troubled diva

Dymbel (I’ve decided to go with the cute blog nickname convention here) tells me that this blog should be “looser”, and I think he’s right. I’ll be posting more frequently from now.

So, what to tell. Last weekend was nothing if not varied. The usual rurality on Friday night, and yet another prance round Bakewell’s interiors emporia on Saturday, finishing at Debo’s for a selection of choice sausage. (Debo’s = Chatsworth Farm Shop. Doesn’t everybody call it Debo’s? Oh, but they should.) Back to Nottingham to pick up my father’s wreath.

Chig arrives – he’s doing a big Nottingham “scene” story for Gay Times, and we plan his route: Lord Roberts, Ice, Central, Mill, @d2, NG1. Chig has also brought a sheaf of Gaydar profiles, in the hope of bumping into some of them during the course of the evening. Are there any I recognise? Oh yes. Well, I never knew XXX was into YYY, etc…

K and I head off to a fireworks party out of town, hosted by Interob and Acious. Debo’s sausages are well received. Pleasant evening, but we don’t actually know anyone there, and small talk isn’t coming easy for some reason. Still, we mellow out round the fire, toasting marshmallows and muttering into the gloom. Just getting properly into the swing of things when, inevitably, the cab turns up.

Back to town, and straight to @d2, plucking Buni from the queue outside NG1 and dragging him in with us. Chig and his photographer soon join us, and we pile next door. Things start getting hazy, but various fragmented memories have surfaced, including:

1. K getting a gash on his forehead, oozing blood all over the place, but refusing all offers of first aid (“Just let it form a haemostatic plug, darlings – I’m perfectly fine!”)

2. Long conversation with Dormouse about why we haven’t been seeing enough of him and Fiat Lux recently. We’d pissed them off months ago by not coming back to town for Fiat Lux’s birthday celebrations, and then compounded this by forgetting Dormouse’s birthday altogether. Have bridges been burnt, or are they re-buildable?

3. Witnessing the union of Chig and Crispy Rat. My God, they were all over each other almost from the word go! K and I never saw that one coming – but then, we have always been strangely atrocious at matchmaking. Chig didn’t come back that night, or the next morning for that matter, which is when we realised they were getting on as well as getting off (boom boom!). One awaits further developments with great interest.

4. Having looked forward immensely to throwing myself round the dancefloor for the first time in ages, not actually getting into it that much. What has happened to my Inner Disco Bunny? Has all the new-found rurality of the past year killed him off?

Sunday was, shall we say, something of a contrast. Up the dreaded A614, to visit my father’s grave for the first time, on the 8th anniversary of his death. K snoozes in the car while I stumble round the graveyard, wreath in hand, trying to work out where the old bugger is buried. I hadn’t expected there to be no headstone, you see. Eventually, by process of elimination, settle on a plot, place my wreath, think my profound thoughts, and – essentially – lay my ghosts to rest. 8 years is long enough to feel angry, and now it’s time to forgive, make my peace, and (for want of a more original expression) Move On.

We drive over to see my stepsister and her family. An extended boozy, smoky, cheerful post-pub group in her kitchen, with various children coming and going. She and I move away from the group to talk. Guess what – I got the wrong grave. She is massively apologetic…what with all her family upheavals of the last few years, no-one ever quite got round to putting a headstone up. But she’d been there earlier and put flowers on the right plot, so the old boy hadn’t gone unremembered after all. We agree to rectify the situation between us in the near future. I’m not upset. In fact, it’s quite funny, and completely par for the course for our family, in an almost symbolic way. It’s also totally incidental to the real emotional point of my visit.

My stepsister hands over a few bits and pieces – old family stuff, including my great-uncle’s long lost medals – a Military Cross amongst them. The Aunt will be well pleased. She also hands over some 10” acetates that belonged to the late James Hamilton, which he’d always kept hidden and separate from the rest of his collection. These require investigation.

For a brief but glorious period in the early part of the week, it looks as if we’ve stumbled across some Beatles rarities, but Dymbel puts us right on Tuesday night. There are 3 acoustic demos, probably recorded in 1964, probably in New York, with the word “SELTAEB” on the hand typed labels, heavily crossed out. Try spelling this word backwards. The singer sounds like a Scouser with a cod American accent, and 2 of the 3 songs are completely unknown. The third demo is a version of the Reverend Gary Davis song “Cocaine Blues”, with some very cheeky and quite amusing altered lyrics. If this were Macca or George singing (we know it’s not John or Ringo), then we’d be sitting on something sensational. But Dymbel knows his subject, and he’s absolutely definite – it’s not a Beatle. Oh well. Gerry Marsden, maybe? The quest continues.

Wednesday is Prog Nite at Rock City. Stereoboard and I go completely (if sadly not literally, except by osmosis) potty over Gong, followed by Hawkwind doing their space-rock thing. It’s taken me 27 years to finally dock with the mothership of the planet Gong, and y’know what – it was worth the wait. The set is mostly old faves from Camembert Electrique and the Radio Gnome trilogy, and the vibe is just – well – as it should be. There is a lot of love in the room. Well, love and other substances. A couple near us even do smoochy erection-section dancing to Selene. Master Builder is especially fine, with its long trance-inducing psychedelic-freeform-jazz-rock workout thing. You’d be surprised how funky and danceable they can be – the drummer used to be in Soul II Soul, of all things. Hawkwind – though effective and proficient, and with a fab light show – can only be an anti-climax after this, and the shift in mood is tangible. The rough-arsed biker types (and not in a sexy gay fantasy way, either) move from the back to the front, as the gentle flower children retreat to the margins. Stereoboard and I retreat in search of CDs and Camembert Electrique T-shirts.

Two things today so far.

1. My sister e-mails to say she is flying to Islamabad this evening, where she’ll be for at least a month (she’s a nutritionist for Oxfam). I feel all sorts of strange emotions about this. Excitement on her behalf, but nervousness for her safety. But that’s me being a silly paranoid ill-informed cosseted Westerner, of course. I go and find the Oxfam website and read up on the Pakistan / Afghanistan situation. I find this oddly comforting, even though the situation it describes is dire in the extreme.

2. Chig emails the all-important Eurovision draw. Guess what – the UK are drawn second. No country drawn second has ever gone on to win the contest. And get this – the last two countries to perform next May will be – Latvia & Lithuania. And where is next year’s Eurovision taking place? Yes, Estonia. Well, fancy that! A large group of us already have flight tickets to Helsinki, and room reservations in Tallinn – let’s hope we get lucky with the tickets when they go on sale.

And now, dear reader, you are fully up to date.