I've got a new PC. At work, at least. Finally the steam-powered monstrosity I've been struggling with for the past four years is consigned to the IT department bin and I have a sleek(ish), fully functioning mean machine. But four years' worth of settings, shortcuts, colour preferences and who knows what else have all of course disappeared. It's strangely disconcerting. And it's a PC belonging to someone who was recently made redundant. I feel like I'm walking around a dead man's house, looking in cupboards at things that aren't mine and wondering why they chose those curtains.
In other news, the MD and Chairman are having a company-wide email debate as to whether the guy in the sandwich shop downstairs is wearing eyeliner, and Mat has kindly changed my log-in password to 'Spunkboy'; this is revenge for my signing him up to 'Gay Bald Toupee Wearers', '19th Century Facial Hair', 'Piggers' (for people who love pigs, and boy, do they ever...) and other bizarre chat groups who now drop him many an email.
Just another day.
Monday, June 10, 2002
Back, back, back. And brown, goddammit, brown. Well, actually a rather Judith Chalmers shade of orange at the moment but if the gods of self-inflicted skin damage are smiling, very soon, brown.
Ibiza was lovely. Speaking as someone whose impressions of the island were previously based on mixed reports from friends, travel brochures, and shelves in music stores full of 'The Best Ibiza Club Anthems Ever!! Apart From All The Ones That Were On The Previous 19 Volumes', I hadn't been sure whether to expect a peaceful, idyllic paradise, or a frenzy of drug-fuelled hedonism in an aircraft hangar. Or indeed, both.
In the event though our week leaned, perhaps surprisingly, towards the former. We stayed around fifteen minutes' walk from Ibiza Town itself, in Figueretas, a small, beachside resort which is home to a handful of bars, restaurants, and most of the accommodation available through the gay holiday companies. Ours, the Sud Studios was probably the only disappointment of the holiday. We knew it wasn't going to be luxurious - it didn't need to be - but a sofa where the bit of wood serving as a makeshift support didn't snap the moment you sat down, beds that didn't collapse the moment you attempted anything more than a cuddle, and bathrooms that had been refurbished at some point since the 1930s might have been nice. Oh, and some, like, cleaning or something. Still, it was very reasonable, the location was great, and above all the views from the balconies were stunning, being right on the seafront - beaches to the right and left, plenty of palm trees, a gorgeous waterfront restaurant below where the waves practically lap at the legs of the tables, and the most incredible turquoise water stretching right out towards the smaller island of Formentera.
Apart from a couple of cloudy mornings and a couple of showers, we got lucky with the sunshine, so the days consisted mainly of lounging - on Figueretas beach, on the smaller gay beach nearby (something of a scramble down a cliff path to get there but well worth the effort - not least because the difficult access keeps it free of Families With Children That Scream), and by the Hotel Cenit's gorgeous rooftop pool, with its sociable atmosphere, a poolside bar, and being atop a hill, the most stunning views across the bay. If it weren't for that pesky, y'know, flight thing, I'd still be lying there now.
For the evenings it was into Ibiza Town, which consists principally of the Port area (lots of narrow, winding, whitewashed streets sprinkled with boutiques and bars) and towering over it, the Old Town (D'Alt Vila), an ancient fortress city accessed only by a handful of arches, with cobbled streets and history and character oozing out of every well-preserved stone. It looks stunning when the giant outer walls are lit up by night, too.
'Wow! It's just so...drama!' gushed someone who couldn't possibly have been me.
Restaurants - good, loads of them, many in exceptionally picturesque settings; Shops - lots of them, mostly tiny, bit limited but who cares? And then there's the nightlife.
Much of the rowdy, lagered-up, Club 18-30 hell you see on the likes of 'Ibiza Uncovered' is confined to San Antonio on the north coast, and the big-name clubs are out of town too, so by night it's largely locals, non-clubbing tourists, and the gay crowd filling up the bars. Ibiza's season doesn't really get going until mid-late June, and last week was apparently relatively quiet, but still lively enough - a clutch of bars on Calle de la Virgen blends more or less into one as everyone stands out in the street, and from there it's usually up to Angelo's, a plush terrace bar against the imposing backdrop of the D'Alt Vila wall.
Of the mega-clubs, most have yet to get going for the season. Space's opening party was already in full swing when our plane touched down (we, however were in a post-Purple daze, and in no state to contemplate anything stronger than one or two beers), while Amnesia was due to open Saturday night but postponed a week due to the relatively low numbers on the island. Still, with tales of three-hour entrance queues, £30+ admission, £7 water bottles and over-zealous security staff abounding, it's something I wasn't overly bothered about missing: at least it'll be something new to experience next time.
So, as a result, we saw rather a lot of Anfora, Ibiza's only gay club, tucked high up in the Old Town and home to a sunken dancefloor in a cave, impromptu drag shows, theme nights (Thursday's 70s/80s night is worryingly popular), an aviary and oh, all manner of other things. And certainly an eclectic crowd - as with many Spanish resorts a large German contingent (cruel tongues suggested they may have thought it was 80s night every night, to judge from the Bonnie-Tyler-backing-dancer look), Brits, French, Americans, Dutch men who'd left their wives on the other side of the island for a night of fun (which they duly found, mentioning no names...), amongst others.
And that was pretty much it - lots of sun, lots of relaxing - hey, even lots of sleep. That never happens on a holiday. Being too lazy to haul our asses any further than Ibiza Town means there's loads of the island, the vast majority in fact, that I haven't seen - and on the basis of what we did see, I'm sure it'll be beautiful. But plenty of time for that on future trips, I think. I can see there being many.
Next stop, the now annual return to the happiest homo hotspot of them all, Sitges, in late August. Two months and two weeks away. Not that I'm counting.
Ibiza was lovely. Speaking as someone whose impressions of the island were previously based on mixed reports from friends, travel brochures, and shelves in music stores full of 'The Best Ibiza Club Anthems Ever!! Apart From All The Ones That Were On The Previous 19 Volumes', I hadn't been sure whether to expect a peaceful, idyllic paradise, or a frenzy of drug-fuelled hedonism in an aircraft hangar. Or indeed, both.
In the event though our week leaned, perhaps surprisingly, towards the former. We stayed around fifteen minutes' walk from Ibiza Town itself, in Figueretas, a small, beachside resort which is home to a handful of bars, restaurants, and most of the accommodation available through the gay holiday companies. Ours, the Sud Studios was probably the only disappointment of the holiday. We knew it wasn't going to be luxurious - it didn't need to be - but a sofa where the bit of wood serving as a makeshift support didn't snap the moment you sat down, beds that didn't collapse the moment you attempted anything more than a cuddle, and bathrooms that had been refurbished at some point since the 1930s might have been nice. Oh, and some, like, cleaning or something. Still, it was very reasonable, the location was great, and above all the views from the balconies were stunning, being right on the seafront - beaches to the right and left, plenty of palm trees, a gorgeous waterfront restaurant below where the waves practically lap at the legs of the tables, and the most incredible turquoise water stretching right out towards the smaller island of Formentera.
Apart from a couple of cloudy mornings and a couple of showers, we got lucky with the sunshine, so the days consisted mainly of lounging - on Figueretas beach, on the smaller gay beach nearby (something of a scramble down a cliff path to get there but well worth the effort - not least because the difficult access keeps it free of Families With Children That Scream), and by the Hotel Cenit's gorgeous rooftop pool, with its sociable atmosphere, a poolside bar, and being atop a hill, the most stunning views across the bay. If it weren't for that pesky, y'know, flight thing, I'd still be lying there now.
For the evenings it was into Ibiza Town, which consists principally of the Port area (lots of narrow, winding, whitewashed streets sprinkled with boutiques and bars) and towering over it, the Old Town (D'Alt Vila), an ancient fortress city accessed only by a handful of arches, with cobbled streets and history and character oozing out of every well-preserved stone. It looks stunning when the giant outer walls are lit up by night, too.
'Wow! It's just so...drama!' gushed someone who couldn't possibly have been me.
Restaurants - good, loads of them, many in exceptionally picturesque settings; Shops - lots of them, mostly tiny, bit limited but who cares? And then there's the nightlife.
Much of the rowdy, lagered-up, Club 18-30 hell you see on the likes of 'Ibiza Uncovered' is confined to San Antonio on the north coast, and the big-name clubs are out of town too, so by night it's largely locals, non-clubbing tourists, and the gay crowd filling up the bars. Ibiza's season doesn't really get going until mid-late June, and last week was apparently relatively quiet, but still lively enough - a clutch of bars on Calle de la Virgen blends more or less into one as everyone stands out in the street, and from there it's usually up to Angelo's, a plush terrace bar against the imposing backdrop of the D'Alt Vila wall.
Of the mega-clubs, most have yet to get going for the season. Space's opening party was already in full swing when our plane touched down (we, however were in a post-Purple daze, and in no state to contemplate anything stronger than one or two beers), while Amnesia was due to open Saturday night but postponed a week due to the relatively low numbers on the island. Still, with tales of three-hour entrance queues, £30+ admission, £7 water bottles and over-zealous security staff abounding, it's something I wasn't overly bothered about missing: at least it'll be something new to experience next time.
So, as a result, we saw rather a lot of Anfora, Ibiza's only gay club, tucked high up in the Old Town and home to a sunken dancefloor in a cave, impromptu drag shows, theme nights (Thursday's 70s/80s night is worryingly popular), an aviary and oh, all manner of other things. And certainly an eclectic crowd - as with many Spanish resorts a large German contingent (cruel tongues suggested they may have thought it was 80s night every night, to judge from the Bonnie-Tyler-backing-dancer look), Brits, French, Americans, Dutch men who'd left their wives on the other side of the island for a night of fun (which they duly found, mentioning no names...), amongst others.
And that was pretty much it - lots of sun, lots of relaxing - hey, even lots of sleep. That never happens on a holiday. Being too lazy to haul our asses any further than Ibiza Town means there's loads of the island, the vast majority in fact, that I haven't seen - and on the basis of what we did see, I'm sure it'll be beautiful. But plenty of time for that on future trips, I think. I can see there being many.
Next stop, the now annual return to the happiest homo hotspot of them all, Sitges, in late August. Two months and two weeks away. Not that I'm counting.
Friday, May 31, 2002
Of which, more much later, apparently. Am beginning to despair at current lack of any spare time whatsoever, resulting in inability to blog anything until several eons after the event. Really must find new job which allows for a little more breathing space. Except, guess what? I haven't got time.
So, just a quickie for now - this afternoon brings the company sports day (potentially hideous team-building nightmare), tomorrow brings Purple In The Park, and on Sunday: (Woo!) We're going to Ibiza!
On the subject of which, I promise a full report. Sometime around November, at this rate...
So, just a quickie for now - this afternoon brings the company sports day (potentially hideous team-building nightmare), tomorrow brings Purple In The Park, and on Sunday: (Woo!) We're going to Ibiza!
On the subject of which, I promise a full report. Sometime around November, at this rate...
Tuesday, May 28, 2002
Alrighty then. Two words sum up last week: Work Hell (tautology if ever I heard it). So let's skip straight to the weekend, the good times, the happy, smiling, fun-in-a-bun bits. And where better to start than...
Eurovision!
Which I hadn't expected to see, clashing as it did with Kirsty and Claire's barbecue to celebrate moving into their new exclusive Clapham man-trap. It transpired to be an afternoon affair though, and much fun: I did my bit by 'chargrilling' (read: incinerating) a variety of meat products and helping to shift copious quantities of sparkling alcoholic concoctions (well, you've got to help out at these things, haven't you?).
From there it was a stumble on to the Northern Line, and up to the King William IV in Hampstead along with Greg, Phil, Rick and Jonathan, for the big event, on the big screen. Other pubs will no doubt be getting these in for the World Cup, with the King William it's Eurovision. Hmm, spot the gay pub.
Arrived too late for our entry, which I still haven't heard in full and probably never will, but the place was packed, and great to watch the show as part of a big crowd (almost as good as watching at home with the lyrics amusingly translated into English on teletext subtitles - try it if you ever get chance...). Ah, the cheesy presenters, the glitz, the glamour, the incomprehensible videos between each song - all present and correct. Big cheers went up for the Slovenian 'sisters' (okay, the song sucked but they deserved points for sheer, erm, balls), big cheers for Israel from the sizeable Jewish contingent of NW3, and as usual, big bewilderment at the utterly baffling voting. Latvia? Eh? One would almost suspect there's a conspiracy afoot to systematically bankrupt the Baltic nations by means of forced Eurovision-hosting. Well, it nearly worked on Ireland...
For the real Eurovision dirt though, go visit Chig and Mike, who were, like, there. And roll on, erm (rapidly flicking through atlas...) Riga!
Eurovision!
Which I hadn't expected to see, clashing as it did with Kirsty and Claire's barbecue to celebrate moving into their new exclusive Clapham man-trap. It transpired to be an afternoon affair though, and much fun: I did my bit by 'chargrilling' (read: incinerating) a variety of meat products and helping to shift copious quantities of sparkling alcoholic concoctions (well, you've got to help out at these things, haven't you?).
From there it was a stumble on to the Northern Line, and up to the King William IV in Hampstead along with Greg, Phil, Rick and Jonathan, for the big event, on the big screen. Other pubs will no doubt be getting these in for the World Cup, with the King William it's Eurovision. Hmm, spot the gay pub.
Arrived too late for our entry, which I still haven't heard in full and probably never will, but the place was packed, and great to watch the show as part of a big crowd (almost as good as watching at home with the lyrics amusingly translated into English on teletext subtitles - try it if you ever get chance...). Ah, the cheesy presenters, the glitz, the glamour, the incomprehensible videos between each song - all present and correct. Big cheers went up for the Slovenian 'sisters' (okay, the song sucked but they deserved points for sheer, erm, balls), big cheers for Israel from the sizeable Jewish contingent of NW3, and as usual, big bewilderment at the utterly baffling voting. Latvia? Eh? One would almost suspect there's a conspiracy afoot to systematically bankrupt the Baltic nations by means of forced Eurovision-hosting. Well, it nearly worked on Ireland...
For the real Eurovision dirt though, go visit Chig and Mike, who were, like, there. And roll on, erm (rapidly flicking through atlas...) Riga!
Monday, May 20, 2002
And hello to Guy who I met in The Yard on Friday and at last night's RVT extravanganza. (y'see? remembered!)
I think I'm missing the gay shopping gene. Braving the West End on a Saturday maybe isn't the greatest of ideas (especially when you have somewhat over-indulged on the Friday night) but I thought I'd be ok.
The long and leisurely breakfast in Compton St was easy. And I survived Soho with relatively little difficulty, garnering a surprising number of purchases (for me, this means any number more than zero). By the time we reached Oxford St though, the bright lights and trying to take in everything at once were starting to do my eyes in, until I finally came over all funny in H&M and had to go home and lie down.
Is this normal?
The long and leisurely breakfast in Compton St was easy. And I survived Soho with relatively little difficulty, garnering a surprising number of purchases (for me, this means any number more than zero). By the time we reached Oxford St though, the bright lights and trying to take in everything at once were starting to do my eyes in, until I finally came over all funny in H&M and had to go home and lie down.
Is this normal?
It's time to leave the country
A glance at HMV's new releases page reveals no fewer than eight football-themed singles released next week, and one more the week after, including such stellar talents as, erm, DJ Otzi.
This cannot be good.
A glance at HMV's new releases page reveals no fewer than eight football-themed singles released next week, and one more the week after, including such stellar talents as, erm, DJ Otzi.
This cannot be good.
Can't get you out of my head...
It just won't budge. Liberty X's surprisingly marvellous 'Just A Little' has been going round and around in my head for days, and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. Ditto for quite a few people it seems, as it gets a well-deserved No.1 this week.
And if their next single - a cover of one of THE all-time great dance records (a hit in 1990 and still sounding fantastic), doesn't follow in its footsteps, I'll eat my proverbial.
Perhaps it'll make up for beating off thousands of Popstars hopefuls (which might sound like a scenario for a porn film, but isn't) only to be constantly referred to as the 'losers' and 'rejects'.
Yes, sirree, a good tune. Now somebody please make it stop.
It just won't budge. Liberty X's surprisingly marvellous 'Just A Little' has been going round and around in my head for days, and shows no signs of stopping anytime soon. Ditto for quite a few people it seems, as it gets a well-deserved No.1 this week.
And if their next single - a cover of one of THE all-time great dance records (a hit in 1990 and still sounding fantastic), doesn't follow in its footsteps, I'll eat my proverbial.
Perhaps it'll make up for beating off thousands of Popstars hopefuls (which might sound like a scenario for a porn film, but isn't) only to be constantly referred to as the 'losers' and 'rejects'.
Yes, sirree, a good tune. Now somebody please make it stop.
Friday, May 17, 2002
Whoa, where did the last 14 days go? There I was, just minding my own business, and along came what I can only describe as a whirlwind of partying, clubbing, workin' like a dawg, and er, DIY - all of which pretty much negated any quality bloggin' time.
So, by way of an update, it's time for the Top Ten Facts I Have Learned In The Last Fourteen Days:
1. When friends say to you, on a Friday afternoon: 'Let's just go to The Yard for a couple of drinks after work' they are lying. This is especially true if it is a Bank Holiday weekend and reasonably sunny. The 'couple' will rapidly turn into about sixteen, and you will later find yourself staggering from your table in Balans, having taken approximately an hour to finish your steak, and being completely unable to face the fourth bottle of red wine that you don't even remember ordering. It will, however, be fun.
2. Love Muscle always rises to special occasions rather well. The Bank Holiday bash was a huge improvement on the previous month's somewhat dismal outing (largely down to the slightly altered DJ line-up), much to the relief of many.
Related facts: you would swear the resident strippers get, well, bigger every time. So does hostess Yvette. Yvette's frocks however, do not. The combination of these last two is not pretty.
3. The LA3 (or 'la-trois' as the D.E.Experience would have it) when held at the Electrowerks in Islington on a Bank Holiday weekend, is quite possibly the best fucking club in the entire known universe. I haven't stopped boring people since with tales of the wonderfully labyrinthine venue, fantastic music, deliciously dark'n'dodgy decor that made it seem for all the world like a spontaneous illegal rave (not that I would have any idea what those are like - no, really, before my time...), and utterly electrifying atmosphere. Okay, yes, everyone's favourite second vowel may have been affecting my judgement - I recall running into Rob a number of times whilst barely able to remember my own name - but really, this was damn good. Being a new and unexplored venue (to me, at least) added to the whole thing and in short, I can't remember the last time clubbing was this downright exciting. Absolute shit-hole mind you, but when did that ever stop somewhere being a whole lot of fun? (see also: Royal Vauxhall Tavern).
4. Kandi Kane is not the Dame Edna Experience. She is, however, a more than worthy stand-in; her show at the RVT on Bank Holiday Monday was a treat, and very funny, despite having seen much of the material on her last appearance. Anyone whose theme song is Odyssey's gloriously kitschy 'Native New Yorker' is just fine by me.
5. Four days of perpetual indulgence appears to leave you with a small, but consistent throbbing in your forehead. Like the veins are just too damn big or something. A definite throbbing. Or maybe more of a pulsing.
Either way, it will be like being in Babylon 5 or one of those many other sci-fi things where they seem to have decided that space aliens and super-intelligent beings of the future would opt to look exactly like humans, but with oddly-shaped bits of plastic moulded into their foreheads. Because, of course, they would.
6. Four days' partying = four days' hangover. The equation is apparently that simple. Suffice to say last week was a complete, fully comprehensive, write-off.
7. Don't go believing that, just because you have washed a dark green item of clothing several times before, it has lost its ability to find the white underwear you accidentally put in with it, and turn it a shade of green normally seen only in doctors' waiting rooms, and on Kermit the Frog.
8. Replacing your would-be-ok-if-it-wasn't-beige bathroom carpet with vaguely realistic 'wood effect' flooring is actually cheaper and easier than you might think - and it really will transform your bathroom. Yes, last weekend Kelvin, Greg and I came over all Carol Smillie (let's not conjure with that image, okay?...) and set about transforming our cosy but well-worn residence. A lick of paint, a big plant (Coco Palm, £5, Ikea), aforementioned flooring and a Playstation and voila! - it's a sleek, chic and stylish bachelor pad. You could almost be in Clerkenwell. Sort of.
9. Homebase, the DIY 'superstore', is evil and wrong.
10. I want to be an estate agent. No, really. Weirdness.
So, by way of an update, it's time for the Top Ten Facts I Have Learned In The Last Fourteen Days:
1. When friends say to you, on a Friday afternoon: 'Let's just go to The Yard for a couple of drinks after work' they are lying. This is especially true if it is a Bank Holiday weekend and reasonably sunny. The 'couple' will rapidly turn into about sixteen, and you will later find yourself staggering from your table in Balans, having taken approximately an hour to finish your steak, and being completely unable to face the fourth bottle of red wine that you don't even remember ordering. It will, however, be fun.
2. Love Muscle always rises to special occasions rather well. The Bank Holiday bash was a huge improvement on the previous month's somewhat dismal outing (largely down to the slightly altered DJ line-up), much to the relief of many.
Related facts: you would swear the resident strippers get, well, bigger every time. So does hostess Yvette. Yvette's frocks however, do not. The combination of these last two is not pretty.
3. The LA3 (or 'la-trois' as the D.E.Experience would have it) when held at the Electrowerks in Islington on a Bank Holiday weekend, is quite possibly the best fucking club in the entire known universe. I haven't stopped boring people since with tales of the wonderfully labyrinthine venue, fantastic music, deliciously dark'n'dodgy decor that made it seem for all the world like a spontaneous illegal rave (not that I would have any idea what those are like - no, really, before my time...), and utterly electrifying atmosphere. Okay, yes, everyone's favourite second vowel may have been affecting my judgement - I recall running into Rob a number of times whilst barely able to remember my own name - but really, this was damn good. Being a new and unexplored venue (to me, at least) added to the whole thing and in short, I can't remember the last time clubbing was this downright exciting. Absolute shit-hole mind you, but when did that ever stop somewhere being a whole lot of fun? (see also: Royal Vauxhall Tavern).
4. Kandi Kane is not the Dame Edna Experience. She is, however, a more than worthy stand-in; her show at the RVT on Bank Holiday Monday was a treat, and very funny, despite having seen much of the material on her last appearance. Anyone whose theme song is Odyssey's gloriously kitschy 'Native New Yorker' is just fine by me.
5. Four days of perpetual indulgence appears to leave you with a small, but consistent throbbing in your forehead. Like the veins are just too damn big or something. A definite throbbing. Or maybe more of a pulsing.
Either way, it will be like being in Babylon 5 or one of those many other sci-fi things where they seem to have decided that space aliens and super-intelligent beings of the future would opt to look exactly like humans, but with oddly-shaped bits of plastic moulded into their foreheads. Because, of course, they would.
6. Four days' partying = four days' hangover. The equation is apparently that simple. Suffice to say last week was a complete, fully comprehensive, write-off.
7. Don't go believing that, just because you have washed a dark green item of clothing several times before, it has lost its ability to find the white underwear you accidentally put in with it, and turn it a shade of green normally seen only in doctors' waiting rooms, and on Kermit the Frog.
8. Replacing your would-be-ok-if-it-wasn't-beige bathroom carpet with vaguely realistic 'wood effect' flooring is actually cheaper and easier than you might think - and it really will transform your bathroom. Yes, last weekend Kelvin, Greg and I came over all Carol Smillie (let's not conjure with that image, okay?...) and set about transforming our cosy but well-worn residence. A lick of paint, a big plant (Coco Palm, £5, Ikea), aforementioned flooring and a Playstation and voila! - it's a sleek, chic and stylish bachelor pad. You could almost be in Clerkenwell. Sort of.
9. Homebase, the DIY 'superstore', is evil and wrong.
10. I want to be an estate agent. No, really. Weirdness.
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