Banana Republic in Chicago. I do love Banana Republic, and it's a shame that we don't have it in the UK. On the other hand: maybe I only love Banana Republic because we don't have it in the UK - you know, that whole slightly recherche exoticism thing. Which, considering that Banana Republic is just a marginally groovier version of The Gap, is kinda silly.

D&G, this one. No, not Dolce & Gabanna - it's the diffusion range, sweetie. The only shirt in my collection with press-stud fastenings, for that nifty "off in 5 seconds flat" effect. A bit of a tight fit, unfortunately - I bought it in a rush and have slightly lived to regret not going up a size.

After today's renewed verbosity, a mini-break is imminent. I shall now be without any Internet access until Monday. If the Blogger Pro "Future" facility works OK, then the next three exciting episodes of the Shirt Off My Back Project should appear automatically between now and then. Ta-ra.

Update: Well, so much for the Blogger Pro "Future" facility, then - all is explained (by Stuart) in the comments.

Look, does anyone really want to read about the final three days of my Vietnam trip? I've got all the notes stashed away in my little leather notebook, but I never seem to get round to writing them up - and the further away I get from the holiday, the less enthusiastic I get about the task.

The reason I'm asking is this: I have a confession to make. You know when bloggers start blogging about their holidays? You know how it's always "blah blah blah beautiful monument...blah blah blah delicious local cuisine...." Well, you know what? Most times, I don't bother reading those bits. I just skip straight on to the entries which describe their normal everyday lives.

I have no real idea why this should be so, but just in case you're all doing the same with my Vietnam pieces - and I wouldn't blame you, not for one minute - I just thought I'd check before continuing.

Every lunchtime, on my way to the deli, I run the same gauntlet of Big Issue sellers, charity workers and market researchers, all solicitously plying their trade on the paved area outside Littlewoods and the Ann Summers shop. At the very end of this gauntlet, just at the bottom of Pelham Street, there is always a nicely turned out Young Person, handing out flyers for a big, shiny, glossy mega-club night called Love Zoo.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I have no desire to attend Love Zoo, and I don’t really need a flyer for it, either. But what rankles – only very slightly, mind – is this. The aforementioned Young People (it changes from day to day) must hand out literally hundreds of these things, but in all the weeks they have been standing there, not once have they ever handed one to me.

No, it’s not even that which rankles me. Sure, I’m more than a bit too old for those kind of shenanigans now. I know full well that I’m not in their target demographic. What I think really rankles me, is this.

They don’t even look at me.

They don’t throw me even so much as the most cursory glance, before deciding that I’m too old for their club night. They haven’t even noticed that I exist. I have now reached the age where I am actually invisible to Young People. And that does rankle. Only a bit (Jeez, I got the whole mid-life crisis thing out of the way three years ago now), but just enough to give me a little twinge of dismay, as I wander into the Atlas deli for my latte, smoothie and sandwich.

---

I also can’t help noticing the names of two of the main DJs at Love Zoo: Graeme Park and Alister Whitehead. Local heroes both, and both around my age or thereabouts. Between 1984 and 1989, when he was resident at The Garage and The Kool Kat (same venue, different name), I danced to Graeme Park’s music on a regular basis. He was one of the very first DJs in the country to start playing house music (from the summer of 1986 onwards), and was probably my main inspiration to start DJ-ing myself. And now, in 2002, he and Alister are still doing their thing, to a whole new generation, and I’m no longer invited to the party.

Which makes me wonder. Isn’t it a bit lonely, being a 40 year old DJ? Stuck away in your booth, while kids half your age cavort the night away? Don’t you need the support of a peer group to do that sort of thing best of all, so that you still retain a true connection with your crowd? And what on earth are these people going to do by the time they hit 50?

Via the Yes/No Interlude: a nicely done demolition job on one of the most extraordinary pieces of writing about pop music that I have read in a long time. Basically, some guy has put together an (unintentionally) hilarious list of his Top 40 pop songs of all time with a "Conservative message". Really, it has to be read to be believed. And now this guy is answering back. I'm enjoying this.

Robbie Williams as Dougal.
Kylie Minogue as Florence.
Joanna Lumley as Ermintrude.
Jim Broadbent as Brian.
Richard O'Brien as Zebedee.

But not until 2004. Gah! I can't wait that long!

And who's going to play Dylan?

You’ve got to say this about Beth Orton fans: they all look like thoroughly nice people. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I attended a concert where the audience all looked so downright - well - nice is the only word for it. I don’t mean that in a snidey way, either – gazing round the venue before the show, I thought: you lot are just the sort of people I could be friends with.

To give you an example of just how much Niceness there was floating around: in the Gents toilets, there were two blokes in the queue for the lock-ups loudly comparing moisturisers. Body Shop, apparently, is the one to get. They obviously hadn’t tried Molton Brown, then. Why, I had to restrain myself from butting in. I feel sure they would have Valued My Contribution, though.

I’m prevaricating, aren’t I? That’s because there is so little to say about either of the acts. In fact, it was only the knowledge that I was going to have to blog about them that kept me awake at times. Otherwise, my entire review would have read, in classic schoolboy essay fashion: and then I woke up, and it had all been a dream. Our English teacher actually ended up banning us from finishing our essays with that sentence. Did yours?

Ed Harcourt, then. To be true to the spirit of the evening, perhaps I should start by being as positive as I possibly can. He is clearly a hard working and sincere musician, who puts every effort into his craft. He and his band had obviously spent a long time rehearsing, and the result was an immaculately arranged, perfectly executed and polished performance. As Dymbel and I said to each other: now all he needs is the songs, the voice, and the stage presence. Oh, and a personality. Then he’d be fantastic, I reckon.

Beth Orton, then. Oh dear. She’s obviously such a lovely, sweet person, and I don’t want to say anything which might hurt her feelings. I’m not one of those nasty NME writers, for whom cruelty is their stock in trade. I’m nice Mike. (Which reminds me: when I was on the uk-motss mailing list back in 1996-97, I was given that nickname: Nice Mike. Cute, huh?)

Beth Orton, then. A lovely, sweet person, who even made dedications between the songs – for a little boy in the audience who was celebrating his 10th birthday (ah, bless), and for the bass player’s Auntie Heather, up there in the circle. And she told a few crap jokes, and got all embarrassed and giggly, and all the nice people in the audience went: ah, bless. Nice blouse. Nice hair, as well. Really quite fanciable, in an accessible, “I could actually imagine her being my girlfriend” kind of way.

But oh, the sheer tedium of it all. Seventeen songs – seventeen! One hour and three quarters on stage. Nice Beth and her equally nice band just kept amiably but ineffectually tootling away, with the same immaculately executed musicianship (violin, cello, stand-up bass, classy stuff) and it went on, and on, and on, and I kept trying to keep myself awake – for the sake of the blog, obviously – but dear God, it was an uphill struggle. The show had much the same effect on me as a particularly dull PowerPoint presentation in a darkened meeting room. The endless repetition, delivered in the same soothing, sonambulistic tones. Like being slowly smothered in cotton wool. I was in sore need of a Biro to jab into my palm. Dymbel even caught me yawning – but then, he was almost as bored as I was. A few rows behind us, Beyoncé, Stereoboard and Stereoboardina were apparently wriggling in their seats like naughty schoolchildren in school assembly, making rude comments in sign language and using their fingers to count the songs out in binary (that’s how I know that there were seventeen of them). Anything to pass the time, basically.

I tried to find things to concentrate on. The words, for example. Trouble was, you couldn’t quite catch them properly; Beth’s diction was not all it could have been. The occasional line would catch my attention (“And I can still smell you on my fingers, and taste you on my breath”), and I’d prick up my ears and make an extra special effort – and then, somehow, five minutes would have elapsed, and the song would be over, and I would have been right in the middle of thinking about something else.

The biggest problem of all, though, was Beth’s voice. Delightful in small doses, but desperately restricted in emotional range - so that after twenty minutes or so, it had no more tricks left to reveal. After forty-five minutes or so, it had started to grate. After an hour and forty-five minutes, you never wanted to hear it again, for fear that it might induce a sudden narcoleptic attack.

At the end of the main set, I looked around at the nice people in the audience (that still sounds a bit snide, doesn’t it – well trust me, it’s honestly not meant to be), and they all seemed…satisfied. That’s the best word for it: they all had thoroughly satisfied smiles on their faces. Well, I’m sorry. I don’t go to concerts to be satisfied. I go to be stirred, moved, thrilled, excited, overwhelmed. And last night’s show was only capable of delivering the last of these. Oh yes, I was bloody well overwhelmed all right. With boredom, do you hear!

Sorry.

There was clearly supposed to be a second encore. The lights stayed down, the stage stayed empty of roadies – but, after only the briefest of pauses, the audience all got up and drifted away. How embarrassing. Poor Beth. Perhaps she had planned to come back out for an extended rock and roll freakout, which would have had her screaming like a banshee and smashing up the stage in a mad frenzy. We shall never know.

Labels: top25

The first of the button-down checked shirts - and let me tell you, there'll be plenty more. Yes, I know you can't see the check - that's because it's a subtle, understated one. Unlike some of the others.

This is a Van Heusen number, which K brought back for me from Filene's bargain basement in Chicago. He's good to me like that. It's also exceptionally easy to iron, so it gets worn quite a lot.

The betting is still open! In fact, I'm going to keep it open until Wednesday October 16. So, if you want to enter the "when is Mike going to run out of shirts?" sweepstake, then cast your vote here. And remember - you could be the lucky winner of THE SHIRT OFF MY BACK!

Also, can I just remind "Real People" - i.e. people without their own blogs (and I know that you're out there) - that they are just as free to enter as other bloggers. You know on the comments box, where it says "e-mail" and "homepage"? Well, they're optional! You don't have to fill them in!

I know for a fact that some of you shy away from leaving comments here, so let me reassure you; it's perfectly safe to do so, and no-one can trace you. Not even Google can find you in there - meaning that the comments box is one of the last bastions of (relative) privacy left on the Internet. Go on - I dare you.

Today's funky little number was bought in a mad rush just before the Vietnam holiday, as part of The Great Short Sleeved Shirt Splurge Of 2002. It's a current favourite, particularly because of the outsized jumbo pointy collar (which doesn't show up here too clearly).

The label inside the collar says ALL SAINTS. Hmm, shouldn't that properly read APPLETON these days? Boom! Boom! It's the way I tell 'em!

If you want to enter the "when is Mike going to run out of shirts?" sweepstake, then cast your vote here. And remember - you could be the lucky winner of THE SHIRT OFF MY BACK!

1. @D2
74 Lower Parliament St, NG1 1EH
(link 1) (link 2)

In ye olden tymes, @D2 was known as the Admiral Duncan. It was a grubby, grotty, sleazy, cruisy dive, but it had atmosphere, and we all loved it despite ourselves. After the closure of the Kitsch club, and before the opening of NG1, the “Dunnie” was the only gay venue in town with a late licence. Accordingly, everyone flocked there in droves, queuing for up to half an hour outside, in order to slosh about to “Insomnia” in puddles of spilt lager and broken glass on the cramped little dancefloor.

That’s all a fading memory now, though. After a radical refit, the shabby old Admiral Duncan was reborn as the sleek new @D2 – a symphony of minimal mauves and whites, with curved seating booths where the old urinals used to be, and smart new unisex toilets. Only the very young and the very inebriated dance there now; partly because @D2 shuts at midnight (by which time NG1 is in full swing next door), and partly because – in the new spirit of 21st century openness – the blacked out windows have now been un-blacked, meaning that passers by on the street outside can now see you merrily bopping away inside. Which you don't want.

Something of the old Admiral Duncan atmosphere still remains, though. At weekends, @D2 is the liveliest and busiest of the Nottingham gay bars, with that pre-clubbing anticipatory buzz about it.

2. Angel Row Gallery
Central Library Building, 3 Angel Row, NG1 6HP

Don’t you hate the way that people use the word “space” in that very particular way, when describing galleries and theatres? Well, I’m going to do just that.

Situated next to the main library, the Angel Row Gallery is a capacious and thoroughly wonderful exhibition “space” for contemporary art, with an excellent track record behind it. Gillian Wearing, Anish Kapoor and, ooh, loads more people who I can’t remember right now, have all exhibited here. Sometimes it’s lazy crap, sometimes it’s inspiring genius, sometimes it’s halfway between the two – but every exhibition there is always worth checking out, if only to leave a piercingly accurate little comment in their guest book.

Honorary mentions also go to the Bonington Gallery (at Trent University), which doesn’t get used nearly enough, and to the upstairs exhibition “space” inside Nottingham Castle, which is really putting itself on the map these days (most notably with a major Warhol exhibition earlier in the year).

3. Aspecto Clothing
Long Row, NG1 2HW

My favourite place in town for shoes upstairs (Campers, Vans and the like) and casual clothing downstairs (Carhartt, Schott and the like).

4. Atlas Delicatessen
9 Pelham St, NG1 2EH

Having finally said goodbye to Pret A Manger (the sandwiches may be lovely and the male employees may be gorgeous, but a soulless identikit chain is still a soulless identikit chain, and I Just Don’t Approve), I now spend all my lunchtimes in this truly excellent (if pricey) little deli. Best cup of coffee in town. In fact – dare I say it? – the only properly made lattes and espressos in town. (Honestly, you don't know what Hell it is to be me sometimes.)

5. Bluu
5 Broadway, Lace Market, NG1 1PR
(official site) (Observer review)

All hail The New Nottingham! This late-licensed bar is where you’ll find all the smartly dressed City Living Apartment set, knocking back the cocktails and talking over the top of the sometimes excellent live jazz in the basement. Philistines! Hey, but you’ve got to have somewhere to wear your trendy new clothes, right?

The Bluu crowd is not exactly my kind of crowd – too sleek, too flash, too confident – but it's still a good place to drop in on every now and again, especially late on. There’s also a pretty good restaurant adjoining the upstairs bar - standard stuff, but nicely executed and not too expensive.

Jump to next section.

Labels: mynottingham

There are some personal blogs which offer such acutely well-observed detail that, after following them for a while, I become immersed in their authors' lives to an extraordinary degree. One such blog is the consistently excellent one thousand secret kings, whose author (another Peter) has recently moved back to one of my favourite cities on the planet: Boston, Massachusetts.

Now, there have been times over the months, particularly when Peter talks about the relatively quiet, ordered sobriety of his life, when I have found myself wanting to say: look, get out there. Go dancing, go wild, let your hair down, lose control, have fun, and see what happens. And then tell us about it. I don't know exactly why I have sometimes felt like saying this, but I think it stems mostly from curiosity - to find out what would happen if Peter were to do that kind of thing. Which makes him sound like some kind of lab rat, but such is the nature of our medium. Oh, okay then, it's just me.

Anyway. So guess what Peter did last weekend? He went out with a big bunch of seasoned circuit queens to a Big Gay Disco, threw himself into the whole experience, and then wrote it up on the following Monday. Now, how obliging is that?

Even by the high standards of secret kings, this is an outstanding piece: a richly evocative, erm, evocation of the highs and lows of the whole Big Gay Clubbing Thang, written with the unflinching clarity of an outside observer. Well worth reading. I commend it to the group.

Last week on the Naked Blog Tag Board, the assembled throng were talking about the old Bingo nicknames. You remember them, don’t you? Legs 11. Clickety-click, 66. Two little ducks, 22. Two fat ladies, 88. That kind of thing.

What I hadn’t realised until Peter (himself a bingo caller) explained, is that the old nicknames have now been abolished entirely. Bingo is a serious business these days, and there is no longer any time for such frippery – which I think is rather a shame. But then I’m not a bingo player, so I think I might be missing the point of the whole experience with my misplaced romantic nostalgia.

A quick spot of Googling revealed a full glossary of the various calls that were used – some familiar, some not, and many whose origins I find completely inexplicable. What was Kelly’s eye, for example?

Looking down the list, I then noticed that if you extracted some of the terms, you could construct a rather surreal “seven ages of man” narrative from some of the numbers. Here’s what I came up with.

Teens. From innocence to experience, with rather unseemly haste.

15 – young and keen
16 – never been kissed
17 – often been kissed, the age to catch ‘em
18 – coming of age
19 – goodbye teens
20 – getting plenty

Twenties. A somewhat premature mid-life crisis, swiftly resolved. Maybe people had their crises somewhat earlier in them days.

27 – gateway to heaven
28 – in a state, overweight
29 – you’re doing fine

Thirties. We’re getting rather frisky now, which bears up to my own experience of that fine decade.

30 – flirty thirty
31 – get up and run
33 – dirty knees
34 – ask for more
35 – jump and jive

Forties. The friskiness starts to take on a distinctly sleazier edge. Is this what’s in store for me?

40 – naughty forty
41 – life’s begun, time for fun
43 – down on your knees
44 – droopy drawers
45 – halfway there
46 – up to tricks
50 – bung hole

Fifties. Frankly, the fifties scare me. A decade of Oedipal domestic servitude and delayed gratification.

51 – i love my mum
53 – stuck in the tree
54 – clean the floor
56 – was she worth it?
58 – make them wait

Sixties. What’s with this sudden interest in frottage, I wonder? There’s a lot which older people aren’t telling us, I reckon.

62 – tickety boo
63 – tickle me
64 – red raw
65 – stop work
67 – made in heaven, argumentative number
68 – saving grace
69 – your place or mine?

Seventies. There’s something of the Last Gasp about this particular decade.

75 – strive and strive
77 – two little crutches
78 – heaven’s gate
79 – one more time

Eighties. Not much to look forward to here, other than basic survival, restricted mobility and a weekend on the South Coast.

85 – staying alive
86 – between the sticks
87 – torquay in devon
88 – wobbly wobbly
89 – nearly there
90 – as far as we go

I shall be 41 on my next birthday. Life’s begun, time for fun. Yes, I think I can go with that…

Last Friday on Bboyblues2000, Marcus posted a full inventory of his wardrobe. Astonishingly, it turns out that he owns no less than 84 T-shirts (46 short sleeved, 27 long sleeved and 11 sleeveless, to be exact). Thus if Marcus wanted to, he could actually wear a different T-shirt every single day from now until December 31st. Which is pretty good going, I think you'll agree.

This got me thinking. Although I'm not much of a T-shirt wearer (only a few short sleeved, just one long sleeved, no sleeveless at all, and no polo shirts either), I do have a fairly impressive collection of buttoned shirts. And very nice they are too. I don't just buy any old shit, I'll have you know.

However, I couldn't say exactly how many. Some are in the cottage, some are in the laundry basket, and a large number are on the ironing pile.

So, the question is this.

If I were to wear a different shirt every day, starting from today, when would I finally run out?

And this, dear reader, is where you come into the equation. Announcing:

The Shirt Off My Back Project.

It's going to work like this. Every day from now until I run out, I'm going to post a photo of myself wearing one of my lovely shirts. Just my own, mind - I won't be borrowing any of K's to make up the numbers.

Your job is to guess the date on which I finally run out of shirts.
And guess what? There's a prize!

Yes - the lucky reader who guesses the exact date, or the nearest date AFTER the date I run out, will WIN THE SHIRT OFF MY BACK. By which I mean the shirt I am wearing on the final date.

This introduces a whole new exciting level of interactivity into the weblogging experience. Well okay, it's an utterly barmy idea. But hey, when has that ever stopped me before?

Here's Shirt #1 then - a nice smart Paul Smith stripey number, which I bought 18 months ago as part of a major Smart Stripey Shirt Splurge.



A nice shirt, I'm sure you'll agree. But when am I going to run out of them?
Place your bets! Bet now!

Please leave your guess in the comment box below - and remember: before too long, you could be the proud owner of THE SHIRT OFF MY BACK!

Start here and work up.

91. I do not feel bad about eating animals.
Nevertheless, K and I were vegetarian for several years – on the principle that we couldn’t see the need to eat meat, when we could manage perfectly well without it. In fact, going vegetarian meant that we started eating much better than before: more fresh food, less junk food.

About three years into this, K got a new job which took him all over the world. On average, he was away on business for about one week in three, over a seven year period. Everywhere he went, his hosts would take him out for meals, more often than not to the best restaurants in town (he was quick to tell them that food was one of his passions). After a short while, he became frustrated at being presented with so many interesting sounding dishes in so many different countries, yet always being stuck with the vegetarian options on the menu.

We therefore introduced a new exclusion clause. Eating meat was now permitted, but only for research purposes. If there was an interesting new gastronomic experience to be had, then education was allowed to override principle.

It was, of course, the thin end of a very big wedge.

A year or so later, the clause had widened to include any meal in any restaurant – but preferably white meat, of course. Meat was still not to be brought into the house. A year or so after that, meat dishes were allowed in the house, but only as part of takeaway meals. Next, the occasional piece of uncooked chicken was permitted over the threshold. Then in summer 1994, driving round France, we finally succumbed to the delights of steak. After all, you couldn’t go to France and not sample steak et frites, could you? By the end of the year, we were once again fully fledged – indeed voracious – carnivores. Well, at least we did our stint, I suppose.

92. My front teeth are capped.
July 1999. After my caps have been fitted, I stop off for lunch in McDonalds on the way back to the office. Mindful of their delicate state, I order a Filet-O-Fish, reasoning that it would be suitably mushy, and sit myself down with my usual furtiveness, facing away from the street. McDonalds is something of a guilty secret of mine; if any of my smart friends were to pass by and catch sight of me in there, then my cherished “foodie” reputation would be in tatters.

Chomp. CRUNCH. Uh-oh, what’s that? Fish bones? Or something worse – like a brand new cap on a front tooth, perhaps? Still in denial, I open my mouth for my second bite.

Chomp. CRUNCH. I’m getting a nasty feeling about this. I spit the fish out into my hand, only to discover the cracked remains of not one, but both caps. My tongue reaches up for my front teeth, and makes the gruesome discovery that they are gone. Only a couple of bleeding stumps remain.

Disaster.

Serves me right for eating in Macky D's, of course. Instant-food-karma's gonna get you, yeah.

I finish my meal and head straight for a phone box – I’ve got to get back to my dentist as quickly as possible. While talking to the receptionist, I accidentally catch my reflection in the metal phone set. Dear God, I look like Worzel Gummidge! I had been trying to avoid seeing myself like this. What’s more, the absence of front teeth is affecting my speech, making me sound like a comedy drunk.

The dentist cannot see me until after lunch, in just over an hour’s time. My office is a short walk away, but I haven’t been in the job long, and I just cannot let my new co-workers see me like this. We haven’t yet reached the stage where we could all laugh it off. Instead, I spend the next hour hiding out in the most obscure corners of shops which I never usually visit, burying my head in books and magazines, hoping against hope that I won’t run into anyone I know.

The dentist is all apologies, the second set of caps give me no problems, and my dignity is preserved.

93. I have worked on a gay telephone help-line.
Great for a while – I learnt a lot, especially about “active listening” techniques. It was all about support, respecting and “reflecting back” what the person is saying to you, helping to define options and assessing possible outcomes. As a result, I am now much less likely to force judgemental advice down people’s throats.

However, although the satisfaction at the end of a good call was immense, the number of support/advice calls was not that great, and was slowly dwindling (a sign of our more tolerant, less homophobic times). Most of the time, we were just sitting around, or else reciting details of the local pubs and clubs yet again, or telling yet another disappointed caller that there were no gay saunas for miles around, or politely explaining that no, we couldn’t recommend cruising grounds. Or else, we would be fielding long calls from our small group of highly talkative “regulars” – which could sometimes stretch my patience to its absolute limit.

Eventually, after two years or so, I lost enthusiasm and started dreading my fortnightly stint on the phones. Besides which, I was all Gayed Out by now. Simply put, the whole subject had started to bore me. I no longer wanted to read Gay Times and Boyz from cover to cover, gleaning useful factual information all the while. Meanwhile, there was still a steady stream of eager, motivated new volunteers, ready to do their duty. It was time to move on.

94. There is no #94, as the blogger in question hasn’t published their list.
Blogger #94 is someone called Diva, incidentally. Bad diva! Diva bitch-slap!

95. I dwell on things.
For instance, I’m still wondering why Blogger X took me off his blogroll a few months ago. Which is schtoopid, as I’ll happily take people off my blogroll for no good reason other than that I’ve stopped reading them regularly. I’ve never yet de-blogrolled in anger or irritation, or because I’ve thought somebody’s site was a piece of crap. So really, I should stop dwelling. Unfortunately though, I’m just a dweller by nature.

96. I'm impatient with slow people, and people who don't pick up on things as fast as I do.
Discipline issues aside, I would have made a crap teacher. Besides which, I can sometimes be remarkably slow at picking up on things myself.

97. I'd much rather type 3 pages than write 3 paragraphs manually.
The real reason why I didn’t get any writing done for years on end? I hated the physical act of applying pen to paper. In particular, I really hated having to copy final versions out “in best”. I was also permanently tyrannised by the blank page, in a way which simply doesn’t occur with the blank screen.

98. I don't floss as regularly as I should.
But I’m getting better at it. Partly because more food seems to get stuck down the cracks as I get older; partly because I’m sick of being bullied by my dental hygienist (“You WILL floss!”)

99. I am afraid of heights.
…to the extend that I can actually experience empathetic vertigo when someone else is telling me a story involving heights. Sweaty palms, increased heart rate, and – when it gets really bad – a feeling that my testicles are liquidising.

100. I am most productive when under pressure and/or working against the clock.
Must get this finished before lunch! Yes, done!

Previous 10.

Labels: 100things, myself

The People's Choice!
Item 50. The Pop Group - She Is Beyond Good And Evil (1979)

A couple of weeks ago, I asked you to vote for the track which you wanted to see dragged back out of my curious old box, and given the honour of being Item 50. To my considerable surprise, you voted for this groundbreaking post-punk maelstrom of a single. You really do have impeccable taste, don't you?

Go here to read what I said about this track the first time round.

And now...
Troubled Diva Salutes The Magic Of New Order's "Blue Monday".

Item 51. Klein & M.B.O. - Dirty Talk (1982)

Take a listen to this obscure little piece of rinky-dinky Italian hi-energy disco. Pay particular attention at around the 1:13 mark. Hang on, isn't that a rather familiar bassline?

Why, the sheer brass-faced cheek of it! How dare these cynical charlatans rip off the mighty New Order, reducing one of their greatest works to a cheap and tawdry piece of naff gay disco? Have they no respect?

Erm. Take another look at the date above. Yup, 1982. The year before "Blue Monday" came out.

Several years after releasing the best selling 12" single of all time, New Order finally started coming clean about the track's origins - namely, that they had been consciously influenced by the sound of "Dirty Talk" all along, even going so far as to deliberately rip off its bassline. So now you know.

Item 52. Flunk - Blue Monday (2002)

From Norway: a lovely acoustic reworking, which appeared on the free "Blue Room" CD that came with last month's Muzik magazine. This version helps to show that underneath all the programming, "Blue Monday" is actually quite a strong song in its own right.

Item 53. Divine - Love Reaction (1983)

Written and produced by New York's legendary Bobby Orlando (a.k.a. Bobby "O"), this blatant rip-off of "Blue Monday" predictably set certain music snobs' hackles rising. How dare they rip off the mighty...blah blah blah (sounds familiar?) However, in interviews at the time, the band themselves cheerfully confessed to being rather fond of it.

Poetic justice, essentially. New Order rip off Klein & M.B.O., and are then ripped off in turn by Divine.

I'd wager that this was a strong part of Bobby Orlando's motivation for creating the track. Furthermore, New Order had also done a neat job of ripping off and cashing in on his own trademark production sound. Little did he know that some other English devotees - the Pet Shop Boys - would soon be beating a path to his door, bringing him his own taste of international commercial success.

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!

If, by some remote chance, you are reading these words courtesy of my exciting new RSS/XML feed - i.e. on a Newsreader or whatever - then please let me know. Either leave a comment, or send an email to mikejla at btinternet dot com.

Just curious to know whether or not it has been worth jumping through these various technical hoops, that's all.

So, farewell then, Arts & Letters Daily.

I used to read you quite a lot, back in the days before the final flickers of intellectual aspiration had been completely extinguished. I'd like to say that I'll miss you, but you and I know that wouldn't strictly be true any more.

So, farewell then, Googlebombing.

Google have had the inevitable algorithmic re-jig, meaning that "talentless hack" no longer leads to Andy Pressman, "go to hell" no longer leads to Microsoft, and - worst of all - "nice bottom" no longer leads to Troubled Diva. Clearly, this is a crying shame.

So, farewell then, Tommy Slim.

What, again? My, but you're a coy one. Now we see you, now we don't. Your site is like a revolving door, offering brief, tantalising glimpses of your awkward emotional entanglements.

Bet you can't keep away for ever, though. You're far too good to consign yourself to everlasting obscurity.

Never mind - there are always compensations to be had along the way. Hello, Google Page Ranking of 6/10!

My, what influence I now must wield. So let's see then - which restaurants have given me particularly crap service recently? [walks away rubbing hands with spiteful anticipatory glee, as a terrified British restaurant industry collectively holds its breath]

81. I now have no grandparents.
Ten years ago, my grandmothers – both long since decimated by Alzheimer’s - died within a week of each other. Eighteen months later, after just one month in the nursing home which he had fought so long and hard to avoid, my grandfather followed suit. With entirely typical efficiency, he elected to pass away after exactly one month and one hour in the home, his bill for the first month having just been settled in full. Knowing his painstaking attention to detail, and his deep dislike of causing inconvenience to others, it is hard to view this as entirely accidental.

82. The toilet paper goes over the roll, not under.
Thus making it far easier to peel off three sheets at once. If the paper goes under, it has a frustrating habit of auto-detaching after the first sheet is pulled down.

83. Guitars are wonderful instruments.
What other instrument offers such sheer sonic variety? What other instrument has a sound that is capable of being so completely customised, so that each individual's playing style can instantly be recognised?

84. I have no Zilla Zilla.
Yeah, well. Can I just show you the list that this originally came from? It makes a mockery of the whole project, I tell you!

85. I used to be socially introverted.
Lost in my own little world, almost unable to connect with outside realities. Still, that's adolescence for you.

However, although I can now pass more freely between private/inner and public/outer levels of consciousness (if we can be all cod-spiritual for a moment), I am still more socially introverted than many people might imagine. Although I love "going out" and being with friends, and although I am generally seen as a sociably active type of guy, my favourite social activities - dancing, seeing bands, cultural events - are actually those which still allow me the option of retreating back into myself. At dinner parties, or at house parties with no dancing, or at any occasion where there is no escape from constant, unrelieved social interaction, I can sometimes struggle, and will sometimes zone out entirely, while I mentally regroup.

86. I worry way too much about the little things in life.
Sometimes I can obsess over certain niggly details, while remaining blithely oblivious to other, wider issues. But then, God is in the details, right?

87. I keep to myself at work.
'Twas not always thus; in my previous job, our group of desks was the cheery, laugh-a-minute social hub of the entire office. Happy days indeed. In fact, I liked just about everything about my last job, except for one thing. The work. Bit of a deal-breaker, that one.

88. I've travelled to almost every single country in Western Europe.
Countries I have yet to visit: Ireland, Denmark and Norway. Also Malta, Monaco, Luxembourg and Andorra, if we're being completist.

89. I used to play with dolls.
To elaborate: I wasn't particularly interested in dressing them up in cutesy frocks, or changing their nappies, or Big Gurly Stuff like that. My enjoyment came from assigning them characters and creating little dramas for them. This struck me as much more fun than kicking a ball round, or pretending to shoot people - where, pray, was the creativity in that?

90. I cry in movies.
But almost never in real life, these days. That's quite a common phenomenon, isn't it? Dear me, whatever is becoming of us all?

Next 10.
Previous 10.

Labels: 100things, myself

Our extended boat trip in and around Nha Trang bay has been billed as a “day of pampering” – much needed after the bus-bound rigours of the past couple of days. However, our simple wooden boat has no sundeck, the bench seating is hard (especially after several hours afloat, especially when you have a nasty weeping sore on your backside), the waters are choppy (several of the group succumb to seasickness, while I grimly concentrate on the horizon line, thinking calming thoughts), and the scenery isn’t a patch on Halong Bay (by now, we have become thoroughly spoilt).

Nevertheless, we have fun availing ourselves of the services on offer from the crew: manicure, pedicure and “traditional Vietnamese massage”. My massage – firmly applied, but much gentler than the brutal pummelling I received in Turkey two years ago – is excellent therapy, leaving me tingling and re-energised. Well, okay, only for a while; I’m not operating at full strength today, physically or mentally.

There is a late afternoon visit to the house and studios of Long Thanh, a photographer of international repute. He is a gently charismatic man, with the confident yet laid-back air of someone who is entirely at ease with his talent and reputation. After much deliberation, we eventually walk away with a study of two elderly Nha Trang beggar ladies, their faces creased up in a kind of girlish laughter. We are strongly reminded of the two beggar ladies from the previous afternoon, on receiving their new coolie hats. As a representative image of Vietnam to stick on the wall back home, this is as good as we will find.

We have all been dreading our second overnight sleeper train. This time round, the air conditioning is working fine – so we won’t roast. However, our bedding is in a decidedly questionable state of hygiene. Our sheet sleeping bags are covered in long hairs, and exude an aroma of lightly laundered vomit. What’s more, they are all covered in dried lumps of a greeny-grey residue which looks suspiciously like snot. We elect to sleep on top, fully clothed, as best as we can.

Jump to next day.

Labels: vietnam