at home. I ended up on the Internet chatting with my mates
Glyn and Val. Later I watched 'Anaconda'. I felt sorry for the snake, quite
frankly.
I'm also quite taken by a show on Reality TV, 'Mounties!', in which a male
and female mountie stand stiffly in their nice red uniforms and dimpled brimmed
hats introducing scenes of their colleagues slapping handcuffs on various
examples of Canadian villainy.
I must say that the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are very efficient at this.
You can be down on the floor and manacled before you can say 'moose!'.
Sunday 13 October 2002
Bootless (adj) Without boots
Sundays, once a tedious dead zone in the TV schedules, is now awash with good
stuff.
There's 'Witchblade' in which a tough babe in the US Police Force has inherited
a spooky amulet which transforms into a big scary gauntlet-cum-chainsaw when
she gets pissed off. Then there's 'The Dead Zone' which I believe Stephen
King has no involvement in and which therefore has turned out to be rather
good.
Then there's 'The Shield'. He's a nasty wicked corrupt cop who kills his colleagues
and takes backhanders from drug-dealers, but I'm not going to hold that against
him. He's bloody lovely!
Monday 14 October 2002
Malleable (adj)
Susceptible or prone to the lure of shopping centres.
It is a grim and blustery day. The fish are behaving extremely badly lately
and have taken to chasing each other around the tank. I gave them a stiff
talking-to which seems to have done the trick.
Tuesday 15 October 2002
Onus (n)
An organ of the lower albumen, whose function is somewhat ambiguous.
I woke up very very late today. This pissed me off no end, as I always feel
I've been cheated of my rightful ration of daylight. We don't get a lot of
it, and I like to enjoy what little there is.
As a consolation I discovered that we have a new TV Channel. They keep popping
up now and again, and seem to disappear again with monotonous regularity.
CNX shows action animation such as 'Batman of The Future' (oooh), 'X-Men -
Evolution' (oooooh) and my favourite, 'Justice League'.
I don't see much of a future for BEN (The British Entertainment Network) which
shows a bizarre selection of programmes ostensibly promoting 'traditional
family values' (whatever they are). They have a regular 'Classic Hollywood
Film' which, more often than not, turns out to be some forgotten American
low-budget movie from the Thirties with an inaudible soundtrack. 'Bonanza'
is on in the middle of the night, along with 'The Lucy Show' and some words
of inspiration from an available religious source.
Wednesday 16 October 2002
Paladin (n) A proprietary brand of
dog food.
I chatted with my mate Tom from Chester this evening.
He was blowing smoke rings (with, I hope, a cigarette. If it was a euphemism,
it's a new one on me).
I blew my first smoke ring only the other day, quite by accident, and now
I find myself unable to do it again. It leaves me feeling like I discovered
a fabulous new talent, only to have it snatched away again by cruel Fate.
So, we (or rather Tom, who will stamp his foot if he doesn't get the credit,
and it's the sort of foot that knows how to stamp) have decided to call this
week National Smoke Ring Week.
Please write it down now so you don't forget it next year.
Thursday 17 October 2002
Gimcrack (n) Slang of unknown
origin, pertaining to that region of a male anus visible above low-slung trousers
or jeans, also known as 'Builder's Cleavage', 'The Canyon of Love' and 'The
Valley of the Shadow of Lust'
'If you can lend a helping hand to anyone today it will be deeply appreciated.
Keeping your mind on mundane tasks will not be easy if you let a surprise
attraction to someone take hold. You may need to be quite firm and disciplined
with yourself until this fascination passes. Seeing as though your capacity
for imaginative and inspirational flair is particularly strong for the next
few days, don't waste the opportunity to give some form of practical expression
to your ideas. Focus your creative energy on an artistic project, and the
results may be spectacular.' - Russell Grant
I took some time out to be firm and disciplined with myself, and do you know,
it did me the world of good.
I wasn't planning on lending a helping hand to anyone but as it happened my
brother rang for emergency help with his printer, which has unaccountably
turned Spanish and refuses to print (The onscreen instructions tend to lapse
into Espana for no reason that anyone could figure out.) Anyway, after some
judicious cable changing and port-reassignment the printer burst into life.
Russell's astrological surprise attraction came in the form of a Mormon (who
was actually quite cute) who accosted me on my way home and asked me if he
could come round to my house at some future point and talk to me me about
The Lord Jesus.
'I don't think that would do any good,' I said.
'Why not?'
'I'm an atheist!'
'Oh, ' he said, reacting far more pleasantly than other denominations tend
to do under similar circumstances, 'That's cool!'
We chatted for a while about America and London, and the state of the Universe.
I was tempted to ask him his views on Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle (which
is still a bit of a worry to me) but felt it wasn't the time. He seemed remarkably
sane, although a little on the Stepford side of Barking for my liking, but
I felt it would be unfair on him to give him my address. My motives were not
pure, and I'm sure The Mormons frown on that sort of business.
I was left only with Russell's artistic project and was stumped as to what
I could throw myself into with passion and gusto at 10 pm. I considered some
decorating. I have a hankering for something dark and cathedralesque. I do
like the gothic castle look. I'm still trying to persuade the other half to
let me turn the living-room into Dracula's lounge. We have all the accessories
(gargoyles, human skulls, black candelabras, with candles... no coffin as
yet, but I just saw on TV that you can buy a self-assembly one for £50 on
the Internet, which sounds like it might be worth trying out. We could put
in shelves and keep our DVDs in it). I just need to do some sort of dungeon-stone
effect on the walls.
No time for that though. Instead, I began an epic poem about the decline of
socialism and the rise of fascistic capitalist power systems. If Russell's
worth his salt then it should make me a fortune and, ironically, a hypocrite
at the same time.
Friday 18 October 2002
Fiduciary (n) A selectively appointed
committee of dyslexic High Court Judges.
I am focusing my creative energy on the kitchen, since
my painting needed some touching up here and there. The day was otherwise
unremarkable.
Saturday 19 October 2002
Diktat (n) a poor quality penis
As a favour to the Ugly One, whose birthday it is tomorrow, I set off for
the sorting office as the stupid postman did not ring the bell yesterday and
merely left one of those annoying notes which advises one that they attempted
to deliver a parcel. It was addressed to me ever-loving, who signed the form
as he is supposed to if someone else is collecting the 'package', and I trotted
off with my ID to the back of beyond. Actually, it is the back of Portobello
Road, but that's far enough.
I was greeted by a grumpy and, if I'm honest, quite unattractive postal official,
and handed over the form and my ID.
'This is you, not him.' he said.
'Eh?'
'I need the recipient's ID. Not yours. You could be anybody.'
I am anybody. Well, I'm somebody, which amounts to the same thing. I thought
of pointing out that had the postman rung the bell in the first place then
I would no doubt have signed for the package, in which case I would have been
anybody anyway. I decided against this as my
eloquence would have been wasted.
So... I was forced to return home and return with the UO's passport. I was
gratified by the fact that the surly postal operative was forced to search
through lots of heavy parcels before he found ours.
I did point out that the instructions on the Post office form for collection
of parcels was less than clear, but his eyes glazed over and I'm pretty sure
he was thinking about pies.
Sunday 20 October 2002
Foment (n) a short period of time,
equivalent to half a moment or two torments.
Happy Birthday Ugly One.
I found him a card in the local Post Office which seems to have been sitting
there since the Seventies. It featured some lovely gold script which read
'To My Darling Husband' printed on a photograph of a group of footballers
sporting such marvellous mullets that I was racked with awe.
Later I bought him a curry, we stuffed our faces and got rat-arsed on vodka.
One of the parcels I collected contained the latest DVD of The Tomorrow People,
so we watched that. It featured Billy Walker from Coronation Street who played
a wicked fairground gypsy type character, luring people into his Ghost House
only for them to be kidnapped by the evil Spidron from outer space.
Marvellous stuff! Hoorah!
