This week’s findings, in bullet points.

• The work ethic in the industrial North East is phenomenal. As is the play ethic.
  
• I can work really fast and really efficiently when the pressure is on. Doing so gives me quite a buzz, even when it’s nearly 10pm and I’m still stuck in a wind-lashed Portakabin in the middle of a car park, sorting errors out. I can go into a state of zen-like calm and concentration, while my fingers fly across the keyboard.
  
• The new Millennium Bridge in Newcastle is a thing of great beauty, especially when viewed at night from a quayside table in the Pitcher and Piano.
  
• Mongolian cuisine ain’t all that.
  
• When travelling on business, always pack an extra change of clothes. You never know when you’ll be called upon to stay an extra night.
  
• The NME has got even worse since I stopped buying it, but the forthcoming album from The Streets sounds interesting, if nothing else. The NME also seem to be obsessed with a single called Used For Glue from a band called Rival Schools.
  
• Fischerspooner have signed up with Ministry Of Sound, who are going to be throwing huge amounts of dosh at them in an effort to make them famous. Is this because the bottom is falling out of the dance compilation market?
  
• The new Boards Of Canada album, Geogaddi, is a major disappointment. However, the new Jim O’Rourke album, Insignificance, continues to grow in stature with every listen.

The bad thing about sweeping generalisations is that - particularly for those people who don’t fit into them - their over-simplifications can be rather annoying.

The good thing about sweeping generalisations is that sometimes – but by no means always – they can contain a kernel of truth.

Here are some sweeping generalisations for you.

When talking to people about this blog, I find that:

a) Gay men flash you a wicked grin and say “Hey, I loved that one about…[the most outrageous story you’ve posted all month] .”

b) Straight men give you a concerned, slightly paternal look and say “Gosh, I don’t think I’d feel very comfortable revealing that much about myself in public. What if…[nightmare scenario involving colleagues, enemies, stalkers, or lunatics in general] ?”

c) Women smile politely and say “I hope you won’t be offended, but I think I know quite enough about you already, without needing to go and look you up on a computer.”

Conclusion? Gay men are just plain naughty, straight men are cautious and practical, women are eminently sensible.

There’s rather a nip in the air today, isn’t there? Golly, you wouldn’t think Spring was on the way!

I’ve been working very hard this week. Gosh, it can be demanding at times, but when it all comes together, then all the hard work feels worth it in the end. And my colleagues are a mad bunch, but there’s always time to have a laugh, and we all get along together just brilliantly!

Did you see Friends last night? Wasn’t it funny! And the girls’ outfits always look so great!

What shall I have for lunch today? A chicken sandwich, or a spicy wrap? I just can’t decide! But one thing’s for sure – I’ll be finishing off with a tasty fruit salad!

After all the hard work I’ve been doing this week, do you know what I’m looking forward to most of all this weekend? That’s right – a well earned pint of beer in the pub! Or maybe two!!

Nope - Sanitised Anodyne Diva ain't gonna cut it. Back to the filth, then...

I shall be spending the next couple of days up in the industrial North East, sitting in a wind-lashed Portakabin in the middle of a car park, and so will not be posting again until Wednesday night at the earliest.

Until then, here's my contribution to a little Googlebombing project that a few of us have cooked up together. This won't mean a fat lot to most of you, but the eventual results might be interesting.

gay blog UK
Graham Norton naked
travis fimmel naked
kitchen whisk
Ann Widdecombe naked
Shakira Naked

The Will Young / News Of The World / "I'm gay" thing. Has Popbitch got the true story yet again? And have they already scooped next week's News Of The World exclusive?

When I was about six years old, my father sold off the paddock adjoining our garden. A new house was being constructed on the land, and soon the old paddock had been turned into a building site. I was fascinated to see the foundations being laid and the house slowly being put together - like real life Lego. I used to wander onto the site and chat to all the builders there – I had got my “cute little kid” act down to a fine art by then, and they were always pleased to see me.

One day, we were swapping jokes. What’s green and hairy and goes up and down? A gooseberry in a lift. That kind of thing. I had a new joke for the builders. It was something involving a drawing (I had my pen and pad with me), and the drawing had something to do with fat ladies’ bottoms. It was a bit cheeky for a six year old. The builders looked shocked, and a little bit disapproving.

“Michael!”

I can see their expression and hear their tone of voice now, clear as anything.

I suddenly felt deeply ashamed, and ran back into the safety of the garden. I never went back to see the builders again.

This weekend, a couple of glasses of wine down, I found myself telling an off-colour story to entirely the wrong audience. There was no cruelty or malice in the story, and it was no worse than something you might hear from audience members at the start of So Graham Norton - but none the less, it did involve more than one intimate bodily function, and some explicit details. It’s one of my favourite, most hilarious stories, and I did tell it with as much delicacy of language as I was able – but the reaction fell somewhat short of the customary hysterical laughter that I am used to eliciting. Afterwards, just like I did when I was six years old, I felt embarrassed and ashamed. I had overstepped the mark. I had been gratuitously dirty.

I told the story because I had been considering blogging it. It got left out of the 40 Days Project, and I was going to append a final “Saucy Saturday” to last week’s Theme Week. Two months ago, when my audience was still tiny, I would have told the story without a second thought. Now, with a dramatically increased readership, and a high Google ranking to match, I’m not so sure.

It’s exciting to have this higher profile – it makes me feel that I’m doing something right with the blog – but it’s also starting to weird me out. I’m beginning to feel publicly exposed, and I’m not used to it. I’ve often had those “getting caught naked in public” dreams that so many people experience, and the emotion is somewhat analogous.

Tinka felt so weirded out by her higher profile that she actually stopped blogging for a while to think things over, before deciding to continue. Meanwhile, I spent nearly two hours yesterday going through my archives with a fine toothcomb, and making adjustments. I’ve also removed my old Geocities pages, with their link to my personal domain name. The net result of this is that, once Google catches up, you won’t be able to find this blog by searching by my name, nor by the name of the Derbyshire village in which we spend our weekends. Other references to people that we know have also been amended, where there is even the slightest whiff of a chance that embarrassment may be caused.

I hate being forced into acting so furtively. Hate it. I set great store by the fact that we live our lives openly, with as much honesty as possible at all times. I have nothing to be ashamed of, and nothing to hide. Furthermore, if this blog cannot represent my character and my life accurately, than it has no value – it really would be just Vanity Publishing.

On the other hand, maybe there is something slightly adolescent about this insistence on “keeping it real”. I do accept the need for compromises to be made on certain levels – to protect myself, to protect K, and to protect some of the people who know us. And yes - I am going to keep right on blogging away, telling it like it is, pushing the boundaries wherever I can – but at the same time, keeping my wits firmly about me while I’m doing it.

At the cottage yesterday, we had a visit from E, who grew up here with her parents and her three sisters. She has only recently moved back to the village, and had not set foot inside her old home for fifty years. It was extraordinary for her to see the extensive architectural changes that have been made to the house since then, and fascinating for us to hear about her life here in the 1930s and 1940s.

Half of what we now call “the cottage” is actually situated in what used to be the village bus station (and garage – there used to be petrol pumps outside on the lane). E’s father owned and ran the bus, which also doubled up as the village coal van. Every Monday morning, the bus would be stripped of its seats and filled up with coal, ready for deliveries. Every Monday evening, it would then have to be thoroughly cleaned of every last trace of coal dust, and the seats replaced.

It was a busy, popular service in those days. On Saturday nights, returning from Ashbourne after the pictures, young men would be hanging off the mudguards. The cinema in Ashbourne is long gone, of course, and the subsidised rural buses run more or less empty these days - the re-investment came too late, and all the villagers have cars now.

We opened the back door, and E looked down the garden towards the wooden gate, which her father had made. “That’s where I used to stand and say goodnight to my boyfriends”, she told us, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “But my father would always catch us there, and then he’d shout to me from the back door – COME ON IN, EILEEN! Oh, he was a strict man, was my father. He used to show me up something rotten in front of my young men.”

Inevitably, the old Dexys tune started up in my head.

Further up the hill, behind the cottage, E’s grandmother lived. You could see her garden from the back window. If the old lady wanted anything fetching up, she would hang a yellow duster out in her garden, and one of the girls would have to go running up the hill to see what was needed.

Our attic bedroom was used as a box room in E’s day. She pointed over at the skylight. Again, the mischievous twinkle. “I used to sneak up here and wave through that skylight at my boyfriend – he used to live over there, and he could see me from his back garden. My father never knew!”

We came back downstairs, settled down in the front room with coffee and fruit cake, and talked at length about E’s life in the intervening period (joined the Wrens, married a sailor, lived and worked all over the country). We talked about the changes in the village over the years – some for the better (buildings in better state of repair, a renewing sense of community), some for the worse (housing unaffordable for first time buyers, fewer local services). It was wonderful to be able to connect with the history of the house, and of the village, and to have met such a delightful, engaging, admirable lady.

Say it with flowers.

K and his mother have this long-standing running joke. It involves K swearing, and his mother pretending to be shocked. This usually happens when they’re on the phone:

K (to me): Mother says “Bollocks”.

Pause, during which I can hear muffled protests emerging from the receiver.

K (to his mother): Mike says “F*** off”.

Me (in loud voice): I NEVER SAID THAT!

Yesterday, K decided to send his mother some flowers for Mother’s Day. He got onto Talking Pages and was directed to a local flower shop called Darling Buds. There was a nice lady on the other end of the phone, who cheerfully took down all his details.

Nice lady from Darling Buds: And what message would you like us to write on the card, Sir?

K: Well, I hope this won’t shock you too much…but I’d like you to write “Bollocks to all that, love K”.

Pause. Polite, slightly nervous laughter.

Nice lady: Um…I won’t read that back to you, if you don’t mind.

K’s mother was thrilled with the flowers, but also said that she was thinking of popping into Darling Buds to apologise for her foul mouthed son. Ah, bless!