TVR cars are dangerous, terrifyingly fast, implausibly expensive and very very beautiful. 1000 are hand made in Blackpool each year. Totally built in-house by 400 dedicated Lancashire lads from the engine to the knobs on the dashboard. And now a Russian millionaire has gone and bought the company a la Victor Kiam for £15m. First they buy most of Mayfair and Hampstead, then Chelsea Football Club and now they’re muscling in on Englands Red Rose county.
Where we live in North East London is riddled with Russians. I often stop them and ask to see their visas but they just tell me to fuck off*. I feel that it’s OK to harass them because they’re the same colour as me and therefore I can’t be accused of racial intimidation. For years now I’ve tried to regard London as a sort of Burroughs inspired inter-zone where the world is invited to come and try their luck. A place unlike the rest of Britain with wholly separate traditions and customs and a reduced amount of regulations and laws. London feels like a gigantic walled city filled to bursting with nomads (myself included) who’d rather be somewhere else but can’t leave because of the delicious mugwump jism. Tomorrow the drawbridge will be lowered and I will head out to greener pastures and fresher air for a few hours (must remember to get my hand stamped when I leave).

*I don’t really do this.

Like Kelis said...

“tricked me once but I won’t let you trick me twice”

...but they did. A hornet managed to get inside my lid this morning. I was forced to pull over beside Argos and yank my helmet off (stop right there with your mucky thoughts). Then ten minutes later another fukka got in! This one fell to the ground and then I stamped on it. Then I felt bad. But not as bad as I would have felt if I’d been stung in the eye. Which is what happened to me during a picnic up a mountain in Uzbekistan a few years ago. Christ that hurt. When this fierce Central Asian wasp injured me I demanded that someone pee on me immediately but was quickly told that this is actually the remedy for jellyfish stings (cue sounds of zips closing and fists slamming into palms).

I hope Elsie gets her flat. I hope August is warmer. I hope my Mum gets to go to Hong Kong before she dies. I hope it doesn’t rain on Saturday. I hope Darren is happy. I hope Edward is happy. I hope famines are eradicated. I hope Dubya starves to death. I hope my smile is white enough. I hope safari tourism to Africa is abolished. I hope I see Bjork before I die (and before she does). I hope Disney do a deal with B&M. I hope the future is like Futurama. I hope my balls hang lower as I get older. I hope Hollywood crumbles. I hope religion becomes transparent to all. I hope the Smiths never reform. I hope trains go direct to Blackpool next year. I hope the big disease with a little name is wiped out soon. I hope animals do laugh. I hope I never forget my Nana. I hope I’m not bored tomorrow. I hope I sleep 8 hours tonight. I hope Japan is banned from causing any more atrocities to whales and dolphins. I hope I come back as a dolphin. I hope Bubba Sparxxx poses for a nude centrefold. I hope everyone gets a roof of their own. I hope pop fights back. I hope.

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Mike has only been number 1 for 48 hours and already I’ve heard a ‘reply’ track from his ‘girlfriend’. Truly awful it is too. Kerching!

65p for a hot dog at Ikea. Other stuff is just as cheap so we bought it. Shiny plastic things and dull wooden surfaces. Stuff that is so nice you get it home and it makes the rest of your room look shit.
We bbq’d sausages at 5pm in our garden on Saturday. Drank wine then went to bed for a nap before Ducky. Woke up at 10.30 and couldn’t be arsed to get out of me knickers so watched the Beavis and Butthead movie on telly then went back to bed.
Darren left for Dublin at the crack of dawn today so me and Edward have two days to enjoy eating crisps in bed and forgetting to wash.
Nice to see thousands of commuters on the streets this morning as the Victoria line suffered a bomb scare. I waved as I put-putted past each packed bus stop. Poor things. London is a cruel mistress.

Very good piece over at Trobled Diva today. Written by Nixon and titled 'God save The Queens'. Fuckin' spot on.

The death of the record shop has been prolonged and nasty for the last ten years. When I was a nipper I used to spend Saturdays listening to singles in a soundproof booth in Rumbelows. Then I’d buy one of them. When I got a paper-round I started to buy a single and an album each week. Good times. But it’s much better these days. Lying in bed this morning I was reading the new Scootering magazine and there was a great review of the Razorlight album. I got out of bed, made a coffee, put my pc on, downloaded the Razorlight album in just 10 minutes (legally and cheaply but I’m not telling you where from), dumped it onto my mp3 player then went to the park with the dog and listened to it. I was hooked by track four and now, at 11am, I’m at my desk and have just pressed play for the third time.

Have you seen Bowfinger? The scene where the dog wears red high heels is brilliant (picture above totally unrelated to the hilarious movie Bowfinger).

 
We use two duvets. One each. Single sized and wrapped in lovely Swiss cotton covers. I like to fold them over and place them at the bottom of the bed during the day. Just like in boutique hotels. After a hot bath last night I lay on the bed with my legs elevated by the folded duvet. Most comfortable. I was reading Rhona Camerons book about growing up a lezzer in Scotland in the 70’s. Mighty funny. Her description of the clothes she took on a school skiing trip made me howl:
 
“From a distance I looked like a Solero iced lolly on skis and close up I looked like a little Scottish lesbian in an orange kagoule”
 
A holiday would be nice soon. But there’s nowt booked. In December we are off to Florida but that seems like months away. Oh, it is months away.
A drive through some German mountains would be nice, so would a week in Sicily wearing 70’s style swimming trunks and eating gnocchi, a few days in Vienna testing cakes would be great, but so would a week on the beach in Torremolinos with a pile of books and a ham toasty, NYC in a Schrager hotel would tickle my fancy, as would a dog friendly hotel in an attractive English village, Alton Towers, Thorpe Park Drayton Manor, Oakwood, Flamingoland, Lightwater Valley, Pleasureland, Pleasure Beach, Trafford Centre, Meadowhall, Bluewater, Metro Centre, sushi in Tokyo, fish and chips in Aberdeen, currywurst in Hamburg, vlamses frittes in Antwerp, Camberwell carrot in Amsterdam, pad thai in Phuket, falafel in Luxor, mint tea in Tangier, kebab in Istanbul and 10p tea in Blackpool. Any of these will do.

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Nibblin’ on black pepper crunchy pretzels while attempting to appreciate the fine print in that report and struggling to deflect calls about the modifications to the 1998 petroleum law.
I started a gay scooter club on Yahoo groups a few weeks ago. Somewhere for all those Vespa obsessed cocksucking scooter-boys to hang out and compare rally patches. Only, the majority of new members are American twist n go riders (but that’s OK as there must be more tolerance within our community). A friend of mine was knocked off his scooter by bikers in 1984 and beaten to death. 1984! Only 20 years ago and riders on two wheels hated each other that much. Luckily the only other UK rider to join lives in London and is up for attending the Mersea Island scooter rally in September. Hopefully there will be more members before then so we can create a gay convoy as we cut through Essex.
Scooter related music to listen to this week is Over The Counter Culture by The Ordinary Boys. Very catchy, very cool and very British. Sexy in a Harrington and with something to say. Class.

Blimey! Ever finished a book and then lowered it to your lap, shut your eyes and continued to imagine the characters existing just a bit longer? I just finished reading Shopgirl by Steve Martin (yes, that Steve Martin) and it was delicious. A tale of low-self-esteem dating, LA shopping and proof that love is a psychological necessity we all seek to complete our puny existence. Right up my strasse and not at all funny.
Unlike Shrek 2, which was hilarious and bombarded us with jokes and sight gags to the point where I didn't want to take my eyes off the screen to reach for the popcorn. The gags fly past so fast and furious that it's impossible to catch them all without a pause button. Just like The Simpsons, Shrek 2 is a gold mine of high volume, knowingly self-referential humour destined for repeat viewings on DVD. Bloody brilliant.
As was Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre which I also recently finished reading. This filthy swear-fest will make a great movie one day. Written with no regard for the English language (some bloggers will be appalled if they ever pick it up) but packed full of hilarious and tragic moments that define its description as satire. The overiding message of the book is to be applauded too;
Don't wait for God to intervene, be your own God.

The 'Information Points' in Blackpool town centre also act as a sort of census counter (I pressed it several times so take a pinch of salt with the 2011 results). We found a shoe shop with a fantastic name. We had a picnic in the Peak District on the way home today. We sat in the car and ate food from the Co-Op in New Mills. Here's a view we saw.

It's Monday morning and I'm in Blackpool library enjoying some free internet access. We've had great weather these past few days and the sea air has given us a hearty appetite. Much naughty food has been eaten (and enjoyed, which is the main thing I think). Saw Shrek 2 last night and loved it. Off back to London today via the Manchester mountains and the Peak District. Our last unhealthy meal of the trip should be lunch in a Buxton beer garden with spectacular views. Back to work tomorrow. Boo!

I jammed my finger in the garden door as I was letting Edward out last night. Swollen and sore today so I called work to explain I was unable to attend the office today. No one answered the phone though as it’s the Civil Service Sports Day today in a field near Barnes. Most folk in my office pretend they’re going to go but never make it. The boss is playing in a 5-aside team so he’ll be there. The four office piss-heads will be there as there’s a bar from 10.30. I’ve never been to this faux olympic sham and have always pottered about in the office with the cardigan-wearing spinster who smokes 40 a day and only eats apples and raw broccoli (picture of health, not). Well not today, I’ve just e-mailed my boss and informed him that I’m extending my Friday and Monday off with a Thursday. Off to Blackpool with Darren and Edward tomorrow.

The Long Firm was good last night. I watched the second episode straight after on BBC4 but thought it was a tiny bit weaker than the first. Derek Jacobi was brilliant and did you spot Jake Arnott in the Stardust club talking to Ruby? Anyone else notice that they left the sign on the wall for the Ghetto club in Falconberg court during one scene?
Finally something to make me stop moaning about the TV licence.

Apparently storms are brewing today.
When I was six years old I was blown over by a gust of wind during a storm. I rolled along the grass and fell into a river. Dad dragged me out fairly quickly though. We were on holiday in Crail with our flimsy and frail caravan but it remained undamaged throughout the ‘hurricane’. We sheltered in the caravan park club-house with everyone else during the height of the gale. The next day the winds were still high but not gale force. While walking from the camp-site shop with my Dad, (carrying fresh milk and The Daily Express) we took the scenic route back to the caravan along the wee river that ran through the park. Suddenly a stray gust of Scottish wind shot out from behind two caravans and bowled me over, sending me rolling down the river bank and into the muddy water. I was yanked out of the water by my belt in a state of shock. Luckily (and very cleverly) my Dad laughed the matter off and told me to get a move on as Mum would be burning the breakfast bacon while waiting for us. Tears were averted in favour of making my Dad laugh and the thought of crispy bacon and fried bread. When we got back to the van mum lit the gas fire for me and I ate my greasy meal wearing only a pair of fresh underpants.

I just took a long lunch and 'popped out' to see The Ladykillers. Very poor. It's no Millers Crossing, believe me. There were lots of church-going black ladies though (in the film, not the cinema) which always tickles my fancy. Four out of ten.

I like going out. Some folk think I don’t. To me going out can be many things; a trip to the cinema, a meal in a cheap restaurant, a long walk, a drive to the bagel shop, alcohol in pubs, dancing in clubs, window shopping, coffee shop and newspapers, gallery and green tea, blah blah blah.
I’m very ‘low key’ when I go out. Not for me the 6 hour drinking marathon. Or the crawl around 5 homo establishments in the same street. Go out, meet friends or soak up new venue/one-nighter, get drunk (or not, some nights), come home. Takes about 3 hours. 4 if someone’s making me laugh. There really is no need to be out any longer.
I’m very uncomfortable and restless around drunks and find it very hard to join a group of friends who have been drinking for several hours prior to my arrival. Bad things have happened to me in the past and alcohol was nearly always involved therefore my opinion of the stuff is corrupted. But I do like a drink. I love to get to that ‘merry’ stage when everything feels cheery and familiar and nice. And I’m good at lingering around that stage of conviviality but only if everyone else does too. If the rest of the gathering move onto that final stage of ‘getting drunk’ then I make my excuses and scarper. Sometimes they don’t even know I’ve gone. Consequently I now have a (undeserved) reputation as a sourpuss and a grouch. Which, in my opinion, is better than having a reputation as a critical and vicious dipsomaniac. Your round.

Remember how good The Hours was? The next Cunningham book to make it to the big screen is A Home At The End Of The World. A fantastic book which made a holiday in Goa even better a few years back. Colin Farrell playes the bi guy and a full frontal nude scene of him has been cut after the director ruled it was too 'distracting'. Luckily for Colin, the 'distraction' was apparently down to the size of his knob rather than its unsightliness.

“All you could hear were gasps when Colin appeared in his full-frontal pose," a source told The Sun.


“It was such a sight it made it difficult to concentrate on the plot, so the decision was made to get rid of it.”

However, Colin has promised that the DVD release will include the offending member.

My eighth floor window is on the Heathrow flightpath today and some of those big birds are coming in very low. I can just about make out the spinach between the teeth of the business class passengers. I love spinach. And crispbread and peaches. Sesame seeds are nice too. Big bums. Big, hard hairy bums are great too. Hamilton from The Walkmen doesn't have a big bum but I like him anyway. I was fascinated to read about the fella who wrote down every single thought that came into his head. He says he gained complete clarity in his mind for a short period of time:

"You can think about hidden subjects - things that are really important, but that people don't have the time to think about, such as: 'How do we communicate?' 'How is thinking structured?' 'What am I doing?'

"And you find answers. Basically, it feels like watching Atlantis come up."

And so, the pioneering Wiki forum should be expanding any day now. Allowing us to all note down our thoughts on a real WORLDWIDEWEB thingy. Sort of like a gigantic notebook that anyone, nay, ANYONE can write in and read. Wow.

Pride swells around the world during this time of year. Please please please read this if you are a butch drag wearing homo moaning about the TV news focusing on the campest, most ridiculously dressed mo in the parade. Homo-genisation sucks.

John at work brought home a bag of boiled sweets from Portugal. Fruit flavours. The taste of each sweet bears no relation to the picture on the wrapper. They all taste the same. Except for banana as there is a hint of banana flavouring in the banana boiled sweet. They may have beaten us at footy but they can't even make a peach flavoured boiled sweet. Losers.

I'm eating only fruit today. Apart from those two ginger snaps I just snaffled (I drank two big glasses of water straight after which cancels out this biscuit weakness). Lunch will be a tin of Del Monte chunky fruit salad. I'm sitting at my desk jiggling my tush to 'I Want More' from the new Faithless album and I can see a colleague a few desks away mouthing words and waving a phone at me. I waved back and took another bite of my apple. Blocking out this office life with headphones is not something I do very often but today it's a priority (one boss in Baku and the other in Cairo, take the piss? us? nah!). This afternoon I shall get used to new albums from Miss Kittin and The Beastie Boys. This evening I will use the opportunity of having the house to myself to blast out my new Lee Scratch perry vs King Tubby album (Darren is in Coventry and despises dub). Mums birthday on Sunday so I better get off my butt and get her a card and a pair of tights.