A Burns Day Celebratory Surprise

Gentle reader, Burns Day is one of my favourite annual celebrations. Not that one has ever needed any particular reason to raise a glass of finest malt whiskey, or indeed to raise a Scotman's kilt... nevertheless, I consider it healthy to be reminded of these two not-so-subtle pleasures, at least on a yearly basis.

It may surprise you to read that despite vege-aquarian tendancies, I am rather fond of haggis... but life is full of little surprises! Don't you think? Speaking of which, wouldn't it be a surprise if, having resisted your email pleas to place my own image on this bloguette for general perusal, one should decide on a whim to do so? That would be something to make your day memorable, wouldn't it?

Obviously, this image would not appear in an obvious place, to lure those with a superficial interest in my attractions... it would be hidden away in a safe place, accessible only to those who clicked on the magic word. Do not expect it to remain for longer than 24 hours, of course! For you see, it is very important to remember and celebrate only particular dates in the year, gentle reader.... I always mark them down.

While it may seem a little unfair to do this without advance notice, it does seem quite fair to reward those making a pilgrimage to my humble bloguette on an almost daily basis... New York, Greenville, Vancouver, Newbury... we know who you are! It is so much nicer having an idea who you're conversing with, don't you think? That's what Calling Cards are for!

Oh, by the way, you'll have to go back more than 24 hours to find it, but it would be cruel of me to expect you to search postings before the start of this year... work back slowly and carefully, date by date.

Happy Haggis Hunting!

Les Soldes

Gentle readers, you will recall (from my yuletide diatribe) that one does not approve of mindless consumerism, or as it is commonly known in these politically correct times, shopping. One prefers to receive all necessary and unnecessary items as gifts from suitors and admirers.

Believing that the great unwashed engage in shopping as a means to a pointless end, rather than as an end in itself, I was quite shocked to discover that a notoriously popular gay dating website (searching for a compatible sexual partner with an online search engine? What bizarre practice will the gay league introduce next… hand-free masturbation?) lists shopping as a leisure activity, featuring along with what are commonly referred to as hobbies or interests. Investing and wine-tasting (is it civilised to spit out a mouthful of perfectly good wine? I hardly think so!) are also listed on this website as leisure activities; no mention of train-spotting (the anorak type, not the film starring Ewan MacGregor)

Reluctantly one accepts that there are member of the gay league who fill their leisure time with such passtimes, but can there be people who are so sad that they consider shopping to be a leisure activity? Perhaps one of you can enlighten me as to what exactly leisure-time shopping involves? Presumably it is like the more traditional hobbies listed; gardening, painting, playing board games... so what does one do? Collect coupons? Keep till receipts? Does it involve participation in customer satisfaction surveys at leading retailers? Finding the same item in several stores and checking if it really is cheaper at John Lewis?

In my humble opinion, anyone foolish enough to prefer a search engine to their own six senses deserves whatever is coming their way: even a fool is capable of anticipating what to expect on a first date between two gay gentlemen who share nothing but an interest in shopping:

“So, you like shopping too?”

“Yes, I love it!”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I really do.”

“Well, I really, really do.”

“Me too. What do you usually buy?”

“Things.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. What about you?”

“Exactly the same!”

“Really? That’s amazing. We’re so alike, aren’t we?”

“I know… uncanny, isn’t it!”

“Yeah… really.”

“So tell me, how do you usually pay?”

“Credit card.”

(Deafening silence)

“Oh… I pay cash, actually.”

With the January sales in full swing, occasionally one takes a stroll through the more select shopping centres (or shopping malls, if you prefer) in the city centre where I am resident, in the same way that some people venture into the Amazon (not Amazon.com... The Amazon) to observe what the natives do.

Concealed behind a large erect pillar in my darkest dark sunglasses, in unfeigned astonishment I watch members of the general public rummage through mounds upon mounds of unfolded clothing, items that no one has liked enough to purchase for the previous months… often for good reason. Fashionable people wouldn’t be seen dead in such tawdry things, let me assure you. Excuse me? What is fashionable, you ask? Why, I thought that was obvious, gentle reader: fashionable is what one wears oneself, and what is unfashionable is what other people wear.

Yet it seems this activity is animating and pleasing to most consumers, who move in a flutter of excitement from one shop to another to pursue an elusive 'bargain', prepared to stand in line for nothing more than a changing cubicle that is badly lit and quite empty, before running back to rummage some more for a different size of something or other, only to stand in line again at the check out, becoming increasingly impatient and stroppy as they deal with impatient and stroppy sales assistants… To me, it almost seems that there is a general consensus among the unwashed participants of this inter-seasonal ritual that whichever lucky buyer who has gathered together most toys when they die will obtain a prize of some sort.

All of this I observe, as a botanist observes botany, asking myself… why?

Because I have nothing much to do with my time at present, as you might have noticed, and to enrich my ability to empathise with the great unwashed… not to mention living in a warmer clime, which means that my own winter wardrobe stands in need of a little expansion before my next move northward… it occurred to me that now is an appropriate time to dip a toe of my own into the treacherous waters of the sales, after years of long and careful study. So bravely I braced myself for a day at the soldes.

If you consider doing this yourself, gentle reader, one does urge that you take the same precautions.

• Firstly, wear sensible footwear.
  

• Secondly, dress in comfortable clothes that can be removed quickly and easily (of course, some of us do dress in that manner all of the time… for altogether different reasons)
  

• Thirdly, if possible, choose colours that will not clash horribly with every item of clothing you are about to try on.
  

• Fourthly, and most importantly, prepare yourself psychologically for the experience (eg. beating your head against a brick wall disguised to look like a sales assistant, locking yourself in a confined space- elevator, wardrobe- with a Madonna album playing in the background) remembering that it is going to be absolutely hell, resolving that you will not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to get ruffled by the madness around you.
  

Suffice to say that never has one witnessed an exhibition of mindless consumerism to equal les soldes in Paris: a horde of rude, badly-dressed, unwashed individuals, in a badly-lit space, clutching desperately at anything sized small or medium, elbowing and pushing and shoving and all the while gesticulating, often just for the sake of it. Honestly, it’s almost as unpleasant as being on the metro in rush hour. It doesn’t seem to have occurred to any of these lunatics that the items of clothing in their desperate sweaty hands are all rejects, relegated to the bargain bin for good reason. Honestly, gentle reader, some of these leftover items were truly hideous; in particular, clothing with pictures and writing everywhere, an absolute mess to look at. While this trend is not entirely an invention of the modern age, I consider it to be an unpleasant indication of the general state of things. For goodness sake, general public, wake up to yourself: if other people wanted to look at you or listen to you, then you would be a celebrity. So if they don’t want to look at you or hear from you, what makes you think that they want to hear from your sweater?

But I digress!

You will not be surprised to read that my own adventures in les soldes were resoundingly successful, and I emerged with my dignity unscathed. Whenever elbowed in the ribs, I smiled benignly at the offender before elbowing back: whenever standing in a line, I instilled a sense of calm by making polite conversation with those around me: and whenever attended by a harassed-looking sales assistant, I was especially courteous… even when they deserved to be snapped at. There is no reason to applaud, gentle reader: it was not so difficult, provided I kept reminding myself how fortunate that I was not to be in the hideous shoes of anyone standing in the vicinity.

Needless to say, in the course of a morning an item or three were purchased on credit: one was quite delighted to find a delightful woollen knit with a skull and crossbones motif which is so me… and that was not all.

After a great deal of deliberation, hardly able to believe it myself, one purchased… a cardigan. Yes, gentle reader; cardigan as in Val Doonican.

Yes, I quite appreciate that you are blinking in disbelief. Despite that, please keep reading.

It really did make me feel my age, as they say, because when I tried this item of clothing on it felt… right!

Perhaps I am moving into a more mature phase… then again, perhaps not.

One is sharing this for a reason, of course: I do not intend to be the only one in the gay bars wearing a cardigan next year…

So dust off those credit cards, gentle readers, and rush to your nearest boutique. In a year, when it has become wildly fashionable to find excessively handsome gay gentlemen attired in a woollen cardigan with giant reindeer gambolling on the front, you’ll all be writing to thank me…

Agony Auntie

Dear Ms Quisp,
I adore everything, especially your bloguette, really.
If I ever grow up, I want to be fabulous with a lot of tact and manners, just like you have. Can’t you help learning me how to be?
Especially I don’t know about tipping in these strange country.
Yours,
Uncouth Youth

Dear Uncouth Youth,

Gracious thanks for making a letter short and to the point.

Much as it pains me to disappoint an admirer, you simply cannot be helped. Please appreciate that it is quite impossible for anyone in the universe to become fabulous as I am… and if it were not impossible, I would forbid it on principle.

Fabulousness is one of those elusive qualities that, like tact (which consists in knowing how far to go too far) is hard to define; either you are fabulous or you are not. Belonging to the latter category by your own admission, there can be nothing more to say on the subject.

With regard to your attempt at flattery, that comment about manners, you are again sadly mistaken: I certainly do not have a lot… for manners are especially the need of the plain, and those who are excessively handsome can get away with anything. For what it is worth, one has observed that manners have nothing whatsoever to do with what you do, only how you do it. For example, in a moment of anger, if a gay gentlemen should throw wine at a lady who is being unpleasant, it is considered to be unmannerly: however, if a gay gentleman should pour wine over the lady in question, it is considered by all those watching to be a source of amusement. Another example of this phenomenon is Mr Karl Marx, who was always polite in the British Museum- courteous to the staff, never read with his hat on, and didn’t make lip-farts when he came across passages in Hegel with which he disagreed: today, despite the fact that his political exhortations have caused the deaths of millions, he is today more revered than not.

In response to your final question, there are several ways of calculating the tip after a meal. Given my sexual preferences, I find the best is to divide the bill by the height of the waiter. Thus, a bill of 60 euros brought be a six foot waiter calls for a 10 euro tip, with a vertically disadvantaged waiter measuring no more than five foot deserving a little extra… to lift self-esteem, so to speak.

I do hope all of the above will be useful. In any event, please do not contact me again.

Insincerely,

Ms C Quisp

Previously listening to...

The Black Eyed Peas - Monkey Business

More unhip pop than hip hop

Warning: explicitly awful lyrics

Three is a crowd

Punctuality is the virtue of the bored.

Like Ms M Monroe, one has been on a calendar, but never on time. Unperturbed to discover that the last RER had departed, and presuming it was impossible to find a taxi on a Friday night, I hailed a public bus.

Distracted by attentions from an obliging driver, not to mention the entertaining memory of my last voyage upon a bus noctilien when one of the co-passengers tried to pick me up, I missed my stop… although to tell the truth, having boarded the wrong bus, there was no stop to miss; nevertheless, I did have to get off.

Blessed with a gay-dar, a sense of direction and a pair of sensible shoes, continuing to my destination on foot presented little difficulty, although I was going to be excessively late: J and Z would have already arrived in the club, even with their own irregular timekeeping, or so I thought.

Imagine my astonishment upon encountering a group of gay gentlemen loitering at a street corner, one protesting in a loud American accent that he’d assumed that the other two knew the way, with the shortest member of the group protesting in an even louder voice that he couldn’t possibly be expected to remember his way around a city he’d lived in for the last seven years, especially since he’d been drunk on the only occasions that he’d been to this particular club, before turning to the only native Frenchman who, having never been to the venue in question, reacted with characteristic Parisian fashion… with a shrug.

Silent they fell, recognising a familiar guffaw, but as they turned it was my own turn to fall silent: since our last rendezvous, Z had grown a goatee beard… and he had wilfully ignored the one female friend who was kind enough to remark that it made his face look like her vagina.

Luckily, for Z, there more interesting sources of conversation at that juncture of the evening; namely, our respective celebrations on New Year Eve. Of course you already know what I was doing… but what about the other gay gentlemen in the cast?

While J had gone to Istanbul with the fabulous C to practice belly-dancing, and Z had been having as much fun as it’s possible to have in Lebanon the Frenchman sagely decided to remain at home feeling sorry for himself because he was still in a relationship with the partner he ought to have dumped a year ago… enough said. By this time, we presented at the entrance to Le Tango, whereupon there was a casual remark from Z (to which one paid little attention, as one does with most of what he says) wondering aloud ‘whether that guy who chatted me up in the last bar will actually turn up.’ To this, one of us might have retorted ‘not if the guy has any sense’; however, it was a little chilly, and we were all in urgent need of alcoholic refreshment, we all pressed ahead without issuing a single disparaging comment, and the moment was lost.

Our night started off promisingly: an abundance of attractive men in the environs; an adequate selection of cheap alcohol; we all looked fabulous, and because almost a month had passed since our last gathering, we were pleased to be in one another’s company, and actually had something to say to each other for a change; what’s more, we all felt like dancing, and a new DJ with a penchant for R&B was in attendance on the decks… perfect conditions, you would have thought. But as those of you who have been paying attention already know, the night took an unexpected twist.

Frisking backwards and forwards to the bar, it wasn’t long before our wit flowed, and before long we elbowed our way onto the dance floor, attracting as much attention as possible… which isn’t difficult, given how J and Z move after a few drinks: shake it like a Polaroid picture, as they say. While dancing around my own handbag in a dignified fashion, a gay gentleman approached from behind, in the hope of joining our group, one surmised… and this was quite acceptable since it appeared Z, who greeted the stranger with a broad grin, had already made his acquaintance.

Not wanting to appear rude, I turned around to introduce myself to the… not such a stranger.

“Er…hello!” I spluttered.

“Nice to see you again,” replied The Best One Night Stand of 2006, who had taken full advantage of noticing who I was before approaching to fix his hair and look quite dashing.

What to say in those circumstances? Luckily, one recalled that over breakfast on the morning after our mutually pleasurable exchange, we had discussed his upcoming vacation in Laos, a country where I travelled extensively back in 1999; one had even learned to speak a little of the language, and continues to follow current affairs in the country. BONSY2006 appeared to be at a loss when I enquired if the local media demonstrated concern for the Hmong refugees in Petchabun province; it was a holiday, he told me… whatever that means.

“We haven’t spoken since that night,” he remarked. “Five months, three weeks and four days ago, wasn’t it?”

“That long?” I replied, astonished that I was still able to remember his name and what… well, let’s just say not every one is quite so distinctive. “I had expected we’d see each other around; I guess Paris isn’t such a small world after all.”

“Actually, I have seen you around, but I don’t think you noticed me,” he remarked.

What can one possibly say to that?

“Oh!?”

“Yes, in fact the last time, if I’m not mistaken, I saw you in here kissing a guy on the dance floor…”

“In here? Kissing in public? Impossible!” I spluttered. “Unless… oh, well, yes, there was that one time… I’d almost forgotten! In fact, that was with Z.”

“With who?”

“Z” I repeated, thinking it was a little rude of BONSY2006 to have neglected our mutual friend’s name, however difficult it might be to pronounce. “The guy standing opposite us, who you just said hello to… remember him?”

What did BONSY 2006 say to that?

“Oh!?”

Silence seemed appropriate, with BONSY2006 heading to the bar shortly afterwards, whereupon Z shimmied in my direction.

“You know him?” he enquired.

It was impossible to deliver a quip about following my mothers advice and never conversing with a complete stranger, because Z knew me too well… so I confirmed that I did.

“In what sense?”

“Biblical.”

“Really!?” he chortled. “What’s the story? Any good?”

It had seemed cruel to remark that this gay gentleman was BONSY2006, given Z had been a candidate in the same year.

“In a word… yes.”

“Can you remember his name?”

Indeed, I most certainly did, which Z recognised as a good sign… but why was he interested in all of this?

“Because that’s the guy who was chatting me up in the last bar.”

Well, gentle reader, it was a little unexpected, let me tell you… and it didn’t end there.

“So if the sex was ok by your standards…” Z continued.

“Are you thinking of doing what I think you’re thinking of doing?” I thundered.

“Ooooh… yes, of course!”

Off he scarpered, cackling all the way to the bar, leaving me to draw J - who looked even more bewildered than usual - to one side and fill him in on the details.

“You – must – be – joking!”

“I - am- not!”

Aghast, we watched events unfold in silent horror. Suffice to say, Z mounted the only raised platform in the building (no doubt one has already mentioned this, but it is worth repeating; one has a thing for homosexual hobbits) and he began to dance enthusiastically to Mylene Farmer…

“How could he?” said J, shaking his head in dismay.

“Yes, I know, she is absolutely awful, and apparently she isn’t a drag queen. Around for decades, apparently… and she looks it. On my last visit to FNAC, they played her greatest hits, presumably hoping to deter some of the shoppers. At least if you buy The Immaculate Collection, there are a couple of decent tracks.”

“I don’t mean that,” said J. “I mean, how could he stoop so low, doing everything possible to bag off with that guy, rubbing your nose in his efforts; I mean, isn’t this disrespectful to your friendship?”

Really, there are times when J is quite old-fashioned!

“You mustn’t get things out of perspective,” I assured him. “Remember that the average gay gentlemen is a superficial creature, without any respect for friendship when it comes to the pursuit of sexual pleasure, and let me assure you, these two gentlemen are average in every sense. Perhaps if one had been seriously interested in either one of them, my reaction would be different… as it stands, my only concern are that the odds of this happening are so slim that when I inform the general public of this, it will give them the impression that I am a complete slut that has slept with half of the gay men in Paris.”

It appeared J was about to make a remark, but thought better of it. Distracting himself in admiration of the nearby scenery, he spotted an excessively handsome gay gentlemen… a Tom Ford look-a-like, he assured me. I took his word for it: one knows what Mr Ford’s work looks like, but at the time, that was all.

“Why don’t you approach him?” I suggested. “He’s obviously interested.”

“More sex? You must be joking!” was his reply.

It emerged that instead of turning over a new leaf for the New Year, J has decided to commit himself, in a manner of speaking… to regular sexual activity with two excessively handsome gay gentlemen. One of them is younger, and one of them is older; the former is into what he eloquently described as ‘dirty sleazy sex’, and was described as being ‘single and blissfully stupid’; while the latter, cheating on his partner of ten years, enjoys a little affection with his extra-curricular sexual activity, and has proved himself capable of holding a stimulating conversation before departing. Quite an ideal situation, J remarked; his every need is being fulfilled… this week. He observed that if you add their respective ages and divide by two, you have his own age; other gay gentlemen looking for nothing more than a perfectly satisfying sexual relationship, take note!

Meanwhile, it was getting rather dirrrrrty on the dance floor, reaching the point where there was an inevitable and enthusiastic exchange of bodily fluids between Z and BONSY2006.

“You’re sure this is ok?” said J concernedly.

“A few years ago, before acquiring an unshakable sense of my own superiority, this might have ruffled me. Believe me, if I felt threatened or upset by what is going on, I know what to do…”

J responded with another one of those bewildered looks: there was no alternative but to spell it out.

“Everything possible to make sure they don’t leave this club with each other,” I explained.

“But it’s a foregone conclusion,” J sighed.

“Nothing is certain; a whispered word to either of the two about syphilis would make a considerable difference, not to mention the fact that both of those men had fabulous sex with someone in this room who, if he really wanted to get them apart…”

“You wouldn’t!”

Was he daring me?

“Would you?”

J was no longer laughing; he was tugging enthusiastically at my sleeve.

“If you pulled that off, I would fall prostrate at your feet, along with every other man in Paris… Oh please, please, please!”

“If I was in the mood to play silly games, the possibilities are endless,” I assured. “Perhaps it would be much more fun to suggest that I was available for a repeat performance and see who buckled first… but no, the way I look at it, I’ve had both of them for one night, which was quite enough. Let the amateurs have a little fun.”

“You could suggest a threesome?”

“Darling J, surely you know that never works unless you’re with two people who have already had sex with one another, for there is no guarantee that most of the attention will be directed at you. Why, not even I take such a risk.”

“I’m trying to remember last time I had a threesome,” said J. “A foursome, yes… but a threesome…?”

Leaving J in silent contemplation, I made another trip to the bar. Upon my return, Z had returned to our little group; apparently, he wasn’t going to spend the night with BONSY2006; they were both going home alone, preferring to ‘get to know each other first’, whatever that means.

Despite having said nothing, Z looked daggers across in my direction.

“What are you smirking at?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing… or perhaps I was remembering how a delay wasn’t considered to be an option on the night your friend met me, probably because he wasn’t able to refrain from ripping my clothes off. Whereas in your case… no, I’ve said quite enough!”

“Cuentin, isn’t it possible that he didn’t want to get to know you?”

“Certainly it is possible that all of the blood rushing away from his head made it difficult to think,” I replied, sipping on my drink. “However, if you’re trying to suggest he found your company more enjoyable than my own, I suggest that we do a quick survey of the room.”

J and the Frenchman, who had remained silent for most of the evening (perhaps because it was difficult to get a word in… or perhaps he wasn’t able to speak English?) suggested that J might want to let this go; instead, he said something unfunny, to which I responded.

“Really, Z… all of this narkiness… are you perhaps concerned that when he meets you in the sober light of day, or gets to know you a little better, he’d rather not know any more? Don’t worry, it will all be fine. Why, if you’re stuck for something to say on the first date, there’s one thing you both have in common… you’ve both had fabulous sex with me. That should provide a few hours of interesting discussion.”

Z left the bar shortly afterwards: he mentioned something about needing an early night, because of his date with BONSY2006… so it can’t have been anything to do with my incessant remarks about their outrageous mating ritual on the dance floor, my predictions about the order in which sexual activities would be approached or the general cackling at his expense. The Frenchman departed shortly afterwards, leaving J and myself to admire the Tom Ford look-a-like.

“I’ll need to use your mobile on Sunday morning. Where can we meet?” I enquired.

“But I’ll be having sex with… oh, I can’t remember which one, but I’ve got someone booked for Sunday. Can’t you just use a public telephone?”

“Absolutely not! I’ll need to send a text message to Z… better if he knows we’re both sitting in a bar somewhere, expecting a reply”

Having left his ego in tatters, what more could I possibly have to say to Z on the subject of his date?

“So, how was it for you?”

The green, green grass of home

On this date, in exactly one month's time, I will be returning to Ireland for a week

No, gentle reader, that thought cannot possibly depress you as much as it depresses me

Open Letter... to the female jogger who speaks on her mobile

Dear Sad, Sad, Sad Person,
All of the people to whom you are speaking on the handheld device- not to mention those in the environs listening to your mundane conversation interspersed with heavy breathing- consider that you are unbearable.

I suspect that you do not know how to get a life, but at least get to hell out of my way in the Jardin de Luxembourg; jogging is harder with crutches.

Kind regards

Ms C Quisp

Animal Farm

I do hope that my humble bloguette reflects the fact that one often suffers from delusions... one is in good company, of course. Because it crossed my mind that, upon observing a contradiction in Mr B Paddick’s remarks, gentle readers would engage in a lively and vigorous debate… but obviously not.

So let me state for the record that it is a fact not-quite-universally acknowledged that while sexuality has no bearing upon capability to work, homo-sexuality does have a considerable affect upon ability to work. How could it be otherwise?

From an early age, homosexual men perfect skills that our heterosexual counterparts only practice in their spare time: to manage our public image by concealing our true identity, our innermost thoughts and feelings, from those around us; to understand subtexts; to sense atmosphere in a room; to know what can or cannot be said; to be duplicitous when it is in our own best interests, to name but a few.

Until we reveal our sexuality, our enemy can have no secrets from us: in a bigoted patriarchal society, his unacceptable behaviour might be checked out of deference to political correctness, but it will be demonstrated in our presence. We are an invisible minority inside their camp, with other discriminated groups are on the outside looking in. Knowing what we have to deal with provides an advantage. So does being comfortable and confident about our homosexuality, especially since it has the effect of making the enemy uncomfortable on many levels, particularly with their own sexuality: easily frightened, on a one-to-one basis they can be intimidated; in a group, they are unsettled by the fact that a homosexual with a grasp of logical reasoning can take their bigoted beliefs apart, arguing them into a corner and making them look like a gibbering baboon.

Able to identify with other discriminated groups, homosexuals are more capable of forging good working relationships: unlike heterosexual counterparts, few of us are foolish enough to allow our hormones to affect our work performance; a casual exchange with an attractive female colleague isn’t loaded with sexual intent. Often better travelled, funnier and better dressed, the most superficial of attributes enhance our prospects when all that matters is getting ahead in our chosen career: often without a family unit to support, we are capable of devoting time and energies that our heterosexual counterpart don’t possess.

In addition, some homosexuals have a great personal strength acquired by coming out of the closet, being prepared to challenge the prejudices in the world around them. To paraphrase what Mr Paddick had to say on the subject: if you come through without buckling under pressure, maintaining your position and retaining your dignity, you can cope with most things.

In short, gentle reader, certainly we’re all born equal, it’s just that some of us… get over it. Because everyone knows that while all animals are equal, some are more equal than others.

The Magic Flute

Awakening in the company of a strange gentleman in unfamiliar surrounding can hardly be described as a new experience; what made this unique and memorable was the unreasonably early hour of the day, for the strange gentlemen had neglected to mention he was among those who work for a living, so my beauty slumber was disturbed by the relentless bleating of his alarm clock. Needless to say, I found myself divided between doubt as to the occasion justifying having come at all, and excitement at the prospect of my favourite meal of the day... breakfast.

It appeared the strange man had no doubt about the prudence of his own drunken decision-making and gave no thought to arrangements for breakfast: despite the fact he was going to be late for work, he insisted upon… well, suffice to say that the power of doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance.

Afterwards, admiring the brilliancy that exercise had given to my complexion, he declared that since he was already late, he might as well be really late… a logic that I was in no fit state to challenge. In a careless manner, the gentleman enquired if there was anything that I would like for breakfast, seeming a little taken-aback when I provided a complete list of my dietary requirements in the morning and suggested a dash to the nearest patisserie.

As I awaited his return, instead of risking an encounter with florescent lighting in his bathroom or doing something useful in the kitchen, I perused his music collection. Working my way through the untidy stack- not in alphabetical order, I noted disapprovingly- it was encouraging to find no trace whatsoever of La Cicada’s influence, but a grave concern to discover several recordings from a Dutch indie group whose lack of talent guarantees they will have to remain in the lowlands forever, remaining deservedly anonymous. It appeared that there was simply nothing I could bear to listen to, until I arrived at the bottom of his pile to find… a little Mozart! Fabulous! If one has to get out of bed in the morning, there cannot be a better way to start the day.

The strange gentleman was a little amused to find me tra-la-la-ing around his kitchen table on his return, but that is of no consequence: breakfast had arrived. Suffice to say that the croissant were exceptionally good, with a reasonable selection of preserves that were acceptable, even if not home made, however the orange juice was not freshly squeezed and I had to sit opposite the strange man, on a strict muscle-building programme to improve his rowing, who insisted upon eating tuna… from a tin.

After a night of reckless sex and excessive drinking, it was safe to assume that my body reeked of whisky, beer, semen, stale sweat… and possibly something worse, explaining the gentleman's surprise that I declined a quick shower in his company. However, one assured him no public transport users in Paris would notice any of the stinks aforenamed; instead, one would be mistaken for a local... and having suffered air pollution for the last year, it was time to give a little taste of their own medicine.

Exclusive! Madonna's black... with another album

I am speechless with delight... well, almost!

La Cicada is collaborating on tracks for her new album (what, back in the studio already? Shouldn't she be spending time with the orphaned infant she abducted, helping him to make a smooth transition from a life of impoverished misery and settle into his new dysfunctional home? Don't bother phoning social services to express concern, gentle reader: I already have, and they're not interested... money can buy just about anything!)

So, as I was saying, Madonna has decided to work with... wait for it: Pharrell Williams, Snoop Dogg, not to mention Andre 3000 from Outkast. Obviously, she believes black is in this season.

This proves that she is finally running out of new ideas to steal, and is having to settle for old used ideas. From the opening beats of 'Hung Up' (time goes by so slowly, does it not?) it was clear she had been keeping a close eye on the meteoric rise of that other squealing blonde minx, Ms Gwen Stefani (surely you don't need me to point out the similarities, what with that 'tick-tock, tick-tock' reference in 'What you waiting for?') No doubt Madonna is hoping that the gay league won't notice that Ms G Stefani has beaten her to it, already collaborating with Mr P Williams and Mr A Three-thousand; given their infamous attention deficit, she's probably safe on that score.

However, it seems to have completely escaped La Cicada’s own notice that those collaborations produced tracks were average at best, and not a single single… not to mention that Ms G Stefani's latest release 'The Great Escape' was anything but great, although it certainly escaped the listening public's notice. And remember what happened last time La Cicada made an experimental album, that one with her appearing on the cover with a little black beret? (no coincidence, I assure you) She’s also forgotten that, it would seem… so allow me to be the first to spread a rumour about Alzheimers.

Oh yes, Madonna, I do believe it's going to be a black year indeed... bring it on!

Previously listening to

Joni Mitchell - Both Sides Now

Some things improve with age

Brian Paddick

"What has my sexuality got to do with my ability?"

"Everything has consequences. You take decisions and live with the consequences. Thankfully, I've been given the constitution to survive the consequences. Many people end up destroyed, but you don't know until it happens to you whether you'll survive or not."

Brian Paddick is the highest ranking openly gay police officer in Britain; he is a rebel in an organisation whose raison d'être is order; he is a hero for those who believe that the police should be liberal and just; he is a hate figure for traditionalists and homophobes. He is one of those police officers who becomes more than just a uniform: he has integrity; he provokes emotion; he means something to Britain's gay community.

In 2003, as a police commander in the south London borough of Lambeth (a poor borough with high crime rates) he was also the public face of an experimental scheme (established in response to community demands to stop chasing kids with cannabis, instead to concentrate on class A drugs that are accompanied by crime) encouraging officers to warn those caught with cannabis for personal use and confiscate the drug instead of arresting them, saving hours of time that would otherwise have been spent on bureaucracy.

Allegations from his former partner of five years, paid £100,000 by the right-wing tabloid Mail on Sunday, that he had permitted his lover to smoke cannabis in the flat the couple shared, caused him to be moved from that job. His vehement denials of those allegations were vindicated; he did not face criminal or disciplinary charges, and was paid libel damages by the newspaper.

Coming out as he rose through the ranks was a decision that came at some personal cost. He has spoken about how his sexuality and views made him a target for other officers, how on the very day of his promotion to commander, an anonymous letter arrived in the internal post claiming he had misused a police car, 'and there are very few people who would know the day of my promotion board: that was the first indication of a serious attempt to undermine my position, that they - whoever they are - were out to get me.' There was also a call to the anonymous Crimestoppers phone line alleging that he tipped off a gay bar about a raid by the drugs squad, although no such raid was ever planned: once again, the caller was 'well informed'. Each accusation was judged malicious, but it hardly alters the fact that one or more of Paddick's colleagues wanted to ruin him.

Presently he is deputy assistant commissioner; he will soon be entitled to retire, having served for three decades. Gossip suggests he might like a seat in the House of Commons, but apparently he ruled that out at a careers day for lesbian, gay and bisexual young people, saying: 'I'm looking at what may happen when the current commissioner retires,' while hinting that the Liberal Democrats asked him if he'd consider being a candidate for London mayor.

"If you can come through what I've been through, retained your dignity, maintaining the position you've held throughout, then you can cope with most things. If there are any police forces out there looking for a chief constable, someone they know who won't buckle under pressure, well... I've been tried and tested."

Only changing rooms are mixed

Within days of moving to a luxurious penthouse in the centre of Paris, an unpleasant sign appeared on the gates outside of my local swimming pool: closed for refurbishment.

Suffice to say I was not amused.

After six months of impatient waiting, last week I clambered out of bed at an unreasonable hour, determined to be among the first nageurs at the refitted establishment: one expected a little champagne to start the day, or to be invited to cut a ribbon; instead, that sign remained on the gate.

As it happened, several days after the official Mairie website announced a grand re-opening, the swimming pool happened to open… by accident, as it were. On Sunday I went, since there is no healthier way to recover from a night of drunken excess – there is a better way, of course; to start drinking again… but I digress!

Arriving, I expected what you find at any other public swimming facility in Paris: a unreasonable number of sour-faced individuals competing for lane space, not so much exercising as testing the limit of their endurance, splashing up and down in the deluded belief that they will represent their beloved France in the next Olympic Games, spluttering incoherently in the direction of anyone who questions their commitment by accidentally getting in the way. Yet despite being gratuit – something else locals are passionate about- Jean Taris swimming pool was practically deserted.

Pausing to admire the pristine facilities, on entering the pool my attention was directed to the other youthful individuals. In the shallow end, where one expects all of the gay gentlemen to naturally gravitate, an attractive heterosexual couple stood facing one another, waist-deep in the water. For obvious reasons it was not titillating to watch their embrace; but one could certainly not help notice, since it endured several lengths. Quite an embarrassingly predictable and cliched display, it must be said: male stationed protectively around his female, who dropped her little butterfly kisses on a cheek, pausing occasionally to flutter adoring, alarmingly-wide eyes in his direction, breathing and sighing... honestly, it all might have been scripted in an appallingly bad love-scene, with more spontaneity and passion to be found checking if buses pass according to the timetable.

Meanwhile, down at the deep end, a broad-chested, long-haired, smiling giant of a man stood at the edge of the pool teaching his male friend how to dive, striding backwards and forwards with his giant-ness visible to all. Strong hands corrected the posture of his companion, whose short compact body could only be described as… incomparable; it was like watching a large black labrador play with a Jack Russell terrier.In he dived, and then he clambered out again; once again he dived in, then he clambered out; in and out, in and…

It was my over-active imagination, or so I thought: after all, it was perfectly natural for a couple of heterosexual gentlemen friends to touch with such pleasant familiarity: a careless hand to the shoulder, a provoking dunk, a little teasing and a little more touching, before at length taking one another by the hand, going to… But wait a minute: heterosexual males don’t hold hands in this culture, and they certainly never, ever do that!

Blinking and spluttering on a mouthful of chlorinated water, I turned away. How impardonably wrong to intrude on their privacy at such a precious and delicate moment; why, not only are they a couple, they are falling in... forgive the cliche, gentle reader; one might have forgotten what it feels like, but one still recognises the signs.

Returning to the shallow end, where the heterosexual couple prolonged their embrace, I observed two male lifeguards at the side: standing rigid, arms folded to chest, they look down upon us, with narrow and lightening-eyed disapproval directed exclusively at one of the couples…

Guess which one?

A few good men

Gentle readers, scattered around the world, we are all part of the same fabulous social circle, for my little bloguette has made us all come together... sometimes in joy, sometimes in laughter, and sometimes wondering why we all bother.

While continually hoping for an occasional calling card, one has a little extra something else to ask of you… trust me, it will make you feel so much better; consider it your good deed for the week.

Amnesty International is a little organisation to which one devotes a considerable time each year. Until 31^st January, my readers are encouraged to join me in support by sending out a message of hope.

Card-carrying members of the gay league occasionally lose sight of the fact that many parts of the world do not grant rights to their members. In El Salvador, discrimination is commonplace, with lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people regularly facing attacks and intimidation; impunity for those who commit these human rights violations is the norm.

Despite this, an excessively handsome gentleman has taken a stand, providing sex education and speaking out against human rights violations, risking his own life in order to advance the cause. In the last five years, his office has been vandalised seven times; he had been threatened on numerous occasions, most recently on 1^st June last year by an unknown gentleman who put a gun to his head, whispering unrepeatable things in his ear. Gentle reader, you are a click away from providing this man of integrity with appropriate protection and support, expressing disapproval of those who are trying to stop this work.

Meanwhile, in one of the poorest countries in the world, approximately 88,000 people live with HIV/AIDS. It receives considerable international funding to helping those people, but the government still provides the necessary treatment to less than one-third: the poor and marginalised are left without, while activists who work to protect the rights of these people are threatened.

Testing HIV positive in 2004, one gentleman was provided with anti-retroviral treatment only after going to the media with his story. Since then, he has been target of intimidation: according to Amnesty International, his wife and five children (aged between one and twelve) are also in grave danger. Despite these adverse circumstances, he works as a HIV/AIDS treatment counsellor and campaigns on this issue. Watch a video of him speaking about the challenges faced by HIV/AIDS activists in the Dominican Republic, and one urges you to click here and insist upon the appropriate authorities taking action to protect his life.

Against all odds

Estimated population of Ile de France stands at approximately 11 million inhabitants: we can safely assume 10% of those males belong to the gay league: 550,000 men.

For the purposes of this exercise, we are only concerned with those who want to have sex with me, so let us round that figure off to a neat 500,000 distributed across one of the world’s most extensive gay scenes.

Since one frequents bars and clubs only, let us multiply that figure by 52 (according to this year’s recently updated map of gay venues) going on to again multiply by 52, given that an excessively handsome gay gentleman with a healthy sex drive, committed to being single and bringing pleasure to others, will have at least one sexual exchange a week.

Finally, let us multiply by the number of nights each year one is on the prowl for casual sex… 365.

493,480,000,000 to 1! Those are the odds, gentle reader… and here are the facts:

• My only two night stand (Z) occurred in November 2006

• My best one night stand from 2006 occurred in June 2006- on 25^th if you must know- without exchange of calling cards; although our paths accidentally crossed once, no further correspondence whatsoever
  
  

What are the chances of those two men, never introduced, picking each another up in a gay venue that one has never frequented… and then deciding to spend a night dancing in the same club where I will be?

Yet on Friday, shortly after I embarked on my tirade against religion in all its forms, that is exactly what happened...

It is a sign!

If there is a god, then it is beyond dispute: she is an evil twisted drag queen, with a fag danglign from her mouth as she cackles into her martini, and she worships everything that I do...

...just like you!

Christian Hatred 8

Gentle reader, one suspects that you tire of my diatribe about Christianity... indeed, often one tires oneself. The Sabbath seems an appropriate day to conclude, so I offer a few sensible tips and tactics to adopt the subject of religion whenever is broached in your company.

Bear in mind that even I show a little respect to another person’s religion, although only to the extent that I respect another man's theory that his wife is beautiful and his children smart. In the middle of a discussion, when someone tries to introduce a religious angle, I usually try;

“There’s no reason to bring religion into this: we ought to have so great a regard for all religions as to keep them out of as many things as possible.”

However, if coerced to enter a religious debate with a particularly argumentative Christian, I adopt the following tactic: I draw attention to the notion that man is created in the image and likeness of God with a free will of his own, then remark:

“So if man has to be free to make his own blunders, does that mean God makes blunders? Perhaps man is one of God’s blunders?”

Moving on to:

“Or perhaps God one of man’s blunders?”

If that fails to leave the Christian tongue-tied, then try:

“Is not ultimate proof of God’s omnipotence that he need not exist in order to save us?”

Christian hatred 7 - useful vocabulary

Archbishop: a Christian ecclesiastic of a rank superior to that attained by Christ

Church : a place in which gentlemen who have never been to heaven brag about it to people who will never get there

Confession: acknowledgement made to a priest of a sin

Faith : an illogical belief in the occurrence of the improbable

Sin: act committed by a friend, neighbour or acquaintance, to which a gentleman reacts with righteous indignation

Bad joke

A three year old examined his testicles while taking a bath.

"Mom," he asked, "Are these my brains?"

His mother replied:

"Not yet."