Been asking yourselves what’s been hiding under Silvio Berlusconi‘s bandana? Wonder no more:
[Picture of unknown origin, via email from an Italian friend. The caption reads "I could as well become a woman, if need be", and it refers to the string of multiple public appointments (and private interests) the man collects as if they were going out of fashion]
Why is it that, after a week marked by an uncharacteristically low Lola’s count*, I get to sniffle and cough with a cold? I thought staying in was meant to be good for the immune system.
And, as a reminder for future ailments, taking two non-drowsy Sudafed capsules before going to bed is rather stupid, even if they are brought to you by the very same makers of manhood-enhancing blue pills advertised by a football legend: ‘non-drowsy’ rather predictably means ‘laced with caffeine’. Thank goodness for the Trisha repeat at 1.45 AM that knocked me unconscious.
*The number of excited dashes to the dance floor upon hearing the first bars of Lola’s theme in a club.
Famous movies in 30 seconds (and re-enacted by bunnies): The Exorcist, The Shining, Titanic, Alien, Jaws.
[via ^ FeSTeN ||||]
Dinner at a friend’s last night. Quite a lot of catching up to do since the last time we met, which I think was…
- …at Brighton Pride?
- Yes it was.
- Did we meet on the Friday or Saturday night?
- I don’t remember.
- Was I wearing white?
- Yes.
- Friday night then.
- How can you remember what you were wearing almost two months ago?
- I don’t know. I just can. And further back than that too.
- That is so sad.
- I know.
The world’s first TV text service – the BBC’s Ceefax – is 30 today.
My Teletext memories? Unscrambling what at first glance appeared to be gibberish, due to poor reception of Slovenian and Croatian channels in the corner of North-East Italy where I was born (and to my poor understanding of Slovene and Croatian), to browse through TV listings and watch English speaking productions in English.
I used to go through so much trouble because I could not stand sitting through the Italian-dubbed versions and lip-read to try and understand what was really said in the original version (which, believe you me, is quite a challenge with cartoons).
You too can partake in a slice of my past by accessing a fully-functioning teletext service on the HRT website. Here are some highlights for the next couple of days – no prize for guessing what they are:
Last weekend I saw old places in a different light.
Just when I thought that Old Compton Street (the heart of London’s Queerville) held no more secrets for me, I enjoyed a very pleasant meal at Café España last Friday night. The five pitchers of sangria helped, as did the excellent company and the very reasonable price.
On Saturday afternoon I tried one of my gym‘s many clubs for the first time (the one tucked away behind Liberty’s in Central London. I was surprised to see how cruisy it was on a Saturday afternoon; I do not dare to think what it might be like during the night (it is open 24 hours a day). Alright, it was cruisier than most other gyms, and I mean not only in the steam room. People stared at me and I was chatted up twice. Must go back, perhaps after a proper workout at a shabby straight-frequented council community gym. Abs-and-pecs-olutely, as Jack McFarland (who else?) says in a recent (for UK terrestrial TV) episode of Will & Grace.
Saturday was the opening of an established night (D.N.A.*) at a different venue (Fire*). Though not packed as it could have been (or perhaps just because of that), it worked quite well, and I finally got to appreciate the much-praised venue, until then overpowered by hordes of people at A:M*. The only problem was a very tired Dr B., filled with so much Red Bull to manage to stay out until 3am (hurray!) before admitting defeat and going home, at which point he was wired with so much caffeine that he could not sleep.
On Sunday we would have seen more familiar places (London landmarks, to be precise) in a different light (Open House weekend) – had I not gone to Beyond* after D.N.A.*, danced until mid-morning and then chilled out (read: “crashed out indecorously before having a chance to let Dr B. know where I was” – sorry!) somewhere in Brixton until 5pm.
Next weekend will not score so high on the gay-o-meter: a proper sit-down very straight birthday meal in Windsor on Saturday (not who you think), followed by a ramble through nature (Box Hill or Epping Forest) on Sunday (although there are chances that the ramble through nature might be very predictably limited to the grassy knoll behind the RVT*).
*Sorry, cannot be arsed to look for websites. You may find all these venues listed in Boyz.
My computer is still agonizing
on a hospital bed at Dr
B.’s laptop clinic. A disk failure has been diagnosed (although running
ScanDisk via
DOS surprisingly detects
no problems), and I have therefore started copying content I want to keep on
to floppy disks, by chunks of 1.44MB at a time.
All I am keeping is photos taken between 29th January (the last time I backed
up the entire content) and 27th April (when I got a new
camera and started downloading pictures on Dr B.’s desktop computer) of
this year.
I sadly cannot keep any files that cannot fit on a floppy disk but it does not matter too much, as it mostly concerns MP3 files that I can download again anytime rip from my legally bought CDs again anytime.
I am glad to report that my cherished system of cross-referenced Excel spreadsheets that monitor my expenses, finances, bank accounts, loans, weight fluctuation and workout routine is safe and sound in triple copy on different machines (I would invest in Micro$oft Money if only it calculated body mass index).
Anally retentive? moi?
Choon of the day: Michael Gray – The Weekend. You know it, it’s the one going “I can’t wait / For the weekend to begin” – which is uplifting when listened at 6pm on a Friday night but feels quite pointless on the DTPM main floor on a Monday morning at 4am when it dawns on you that you are going to have to be at your office desk in five hours’ time.
A very good weekend, with a dozen of Dr B.’s friends over at his for his Coming Out Party, followed by a drink and a dance at the White Swan.
Sunday taking care of a friend at the RVT. After the previous night’s visit to the White Swan he had gone on to a string of clubs (Beyond and Later and After and Shouldn’tYouBeHomeNow? or whatever these places are called nowadays) and we found him aimlessly wondering about Vauxhall Cross looking worse for wear (so much so that I steered clear as he approached us in the street, mistaking him for one of the regular Sunday afternoon Vauxhall bums), his coat still in one of the venues he’d paid visit to, his mobile at one of our friend’s.
Mushy brain today and of course, today of all days I am unexpectedly on my own in the office, and there is an upgrade to XP going on that is affecting our sister office, which means that I am inundated with unfamiliar work. It feels a bit like fumbling in the dark.
The “Crème de résistance” (as one of my colleagues said last week – and I don’t think it was a joke) is that I had to spend the best part of the last half hour trying to flush The Turd that Would Not Leave down the toilet. An evil monster the size, shape and consistency of a 250g loaf of Pumpernickel bread (so now you also know what I had for tea last night). I had to shamefully report it to reception so that someone could come and take care of it.
It’s going to be another fun week…
Update: (Mon, 6PM): Leaving work, loaf still blocking the loo.
Update #2: (Tue, 11AM): Loo is clear.
English not being my native language, I sometimes switch on subtitles to help with understanding. I have been known to use them for Will & Grace (hardly ever been exposed to American Jewish culture), the Sopranos (not particularly familiar with New Jersey mafia) and – early on when I moved to the UK – Eastenders (‘ere guv, can’t understand nuffink, cor blimey, innit?).
My flatmate came home last night with a very dodgy DVD copy of Monster he got through someone at work and we sat down to watch it. The subtitles came on unsummoned and we had to turn them off a few minutes into the film. They had obviously been produced by a non-English speaker (one example: “I guess I’m just a great big manic [romantic], so I went into it hole heartly“) and our giggles were not at all fit with the on-screen proceedings.
Absolutely no giggles were heard thereafter. Definite feeling of being punched in the stomach instead. And a faint disgust for all the Oscar-seeking actors out there (Catherine Zeta-Jones leading the pack) who are rumoured to have instructed their agents to find them a Charlize-Theron-in-Monster role.
Susannah Constantine’s (one half of What Not to Wear‘s Trinny and Susannah) real family name is Pugacheva. I saw it on the door of the dressing room she shared with Trinny, spelled out in large cyrillic characters.
I thought it would be funny to replace it with its Latin transcription. Susannah did not laugh.
At least in the dream I had last night she didn’t.
For no apparent reason, last night my laptop kept telling me it failed reading data from drive C.
I’m taking it to Dr Bitful’s laptop clinic tonight. Let’s all wish it a prompt recovery – it just can’t die on me after I just invested the best part of one hundred pounds in extra RAM and new CD-rom and floppy disk drives.
In the meantime, I’ll have to ask y’all to please tiptoe and keep your voice down ’round here – I am trying to look inconspicuous as I type this from work.
Just like buses: nothing for half an hour, then three in a row.
Last night’s terrestrial offering at 11:
I had a half-hearted stab to stay on top of all of this, trying to hop among all five channels and making the most of ad breaks and narrative slumps. Then I started speculating on whether Diana Rigg‘s tits were real or fake, and I knew it was time for bed.
After a studio assistant warned me of my interviewer’s ruthless technique, I turned to my manager who ran me one last time through the instructions: look uncomfortable and contrite, but refrain from overreacting with outrage in order not to look like too much of a prude. He then reminded me that had not been for my four-in-a-bed drug fuelled shenanigans with John I would not be on the show in the first place.
I don’t even know what she looks like and yet I still manage to dream I was Abi Titmuss.
I knew there was a reason for popping out of bed at 5:50 last Saturday morning:
Impure thoughts are firmly lodged in my mind today.
The fact that the desk in front of me is temporarily occupied by an ex-army-man-recently-turned-HP-contractor (and keen triathlete and skier in his spare time) is not helping.
The fact that the upgrade of my colleague’s machine is taking longer than expected, and G.I. Contractor has just looked up at me saying “I’ll do you next week” is definitely not helping.
Note to self: look up which three disciplines are involved in triathlon – and sign up for evening/weekend practice.
The mobile phone I carelessly let slip off my pocket on to the grass during Monday night’s Vauxhall debauchery is still sending blank text messages to my landline.
I obtained the list of numbers that have been called from it and have left a message on the voicemail of the most frequently called number.
If this Regan woman – who clearly is an accomplice to the person who is holding my cell phone hostage – does not return my call I will call again and mention that I work for the government. That being true, they need not know that what I do is develop websites (‘Yeah, give me back my mobile you bitch – or I’ll Photoshop your head in!)
The plot thickens.
Received letter. It’s OK. Not unexpected.
Thus texted Dr B.’s father – or that is the basic jist of it as Dr B. told me on the phone, I hope the message was slightly more elaborate.
Dr B. needs some support. The coming out letter to his parents is likely to be delivered today and he is terrified of a bad reaction on their part.
As he has taken time off work this week, he is at the moment wondering in a park with his favourite comfort food (the very unholy trinity of lemon and yoghurt white Kit Kat, salt and vinegar Hula Hoops and what he calls “full-fat Coke“) and he has intentionally left his mobile at home.
Your kind words in the comment box below will certainly mean a lot to him. For my part, I can only remind him that I shall stick by him through thick and thin.
