Things I've done this weekend:

Gotten really bloody upset that Kinja isn't working at the moment.

Made a MoBlog

Spent thirteen hours on motorways, and still only advanced my CNPS score by one (22!)

Wound people up deliberately by being obstructively Tory at inopportune moments; I don't really and truly think that the poor could send their children to private school if they'd only re-prioritise. Sorry.

Done my level best not to chat with relatives.

Inherited twelve photographs of me and my sister in party clothing in the nineteen seventies.

Paddled in the beach at Formby. Until I saw the sheer billions of evil stinging jellyfish polka dotting the incoming tides.

Begun to be amused by Vernon God Little, after hating the first 53 pages.

Listened to a Kurt Weill / George Gershwin / Cole Porter cabaret set at the Purcell Rooms.

Eaten indonesian food with jatb, with whom I don't rant pointlessly about politics, and I feel extremely empowered about that...

Noticed that an entire family striding out of a funeral home in full black gear with white shirts looks bizarrely boy bandish.

Or like Reservoir Dogs. Except I had silver trainers on, which makes me Mr Brown.

Forgot to get in the Daimler to get to the graveside because I was (a) having fun singing in a high pitched voice, (b) desperate for a pee.

Snuck out of a wake to get a lift to a Cheshire Starbucks, then been accused of sneaking in beer on my return. Wish I'd thought of it first, you know.

Broken my mobile phone. The microphone doesn't work. Don't ring me. I'll only get irritated and cut you off without explanation or by your leave.

Taken about a gazillion photographs, and deleted about 300 in the realisation that obsessive attention to trivia is an unattractive thing in a humanoid.

Nearly committed murder against the hordes of Spanish exchange students who broke every single train exit barrier at London Bridge, eight hot, stickily sweat drenched, pulse thumpingly annoying hours into my journey home.

Hitched home in order to leave earlier. Which meant I had to stay awake. Mucho cola, as they Do Not Do Real Caffeine Up North.
(peasants)

Gotten jealous over the guest blogger's posts.

Sat this afternoon in the sun, staring at the customers and visualising their bloodied heads exploding over the windows behind. Not good. Not good at all.

Rejected another demand for money from Tybalt. I'm not being mean, I don't have any. She can join the queue of creditors.

Wondered whether to blog the unjustice of a date where I decide I'm not that interested, then end up all twisted up inside because, dammit, she also didn't phone me. Darntwattit, I was disinterested first, you bastard!

Prevented myself from blogging a devastatingly blow by blow account of bedroom events on said date as revenge, on the grounds that nobody will like me any more if they realise I'm capable of that sort of thing.

Secretly decided to do it months later, when nobody will notice. Hah.

Guest Blog: Found

Mood:  amorous
Topic: Belle de Jour
Oh no! I'm blogging too late! So now it's technically Sunday, and that means a day has been missed on the blog.. Sorry, Vanessa... But I will try to make up for it.....

YOU

I always knew I would meet her. Eventually. Yes, I had made mistakes. Thought that I'd found her, then discovered I had been wrong all along. But I always knew she was still out there. Waiting for me to find her. I always kept that hope: kept on looking.

The first time we met, I had been so nervous that I hadn't eaten for three days. I was living on adrenaline and nicotine, hoping my stomach would calm down enough to give me at least a fighting chance of not looking exhausted. And malnourished. I needn't have worried: she looked exactly the same. As soon as I saw her, I began to laugh. A hearty chuckle born out of relief and an end to weeks of longing. She wound down the window.

"What are you laughing at?"
"Nothing. You just look as nervous as I am." She blushed, her top lip curling into that point I now know so well, and told me to "Get in you silly bugger"

The drive to my house seemed to take an age. Every traffic light on red, every crossing busy. And she was nervous - missing gears and jumping on the clutch. I tried not to look at her, to ease her nerves, but I couldn't help it. Here she was. With me. After all this time. I wanted to remember every minute. Soak up every second with her.

We dumped her bag in my room and, both suddenly shy, moved into the kitchen.
"How was the drive, then?" I asked. A normal, nothing question to try and calm both our nerves.
"Oh, you know. Ok."
She smiled at me. "Could murder a cuppa though."

I jumped at the chance of having something to do. Something to take my mind off the way she was making me feel. Just by being there. Leaning against the wall looking at me.

"White, half a sugar, right?" I hoped I'd got that right. I had heard somewhere that it was important to remember these things - like how someone took their tea and coffee. It meant something important, though what could be more important than just being with her right then, I couldn't for the life of me remember.

"Well remembered", she exclaimed. She sounded impressed. I hoped she was. I grinned to myself as I filled the kettle.

She moved to the window.
"Lovely view" she giggled.
"Mm" I mumbled, not meaning the wall of the yard she was looking at, but the view of her, in my kitchen, leaning over the sink to get a better look at the yard.

"Oh my God! We so have the same cd collection! I have almost all of these albums. That's freaky."
The tea made, biscuits produced, we had moved back to my room and she was examining everything on display. As if, by knowing what was contained within those walls, she would know me completely. She soon gave up: the only thing anyone could conclude from the jumble of artefacts in my room is that I am a person who collects 'stuff'.

But she was devouring the cd collection like it was full of treasures. Like a little girl in a toyshop.

"Can you put this one on? Please?" She handed me a Kristin Hersch cd. "I've not heard this one. Thanks"

I removed some random home-made compilation from the cd player and put her cd in. The Hi-fi refused to play. Typical. I pressed some buttons, jiggled the cd around, not wanting to seem the kind of person who would shout at an inanimate piece of machinery.

"What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. It's not playing. Does this sometimes."

I decided to hit the damned thing anyway and she laughed.

And then. Then she did something I will never forget. She moved up behind me. I felt her getting closer. She put her hands on my waist, then slowly, she moved them into the pockets of my jeans. I must have groaned. Or gasped. Or both. I don't remember. I just remember that wonderful feeling. I was afraid my legs were going to buckle and fail me. So I moved. Turned around to face her. She had that grin on her face. Like she knows she's 'got' me, and I don't need to say anything. Because she knows exactly how I'm feeling.

"I, er, ", I gasped.
"Shhhh", she implored, pressing her finger to my lips. I began to move my lips again, to say something, but she shook her head, so I stopped.

And then she kissed me.

Looking into my eyes, she stood on tippy-toes, and she kissed me.
Softly. Slowly. Brilliantly. Passionately. It was a kiss like I had never experienced before.

It was everything I had ever dreamed of and more. I put my arms around her waist and pulled her closer. She didn't resist, and I felt her buckle under the weight of what we were feeling.

She pulled her lips away and looked at me. Just looked, mouth open, for a few seconds. (though it felt like an age) And began to speak.

"I have wanted to do that for so long. I thought today would never come."

And right then, as she spoke, I could see my plans, the future I had mapped out, drift away, like a morning mist which, when cleared, reveals the most beatiful droplets of dew.

And I knew then, as she smiled at me, that I had finally found who I was looking for.

--------------------------------------------------

Well, I hope that 'cuts it' as a worthy post on the esteemed blog of Vanessa. I shall probably *not* be asked to return (he he).

I have enjoyed messing with your mind :o)

xxx
GuestBlogger
xxx

Guest Blog: Cunty-Minty-but-still-a-sweetie-guest-bloggy

Mood:  caffeinated
Now Playing: Eva Cassidy - Songbird
Topic: Creepy Lesbo
Cuntymint. Odd word, that. C-U-N-T-Y-M-I-N-T. But I like it. I don't know what it means, though I could hazard a guess, but I won't. Just, well, CUNTYMINT, innit?

I'm having an attack of the "Fuck You"s today. *twitch* Not enough sleep, too much caffeine, and the prospect of a weekend without my slippers. It's just too much. *drapes hand across forehead in dramatic pose*

But anyway. I think. Sometimes. (Really, I do - you can see the pain on my face and hear the whirring) So, well, in that vein, I present:

Ode to a Cow

I am Cow hear me Moo
I weigh twice as much as you
And I look good on a barbecue
Yoghurt curd cream cheese and butter's
Made from liquid from my udders
I am cow, I am cow, Hear me Moo

I am cow, eating grass
Methane gas comes out my ass
And out my muzzle when I belch
Oh the ozone layer is thinner
From the outcome of my dinner
I am cow, I am cow, I've got gas

I am cow here I stand
Far and wide upon this land
And I am living everywhere
From DC to NewFoundland you can squeeze my teats by hand
I am cow I am cow I am cow
I am cow I am cow I am cow

(I am cow: The Arrogant Worms)

*ahem*

I've been wandering around singing that song all day and, well, getting some odd looks. Of course, it could have been the pink tutu, but, well, personally, I think it was the song.

*taps fingers on desk in a really annoying rhythm while trying to think of something else to write*

My trainers smell.... They got wet the other day when I took them for a walk in the rain. They're dry now, but, well, they still smell. I smelled this morning too. I stayed up all night to do some work and, well, sitting in one place for too long and getting all hot with genius creativity kinda makes you smell. And I did. Smell, that is. So I had a shower. Why is it, that after a shower, despite getting out of the bath and rinsing down the tub, there are still bits of fluff left? Why can I never catch every bit of fluff in the bath? And you know, those last bits of fluff always look like something sinister when you're sharing a house with people you don't really know. Like, er, well, things that live, anyway.

Oooh - and I've had a *STALKER*. *nods head in conspirational manner*. Yes, a stalker, and a psycho one at that. She stalked me in a chat room, and then by text, and now she knows where I live. (Ok, so yes, I told her, but, well, she didn't seem psycho then!)

See, well, your esteemed author here didn't give me any particular topic to 'blog' on, and, well, I live a very boring life, so I'll make something up.. I'm supposed to be offensive, so, well, I'll be nice instead. Right. So, as I'm having a 'fuck you' moment right now, I'll list by name, all those I would gladly kiss on the cuntymint:

S, who is just so wonderful I'm starting to worry very much that she can't possibly exist in real life. Yummy.

S2, who is a 'thinking woman's crumpet'. Yummee.. Funny and wise, a definite tasty one.

C, who I just want because I know I can't have her. She tells me all about her love life, and always seems to have the whole of the lesbian population falling at her door. Apart from me. Or maybe I should start doing that....

NS, who is funny, gorgeous, brill to go on a night out with, but, unfortunately not interested. Just my type, too *sigh*

T. Utterly gorgeous, femme, curvy, sensual, but utterly utterly attached. :o(

N. Very attractive, but I only want her because I strangely like the idea of playing the Big Bad Lesbian and taking her 'innocence', then dumping her.

Hmmm... Right. Ok. Ya think that's enough to count as a post on the esteemed Vanessa's blog? Well, if it isn't, then fuck you, coz I'm falling asleep and have really really squeezed out the last of any inspiration I might have had just so I can blog this before collapsing, snoring and drooling, onto my bed. I've not slept for two whole days. And the bank, (the wankpots that they are) have taken money off me that they shouldn't have. So I have no cash. I'm living off my cheque book until next week. And then the ex rang me in an evil mood and shouted at me for ten minutes before hanging up. I listened. I really am too soft.

Ok... So I'll leave you with the following thought for the day:

Tough cookies crumble pretty easily. Cookies that are nice and soft in the middle are more flexible and harder to break.

Use that one next time someone tells you to 'toughen up'. (And I made it up all by myself - aren't ya proud?)

Oh - and suggestions are needed as to what topic to blog on tomorrow. As I'm a total comment-whore, I expect lots and lots of ideas. In the comments. To which I will reply to make it look like I'm more popular than I really am. Natch. :o)

On Having a Posh Voice

When you have a posh voice (lifting at the end of sentences to indicate you've at some stage changed your accent by force, natch) you often get asked to read at funerals.
So in the run up to the funeral, you have to worry about your text, your lines, your phrasing, your delivery. You have to think about your clothes - a pair of shit trainers sneaked in under the dark suit will reflect in the spotlight at the lectern, you'll never get away with it.
You have to deal with the clammy palms, the false starts, the rehearsal with the vicar, and the waiting in the apse for your cue.
As you wait, closer to the coffin than anyone else in the church, you recall what you had forgotten.
It's a funeral.
Someone you loved is dead and inside that box. That box right there.

Inevitably you cry. Because it's so sudden, so close to you, and you're alone, it's big lurching gulping sobs, not the snuffle of slow realisation you see in the congregation out front.
Nobody next to you has a tissue, because nobody is next to you. Nobody can lean over and squeeze your arm. Seeing your cousin snuffling doesn't help you, because your cousin's face is one in a sea of faces, all pointing up at you.
You have to wipe your nose on your sleeve, and practise gulping the snot down. You have to count to breathe evenly because your cue is coming. You have to remember to wipe your mascara upwards, because nobody's there to tell you that it's halfway down your face and glinting in the lamp's glitter. You need to get your voice back down an octave or two from strangulated sob to normal, because here's your cue.
You get to worry what people think of you. Whether they rolled their eyes when you fluffed a line.

Then you get to hope there's no toilet paper on your shoe, and your black jacket isn't covered in grey cat hairs as you descend the steps to the pews again, where for decorum's sake you'll sit at the end, with the smelly and eccentric aunties who need easy exit routes in case their incontinence pads don't last.

Nobody will say if you did okay or not, because nobody's interested in your reading. They're caught up in themselves.

Staring up at the altar, you're going to try to calm your breathing and your racing pulse back down so you can focus on the reason you're there - to think about and pray for the soul of the person who has died. You try to do this, but spend so much time feeling guilty for having not really thought about them much so far, having only cared about not fucking up your reading, that you're ushered out of the church on the arm of a relative you don't like before you got around to grief at all.

You posh voice affords you all these privileges. It never fucking gets you invited to speak at a wedding or a christening.

So that's why I'd rather get in the box myself than read at my granddad's funeral tomorrow. Okay?

Topic: Shy Lux

Kill Bill
Brilliant. Like watching somebody else playing on their playstation in front of you. Really badly.
Although I could have done with remembering to return it to the dvd shop less than two weeks overdue, then I'd have had enough money to buy it.

The Butterfly Effect
Absolute toss, but harmless enough. Lovely ending, which fit the Oasis track in the background perfectly, and that made me instantly know what I'm going to write in my last blog post, in July. Ashton Kutcher reminds me horribly of someone I know, without the acne. He seemed inordinately pleased when I told him this.
By the way - sitting alone in the front row of even a mildly mind fuck style of horror movie? Bad idea. You're not going to like it when they burn the doggie.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Absolute crappy bollocks. Not worth the popcorn.
Saw this on the big screen at Odeon Leicester Square - but was seated so far away, I might as well have waited and watched it on my postage stamp sized portable. Still, they'd decorated all the auditorium seats in the same fabric as Joel's bed, which was a minor, momentary mind wobble when the lights went up.
I usually love Charlie Kaufman's movies - okay they never quite hit the spot, but that feeling of not being quite on the button, but insane to have tried is terribly attractive in a movie. However, this one was pants. I understood about 40% and couldn't be bothered to try to understand the rest.
Whoever the woman is who dumped Kaufman three years back, and made him obsess over this nostalgic lovesick nonsense, you owe me ten pounds fifty.

Chopper
Now this is a good movie. I'm a little disturbed by how violent I like my movies at the moment, but hooray for untrained actors like Eric Bana who eschew thinking themselves into a role in a precious diva-like fashion, and actually have a bash at acting the script.

Frida
For some reason, I didn't manage to download imagine the sound to this movie properly - after a gazillion codecs, I managed to get sound that registers at whisper volume if I crouch with my head right by the laptop speaker. It's a peculiarly intimate way to see a movie. Me and Alfred Molina - complicit audiences to Salma Hayek's great performance. Didn't know she was Arab-American, by the way.
Overall, a little too much money spent - sometimes a movie seems so slickly produced, you end up wondering if they would have tried that little bit harder had all that glossy golden crowd scenery been available.

Unwarranted Attack on a Fellow Blogger

Now Playing: Jacques Brel: 'Jojo'
Topic: Lactose Incompetent

I'm really really not sure what I make of a blog called Scattered Words.

I was obviously, as an out homo, going to take exception to lines like this:

"10. Develop self-discipline. Do something every day you don't want to do. The homosexual/lesbian emotional mindset is very self-centered and self-indulgent; recovery means learning to be Christ-centered and self-denying."

So I made every attempt not to take offence, and to listen properly to where he's coming from.

Reading on, the guy's explanation for blogging his attempts to brainwash himself out of being gay in order to fully embrace religion goes:

"So what does that have to do with anything now? Not all childhood abuse survivors are homosexual, you say? You say right. Though, being exposed to sex so early -- being forced to deal with adult issues so soon screwed me up a little. As a result, I was sexually active "by choice" at a pretty early age. Thirteen, if I remember correctly. Throw in a rocky relationship with an emotionally distant and detached father ... well you get the idea.

The sexual abuse robbed me of my childhood. I skipped some pretty key developmental steps that I'd give anything to go back and change. But I can't. I didn't grow into a "man" the way I was supposed to and I can't do it now either (at the age of 22). My experiences now will never mirror what a 12 year old boy (or whatever age) goes through."

Fair enough. It's deeply personal.

I disagree strongly but who am I to say that billions of twelve year olds have repressive disturbing experiences of childhood? Who am I to rant on about the gazillions of kids who were abused sexually as children who don't use it as a lifelong excuse to claim victim status in all things? Who am I to point out that it's the concept of 'normal' stages of development that history proves is a false concept?
Who am I to note that this guy's abdicated all responsibility for his own desire, and made even feeling love / lust or interest into a transgressive act?
Who am I to point out that this sort of thing demonises the church in a way that I also object to?
Who am I to point out that continually going on and on and on about gay porn whilst berating oneself is possibly far more perverse and masochistically sexualised than simply enjoying it, and accepting who you are?

And then he links to "christian porn". What's with that? Methinks the ladyboy doth protest too much.

I understand that this is someone's personal thoughts. I do. Why is it that something about the thing reminds me of the engineered titillation of Belle de Jour?

Particularly when you read something as agonised and misguided as this:

"I'm absolutely devasted by the fact that I'm gay.
[...] I'd love to be at any other place other than where I am. I'd love to be able to make fun of myself and not take all this so seriously -- but it weighs so hard on my heart. It hurts so much. It's like a disease. A chronic illness that no one really knows what the cure (or cause). Except for those of you whom would say Jesus (and sin). And I agree."

I have no wish to kick someone while they're obviously down. But I'm gay, and I've been broadly christian. Not only is this not the answer, this is so Wrong, so utterly Wrong, that my every busy body fibre of being cries out against it, demands I protest.
The attitudes portrayed in the blog so desperately require some form of non-judgemental counselling, not anonymous blogging. Somebody needs to listen to this guy, not to tell him that gay is right, or gay is wrong, or gay is taking you to hell. But to find out why in hell's name he thinks blaming other people's actions is going to allow him to absolve himself from responsibility for deciding for himself who he is. What he is.

I have to stop. It's making less and less sense the more I write. And I could rant all day.

I dunno. More evidence of Why Blogs Are Wrong?

Politicaaal

Topic: Yidaho

Events in Abu Ghraib, Chechnya, and Haiti have had at least one tiny ripple, over here - I re-animated my'dormant membership of Amnesty International.

You'll probably think it's tofu knitting, if you're right of centre, or appeasement if you're leftist, but Amnesty really works.
My personal conviction about this stems from a bizarre experience of receiving a reply to an Amnesty letter once.
I recall I was working with a muslim academic from UAE on translating some of Edward Said's fables, many years ago, when an Amnesty letter I'd written to the then leader of Israel resulted in a personal reply. The Secretary of State himself (later to become president) had decided to take the time to write back to me to explain in great detail why his army had been instructed to kill arab children in the street. Apparently I was a victim of media propaganda, and was not to think of these dangerous terrorist militias as 'children' per se. Oh, and that the killing would continue, thanks.
The job I was working on at the time I received this state apologia for the most incredible brutality put me into contact with arab academics some people who were extremely interested in what an Israeli government's justification of child killing might be -- especially when its intended audience was not the UN, the US, any figure of state at all, but a UK undergraduate who had written simply asking why it happened.

It's the simplicity of the thing that makes Amnesty work. You write letters, and you ask why. You ask if it might be possible to calm down, old chap. You remind them that someone somewhere knows these people are still alive.

Current Appeals for Action:

• Haiti: The re-trial of Louis Jodel Chamblain ? a test of the judicial system in Haiti
• Women of Rwanda: marked for death
• Belarus: Stop the silencing of trade union activists
• Ratification - Bahrain
• Angola: Stop forcible eviction of families
• Stop violence against women - Act now
• Ratification - Jamaica
• Thailand's anti-drug policy should not be killing people
• Burundi: Women under attack
• Ratification - Burundi
• USA: "Double jeopardy" for some Guantanamo detainees
• "Justice only in heaven" ? End the death penalty in Uzbekistan
• Ratification - Yemen
• Viet Nam: Help free Le Chi Quang, imprisoned for internet use
• Mexico: Stop violence against women in Ciudad Juarez and Chihuahua

It costs #24 or USD$25, or CA$20, or AUS$55 or Kr240 to join Amnesty International. Then you get to write some letters to Ministries of Foreign Affairs, and that might cost you a few stamps.

Bromide

Topic: Yidaho

For months and months this blog was subject to searches for le.sb.ians pis.sing or Van.essa Bl.ue.
No longer, as lately I've been delighted by the esoteric search terms that return the hapless to this here pile of mumbling platitudes. Some of them are quite poetic in their glittering banality, as if they represent some sort of fractured attempt to find yourself through minutiae.

Recent searches leading to this blog:

• flutterings + colourful + clothes
• sarparilla drink UK
• 'the dare game' sex
• horror blog
• card index of Heidi written by Johanna Spyri
• 'the beach' 'alex garland' differences film book message
• oriental psychic readers
• belgian biscuits + kinky
• little vanessa
• chilli sauce stain carpet remove -recipe
• "i've had breast implants"
• lingerie shoot uk photography
• Helen Mirren's bra size
• Very hairy and scary girls
• Vanessa's blog

Meanwhile, on the inhospitable side of the planet, someone's been using Proxify to read my blog. I have to point out that although I have four sitemeters working on the page, I don't actually look at them much anymore (I've moved my addictions on, now, to browsing kinja, see). Even if I did read them obsessively, and thus cared, I'd have to be fifteen years more technologicallly savvy than I am to work out who you are from your IP address. There isn't oxygen enough in the world to waste on finding out how to do that.
Flattered people go to such lengths, though. You fools.

Fractured Moments

Topic: BillyWorld

Last time I dated - as opposed to picking people up accidentally and shagging them at intervals with no real commitment - there was no mobile phone. Nor any email or internet, for that matter. Texting is an addition to dating that I can do without - in the run up to a date, who wants a 40 word daily update of someone trying to pretend to be someone better, cooler and sexier than they are? Leave it for a telephone call, or better still, maintain the damn mystery till it's life story time, four drinks in.

I got on one of those rickshaw things in Soho on Friday night, in the small hours. They're disturbingly rickety, run slower than a fast walking pace, and have you worrying for the health of the obviously dazed and disoriented drivers, who wheeze and grunt their way up the wrong streets so predictably that you can't bear to let them know they've gone the wrong way, and eventually just plead to be let out somewhere. Anywhere.
Also not helping: your position prone on the freezing, jalopy seat provides a perfect view of the car air freshener that dangles just below the arse of the driver.

I've always been good at two timing, and have only ever faintly worried that I don't seem to have the moral guilt that others experience - in fact, the only times I've come clean (so to speak) were when I worried that being so successful at lying to everybody concerned might go to my head, and I'd become uncontrollable. A little freedom being a bad thing. So on a date last week, it was a nice coincidence that the bar set for the venue was downstairs from a gig performed by a folksy singer-songwriter I'd chatted to online. I messaged her that I'd pop in. Partway through the date, under the guise of popping out to the toilet, I managed to appear onstage for two numbers next door.
Excellent. A moment within a moment. If it returned to my seat near the bar a little late, and looking flushed, I could always blame the oysters.

Spending the night at an undisclosed location in the city, I expected to be overcome with nostalgia for the days when I lived in Soho and Bloomsbury. Not so. It struck me that there was nowhere to shop, nowhere to buy shite coffee and a plate of beans on a hangover morning, and most of all, no park to lie in the sun and pretend yesterday didn't happen at all. I think I'm getting seduced by the leafy suburbs. Morphing horribly into a character from Coming Up For Air.

I was meant to go for a curry with all my colleagues on Friday. I was never going to turn up, but couldn't be bothered to formulate an excuse, then forgot to cancel at all. So I stood the boss up. Oopsy. Bad move. And even worse, nobody rang to ask where I was. This is not a good sign. What excuse can I use? Shall I fake a road accident? I could probably remember to limp for half a day at most.

Topic: Looby

The unthinkable has happened. In the flat where I live alone, above the wardrobe, is a big spider. I walk into the room, and both I and the spider are immobilised by fear. It's like starting a staring match with a dog; there are no limits, and no possibilities.

I just got in from a wild night out, and I desperately need eight hours of sleep.

But - there's a spider. A spider! In my bedroom.
It's horrific.

Fish Snuf M*vie

Topic: LondonLifer

So I went to Whitstable, with Rose Madder, on Monday, and took my camera because I wanted to photograph dead fish. It was raining like a blood shower in a slashpic, and the cold gradually froze me over until I couldn't feel anything at all, and got giddy. My brain froze over the worst.

Rose Madder used to be a photographer of sorts, and I hoped I could pick her brain for ideas, although my main idea was to go to the fishermen's market stalls on the wharf where they sell the fresh catch, and photograph series of dead fish. Rose Madder's advice was to be brash, stick your camera in people's face when it's the right moment, and shoot, without worrying about etiquette or permission. She said they let go of the scruff of your neck eventually.

I couldn't do it - I got one snap of some cockles and mussels and chickened out. I resolved to take a series of pictures of fish that had died of natural causes, instead.
Meantime, the rain was barrelling down, and we ducked into a harbour pub to shelter, and eat oysters. In May. Wrong month to eat oysters (yeah, now you tell me that, old woman at work, now you tell me).
Feeling nauseated, queasy, bilious, tipping slightly to the left on bends, feeling rather at sea, I try to walk it off along the beach. The tide is out and I want to jump the scum on the waves, and see if I can get further out into the harbour than anyone else, so I can be King of the Beach. I want to skim a stone that goes further than three hops. And I want to find me a dead crab, a fish if possible; failing that, 700 digital close ups of seaweed bunches will do.
First beach I got to, I could not believe my luck. I found a wild fish, about two foot long, a handspan in diameter, died of natural causes. I snapped away like a paparazzi finding Becks' bidet occupied. Brilliant. I found a salmon!

I did mention the cold was freezing my brain over, didn't I? A salmon. Wild. Yeah. On the beach. There were other varieties, too. Plaice, Giant Crabs, Dover Sole, Lobsters. Died of natural causes. No embarrassment in photographing this lot in close up for hours.
I found three salmon, actually. I was lining em up to snap 'em and p'raps even pretend I'd been on a trawler and brought up the nets myself, when I saw one of them was wearing a barcode label.
It even took me a while longer to work out what creature had filleted all the flatfish so neatly. Or to look further up the estuary towards the back doors of all the Oyster restaurants lining the flood barriers.
Doh.

In other news, Vanessa learns that eating bad oysters can be compounded if all subsequent meals mainly consist of chilli, tabasco, beans, and boiled eggs.
I am not pleasant company in any small, airless space right now.

Ice Cream Prize

Topic: Shy Lux

The Art of Lesbian Online Dating, Vol # 2

Topic: Belle de Jour

Courtesy of Merc.


Welcome back young grasshoppers..
Hopefully with the assistance of the lesbian rules volume one.. you have managed to procure yourselves a woman for the evening..
Excellent.

Here are a few simple guidelines to ease your passage (fnar fnar) through that hazardous jungle also known as the first date.

This volume is going to concentrate on "the date at the meet" .. the favoured pre luurve scenario for the w.i (woefully inept)

• what to wear:
  
  This is an often debated subject amongst pre daters.. it requires multi phone calls to friends.. the hiring of a homosexual male for the evening so that he can give you an unbiased view of your backside "in this".
  
  The answer to this quandry, my friends is simple:
  CLASSIC.
  
  something along the lines of nicely aged levis, a black v-neck something in *lightweight wool*.. and boots, not white hi-tec's thankyouverymuch.
  
  accessorise well.. do not approach the first date by wearing a sovreign on every finger for 2 reasons -
  1) green fingers are not attractive on anybody.. 2) as women are genetically predisposed to notice everything, lust object will take one look at your "decoration" and decide that you obviously never take them off, ergo you havent been laid in a very long time. this may be offputting. go easy tigers.
  
  nb* .. by lightweight i do not mean something large and arran favoured by the military or shephards in nova scotia - you do not want your object of desire to think that you spend your life looking like a large shiny beetroot.



• what not to wear:
  
  the answer to this question my friends, is also simple.
  
  ANYTHING FLAMMABLE
  
  the reasons for this are three fold..
  
  1) - flammable garments are a crime against fa-h-sh-un.. loud hawaii prints and manga cartooned shirts should have been banned when "miami vice" finished its t.v run..
  if you have problems letting go of your polyester.. take a deep breath.. stand in front of a mirror.. and repeat after me:
  i am not don johnson.
  i am not don johnson.
  i am not don johnson.
  
  (for the cheaters out there - neither are you thomas magnum p.i - that excuse is unacceptable)
  
  2) there is always one person at a meet that holds a grudge against wearers of polyfabrics.. it is likely that they have evolved further than you.. so they may be aware of the destructive properties of fire.. and more to the point.. willing to use them..
  beware the quiet one in the corner holding a cigarette, rest assured that her motives will not be innocent.
  avoid prolonged trips to the hospital burns department by adhering strictly to this rule.
  
  3) can you say "sweaty betty?"



• the discussion of drinks..
  
  so.. you have got this far.. you are appropriately dressed.. you have managed to tempt o-o-d out on a date.. you hit the bar.. the question will arise:
  
  what are you drinking?
  
  a. - go for a spirit and mixer.. think vodka redbull.. TVR.. vodka & cranberry (although when opting for this bevarage it may be wise to jokingly tell lust object that no, you dont have a urinary tract infection.. you just like the taste).. tequila and fresh orange.. etc.. etc
  
  why not beer i hear you cry?
  
  1) .. nobody likes a beery burper..
  2) .. ordering a pint of beer speaks volumes.. it says: "i like to drink pints, i belch alot, on a sunday morning i like to sit on the sofa wearing my favourite football teams strip and read the news of the world whilst scratching things"
  3) .. pints = large volume of liquid.. large volume of liquid = many trips to the toilet.. beware of leaving o-o-d frequently when going on loo runs.. this leaves her as easy pray to the other w.i meeters.. drink small.. unless you want to dig her out from underneath a pack of leeches on your lavatorial return.
  
  shandy - its an absolute no no.. its like beer.. but for the alcoholically inept.. it just screams.. "im a secret lemonade drinker.. but i like to disguise the lemon as beer when im out so that i can still keep some semblance of social credibility" .. (urban myth #13775)



• the early date "getting to know each other" chatting..
  
  young grasshoppers.. here we have an infallable plot.. you see, you have chosen a "meet" as your first date.. this means that you will be in a smoky and loud environment.. surrounded by bad dancing and other assorted shennanigans..
  
  this will work in your favour..
  
  a) - object of desire will not be able to pump you for the kind of information that you dont want to divulge for 2 simple reasons..
  1- she cant hear you, you cant hear her.
  2- smoke. she cant see you, you cant see her.
  
  your date is likely to avoid conversation as she feels that you may find her less attractive if every time she speaks you can see her tonsils..
  
  b) - as all conversation is out.. you will have to resort to finding other forms of entertainment..
  ladies and gentlewomen..
  i give you..
  the dancers!
  even when sound has been compromised by the environment.. it is still perfectly possible to observe and mock flailing on the dancefloor.. this is a win/win situation..
  1) - she will assume by your mocking of the uncoordinated limbs afflicted that you yourself can dance.. an assumption that never needs to be disproven.. - WIN
  2) - the amusement value of the above is endless.. so a dull evening of stilted conversation and stuttering has been well and truly avoided.. - WIN



• temptations as the evening and alcoholic consumption progresses..
  
  temptation 1 - lift your top to expose your bra.
  temptation 2 - drop your trousers to expose your underwear.
  temptation 3 - dance.
  
  oh, where to begin.
  
  1 - NO .. this is an abysmal tactic.. i cannot be emphatic enough..
  
  breasts are nothing more (when publicly displayed btw, bedroom frolics not included) ..than bags of fat.. udders.. do you really want to show the the woman that youre attempting to impress 2 fat-sacks poorly contained in an "originally white but now multiwash gray" bra? ..
  no, you dont..
  it is guaranteed that if the grrl youre attempting to bed sees this she will run a mile.. even if she is polite enough not to run forrest, run.. you will not be getting any goods at the end of the evening.. this is a fact.
  
  2 - NO .. this is THE MOST abysmal tactic.. once again, i cannot be emphatic enough..
  
  odds are #1000 to #1 that you are not famke janssen, angelina jolie, milla jovovich, pamela anderson etc.. you may think that you are.. but believe me.. this is the alcohol taking control of your brain..
  you are not a supermodel.
  you are not an underwear model.
  you are not a fetish lingere model.
  even if you ARE any of the above.. it is good taste not to prove this until you are out of the public eye.
  
  odds are #100 to #1 that you are wearing boxer shorts (i have no idea why, but that isnt the point) .. what you are planning on doing in your drunken state.. is to remove your outer leg cladding garments.. to reveal enough reams of fabric to house a small family of refugees.. also.. boxers are made for men.. they have that little slit down the middle that in a cruel twist of fate is likely to be gaping to reveal the proverbial god-knows-what.. also.. in the downwards dragging of denim.. you run the risk of taking some short with you.. thus enabling the woman of your dreams to make some serious judgements about you regarding ass crack cleavage..
  prospective shag has every right to run at this point.. in fact i would positively encourage it.
  
  3 - you are drunk.. you are poorly coordinated.. you are attempting to strut your stuff.. you think you look like john travolta in the days of saturday night fever.. this is alcoholica dancia.. a halucinatory state, if you will..
  you actually look like youre having some sort of seizure.. this is no good thing..
  women.. being intelligent, observant, and worldly wise associate dancing with bedroom skills.. why?.. rhythm..
  if you can dance.. you have rhythm.. therefore the motion of your ocean will guarantee one sweet ride..
  if you cant dance.. you dont have rhythm.. therefore it would be fair of your date to assume that the motion of your ocean will be choppy at best.. you may become over excited and fall off whichever surface you choose for "amour".. and basically.. she will decide to ditch you on the spot as you clearly couldnt fuck your way out of a paper bag.



• have we reached the point where we bring in our mumandbestfriend who explains the route of our allergies?
  have we explained why we only drink decaf tea?
  have we discussed whether deodrant is a good idea or a bad idea and if that sandalwood stuff from Lush is really lush? (or just hums like a lesbian)



• the do's and donts of small gestures of affection..
  
  welcome to rocky territory grasshoppers..
  
  the hand hold - on a tricky scale of 1-10.. the to hold or not to hold comes in at around 8..
  
  it is my belief that you should ALWAYS wait for the other person to make this move..
  
  if you dont wait.. and she accepts your hand.. this is a signal..
  it says - i love you.. i want to settle down with you.. raise kittens.. and then impregnate you with a turkey baster.. i know its only our first date.. but i want our child to be called moonbeam.
  
  if you dont wait.. and she is oblivious to the reaching to grab hand movement.. or rejects it so that you quickly have to compensate by fluidly moving the failed move into some sort of other gesture.. you will end up looking like you have some sort of motor functioning problem.. possibly a twitch..
  really.. if you dont believe me.. try it in front of a mirror.. failed hand grasping always leaves you looking "twitchy"
  not particularly attractive i think you will agree.
  
  the light and flirtatious touch -
  dont make that move.. leave it to the object of affection..*
  hell you dont want to appear needy do you?
  
  nb* if object of affection does make this move.. this is not your cue to pounce and put your tongue down her throat.
  
  kissing.. (pre club leaving.. pre bedroom.. la la)
  dont make that move.. leave it to the o-o-a..
  so, your hormones may be running riot.. you may be primed.. you may be feeling quite unable to wait..
  BUT..
  if lust object rejects this move.. you have no way of compensating to make it look like anything else except a failed attempt at smoochage.. unless you have the brass balls to follow through with the lip swing and risk planting a smacker on the cheek of the next passer by.. (a move that undoubtedly the woman that you are with will NOT appreciate, and no, the risk of flight is not enough to make her kiss you just so that you dont go slavering on strangers)
  
  all this aside.. if you have followed the rules vol:1 and vol:2 this far.. youve done enough damned work.. let ms prospective make some effort for a change..
  (plus.. it never pays to look easy)

Source

Death in the Family

Topic: Lactose Incompetent

Sunday night, and I've driven out of London to catch a late movie. I missed the start, so opted to go see a horror movie, instead, one that toyed with the premise of going into the past and changing it, and what ripples that could have on your life.
Driving back at midnight, slightly nervy as I don't know where I am, already having stopped once to try to find myself on a map, window down just far enough not to be dragged out through it, radio on XFM low, wondering if men feel quite as nervy as women on the street at this hour, noting that basically there are no women on the streets at this hour, unless they're in a mini skirt on the street corner - I pass a brightly lit fast food burger joint in Thornton Heath. As I pass, I deliberate: pulling over, getting out, getting a kebab? Then dismiss leaving the car as too dangerous at that hour, in an area I don't know - and an odd movement flickers in my peripheral vision. Just a flicker, but it's someone - maybe a few people, moving fast. With something at their feet.
I'd been speeding, slowing as I came towards a roundabout, trying to recall which route on the map translates to the deserted wasteland of a Sunday night in front of me. The glimpse is only peripheral, and it passes quickly by with the rest of the street. As it passes I hear a sound.
Dull. Heavy. Yet reverberant. Like a chair leg quietly knocking against a chamber pot.
If you've ever heard this sound, you don't forget it. If you hear it once, you'll recognise it forever.
It's the sound the bone inside a skull makes when it hits an immovable object.

Today, my grandad died. He was an okay grandad when I was a kid, he was a nice guy. He tried to give all his grandkids aims and aspirations, and that's a good thing. He gave me #10 for every exam I passed, which I still have, in the same post office account, and haven't ever brought myself to spend. (Not spent because when am I ever going to find myself with any other money so honestly earnt?)
As I grew into an adult, I could see that he was belligerent at times, but he had a large family, and a large house, and it was a nice place to sit and read a book you got for Christmas. I guess I'm saying, I liked him, but he wasn't close.
The last time I spoke to him, he was staying at my parents' house when I phoned. He picked up the phone, was told it was me, and because the phone was by a computer proudly announced he'd never chatted on the internet till now, then hung up.
The time before that was when he wrote me a letter wishing I'd find God and someone to spend my life with. I found that letter pretty upsetting, especially as I had a girlfriend of eight years standing at that point, but I guess then I knew that he at least knew, although my aunt had hinted as much, and at his disapproval, but he was pretty old, so I can forgive him for that. I guess. Eighty nine is pretty old.
And I never had any other grandfather, either. I sort of regret that when I was told to attend his ninetieth birthday party with the instruction that I might never see him again, I'd replied "you promised me that when he was eighty". But not really. I didn't mean it like that. Really.
There's no grandparents left now. I think that's the frightening part of it. Everybody expects an old chap to pass on one day. But now he's gone. Who's next? I find that much more frightening. I don't want any of the rest of my family to die. They haven't had eighty-nine years to torment us yet.

Back in Thornton Heath, I'm stuck at a red traffic light on a roundabout, turning right, and realising what the sound is, my memory leaps back in a rush to the other three times I'd heard it.
I heard it in '01 when my car hit a dog running off its leash round Bellingham, hit it in the head. It survived pretty well, but the shock and horror lasted for ages. I heard it in '98 when I was living on a dangerously lawless estate in Kennington, when I looked out of my window and saw my neighbours kick the jaw loose from a passersby's head, because he'd said hi in an australian accent. I heard it in '92 when a group of eye-rolling kids in Brixton smashed glass into my face and then drop kicked my head for the fiver in my pocket.
I'm ashamed of it, but my first impulse is to drive away. Away from the beating, away from Thornton Heath, away from the violence, away from my own impotence to stop it. What could I do? A skinny woman on her own in a car. I turn the corner and drive, trying not to hear the sound.
What does that make you, if you don't care? I ask myself, as I reach the next red light, still on the roundabout. Do you know who that makes you? Is that what you're about?
I pull the car further to the right than it needs to be to make my turn. I know I am going to go back, but I don't want to know that I'm going to do it. Every other time I'd heard that noise had ended in a scene of mob law, with police who weren't interested, were mates of the people involved, or who just wanted me to fit up some black guy, and didn't care who it was, or how correct my statement might be. I don't like the police in the areas I think of as war-zone London, I don't want any more contact with them than necessary.
But I have a phone. He might be dying. I knew it would be a he. And I know that what seems like a heavy roll of carpet, behind that sharp flicker of movement, isn't. I don't want to think about what I will have to do. I just pull the car round the junction and turn back into the road behind me.

There was nothing I could do for him.
You can't go back to the past and change things. The decisions we make in the present are the ones that have ripples. The past is the past - we've already lost the moment.

Alice's Live Journal

Now Playing: Hornrimjobs' version of alice's Live Journal

Topic: Vic Jameson

Very into the audio of a bank holiday.

Listen here

Today was really awful.
I got out of bed really late because my alarm clock has broken and I cannot afford a new one at the moment.
I feel good because today I getting my lip pierced! Finally! Mom said I could and she's signed the forms and EVERYTHING!
I'm so sad. My kitten got run over this afternoon. I found him when I was coming home from school. His head was all squished. I took some photos. I'll miss him. Poor kitty.
Last night I had to shave my entire body.
Apparently, the lice that I caught from Amanda's friend are really hard to get rid of. I look quite strange with no hair and eyebrows. I'd post pictures, but my webcam is broken.
I want to tell the world that my girlfriend Amy is the bomb! She made pizza last night, and even though I burnt my lips on the cheese, it was awesome!!!
I am really annoyed with those assholes at _are_you_hotter_than_us_?, because I am so much cuter than them, and those photos don't do me justice. They can't reject me, so I'm starting my own rating community. Click here to join (the first five applicants are automatically accepted).
Today, I got a digital camera! Yes! Here's ten thousand photographs of my cat.
I want to say thanks to the world for absolutely fucking nothing! You all suck. I feel so alone, no one ever reads this journal, or even comments to let me know that I'm not suffering alone. It's cold here, and I want to die, but I cannot figure out how many of you to take with me when I go.
I went to the doctor yesterday, and he said I have bipolar disorder, which makes me different enough to be interesting, but the same as all the other cool people with bipolar disorder.
You should all do this quiz! It's amazingly accurate. You just put in your name and birthday, and it will tell you who you're sexually compatible with.
That's enough for now. But I'll leave you with my favourite Buffy fan-fiction piece I wrote last year when I was in hospital.

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The Art of Lesbian Online Dating, Vol #1

Topic: Belle de Jour

Courtesy of Merc.

Volume 1 - the art of online woo (trans: pulling that burd you fancy)

First of all young grasshoppers.. ask yourself this..

• q. - is she a social worker?
  
  a. - no.. she isnt..
  (excellent.. then we shall begin)
  
  b. - yes.. she is..
  (do not pass go.. do not collect #200.. run like the wind.. she is clearly insane.. save your efforts)



• q. - when asked what you are watching..
  
  a. - you are watching something along the lines of red/white/blue.. amelie.. or anything by jean luc besson..
  
  why? ..because you are sensitive.. and subconsciously women will assimilate watching foreign films with you being intelligent enough to read subtitles at speed..
  
  what you are really watching -
  die hard.. yippie kai yay motherfucker..



• q. - when asked what you are listening to..
  
  a. - some amazingl new band from finland/ greenland/ iceland/ the far reaches of lithuania.. (insert band name of choice - google if you have to).. a band so nouveau that the majority of music listeners havent even heard of them.. (actually.. just make up a random bizarre word if you cant be bothered googling)
  
  why? .. this demonstrates that you are "up" on new trends.. deeply fashionable.. and you score 10 cool points on the ability alone to translate the bands name into something relatively pronouncable..
  
  what you are really listening to - NWA.. findum fuckum and flee..



• q. when asked what website you are reading..
  
  a. - www.lonelyplanet.com
  
  why?.. websites like this show that you are interested in other cultures.. like travel.. like to expand your knowledge base.. and generally are a tad on the adventurous side.. plus.. subconsciously.. object of desire is probably planning the fantastic filthy holiday abroad that you might take her on if she gives it up..
  
  what you are really reading.. multi optional -
  porn.
  online mini golf.
  surfing ebay and amusing yourself by putting in random keywords like "enema" and seeing what you come up with.. then checking out the feedback profiles on people bidding on enema equipment and laying bets with your friends that you will eventially find feedback for a leather underwear purchase among the high payers..
  gossip columns.



• q. when asked what you are doing after a moment of online silence..
  
  a. making coffee.. (preferably utilising a PROPER coffee machine..)
  
  why? .. because you are cultured.. and coffee as a beverage is indicative of enjoying cafe society.. plus.. if you can make real coffee.. then you can get your arse out of bed in the morning and make her one while she lies about thinking how marvellous you are..
  nb - instant doesnt count, you cheapo scumbag.
  
  what you are actually doing -
  sitting on the toilet reading a copy of "heat" magazine.



• q. - when asked what book are you reading..
  
  a. - "bitch" or "prozac nation" by elizabeth wurtzel..
  
  why? - intelligent books for bad girls.. instant kudos.. how to misbehave in the sleekest manner possible.. this gives you the edge of having associated brains and a bit of a dangerous side..
  
  what you are really reading -
  heat,
  on the toilet.



• q. - when asked what you are wearing..
  
  a. - high quality denim (pick a brand, not bon marche).. something black up top.. decent footwear (pick a brand, not clarks)..
  an easy combo.. not one youre likely to forget.. and please.. no designer names that youre likely to give yourself away over when you spell them atrociously.. eg - john paul gootiyay.. NO!
  
  why? - because women dont date those with no idea of couture.. (at least not the ones worth pulling)
  
  what youre really wearing - pyjamas and fluffy bunny slippers.. its 2am for fucks sake..



• q. when asked about your previous relationship..
  
  a. she just wasnt right for you (you know?).. it ended badly.. but you arent bitter.. some things just arent meant to be.. sure you got burnt.. but who doesnt get hurt at times?.. you hope things turn out ok for her.. no hard feelings..
  
  why? .. this kind of phrasiology gives the impression that you only have minor baggage.. and women just love a fixer-upper.. shes thinking that with a few well placed "holding patterns" she can put your world to rights.. and have sex.
  
  what you really think -
  you hope that the cheating lying whore of an ex gets thrush.. if you never see her again then itll be too damned soon.. you would like to open the newspaper tomorrow and read all about how shes just been imprisoned for life and is going to spend the rest of her days in a cramped cell with a 300lb bulldyke called "sandra the slasher" being a prison bitch..



• on reciept of a semi provocative picture of the object of desire..
  
  appropriate response -
  shes very attractive.. but personality counts too.. youd like to get to know her better..
  
  the response that you arent supposed to verbalise -
  you want to fk her until she howls.. youd like to see her in nothing more than agent provocateur lingere.. a provoctive smile.. and wrist cuffs.. you would quite like her to walk up your back wearing heels and brandishing a whip..
  you want to kiss her belly button..
  ..from the inside.



• the discussion about butt-love.. (it always comes up, somehow)
  
  q. what are your thoughts..
  
  a. - for the moment, NOTHING.. be vague.. be noncommital.. do not shriek "eeeeeewww" like a big girls blouse.. do not laugh in a filthy manner and mutter "hubba hubba"
  
  this is a tricky subject.. it requires treading softly.. it requires being brushed over if at all possible..
  
  reason -
  of course you love it.. youre an asshound and proud.. any woman that shrieks eew and runs is clearly vanilla with no imagination and no idea about eroticism..
  BUT..
  if object of desire has not experimented with this.. she will not know the joys.. so the initial reaction will be "eeewww" .. we do not want this discussion right now.. particularly when we havent even reached "bedding" stage..
  
  *its a discussion best left to when shes writhing about telling you how youre most certainly the shag of the century*
  
  (*nb, some of you will not reach this stage to begin discourse, fret not, there are handbooks available from various online stores should the neccessity arise)



• sending a photograph..
  ahh another tricky tricky game..
  
  a - if you are attractive and you know it (clap your hands).. send.. subtle.. show no "pink".. possibly a little cleavage.. check FHM for pose ideas..
  
  b - if you are not so attractive: adobe photoshop.



• the discussion about -
  
  thai beads..
  fisting..
  swings n slings..
  dildo's, harnesses, vibrators..
  leather..
  control..
  restraint..
  b..
  d..
  s..
  m..
  sex in public..
  fetishism..
  kinks..
  
  .. see above buttlove posting and take similar noncommital 5th ammendment style action..



• now that the sex has been sorted..
  
  q. - ideally where would you take object of desire on a first date.. (object of desire will add - "anywhere in the world" - beware.. this is a culture test)
  
  a. - prague.. rome.. florence.. anywhere european thats known for class and culture..
  you will - go for a coffee in a chic bar with sidewalk seating (daytime).. go take in some sights.. buildings.. vibe.. art.. blah blah.. have a meal in a softly lit (pref candlelight - but dont push it, you soft shite) restaurant in the balmy evening open air.. have a few drinks.. go for a walk on cobbled streets.. go find a secluded view somewhere and grope alot..
  
  why? .. you are romantic.. cultured.. you dont want to go "clubbing" where the emphasis would no longer be 100% on object of desire.. you give the impression of being at ease with her company alone.. you sound like you may have a vague knowledge of what youre talking about.. women assiociate european influences with good bedroom skills.. women have a thing about plein air gropage.. i think it makes them feel "naughty"..
  
  where you would really like to go -
  vegas baby!.. neon.. strippers.. casinos.. clubs..
  
  or blackpool.. neon.. strippers.. casinos.. clubs.. chips.. beer.. and the pepsi max ride - woot!



• and when it comes to meeting up...
  of course
  you can't make it/keep putting it off/avoiding it because
  
  you are - dying of a disease/nursing a sick parent/child/busy doing an important job/hurt your back/penniless/computer keeps crashing/
  
  but actually
  
  you are - seriously socially inept with severe OCD, agaraphobia and an 80's perm plus several other disorders listed under the letter P in the DSM IV, a husband and 3 kids and the computer crashes because your # ran out in the local internet cafe..



• and finally..
  
  q. - its not just sex is it..?
  
  a. - of course not..
  
  why? .. you are deeper than a puddle.
  
  (this rule is subject to change at any time)

Source

The semantics of torture?

Now Playing: Democracy Song, Leonard Cohen

Topic: Hurtling to Obscurity

Things that spring to mind when I look at the images of our boys torturing their boys as casually as we rail against 'terrorists' and ask the kindly government to please to bring in ever more repressive devices of social control to protect us...

The War of the Words

One of the chief problems with the current exciting adventure in Iraq is that no one can agree on what to call anyone else.
In the second world war we were fighting the Germans, and the Germans were fighting us. Everyone agreed who was fighting who. That's what a proper war is like.
However, in Iraq, there isn't even any agreement on what to call the Americans. The Iraqis insist on calling them "Americans", which seems, on the face of it, reasonable. The Americans, however, insist on referring to themselves as "coalition forces". This is probably the first time in history that the United States has tried to share its military glory with someone else.
Hollywood, for example, is forever telling us it was the Americans who won the second world war. It was an American who led the break-out from the prison camp Stalag Luft III in The Great Escape; the Americans who captured the Enigma machine in the film U571; and Tom Cruise who single-handedly won the Battle of Britain (in his latest project, The Few).
So I suppose it's reassuring to find the US generals in Iraq so keen to emphasise the role played by America's partners in bringing a better way of life to Iraq.
Then there's the problem of what the Americans are going to call the Iraqis - especially the ones that they kill. You can call people who are defending their own homes from rockets and missiles launched from helicopters and tanks "fanatics and terrorists" only for so long. Eventually even newspaper readers will smell a rat.
Similarly it's fiendishly difficult to get people to accept the label "rebels" for those Iraqis killed by American snipers when - as in Falluja - they turn out to be pregnant women, 13-year-old boys and old men standing by their front gates.
It also sounds a bit lame to call ambulance drivers "fighters" - when they've been shot through the windscreen in the act of driving the wounded to hospital - and yet what other word can you use without making them sound like illegitimate targets?
I hope you're beginning to see the problem.
The key thing, I suppose, is to try to call US mercenaries "civilians" or "civilian contractors", while calling Iraqi civilians "fighters" or "insurgents".
Describing the recent attack on Najaf, the New York Times happily hit upon the word "militiamen". This has the advantage of being a bit vague (nobody really knows what a "militiaman" looks like or does), while at the same time sounding like the sort of foreigners any responsible government ought to kill on sight.
However, the semantic problems in Iraq run even deeper than that.
For example, there's the "handover of power" that's due to take place on June 30. Since no actual "power" is going to be handed over, the coalition chaps have had to find a less conclusive phrase. They now talk about the handover of "sovereignty", which is a suitably elastic notion. And besides, handing over a "notion" is a damn sight easier than handing over anything concrete.
Then again, the US insists that it has been carrying out "negotiations" with the mojahedin in Falluja. These "negotiations" consist of the US military demanding that the mojahedin hand over all their rocket-propelled grenade launchers, in return for which the US military will not blast the city to kingdom come. Now there's a danger that this all sounds like one side "threatening" the other, rather than "negotiations" - which, after all, usually implies some give and take on both sides.
As for the word "ceasefire", it's difficult to know what this signifies anymore. According to reliable witness reports from Falluja, the new American usage makes generous allowance for dropping cluster bombs and flares, and deploying artillery and snipers.
But perhaps the most exciting linguistic development is to be found away from the areas of conflict - in the calm of the Oval Office, where very few people get killed for looking out of their windows. Here words such as "strategy" and "policy" are daily applied to the kneejerk reactions of politicians and military commanders who think that brute force is the only way to resolve difficult problems in a delicate situation. As Major Kevin Collins, one of the officers in charge of the marines in Falluja, put it: "If you choose to pick a fight, we'll finish it."
In the past, one might have used a phrase such as "numbskull stupidity" rather than "strategy". But then, language has a life of its own ... which is more than one can say for a lot of innocent Iraqis.

? Terry Jones is a writer, film director, actor and Python Source

What's pathetic about the horrific images of what our boys are capable of abroad, is that it surprises none of us. War is all about propaganda, it's all about dehumanising your enemy. It's not as if history hasn't taught us this, over and over again. We send people over there to kill, to maim, to die for our principles no reason, then we act all shocked and surprised when they do as we ask.
Al Jazeera's angle.

Democracy Song

It's coming through a hole in the air,
from those nights in Tiananmen Square.
It's coming from the feel
that this ain't exactly real,
or it's real, but it ain't exactly there.
From the wars against disorder,
from the sirens night and day,
from the fires of the homeless,
from the ashes of the gay:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
It's coming through a crack in the wall;
on a visionary flood of alcohol;
from the staggering account
of the Sermon on the Mount
which I don't pretend to understand at all.
It's coming from the silence
on the dock of the bay,
from the brave, the bold, the battered
heart of Chevrolet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It's coming from the sorrow in the street,
the holy places where the races meet;
from the homicidal bitchin'
that goes down in every kitchen
to determine who will serve and who will eat.
From the wells of disappointment
where the women kneel to pray
for the grace of God in the desert here
and the desert far away:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on
O mighty Ship of State!
To the Shores of Need
Past the Reefs of Greed
Through the Squalls of Hate
Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.

It's coming to America first,
the cradle of the best and of the worst.
It's here they got the range
and the machinery for change
and it's here they got the spiritual thirst.
It's here the family's broken
and it's here the lonely say
that the heart has got to open
in a fundamental way:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It's coming from the women and the men.
O baby, we'll be making love again.
We'll be going down so deep
the river's going to weep,
and the mountain's going to shout Amen!
It's coming like the tidal flood
beneath the lunar sway,
imperial, mysterious,
in amorous array:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.
Sail on, sail on ...

I'm sentimental, if you know what I mean
I love the country but I can't stand the scene.
And I'm neither left or right
I'm just staying home tonight,
getting lost in that hopeless little screen.
But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags
that Time cannot decay,
I'm junk but I'm still holding up
this little wild bouquet:
Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Thanks to Casino Avenue and Lemonpillows for breaking the UK blog No Politics Round Here Mate Ooh No hegemony.
I'm not reproducing links to the US and UK pictures, because they make me feel sick.

Edit: I was wrong: there are some UK bloggers who live in the same world as the rest of us, and aren't afeared to talk about it. [swiftly glosses over how many of these are expat blogs...]

Conversations

Topic: LondonLifer

With apologies to anyone who's tried to talk sense to me this week.

On how to deliver a Killer Chat Up Line (conversation in a pub):
Martin: I never use chat up lines.
Me: You not only used to use them, you used to email them after to everybody with your success rate noted.
N/C: You have to be charming.
Me: Do you mean oily?
N/C: Amuse people.
Martin: Making someone laugh with a corny chat up line can work.
N/C: Yes, make her laugh, then wow her with your amazing personality.
Me: Wow her. With my ... personality. I was afraid you'd say that.
N/C: The most charming man I ever met didn't use chat up lines. He was friendly, rather like a playful labrador puppy.
Me: So when I meet her I should jump on her chest and lick her face.
N/C: That might not work so well now you mention it.
Martin: It would allow you an appropriate moment to ask about the handcuffs.

On how to Race To Lose Weight (conversation via text):
Yidaho: Did you get hold of any weighing scales yet?
Me: I managed to lose the key to my other flat, so I haven't picked them up. Still, I'm sure I've lost weight - my 'fat' clothes feel loose on me. But the normal sized clothes still provoke unsightly rolls of fat.
Yidaho: Then I've clearly won the competition
Me: No way. You haven't even mentioned that you lost any weight. How do I know you're not fatter?
Yidaho: I feel lighter when I jump.
Me: I bet I can jump higher than you. I win.
Yidaho: I was jumping with lead in my pockets. The beers are on you.
Me: Bollocks. I bet you've ballooned like Hedwig.
Yidaho: Ballooned is half right. Heck, I'm so light I have to be tethered to stay earthbound now.
Me: Beyond the bounds of realism there a tad. I'm going to blog you for this.
Yidaho: Bah... Fell for your evil plan to overcome your obvious blogstipation. *shakes fist* I'll get you back, I swear...
Me: OBVIOUS?!
Yidaho: Mrs J.S. McCorkle?
Me: Bah.
Yidaho: Hah. 1-1.

On how to Prevent a Burglar from Entering the House (conversation via telephone):
Duch: This old drunken irish guy keeps turning up and wanting to do jobs in my garden. He says he's the last remaining emember of the Birmingham Four. I'm quite scared of him - he breaks everything.
Me: He's a convicted terrorist? You could tell him not to fix your garden.
Duch: Well he's terribly charming and articulate. He offered to mow the lawn, but mowed over the cable, then broke the lawnmower into pieces trying to fix it when he was too drunk to stand. Oh shit, that's him at the door now.
Me: What, now? This minute? That's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?
Duch: Oh dear, he's banging on the door. I'm a bit worried he's going to break the door down.
Me: He's someone you barely know, you said. Why would he do that?
Duch: Should I answer?
Me: No, you're talking to me, not entertaining the local drunkery. You're on the phone.
Duch: He'll be awfully upset if he thinks that I'm ignoring him. I shan't answer. I'm in bed with no clothes on, anyway. But what if he can see the light from my bedroom?
Me: What if he can? You're not under an obligation to answer the door.
Duch: I don't want to seem rude. Oh no, he's still banging on the door. It's getting louder. I think he might break it down. I'm actually quite scared.
Me: Hang up and ring the police then, if you're that scared.
Duch: What if he breaks in? I'm too scared to hang up.
Me: You've got two phones - ring on the other one. They'll come over and tell him to stop banging on your door, and he'll get the message that you don't want to answer it right now.
(hammering sound increases)
Duch: Oh my god, he's breaking in! Oh my god!
Me: (silence)
(loud crash as door relents to pressure)
Me: Duch ... ?
Duch: (screams)
Bestmate: Why the *hell* aren't you answering the door?
Duch: BESTMATE! Oh my god! I'm so glad it's you.
Me: Oh for God's sake.
Duch: Ohhh, I thought it was the drunk Irish guy breaking down the door!
Bestmate: Do you think you can come outside and tell all your bloody stupid neighbours who are lined up in the street that me and Flamboyant aren't burglars? They're convinced we're breaking in.
Duch: Don't be silly, sort them out yourself. I'm on the phone to Vanessa.

Overtaxed

Topic: Eurotrash

I can't even begin to explain to you how tired I am, now. I reckon I've worked forty hours of overtime this week.
Despite being so sluggish that I keep catching myself sailing along in charge of a lump of dangerous metal at 60mph while looking somewhere right and thinking about cloud formations, I'm going out to have a blogmeet now (I was toying with the idea that every time I go for a jar with someone I know who happens to have, or have abandoned, or heard of blogging, I have to hop around overexcitedly and call it a blogmeet - could get confusing when I visit my blogfamily), with Martin and Looby, who no doubt will be terribly polite about how I'm too shattered to actually form anything but excruciating run-on sentences - although I do have a plan, see, I haven't drunk whiskey for 16 years, perhaps now would be a painless time to see if it restores sanity; I mean, the odds are doubtful, but it may be enjoyable trying - anyway, I'm late, and although I've lived in Lamb's Conduit street, my overstressed brain won't let me remember where it is, and I'm not going to get very far asking strangers if they know the way to Jo's house, am I (they'd helpfully point out that she moved to China years ago, I'm sure).
Oh fuck, where did that full stop come from?

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Diary of Mrs. J. S. McCorkle (Elizabeth (Lizzie) O. Clements

Topic: Eurotrash


Friday, Mar 4 , 1904

Dr. has a very bad cold from standing on cold ground planting potatoes. I read and worked on drawn work and a bonnet --- I was not well at all. Mrs. Harris went to town trading and bought a nice rocker ? Ludith sick todayd. Bro Rody and Vergin Pace came ? The cemetery association was reorganized today ? Letter from Sallie.

Saturday, Mar 5

Dr. sick on bed part of the time ? I am 61 years old today. Willie and Albert gave me a set of silver spoons. Mary some sugar, Ludith some domestic, Iola a waist. Dr. a silver dollar. Bro Rody took dinner with us. Iola cooked a cake. We paid 75 cts. To have washing done. I am not well. Took medicine. Dr. not able to go to his office. Albert came to see Dr.

Sunday, Mar 6

Dr. too sick to go to S.S. too rainy for me to go. Iola, Scott, Mr. & Mrs. Harris went. I kept Charlie, ------ Dr McConnell came to see Dr. Dr. got up and wrote a letter to Beatrice.

Monday, Mar 7

Dr. still has a bad cold with some fever ? went to his office and made three dollars --- Iola and I ironed --- read and mended --- churned ? sold 3 gallons of milk. We sent a letter to Sallie, Beatrice, Bro Joe and Bro Mc___ for the second Sunday School revival plan. We are giving Dr a course of Calomel.

Tuesday, Mar 8

Dr. in bed all day -- fever and bad cold. Bro Joe came to see Dr. ----- Willies little baby Ruth is sick. Rec?d a letter from Verlmer C-----

Wednesday, Mar 9

Dr. McCorkle grew worse at three o?clock ? Iola was painting at Mrs. Parks. I sent for her and two doctors came at once ? he suffered all night. Mr. Spencer, Iola and I set up to wait on him ? he said to me don?t think I am afraid to die, My way is bright. Mr Spencer read two books while sitting up, yet he helped us when he could. This was a bad night for Dr. was so very sick all night. Cherry and Sherril were both called in to wait on him.

Thursday, Mar 10

Dr. was still sick worse and said telephone for Sallie and Lula, I can?t live. I did and phoned for Bro Joe and sister Sue to come which they did. We did all we could to relieve him, but all in vain ? in the night he suffered very very much with cramp which results in his right side being paralyzed ? At twelve thirty Sallie came ? he knew her, but could not talk. At 4 he breathed his last.

Friday, Mar 11 Dr. died today.

I have things mixed as I am so bothered. This is the day Sallie came and Dr died. This the darkest day of my life when all is gone. Sister Sue was not here when he died but all of the children and grandchildren except Cicero and Iola May. Cicero came by night and my two brothers Henry(?) and Rufus who loved Dr so much, but doctor .......................

Saturday, Mar 12

Sister Sue, Eula, Eudora and many others came to Dr?s funeral. Bro Brown and Cousin Ellie conducted the service. Bro Evans also led in prayer and talked. Mr. Flora Wilson played the funeral march, Asleep in Jesus, and All is Well With My Soul was sung. The house was crowded with people ? crepe was draped beautifully in the church. There were many beautiful flowers brought and place on the grave.

Sunday, Mar 13

All of us staid at home. Bro Henry and Bro Rufus went home at 10:00. George and Little Maurine left on the twelve train. All of Lula?s family spent the day with us. After dinner we all went to see Willie and spent the afternoon. Elie McCorkle & Hiel came to see us. This is the first time we have all missed goint to S.S. in a long time. All of Lula?s folks spent the night and we all studied the will left by Dr. making me the executor of the will.

Monday, Mar 14

Mr. Cockroft and Albert helped me to read Dr.?s will and look over his papers. I am appointed to wind up Dr.?s business ? Mrs Mattie Brown, Dr McConnell ----- etc came to see us. Mrs Cockroft and family went to Memphis, Beatrice staid. Cicero applied for a position in our bank so as to stay with us for company ? Cicero bought some groceries for me, paid some of our debts, was very good indeed to us. Cicero is a fine boy. Beatrice gave me a black calico dress ? all of my children were here ? all are well today.

Tuesday, Mar 15

Rec?d letters of sympathy one from sister Phares, cousin Mamie McCorkle, of Eminence, KY. We rented our three rooms to Mr Harris for $5.50 -------- (visitors named) ... Sallie and Beatrice are with us. Little Gladys is a sweet interesting little girl, just three years and three months old when her grandfather died.

Source