There's a curious irony regarding Guest Month. (Four solid weeks of top quality guest postings from no less than 18 guest bloggers; what, you missed it?) You see, I've never personally suscribed to what I call the "NME indie band" ethos of blogging: "We just do what we do, and if anyone else happens to like it then that's a bonus." (Fact: sooner or later - but mainly sooner - all indie bands say this to the NME.) Don't get me wrong here: I have nothing but admiration and respect for bloggers who operate to this principle, but it just isn't me. The whole point of Troubled Diva is that it has an audience. Without you, as they say, I am nothing.

So, where's the irony? The irony is this: my main motivation for hosting Guest Month was that I wanted to read it. I wanted my blog to entertain me, while I was too busy to post my own content. In this respect, Guest Month is actually one of the most self-indulgent exercises I've ever engaged in.

But, oh! What a glorious self-indulgence it was! You guys stunned me, you really did. I took a major leap of faith in inviting every single applicant to participate, and - almost without exception (but hey, he's only young) - you all rose to the challenge quite magnificently. If I had somehow been able to review your contributions in advance, then I would still have been delighted to have had all of you as guests. I find this quite remarkable.

I only hope that the sheer volume of postings didn't overwhelm you all - because sometimes, it did rather feel as if Troubled Diva had become a real-time text streaming service. However, as I said to all my guests in their briefing instructions at the start of each week: here at Troubled Diva, we have always maintained a healthily maximalist, more-is-more attitude.

If you didn't manage to keep up with the full four weeks, then let me conclude Guest Month by offering you...

The Best Of Guest Month.

• Asta remembered an idyllic early childhood spent in the back row of the theatre where her parents worked.
• Aunt Cyn revealed her colourful life history. She makes jam, you know.
• Buni talked about that "morning after" feeling. Was That All It Was?
• Danny will never ask for a Spritzer again.
• Fiona wondered what the world would be like if human beings had tails.
• Gordon grumbled about the shocking liberties taken by "wee old wummin".
• John only wrote two posts. Rather than link to either of them, I'm going to link to something from his own site, where he mused on whether or not to come out to his parents. Its tone is very different from the tone of his guest postings, and may well surprise you.
• Lyle dicusssed sexual orientations and their attendant pigeonholes, with touching candour.
• Mac shuddered at the memory of her days as a cheerleader.
• Martin considered cheating on his partner.
• Melodrama met a dodgy looking guru on a train.
• Mr. D. coined some new "rantwords".
• How do I pick just one of Mark's truly excellent "The Science Of..." series? Very well then: try The Science Of Wanting for starters.
• qB shared some of her experiences of parenthood.
• Quarsan talked about the The Only Ones, and of the heroin culture which informed their classic single, Another Girl, Another Planet.
• Robin mused on the state of current pop music.
• Venus remembered leaving a special place in her teens, never to return.
• Zena took us on a nightmare journey through a bad drugs experience, and explained how this had changed her in a positive way.

I've loved Guest Month. Hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have - and once again, thanks and respect to all who participated.

As for me: the European travel continues unabated (it's Barcelona tonight), so postings will be spasmodic at best for the next couple of months or so. Which is frustrating, but something's gotta give. Or perhaps I should hand over the reins to Danny full time? Yes, I dare say some of you might like that...just a little bit too much. Heh.

While we're on the subject, just one final word about Danny. OK, two final words. Armistead Maupin. Something for the cryptic crossword fans amongst you there.

And on that teaser...see you on Thursday.

K and I had a pleasant time on Sunday drawing up our personal shortlists for the Turner Prize People's Poll, which is a chance to vote for your favourite finalist from the first twenty years of the awards.

Having selected our individual Top Tens, it turned out that we agreed on eight:

• Jake & Dinos Chapman
• Tracey Emin
• Lucian Freud
• Antony Gormley
• Mona Hatoum
• Callum Innes
• Anish Kapoor
• Rachel Whiteread

For the remaining two positions, I chose Chris Ofili & Wolfgang Tillmans, while K went for Peter Doig & Douglas Gordon.

Whittling it down to three, we ended up with Antony Gormley, Callum Innes and Anish Kapoor. Eventually, we decided that although Anish Kapoor was our absolute favourite, the minimalist painter Callum Innes would get our vote - because a) everybody's going to vote for Anish Kapoor anyway, b) hardly anyone is going to vote for Callum Innes, and c) Callum Innes is a painter, and the Turner Prize has a habit of ignoring painters in favour of crappy Installation Artists, so there.

Take a look at the list; who would you vote for? What, none of them? Come, come!

In my Inbox this morning: an e-mail from Dymbel (a massive REM fan) titled You know you're an REM fan if....

Item #58 on the list reads as follows:Earlier this morning, I dreamt that I had just missed watching next year's Eurovision Song Contest. I only realised this horrifying fact while watching a news report on BBC3, which mentioned that a specially re-formed Abba had shocked everyone by only finishing 16th. There was a brief interview with a disappointed Abba (looking very much their age, wrapped in thick fur coats, and sitting in a rowing boat in the middle of a misty river), after which an excerpt of the song was played. It was a song which Bjorn & Benny had written in 1978, but never recorded. Musically, it was one of their cod-Spanish numbers, a la Chiquitita/Fernando, and thus an example of my least favourite genre of Abba song.

Nevertheless, the melody of this song has been going through my head for the past two hours. I could sing it to you now.

Sometimes, I worry about myself.

Oh, I nearly forgot: the Netherlands won. You heard it here first.

It's not the first time that a song has revealed itself to me in sleep, either. Twenty-five years on, I could still sing you both verses of my surreal music-hall number, Have You Got Any Equations?I feel better for having shared that.

Also via Dymbel: How To Be An Internet Artist. All well and good, but I've haven't sold that many mugs...

(posted by Danny)

Remember how I met Snoring Man? You don't? Or you're new here, and you haven't read that far down yet? OK, quick recap. Strange new club; bit bored; darkroom; fumble fumble; woah, you're good at this; "Listen, I know we're not supposed to say this in here but d'you fancy a drink?"

As it was with Snoring Man, so it was with Pants Man. Although unlike Snoring Man, Pants Man had already been quite ... vocal, let's say. Pants Man liked to Talk; and boy, did he have a silver tongue. I'd have said he charmed the pants off me, but a) they were already half-off and b) he was actually trying to get me to keep them on.

I'm getting ahead of myself. I didn't know him as Pants Man just yet; he was just Incredibly Hot And Horny Invisible Man Who Looks/Feels/Sounds Like He Knows Exactly What He's Doing And I Wouldn't Mind A Whole Lot More Of Where That Came From Please Thankyou.

So we step outside, and I'm praying that he looks as hot as he feels/sounds, because I want this guy and almost nothing's gonna stop me.

Oh.

He's at least twenty years older than me, maybe more, and he's tubby in an out-of-shape way rather than a Daddy Bear way (and I'm not even into the Daddy Bear type much in the first place), and if I'd seen him beforehand I'd have said Absolutely No Way, Wild Horses Wouldn't Make Me, I'm Not That Desperate etc etc etc.

But.

I'm the one who invited him for a drink, and I'm not the sort of heartless sod who's gonna spin on his heels and scarper at the first sight of middle-aged flab, so I'm gonna buy him that drink, and sit with him at this nice quiet table, and we're gonna be civilised about this. And then I'll do the "Time I found my friends" bit, and that will be that.

Except.

I can't explain it, but I'm still totally hot for him. God, am I ever hot for him. Less than a minute in, and it's all hands under the table and knees rammed into crotches and heavy duty eye contact, and all of that. Ten minutes later, I'm in the passenger seat of his car. Twenty minutes later, we're back at his.

It's an old man's place; too old even for this guy. Inherited, maybe? Heavy crimson and gold flock wallpaper, loads of dark polished wood, horrible swirly carpets, nasty moulded rococo plaster panelling, bad overhead lighting ... a passion killer of a pad. Except that I'm still totally hot for him.

One of the reasons why I'm still hot for him: we've been talking dirty all the way back home. Which is also crazy, because as a rule I hate talking dirty; all that fake p*rn star "oooh yeaaaahhh" stuff always strikes me as so false, so learnt, so this-is-how-we're-supposed-to-have-sex. This has been different, though. He's been saying what he likes, and I've been saying what I like, not in a narrow agenda-setting way, but in a "let's open this right up and get all the options on the table" way. Opening up the imagination, not shutting down the options. (Though I've told him I'm not into f***ing, as I always do. I couldn't be the slapper I am, if f***ing was a menu item.)

One message has come through loud and clear: this guy likes Pants. (Note to Americans: we're talking underwear, not trousers.) Pristine white cotton pants, to be exact. Pants are to be worn at all times. Pants are crucial. It's all about the pants.

OK, not my thing, but I can go with this, no problem. I like giving people what they want. In fact, it's the whole point. If they're happy, I'm happy. I'm a giver far more than I'm a taker. Pants it is, then.

Over the next couple of hours, I morph into a catalogue model. Try these on ... try those on ... pose, and strut, and tease. As I say: not normally my thing; but the reaction this gets, and the look on Pants Man's face, is totally my thing. He's ecstatic. He's told me EXACTLY what he's into, and I'm doing EXACTLY what he wants, and OK, let's be honest here, I'm a considerable catch for him looks-wise, and this all adds up to a night where ALL of his private imaginings are being fulfilled. How could that not be the most massive turn-on for me in return? I've tuned into him, or we've tuned into each other, to a degree which is astonishing the both of us. No pretence, no inhibitions ... no bullsh*t.

He does get borderline weird at times, though; I just choose not to notice, and steer us on. His constant monologue takes us into some strange waters: "Did your mother make you wear white pants?" Huh? What???

At times like these, I remember just how fragile this whole set-up is. I know I have the power to break the spell, any time I choose.

"Did your mother make you wear white pants?"

Oh, you sad, sad, pathetic old man. Look at you, sprawled out there in your stupid precious knickers, slurping and slobbering and wheezing away, and droning on and on with your boring little fantasies. Do you know how ridiculous you look? You're a big fat joke, you are. You honestly think I'd fancy you, even for just one second?

I know I could say any of this, at any time, burst his bubble, wound him horribly. Maybe he knows it too. But this, all of this Pants Worship stuff, it's an act of faith. I could have derided his obsession (and it is obsessive, no doubt about that), but I've chosen instead to respect it, to honour it ... to respect and honour him.

Or maybe I'm just getting off on the whole narcissistic power trip. What my bitchy mate (and sauna fiend) Rob calls "charity work". OK, so that's an element; but it's more than that. Something purer than that is passing between us.

I'm not a looks fascist ... in fact, the whole concept p*sses me off something rotten ... but if a jury of twelve homos good and true stood all the men I've sh*gged in a row according to looks, then they would be bookended by the Spritzer on one side, and by Pants Man on the other side. Because the Spritzer is by far the most gorgeous looking man I've ever sh*gged, and Pants Man is by far the plainest. And yet: as so-called "casual" sh*gs go, Pants Man is right up there in the Top Five. In fact, if you look at it one way, I reckon our sh*g was one gigantic "F*** You" to the whole "hunks"/"dogs" world order.

The next morning, Pants Man makes me breakfast and plays me choral music: Allegri, Palestrina, Tallis. Turns out he's into choral music almost as much as he's into pants. The sex done and dusted, we have quite the cultural chit-chat. He's an interesting, civilised, thoughtful guy ... though the flock HAS to go. (He shows me re-decoration plans.)

Just before I leave, he gives me a pair of last night's pants. Could I wear them for a bit and post them back to him?

Over six years later, they're still at the bottom of my undies drawer. Paul had a heart attack when he first saw them. ("Where did these Old Man's Pants come from?") 'Cos on me, four inches or so slimmer in the waist, they just look like droopy old bloomers. I wear them sometimes, when I've run out and forgotten to put a whites load on. But I just couldn't bring myself to post them back to him, "used". I just couldn't. My one act of betrayal.

If we're sorting the laundry out, one of us will call out to the other: "Any white pants you want doing?" - and the other will always reply: "Ooh, did your mother make you wear white pants?" - and we'll start rubbing our thighs, Vic Reeves style. Yeah, we're evil, evil b*tches ... but at least we're flexible evil b*tches.

Labels: danny

(posted by asta)

Time to pack up and go, but not before thanking Mike for his generosity.

Lyle, mentioned this before, but I think it bears repeating. It takes a particularly brave soul to hand over the keys to his carefully and artfully arranged digs for such an extended period of time-- especially to someone like me -- one of the blogless. He had no idea what I'd do to the place and welcomed me anyway. Lovely man. I tried not to make too much of a mess of it.

I took Mike up on his offer mainly because I felt that after being entertained by him for more than a year as a reader, it was the least I could do.( I should have realised there would be plenty of first-class applicants, and that he had no real need of my services, but no matter) More importantly, I now have a much greater knowledge and appreciation of all the work and effort that goes into building such a fine home. I'm also going to make an effort to be a better reader, which means offering comment more often, even when I think it isn't required. There are some blogs I read regularly where I'm sure I haven't left a word. I now see the important part feedback plays in the energy of the enterprise.

I was also keenly aware of the quality of his readership--many of them top-notch bloggers in their own right. I apologise to all of you. Regular service will resume shortly. (Must you cheer that enthusiastically?)

Will I start my own blog now? I confess I'm tempted. I discovered I had much more to say than I thought I would, and that the experience was more personally rewarding than I ever imagined. But I'm going to step back from the whole idea for some time. I tend to throw myself into new pursuits only to give them short shrift once the novelty wears off. I wouldn't want a blog, if I couldn't make it a good one- and that includes the mechanics, about which I know next to nothing. (ask Mike, I'm sure I drove him mad)

So thank you all for your patience, and a special hug to Mike. And Mike, if you don't see a thank you bottle of Cristal in your fridge, well, I'm not saying anyone nicked it, but….

(posted by Gordon)

I'm sure Mike mentioned, in his email inviting me to guest here, that he expected a minimum of 5 posts over the 7 days...

So this is my rather late attempt of doing just that. But what to write about? There have been so many good posts here this week that in an effort to try and sum up things I've learned, ideas that have been changed etc etc I kind of get lost...

I suppose half of the enjoument in reading posts here, and on other blogs, is that they are written by real people, with real experiences in the real world. I know that sounds a bit daft, but in an age where kids grow up imagining spending their late twenties in a coffee house in New York, where couples wake in the morning and snog (does ANYONE do that?) and all the other ideas that are thrown at us from TV and film, it is refreshing to hear things as they really are.

It's also refreshing to have frank discussion about sexuality. Which, let's face it, still isn't really the 'British' thing. I' did hear a comment last week (can't remember where - possibly on Clive Anderson's Sunday morning show?) that the internet was 'helping' inform people about all sorts of sexual activities that they wouldn't normally be aware of, and the next day my local paper had a front page story on couples arranging, via the internet, to meet for sex.

Are these truly liberating times? Are we now more accepting of our own and each others sexual needs? Who knows. All I can say is that on Friday night, I had the great pleasure of watching my wife enjoying her snog with another woman.

So, it's has been a pleasure, and education and a bit of a giggle this week, I'll be adding several sites to my blogroll and I'm off to try and figure out if the well groomed couple, driving a silver peugeot 206 convertible, are gay or not. Can I borrow anyone's gaydar?

(posted by Danny)

Don't wanna bore you with the gory details (now there's a first) but I've been proper poorly since Thursday. I was grovelling to Michael on the phone this morning (worse than phoning in sick to your boss, I'm telling you; he can be a stern little madam at times) and he's agreed to let me carry on guesting for a couple more days. Praise the Lord and pass the Nurofen! More later, with luck...