Much fun and games on Jon Ronson's forum at the moment, under our alter ego of magnificat. Jon Ronson has just finished his Channel 4 series "Secret Rulers of the World" which I know some of you took in. This has released a barrage of conspiracy theorists from under their damp rotting logs to vent their various spleens.
These can be summarised as
1. A world government/domination is more than halfway here already.
2. Our would-be dominators are Satanists. (Or at least not Christian, goddammit!)
For instance - I bet you didn't know that the publishing house of the UN is called The Lucis Trust. But it was (cop this) originally called The Lucifer Trust. Bet that keeps you awake tonight, if nothing else does!!!
Forums are fun. Maybe we should have one here. Anybody think of a topic?
Oh - JR is coming to Edinburgh soon, and has invited me to meet him. I'm sure anyone able to provide a (kosher) lunch would get the business. What is it that Jews don't eat again? The Body of Christ?
"Breezy in here, innit?" Black English Ron said at The Village. "Mind if I close that door?"
"Close it!?!" squeaked Gwen the barmaid. "I was enjoying the cool air." Gwen is a delight, but she does have something of a takeover attitude, and this was her third shift in her new pub. But Ron got up and closed the door nevertheless.
"Gwen, in this establishment the customers' wishes come first," Ian, the Boss, quietly advised her. But your columnist overheard, as he so often does.
Chatted to Aron tonight, at The Village. "Unusual name," I ventured, but I might have guessed better. "Yes - my dad was a big Elvis fan," Aron confided. "It's actually a Jewish name," I told him, but no, Aron was not Jewish. And neither, we kinda think, was Elvis.
He did, however, have delightful bleached blond hair - like a strawberry ice-cream - and he was only 23. Aron worked for some uptown yet not expensive restaurant owned by that silly starched-hair guy Gary Rhodes. Aron was in some awe of Gary Rhodes, but I tried to counsel him otherwise. TV indicates nothing more than good luck, the correct synagogue, or an appealling bottom.
He got a bit sick, in the end, after spending loads of money and telling me all his problems, and had to be asked to leave. It's a pity, as at 23 your brain will always, always recover.
Stuart and I are pals again. Our friendship has survived lager poured over heads and physical thumps in the past, so a nasty remark or two followed by a cutting edge email are hardly gonna dent things for long. Yesterday we had a date to go up town (for you non-Leithers that means Edinburgh), but he was clearly still in high spirits from the weekend.
High spirits? We differed by about eight planets! Stu is not a girl for half measures - of anything. But we sat in the sun for one unbalanced drink at least, and chatted to Andy the handsome barman.
Made a complete twat of myself over the weekend with Paul Baker, over some really silly point which doesn't bear repeating. Sorry Paul, and thanks for your restrained replies. Hell hath no fury like a deleted queen! Be sure and visit Paul's quite splendid site, especially Jamie4U.
HTML coming on apace, so let's fiddle with these drab drab colours. Plus it's a glorious day, so c ya!!
I don't know... Deputy Prime Minister John Prescott gets hit by an egg, then smacks the thrower in the puss. A police inspector in Glasgow is found guilty of raping two women, and Fergie's former aide is jailed for murdering this dude who wouldn't marry her. Yet the guy from psychoexgirlfriend thinks he's got problems!
However - much more important than any of this, we got Mystery Shopped at work tonight, and didn't do very well. It's roughly monthly, and we're judged on 33 points. Normally the staff score either perfect or one error maximum. But tonight there were five faults, one of them my own. This might cost me and my colleagues mucho annual bonus, later in the annum.
Ah well. I can always sell the Big Issue. I hate the place anyway.
We have developed moths. There were about four of the wee buggers dotting about when I turned on the living room light last night. Plus two more parked on my pillow, which was especially gross. Moths are the natural conclusion to a life of unvacuumed indolence, coupled with a quality carpet. (Wool, that is, you trailer-trash ass.)
House-moths, however, are not significant to look at. Small, brown, and they fly in yer face. Outdoor moths are much prettier, and vividly I remember my childhood cousins and me chasing all those glorious flappy insects to see if they landed wings together (butterfly), or wings apart (moth).
"It's a butterfly!" we would shriek with delight, whenever the insect was one. Whereas the poor spread-winged moths were regarded even then as somewhat inferior, lower-class, not so good, a step below. What a difference a word makes, eh? A moth by any name would be a butterfly!
Doshie has shaved off his former handsome hairdo, and is now quite mothlike. It's a shame. He's not pleased with me, because I laughed a bit.
The moth thing made me a bit houseproud. After the pub I cleaned the wash hand basin in the bathroom, with Ajax and a plastic brush. It's gleaming tonight, like an advert. You still have to hold the basin steady while you scrub - it's as loose now as thirty years ago when I moved in.
Made me think about how many young men, and then not quite so young, and then not young at all, had washed their dicks in it, after.... well, you know what I mean. But it's truly clean now, for shaving and teeth.
Doncha just love it when a guy turns up beside you, straight guy that is, and wiggles his almost empty glass about? Doncha just feel a warmth down THERE as he puts his arm around you and wiggles his glass some more?? Happened yet again today, folks. And last night.
I'm so FUCKING sick of scroungers. Gonna get a tshirt that says, "Please don't ask for a pint as a refusal means this sad old queen couldn't give a shit about you or your poverty." Or maybe just simply NO
Really, until this week when I started adding them up, I hadn't noticed how severe the problem is. Gotta stop. Can't go on. If you haven't got any money then beside ME in the pub is not the place to be. FUCK OFF.
Finished www.psychoexgirlfriend.com, and confess I am gobsmacked. This site, if it's genuine, (voicemail tapes of a jilted woman to her ex.), is the ULTIMATE breach of privacy and trust. Never, ever again will you feel safe phoning. It's gruesome, it's awesome - but you gotta go there, unfortunately.
Stuart and I have fallen out. Again. My own little psycho-ex. Except we were never on - our relationship transcends conventional labels. Now, I could be a shit and publish his emails here, but of course I won't. This isn't America, goddammit.
What's that you say? You WANT the emails? You DEMAND to wallow in a stranger's pain and anger? Not gonna happen, dude. You see, Stu and I will be friends again, probably within a week. Even psychotics can be fun. Specially when they're all you've got.
Went round to see Ali and Dolly in their new pub, The Village. Confess I was startled by how far back they've stripped the place. Four walls and a ceiling were all you could see. And scaffolding. And they're opening in a week and a half.
The Village. But the webpage might be under construction also.
NO LOUD MUSIC
NO FUCKING IDIOTS
Well, dear reader - guess what that means! Yep, it's the poster I want to see outside the next pub I go into. Two chances, and one of them's fat. But a girl can dream, can't she? Yesterday, Monday, was the pits - entirely because of the above, and I'm really just so fucking sick of it. I seem to know a whole army of nutters, destitutes and sickos. And hardly anybody else - that's the worrying bit. Have we sunk so low in our image and esteem that the gutter is all that is left?
Hardly had I got rid of Nutty Norma the lush than Suicide Nick came breezing in on a wave of antabuse. "Oh - a cackle of queens," he said, looking at us three queens and two str8 guys. "Not all queens!" heterosexual Henry (who is good company) chipped in. "Henry," I counselled, leaning over to him. "The correct response is 'Nick, I see you're alive this week.'"
Sick? I'll give you sick. Henry told me about a site called www.psychoexgirlfriend.com which probably takes the vogue for voyeurism to its absolute limits. Mind you, every time you think that, something even more cringing happens. Try it. It's phone message tapes of a jilted woman to her ex. I could only manage 12 of them, but I'm sure I'll be back. Plus you can buy Tshirts, mugs, etc. Talk about enterprise.
Quote from Dolly re Nick. "If someone wants to kill themselves, then you have no right at all to stop them." The boy's got something there.
I can't believe I chatted to so many strangers tonight. It began in the pub, after work, chilling out, you know it well. "Hi," this chick said to me. She was with two friends. "Hi," I replied. "You're middle class, aren't you, I can tell."
"Does it show?" she asked. Her name was Sophie. "Yes, Sophie, a bit," I replied, regretfully. You see, nobody likes to be labelled middle class. Middle is not a good word. Extreme is so much better. Eminem could never be a middle person.
Then Johnny muscled in. Johnny is a great guy, but he has wild staring eyes and alligator teeth. He told me once the teeth were partly false. However, Sophie rejected Johnny - she wasn't ready for that much masculinity.
But we chatted, me and Sophie and her two friends. "I'm a teacher," Hazel her friend said. "English and drama."
"Fascinating," I agreed. "Who's your favourite writer?" This threw Hazel a bit. She was struggling to reply.
"Of contemporaries, Arthur Miller," she said. "Well, he's hardly contemporary," I opined. "Almost dead, more like." This did quite throw her.
I kissed Sophie, as she left, on the cheek. Hazel I sensed was keen to get away. There was a man with them too, but he was not significant.
******** Later, round the corner, Pierino's fish shop was awash with lesbians. "Do lesbians dream of electric fish?" I thought, as the head lezzie turned to face me. You could tell she was the head one because she had the thickest eyebrows.
"Got a sub, mate?" she asked, her accent 'Strine. "I can't afford my pizza." Leith is getting like Kangaroo Alley.
English poof chatting to Ozzy dyke in Italian fish shop in deepest Scotland. It's a global thang.
"Night, girls - is it CC's later?" I ventured, leaving. (CC Bloom's is Edinburgh's leading gayspot.) "Maybe," she said. "Maybe see you there too. Hope so." Now wasn't that sweet?
Oh dear. Oh dearie dear. Any moment now, Kenny, my handsome, intelligent and utterly under-utilized manager is going to find my site. And read all the bingo stuff. And sack me. And we've had half an eccie, and we don't give a shit.
Had an interesting night in the pub, after work. Met a new man. "I'm Derek, Derek the drunk," he said. "I'm Peter, Peter the poof," was the only reasonable reply. "That's no problem - that's your life, pal," Derek the drunk insisted. "And I know Jimmy McKinsley, and he's a perfect gentleman," he went on. (Jimmy, for all his great virtues, could hardly be described in quite such glowing terms. I'm sure he would agree.)
But Derek the drunk was inconsolable. Jimmy is his main man. (Main poof.) In this wise the culture assimilates and the protections pass down. I'm grateful to Jimmy the perfect gentleman, as much as I am to Derek, the much bigger man than perhaps he realises.
Tony and Louise came in. Louise was wearing lipstick of a somewhat pink shade. "Love the lippy, doll," I offered, back on safer territory. "Thanks," she said, "it's our wedding anniversary. Alice (their daughter) has got a sleepover at a friend's house."
What can you say? Only last night, my next-door hyperstud was entertaining his bitch again. "OOh, ooh, ooh," she kept squeaking. "Aaah, aah, aaah," he replied, in synch. I burst out laughing. It was the only audible response I could think of. Must get a copy of the Hallelujah Chorus.
The divine Eminem is on Channel 4 right as I speak. But it's a stage show, and thus limited. Plus I'm not that keen on Dr Dre muscling in on his act all the time. There are times when a girl's gotta take a back seat.
Body moving into hyperdrive. Not getting sleepy till 1 or 2 am, then waking at 7 or 8. Got to make changes. Stagnation is death, and Bingo calling is fast becoming too easy.
Met a great guy on IRC on Tuesday. Can't begin to tell you what we chatted about, but it was soooooooo sexy. Reality sucks. Reality just isn't on. The menu.
Walk the walk. Talk the talk. Think the thoughts and beat the meat.