Luca Belletti

Product Manager living in London (UK)


Do yourself a favour, brighten your day by downloading Toxic by Britney Spears, where Indian violins are crossed with flamenco guitars with a hint of spaghetti western bass overtones here and there.

One note away from trying too hard. Over the top almost in a parody kind of way. Stereotype-laden lyrics. It works for me.


Having decided that my body was ready to hit the scene (as opposed to the scenery) again, I quickly emailed the Royal Vauxhall Tavern regulars / fellow bloggers I used to hang out on a weekly Sunday afternoon basis, to see what they were doing on New Year’s Eve, hoping to meet all at the RVT for old time’s sake.

It turns out that only A is going to the RVT – B will hopefully be out of hospital and is going to Action, C is working and will probably then join a friend for AM/Beyond at the Fridge, D got as a xmas present a ticket to Substation, and E reckons he will “end up somewhere cheap and local i.e. the fucking Swan” (no prize for guessing which one of the lot that will be).

F did not answer, at this stage I suppose he’ll be somewhere else altogether (Heaven? G.A.Y?).

I’m getting tickets for Popstarz on NYE and DTPM on Jan. 1st. If we had agreed beforehand to spread out and cover all the London gay clubs among us, we could not have done a better job.


Current weight: 14 stone 9.5 pounds (after morning poo).
Pounds put on since yesterday: 3.5.
Percentage of current wardrobe I cannot get into any more: 65.
Days left to shed a stone before my reintroduction to society on new year’s eve: 7.



Grilled baguette slices
with smoked salmon
and goat cheese

Joint of turkey
covered with sautéed mushrooms
wrapped in bacon
topped with blackcurrant sauce
and gravy

Baby new potatoes
baby carrots
garden peas

Vanilla icecream
with mince
and Christmas cake chunks

Corbières reserve 2002
Costcutter traditional taste diet lemonade

After-dinner laxatives
and bucket



MistletoeMerry Christmas! For it is tonight, and not on the 25th, that Dr Bitful and I are going to celebrate it this year.

My man is going to spend it with his family in Birmingham and I’m going to stay in London and be with friends. I cannot say I feel ok about this – he is my family and the one person I want to cuddle up in front of the [imaginary] fireplace with – but it’ll have to be like this this year because you see, he is not out to his parents.

He loves his family and enjoys spending Christmas with them, and that’s fair enough. From what he’s told me they seem to be sound, honest people (they undoubtedly did a pretty good job raising him), not at all of the Mel Gibson pious bigotry kind, and yet he has been unsuccessfully trying to come out to them for the past five years. I cannot understand why, all I could see is that it’s an extremely touchy issue that brought tears to his eyes when I tried asking him about it.

In all other circumstances he is far from being a coward, nor does he enjoy telling lies for the sake of convenience, and yet he cannot tell his close family that there’s a very special man in London pretty much on his own, waiting for him to hurry back home.

So our Christmas is tonight. We’ve cleaned and cooked and wrapped and downloaded and mistletoed all over. In a way I’m lucky – I get to celebrate twice.

I wish this and all your Christmases to come to see you snuggled up with one or several of your loved ones.

Peace x x x


Current weight: 14 stone 6 pounds.

Body fat: 22%.

And Christmas has not even started yet.

I want to cry.


Do you think a double-ended dildo would be a selfish Christmas present to your partner? Just wondering…


Today’s Most Tactless award goes to…

…the nurse who gave me an ECG (yes, half the London medical profession is still trying to figure out why on earth I succumb to the law of gravity more often than the average human), only to freeze half-way through with a startled “oh dear”. I asked her what the matter was, she asked me “have you had acute chest pain recently?”, muttered something about how machines have artificial intelligence and she would have to submit the reading to someone her senior before handing it to me, then came back saying that it will be posted to my GP who will get it in about a week.

And a peaceful Christmas to you too.

Now that she mentioned it, I can actually feel a nagging ache located on my chest, left-hand side – that’ll be where the nurse accidentally almost ripped my nipple ring out while dabbing my skin with disinfectant before applying the electrodes.


As of this afternoon at 3:30, Dr Bitful has become Sensei Bitful – he got his black belt in ju jitsu.

Don’t even dream of messing with me. My man can kill you with two fingers.


One of my technologically challenged friends has recently clogged up my Yahoo mailbox with .wma files of Madonna mashes. Interesting stuff: Nothing Fails mashed with (I think) the Red Hot Chili Peppers, The Power Of Goodbye with the Cranberries’ Zombie, and a superposition of American Life upon some tough heavy thing (Metallica?) that works rather well.

I tried converting them into mp3s, only to discover that they are DRM (Digital Rights Management) protected. Music mashes, that by definition are unofficial (illegal?), DRM protected?

So I just copied them with my soundcard driver (instructions here). I now have my mp3 files and I’ve kept myself occupied for the best part of a sleepless night.

You can’t stop the music.


Warwick castleWarwick is a magnificent historic town in England. Its castle is one of the most beautiful in the country, and its charming streets are lined with spectacular ancient buildings.

So I’ve been told – I could not see much from the back of the ambulance that was taking me to the local A&E.

Things are not going too well chez Beetfool: collapsed at work last Saturday (lost count how many times it has happened in the last couple of months), then again on Monday at the doctor’s, and again on the way home from the surgery. Got some time off sick, and I shall be seeing another doctor tomorrow afternoon to try and make some sense out of this.

I also must have injured my upper back while falling, for my neck is locked in a painful and uncomfortable position, and my head keeps aching. On painkillers and muscle relaxants, but I do not seem to enjoy the benefits.

A while ago I told myself that if life was handing me lemons, I had better start making lemonade, and so I did (and stopped whining about my job). Can’t seem to be able to find the sugar though.


Just finished watching the rugby world cup final, hoping so far in vain for interviews in the changing rooms (what, did you seriously think I was interested in the match itself?).

An ad for Travelex, “the foreign exchange specialist”, sponsor of the world cup, comes up.

Dr Bitful (raising pretend telephone to ear): “Hello, Travelex? I’ve got an Italian, I’d like to exchange him for a South African”.

A boyfriend with a sense of humour: priceless.


I have been abducted by aliens and the outer shell of my former body is now inhabited by a cheerful replicant. Only thus can I explain why I found myself whistling – WHISTLING!!! – while sweeping the cafĂ© floor at 6:04am today.

Go figure.


Club review in last Saturday’s Guardian weekly Guide:

“The Egg […] starts at 4.30am […] most of them have come straight out rather than falling through the doors after a grand night in the sauce. Imagine it! Set your alarm for 3.30am, and try getting up and having a shower, ahead of a few hours on a dance floor listening to tuff tribal and tech house […] It’s impossible. How do I explain it? I don’t. It’s a complete mystery, but a beguiling one at that.”

Try looking for the solution in Colombia, mate.


If you do not ming having a random word tattooed on you, get in touch with writer Shelley Jackson, who still needs another thousand volunteers for her short story “Skin”.

You can choose the body part but not the word. I’d love to meet the man who was given “in” and decided to have it on his butt. Respect.


Dot Matrix

Sorry folks. You have to live in the UK (the real one, not Richard Curtis’ Britain), or at least have watched a handful of episodes of EastEnders to fully appreciate the picture on the right.

[via Dr Bitful]

Richard Curtis’ Britain: a magical place where it snows consistently for most of the winter, love is all around – you feel it in your fingers, you feel it in your toes – and floppy-haired people say things like “Bugger my auntie!” when they get mad.

EastEnders: long-running TV soap set in fictional Walford, where aitches are dropped and characters killed off in the most spectacular ways. Used to be shown on BBC America and gathered quite a substantial following (among which Jen and Brad, apparently) until it was axed last September. There’s even an online petition to bring it back.

Dot Cotton (now Branning): Eastenders character. Despite her harmless appearance as a chainsmoking religious gossiping launderette assistant, has managed to go to prison for shoplifting and has enjoyed the effects of cannabis tea. Ooh, I say!

Dot matrix: Type of printer.


I go on and on about my failing health and nobody gives a toss. I dare mention that the pop princess might have lost her tiara and the comments flood in. Nice.

I’m much better anyway. Something unexpected and beautiful is happening. After hating my job with all the strength my body and mind could muster, every moment and every aspect of it, until I became sick, I finally learnt to let go and accept it. Actions have become routine and do not bother me too much.

It’s also because I know I’ll soon leave it, and it feels good – no matter what my next assignment within the company will be.

I’m almost enjoying customers’ rudeness now, I can’t help smiling broadly at their grumpy, pinched faces, wondering what kind of wound made them so sad.

I can’t put my finger on what happened. Perhaps, as was once said by Scissor Sisters‘ frontman Jake Shears, about his successful stint as a go-go dancer to raise funds for a European college trip:

Once you’ve taken your clothes off in front of hundreds of people, things get a lot easier.

My unsuccessful stint as an amateur stripper only got me a tenner that now sits on Dr Bitful’s fridge.


If I told you I saw a man with dyed two-tone blonde hair, wearing black trousers with pink stitching, a lilac net short-sleeved t-shirt, a lilac vinyl vest with pink stitching and a big silver ring attached, another silver curtain ring on a silver string around his neck – topped off with a silver hoop earring in his left ear, would you think he could possibly be gay?

He tells me he’s got a girlfriend. I don’t buy it.

Links via Invisible Stranger.


I’ve tried and tried to listen to Body Language (Kylie‘s latest) from beginning to end, but I could not stop myself from skipping mid-song in the vain hope that the next will be, how can I put this, good.

Unless a miracle is performed along the line, in the form of a mix by Fischerspooner, or a video by Michel Gondry, I cannot possibly foresee it growing on me.

It’s official: I’m turning straight.


It’s Wednesday. It’s the beginning of the month again. My balls are shaved just in case, and I’m wearing black underwear to minimize the risk of skidmarks and/or unsightly yellowish stains.

After all, what better present than a stripping friend would one want for one’s birthday?

I’ll probably change my mind several times between now and tonight, and it’ll take a lot of persuading (and booze) – we’ll see how I feel later on.


The Highway CodeBe afraid. Be very afraid – there’s a rented car out there with my name on it

Dr B. had to rent a car to commute to work, and he added my name on the contract as a monthiversary present, for me to practice driving on the left. I mean, to practice right-hand driving, as opposed to what I’m used to (driving on the right, I mean with a left-hand drive car, that is on the wrong side of the road compared to here).

Better start reading this, and forget the rules I picked up while driving in Italy, such as “the number of actual lanes is always equal to the number of lanes marked on the road plus one”, and “it is an obligation for the driver behind the first car at the traffic lights to blow their horn in haste the very moment the lights turn green (there’s no such thing as transition orange there)”.

As I said, be very afraid – an European with no sense of direction is on the loose.