On my 40th birthday last December I awoke in a hotel room in Florida to be told that my present from Darren was to be a trip to New York. Gifts don’t get much better than that and last Thursday we tootled off to belatedly celebrate the start of the second half of my life.
New York was hot. Very hot and humid. We coped though. Soldiered on with barely a moan about sweaty undercarriages and non-air-conditioned boutiques. We arrived early afternoon and, after dumping our bags in our lovely AC controlled room in Chelsea, we bimbled on down to Greenwich for the evening. First stop and first pizza of the trip was at Johns. This place is recommended by pizza aficionados all over the web and has been making full pies (no slices) since 1929. We had the classic plain cheese version washed down with beer and pepsi. It was served straight from the coal fired brick oven and was super crispy and delicious. I’m not going to write tons of stuff about the merits of each pizza that we ate so I’ll just tell you whether it was good or not. This pizza was great.
Two hours later we’d strolled into the East Village and came across a Two Boots pizza place. Compared to some of the places we would sample pizza at over the next few days, Two Boots were considered the new boys on the block. They’ve been collecting fans since 1987 and now have several locations in NYC and even have their own art cinema attached to one of their restaurants. They serve slices too which was good as we’d had a whole pie just hours before. I went for the Cleopatra Jones which was loaded with spicy meats and peppers and Darren chose the Siciliana which was thick, doughy and meatily spicy. We ate them sitting in the window watching New Yorkers dashing home from work. Two Boots pizza was very good but not great like Johns. Maybe it’s got something to do with the ‘pie -vs- slice’ thing. Slices come from a pie that was cooked maybe an hour ago and are reheated back in the pizza oven whereas a pie is lovingly made to order from scratch and served immediately. As if this cheese overload wasn’t enough we ended the evening with an early night and a pint of Hagen Dazs each while watching telly. Fat bastards!

Our messy room, Johns Pizzeria and our pie. (click to enlarge)

Two Boots slices, Dave and Darren defy the evil humidity. (click to enlarge)

Coming soon: rollercoasters, movies, more wicked weather and a day with Joe and Terrence.

The view from Brooklyn Bridge at 2pm on Tuesday.

Back but must unpack.
*throws pizza stained clothes into laundry basket*

Let the expedition begin! The search for the perfect pizza slice begins tomorrow. The ratio of sauce to cheese is highly scientific and dough-wars always divide a nation. Crispy and stiff -vs- droopy and chewy. Ding-dong, seconds out!
Me and my fat belly will be back in a week.

There's an awful lot of pro-anerexia and pro-bulimia sites out there. A lot of them spout stuff about deciding to not be a 'victim' any more and how it's their body and their choices. Which is quite true. 'Starving for perfection' they call it and it's *the* new lifestyle choice (and not a disease). Apparently for every dying teenage bulimic girl there are 100,000 others living with it, coping with it and (gulp!) enjoying it.
The other 'movement' out there that I find interesting is the one that teaches folk to be happy being fat. Their ideology involves saying fuck off to society and its obsession with fitness, youth and (common) beauty. Both groups believe confidence is the 'key' to accepting and loving your shape and that self love (no, not that kind of self love) is more highly prized than than the other kind (the kind where someone else loves you). After all, how can you expect someone else to love you if you don't...(I cannot bear to finish that quote).

I've learned all about negative calories and calorie-free soup today (hot water with a grain of salt in it). I was talking to a girl in the office and was having a rant about those awful coloured rubber 'charity' bracelets and the proliference of hideous white gypsy skirts (they never even looked good on fucking gypsies so why, WHY?) when a fat bird walked past wearing three of those bracelets and a long flowing gypsy skirt. I watched her walk to her desk and I could tell by the way she sat down that she was cool, that she loved herself (so therefore probably had someone to love her back) and that she was really going to enjoy that tub of Pringles she had been to the kitchen to collect.

Dog packed off on his holidays – check
NYC itinerary finalised – no
8lbs of waist fat removed for holiday – no
Laundry laundered – no
Beard dyed – no
Mermaid outfit sorted – no
NYC bloggers contacted – no
Fear of meeting one’s hero’s – check
Saturday night NYC disco experience sorted – check
Spells ordered to cool NYC down before Thursday – check
Talcum powder bought to soothe sweaty 80° ass-crack – no
Sandals/flip-flops/mules bought – fuck off!

I’m off to Blackpool tonight with Edward. Darren can’t make it. My parents will be there too. No wonder Darren can’t make it. It’s Fathers Day on Sunday so I’ll take Dad for a game of crazy golf and then a polystyrene tray of chips and gravy. My Grans bladder has stopped working so she’s having a hose and bucket fitted which means Mum and Dad can’t start their journey to Blackpool today until visiting time at the hospital is over. I hope they don’t arrive smelling of wee. Gran is 85 and has smoked 30 cigarettes a day since she was 14. Shouldn't it be her lungs that require an overhaul? Edward will travel to Northumberland with my parents on Sunday as Darren and I are off to NYC next week for a gay refresher course. I had dinky little melba toasts with peanut butter for lunch.

Another ride to add to the 'Killer Rides At Walt Disney World' tour. We were wary of riding this last year but I loved it and had two goes. Darren only rode once as he found the whole experience extremely nauseating. The closest thing to blasting off into space (allegedly).

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1979, Newcastle City Hall. Devo, Are We Not Men? tour. Scary movie before the band came on which showed a mutant having his head squished by a record pressing machine. The new-wave had finally arrived oop north (and it dressed so much better than those noisy punkers). Later that year Blondie, Tubeway Army, PiL and The Rocky Horror Show (stage version) made going out at night menacing, sexy and exhilarating.

In other news, I was mighty pleased to discover that we shall be in New York when the Mermaid Parade takes place. I’ve been reading about this beach-front-day-out in Coney Island ever since I started looking at NYC blogs years and years and years ago. The parade marks the unofficial start of the NYC summer and is followed the next day by the even more 'colorful' (NYC spelling) Pride festivities in Manhattan (gays + summer + misplaced pride = a parade! Actually, that was harsh of me. Where better to celebrate a bit of pride than in the home city of the Gay Liberation Front? We should never forget that night in 1969 at the Stonewall Bar when 'enough is enough' became the battle-cry that started a war that we are still fighting.
*heads off to sewing room to construct suitable outfits*

Saturday was nice. We played at tourists. We walked along the river, hung out at The National Theatre (we pointed and gawped at actors from The Bill and The Vicar Of Dibley), had a lovely lunch here, bumped into Paddy McAloons brother (an old friend of Darrens) and saw a play. Theatre Of Blood was gory, camp and funny. Jim Broadbent hammed it up marvellously as the failed Shakespearian actor and Bette Bourne did a fantastic turn as a Quinton Crisp type critic (complete with two live poodles which were cooked into a pie in the second half and force fed to him). We don’t go to the theatre very often as the expense rarely guarantees enjoyment. After the disappointment of Acorn Antiques a few months ago this visit was surprisingly satisfying (and the best seats at the National were half the price of A. Antiques).

Mini reviews of movies rented in the past 7 days:

The Woodsman - peedo gets out of jail and tries not to fiddle with little girls. Is it in Kevin Bacons contract that he must appear in the shower in every film he's in? (see also Hollow Man and Wild Things). Mos Def and Eve were good. For fellow perverts everywhere, here's Kevin in the shower in Wild Things.

Lemony Snicket - A Tim Burton film that he never worked on. Like Big Fish this film looks great in that nightmare/fairytale way. Director Brad Silberling made the brilliant Casper but this isn't as good.

Just Married - He looks cute in this film but Brittany Murphy is the poor mans Lindsey Lohan. Nice use of European locations. Not enough nudity for my liking. Ashton should get a Kevin Bacon type contract.

View From The Top - Who doesn't love a movie about airline cabin crew? In this day and age it was refreshing to see a story about someone whose dreams were simply to say "chicken or fish?" while five miles above the earth. You can't go wrong with Mark Ruffalo, Christina Applegate and Mike Myers.

Creep - Scary horror set on the London Underground. Recommended by DG a few months and enjoyed by us last night. The 'creep' was played by Ian Curtis (Sean Harris) from the brilliant 24 Hour Party People. Lots of blood and claustrophobia and a cute dog.

Uptown Girls - We had a Brittany Murphy double bill last weekend. This one made me cry at the end. Also starred 11 going on 40, Dakota Fanning.

Closer - This one is still sitting beside the TV awaiting viewing (though I'm sure we'll like it as Padme plays a stripper in it).
UPDATE!
Closer has now been watched. What a self-centred heartless bunch of breeders! Not a single redeeming feature among the four main characters. They were all such utter shits that they made uber-promiscuous shallow homo's look like Mother Theresa. As a meditation on the power of love it will cure anyone of their 'need' to spend the rest of their lives with someone. Clive Owen was sexy though.

4pm. One hour left till the weekend. We see Theatre Of Blood tomorrow at the National. Gonna take the big fella to a swish lunch before the show. It's a matinee so we should be back home for Dr Who. Chinese or pizza tonight? The itinerary for our NYC trip in a few weeks is coming together nicely and is based around the best pizza places in the city. This pizzablog has been indispensable. We should get a ride on the classic Cyclone out at Coney Island this time. Followed by a slice at Tontonno. Have a nice weekend all.

I had a coffee at home then dashed out (in a light grey single breasted suit with sky blue YSL shirt but no tie) and headed to a 5 star hotel near the Tower Of London to usher this Tory cnut to his speaking slot at a dull seminar but I got there early so had four coffees and 12 posh biscuits and the caffeine and sugar made me manic so I shook too many hands and told folk I’d forgotten my business cards and then I listened to speakers from middle-Europe with comedy English accents tell us about ‘milky cows’ and ‘Chinese girls addicted to wedding cake’ until I could take no more and told my boss that we should skip the fancy lunch and do a runner which we did but now I’m at my desk and I’ve just finished a bag of liquorice allsorts and now I really wish we’d stayed for the luxury bait and chit-chattery with Frankfurt dwelling S&M-enthusiast bankers.

I’ve saved half the cost of my new bicycle by riding to work instead of taking the tube. In just two months! My ride is equivalent to an aerobic workout so if I factor in the cost of two aerobic classes per day at my local sports centre (£3 per one hour session) then I’ve actually saved the full cost of the bike. I’ve got the travel time down to between 50 and 60 minutes, which is exactly how long it takes to get to work if I use public transport. The worst bit of the journey is fighting the urge to have another breakfast when I arrive at my desk hungry after all that exercise (I’m usually strong enough but liquorice allsorts got the better of me last week).

PICTURES BELOW NOW FIXED!

For the past week I have been enjoying albums by The Cribs, The Rakes, The Blood Arm and The Tears. I have also rediscovered a 21 year old album; Microphonies by Cabaret Voltaire. I bought the tape of this album in 1984 at Heathrow airport as I was flying to Cairo with Romanian Airlines (nearly 24 hours via Sofia but very cheap). One day after leaving England I was sitting on the balcony of my chic flea-bag hotel (£3 a night), sipping on a fake arab coke, listening to Sheffield electronica and watching the day-long-rush-hour chaos on the streets below. That tape hardly left my walkman during the next month as I made my way South devouring every temple and monument. I broke my arm and leg while horse riding at the end of the trip and my walkman was stolen from my bedside at the American hospital in Cairo so I didn't have the pleasure of those crispy sounds while I licked my wounds and recouperated on Crete for a month (and before anyone cries out "Ooo, get Mr Moneybags!", I found it very easy to survive on £5 a day back then). So, today I was walking the dog down by the nature reserve listening to Microphonies for the first time in many years and all these memories from that trip came rushing back making me happy. I love it when that happens.

Here is a picture of me on the roof of Edfu temple. Please pardon my cowboy hat. That big hunk 'o' love with the tache? Don't ask.

I took a camel to see the Aga Khans Mausoleum. How cool is that guy's jacket?

This is how fucked you will look after sleeping (i.e. not sleeping) on a small felucca sailing down to Aswan. How can it be so freakin' hot during the day and so damn cold at night? That's me on the right.

The documentary was brilliant. Next up is a 'proper' movie and it looks great. Fingers crossed for a NYC screening in a couple of weeks. Just last weekend we spent a pleasant hour on Southport pier overlooking the skatepark watching the tricksters pretend they were on Jackass. Empty swimming pools often feature in my dreams.



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Today is the second day in a row I’ve had Liquorice Allsorts (created by accident in 1899) and Fanta Z for breakfast. There aren’t enough of the round coconut ones in the bag for my liking. I don’t eat the beady aniseed ones so I’ve strung them all together and made a necklace which I’m going to put on ebay and try to sell as a Zandra Rhodes piece. I tried Fruit Allsorts a few weeks ago during a car journey to Blackpool and they were lovely (the beady ones in that bag were eaten as they tasted like fruit pastilles). I don’t like the bloke on the Allsorts TV ad. He’s a bit like the annoying know-it-all that every office has. Bertie Basset should ditch that tosser and get together with June Whitfield (above). She’d be great selling Liquorice Allsorts. Actually, she’d be great selling anything (bombs, cigarettes, Burberry, super-strong lager, Cillit Bang). She has such a trustworthy face and could easily fill the void left by the sad death of stair-lift queen Thora Hird (below).
Did you know that Jelly babies were created to celebrate the end of WW1 in 1918 and that until 1953 they were called 'Peace Babies'?