Mike has brought comments all the way up to his 5th floor (no elevator).
And happy birthday to baby Dave who is one year old today. Oh, and I am trying to cut down my internet use due a to a shockingly exhorbitant phone bill – I figured it did not make sense to subscribe to a monthly plan as I am moving at the end of August. Now I have to fork out 156 quid (aka British Pounds) for the past month. Guess who's going toLast night I missed the first 20 minutes of Six Feet Under, but thanks to this fan site I could read the transcript of what I'd missed – and make some sense of most of Brenda's Australian friend's lines. Was it just me or his accent was pretty tough to figure out even for English native speakers?
I have just found out that Funny Face Girl was on at the Barbican yesterday at 2. I'm going to rent it soon, but I would have loved to watch it on a big screen. My reinsertion in the circles of homosexualists looks less and less likely now.
Yay! Ian has managed to get tickets for the one Prom concert I was most interested in and he's taking me tonight. In a box, if you please.
I wonder if this will improve my chances of filing for appeal.
I have just been sent this picture as a comment to my previous post.
What went wrong?
It seemed like an ordinary Sunday (with exceptionally good weather for London), with the usual late afternoon fun at the excessively hot Royal Vauxhall Tavern.
Next thing I know, I'm waking up on the deserted green next to the RVT with the most atrocious headache, after snoozing off for an unidentified period of time. It felt like 3am but it mustn't have been too late, as I managed to retrieve my backpack from the cloakroom (smiling cloakroom attendant sadly not there yesterday), where I bumped into G. who luckily took me into his cab and dropped me off home (hadn't he done that I would still be walking around looking for a night bus).
Bits and pieces that I recall doing before nodding off:
Apologies to all.
And, strangely enough, I woke up at 7 this morning and started working right away as if nothing ever happened. I do feel a bit wobbly though.
Just got back from a lovely picnic in Primrose Hill. Realized I got so accustomed to South London (most of my friends live here, we often go out in Clapham and Brixton and the Royal Vauxhall Tavern is, well, in Vauxhall) that North London felt quite eerie to me, especially prim and posh Primrose Hill.
Currently fighting very hard the desire to go to G.A.Y.'s Abba / Steps night, but I said I needed some rest and rest I will get. I figure that if I'm up by 6am tomorrow morning I could always go to Trade.
Tonight I'm going to an "End of BB3" BBQ. I'm wondering if the guys hosting it have managed to borrow the video wall from work as planned, so that all thirty of us will be able to watch it from the garden. Hopefully seeing a huge projection of Jade's face won't stop me from stuffing myself with pork sausages.
Frankly, I do not care who is going to win: what's important is that tonight it is over. As Ian was showing me bits and pieces of his favourite movies last night (among which Horny Firemen Gang Bang VI or something like that – just for the ludicrous dialogue of course, which had us rolling on the floor laughing), every time he stopped a tape the screen filled with E4's scantily clad housemates frolicking in the pool. All I could say was "enough already, go to bed! It's 3:30am and you've got a big day ahead! Go to bed. Now."
They will hopefully all disappear into oblivion as of tomorrow morning.
Message I found on my fridge as I merrily stumbled home today at – ahem – 1pm:
It's been good while it lasted. I am sorry but I do not intend to put up with your abusive behaviour any longer.
I am going back to Italy for good. Please do not try and get in touch with me, it just hurts too much.Your liver
"This is the text message 70 employees of a dotcom were sent just before Christmas, telling them they had lost their jobs. [...]" (The Guardian)
Aah, the sweet dot.com memories: working round the clock in the Munich office with occasional naps on the round red velvet couch, the countless free cappuccinos, the thrill of going through a downsizing and ending up with a better position within the same company, the bitter negotiations at the end of the dot.dream, my stock options now worth 0.00075p each, the laconic company email announcing the folding up of operations…
Never again, I told myself at the time. But then again, never say never is what they say.
J. had to cancel our date last night, due to a last-minute opportunity to go see a show for free. That's not too bad, since I have a horrible cold of the "let's dance for hours at the RVT and then pop out shirtless for a chat" variety.
I'll probably see J. next week, which means even more time will have passed since our first and only encounter snog downstairs @ Barcode three weeks ago. To be able to recognize him, I'll have to rely on my friends' description of him: tall, slim, dark hair, young. Very young actually.
Oh dear, I've been engaging in drunken cradle-snatching. Again.
I'm just back from Brixton tube station, where I went to hand in a mobile phone I found on the train last night.
And not just any mobile phone, but a shining brand new Sony CMD Z7, the object of my undying – but unaffordable – desire before I happily settled for an used Ericsson T28 that I got from eBay last week.
When I saw the thing staring at me from the opposite seat I looked around, grabbed it and put it in my bag. I could have sworn it was winking at me. I was going to keep it, I told myself while being highly intoxicated.
Finders keepers, losers weepers, or something along those lines.
As I was rushing to get to SubSouth before midnight (free entry + 2-4-1 on beer), and I was certainly in no state to have a coherent conversation with the lost and found staff at Brixton tube station, I simply switched off the phone and did not think much of it.
When I saw it this morning I put my SIM card in and started playing around with it, but I could tell that the desire to keep it was wearing thin, and giving in to the need to give it back to its rightful owner. As the phone's SIM card was locked, I could not get into the owner's phone book to call one of his/her contacts and report the find – and no numbers were stored in the phone itself.
I kept thinking of this devastated poor owner (he/she might very well be a multi-millionaire who's already bought a newer and better model but hey, it's my Weepy Wednesday and I'll cry if I want to), so I eventually went to hand it in. I just hope it is claimed and makes its way to the person it belongs to.
I do not feel smug or virtuous in the slightest. Quite the opposite actually. I will probably keep thinking for a little while that I should have just kept it.
Deep inside though, I know I have done the right thing.
Haven't I?
Well, it's official now: I am going to have the my gay membership card taken away from me. This letter was in the mail today:
Dear Sir,
We are sorry to inform you that as of today, July 22nd, 2002, you will not be entitled to call yourself a homosexual any longer.
The Commission has taken the decision to withdraw your membership after receiving news of your recent behaviour at the Dame Edna Experience at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern on Sunday, July 21st at 6:54 pm.
Failing to recognize Barbra Streisand's Funny Face would have been a sufficient offence in itself to have your membership terminated. Asking your sing-along-neighbour on the dancefloor "Do you know who performs this originally?" was utterly unforgivable, considering he was one of our undercover agents, who dutifully reported your misbehaviour to us.
We are aware of the fact that you were not born and raised in an English-speaking country, and as a matter of fact we have been quite lenient with you in the past, as you seemed to be proficient enough in Italian and French camp (by the way, we are sorry but the Raffaella Carrà/Dalida CD you made for us, while providing us with numerous nights of endless fun, will not suffice to make us go back on our decision). We therefore regret we cannot find any plausible excuse for the aforementioned episode.
It should also be understood that you may now forgo your hopes of being picked up by any team to take part in the pop quiz at the Retro bar.
Please report to any of our Soho branches to give in your badge and papers and pay the enclosed fine.
Should you wish to reapply for membership, you will have to take all the exams again and pay the licensing fee.
Regards,
the Commission for Assured and Motivated Poofters (C.A.M.P.)
A while ago in an internet café I had a quick look at Bitful, saw that the main colour was some sort of shocking pink but did not think much of it. Last night David told me that he approved my choice of colour, as shocking pink is not used so much anymore. It was funny to hear that, since I do not consider myself a shocking pink kind of person, but then again perhaps my true nature is coming through in this weblog no matter how hard I try to hide it.
For the record, the original hue was meant to be a lovely warm shade of red with just a touch of pink in it. I normally try and only use the 216 colours in the web-safe palette, and I was surprised to hear that it came across as pink. This morning I angled my laptop's TFT display differently and, lo and behold, shocking pink it was indeed!
So I guess shocking pink it'll have to be then. It feels kind of funny, like getting used to a new hair colour (not that I have much experience of it). I just hope Mattel will not sue me for using their trademark Barbie pink, as they are known for easily taking people to court (spot the poor taste parody link).
The City of Paris has just spent 1.5 million Euros on transforming a 3 km stretch of the right bank of the river Seine into a temporary beach, complete with sand, palm trees and sun lounges. I do not know exactly where they did it, but I have the feeling it includes cruisy "Tata Beach" (the part from Concorde to Pont des Arts, which is predominantly gay).
Queer Nation @ Substation last night was great, then I had some Sleep LiteTM – a series of fifty-seven five minutes naps between 7 and noon. I knew I should have gone to Trade instead, but the first bus I saw was home-bound…
Was I hallucinating, or was Brixton covered in hair at 6am this morning? Some people with hair extensions must have got into a hell of a cat fight.
Ouch, my tongue hurts. And no, it's not what you think, I just bit it violently last night while furiously chewing gum.
Cruising at a supermarket today reminded me of the Marina Safeway (if my memory does not fail me) in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City series, which I'd love to read again, but unfortunately I lost the books in the divorce. So, the obligatory Amazon wishlist has been set up (it seems that no weblog is without one these days).
You: 6ft, piercing blue eyes and a pierced eyebrow, wearing combat shorts and a pale blue t-shirt. Me: 6ft, brown eyes, jeans and a striped sleeveless t-shirt. We both went for the same bottle of skimmed milk at Tescos in Brixton this morning – I kindly left it to you and could not utter a word. I regret it now, so if you happen to read this (fat chance, I know), get in touch.
Oh, and if you weren't at Tescos today but you still fit the description, you can always say hallo.
This morning I am wearing my dark grey graduation suit from Next (it still fits me after all these years, thank you very much), a blue shirt and Italian loafers. I really want the job. I really really need the job. Wish me luck.
I like tube (london underground) strikes. Because Ian was late for dinner and very kindly treated me to it to make up for the delay. Ok, it's 4:52am and I'm still burping jalapenos, but it was definitely worth it. He showed me an article (I believe it was in the Evening Standard) in which Germaine Greer, when asked for her views on Big Brother Jade, allegedly said something along the lines of "the fat slag deserves all that she's getting". I've been unsuccessfully trying to find any reference to it on the web. Has anyone got a link for that? Ta.
Happy birthday Tom Plastic (Old) Bag – yeah, I know, I have no right to call him that, considering I'm over five years older than he is. By the way, I've just discovered his true identity: he really is a single woman in Chicago.
Apologies if this has already been going round and round, but I just found the link to un lapin on b3ta and I just keep watching it over and over (Laetitia Casta lip-sinking to a classic Chantal Goya song, quirky animation). Even more delightful if you understand the lyrics
"An insider who has heard three demos from Madonna's new album describe (sic) them as sounding like Sigue Sigue Sputnik" (via Popbitch).
I am not surprised, for it sounds like a very logical artistic evolution, considering that to me the first few bars of Music have always sounded very much like The Rockets, a long-forgotten disco band from the 70s (Italian and possibly French people in their 30s might remember their shaved heads and head-to-toe silver costumes and makeup).
Now that I think of it, Sigue Sigue Sputnik covered Ray Of Light in Virgin Voices Vol.2 (a tribute to Madonna). Maybe she's just trying to be nice to them and she'll record her own version of Love Missile F1-11. Ooh, I'd just love to hear that.
Yay! My new mobile phone is in the mail! I managed to buy a used one from eBay, using the "buy now" option (see my previous attempts at snatching one up through auctions). It's going to be my fifth cellphone in five years (they all stopped working at some time or another – I suppose my head gives out more radiations than the handsets themselves), hence my choice of a used one this time. And I've just heard from the seller, he found the hands free kit and in car charger that go with it, and he's throwing them in at no extra price.
I've been lusting over iPods for a while, but could not get one because I have a PC. Starting at the end of August, a new Windows version will be available in the USA. I'm starting to save, like, now.
I keep spotting cuties while watching TV these days: last night in Six Feet Under, a new hottie named Jeremy Sisto (top picture).
Come on, the guy played Jesus in a CBS miniseries, and I'm Italian, so I can't help it.
What worries me though is my growing enthusiasm for Joseph Millson (bottom picture) who plays Jason in EastEnders.
I feel much EastEnders-hookedness coming on.
I should definitely get out more, shouldn't I?
I just had a QuornTM steak, stir-fried mange-touts, plain basmati rice and a green salad. Yes, it's one of those "I feel horrible and need to get fit" days. Were I to learn from the past, I should expect to be sinking my teeth into a banana – strawberry jam – peanut butter sandwich by 5pm at the latest.