Category archive: gay

With my three to four gym sessions a week (weight training, abs and a little cardio work) I thought I was fit – until I went for a run with colleagues early last year and was out of breath after a few minutes. So I took up running.

So then I thought I was fit, with my three to four gym sessions and a couple of runs a week – until I played rounders in June and realised I could not sprint as my legs would just jam. So I started high-intensity interval training and added one weights session a week just doing legs weights workouts.

And yesterday I thought I was really really fit, and I played gay rounders again (same rules as proper rounders, but played with so much more style) and yes I could run fast, and stop, and run faster to the next base, and stop, then run even faster all round the pitch – until this morning when I felt a sharp pain at the top of the front of my thighs that makes walking difficult, and crossing my legs virtually impossible unless I lift one leg with both hands. Absolutely nothing broken or pulled, just sore muscles that I had no idea existed.

Compared to the two injuries we had yesterday (my team's captain a player from another team both went for fourth base, met in a mid-air collision and both split their faces open) I was very lucky.

And my team won – by all means not thanks to me, whose greatest achievement yesterday was to manage to bat and hit the ball – twice!

In the end last night I (and probably another few hundred thousand people with me) could not get my hands on Firefox 3, so I went out.

I have just downloaded it now (it would be cool to set a record for number of downloads in 24 hours), but I will probably wait a bit before installing it because

• it is always recommended not to install just-released software straight away;
• some people I know are experiencing problems with Firefox 3;
• last time I checked, not all add-ons work with Firefox 3 yet.

If you have installed Firefox 3 and want to revert, you can download previous versions of Firefox.

I will probably download and install the Firefox 3 Portable Edition that can run alongside old versions, until I am sure I want to upgrade for good.

So yes, I went out last night. I never ever go out on a school night these days, so I limited myself to three pints, and yet I am not feeling too good this morning, but fortunately I am going to be staying later at work tonight because I have a Spanish class at 6.30PM, so I can go in later than usual. Ooh I'm rambling aren't I?

Yes, I was saying I went out. And had a very good time with Jonathan, David and Ian at Retro Bar. We saw Dave and Simon and took part in the weekly Pop Quiz.

I expect Jonathan to write about it on his blog today [update: he did]. I hope he does, because all I can remember is that our team came second with 18 out of 21 points. I cannot even remember the name of the team, apart that it was picked by flicking through a copy of Boyz and pointing randomly at some text.

Right then. Coffee, porridge, Nurofen Plus, shower, then off to work.

Oggi mangiamo uova e pancetta per colazione
Today we are having eggs and bacon for breakfast
Literally: 'Today (we) eat eggs and bacon for breakfast'

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080126_01.mp3]

Do you want to get rid of that little bit of extra weight you put on at Christmas? You are still in time to turn into a gay man and book yourself on a flight to Australia to attend Sydney Mardi Gras. The pressure to look fabulous will keep all temptations away and you'll soon swap evenings on the couch scoffing chocolates for runs on the treadmill chugging protein shakes.

Yes we are on a diet. But today I am going to make Dr B. happy and satisfy yesterday's request to have bacon (from Tesco's Healthy Eating range) and eggs (poached) for breakfast.

And then we'll rush to the gym to burn it all off.

Dobbiamo essere in forma per Mardi Gras
We must be in shape for Mardi Gras
Literally: '(We) must be in shape for Mardi Gras'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080126_02.mp3]

If you want to find out more

You cannot translate 'What are you having' literally in Italian, it simply would not make sense. Instead, you can ask 'Cosa mangi?' (What are you eating) or 'Cosa bevi?' (What are you drinking?). Just like in English, these questions can translate both the enquiry about what is actually eating/drinking that very moment, or the question 'What would you like to eat/drink'.

The Italian equivalent of Mardi Gras would be 'Martedì grasso'. However, in this case you'd probably say it in English because it's the name of a specific event. Besides, Dr B. enjoys poking fun at me when I speak Italian and then suddenly an English word sticks out like a sore thumb.

Mi vergogno di essere italiano
I am ashamed to be Italian
Literally: 'Myself (I) shame of being Italian'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080125_01.mp3]

An Italian senator who announced he wanted to switch back to support the government (after his party withdrew from the ruling coalition, thereby causing the prime minister to resign and the government to fall), was called a "piece of shit, traitor, cuckold, queer".

Another senator made a hand gesture as if to shoot him, and a colleague called him "wretched poof".

The insulted senator was reportedly spat on, fainted and was carried out of the Senate on a stretcher.

So today's sad Italian lesson is that regardless of their sexuality (I have a hunch that the insulted senator is as straight as they come), queer, faggot and poof are handy words that in 2008 are still perfectly apt to be used at all levels and in all official circumstances to describe your opponents.

• Prodi resigns after losing vote
• Senato, Cusumano annuncia il sì aggredito e offeso anche da An

Non torno spesso in Italia
I don't go back to Italy often
Literally: '(I) not return often in Italy'.

[audio:http://www.bitful.com/audio/080125_02.mp3]

I thought only a couple of friends knew about La Terremoto de Alcorcón and her YouTube Madonna spoof video 'Time Goes By (Con Loli)':

Last night at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern it appeared that the whole Spanish expat community knows her well.

It was a riot, with Spanglish banter and a handful of songs (Can't Get You Out Of My Head, Hung Up, Two Hearts, Let Me Out) sung with Spanish lyrics (Let Me Out became Enajena, for instance) along with the adoring crowd.

She also sang the English version of Libérate, the official hymn of this year's Europride in Madrid.

• Lyrics of Time Goes By (Con Loli)
• A few pictures of La Terremoto I took last night

A friend sent me this notice he found posted at his gym, which I don't think it's even one of the gayest in town.

You go to a gym? Then you are expected to be supple enough to soap your own back.

Otherwise, they will preserve it as inappropriate behaviour. Preserve, regard, same thing…

I overcome (but only slightly) my laziness to paste an email Dr B. sent to his friends yesterday to comment on the last issue of David Hoyle's Magazine that we went to see on Monday night:

Well that was fun. For those that missed it David Hoyle was back on form last night – we had the return of one of the guys from Crime and Punishment with his partner and their new baby followed by a 70 year old reformed alcoholic and ex tramp. He had a very interedting story to tell and importantly this time David shut up and let him speak. He was also quite witty. All in all it was the best one I've seen. He is next on at the RVT on the friday before worlds aids day with a show about unprotected sex and gay life in generally entitled something like 'the worlds largest suicide sect'

TTFN

S

Last night we went to see David Hoyle's 'Magazine' at the Royal Vauxhall Tavern. I'd declined an invite the previous week, and I had to see why so many people are raving about the artist formerly known as the Divine David.

Well yes, he's smart. And very eloquent, which for once is a very welcome change from tired old queer routines with the same few innuendos.

Part one was very good. Stand-up stuff on immigration (last night's theme), probably mostly unscripted, great humour, and a fantastic command of the audience.

Then in part two he interviewed a man from Uganda who was imprisoned in his own country on grounds of being gay, then came to the UK, claimed asylum and was imprisoned again while waiting for a decision from the Home Office. If this sounds very vague to you, do not be surprised. I would know more about what happened to this man if David Hoyle had let him finish a single sentence while interviewing him. Also, you had the very distinct feeling that he did not know where he was going with this.

I found this very annoying and some of the stuff that was said made me feel uncomfortable. But I guess if that's precisely what was to be achieved?

I did not stay for part three though. I must ask Dr B. what I missed, but judging from a friend's description from the previous week ('there's some very loud music, and David Hoyle paints a picture), maybe not much.

I will definitely be going back though, perhaps next week.

Don't you just love social networking?

I was looking for Soho Pride's rescheduled date (it was going to be tomorrow but was moved to 19 August) and found the Soho Pride Upcoming event. I clicked on 'I'm attending' and joined the list.

So far, we are going to be four. I'll bring the quiche.

I watch less and less Big Brother with every passing year, and this being season 8, I practically tuned in on opening night and then just read Grace Dent's TV OD at Radio Times on Mondays and Thursdays.

Grace Dent makes me giggle. I wish I could say that the way she describes what goes on in the house is spot on, but having watched about thirty minutes altogether this year I just have to trust her.

That's how I learnt that Gerry has slept with between two and three thousand people. Crikey. On Monday Grace was wondering:

And what's with the array of medals that Gerry seems to be wearing attached to his little military jacket these days? The Royal Vauxhall Tavern Cross for Valour? Who knows.

And I spluttered the water I'd just swigged across the seats at the woman in front of me in the tube. I apologised, wiped the display on my phone, then thought: is this the same Royal Vauxhall Tavern I know, the one down the road from our flat, our local, where the drag act is un-PC and the men are sweaty and dance with their tops off? The pub where Dr B. and I met over four years ago (while sweating and dancing with our tops off)?

Either Grace Dent has an extensive knowledge of all things gay, or there is another Royal Vauxhall Tavern that is rooted into the public consciousness.

I've been working in the same team for fifteen months now and I have not told anyone I am gay.

Well, nobody asked – and I love and cherish the UK and the people who inhabit this glorious land because they mostly mind their bloody business, one of the qualities that earn my highest esteem and admiration.

Anyway.

These days of Pride celebrations I have been thinking a lot of old me, rather miserable in a previous life in a country where I thought I had no right to be respected for who I am. Hardly surprising, when you think that that country – Italy – five and a half years after I flicked the finger to it and left it for good, is still light years away from even the faintest, most watered-down concept of a recognised same-sex union. Or, to be entirely fair, of any sort of unmarried union, regardless of sexuality.

And so I thought I owed this to old me. I'd love to be able to go back and let my old self know that everything is going to be alright, that I will be living in a place where laws protect me and public opinion respects me.

But because I can't go back in time, I thought instead I'd ask Dr B. to be my 'plus one' at a work do next week. He said yes. I am thrilled.

I am gearing myself up for a reassuring anticlimax though: I have not told anyone, nobody asked, but I have a feeling everybody knows. As lovely Dr B. just told me, 'Do you expect them to think you are straight? Erm, have you seen yourself in a mirror?'

He might have a point.

After what has been known as 'The Mika Incident' (I wowed the album for all of three days, then grew so tired of its repetitive songs and Scissor Sisters rip-off that even a fleeting glimpse of Mr Penniman's bouncy curls made me jump with all my weight on the 'Skip' button), I swore that I would never again acquire music solely on grounds of the artist being gay (which, incidentally, Mika has never said he was, claiming that it does not matter).

Well, guess what? Mika is right. It does not matter.

And yet, I fell for it again. Enter 24-year-old openly gay Chris Garneau. A role model. Too bad his album is absolutely not my cup of tea at all. Whispered piano ballads, one after the other, no less than fourteen of them. Turns out the only thing we have in common is our sexual orientation.

The other night while I was preparing dinner I made a point of listening to his whole album, out of respect. After all, the young man has released a record, whereas it's a major event if I manage to win my laziness long enough to post two days in a row here.

By song four I was contemplating using the kitchen knife for a much less culinary purpose than chopping tomatoes.

By song eight even Anthony and the Johnsons sounded thigh-slapping ha-ha funny in comparison.

I struggled to get to the end and I finally had to stop the last song half way through because I heard Dr B.'s key in the lock and I did not want him to think that I was killing dinner with my own bare hands (instead of simply frying it).

And by the way, those tomatoes? Imported by Tesco from 'sunny' Poland. Go figure.

From the ages of 7 to 17 I proudly was the one and only Italian following the Eurovision Song Contest. When I say 'proudly' I mean instead 'scared gutless worrying that there must be something wrong with me.

Italy stopped broadcasting the live show long before stopping taking part, but I kept watching it on Slovenian and Croatian TV channels.

Then I moved abroad, and lo and behold, I found out I was not the only one! Needless to say, all the other fans I met were either gay or Icelandic (or both).

We previewed the songs. We had parties. We filled in scoresheets. We debated, discussed and showed outrage at the blatant regional voting.

Last year I made it to the host country for the first time, and I had a hell of a great time with a bunch of friends at the live event in Athens.

This year I listened to the songs in disbelief, and I instantly knew that it was not for me. I feel a bit like a fraud, like I've betrayed my own self.

You know how sometimes you wish you could go back and tell your teenage self 'Do not worry; everything will turn out alright'? Well, I wish I could tell him 'Go and listen to some decent music ferchrissakes!"

Having said that, tomorrow I'm going to a Eurovision Song Contest party. I have no idea who got through from last night's semifinal (my wild guess is all the former Eastern bloc countries voted each other through). I've got a feeling there's going to be a lot of Flying Your Fag (For You). I cannot wait.

Tomorrow Italian catholic groups are staging a national rally against civil partnerships and in support of traditional families.

That is, if you have not got a mummy and a daddy (or have more than one), or if you happen to shack up with someone of the same sex, you are made to feel like scum.

I cleverly booked my flight to leave and go back home tomorrow. I hate feeling not welcome.

I used to be an average gay man, with average gay man musical tastes, i.e. I used to swear by the Madonna-Kylie-Eurovision Holy Trinity as the pinnacle of musical achievement.

I mean, people, I went to three gigs during the last twelve months: Kylie in January, Madonna last July… and The Eurovision Song Contest Live All The Way To Athens Greece last May. Ahem.

Now, My last.fm page is nothing to go by if you want long-term stats, because up until two months ago I mainly used a tiny old laptop, kept all my music on Dr B.'s desktop and streamed it to the stereo, or listened to it on my iRiver which was not supported by Audioscrobbler.

However, if you look at my last.fm stats by artist for the week ending 28 Jan 2007, when I engaged in a week-long experiment streaming music from other computers through to Windows Media Player on my laptop (making the wireless network keel over and various computers crash several times in the process), you'll encounter the following screeching aural landscape:

1. Kylie Minogue (23 tracks listened)
2. Annie Lennox (22)
3. Alcazar (10)
4. Shakespear's Sister (9)
5. Girls Aloud (8)
6. Imogen Heap (8)
7. Mariah Carey (5)
8. Sharam (4)
9. Alexia (3), Sugababes (3), reel people feat angela johnson (3), Mighty Dub Katz (3)

Then on 11 February I got a nice big computer from Dr B for my birthday.

And then, one week later, it was loaded up with all my music and last.fm was scrobbling away.

And then I saw a trailer for Skins on Channel 4. I liked the song and Shazamed it. It turned out to be Standing in the Way of Control by The Gossip. I got the album and loved it. And, thanks to Twitter, I happen to know the exact watershed moment when I realised that that kind of music was sending electric charges down my spine and pumping my blood faster, because it was such a revelation that I decided it was worth twittering it to the world:

Walking to the tube listening to The Gossip. So not like me. It's great.

08:15 AM February 23, 2007 from web

From that moment on, nothing has been the same. Week after week, my last.fm stats have been progressively cleansed of anything silly, empty, bubble-gummy, cheesy, glittery or – dare I say it? – camp. Divas, princesses and drama queens have all been exiled. Euro-pop, Euro-trash and Euro-vision now safely kept out of hearing distance on the other side of the Channel.

Today, I look at my last.fm stats for last week and this is what I see:

1. The Strokes (116)
2. Enter Shikari (78)
3. Maxïmo Park (71)
4. Kasabian (55)
5. Bloc Party (54)
6. Junior Boys (44)
7. Plan B (43)
8. The Feeling (36)
9. Muse (32)
10. Leftfield (30)

I feel this is something I should have done at the age of seventeen but did not know better then. And, because of that, there is still a chance that this is just a phase I am going through; let's call it my 'I am a rebel, an enemy of society and all I want to do is sulk in my basement wearing black lippy and listening to Marilyn Manson' (note to self: acquire some Marilyn Manson tracks).

Who knows, perhaps I'll manage to snap out of it just in time for next month's Eurovision Song Contest. Because right now, frankly, I could not care less if the wind machines they use for the show got jammed and blew everyone and their comedy costumes far, far away.