Me old mucker Buni turns 30 today. This is something of a milestone, as Buni was the last of our immediate circle of friends still to be in his twenties. So, as of today, we no longer hang out with any twentysomethings. Ulp. Would anyone like to apply for the vacant position of Official Youth Representative?

Happy birthday, Buni! The celebrations start in the next half hour - followed by Fiat Lux's birthday celebrations tomorrow. Hmm - I feel a Good Old Fashioned Big Gay Boozy Weekend coming on...

If you came here at 8.50 this morning by following a link from I'm Hip To You, and if you have a co.uk domain, then - congratulations! You were visitor number 10,000 to this site!

Top Time-Saving Tips For Lift Users.

In our lifts, the optimum time to press the "door close" button is on the preposition.
"Seventh floor. Doors opening. Going up."
Any later, and you're wasting time. Any earlier, and you're wasting energy.
Why am I the only person in the whole building who has worked this out?
On the preposition. Always on the preposition.

BNP wins three seats in Burnley.

Well, maybe Burnley simply has an unusually high proportion of ignorant, gullible wankers. But I hardly think that's fair to the people of Burnley. Alternatively, maybe Burnley has an unusually high proportion of severely pissed off, disenfranchised working class people leading thoroughly miserable existences, who have lost faith so absolutely in the main political parties, with their utter inability to offer effective solutions, that they have ultimately been driven into the arms of persuasive tub-thumpers offering easy sounding "solutions".

It's a protest vote. It's ugly, and it's unpalatable, but mainstream politicians ignore it at their peril. So may I humbly suggest that a bit of - shriek! - socialism be deployed in these economically ravaged, socially dysfunctional areas of need? You want to combat national socialism? Well, try a bit of good old-fashioned interventionist, redistributive socialism, then.

Update. Martijn leaves some sensible comments (see below), and expands on his theme on his own blog. I agree with his overall analysis, which is of a more Pan-European hue. It is at once comforting and disturbing to realise that we in this country are not alone with the problem of the ultra-nationalist racist right.

Well, tell me something I don't already know...
How gay are you? Take Channel 4's official Gay-O-Meter test, then tell me.
via Life As It Happens (40%), and then Naked Blog(36%)

David must be the only gay man in London who actually does use his digital camera to capture hauntingly beautiful snapshots of urban life, sensitively composed observations of the natural world, fascinatingly oblique portrait studies, and the like. Now, he has created an archive of all those gorgeous random images which he uses at the top of Swish Cottage.

The other day, Vaughan asked his readers what had inspired them recently. Well, that's my answer. It's time to get more visually creative.

The one (and so far, the only) big drawback to going broadband? The endless slurry of pop-under adverts. I got back from work today and found around fifteen of the little f***ers littering up my taskbar.

The answer? Pop-Up Stopper. Free, quick to install, and it works perfectly. In fact, it has probably taken me longer to blog about the product than it did to Google for it, download it, install it and start it up.

One little thing. By default, the software won't let you bring comments windows up. But if you hold down CTRL or SHIFT while clicking on the link, it will. A fine little product, all told.

"She doesn’t do such a bad job really, you know." The sheer polemical force just stops you dead in your tracks, doesn't it? Worthy of Cicero himself...

Look, I would be a republican like that. At the drop of a hat. After all, I still entertain fond imaginings of myself as an unreconstructed Old Labourite, and as such, republicanism would be the natural accessory to my ideological prêt-a-porter outfit.

But it just won’t wash. As I see it, there are two choices. Queenie is there because she was born to it, and trained into it. Ambition does not enter into her emotional make-up (how could it?). Nor does material greed (how could it?). Her motivation: public service. A president would be there as a result of his/her own naked, unashamed ambition, with favours curried, deals struck and palms greased along the way. His/her motivation? Personal aggrandisement.

I mean – come on. After the brutal ravages of the Thatcherites and the duplicitous, self-seeking cynicism of the Blairites, is there truly any notion left in this country of public service simply for its own reward? And who would be up for the job, anyway? Branson, maybe? Archer certainly would have been. What chance would any of them have of being a unifying influence? And is this a good time to mention Chirac and Le Pen - or Bush and Gore, for that matter?

I looked at that photo taken this week of Queenie with her five surviving Prime Ministers. The PMs all looking tense, united only in mutual loathing, trying to hide the hatchets behind their backs. Queenie looking, frankly, radiant – beaming from ear to ear. No hatchets necessary. Above all that, thank you. Higher values on her mind.

She doesn’t do such a bad job really, you know - and the money she costs us is, in the grand scale of things (education, health, welfare, stupid bloody nuclear weapons still cluttering the place up - now there's overpriced uselessness for you), peanuts. Besides which, she's in good company; most of my favourite, most socially progressive Northern European countries still have their monarchs in place. A pity about most of that family of hers – with certain noble exceptions – but then you can’t have everything. Charles isn’t completely useless either – I particularly liked what Stuart had to say this week in his defence. I can’t help but detect a slight softening of attitude going on towards the old girl, either. OK, so maybe it’s carefully stage-managed pre-Jubilee hype. But I’m inclined to take a slightly more charitable view than that.

So what am I trying to say here? To reappropriate the words of Sellars & Yeatman (of 1066 & All That fame): Monarchism is Wrong but Romantic, whereas Republicanism is Right but Repulsive. The monarchy is just the lesser of the two evils, I guess. Or, in other words…

Gawd bless yer, ma’am!

All We Like Ducks.

“How do you do it?” I asked K last night. “You’re always so relaxed, so self-assured and engaging at those kinds of semi-formal occasions. I wish I found them half as easy as you do.”

That’s when he told me that, at such times as those, he feels like a duck. Gliding along smoothly on the surface, feet pedalling furiously down below, out of sight. As smooth as he might appear, he never stops that pedalling for one moment.

It’s an arresting image. I cast my mind back to that roomful of smart, polished people of position, all radiating effortless composure and calm confidence, walking around, smiling and nodding at each other. And then I imagine the furious pedalling below the surface. All we like ducks, indeed.

Biggin’ Up Me Homies.

Every year in this fair city of ours, a big, well publicised auction takes place of selected works by leading local contemporary artists. K and I used to wander down every year and take a look at the preview exhibition – until one year in the mid-nineties, when the quality was so unimpressive that we promptly lost interest.

This year, the venue has changed, and there are new people selecting the works for inclusion. One is a friend of ours, and another is possibly our favourite local painter. Yesterday evening, we attended the official launch party, and – well – we were amazed and delighted by the improved quality of the works. There was some truly lovely stuff on display. This is the second large exhibition of local contemporary art which we have seen this year – after a long period of relative disinterest – and it is striking to observe just how far things have progressed in this city of late. Good stuff is being produced. There is an optimistic buzz in the air. It is wonderful to behold.

The auction takes place on Saturday 11 May. The reserve prices are quite astonishingly reasonable, in my opinion. Well worth a visit.

The Arts Centre itself – which comprises an art gallery, concert hall and theatre – now has a new director (of only 8 weeks’ standing) with a strong track record behind her. We took to her instantly. She has plans, and clearly means business. Things are happening round here once again.

Gareth Gates / Travis Fimmel Secret Videotape Sex Party.

I lied. So sue me.

Coming up later on Troubled Diva:
- Why I Like Queenie (All Things Considered)
- All We Like Ducks
- Biggin’ Up Me Homies
- Gareth Gates / Travis Fimmel Secret Videotape Sex Party

K and I have quite different – in fact, directly opposing – attitudes towards diaries. He steadfastly refuses to keep a “social” diary, as he finds that the thought of having his spare time pre-booked in advance oppresses him. I therefore act as his social secretary. It is my job to ensure that social/cultural engagements do not clash, and that plenty of “free” time is slotted in between them.

Conversely, I love having plenty of events to look forward to. Without these fixed points ahead of me, life can seem flat and directionless. The fuller my diary, the happier I am. My problem is more with spontaneity. K loves to act on the spur of the moment – “Let’s go out for a meal / Let’s see what’s on at the cinema tonight.” However, my initial, default reaction is often negative. Mentally, I will already have earmarked the evening ahead for something else (however unimportant), and the idea of giving it all up to do something else can oppress me, just as fixed plans can oppress K.

It’s one of the trickiest balances which we have to strike. We are both extreme cases, pulling in opposite directions. However, I think that the dynamic equilibrium we generally (if not always) manage to obtain works to our mutual benefit. He needs a bit of organising. I need to loosen up and let go. Compromises don’t have to be sell-outs; they can be healthy.

(The same applies with punctuality. I used to be anally punctual, and would stress out quite hideously if I was running late. K used to be appallingly late for most things, and fairly indifferent about it. Nowadays, we are generally slightly late for most things. I have learnt to relax more about being late, and K has learnt to focus more on being punctual.)

So, like Chig, let me list all the things that I’m currently looking forward to. The things which shape my immediate future, and give it meaning.

Sat May 4 – Buni’s 30th birthday bash @ Walton’s.
Sun May 5 – Fiat Lux’s birthday meal @ Hart’s restaurant.
Mon May 6 – Bank holiday.
Tue May 7 – Kylie @ Birmingham NEC.
Tue May 14 – Beautiful Thing @ Nottingham Playhouse.
Wed May 15 – Black Rebel Motorcycle Club @ Rock City.
Fri May 24 – Fly to Helsinki, catamaran to Tallinn.
Sat May 25 – Eurovision in Tallinn.
Tue May 29 – Le Tigre @ The Social.
Fri May 31 – The Musical Box @ the Royal Concert Hall.
Mon June 3 – Two day Golden Jubilee holiday
Fri June 7 – Brian Wilson @ the Royal Concert Hall.
Thu June 13 – John Martyn @ Newark Palace Theatre.
Sat June 15 – Pulp, live in Sherwood Forest (Edwinstowe).
Wed July 10 – Madonna in “Up & Under” @ the Wyndhams Theatre.
Tue July 16 – Pet Shop Boys @ the Royal Concert Hall.
Mon Oct 10 – Bryan Ferry @ the Royal Concert Hall.

I love this time of year (May/June), because it’s when the diary always starts filling up with treats. And it’s treats which keep me sweet.

K has just come back from giving a big after dinner speech, at a prestigious gathering somewhere in town. He's looking particularly smart and dapper tonight, and so has decided that he would like a public record of this ("I want a nice photo of myself on your blog, so everyone can see me!")

So here we are then. My lovely boyfriend, in his lovely suit and tie!



(Oh, and he insisted that Audrey get in on the act, as well.)

After a disappointing month for site stats (my graph showing a very slight dip from March - clearly, I should never have warned you all about those lengthy breaks in service), I am pleased to report a record day today: 162 visitors, with only 2 minutes left to go. What an encouraging thing to happen on the site's half-birthday. Thank you. Thank you, even if you are one of the many, many people who come here in search of naked pictures of Gareth Gates, or to ogle Travis Fimmel, or to find out whether Dermot O'Leary is gay or not. You too have played your part in my success. Thank you.

The Troubled Diva Old Curiosity Box – Item 11.
C-Bank - One More Shot (1983) (7.60mb)

Bought on pre-release white label in the early Spring of 1983, on the strength of a chance hearing in Nottingham's late lamented Arcade Records, this went on to become my favourite single of the year - pushing even New Order's "Blue Monday" into second place. It's a stunning, glacially emotive piece of intricately layered vocal electro, which sounded like nothing else which went before it. The missing link between Yazoo in 1982 and Shannon in late 1983/early 1984.

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!

More on the mysterious case of "Listen To The Placemats", my fantasy single by my fantasy post-punk artrock band (see here, and here). My source - who has been chasing this single for years - informs me that:Now, this is getting really scary. Dining Room Records was my fantasy independent label, and EAT1 was indeed my fantasy catalogue number. But how the hell did this information get into a book, that's what I want to know? I have been racking my brains over this, but am still none the wiser. I can only assume that - in order to perpetuate the fantasy - I must have submitted details of the "single" to somebody, somewhere.

My collector wants to know if there is any Placemats material still in existence, "even if it's not so very good." It is partly with sorrow, but mainly with relief, that I have to inform him that the cassettes all got chucked out years ago. However, I am still word perfect on the lyrics. Now, please remember that I was only 16, and steeped in so many layers of impenetrable adolescent know-it-all irony that even I didn't always know quite how to interpret myself. These lyrics are a case in point. They are deliberately meant to be pathetic crap. I thought this was clever and funny, you see.

OK, enough defensive arse-covering. Try to imagine a close approximation of the riff to The Ramones "Pinhead" in your head...and away we go.

I haven't yet decided whether Tag Boards (see top left hand corner) are a) The Next Big Thing In Blogging or b) A Naff Little Gimmick Which Will Never Catch On. I guess that rather depends on what (if anything) you lot do with mine.
(Via Prolific).

Online personality quizzes, jokey viral e-mails, and now a bleeding chatroom, of all things! It's a been a strange old day on Troubled Diva, that's for sure.

Time to break a third rule (see below)...

Which David Bowie are you?

Like Groc, I wouldn't normally do this kind of thing - but look, it's Bowie!

Troubled Diva is six months old today, and goodness me, hasn’t it been a weird and wonderful emotional journey for us all, eh readers? From the early days of shallow flippancy, pointless lists, showing off, and trying to sound like Popbitch, through the intensity of the 40 In 40 Days Project (during which I both found my natural writing voice and a large proportion of my readership), and culminating in today’s much loved blend of incisive cultural commentary, searingly honest self-analysis, shallow flippancy, showing off and trying to sound like Swish Cottage / Wherever You Are / Blogadoon / Hydragenic / not.so.soft / Dust From A Distant Sun / Naked Blog / Secret Kings and everyone else on my own personal A-list of Blogstars, we have truly come a long way, baby.

During those six months, I have systematically broken every rule which I set for myself at the outset of this little project. I have blogged about sex (albeit tastefully). I have blogged about drugs (albeit critically). I have blogged about work (albeit obliquely). I have blogged about what was on TV last night, and what I had for lunch. I have even – horror of horrors! – blogged about the act of blogging itself. There are, however, two little rules which I have yet to break, so maybe now is the time to break them.

Firstly, my first ever “sorry about the quality” statement. Troubled Diva has, in my opinion, been piss-poor recently. This is mainly due to work pressures which have largely robbed me of the power of creative expression. This will change. Promise.

Secondly, I have never blogged a “viral” e-mail – it’s just a lazy way of generating cheap content, innit? Well, such rules are there to be broken, and since I received a viral e-mail this morning which made me laugh out loud…

...and on Sunday, David of Swish Cottage had a surprise birthday party, arranged by Marcus. The creme de la creme of gay London blogdom were, of course, well represented (Clique? Did I hear you say clique? Pah - the very thought!) - which meant that I had the double pleasure of meeting both Dave In London and Scally David for the first time. It was also good to see Ian and Jonathan again. I've only met them once before, but they already felt like old friends. This is either another bizarre side-effect of the whole blogging experience, or a tribute to their warmth and wonderfulness - or, most likely, both.

The party duly repaired en masse to - where else? - The Royal Vauxhall Tavern, which was conveniently situated a brisk stroll away from Marcus's flat. This was my first visit to the RVT on a Sunday afternoon since my Tradebabe Glory Days of 1996-97, when we used to finish off our debauched weekends by going to watch Adrella's weekly performance. Not a lot has changed - it's still the same shabby dive that it always was - but therein lies its charm, you see. I found this lack of change rather reassuring, and it felt good - no, it felt great - to reconnect with a world that I haven't been part of for a long time.

So what has changed in the last five years? Well, there is now some state-of-the-art multi-coloured rope lighting along the back wall, which certainly adds some glamourous razzle-dazzle to the proceedings. Why, you could almost be in Gran Canaria! Adrella has now been put out to grass, and replaced by The D.E. Experience. Nominally, this is a drag act based round Dame Edna, but that's just a starting point for all manner of topical humour, live songs (no lip-synch here, thank you) and general audience abuse. Songs included Better The Devil You Know, Losing My Mind and the statutory encore of You Don't Have To Say You Love Me - three classic anthems for doomed queens with f***ed-up emotional lives the world over. Funny how everyone knew all the words and sang along so passionately, then...

The other major change: instead of chucking us out after the drag act, and thus forcing us along the street to the (now defunct) Market Tavern, the RVT now stays open all the way through to midnight. The venue instantly turns into a miniature version of Love Muscle, with cheerful cheesy music and wall to wall nipples. The very moment that the music started, seemingly half the pub simultaneously flung their shirts off, as if to an invisible signal. It was really very delightful to behold. The place becomes packed beyond belief, which means that you simply have to stake your claim to your own personal space, and accept the inevitability of being constantly wedged against naked, sweaty male torsos. There are greater privations in the world, it has to be said. Howvever, you are now at liberty to wander outside onto the street for a smoke or a chat, and then wander back in again when you're ready for more relentless flesh-pressing.

I noticed a few subtle shifts of emphasis in the London gay male dress code, as well. Long gone are the Ben Shermans, the 501s, the combat trousers, and those petrol blue zip-fronted nylon Schott jackets (you know the ones). Denim jeans are very much back though, in darker shades than before - but the biggest change for me was all the football kit that the queens seem to be wearing these days. It's the latest re-appropriation of a masculine uniform, and as such I guess it was inevitable at some stage - but it came as a surprise to me to discover just how much this has caught on.

Anyway. We danced, and danced, and drank, and danced, and mouthed all the words to the cheesy cover version of Evergreen ("I'm gonna take this moment / and make it last forever..."), and it was all simply too, too divine, and David clearly had a wonderful birthday, and I am so glad that Marcus invited me down, and it was genuinely such an honour and a delight to be there with them and with everybody else, and I wouldn't have wanted to be anywhere else last Sunday, and I'd love to tell you just one more thing, but I won't.