In the British Midland Airways Business Lounge at East Midlands airport, I quickly decided one thing about business class travel. It just gives you a different set of people to hate at airports. My God, but they were sniffing round the free drinks and nibbles like pigs round a trough. You’d think they’d never seen a free drink before in the whole of their wretched lives.

I watched as one corpulent reptile, his plate already stacked high with as many nuts, pretzels and biscuits as he could manage, bent down to grab a can of lager from the fridge. As he couldn’t be arsed to keep his plate straight during the manoeuvre, savoury snacks started rolling off his plate and all over the carpet around him. He didn’t give the mess a second glance, and wandered off, treading crushed peanuts underfoot. Well, one of those annoyingly perky “customer-friendly” hostesses could get on her hands and knees and clear it up, couldn’t she?

I had no expectations of the Amsterdam trip. Airport, hotel, office, airport, probably with no more than a quick trip round the corner for a bite to eat on the Thursday night. Humdrum stuff.

Once checked in, I meet two of my colleagues in the aforementioned “Cockpit” bar. Yes, it’s just as dull as I feared – an anonymous hotel bar on a perfectly ordinary street. The talk immediately turns to work. Hey-ho.

It turns out that there is an arrangement to meet two other colleagues, who are staying at a different hotel, at a bar called “Mankind”, as it is nearer to them. We jump in a cab and head off. Soon, we are crossing canals, passing interesting looking shops, and beautifully furnished canalside apartments with the lights on and the curtains open. In my six year absence, I had forgotten just how much I used to love coming to this city. From through the taxi window, I can already feel its pull.

“Mankind” is a quiet bar by a small bridge over a peaceful stretch of canal. The other guys are already sitting at the bar when we walk in – they’ve been drinking for longer than we have, and are in robust good humour. The five of us sit in a long line with our beers, playing scratch card games which involve answering multiple choice questions in Dutch. As a result, three of us win beer glasses. It’s all very male and very hearty.

I look round the bar. There are few other customers. I clock the bar’s logo, etched onto the plate glass windows. The word “Mankind” is displayed within an inverted triangle. Nestling behind this triangle is a second triangle. It is pink. Hmmm. I look at the posters on the wall: Princess Diana, various musicals, and a programme of events for something with a name like “Rosa Film Festival”. I clock the music that’s playing: The Supremes are merging into “It’s Raining Men”. I crane my neck to make out the title of the free magazines stacked up on the far end of the bar. The only word I can make out, in big white capitals, says GAY. The other 4 guys are all merrily chatting away with the moustachioed bartender in the denim shirt. One of the guys makes a pun which includes the word “bisexual”, to a chorus of hearty chuckles from the others. None of them know, do they? We’re sitting in the middle of a gay pub, and – typically for a bunch of straight guys, I muse – they haven’t twigged at all.

We say our farewells to the bartender and proceed to an Indonesian restaurant round the corner. It turns out that one of our number, S, lived here for 8 years, still comes over regularly on business, and is acting as our guide for the evening. It’s a decent place and we eat well.

At one point during the meal, S makes a joshing remark to B. Something to do with “You’ll have to go that Exit bar later on then.” Unable to restrain myself, I pipe up. “That’s a gay place, isn’t it?” I enquire, all wide-eyed faux naivety. None of these people work in Nottingham, so they don’t know I’m gay yet.

S and B both nod. “Yeah, that’s right.” Emboldened, I continue. “And we were in a gay bar just now, weren’t we?” Mild surprise round the table, as S nods again. “Oh yes.” There is an awkward pause. Not able to find a way of continuing this, I let the matter drop. They still don’t know I’m gay, but I guess they might be beginning to wonder now. Maybe that’s why there’s an awkward pause.

After the meal, S offers to take us round a few bars, so we head off towards the Rembrandtsplein. The first bar is OK, but it’s sparsely populated for its size, the music is much too loud, and you have to pay an attendant if you want a wee. On the wall high above us are a pair of mounted metal urinals, along with a collection of old sewing machines and TV sets.

The next bar is in the Rembrandtsplein itself. It has a name like “Smoking”. S takes us straight through to the rear area, near the pool tables. There is a large glass topped counter selling hash, weed, papers, bongs, pipes…and, to our great amusement, Viagra. Presumably, the consumption of the former necessitates the consumption of the latter, or something. At any rate, it’s a neat product tie-in. Well, when in Rome and all that. I start unwinding and become altogether jollier, wittier company.

Talking to S, I discover that “Mankind” was his local bar when he lived here – although it wasn’t gay back then. Since it changed hands, he has got to know the two guys who run it, and has continued to treat it as his “local” in Amsterdam. He clearly doesn’t see why his local should stop being his local just because it has changed hands – and quite right too. Behind his sometimes brusque manner in the office, I’ve decided that S is quite a cool guy. He also saw the Pistols and The Clash on the same bill together in 1977, which kind of settles it for me. That’s the sort of old punk that I am.

S leaves, and the rest of us move onto a bar on the other side of the square. It’s my favourite of all the bars tonight – a lovely, laid-back but metropolitan atmosphere. It’s getting late, and we are all jovially well oiled by now. I bring up the subject of “Mankind” again. Right, I’m going for it this time.

“I promised my boyfriend I’d behave myself while in Amsterdam – and what do you guys do? You drag me off to a gay bar before I’ve even been here an hour!” We all roar with laughter. Mission accomplished.

Pet Shop Boys – Release

Hey hey, it’s the new, non-ironic, heart-warmingly sincere, guitar-based Pet Shop Boys! And I, for one, love it. This is the “Behaviour Part 2” that I’ve been waiting for all these years, and it’s easily their best album since “Very”. The dance beats are for the most part absent; in their place, we have Johnny Marr’s gorgeous guitar work on most of the tracks. The PSBs were once famously described as “The Smiths you can dance to”, so it feels like a logical progression.

“I Get Along” has the sort of instantly radio-friendly hook-line chorus which positively screams “future single”. It’s a song about the resignation/sacking of Peter Mandelson, as sung from Tony Blair’s perspective, which also reads just as well as an ode to a failed romance. Other immediate stand-out tracks: “The Night I Fell In Love” tells the tale of a teenage boy’s night of passion with a well known homophobic rapper (“We should be together!”), and “Here”, with its deft little nods to The Flirts’ “Passion”, is nothing short of sublime. Like the single “Home and Dry”, it has a personally relevant lyric which just melts my soul. Nuff said.

Ignore the lukewarm critical response. If you thought, like me, that Neil and Chris were losing it after the distinctly underwhelming “Nightlife” album, then think again. There’s life in the old poofs yet.

Like Michael Jackson at Liza’s wedding, I have been a man of few words this week. This is because I have been saving all my words for Chapter Three of The Naked Novel (now online). Now, I am all worded out. Frankly, I am sick of words.

So, instead of more tired prose from little old burned-out moi, here are some much better words, plucked from my bloggers’ sidebar. In each case, the links go directly to the article in question.

1. On Fantabulosa, Steve considers the problem of sexual abuse in the Catholic Church in a fresh, humane light.

2. On Secret Kings, Peter promotes a pacifist response to the Israel/Palestine situation. The real meat of the discussion then moves to his comments box (start at the bottom, and read up).

3. And finally, my old mate Buni experiences a profound, maybe even life-changing weekend. This is so searingly personal that I feel slightly strange even linking to it – he certainly didn’t write it to attract the hits. But I still think that you – and he – might benefit from your reading it. If you do, then promise me that you’ll keep reading until the end of the piece. That’s important. Then go back and look at the title of the article one more time.

That’s it from me for now. Back at the weekend. Mwah mwah.

In the city centre this warm, sunny lunchtime, everyone seems to be wearing one layer less.

Oh, just look at you, sitting there in the Old Market Square, with your cropped hair, shades and nice shirt. Do you even know how good you look? And you over there, crossing the road towards me, in your snug fitting T-shirt and jeans. And you. And you. And you.

Springtime lust. It catches me out, every year.

And tonight - Amsterdam. My work colleague has asked me to meet him in a bar called The Cockpit. Yes, I wondered about that too.

Queen Mother rises from dead, hailed as Second Coming.
(via plasticbag)

Top 20 IT Anthems. No, this is not an April's Fool. Unbelievably hilarious. My ears, my ears!

My contribution to The Naked Novel (Chapter 3) is now loaded. Woo! I'm a writer!

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box – Item 5.
Gina X - No G.D.M. (Dedicated To Quentin Crisp) (1979) (5.25mb)

Although this single first came out in 1979, for me it belongs more truly to late 82 / early 83, when it was a big favourite in the clubs I used to frequent. Never a hit, it was just one of those weird tunes that sometimes slowly emerge from the leftfield and end up hanging around for years. Grace Jones meets Eartha Kitt meets Berlin decadence. Wonderfully atmospheric and strangely timeless.

The "G.D.M." in the title refers to the unattainable "great dark man" of Quentin Crisp's imaginings. The Stately Homo's Eternal Paradox: longing for the sort of man who, by definition, could never be attracted to someone like him.

Someone Googled me this morning looking for this very MP3. Well, here it is then...

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!

I'm thinking of moving my hosting over to Bogger. What do you think?
(via east/west)

The last time I went to Amsterdam was six years ago, for a job interview. At the time, K was still spending about one week per month in Finland. As he was always obliged to change flights in Schiphol, en route to Helsinki (and thence to Turku), it would have made quite a lot of sense for us to relocate. However, I didn’t get the job (not enough directly relevant experience), and K broke away from Finland later that year (to set up on his own).

Yesterday, I found out that my presence is required in Amsterdam on Friday – in the very same building where I had my interview in 1996. I’ll be flying over tomorrow evening.

Id quot circumiret, circumveniat.

Just in case you were wondering what happened to her…

A quick note of explanation. If your blog is on my sidebar, then I'm currently reading you regularly. If your blog is not on my sidebar, then I might still be reading you - but not quite so often. Okay? Okay.

Of course, the thing about placing all 680 tracks on your DAP jukebox onto Shuffle Mode is that you never quite know when you're going to be hit with all 22 minutes and 50 seconds of "Supper's Ready" by Genesis. Not that I'm complaining, mind...

A flower?

He's miserable and depressed. Cheer him up.

Some hugely relieving news from the official Eurovision site:So, even though none of our gang have managed to get tickets (save Chig, who has once again gained press accreditation for all the rehearsals and press conferences), it will be worth being in Tallinn after all. And a big Phew to that.

Oh, here we go. I see that I am now at #2 on Google for "queen mother funeral tuesday day off".

Don't think it's going to happen - do you? Not a full state funeral, you see. Only the wife of a head of state.

I have to say that I thought Chazza did rather a good job on ITN. Quite a touching tribute. Only a cynic would add that it was also a nice pre-emptive strike against Tony "I feel your pain" Blair's inevitable crocodile tears, and a pointed rebuff against the BBC for what has been seen in some quarters as less than satisfactorily reverential coverage. Chazza's really getting quite media savvy these days, isn't he?

Words, words, words. I am awash with words. Yesterday, I wrote over 4,700 of them, hunched over K’s laptop in a marathon creative writing session (over 10 hours, breaking only at mealtimes). An incorrigible daydreamer with the attention span of a goldfish, I astonished myself with the sustained level of concentration I poured into the task. Not having written any fiction whatsoever for around 25 years, the experience was at once immensely difficult and intensely thrilling. I found myself almost entirely inhabiting the separate reality of the fiction – as vivid as a waking dream – and felt largely detached from my actual physical reality (sitting in the morning room of the cottage on a quiet Easter Monday). Whenever I talked to K (which wasn’t a great deal), I found it quite difficult to switch realities and to fully reconnect. Freaky.

I had spent most of the weekend assembling the plot in my head, ordering and embellishing the scenes, developing the characters, and mentally checking for loose ends. By yesterday morning, things had reached the stage where committing them to actual words felt like an absolute physical imperative. If I didn’t get the words down, the ideas would never leave my head, and I rather wanted my brainspace back.

I still have the last two scenes to write – including the final cliffhanger. Next will come the revisions, the corrections, the augmentations, the general tickling up. K has already reviewed yesterday’s draft and has made some useful suggestions. He has also provided me with some crucial scientific information, which formed the initial spur for the entire plotline.

And what a plotline! If there’s one thing that I can guarantee, it is this. The style might be trite – the characters might be thin – the dialogue might be stilted – but the plot? The plot ROCKS.

This is the most fun yet.

No time to blog. Too busy writing Chapter Three. Hey, this fiction lark is alright!

Betty Bowes-Lyon - a nation quietly contemplates:
"So, are we getting the day off, or what?"

"Constitutional expert" Lord St John of Fawsley, quoted in today's Observer, has truly surpassed himself this time:I now have a vivid mental picture of the old love, in his nightcap and nightgown, kneeling at the foot of his bed, hands solemnly clasped together in prayer, mumbling to the Almighty: "Thank you, O Lord - thank you for letting me be friends with the Queen Mother!"