Yes, Nottingham Pride was just as Buni described: local. And all the better for it. It's at times like these that you think: actually, yes, there is such a thing as an LGBT (Les/Gay/Bi/Trans) community. Here it is, and here I am, and I guess that still makes me a part of it. Even if I have deliberately moved from the centre to the margins.

Most of the festival centred itself around the bandstand in the Arboretum park, with its surrounding paved semi-amphitheatre, and a grassy sitting area beyond that. The overall mood was chilled and relaxed, with several hundred dykes and poofs sprawled out in the sunshine, listening to the acts. When I turned up around 3pm, a highly competent jazz-funk band was noodling their way through Art Ensemble Of Chicago numbers, and obscure cult classics such as Letta Mbulu's sublime What Is Wrong With Groovin'? Classy stuff, and several cuts above the shite-pop DAT-mimers that I had been expecting.

The first thing that struck me: there were at least as many dykes as poofs in attendance. Possibly slightly more dykes than poofs, in fact. The second thing that struck me: where were all the Scene Queens? Apart from a ragged bunch of hopefuls, clustered outside the sadly empty Dance Tent at the other end of the site (as provided by the Katmando bar in Sherwood, of all people), in the hope that things might kick off down there, the Scene Queens had stayed away in droves - although they were all out in force at a rammed-to-the-rafters NG1 club, eight hours later. Conclusion: Scene Queens are but a small subset of the LGBT community, whose general visibility affords them undue prominence. This was a day for everyone else.

A great success, and it's good to see the event finally finding a suitable location for itself. It doesn't need to get any bigger than this.

The headliners were advertised as Bent, Nottingham's premier electronica duo. In reality, this turned out to be just one of Bent, doing a DJ set, for about 25 minutes, but hey. (Nice choice of choons, though - just right for the mellow early evening sunshine. Grace Jones' Private Life, Tom Tom Club's Genius Of Love, Sly & Robbie's cover of Yarborough & Peoples' Don't Stop The Music, that kind of thing.)

It also was good to run into my old mate, and fellow music bore, Mark from Loughborough - who shares the distinction with Peter @ Naked Blog of having appeared on Channel 4's Right To Reply (1992: he was arguing over the state of modern music with Tony Parsons. Parsons: It's all crap these days. Mark: Oh no it isn't, what about The Orb and The Shamen and, er, Ozric Tentacles?) Last time I saw Mark, after a gap of some years, I had roundly chastised him for enthusiastically recommending a totally ghastly album by Campag Velocet, which I had actually gone out and bought. He had immediately attempted to make amends by recommending the totally delightful Hidden Cameras album. A great wrong had thus been righted.

Meanwhile, Chig was texting me from Cardiff Pride. It is brilliant here too. Not chilled but very lively. Have just been stro...oops, no, can't really repeat that last bit. Later that evening, he rang me again, doing the old "holding up the mobile during a live performance" thing, and thus treating me to the immortal Nicki French, gamely ploughing her way through the UK's 2000 Eurovision entry, Don't Play That Song Again (fat chance, clearly).

Quick as a flash, and still mindful of the previous night's Toni Basil-esque DJ set, I texted him back. "Oh Nicki you're so fine, you're so fine you blow my mind, hey Nicki!"

A few minutes later, I got this. "I just showed Nicki your message! She laughed!" I do keep forgetting that Chig knows everybody.

Coming soon: adolescent drinking games, dancing on the ceiling, and Who's The Campest Stereotype Of All?

(Temporary comments box, courtesy of Gert.)

Gert has given me (and any other YACCS users) the go-ahead to comment squat over at her place. So if there's anything you want to say about any of this week's posts, then say it here.

Update: To give you a flavour of the discussion that has since ensued, here's Kate of Fauxhemia:Amen to that, sister...

Ten minutes ago, this made me laugh.
Five minutes ago, this made me cry.

I haven't told you about the rest of last weekend yet, have I? OK, as quickly as I can, then...

After the Stones concert (of which more below), I beetled straight down to Vauxhall, for the one-off The Cock Live event at Crash. Goodness me, but it was Trendy Wendy Central down there. Wacky hairdos galore, and more "ironic" mullets than a man could shake a stick at. Such delicate little hot-house flowers, the lot of them. Could any of them even begin to exist outside Zone 3? Indeed, while waiting for my posse to arrive, I amused myself by trying to picture them shopping for groceries in Ashbourne. It didn't compute.

Actually, I found this resurgence of wacky hairdos and self-conscious "individuality" rather re-assuring; maybe there's hope for our youth after all. It all reminded me of hanging out in Berlin nightclubs in 1984. The same stock figures were there: the tight little bopping gaggle of impeccably dressed Japanese girlies - the extra-large woman with the black bob, white make-up, black shapeless floor-length dress and the "seen it all" scowl - the clubland "face" weaving through the crowds with his phalanx of outriders fore and aft ("important clubland face coming through!"), complete with the little wannabe fella trotting along at the rear, content just to be walking in the same direction - one or two token tattooed love gods (for balance) - and the occasional "I just don't get where this is coming from at all" out-and-out fruit loop (my favourite being the dude in the striped flannel pyjamas, clutching a copy of the Daily Mail all night). As for me, I was more than happy to do my "retired elder statesman beaming approvingly from the sidelines" act. From the Stones at Wembley to this, in just under an hour? Talk about culture clash.

The assembled Bleeding Hedge Poserati had gathered together in order to witness live performances from no less than four Bleeding Hedge Neo-Electro Whatever They're Calling It This Week acts. First up were Synthetic Pleasures: an arresting looking trio comprising one masked skinny lad in teensy-weensy red rubber shorts, one masked skinny lad in high heels, teensy-weensy black panties, and clip-on braces attached to his stocking tops, and one rather sweet-looking chunky skinhead in a yellow rubber one-piece that can only be described as "unforgiving". They started shakily and somewhat nervously, but rapidly improved, and I ended up warming to them considerably.

By this time, I had hooked up with David, Luca, Dr. Bitful, Jonathan and several of their friends - although we lost Jonathan almost as soon as we had found him (his own account of the night can be found here). Goodness, the years haven't been kind to Keren & Sarah from Bananarama, have they? Oh, silly me, it's The Readers Wifes innit? Hahahaha! (Bitchy observation nicked from Luca. And since he's no longer able to blog them for himself, I'll also be helping myself to choice asides from David, and brazenly passing them off as my own.)

All year, I have longed to hear The Readers Wifes perform their marvellous Top 200 hit single, Bitch At The Brits, and they didn't disappoint. Why, they even had the good grace to perform a Stones number as well (Let's Spend The Night Together), thus neatly linking the two halves of my night together for me. Much obliged, I'm sure!

I had already seen Atomizer perform once this year, down at Duckie on the first of my Apotheosis Of Blog weekends, and I have to say that the intervening six months seem to have blunted their edge somewhat. A touch of Superstar Complacency had set in, I thought - which is a bit rich when you haven't even released your first single yet. The haphazard energy and loose-cannon aggression had been toned down, the performance had been polished up, and - most noticeably of all - singer Jonny Slut had put on a fair bit of weight round the old tum. (On the other hand, didn't I read an article in The Guardian announcing that beer bellies on skinny men were the New In Thing? Oh, I just can't keep up any more...) "I've been on the Atkins Diet!", he quipped, as he peeled off his top to reveal those trademark blacked-out nipples. That feathery jockstrap (which had impressed me so much in February) had seen better days, as well - it was beginning to look a bit mangey and moth-eaten round the edges. Still, cracking good entertainment for all that.

Finally, all the way from New York City, The Scissor Sisters: a proper band, with guitars and drums and everything. Their lead singer reminded us variously of Leif Garrett, Roger Daltrey and Rik Mayall, only with perfect teeth and perfect tits (when I could tear my eyes away from the heart-meltingly cute, clean-cut, boy-next-door type on guitar, that is - it was nearly 2:00 and the Red Stripes had kicked in Big Time by now). Sometimes rocky, sometimes synthy, and sometimes both, The Scissor Sisters were on a whole different level from the self-consciously outré cabaret nouveau acts which had preceded them. They were bloody good, in fact - and duly went down a storm. (Godness, real live atmosphere in Crash - now there's a first!)

At one point, as a chugging, mid-paced disco-rock number started up, complete with daft Bee-Gees style falsetto vocals, I thought "Hey, another Rolling Stones song! I am blessed!" Except that it wasn't Emotional Rescue after all, but a radical re-working of Pink Floyd's Comfortably Numb. (I have since located this on an absolutely splendid new compilation CD called Hotel Pelirocco, which I cannot recommend too highly: Dusty Springfield meets the Climax Blues Band via Add N To X and Noosha Fox's long-forgotten S-S-Single Bed, and it all melds together surprisingly well.)

Finally, a bouncy neo-electro DJ set from Mark Moore, heavy on the Giorgio Moroder influences, in which seemingly every single track sounded like it was about to morph into Bitch At The Brits. ("Stupid, pushy and needy, Christ! you people are greedy...") An alarming version of Toni Basil's Mickey was enough to tip me over the edge and send me running for my taxi. (Me to David: "It's alright - it's an ironic deadpan cover version - we're safe!")

And after the party there's the hotel lobby...

Not in this joint, mate. Say hello to your s-s-single bed!

There will be more weekend jinks tomorrow.
(Sneak preview: I got the part in the play. Woo! Gulp!)

I said it there, I said it again there, and now I'll say it here...

"BLOG" = PUNK.
"WEBLOG" = NEW WAVE.

Which is I why I say "blog", basically.

In any other week, we'd now have a lively debate in the comments box about this, wouldn't we? Hey ho.

Happy Bloggiversary to londonmark, by the way. One year old today, and I've been reading him more or less right from the start. One of the best, in my opinion. Try dipping into his walking with mark series, or his the art of... series, and see if you don't agree.

(Not that it makes any difference to the above sentiments, but Mark was also uncommonly nice about this site yesterday. I believe that this is what we call a "blogsnog".)

Readers in the Nottingham area: if you're mincing past a newsagent's, then be sure to get your lills on a copy of today's Evening Post. Yes! Us bijou latty is gracing the front cover of the Property section! Turn the page for more bona picturettes (in gorge Technicolour), and feast your ogles on us fixtures and fittings! Fantabulosa!

All vardas are strictly by appointment. So hurry, hurry! Troll down to the Estate Agents today!

It's a strange feeling, blogging in isolation all of a sudden - but it's a situation which will sadly have to continue for a few days more. The latest word from YACCS, my comments providers, is that the service won't be restored until Monday late night/Tuesday early morning (UK time). The full story is here.

I've thought about temporarily installing a different comments system, but:
a) it's too much faff.
b) most of the decent comments systems are closed to new subscribers.
c) none of the remaining comments systems seem to work that well, do they?

Oh, I can hear you muttering "Movable Type", even as I write this. La la la, can't hear you!

Look, could we all have a quick whip-round to save Notts County from extinction, please? The oldest club in the Football League - indeed, the oldest football club in the world - will cease to exist in five days' time, unless someone can come up with around 3 million quid. OK, so I'm hardly likely to convince anyone that I'm a football fan - but if I had been a football fan, then The Magpies are the team that I would have supported. They've always had that endearingly under-achieving quality about them, which we English like so much, and I've always fondly imagined Meadow Lane to be the last football ground in the world where everybody turns up in matching team scarves and bobble-hats, waving those wooden rattle things. And I bet the team are all still kitted out in sensible man-made fibres, as well.

(Sorry - when it comes to soccer, I'm in a world of my own. GYAC: the only football match I've ever watched was in 1982 - it was Dynamo Kiev, at home in Kiev, playing a "friendly", back in the glory days of the Brezhnev era. With armed militia men ringing the perimeter of the pitch, the crowd were so quiet that you could actually hear the sound of the ball being kicked. I suspect that this is not entirely typical. Then at half-time, two things happened. Firstly, two teams of schoolboys had a quick mini-match on one half of the pitch - using, wait for it, jumpers for goalposts. (Bless!) Secondly, a bunch of athletes started sprinting round the perimeter race track. All of a sudden, a medium-sized cheer went up from the crowd. I asked one of our Russian hosts for an explanation. "Oh," he replied, in a nonchalant, matter-of-fact tone, "it's just that someone has just broken a world record - that's all." Clearly, this must have been an everyday occurrence at Soviet football matches.)

While I'm here (which won't be for long...deadlines still to be chased), can I just quickly plug Scaryduck's excellent pro-BBC rant, Fluxblog's sneak preview of the new Basement Jaxx single, and this superbly well-observed guide to British pub etiquette?

Oh, and the continued lack of comments? Out of my hands, mate. YACCS have said they should be back some time today, though. Believe it when I see it, mind.

Uuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrgggggggghhhhhhhh......

I'm busy chasing deadlines this week, so have had little desire to be bashing away at a keyboard for any longer than is strictly necessary. And yet, there's this...this...this thing hanging over me:

"Why I Enjoyed The Rolling Stones Concert At Wembley Arena On Friday Night." Three hundred words minimum, to be posted on your blog by Sunday at the latest. You do realise that this work is two days overdue, don't you? And did you come to me and ask for an extension? Because I certainly don't recall any such conversation taking place...

Sigh. Mutter. Sorrysorrywon'thappenagain.

(Thinks: it's a good job that the YACCS comments system has been down since the weekend. They'd have been all over me like a pack of wolves, that lot.)

Trouble is: there's nothing to be said about the Rolling Stones in concert that hasn't been said before, many thousands of times over, by just about every rock hack on the planet. Blah blah Jagger the consummate showman blah blah where does he get his energy from blah blah still together after 40 years blah blah something amusing about Keith Richards and wrinkles blah blah good old Charlie Watts eh (mention the silver hair) blah blah the years roll back blah blah still the greatest rock and roll band in the world will this do?

All of which is true, of course. Yes, the Stones were fantastic. A no-nonsense, back-to-basics show which simply served to show that, musically, this band are still masters of their craft. The main thought which I took away with me: my God, these guys can play.

Personal highlights: a beautiful Love In Vain (the only slow track of the night)...an intense, intoxicating extended jam in the middle of Midnight Rambler...rollicking, swaggering renditions of Tumbling Dice and Happy (both from Exile On Main Street)...

...but all these were as nothing compared to the moment when the band left the stage, sauntered towards us along a narrow catwalk in the middle of the crowd, and took up positions on a much smaller spur stage, slap bang in the middle of the arena, complete with a second drumkit and a separate PA system. As we were fairly centrally positioned, about two thirds of the way back on the main floor, we now had an absolutely excellent close-up view of the band. Dymbel quickly shot down our aisle as far as he could go. A few minutes later, I joined him - by now so close that, as Dymbel said, you could see just how much make-up they were all wearing. What had until then been a standard large scale arena show now took on much of the feeling of an intimate, rough and ready club gig, as the Stones bashed out raucous, electrifying versions of Respectable, (no, not the Mel & Kim hit - children, please!) It's Only Rock & Roll and Dymbel's all-time favourite, Brown Sugar. It was one of those moments - one of those perfect, exultant, oh my God, I can't believe I'm experiencing this rock and roll moments - that can only come along a handful of times in a lifetime. Yes, that good.

(Besides - and this struck me like a flying mallet, as soon as the track started up - in a year where I've inexplicably found myself hanging out with Conservative politicians, judges, senior clergymen, national newspaper columnists, assorted Prominent Members of the Business Community, and various other assorted Great & Good Pillars Of The Wotsit, just how lyrically appropriate is Respectable to My Life As She Is Currently Lived, anyway? OK, so we haven't taken heroin with the President just yet, but, y'know, give it time?)

Not that the show wasn't without its longueurs, mind. Keith's solo spot turned out to be everybody's toilet break, there was an interminable blues jam (into which time they could comfortably have fitted all three of the biggest omissions: Gimme Shelter, Sympathy For The Devil and You Can't Always Get What You Want), and their cover of the O'Jays' Love Train was as baffling as it was pointless. But when The Greatest Rock & Roll Band In The World (TM) is fired up and pumping out Jumping Jack Flash to a delirious home crowd (of all ages, it should be pointed out - no Yes-style gleaming oceans of male pattern baldness here), then such trifles can be forgiven. Some living legends deserve their status.

OK, can I go outside and play now please?

Update: No, that's not quite got it. That's not quite the whole story. There are two further observations which still need to be made.

Firstly - the lack of danger, of threat, of menace, which underpins so much (if by no means all) of the Stones' best work. If they had played Gimme Shelter, or Sympathy For The Devil, or You Can't Always Get What You Want (and all three songs are still very much part of their live repetoire), then would these qualities have re-surfaced in any way? Or is this something we should not reasonably be expecting from a contented bunch of comfortable family men in their late 50s and early 60s? This show was all about lovingly crafted musicianship, neatly judged showmanship, and a sense of collective celebration. Plenty of other equally great shows are also about nothing more than that. Maybe that's enough. But I'm not sure.

Secondly - that Jagger fellow. I found him strangely obtuse. Yes, he was the consummate showman. Yes, his energy levels never dipped for one second. Yes, he threw every classic Jagger-esque shape in the book, and then some. And yet, I could never quite shake off the feeling that behind the performance, astonishing and compelling as it was, there was something of a void. With Richards, Wood and Watts alike, you could readily, visibly, sense their huge and genuine enjoyment at being onstage. They would catch each other's eyes and grin. They would lose themselves in their playing. With Jagger, however, the mask never slipped. I couldn't help wondering whether his onstage persona had long since ossified, and that all we were seeing was a perfectly executed sequence of stock postures. Consequently - and despite his undeniable expertise at whipping us up into the requisite frenzies at the right moments - Jagger never quite made a full emotional connection with his audience, in the way that I've witnessed with artists as unlikely as Robbie Williams and Neil Diamond, for instance. It was never personal. But, once again, maybe that was enough. Open verdict, then?