...as we've been doing our Classy Bitches routine round London today.

Having first taken a quick pre-prandial "culture snack", in which we oohed and aahed at the superb new David Hockney double portraits that have just gone on exhibition here (although opinion divides sharply on their merits, as you'll see in the comments box), we then enjoyed an excellent luncheon (and - quelle horreur! - a single glass of wine) here...





...before spending the rest of the afternoon here (just like we did this time last year), eventually coming home with this...



(and something else equally as good), as purchased from her.

A bloody good day out, even if my sexy new jeans did constantly leak dark blue dye all over my hands, and (even worse) all over the cuffs of my sexy new white shirt - thus marring the overall Classy Bitch look somewhat.

Next week, I'll be loading up items 97 to 100 from my Old Curiosity Box. To commemorate the occasion, I therefore thought it might be fun to turn the selection of the next four MP3s over to you lot.

So this is how it's going to work. All four MP3s will be burnt from my collection of seven inch singles. Please take a look through this list, and let me know what you'd like to hear. I'll then select the best four suggestions some time next week. (Assuming I get any, of course.)

Bear in mind that I'll automatically reject anything that has been a top 40 hit. It's a Curiosity Box, remember?

Over to you. I know you've got taste. Pick something good. And don't be too horrified at some of the naff singles I've ended up with over the years. Because after all, I never said that I had good taste...

Dymbel's birthday party this coming Saturday night is going to have a "45" theme to it (for reasons that I don't propose to spell out). Consequently, each guest has been invited to bring along one - and only one, mind - seven inch, 45 rpm single. These will all be played, some time around midnight. Dancing will ensue.

As I've already said today (see below), indecisiveness would appear to be my prevalent pyschosis. It therefore doesn't help that I've got 1548 of the little plastic buggers to choose from. Eek!

This, dear reader, is where you come in. Please take a quick flick through the attached list. Which single would you pick? Leave me a comment and let me know. I'll then pick my favourite from your suggestions (assuming I get any, of course). And please remember: your choice needs to be something which a diverse roomful of people will want to dance to.

Ooh, we're so bleedin' interactive right now...

It’s a long bus ride from the centre of Saigon out to the Cao Dai temple complex at Tay Ninh. As with most Explore Worldwide trips (and this is my only real criticism of their excellent operation), there have already been rather too many long bus rides over the last couple of weeks. This had better be worth it.

Still, there’s something mesmerising about gazing out of the window at the endless thick stream of two-wheelers coming into the city. The way that the traffic here somehow manages to flow efficiently and seemingly without incident is a constant marvel. Forget mirrors. Forget hand signals. Forget helmets. Forget lanes. They barely exist. Instead, the entire traffic system seems to get by on calmness, co-operation and consideration. There is no road rage here (something which would in any case have been unlikely in a culture which shuns public displays of emotion). Yes, everyone uses their hooters constantly – but not in frustration or anger, and only as a means of alerting other road users of their presence. Although the traffic here looks at first sight like a terrifyingly undisciplined free-for-all, I have come to the conclusion that most Vietnamese road users are actually exercising unusually high levels of due care and attention. Mind you, there’s really no other option open to them.

The Cao Dai temple complex is indeed a strange place. The garishly ornate temples, all of which look more or less brand new, have something of a Buddhist Disneyland quality to them. The intention of the Cao Dai faith (which only began in 1919) is to fuse a new synthesis of the world’s great religions, taking the best aspects of each. One aspect of this is a highly eclectic collection of saints and spiritual mediums, including Christ, the Buddha, Joan of Arc, Victor Hugo, Louis Pasteur, Sun Yat Sen and Charlie Chaplin. (Who next, I wonder? Geri Halliwell?)

We are here to attend the big noonday service in the main temple, which visitors are allowed to observe from the long first floor balconies. Although visually impressive, it turns out to be an entirely static affair, which fails to hold the attention of most of the massed ranks of gawking, immodestly dressed non-believers. For my part, I find the service rather mesmerising. But, it has to be said, maybe not quite mesmerising enough to warrant such a long return journey.

It’s a good job we packed plenty of Immodium. K’s digestive system is playing up something rotten today. Everybody else in the group is fine, though. Hang on. What was it that K ate last night, that nobody else touched? Scorpion, wasn’t it? His condition becomes known to all as Scorpio’s Revenge (and later, as Scorpio Rising – oh dear).

Over lunch at a roadside restaurant, we are joined by an elderly Vietnamese gentleman who is an old family friend of Kim Phuc – the girl shown running naked down the street in the wake of a Napalm attack, in the famous press photo which has become one of the iconic images of the “American War”. He shows us his photos and, although we have been instructed not to bully him with too many pressing questions about the war, is keen to talk to us of forgiveness, reconciliation and laying the past to rest.

The afternoon is spent at the Cu Chi tunnels, which seem to have been turned into some sort of Vietcong theme park. Our guide, in pseudo-combat fatigues, leads us past various vicious looking man-traps. While we wince in horror, a large Spanish tour party behind us seems to find them all hugely comical, pointing and laughing as they move along. This is a coping strategy like any other, of course. Maybe if we hadn’t been to Mai Lai, we too would be reacting differently.

While the rest of the group dutifully clamber through some of the original underground tunnels used by the Vietcong, K and I opt out of the experience. When everybody else re-emerges only a couple of minutes later, matted in sweat and grime, we are deeply glad to have wimped out.

Our evening meal is a rare disappointment. We’re not striking it very lucky for food in Saigon. The restaurants are considerably foofier in appearance, but the food and service are noticeably lacking, when compared to the delights we have been enjoying up until now.

Just one more day to go, then. And yet another bloody early start in the morning. Holiday my arse!

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam

Oh, goody - another Nottingham weblog that's worth reading (and the fact that Nixon also has the good taste to link to my Nottingham Gayspeak MP3s is neither here nor there, honest.)

(And while I'm back on the subject of those MP3s: there has been a certain amount of debate as to whether or not the final Ts should be inflected. Get kokkah versus Get kokkart, essentially. I started off with the latter, but after consulting with K, I swapped over to the former. However, I'm now veering back to kokkart all over again. Maybe I need to conduct some further field research. Does NG1 still have strippers on Sunday nights?)

(Incidentally: our friend OldEngland tells me that when he first moved to Nottingham a few decades ago, back when local communities were still a good deal less fluid, he used to be able to distinguish a Radford accent from a St. Ann's accent. Somewhat sadly, they have all rather melded together since then.)

(But I'm not really here to talk about the MP3s. Let's move on, shall we?)

I am particularly grateful to Nixon's blog for alerting me to the marvellous, and copious, Gallery of Thrift Store Art - which is, in some strange way, the ideal visual counterpart to the equally outsider-ish 365 Days MP3 project.

Actually, scratch that. There's something rather genuine and touching about many of the 365 Days MP3s - whereas the Thrift Store Gallery is mostly a chance to laugh at crap paintings. Although, having said that, the offerings on both sites do share a certain essential innocence.

Hmm. I really should think things through before I write them down. Or then again, maybe not. Hey, maybe this indecisiveness is my Psychosis Of The Day. Does that satisfy you, Nixon? Only now that I'm off the bottle, I seem to be fresh out of psychoses.

Anyway, pictured above is a particular favourite from the site. Click on the fey little blokey for a full sized image and commentary.

Finally: if you didn't catch the first episode of the second series of Paul Whitehouse's sitcom-cum-drama Happiness, then may I strongly recommend that you catch next week's? Tuesday, BBC2, 22:00. Absolutely superb stuff, exceptionally well acted, and with all sorts of spookily well observed and piercingly accurate "coo gosh I know what that's all about" moments of recognition. Great use of music, too: Bitches Brew, DJ Shadow, Free, Sister Sledge, Isley Brothers, Steve Miller, Mozart etc. So why hasn't this show been receiving the plaudits it so richly deserves? Huh?

P.S. All weblogs are, of course, absolutely wonderful. Especially yours. Yours is my favourite, actually.

Five completely unrelated tunes this week: one per decade, from the Fifties to the Nineties.

Item 92. Lambert, Hendricks & Ross - Jackie (1959)
A prime example of Vocalese ("the setting of lyrics to established jazz orchestral instrumentals"), from the originators of the genre. Surreal and swinging in equal measure. (Incidentally, vocalist Annie Ross popped up many years later as the world weary jazz singer in Robert Altman's brilliant Short Cuts.)

Item 93. The Soft Machine - Love Makes Sweet Music (1967)
Ultra-rare debut single from the pioneers of British psychedelia, featuring their short-lived original line-up of Robert Wyatt, Daevid Allen, Kevin Ayers and Mike Ratledge. Jimi Hendrix is believed to have played on the studio sessions for this single, but whatever contribution he might have made never emerged on the final cut. This is by far and away the poppiest of the band's recordings - more Carnaby Street than Technicolour Dream - but unfortunately the sound quality is not all it could be. My copy is taken from a mid-1970s cheapo compilation called "Rare Tracks", where it had been mastered from a copy of the vinyl single - the Master Tapes being unavailable. Maybe this is why the track has never been reissued on CD?

Item 94. The Saints - Know Your Product (1978)
A single which suddenly sounds bang up to date, in the light of all these new fangled straight-up rock & roll bands with names beginning with "The". Great brass section and all. But do we think that the lyricist might have been just a tad influenced by the Rolling Stones' Satisfaction?

Item 95. King Trigger - River (extended version) (1982)
A minor UK hit (#57 in August 82), but a single which nevertheless conjures up many fond memories of student discos. This is the 12 inch version - which is essentially the 7 inch version with an extended dubby intro. The band's drummer/backing singer Trudi was a bit of a character. According to an NME interview at the time, "Trudi uses beats because she distrusts words". God, I loved the early 1980s Ian Penman/Paul Morley era NME, back when it was properly pretentious...

Item 96. Basement Jaxx vs. The Police - King Of Pain (Basement Jaxx dub mix) (1999)
I picked this up on a mysterious, uncredited, limited edition 12-incher, backed with that great remix of Red Alert which sampled the Jackson Sisters' I Believe In Miracles. The blue and white label simply says "K.O.P" - nothing more. Presumably copyright wrangles prevented a full release?

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

This story (of a sex shop beside a church in Minnesota which has put up a sign offering a "clergy discount") reminds me of something which happened to my old friend B many years ago.

The year was 1979, and B was a 16 year old vicar's daughter. On the Sunday afternoon in question, B's father had booked a guest Evensong sermon from none other than Robert Runcie - then still the Bishop of St. Alban's, but less than a year away from becoming Archbishop of Canterbury. Since her father was busy preparing for the service, B was sent down to collect the Bishop from Nottingham railway station.

As there wasn't a great deal of time to spare before the service, Runcie had already changed into his purple Bishop's robes. B duly met him in the station concourse, and they began the short walk towards the city centre, Runcie clutching his overnight bag.

"Oh," said Runcie, after a few yards. "I must just pop into a shop to buy some razor blades, as I forgot to pack any. Ah, maybe this newsagent will have some. I'll only be two ticks."

And with that, and before B could do anything to stop him, Runcie strode purposefully into the small shop with the magazines in the window. The shop which, as B already knew, did not stock razor blades. Or newspapers, for that matter.

It did, however, stock magazines. Of a very...particular nature. As well as a range of creams, sprays, aromas, electrical goods, specialist clothing, and other sundry accessories.

All B could do was chase into the building after the Bishop. Who had come to rest in the middle of the store, halfway between the door and the counter.

The fully frocked-up Bishop and the red-faced sixteen year old school girl stood there together for a few moments, slap bang in the middle of the sex shop - until the Bishop, with admirable sang froid, simply murmured "Ah, I don't think this is quite the sort of shop I was looking for" - and with that, calmly left the building.

It is to their great good fortune that no passing photographers were on hand to record this unique - and potentially highly profitable - tableau. For what self-respecting tabloid newspaper editor could have resisted such a scoop?

Sashinka - No Rock & Roll Fun - Minor 9th - and now Wherever You Are. It's official, then: weblog redesigns are the new rock and roll. Preferably in a nice crisp monochrome, it would seem.

I can only conclude that this must be a January Thing. Rebirth and renewal, and all that jazz. With the predominance of black and white no doubt influenced by the bare trees, the budding snowdrops, and All This Snow That We've Been Having Lately.

Or am I over-analysing again?

Whatever. Do my Wordsearch!

The night train from Nha Trang rolls into Saigon (now known as Ho Chi Minh City) at 4:00 a.m. Our four hour walking tour of the city is scheduled to start at 8:00 a.m. Although we have grown used to a fairly punishing schedule by now, this is one appointment that we won’t be keeping. K and I check in, crash out, and eventually emerge for a late breakfast.

All the way through the trip, I have been suffering from weeping sores, which have been popping up randomly all over my body. I am now developing new sores at the rate of one a day, and currently have about five on the go. The sore on my backside is particularly large and painful – especially given the utter lack of soft cushions in this country. It is time to take some action. A doctor and nurse are called to examine me in our hotel room. They take particular interest in the sore on my backside.

After examining me, the young doctor remains silent for a few moments.

“These lesions are…very…strange.”

Oh dear. Not good.

“You must come with us to the hospital. A specialist will see you there.”

Oh goody. A new adventure!

“We have an ambulance outside.”

Even better! I’ve never taken a ride in an ambulance before. The attention-seeking hypochondriac inside me is exultant.

At the hospital, which is full of people who look like they have been waiting around for an awfully long time, I am efficiently fast-tracked through the system. Oh, the joys of being a pampered Westerner who can afford to pay full whack!

My consultant dermatologist is a brusque man, who crossly barks orders at me from behind his desk. Unbidden and unexpected, the Russian roulette scene from The Deer Hunter flashes through my consciousness.

Show me! Turn round! Stop! Drop trousers!

At the sight of my bare bottom, the consultant says something to the assembled cluster of underlings who are standing behind him, in rather lighter tones than he has been using towards me up till now. Everybody in the room chuckles – except me. I have no idea what is being said. Nobody has ever laughed at my bottom before. The humiliation is considerable. However, it is also tempered by the knowledge that this will make a good story for the rest of the group. Minting entertainment from embarrassment has always been one of my coping strategies.

I pick up my various prescriptions from the hospital dispensary, and grab a taxi back to the hotel. It’s lunchtime, so we head off to a relatively posh looking place a couple of streets away. The large table next to us is full of braying, super-confident US yuppies in “business casual” attire – a new sight for us in Vietnam, but a sight with which we will become familiar during the next couple of days. These people all have the easy swagger which suggests that they own this city. As Saigon is a rapidly and visibly developing hotspot for the new Tiger Economy, it is reasonable to suppose that they probably do.

Indeed, it is the comparative Westernisation of Saigon which dominates our initial impressions of the city. Bigger buildings, wider streets, posher shops, hotels and restaurants – and, although they are still firmly in the minority when compared to the teeming thousands of bikes and mopeds, many more cars on the roads. We wonder apprehensively about what will happen to the traffic as the economy expands, and ever more people switch from two wheels to four. Is Saigon another Bangkok in the making, with the same nightmarish 24 hour traffic jams and attendant pollution just waiting to happen?

K and I stroll up to the famous old Post Office building: a glorious example of French colonial architecture, still with its original fixtures and fittings. As the old Post Office doesn’t have an international parcel post, we continue round the corner to a rather more modest modern building. Directly opposite is a shop which assembles precisely measured, neatly constructed little cardboard boxes for your parcels, while you wait on the pavement. Just what we need.

We spend most of the rest of the afternoon at the War Relics Museum, wandering round mock-ups of prison cells, inspecting instruments of torture, and slowly working our way round the comprehensive photographic displays. Harrowing but compelling stuff, which comes across all the more vividly in the light of our experiences to date.

The whole group is reunited for dinner, in a colossal hangar of a restaurant: open to the street, with the diners seated at long rows of simple trestle tables, under a high corrugated iron roof. No yuppies here – in fact, hardly any foreigners at all. Ooh, you can just feel the authenticity!

And taste it, too. This is hardcore stuff. Small barbecues are placed along our table, and live shrimps brought out for us to cook. To protect our delicate Western sensibilities, the waiters obligingly pith the shrimps for us at the table, so that we don’t actually cook them alive. Nevertheless, the ensuing rigor mortis means that they are still writhing around as they fry. It is all too much for Jennifer Lopez, one of the vegetarians, who excuses herself rapidly and dashes outside for a cigarette.

In stark contrast, K – a committed and adventurous carnivore if ever there was one – is delighted to find scorpion on the menu. We are duly taken down to inspect the tank of live scorpions at the back of the restaurant, near the kitchens. One of the kitchen staff extracts a scorpion, briefly placing it underneath his T-shirt for a laugh. Oo-er.

The cooked scorpion is served up whole, still in its shell, unceremoniously plonked on a plate with no sauce or garnish to detract from the purity of the experience. To eat it, you simply lift the blackened creature to your mouth, and start chomping. The shell is fairly soft by now, and can be easily spat out. The rest of the group oohs and aahs as K boldly takes his first bite. What does it taste like? Rather nutty, apparently. Quite dry, but perfectly pleasant. K offers the scorpion round to everybody, but I am the only one who takes up his offer. A quick little nibble suffices, and I pass it back to K, who devours the rest with relish.


(Click here for a full size version of this image.)

It is said that after eating scorpion, you may experience a mild form of euphoria. K confirms this later on, when he uncharacteristically refuses a beer on the grounds that it would “spoil the effect of the scorpion.” Good grief – the man really must be as high as a kite.

Most of us round off the evening in a decidedly dodgy bar, with a Wild West saloon theme…and hostesses. In this part of town, there isn’t an awful lot of choice, apparently. We note with curiosity the row of toothbrushes in the corridor outside the loos, with a ladder leading to a mysterious darkened loft above. It’s a quiet night, and our arrival easily doubles the clientele. It probably also dampens the atmosphere. (Jeanne Moreau, cheerfully and with a certain amount of relish: “I bet they hate the fact that there are women in here now. We’re like cold water, aren’t we!”) After five minutes or so, the management actually turn the lights up on us. Half an hour or so later, presumably having written the night off as a dead loss at this stage, they shut the bar early. Or maybe that was just a tactic to get rid of us...who knows?

My lesions already in abeyance, I sleep like a baby.

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam

"Get kokkart!"
"Purr..."

Er...blimey.

Not another bloody quiz, Mike?

I'm afraid so. I dunno - it's just one gimmick after another on this site these days, innit? Of course, I prefer to call this "pushing the envelope of blogging".



Hidden in the grid above are the names of 48 weblogs from around the globe. Some of them are on my blogroll - but by no means all. The names (minimum 4 characters) can be found running in straight lines: vertically, horizontally or diagonally. Hey, you've all seen wordsearches before, right?

(At this point, you might want to load up the grid in a separate window, and print it out.)

A fabulous prize awaits the first person who e-mails me (mikejla at btinternet dot com) with a full set of correct answers - or if no-one manages that, then the person who has submitted the highest number of correct answers by next Monday (January 20th). I won't be revealing the winner (and the correct solution) until then.

And what exactly is the fabulous prize this time?

Why, it's nothing less than your very own copy of 2002 - The Year In Song: a three CD set, seamlessly mixed by my own fair hand, and containing some of my favourite tunes from the past year. (I've been doing best-of-year compilations for my friends every year since 1990, and so it only seems right and proper to offer a copy to a lucky reader.)

To whet your appetite, here are the track listings. As you'll see, the CDs divide up quite neatly by genre. Something there for everyone, hopefully.You have until next Monday, then. Pens out, people!

I have now provided short illustrative MP3s for the Nottingham gay glossary. Just click and listen...