posted at 10:10 PM •

The memories of the night travelling down the spine of the M1 are foggy. Leaving Carlisle seemed like an eternity ago as we made our way south towards London. We went from one service station to the next, finding it easy to catch lifts off truckers or delivery men. Each service station was identical to the last, a refuge of light and warmth, and another lift to find. We had reckoned that we must have looked quite odd, a young man and woman dressed lightly, no bags hitch-hiking through the night - but at least we had the relative safety of out-numbering any driver two to one. And so in that way, we were able to get some sleep, taking it in turns to stay awake. The distance to London counted down on motorway signs, gradually decreasing from three digits to two digits and one. At around 5am we found ourselves dropped off in the western suburbs of the capital.

posted at 6:28 PM •

We travelled. It was the first time I had ever hitch-hiked, but Sally had done it before. After two lifts took us to the outskirts of Newcastle, we were beginning to feel like experts. It was now late evening and we were a bit cold, but we felt a need to keep moving. The irrationality of what we were doing drove us on, both of us expecting the other to blink and turn back. We stopped at a McDonald's on the outskirts of the city and glowed with a sense of achievement as we warmed up. We were amazed we had managed to get this far already. We felt like two criminals on the run, and we weren't going to give up now. We finished our burgers and got back on the road. Before long we had hitched our next ride south.

posted at 7:42 PM •

posted at 6:26 PM •

We set off in no direction, with no destination. The traffic slowly thinned out, headlights streaking past us as we reached the outskirts of Carlisle. We passed the industrial parks at the margins of the city into the countryside along arterial roads. Discussing the past and the future, our mutual lack of direction and the pressure to define one. The night was drawing in around us, and outside the corona of light pollution, thousands of stars were beginning to twinkle above us. Dressed only lightly we had to keep moving to keep warm, and before long the city vanished behind an embankment of grass and earth. "Let's just keep going, see how far we can get," one of us suggested. The lack of a need to tell anyone what we were doing was thrilling, so we kept walking, deciding to fork left or right as the opportunities arose. As the distance behind us grew greater, we set ourselves our first goal. East to Newcastle. Without stopping to debate the practicalities, we decided to see if we could hitch a ride. After a few unsuccessful attempts a large estate pulled over and we got a lift.

posted at 6:00 PM •

posted at 2:14 PM •

It was February and I was halfway through the first year of an illustration course. I had decided I was leaving the course at the end of the academic year, and my life floated in uncertainty and doubt. In a moment of spontaneity I jumped on a train to visit my friend and soulmate, Sally. I arrived in the early evening, by which time it was already dark and getting cold. Sally lived in a shared student accomodation, in one room which was always a mess. The bed in the far corner was only reachable by treading over an impressive accumulation of junk, paper and assorted art projects. Somewhere in the room was her latest accessory, a pet rat. It might have been in the room but with all the rubbish, we couldn't be sure. Neither were the rest of the residence, who were beginning to worry about the girl with the rat. I can't remember who suggested we go for a walk, but it turned out to be once of the strangest episodes of my friendship with Sally.

posted at 12:06 PM •

Finished my meeting at 4.15 - far too late to go back to work, so I came into the west end for a pint (or a G&T). Web-whore that I am, I couldn't wait until I got home to check email accounts, comments etc etc, so for the first time evah my ace life is coming to you live and direct from Virgin Superstore, Tottenham Court Road.

I feel sort of ashamed in a strange way.

Fifteen minutes left to go on the card, so - hmm, what can I do? Obviously I could normally get a lot of pr0n surfing done in that time, but you just never know who's looking over your shoulder - hello vicar... My god, the internet is a dull place without smut isn't it?

posted at 5:07 PM •

Trying not to be distracted as I've got to create a storyboard for a meeting this afternoon, and I've only got a couple of hours to do it. I bet when I get round to doing a post this afternoon, all my ideas will have gone. It's always the way.

Until then - I need your help!

See my archive navigation over there - just there - on the left, underneath Floella (who has begun to overstay her welcome a bit), above my playlists, you can't miss it.

You may remember that it used to be a monthly archive, but I felt that the monthly archive pages were getting a wee bit long, so I changed it to a weekly archive. As I was making it, I did think "hmm, 12 months, 4 weeks apiece, that's only 48 weeks - ahh, some months will need 5 weeks", but I didn't do anything about it. March is the first time I've needed 5 weeks, and I've still not figured out a way to make it look tidy.

So what do I do? Has anyone seen another way of arranging the archive this way?

posted at 12:12 PM •

A couple of links for the day, from the sublimely ridiculous to the ridiculously sublime.

Catholic? Single? Tired of meeting Protestant whores?
Ave Maria Singles is just for you then.
Just look at this wonderful testimony...



And should that not tickle your fancy - perhaps this will instead - um, yes, I found it looking for pictures of growbags, honest m'lud.

posted at 5:56 PM •

Do-it-yourself stories, part 2


So for seven fun-filled years I worked in B&Q. When I started, I was a timid sixteen year old, all shy and lacking in self-confidence. The checkouts were the populated by a mixture of young girls and housewives, and for the most part they mothered me rotten. I was viewed with suspicion by most of the lads in the store for quite a few years - the Isle of Man isn't a particularly socially enlightened place, and as a lad, I should have been carrying big pallets of paint around and being rowdy. Eventually they stopped seeing me as a novelty and I earned a modicum of respect as a trail-blazing equal-opportunity figure.

The types we got at B&Q were young couples, old crusty workmen blokes, middle-aged couples, pensioners (usually on a Wednesday) and the odd beefy bearish labourer. The latter category made my whole day worthwhile - indeed yes BW, I got paid to cruise - desperately hoping they'd need some help trying on a leather toolbelt for size.

Ah, fond memories.

The Isle of Man being the socially backward place it was though, I rarely spotted any gay blokes. It's just too difficult to be visible over there, and my gaydar wasn't fully developed. However, after I left the island to go to university, I usually worked at B&Q over the holidays, and once or twice I did get a bit of a wink and a smile. But that's maybe for part three sometime.

After seven years, I was one of the best checkout operators in the store. No-one had thought I would last that long, but I proved them all wrong. I had tons of tricks up my sleeves for sorting out customers, and a notebook chock-full of barcodes for products which had often lost them. One of the most common codes was the B&Q 99p growbag. This would often get rubbed or washed off, or often a customer would put it on the lower shelf of a trolley under a load of other goods. It made life a lot easier just to tap the code in, and after the years of practice with a keypad, I could enter a twelve digit barcode in a second. In fact to this day, I still remember the code for a growbag. I'm not kidding here, it's -

501104505003

I bet you always wanted to know that huh?

posted at 5:45 PM •

Fantastico! I've been linked to by a Brazilian blog!

I haven't a clue what he says about me, but the post (halfway down the page) reads:
Hoorah for FLB!

posted at 3:21 PM •

The Blue Witch was pondering yesterday why old folks get 10% discount in garden centres and various other places? I think Professor Steve can clear up her confusion, as I'm something of an expert on this matter.

It probably originated somewhere else, but one of the first big retailers to adopt the practice was the very forward-thinking B&Q, way back in the early nineties. I worked weekends and summers at B&Q for about seven years - mostly in the one store on the Isle of Man, but for a while in Middlesbrough. The Isle of Man store was one of the first big superstore type shops we got - it opened back in 1988, and I started working there in 1989. The day it opened was a huge event on the island - no-one had seen anything like it before. I think about 99% of the island visited in the first weekend!

I was the first male checkout operator they had, and looking back on my time there, although it was a bit boring occassionally, it was a great place to work. My confidence grew enormously, and I developed a fondness for blokes wearing leather toolbelts - but that's a story for another time.

The over-60's discount was introduced to operate on a Wednesday, and I worked in the evenings for a few years. You had to take a completely different approach to being on the checkout. While normally at the weekend, you had to polite and helpful but keeping the people moving, on a Wednesday you had to slow everything down. Every pensioner coming through your till would want a little natter. Once you got the hang of it, it was pretty sweet really - you had a bit of a chat, talked about the weather, told them their choice of wallpaper was lovely, that sort of thing. It was clear a few of them didn't get out that much, and the Wednesday to B&Q was a bit of a highlight.

The worst one I ever had though was Norman Wisdom (yes, the Norman Wisdom). He lives on the island, and used to come in with his comely assistant. He would be 'on' all the time, bumbling and stumbling around the store, acting the cheeky little chappy. It was all a bit freaky and sad really.

Unfortunately Mollie Sugden (who also lives on the Isle of Man) came in once or twice, but never when I was on. Probably for the best really, as I hate to think what I'd have done or said. Most likely made an arse of myself asking her about her pussy.

posted at 1:19 PM •

I'm a clueless bunny sometimes.

I didn't mention that during my lunchtime in Hoxton, I went to phone my mate Neal, but accidentally dialled someone following him alphabetically in my phonebook. Easy (yet stupid) mistake to make, but made bitter by the fact that the person in question I hadn't spoken to for about six months, and that was pretty much to tell him I didn't want anything more to do with him. I only realised once he picked up - I recognised his voice immediately. Far too polite to hang up, an awkward conversation followed. I really should be a bit less sentimental about hanging onto things like phone numbers when they're no longer needed, but I am a bit of a hoarder.

Clueless part two - trotting along blithely lipsynching to Danni Minogue Neon Nights, the lyrics starting to trickle into my consciousness (I think I've reached that repeat listening threshold). Suddenly the words of one particular track started to make some kind of sense:

Vibe On
Instead of just lying there
Why don’t you
Show me that you’re powerful
Put in triple X batteries
Just so you
Give me something wonderful
Change it up fast and slow
Till I find the frequency I like

Plug it in and give me my vibe on
Getting vibrations
That’s what gets my ride on
Gotta have vibrations
Jump on top it
Sit right on it
Plug it in and give me my vibe on
Gotta have vibrations

The meaning is, well, pretty clear when you read the lyrics, but there I was happily shaking my booty to MiniMinogue's ode to her vibrator.

Dirty, dirty, dirty girl.

posted at 12:28 AM •

Some days my life is an issue of the Shoreditch Twat. Just went for a takeaway pasta lunch off Curtain Road, and spotted 'controversial' artist, Franko B mincing up the road with outlandishly tattooed friends. If you've never heard of him, he's a performance artist who does 'shocking' things like cutting himself in front of an audience of Islington Guardianistas and the odd reviewer from the Daily Mail, sent to report on how our taxpayers money is being squandered.

Anyway, saw him, then on the way back to the office walked past our downstairs neighbour, 'controversial' artist Jake(/Dinos) Chapman. I couldn't make this up if I tried.

posted at 4:52 PM •

Blue Witch posted her take on the issue of 'fag hags' last week, and I promised her a reply to it, so here it is...

First off, the term 'fag hag' like any label, forces generalisation. In that sense, it's a pretty crude tool of a word. It's not a word I use lightly or with any regularity, 'cos I'm a nice poof. If I were to use it, it would most likely be with someone I was very familiar with, and it would probably be meant in a playful sense.

From a very early age I preferred female company. In junior school in Germany my best friend was Stacey Greetham. She was a real tomboy, and we used to have a great time terrorizing the younger children by doing things like spearing slugs on sharp sticks and chasing them round the playground. My parents always coerced me into trying more boyish pursuits, like going to cubs (my Dad was a cub leader), but as soon as I could, i'd be back playing with the girls.

At high school, things began to change a little. Although I still preferred the company of girls, there was a divide growing between the genders that I didn't really understand, and found myself getting a lot more solitary. Most boys my age I found to be a total mystery, and I could find little common interest.

In my A-Level and further education years, 3BCO to 1BCO (Before Coming Out) I think it was becoming increasingly clear to the girls around me that I was well - a sensitive sort of lad. I found a great bunch of girlfriends who were comfortable around me, some of whom I still know today (quite an accomplishment for me).

After coming out, I immersed myself in female company again, but also began to develop a crowd of gay friends. There's always this tension in my personality betwen wanting to fit in and wanting to be different. Ultimately this caused rifts between me and my straight girlfriends, as I could never commit myself totally to one person or group.

I had one or two bad experiences with girls that could be described as fag hags. I eventually began to see that I was little more than a novelty figure - a man who was fun and non-threatening, who would support them when they needed it. But as soon as the chips were down on my side, the novelty wore off and they tired of me.

To bring things up-to-date, and resorting to my usual mention of mum, and the events of last year... When mum died, I was still trying to cope with my redundancy from the year before, and losing a big circle of friends. Suddenly I found myself in a position I'd never been in before, where I had no female peers or mother figures in my life. This brought about an examination of my relationships to both men and women. There was a semi-conscious shift to seek out new male relationships, necessitated by the void in my life that I needed to leave empty for a while. Since then I've been doing a lot of exploration of my masculine side, and starting to feel a lot more comfortable in the company of men.

I've veered away from the original point of this post - it's been a difficult one to find a track for, maybe because a lot of the situations I'm still working through at the moment. I might try to do a second part later once the dust from this one settles.

posted at 12:19 PM •

Fascinating trivia site of the day (trust me on this one) - Frequently Asked Questions about Calendars. Chock full of nuggety trivia that you always wanted to ask about the origins, history and geography of the worlds' various calendars, such as :

1) When did Estonia change from the Julian to the Gregorian calendar?
31 Jan 1918
2) How do you calculate when Easter falls?
The first Sunday after the first full moon after vernal equinox.
3) Why can't you print an Islamic Calendar in advance?
Because the start of the year is based on estimates of the visibility of the lunar crescent
4) How many days in a week were there in the French Revolutionary Calendar?
10

[Highlight the text to reveal the answers - high tech huh - almost as good as the 'reveal' button for teletext].

My fascination for calendars arose after reading one particular issue of my favourite comic, The Sandman by Neil Gaiman. It was a one-off issue (as opposed to the sprawling multi-part story arcs that make up the rest of the series) called Thermidor - the eleventh month of the French Revolutionary calendar. You did know that France had a different calendar for 13 years after the revolution didn't you?

posted at 5:07 PM •

Oh my goodness, my brain is positively abuzz. A jolly fun time was had last night at the SLAGS 4th birthday 'do'. Big queue, but luckily all my chums had arrived earlier so I pushed in (attracting lots of dirty looks from the other slags behind). The sun was shining and all the summer tavernatti had come out of hibernation for the festivities. I got to spend some time chatting to jailbird David, as well as Luca and his lovely bit of stuff, Dr Bitful. There was a bit of sadness as my big sexy mate Bill had broken up with his boyf - seemingly for good this time, so I gave him lots of hugs and sympathy. A few more weekends like that will definitely sort my head out.

Lots of ideas for posts floating around - I feel like I'm over my stressed-out blog dump period, and can get back to writing some interesting things - starting with...

Celebrity obituaries. What with all the pandemonium going on at the moment, twenty-four hour a day war coverage and whatnot, this one completely passed me by - poor old Thora Hird took the Stena Stairlift to heaven last weekend. I'd read about her stroke the week before, and it had seemed like she was on her way to a recovery, but she died a week last Saturday. I'm not sure whether it's just a psychological thing, but she really was starting to look like my mum - well, an older version of my mum anyway. It might just be that old lady thing though. I think after a certain age all old ladies start to converge - all turning into these bustly grey-haired bus-riding gossippy clones. Then they seem to get this collective consciousness where they all know what the others are thinking. Maybe if they lived long enough they would start to coalesce to form one giant old lady superbeing. It's a sobering thought.

posted at 3:41 PM •

Went to Hope in Brixton for the first time last night and I think I had a pretty good time. My brain couldn't really cope with the venue though, which seemed to be set up like the studio for The Kumar's at 42. I could imagine a grinning pub manageress saying "They bulldozed my garden and built the dancefloor!" The front half was completely pub-like, with sofas, stools, and probably somewhere the obligatory pub dog. Then at the back the pub sharply stopped to reveal a cavernish dancefloor, complete with DJ box, stage, smoke machine, lighting and Meera Syal wandering around dressed as loveable frail old Ummi.

I was going to take some photographs this weekend, specifically to show off my new glasses, except I managed to leave the battery charger at work. Honest. No really. I am pretty camera-shy, but this was an honest mistake. By all accounts though my glasses (I picked them up on Thursday) are going down well - I feel right trendy and sophisticated with them on, like. I'll probably wear them out to the Vauxhall one of these days to see whether I can attract any interest. Apparently it's not true what they say about girls in specs.

posted at 1:34 PM •

How blog is my beeb?

BBC news online is becoming more and more like a huge sprawling blog as time goes on. First there's Planet Tabloid, the weekly page covering the wacky stories from around the world, then there's bill blog, a technology focussed occassional blog-column from the titular Bill Thompson, a man who bears an unfortunate resemblance to Matthew Kelly if he'd been savaged by Brian May's mullet. Then they've got the Seven days, seven questions weekly news quiz, which throws together multiple choice questions with a variety of topical answers.

The latest blog-style feature is 10 things we didn't know this time last week, which is similar to Planet Tabloid (and looks like it might be replacing it for a while), in that it covers the wackier side of the news - like fish talking hebrew. I wonder how long it's going to be before BBC news online becomes a sort of federation of blogs? I can see them syndicating blog content from elsewhere on the web, perhaps even signing up bloggers as reporters. Or perhaps they should go the other way and take tv presenters and give them space online - I can just imagine Kaplinsky with her own page. Obviously she'd have to have someone type it for her though.

posted at 12:01 PM •

I am now completely spooked out. Far too many coincidences and synchronicities abound in blog-land.

On Naked Blog, Peter writes about his work colleagues finding his blog, the very same subject I was going over yesterday. He then went on to mention gas-masked BBC reporters, something I've had bobbing around in my head, and was planning on writing about at some point (he managed to get a fantastic picture anyway).

Then, I'm just catching up with Blue Witch, and her first two posts this morning were about dreams and her doves laying two eggs.

And what did I dream about last night?
Doves laying eggs...

All irregularities will be handled by the forces controlling each dimension. Transuranic heavy elements may not be used where there is life...

posted at 5:05 PM •

Dannii Minogue's Neon Nights was out on Monday* and it's a total corker. Unadulterated handbag-electronica, Put the Needle On It and I Begin To Wonder gave only the merest tasters of what was in store. It's retro funky Paula Abdul, sassy snappy like Betty Boo, ultra glossy a la Fever Kylie with more than a bit of Mirwais Madge.

But oh, the dilemma... The Vauxhall Tavernatti believed that Kylie, Queen of Pop was there for the long run, and all was good in the world. But the heir apparent is threatening to usurp her Kylieness.

ClassicMinogue or MiniMinogue? Kylie or Dannii? Whose altar do we worship at?

The differences between Fever and Neon Nights are hard to define, but it's all in the attitude. Dannii is all action, just a little bit grubby and sleazy. Kylie is ultra-glossy, untouchable perfection. Dannii is knowingly flawed, embued with a hungry frailty that says "Use me...", while she's using everyone around her. Kylie is above such games - she teases, provokes, but it's "Look, but don't touch..." Ultimately they're both wonderful, and we'll worship both. We'll do Dannii down a back alley, but we'll be thinking of Kylie.

Minogue is dead, long live the Minogues.

posted at 2:05 PM •

Well, so far I've managed to say very little about the current war situation. Emotionally I was with the outspoken majority of bloggers in feeling that this war is just somehow wrong - but rationally, I have a cynicism towards the process of media management that goes into contemporary politics that makes me feel that I'm not seeing the whole story. I still read around about current issues and affairs though, and I constantly ask John questions - he has an MA in International Relations and he's an excellent source of balanced opinion.

I can't avoid what's going on now with the war started. John is still working from home, and BBC News 24 is on, well, 24 hours a day. A couple of things struck me in the last few days.

The first was the parliamentary debate prior to the vote to send in troops. I couldn't believe that the usual circus-style antics were still carrying on during this monumentally important debate. When Jack Straw gave his speech, I was incensed by the party political slanging match that he embarked on, and the generally glib way he tossed aside some of the very well made arguments against the war. Do the men and women of that house not realise that the country, perhaps the world is watching them, and that jokes and catty comments during a debate that will decide people's lives is in pretty poor taste?

The second thing I stopped to think about was the continuing anti-war protests. I don't know whether to laugh or cry at these people, still marching against the war when it's clear that this form of protest has no effect whatsoever. The current world political stage needs a bigger idea than marching down a street waving a banner and blowing a whistle, but I must admit admiration for the protesters conviction - something which I cannot find. The most heartening thing is the demographic of the marchers - university students - the fabled Generation Y. People of my generation - the arse-end of Generation X, the static between tracks, will probably remember these kids being hailed as the new political consciousness. I remember hearing about these youngsters, ten years younger than me being passionately interested in environmental issues in the eighties and nineties. The commentators took notice, and a label was made for them. But they grew up - they went to university, and the political idealism began to seem like a fad. It's a little cynical of me, but looking at this new surge of idealism, I can't help but think that this is the first generation growing up under an Orwellian media machine, a weather-vane generation that turns to point in whichever way the media blows.

I was talking to John about it last night - the media management of this war, and how badly it's gone. The fight for people's hearts has been difficult, but with the troops doing their business now, I have a feeling public opinion is going to swing towards favour. The overwhelming problem in justifying this war is exactly that - the UN route, disarmament - was the only legal reason for the war, but the real reason was regime change. The problem in media-managing that is that no-one can officially actually say that we want a regime change. It can be hinted, but a case for regime change cannot be formed in public because there would be no UN backing for it. So we can't see why we need to get rid of Saddam; we don't hear about the atrocities; we don't hear the voices from Iraq criticising the regime. I read a story somewhere yesterday (and I can't remember where) about Saddam's son, Uday, overseeing an operation where people were being thrown into an agricultural threshing machine. By all accounts, Uday is a murderer, rapist and torturer, but that's not what we're hearing.

Question everything - not just what the counter-establishment tells you to question, but also what the counter-establishment is telling you. Question the reasons for war, but don't expect to get the truth all the time, and take everything you hear with a pinch of salt - and I guess that means all of this too.

posted at 8:51 AM •

I had an interesting conversation the other day about what was appropriate to blog. My attitude when I started my ace life was that very little was out of bounds. The cry you often hear on blogger self-censorship is "But what if my mum reads it?" - and well, that just doesn't concern me, and so I consciously, even defiantly set out with few off-limits areas. I didn't want to go into the specifics of what I get up to in bed (I feel that pre-Chatterly and Mills & Boon fiction have the right idea... ellipsis), and I wanted to censor the boring bits.

That was my mandate, and everything else was fair game. Life, death, love, laughs, bitching, whingeing - if I felt like it, I'd put it in. On the whole though I wanted to be honest to myself, because I belive I'm a fundamentally honest person. I was always taught that if you tell the truth, nothing will go wrong.

But things have moved on from the original game-plan. Forgive me if I'm doing my learning in public too much, but well perhaps some neophyte blogger one day will stumble on this and think "Hmm, that's what I felt, maybe this would be good advice". There have been posts I've written where people have kindly (and I do mean kindly) pointed out that I've gone too far - mentioned a googlable full name, dished a bit of dirt or whatnot, and I've realised that I should censor what I've written. I've had the experience of having a work colleague reading some of this, and feeling uncomfortable. There have been times when I've written things that later I realise I've gone a little too far - given a little too much of one side of myself away, perhaps skewing the perception of me - honest, I've not always been so fucking neurotic and stressed!

What I'm increasingly finding is that this is just not the place for those black and white morals. Sure, I'll continue to be as honest as I can, but occassionally I'm going to have to stop myself from saying everything I want to - to protect myself and others. And perhaps above all, to cut out the boring bits.

posted at 11:14 PM •

I didn't know what to expect from my yoga session, but sweating loads didn't cross my mind. Some of the positions were pretty difficult to hold and remember to breathe at the same time. Luckily I didn't pass out though. I got home feeling calmer than I have done in ages, despite a pretty annoying incident at work just before I went for the class. Anyway, I guess it's naive to expect a year's stress to just go instantaneously, and the lucid dreaming continued last night, but I did wake up at 6:45am feeling incredibly rested.

It didn't last too long though. I couldn't find this fiddly little doodad that I needed to tighten the bolts on my bike boots, and it turned into a massive outpouring of anger directed towards John. I had to get over to Southwark by 9:30am for a meeting, which I just about managed, but then couldn't find anywhere to park. I eventually stopped down a side-street on double yellow lines, a helpful passer-by pointing out that my loose chain was a deathtrap. He narrowly avoided being bludgeoned to death by the virtue of him being a big ol' horny hunk of bearness.

Anyway, I can't mention too much more of what happened at the moment, but all the anxiety ended up flooding out again.

I'm feeling a lot more calm again now, and rest assured I'll be going back to yoga next wednesday.

posted at 2:26 PM •

Operation Stressbuster just kicked into action. I didn't mention anything here for fear of jinxing myself...I have a really bad habit of jumping into things and then losing interest, as I'm mentioned before, um - somewhere. Well, I just went for my first session of Astanga Vinyasa yoga.

I came up with the idea on Saturday, and chucked it around in my head a bit, mentioning it to my spiritual guide Swami Blue Witch. I did a wee search online, and came up with the yoga place in E2, just 5 minutes from work. Feeling a bit stressed out from today's events at work (which I won't bore you with now), I popped along for an 8pm class.

Just to fill you in, Astanga yoga is pretty energetic and athletic - not the sitting around with your ankles round your ears variety. It's all stretching, breathing and holding fairly difficult poses. Well, I'll reserve my judgement until tomorrow when I get a better feel for how it went. My muscles feel pretty worked out though, and my head does feel quite clear and calm.

Oh yeah, and the instructor was pretty damn foxy too.

posted at 10:36 PM •

Thanks to eagle-eyed Ron for spotting this one. Seems I didn't notice that our friendly big butch daddy copper standing in the background of yesterday's pic is well - um - perhaps a little excited...

Or maybe his nightstick has slipped?

posted at 10:55 AM •

Enough hand-wringing for now - back to more sensible matters. About three months ago, I decided to chart the spread of the term 'fag bangle', just out of interest to see how quickly a piece of vernacular enters into common speech. I kept an eye on it in Google, but for the most part besides this blog and an entry in The Observer online, there was nothing to report.

Then, suddenly last week there was a stateside flurry. After reading around, it seems the AbFab special got shown on 31st January, and a couple of articles and reviews have been written since then.

Except - what's this? Reading one particular piece from columnist Kevin Isom, it seems he's managed to get it all wrong - he writes:
Incensed by the mangling of my pet term, I sent Kevin a curt email -

Kevin,

It's been something of a mini project of mine to follow the spread of the term 'fag bangle' since it was coined by Jennifer Saunders in AbFab. I've been watching it in Google, and for the most part of this year, there's only been my own site ( http://www.myacelife.com ) and a couple of mentions in the British newspaper website of The Guardian.

And all of a sudden, wham - there's been a mini-explosion - and your reference is one of them.

By the way, 'fag hag' is also lingua-franca in Britain, and definitely has taken on more of the negative connotations of the term. Watch the BBC TV series Gimme, Gimme, Gimme! for one particular take on the british fag hag. We use it almost exclusively as a derogatory term these days, or perhaps in a tongue in cheek sense to a female friend we would be being 'play-bitchy' towards.

However, fag bangle is not synonymous with fag hag - it's in fact the reverse...

In coining the term fag bangle, as said by Patsy to Edina, "Come on Eddie, you don't need a fag bangle" - Jennifer Saunders was taking a swipe back at the 'queens' for mocking straight women who choose to associate with gay men.

The fag-bangle is a gay man used by a straight woman to elevate her in social circles. However it implies that gay men are little more than trinkets; shallow, gaudy decorations to be used by women. It's a rebuttal by the fag hag. It was said in an off-hand way, suggesting that gay men aren't the 'in-thing' anymore.

Still, apart from this - um - small error, I loved your piece, and thank you for the high praise you lavish on the mother nation ;)

Cheers from sunny London,

Steve Powell

I just received a polite reply from Mr Isom, thanking me for the information, so I just wanted it recorded here, that well - I was right.

To show I'm not a complete spoilsport anyway, here's a link to Kevin's personal website, where you can find out about his two books in print, which I may now have to investigate for more errors or innaccuracies.

posted at 10:29 PM •

I think far too much - you may have noticed. Worrying about worrying too much is my favourite pastime, but one which with the help of this blog, I'm beginning to recognise in myself as a particularly negative behaviour. At times I can be spectacularly in control, but more often than not, afterwards I'll be wracked with self-doubt, analysing my every move for errors or faults.

At the moment I'm feeling rather awkward with myself, and unable to find the words to dump here. I was mentioning something similar to another blogger on Sunday afternoon, the difficulty in consciously finding the voice for your blog versus the unconscious voice which has a tendency to come through regardless of your intentions. Last week is a good illustration. I didn't really want to blog a huge big bawling rant, but I found myself increasingly blocked as the week went on, unable to put a sentence together. I was getting increasingly frustrated, until everything just splurged out on Thursday.

There is an up-side to all of this however, as I'm finding this blogging stuff to be quite a voyage of self-discovery, and this is evident with the struggle between conscious voice and unconscious voice. The need to appear sane versus the underlying chaos. Oh, and the occasional smutty thought.

posted at 6:38 PM •

Weekend was great - really unwound and destressed, feeling a wee bit fragile, but my head feels a lot clearer and happier. Anyway, I think I'll leave the profound insights into life until this afternoon, so until then here's a rare posting from an email funny I received. I don't post these that often, but this one works on so many levels. Not least for the big butch daddy copper in the background.

posted at 11:34 AM •

This weekend is going so well. Feeling a lot more relaxed, although there's still a lot of tension and stress floating around my body - I can feel it in one or two ways. Firstly my Irritable Bowel is playing tricks on me, which is actually a good sign, as it means my stress release valve has kicked in. Unfortunately for everyone else though it means I'm farting constantly. It's all Irritable Bowel Syndrome these days, whatever happened to flatulence?

Secondly, I'm preparing myself for the coming day in my dreams. I wake up feeling like I've already done the day ahead of me in dress rehearsal. Still, last nights dreams were a lot less anxious than those of last week.

I've been trying to come up with ways to take control of my life without having to tackle my job situation all in one go. A very wise person likened my situation to a tangled ball of wool, trying to find the end so that you can unravel it. If you try to hard, or get too impatient, you'll only end up making things worse. So, I'm thinking of ways of reordering little things around me, things I can have an effect on. One possibility I came up with that I've had floating around in my head for a while is taking up some kind of alternative/complementary therapy. I'm thinking of something along the lines of Yoga - something where you take control of your own body, rather than placing it in the hands of someone else. Something that will let me do a bit of much-needed spring cleaning in my fuddled brain. To try to get my brain-waves a little more harmonious, instead of the chaotic mess that I lazily let my thoughts stay in.

Anyway - any suggestions from you chaps will be most welcome, especially my neighbour readers (DG, Dave, Darren etc) - if you know of any local groups.

Had a lovely day yesterday, and had a much needed sight test (It's been about two years since I last had one). That started off badly, as I managed to get the one assitant in Stratford Specsavers who had done a course in how to be rude to customers. So you're wearing your contact lenses now? Well you should have taken them out three hours before you came for your test. Humph. Stupid cow, nobody told me this when I made the appointment, and no-one's ever said that to me before. She soon disappeared to find some other customers to annoy (and worryingly, they did seem to have a lot of annoyed customers), and everyone else was pretty nice and friendly - and seeing as I spent about two hours in the place, that was something of a relief. Sight test, contact lens test, look at this, can you read these letters, does my bum look big in this - every test imaginable. And of course, I passed with flying colours. If by flying colours you mean I'm a short sighted whoopsie.

My prespcription hadn't changed much, but annoyingly, trivially my contact lens prescription has. This is a little niggle, but, well you see up until yesterday the prescription for both eyes was the same. That meant I didn't have to fiddle about working out which lens is for which eye. Every day, just tear another two lenses off the strip, and slap 'em in. Now I'll have to fiddle around working out which strength goes in which eye. It's a piddling little thing, I know... but, the devil is in the details.

But I came away with my new prescription, and a receipt for a new pair of glasses - half-price of course. After five years of having the most ugly glasses I ever owned (they looked good for about 3 months before I realised how hideous they were) - I will have a pair of glasses that I like! It'll be so fun to have an 'intelligent' look to play with!

posted at 2:10 PM •

I just read you, and it made me stop and start to wonder about my current state of mental health. I've mentioned before about these mood swing postings, and looking back on this week, shit - what must you be thinking of me? A quick recap of this week in my blog, purely for my own gratification:

Saturday Obviously tired out from partying, but in fairly good spirits. A slight feeling of "what now for me?" after watching a Kylie documentary.

Sunday Not much to go on, just participating in DGs birthday stunt.

Monday Seriously nostalgic. Looking in the past for answers to my current situation, or just wistfully wishing the good old days back? Thoughts of my 30th birthday this year.

Tuesday Tears and dreams. Thinking about children, about plans and dreams that I've temporarily lost. Thinking about mum again.

Wednesday Lost? Can't think of much to do, and slightly distant feel to my posts. Even a review of The cardigans turns my thoughts to the past.

Wednesday John's anecdote: a compliment and a pretty good analysis of my personality Then - more tears, though trying to cover it up a little.

Thursday - part 1 The dam bursts, and everything comes out.
Thursday - part 2 What was I thinking here? Damage limitation I think - taking the piss out of myself, and far too aware of 'my audience'. You initially couldn't work out where on earth this post was coming from, but I think you worked it out.

Friday Seemingly totally back to normal. Taking the piss out of everything, and little mention of how I'm feeling. Lots of my brain had shut down for a while, trying to recover.

Saturday Woke up and had an urge to post something from the past. Don't know why, but realising I'm spending a little too much time in that country.

You've all been worried about me, and I haven't really addressed that. So I'll talk directly to you. I am feeling pretty lost, but I'm trying to keep myself going. I know my posts have been all over the place this week, but it's useful for me to look back over this week and spot where things were going wrong. Thanks everyone for being there for me, each in your own ways. I'm not going to do a list of links, because it would take ages, but you all know who you are. I think this is going to take me a while to sort myself out, but bear with me. Thanks everyone.

posted at 12:12 PM •

posted at 10:48 AM •

Sorry, I couldn't resist posting this - found at monkeychops.

posted at 9:33 PM •

I can hardly hear myself think!!!

Well, aren't I Mr Curmudgeonly? OK, so I didn't see Mike's comment-a-thon for Red Nose Day. I was a little *ahem* preoccupied yesterday with something or other. Anyway - just to show that I can enter into the spirit of things (humbug), here's a link to Mike's Massive Box in aid of Comic Relief.

OK, you can stop hopping now.

Update Oh, right...I didn't see (currently) comment #247 from Mike begging people to stop commenting, as his comment server people set an upper limit of 250 comments. Sorry Mike! If anyone links to his comment box from here - don't go posting any more!

Update, part the second Instead of Mike's (now finished) stunt, go to my boyfriend is a twat, and donate a joke.

posted at 10:33 AM •

Today, I'm hopping all the time while I blog - it's for Comic Relief! It's CRAZY!!

Except, well, no really. Watching Emma Freud on BBC Breakfast saying 'penis' for Red Nose Day does not make me reach for my wallet. It's the televisual equivalent of the chuggers who hang round Liverpool Street station - it makes me walk to the other side of the road to avoid them. I feel soiled. Red Nose Day, it's a wonderful thing: comedy, entertainment, fun - and it's all for CHARITY!! I've been sitting in my funk all week cackling at the thought that the war would start today - you could have a little contest between the two events, see whether the totaliser beats the total for collateral damage for the night. They could have just combined the two: pay for the war with donations from people sponsoring John Simpson to sit in a bath of custard.

One of the things so perfectly satirised by Katie Grin on AbFab was the star-studded desperation of charity telethons. They're just not funny - the evening's entertainment is little more than a five hour long Noel's House Party. "IT'S ROBBIE WILLIAMS" will be screamed Davina-style every half hour, and eventually - usually an hour later than scheduled, he'll appear for five minutes singing "You're The One That I Want" with Judy Finnegan. Oh god, the banality.

Please - take my money but just don't do anything. Don't wear a funny hat, don't come dressed to work as Wonder Woman, don't say funny words and above all, don't hop.

posted at 9:22 AM •

In "That Post From Thursday Morning" the author is attempting to convey feelings of depseration and helplessness, but above all to have a good whinge. This can be seen in the choice of language which places the reader in no doubt that the author is feeling a bit pee'd off

The second paragraph introduces the character of The Research and Development Director. We are never told this character's real name, leading to the conclusion that the author doesn't want his ass sued. We are left in no doubt however that the author's relationship with the R&D Director is a bit shit really, mostly stemming from the fact that the author casts himself (the narrator) as the hero-protagonist all the time, and just can't be bothered to get along with this socially inept buffoon any longer.

Themes of grief and coping with loss are prevalent in my ace life, and "That Post From Thursday Morning" is no exception. The author attempts to convey a metaphysical sense of exasperation with himself and his constant harping on and on about these things. In the paragraph following the introduction of the death of his mother, the author immediately launches into a dialogue concerning class A drugs, perhaps suggesting that the reader might find getting through the post easier if he/she took some.

The reference to Planet of The Apes in the seventh paragraph is intruiging for it's jarring effect on the bleeding-heart narrative. This is an example of the author trying to be clever.

Later in the post, three new characters are introduced, Jason, John and Neal. These characters may be interpreted as the author's ego, supergo and id. Except to do that would be a load of freudian bunkum.

In the case of the character Neal, the author is referring to his real-life friend, Neal. The author knows Neal will read this post and will probably draw the conclusion that he is even more flakey than he previously realised. The Herculean narrative of the bike ride is written to convey how bloody fed up the author is, but ultimately it is a figment of the author's imagination, probably.

In the character of John, it is clear that the author is alluding to his real-life partner, John, otherwise known as Better Half, or Mr. Bear. The author evokes feelings of isolation and not being understood, though it is clear that he loves John very much. It is clear that he hopes to resolve the difficulties within this relationship, but finds it hard when John turns every argument into a battle of wits. Just once he would like John to have an emotional response to things he says, rather than trying to analyse his every word.

The narrative is brought full circle at the end of the post with the author describing himself writing the post, returning to the first sentence of the first paragraph.

Space is left for comments at the end of the post, and already several people have added their words and comments. It is clear that the author needs a holiday as he has resorted to writing self-pitying rubbish, and bizarre Kaufman-esque "post-within-a post" ramblings like this one.

The author wonders whether Gran Canaria is nice?

posted at 4:49 PM •

Right well, I've held back on this post for too long. My ace life. Well, that statement positively oozes sardony at the moment. My shit life is closer to the mark.

So, the end of the project from hell. Started it in December 2001, and god, my life is completely unrecogniseable from back then. Well, some of the malaise had already set in, but it was all fixable in one way or another. I was already beginning to suspect my new company wasn't an ideal match. I wasn't fitting in as well as I'd hoped, as a few members of the company including the Research and Development director seemed to constantly want to question my skills and experience. As the R&D director was the guy that recruited me, this was puzzling to say the least. Still, I had hopes that something would change, or the next job would land in my lap as they had done so far.

But then Mum died. I know, I keep going on about that, but I can't get across how much it devasted me. And so I spent 2002 in a fugue state. Aware, but with no memories or sense of time.

The months rolled by unremembered, and I discovered drugs. I'm still trying to assess their effects on me. I don't think they've hurt, and I can think of a lot of ways that they've helped me cope. And I certainly didn't completely go off the rails - I kept the useage in moderation, strictly at the weekends. But the rest of my life just froze, as I concentrated on trying to create a new mental world that didn't include mum. Where mum was forever in the past tense.

Sidetrack: I've mentioned to others that that is the hardest part of grieving - switching the person from present tense to permanently past tense. Mum did. Mum was. It hurts every time you say it, and you want to be able just once more to say "Mum is".

So, my life went on hold as I held myself together. Time stopped, and perhaps I was trying to hold on to those last few moments of present tense. The last week with mum was one of the most painful times of my life - sitting next to her unconscious, talking to her, watching her. But after she died, I would've given anything for that pain to continue forever.

And now that year is over. I've reached the end of the project and I feel like I'm waking up, coming out of a permanently shifting slow-motion - a year long k hole. It feels like I've been fast-forwarded into the future, without remembering how I got here. Planet of the Apes. The world is different, unrecogniseable, and it was a one-way trip.

My career is a mess. My job is unsatisfying and unrewarding. I should feel triumphant at finishing this work. I've done a good job, I've made (at times) a monumental effort. But there's no back-slapping, no congratulations. The project manager gave me his usual awkward smile, I think terrified he would offend me by congratulating me. Later he ticked me off for not including him in on emails to the client. That was all he could find to say to me.

My only 'friend' at work is currently busying himself with his own passion and project - a website for female body-builders (if you've managed to read this far, you can reward yourself with a snigger at this point). Never mind the fact that I supported him a month ago when he went through the same thing as me. Never mind the fact that I read a draft of a complaining email for him, offered advice, and then backed him up. Never mind all that. He's busy now, and doesn't want to know about my problems.

And John. Dear John. I just don't know where we go from here. You see - all is not well with our relationship, but it's just one of those things in many ways. What can you expect after five years (in gay terms, that's a lifetime...what's the formula Dave?). The sex I can deal with - or lack of it. The fact that we have very separate social lifes I can deal with. The little domestic niggles I can deal with. What I increasingly can't cope with is the fact that he doesn't understand me.

I spent yesterday afternoon in tears after we argued on the phone. I was feeling terrible at work. I had fired off an email to my boss, which he's yet to read. Everyone was busily ignoring me as usual, and I just wanted to walk out. John phoned me, and tried to help me by pointing out how the other people in the company may be feeling. He then told me that an email had arrived from Guardian Jobsite (as it does every day). He's working from home at the moment, and leaves the email client on all day, so all my home emails get intercepted. I snapped and bit his head off. Why couldn't he think to forward them on to me? I was churlish and spiteful, and he hung up.

When I got home, I didn't speak to him. And he didn't speak to me. Except - he's much better at that game than me. He has an inexhaustable resolve and ability to just not get bothered by the fact that I'm not speaking. So eventually I usually cave in and start talking.

This time however, I didn't. I went to bed. I locked the bedroom door. I had terrible dreams for the second night in a row. I woke him up at 3:30am, and we started to argue. I walked out. I rode around for a while. I rode to my friend Neal's house, arriving at 5am Realising I was in no mood for a dramatic scene, I rode off again. I stopped at Liverpool Street. I had a coffee. I came home. John was asleep. I switched on the PC, and started typing - "Right well, I've held back on this post for too long. My ace life..."

posted at 6:29 AM •

Oh hell, I'm pitifully tearful here. Could be mid-week comedown, but it's not helped by the fact that I'm feeling wretched at work, and that I'm currently trawling through my all-time tearful music. Sappy sappy sappy.

What's on Mr Twirly? Well, as I've mentioned before, Marc Cohn just reduces me to a gibbering wreck (if I'm in the right frame of mind, and often when I'm not), as a lot of his recordings are about family, love and loss. There's songs about losing your parents, remembering your dead parents, seeing your dead parents in the face of your new-born baby, finding your true love then dying - there's something for every occasion, as long as the occasion is abject misery.

In person though, Marc is an incredibly funny guy. I saw him in concert about 4 years ago, and I've got a live recording from a radio show in San Francisco. In both he was/is the total entertainer, the audience laughs along, and quite often he takes the mickey out of the fact that his songs are so bloody miserable. There's a few jazzy bluesy upbeat numbers too, so you can dry your eyes and tap along for a few minutes.

posted at 5:21 PM •

John was chatting to his colleague and mate Paul yesterday. Paul asked how John's life was going on the home front.

"Well, it's great, I've got my own flat, I've got my dream car and I've got my dream boyfriend," bear uncharacteristically gushed.

Paul asked him to describe his dream car, then checked himself and thought he'd better ask about the dream boyfriend first.

"Well, I can describe both at the same time actually," the clever bear retorted.

"Both are stylish, rare and unique."

"They're also both high-maintenance, and have a tendency to overheat."

Great, I'm the Reliant Scimitar of boyfriends.

posted at 9:22 AM •

It's not a bad month for new albums. Dannii Minogue's Neon Nights is out next Monday, and by all accounts the buzz is that she's giving big sis a run for her money.

The same week, The cardigans release Long Gone Before Daylight - their first album in five years. The first single release For What It's Worth, sees the continuation of their increasingly grown-up sound, but reincorporating some of the kitsch charm of Emmerdale and First Band on The Moon. The production is slightly more rocky, less electro than Gran Tourismo, but is no less polished. Nina Persson's plaintive ethereal vocal floats above the lush bluesy harmonies with candy-floss perfection. It's reminiscent of early twangy Texas, but Nina's voice is Swedish fjords and glaciers to Sharleen's Scottish mountains and heather.

I had a work trip to Gothenburg back in 1998 at the same time as Gran Tourismo came out, and the music fit the rather desolate urban landscape of Sweden's second city perfectly. It was just one of those perfect combinations of music and memory - I only have to hear the intro to Erase-Rewind and I can remember the large factories and steelworks surrounded by pine trees on the outskirts of the city.

posted at 6:44 PM •

Um. Yes.

For the first time in over a year I arrive at work with nothing to do. Wow, weird feeling. I'm sure something will pop up pretty soon. I know there's some tidying of the project left to do, but for now...um...*drums fingers*

Well, I suppose I can catch up on all those essential things that I didn't have time for before...like...um...oh yes, searching for Shirley Bassey mp3s - that's useful. That should take up at least an hour. Look for a new job? Well, there doesn't seem to be much going on out there, as there hasn't for over a year. Catch up on all those other blogs - too depressing, everyone else seems to be really busy.

I'm sure I had a hundred and one things to blog, but my mind is a blank.

Oh yes, I finally managed to catch Kath & Kim on Saturday - seems we do receive channel ftn after all. I didn't expect it to be somewhat like an Australian version of The Royle Family - well, that was my perception, similar in terms of camerawork and humour. Certainly it had that same level of comedy - but for a British audience I think it loses a measure of recognition of situations and social types. I can see the attraction though. At times it's excrutiatingly well-observed and cruel, but without being totally unsympathetic.

The main similarity between Royle Family and Kath & Kim I'd say is the fascination with language. Kath and Kim speak in broad 'strine, and their speech is littered with idiocyncracies like: Femarl (Female), Moiye (Me), Noiyce (Nice). The official abc website has a handy guide to speaking like Kath & Kim.

posted at 11:44 AM •

I really, really love Mrs Kennedy's blog. At turns funny yet moving, charming yet acerbic, trivial yet thought-provoking. If I'm only half the blogger she is. This post, retelling the experience of giving birth to her son, Jackson (who features quite a lot), had me welling up in tears.

I'm such a total big-time sucker for babies. I haven't got many friends with babies, so I don't get to see that many. But when I do, I get so nervous around them - it's head-first into a wash of emotion. Tiny little things, so beautiful and perfect, I get this welling up of broody father-ness.

I didn't want this to be one of those wistful, vaguely sad posts that I get into every now and then - but, well, the subject of babies is/was a particularly troubling one for me. The vagueness of present/past tense is due to the circumstances of last year - but first I'll explain that, well, I've always felt a burning desire to have a baby. It was the single-most difficult thing for me to reconcile when coming out to myself, thinking at the time that if I was gay, there would be no way I would be able to or allowed to have a child. Soon after coming out properly, I realised that gay people were having kids - mostly lesbians, but a growing group of gay men were doing it too. And so I secretly kept my hopes and dreams that one day I would be a father.

My plans never faltered, and occasionally I would read stories about gay men adopting or surrogating children which would push the plans forward in my head. John came into my life, and I made sure that eventually he knew my thoughts on the matter. Usually my ideas were along the lines of co-parenting, probably with a nice lesbian couple, or even straight gay-friendly girl with no ambitions to marry. I wanted more than just to be a sperm donor, I wanted co-responsibility for the life I was helping to create.

But then Mum died. And with her death came a new complexity to my life. My entire world view was shattered when I lost her, and my plans for parenthood crumbled. How could I bring a life into this world filled with sadness and grief?

I'm slowly starting to find the path to rebuild bits of my life, and perhaps my desire to have kids will return, but with the shift in priorities in my life, I'm left wondering whether I want the responsibility now.

posted at 1:56 PM •

Well, crikey - that was the Auntie of all weekends wasn't it? Bouyed along by the recent relief of getting a huge chunk of the PFH (project from hell) out of the way left me free to enjoy the weekend free from stress. And enjoy it I did. Went far too quickly though, half of it spent trying to catch up on much needed sleep.

Fell asleep on the bus ride home last night, but luckily the end of the route was only Whipp's Cross, so only really an extra fifteen minutes walk home. It's been ages since I seriously got misplaced on public transport, although it has to be said, in my first couple of years living in London I used to do it all the time. Those were in my serious days as a career mover and shaker, when every evening there was a pub or party to attend.

Working in a trendy web design company just off Oxford Street was fantastic. The place itself was super-cool, designed and furnished by a trendy Islingtonite mate of the Creative Director's (who was himself a trendy Islingtonite - well, ok, he lived in Dalston, but a trendy bit of Dalston). The flooring was sheet metal, all open plan, with curvy ovoid desks painted orange. There were always fresh flowers and fruit in the kitchen area, the latest industry magazines and newspapers neatly laid out, and a fridge sticked with beer and wine - strictly for consumption after 6pm of course. Well, 5:30pm on a Friday - 5:00pm if it was a really tough week.

The atmosphere was always buzzing and lively, everyone took their work very seriously, but always mindful of not becoming too much of a sterotype. In the early days, it wasn't uncommon to see people lighting up a spliff in the office, although one of the senior designers did get a bit rattled once when a programmer did it right under the nose of a client. Every other day we'd head over to one of our many locals and discuss (more often than not) the office politics. I'd usually finish up about 10 or 11, and stagger home on the Central Line. Many times I fell asleep on the last tube home, usually waking up in some arsehole of Essex, with no money for a cab.

Ah, the golden age of the web designer! Micro-scooters and Stella Artois! Aeron chairs and glamourous geeks!

Well, enough of the nostalgia. I'd better get my head into doing some work. Only a little bit left and I'm finished, and oh yes - next weekend will be bigger, better, and um, brillianter..er...

The answer to yesterday's 12:30pm puzzle was of course...38, congratulations to Douglas and David for getting the answer right, and congratulations to DG on reaching this venerable age - although I'm told he doesn't look a day over 20. A full explanation of the stunt, with lots of links to other blogs participating in perhaps the biggest stunt of it's kind EVAH is over at La Sorciere bleue. Remind me never to mention when my birthday is to BW, nor *yikes* which rather large birthday I have coming up this year.

posted at 12:51 PM •

The 12:30pm Puzzle, in honour of Diamond Geezer's Birthday

During the Presidency of Chester A. Arthur, how many stars were on the United States flag?

posted at 12:26 PM •

In my imagination, there is no hesitation. I dream about you all the time.

Back in the land of the living here. Just slept most of the day - I planned to go down into the west end, but when I eventually got home this afternoon I just crashed. Hardly suprising seeing as I only got two hours sleep last night.

Fantastic documentary on Channel4 about every gay man's dream girl, Kylie. Gets me thinking about careers and re-invention, which considering my current doldrums, is quite apposite. So far in my 'life career' (I can't believe I just typed that), I've been Baby Stevie, Cherubic Stephen, Nerdy Ste, ArtySteve, e-steve, and now my latest incarnation; Partytime Steve. What's next? Blogger Steve? Writer Steve? Kept-boy Steve? Gym Steve? Or maybe a mixture of all of them? Maybe I'll just re-invent myself as Kylie's arse.

The other Minogue sister is buzzing around my head at the moment, in another one of my 'oh, so that's who that is' RVT moments. I'm not particularly too bothered by what's going on in the charts these days, so often when I end up at RVT, I'll be dancing away without the slightest clue what it was I was boogying to. Case in point: last year I kept hearing this Almighty track over and over every week, catchy little remix minx it was. It wasn't till about a month later that I realised I'd been throwing shapes to (a cover of at least) Gareth Gates' Anyone of Us. The shame. Another quality Vauxhall moment then.

And of course, only 12 hours to go until the shimmering lights of the South London Action Girls Society beckon. But what can I fill the time with? Vaguely in the mood to go out, but it seems everyone else is staying in - or in the case of a couple of mates, in Gran Canaria (I hate you Bill - lucky bugger). So I'm at a loose end, and just starting to wake up properly. Hmm - I could always just take some drugs, put some campy tunes on and dance round the house in my underwear. I might even pull.

I should be so lucky

posted at 10:10 PM •

Hello everyone, I'm back. Frank has returned to the grave for now, and I'm feeling a ton less stressed. I worked till 9:30pm on Thurday, and 8:00pm last night, and I'm finally getting near the end of the tunnel of project hell.

Feeling a little fragile today at the moment though as I celebrated my emancipation by getting totally off my face with an old mate in Bethnal Green, and only got about two hours sleep. I'm going to go sort myself out, and might be sober enough to write more later. *Snore*

posted at 1:41 PM •

Hi, I'm the corpse of Frank Sinatra. Steve has asked me to tell you he is extremely busy trying to get his project finished. I've just popped back from the grave to give him a quick blast of "My Way" to spur him on his way to the finishing tape.

He thanks you for all your comments, and hopes to be able to get back to you all soon. Oh, and he has a special message for you. He says, he's sorry, he doesn't have time to do any thingyobics right now, but he says to tell you his feet are eleven inches long.

Now, I hope you'll join with me as I sing...

And now, the end is near;
And so I face the final curtain.
My friend, I'll say it clear,
I'll state my case, of which I'm certain...

posted at 10:15 AM •

Oops. Just went for a sight test, only to get there and find my appointment is for tomrrow. I wouldn't mind but I'm short-sighted, and reading is not a problem. Just comprehension it seems.

OK folks, I've got a dilemma here. So - you all know the basics - project from hell and all that. What I might not have made clear is that I actually quite like the stuff I've done, although it shouldn't have taken me a year to complete. The relationship I have with the client is getting better every day, and they seem to have completely cut the project manager dickhead completely out of the loop now.

My dilemma is: I really want the client to offer me a job - to do this, I've got to basically tell them I'm looking for a job, or at least let them know I'm leaving my current company. How do I do this in a diplomatic way that's not going to fire back in my face?

I'm open to suggestions.

posted at 1:28 PM •

You never truly appreciate things until you've lost them.

I never realised how important it was to feel a sense of being needed until I came to work for my current employers. Being valued in a professional sense is a wonderful feeling. You feel part of something, you feel like your actions count. You feel like your opinions matter.

For three years, in a variety of companies, I'd had that sense that I had something valuable to offer. I felt like I could do things that few others could do, and I prided myself on my growing sense of professionalism, my 'can do' attitude. For me, this self-worth was coupled to a burgeoning new industry that was hungry for people who knew what they were doing, who could offer something new and innovative, who could deliver - and I was one of those special few.

Balancing the growing sense of pride in my work was my earthiness. I never forgot where I'd come from, and I was never too good that I couldn't get my hands dirty and do menial jobs. It kept my feet on terra-firma while my head occasionally got lost in the clouds. But always - I was needed.

One of the biggest hurdles I face in being valued and respected is perhaps also my greatest strength as a web designer*. I'm neither a programmer nor a designer, but a bit of both. Most people I've worked with have never really been able to understand that. If they themselves are designers, they see me as a programmer who knows how to use Photoshop. If they (in the case of my current employers) are programmers, they see me as a designer who knows how to do