ENGLAND'S DREAMING

8:51AM

So we walked down to our local local at the end of Saturday afternoon after a pleasantly humdrum day of chores and pottering. The burger people would be there and they do good burgers/tacos/buffalo wings.
Except they weren't. Burgers no more. So Paul had a beer and I had a cider with some ice in it and we sat outside chatting. Right behind us are two gents who have obviously been at it all day. A lot of effing and blinding particularly from the taller, more aggressive looking one. I tune it out. Besides my ears are still a little blocked so it was easy (note to self...get appointment!).
Then the tall one unleashes an unbelievable torrent of rascist filth.
I turn to see what is going on. He is shouting at Sian, one of the barmaids, saying she screwed up their order and was then rude to them. Now, she does have a certain approach but anyone with an ounce of empathy would attribute that to not overly enjoying working in a dull, local pub, being a single mother and having a little bit of the attitude necessary if you are a black girl working in a largely white, male environment where the white males all get pissed up and act geezerish.
And this bloke is way beyond way out of order. He's bellowing insults at her, taking the piss speaking in patois, doing the whole 'Your mother' thing. It is vile. Really, really vile. There is more than just drunk agitation. There is palpable hatred.
So I tell him to shut the fuck up, that we are all here on a sunny Saturday afternoon at our local and we don't want to hear his crap. So he and his mate stomp on over and I stand up and he is a good head higher than me and he is doing the whole in my face thing. He's lived here all his life (they always say that...so you know they know people...yawn), how often do I drink there and so on.
But his mate is playing the well-timed holding him back thing and I sense quickly that this has all happened before and they've got the whole act down pat.
Basically all mouth and trousers.
Paul steps in as well and the whole scene starts to play itself out as expected.
"Look, I don't want any trouble with you or anyone here mate...but she was rude and...".
Anyway, he calms down and goes back to his seat.
Ten minutes later we're off again.
This time the small and very camp bar manager comes out and stands in front of Sian. She picks up a pint glass in readiness. I go over.
Same verbal filth but ultimately same pantomime chest beating. He wouldn't have risked it with a bloke.
He goes back to his seat with his mate and they slowly sullenly finish their drinks and leave, stage left, muttering.

Being a Saturday afternoon the pub was as crowded as it ever gets. All the regulars. All the cockney geezers. And I realise that not one came to help when it looked like it was going to kick off. All just sat staring at their pints. One of the loudest was right next to the action and his body language, hunched inwards, eyes averted, said it all.
The only men who attempted to stand up for her were all gay.
I can't help but get a kick from this.

We stay as the adrenaline subsides. Sian, who has never smiled at me before, serves me with a wide, winning grin.
And I'm sure I detect a certain sheepish embarrassment from the geezers when I walk back from the bar.
All mouth and trousers indeed.

Just to add to the timing a beefy, old bloke walks into the pub and I catch his eye. He is burly. Barrel chested, big fists. A 'look' is exchanged. I don't get it at first. Then I realise where I recognise him from. The Quebec. Unlike here, though, he wouldn't have been there with his wife.
In that brief look is an acknowledgement but also a plea.
Mate.
Do us a favour.
Don't give the game away.

12:40PM

So, guess what.
The bank screwed up the money transfer.
But it went through the next day.
I took a call from my solicitor saying she had the cash and all was fine and dandy.
Then she rang back two hours later to apologise and tell me he had screwed up the financial statement and I still owed a further £9000.
So Paul and I legged it to the bank and I did yet another transfer.
My solicitor called at the end of the afternoon to say she had received the money and we were good to go.
Well, good. But I'm not a little exasperated at the ability of the so-called professionals (who I am paying in one way or another) to fuck up.
How the hell do people who do up property and sell it go through this every time? The stress!
Anyway, as all my side is taken care of I should be traveling down to Brighton Monday lunchtime to pick up the keys and gain access to my first fully owned home.
I won't actually believe it until I turn the key in the lock.

After Paul and I had been to the bank and as the branch was around the corner from where I used to work, we met up with Max at our old haunt the Tapas bar for lunch. When I got the bill I thought it was a little steep and I noticed Louis had added on his mate's large glass of wine to my bill. I don't think this was accidental. I didn't complain. I didn't want any drama. I will simply never go there ever again.
This recession makes goats of us all.

After that we had to go and see Rob from the Walrus Social off on his starting a new life in Australia and from there go to meet Joe and his gang for his Stag do.
The night becomes a glorious and happy blur involving gravidlax, graff, Guinness and other guilty pleasures.
The rest of this weekend will be taken very leisurely.

3:13PM

The manager of the branch of Lloyds I use just called to check it was me who wanted to make the CHAPS payment earlier today. Indeed it was. He says it will go through. Good. Obviously I need it to and cannot imagine why it should not.
Christ, this is stressful. I don't know how many times I have checked the sort codes and account numbers.
And the bank staff tend to distract themselves by trying to sell you products while putting together the transfer and asking, frankly, questions you feel you should reply to with "Mind your own bloody business. Just let me buy the bloody house."

Afterwards I walked up to 'A child of the Jago' to de-stress. I replaced my "Don't Shoot the piano player" bowler, bought a pink shirt with a black trim collar that would make Elvis queasy and arranged to get a pair of their Apache trousers made up as they don't do fat bastard sizes.

Walking through Shoreditch after, I was approached by a generously bearded young bloke. "Can I take your photo?"
"Why"
"I photograph people on the street here and in New York".
He shows me his book. I'm flattered. Seems I'm hip or something.
He gave me his cards, which says" This certifies that you have had an encounter with me and that you found me to be warm, amiable, entertaining and well behaved". Then his name is signed in handwriting so bad in a good way you wonder if it is a put on.
But, you know, he was.
We shook hands and went our separate ways.

Here is his website:

Darren Hall

8:47AM - Beards on the catwalk

Julian is someone I met when he came up top Paul and I at the Quebec (way back as it was in the days when Paul would actually visit the Quebec) and asked us if we would 'model' in one of his shows. I had actually just seen an article on his St Martins final show in the Evening Standard. It had garnered attention because he had used big, bearded men as models rather then the usual bird like stick people. Paul was tickled.
But it never came off.

Recently he asked for my photo for ID magazine for a shoot.
It never came off.
At least not for me. Gutted I am. He tells me that ID like me and want to use me for a solo shoot. I take this as the attempt to save my fragile self belief from implosion it is.
The first page of his website shows the results of the shoot.
Rare to see big, bearded blokes used in a style shoot. And good that they are.
Good on Mr Ganio too.

Click for stylish and hirsute burlyness:

Julian Ganio

5:56PM

Owing to Paul's huge black eye post mugging and my ears becoming blocked again (go see the nurse!) and rendering me almost entirely deaf we didn't even go and hit Borough or Tesco's for supplies. Late on Saturday we wandered just along the road to our actual local, the Ship. At the weekends the unfortunately named Meat Wagon is positioned outside the pub. Unlike any burger etc vans I have ever encountered in England this bloke does good stuff. Great burgers, buffalo wings, tacos. And not only does he obviously appreciate good food and can cook it, he also knows the meaning of 'I like it really spicy thanks'.
We ate our fill and my long time good mate from school and onwards James joined us. It is always good to see him. I worry about him as he does not get along easily with the world or himself and I feel he, more than anyone, misses out because of this. Intelligent and then some and one hell of a musician.
Which became particularly interesting when I said a hello to Scouse John (I know him only as that) who we knew from the singer/songwriter nights that used to be held the Stags. He joined us and James was able to explain why you do not play a blues harp in the same key as your guitar but four up. As a musical illiterate I found all this fascinating. I can pull off a passable blurt on a blues harp, bending notes and all. But would have no clue about scales or tuning. No ear you see. Even when not deaf pre-syringing.
John is an unusual fellow. Something of a Beatles obsessive, of indeterminate age (60's?) we discussed his impressive collection of original Denson winklepickers. He has a whole load, many still not worn and of exotic coloring and style .He also showed us his extraordinary journals. I have been privileged to see these before.The man can draw. But does so in tiny little diaries, writing in tiny little script alongside small, beautiful drawings of whatever is running through his mind at the time.
I guess it would fall into what is now termed Outsider Art because of the obsessive quality.
It was not lost on me again that should anything happen to him these should be in a museum somewhere. He's been keeping them since the sixties.

Sunday. For some reason my back was playing up. Much reading.

Today Paul called into work and told them what had happened and isn't going in...just to give the shiner some chance to subside, though it will be there for the week at least methinks.

So we have pottered about the flat, doing chores. All very pleasant.
I'm just about to cook some haggis, sweet potato, mushrooms and cabbage. Not exactly summer fare but I have to get my haggis fix.

Oh, and my solicitor rang to say I have finally exchanged on the cottage in Brighton.
Completion set for next Monday.

Bloody Nora!

1:46PM

Paul was mugged last night.
Tough old bastard that he is they got nada.
He got one hell of a shiner.

I'd quite gladly stab them.

8:03AM

So yesterday I and I was running hither and thither getting papers and funds together and off so that we actually exchange on the cottage on Monday. My solicitor has received the deposit so now all that has to happen is the Royal Mail do their job and that I have correctly filled in all that I should.
If so, last minute glitches notwithstanding, we complete a week on Monday.
And I will have a small but interestingly formed century old fisherman's cottage smack dab in the heart of Brighton and a literal stone's throw from the sea.

At times in the whole process I have begun to think 'Jeez, renting would be so much easier'. But last Friday Max told me he was thinking of paying the best part of a thousand a month to live in a flat in Catford or somewhere in the netherbutt regions of the city (albeit a large flat and with great views) and that, ahem, stiffened my resolve.

So, if I get the keys on the 20th, then we have three weeks before Paul's holidays. That should be time enough for me to get electricity, gas, internet et al sorted. Then, beginning of Paul's holidays we get the movers to move in what I think we can use and will fit and the rest goes to auction. Until then we'll be sleeping on a couple of inflatable beach beds.
I need to keep the furniture to a minimum and, as pieces from the old place won't fit or suit, I'll buy some new in Brighton.
This is a little sad as there are some pieces I wish I could keep. A heavy oak 18th Century kitchen dresser. A Dutch corner cupboard with magnificent marquetry inlay. An enormous wall size antique mirror.
I will be visiting the storage unit and measuring up. But the place is small and I need to be realistic. As it is the 'twitten' the cottage resides in is very narrow and I am uncertain if it will be possible to get certain things even in through the front door.
And I'm not going the taking out windows route.

Myles would understand.

Paul intends to keep working until early next year at least. Even after that we may well have access to Kennington as long as the lease is solid. So we will become those kind of wankers that have a weekend place.
Though I am hoping that when Paul settles in he will realise that not only does he not need to work but that the hours he does and the tasks he is asked to carry out just punish his knees more and more...and if we are to be walking two dogs along the beaches some time in the future then he needs to go part time, at least, before giving up entirely.

Me? Well, I got my plans.

7:49AM - Rihgt On!

10:26AM

Very sad. The remarkable Ben Underwood died earlier this year. Very young he lost his eyes to cancer. So he taught himself to echo locate and could do evrything anyone else could pretty well. And often better.

9:33AM - Scene of Rock

A photo from Zurich.
Just near our hotel a guitar shop with an inventive window display.
Apologies for the reflections in the glass.



Actually we noticed a number of instrument shops in the area and that all of them clearly displayed small kids' guitars.
Will we be seeing an explosion of metal from Zurich in the next decade?
Are we already?

8:32AM

As today was/is Myles' birthday my idea had been to spread his ashes at last. Walk on my own through the parks and spread some here and there. Near the lake in St James, the circle of trees on the small hillock in Green Park, along the Serpentine and then into Kensington Gardens with the most near the Round Pond where we always walked and, finally, Holland Park where we also used to spend a lot of time.
Apart from our walks of an afternoon there is another connection between Myles and Kensington Gardens and Holland Park.
He once told me that for many years a duck from Holland Park would insist on hatching her chicks there but then, when she thought they were ready, marching them down to the Round Pond in Kensington Gardens. As this means crossing some very busy roads it was risky to say the least.
Myles happened across them one day and decided to help, stopping traffic as the ducklings crossed Kensington Church Street (not an easy task) and chaperoning them to the safety of Kensington Gardens. As the years went on different methods were tried (getting them in a box etc) and a small gang of people got used to helping.
The mother duck would waddle or fly ahead, quacking but not overly panicked after the first time.
Then one year the family never appeared. Nor the years after.
Chances are a fox got the mother.

Today is grey and rainy. Low skies, depressing. I wake with first light and it wasn't the strong sunlight of recent weeks.
I won't be spreading his ashes.
I want it to be, if not sunny, at least brighter. That story just confirms that.
The forecast for Friday is good.
Hopefully I can set off early and complete the task.

6:50PM

The huge storm just past was too much for the overflow and came through the bedroom window and a crack in the wall caused by the gates to the car port below being way too heavy.
A lot of my books are absolutely ruined.
Some, mostly the ones on Magick, will be almost impossible to replace.
Ironically the Chaos Magick stuff survived better than the Kabbalah (not the Madonna nonsense) tomes. A lot of the Ed Roth stuff is shot to hell as well.
I have spent some time and no little effort getting hold of many of these.
The flat is now liberally tiled with water-logged books in the hope that some will dry slowly and their pages will not stick together or dry too misshapen.
They're all sat there, bloated and toad-like in their resentment of my neglect.

Very, very depressing.

4:07PM

The first I knew it was Pride yesterday was when Sean, our friendly local acerbic Irishman, mentioned he had ridden through the parade on his way back from work.
I just had no idea.
I am uncertain if that is good or bad.

12:04AM

Favorite pic from Tim's shoot.
Look happy.
Am.
Right now as well.
This looks how I feel.



Thanks, Tim. Been away.

8:21PM

This literally makes me weep with laughter.

It is the late, great Brian Johnston, cricket commentator descending into uncontrollable giggles after one phrase used by his fellow commentator Jonathan 'Aggers' Agnew



I love it when he says "Oh, Aggers, for goodness sake, stop it!".

True gent.

11:39AM

I can't wait to see Herb and Dorothy

On modest wages they amassed a powerful collection of modern art by many artists who are now considered highly important. Their rules were that it must be affordable and it all had to fit into their one bedroom apartment.
They never sold works that went on to be worth a fortune.
The bought what they loved and for themselves but often choosing quite radical stuff.
Wonderful.

7:14AM

Jackson.
How could it be any other way?
Massively in debt because of spending on a level rarely seen even by the standards of the entertainment business, obviously utterly incapable of honoring the concerts lined up, obviously at least three sandwiches short of the full picnic and obviously at least worryingly obsessed with young boys.
Did people think they would be seeing him at 70 in Vegas?

Who or what died, either by natural causes or suicide, was not the kid who sang ABC and seemed to have only a tenuous connection to the brilliance of Thriller. Michael Jackson died inside years ago.
It may seem harsh but it seemed sadder and rather more horrifying to watch his appalling descent in full and constant media glare, accompanied by the ludicrous deification by himself, his 'people' and his apologists than to learn of his early death.

It may seem sad for his children but what chance did they ever have for a life even vaguely stable?

Personally I think he had backed himself into a frighteningly tight corner financially, professionally and whatever passed for personally.
It could end no other way.

So now we face a time of media frenzy and collective amnesia, a complete re-re-issue of the back catalogue as the vultures feed and no little hypocrisy.

But best wait three days...just in case...

I truly hope he does rest in peace.

9:54AM

Wow. The night before last I got hardly any sleep. The flat was too warm and close.
Yesterday was made busy with a top to bottom clean of the place, property and solicitor correspondence and just general stuff. I knew I would sleep the night.
I then went out in the evening to be supermodel for fingertrouble at the venerable St Martin's College of Art on Charing Cross Road, location of the very first Sex Pistols gig. The studio was calm and womb-like and afterwards we had a little supper at the gay cafe round the way. It were right nice. Thank you Tim.
But I was bushed and when I got back to Kennington and my head hit the pillow I thought "Mmmmm".

At about 2am the commotion started. There had been a party carrying on at one of the flats over the way. The one where the pitbull cross hangs out the window and is refuge for the gang that usually hangs out in the kid's playground on the estate. The last party they had was the night of the police vans and people being carried out in body cuffs.
Seems whenever they party the action starts.
Much shouting and noise in the street. Cars hare-ing up and down the road. No flashing lights and no sirens but to my by now trained ear you could tell something was up.
Sure enough Special Patrol Group officers with guns are searching our small front yard and the bins near the car port and then everywhere within the vicinity.
I'm watching from the window. As is the bloke who owns the pitbull cross over on the estate.
I hear "I doubt we'll find the firearm" so I listen harder.
Incident with a gun at a club further South. Two cars followed. Driver of one apprehended and taken off to Kennington station in his car.
Other car empty parked along the road.
Search for gun and removal of car carries on through the night. Noisily.
No sleep till 5:30 am.
I am pooped.

Heard one cop say "We've found him on Facebook..."

1:16PM

There is now a site called Wikivorce or Wikidivorce or something. So that poor downtrodden heterosexuals can whine on about how they got married and screwed it up. While forbidding others to do so.
*rolls eyes towards the heavens*

3:04PM

So we went down to Brighton to take a look at this other place. It confirmed that, even though it is larger, the cottage is the one. This place needed too much work and is too far from the sea. Paul agreed, Just doesn't have the magic.
Afterwards Paul needed to pee so we ended up in a tiny little pub on the same street. Gay. In the old sense. Family run, small, slightly tacky but friendly. Turned out an old crooner was having his 70th birthday there. Which entailed him and a number of other old crooners, the oldest being 83, getting up on the small, tacky stage and singing their hearts out.
It was brilliant and very, very moving.
These are people who lived through the gaining of all the freedoms gay people now have. That some times we take far too much for granted.
Myles was arrested for indecency (shagging in a park). Paul was courtmartialled (sp) and imprisoned and given a dishonorable discharge for drunkenly getting into bed with another man. He did six months in solitary.
A bloke in his eighties sang 'My Way', a song I think is usually meaningless and just chucked out there by most, but, while he sang it I thought, 'You bloody did mate, you really did'.
In the gay world these people are largely invisible.
It was an honour to spend an afternoon in their company.