Querelle

What an odd film. For a start, you know how Dennis Potter used to cast adults as kids in his plays? He was being Clever. Fassbinder does the same in this - he casts People Of Middle Age as Sexy Young Things. It's most odd.

There's a woman who looks like Cilla playing The Most Beautiful Whore in Town. Ronnie Barker plays her husband. The Sexy Policeman appears to be played by Mr Steptoe's dad, and the sexy sailor Querelle is played by Brad Davis - who, from certain angles is a fine young thing. And from others is David Boreanaz.

It all looks beautiful, and is set in a timeless world of pereptual sunset. There's no electricity, but there are space invader machines. It's magical, cynical, and pretentious.

Quite what the message is is unclear. It's made in 1982, but seems far older - and, although I'd love to be wrong, appears to belong to the All Gays Are Tragic school. Whilst also owning a lot of shares in Tom of Finland.

It just ends. Which art house films often do. I was doing my ironing by this point, so didn't really notice.

Quiet cowgirls

Went to the Black Cap on Saturday. Surprised to find it had been hired for a deaf lesbian's cowgirl birthday party.

The place was packed. But oddly quiet.

The Hoist

mfft. there aren't words to describe it. well, all right: here's some:

Boil wash. Sticky boots. Bleach for the soul.

LATER:

That was an experience. Well, okay. Waking up wearing half an army uniform this morning was an experience. Things are a bit blurred.

I've always wanted to go to The Hoist. Call it morbid curiousity - but a uniform club sounds fun. I figured, naively, that it would involve people wearing silly clothes and dancing. Apparently, up until a few years ago, it did. Now it's just people wearing silly clothes and... and...

Well. It's a great venue - it's a series of railway arches in Vauxhall, done out with girders and guttering candles, and Harley Davidsons and (for an archway) a surprising number of dark corners.

It also has the nicest bar staff in town - they're friendly, warm, and ring a bell whenever they're given a tip. Which I find thrilling.

All of which is a neat distraction from the fact that this charming, welcoming venue is basically a place where the weirdly dressed come to have open sex. Oh, how naive was I?

Hanging over the bar was a screen showing films where men looked for their keys in unusual places. Which set the tone nicely.

I was about the only person wearing combats and a t-shirt (my ridiculous army jacket I coat-checked - it smells of someone else's BO). Everyone else was wearing... well... bits of rubber. revealing bits of rubber. or other things.

There was one man dressed like a surveyor (hard hat and reflective jacket). Four men with pvc waistcoats were all over him. A fat man in leather trousers and a snake tattoo was buried in a young man with a goatee. Three men with chaps were stood spanking each other in a corner.

There was really a gimp. Honestly - led around on a chain by an amiable looking old man who made small talk with regulars ("football was terrible, wasn't it?") while his gimp followed behind, sipping a pint of cider quietly.

Sudden thought. Oh dear god. I hope it was cider.

I should mention the loos. When I first got there, they were smelly, but fairly normal. Half an hour later, they were a different world. You couldn't move for men watching other men piss over each other. New fact: When you hold open someone's rubber tshirt, piss in it and let it go, it makes a slapping squelching noise.

At some point a very pretty man with a dazed expression pulled down his rubber shorts and wordlessly offered me his erect penis. I stared at him. He looked down, seemed momentarily suprised, and then became enraptured. I left him, staring with childlike joy at his cock. Someone tugged at the back of his rubber shorts. Slap! Squelch!

Oddly, I discovered I was not catnip for fetish fans. Maybe my sullen expression of disbelief kept the greedy hands away. But there was actually a lot to enjoy. Some of the men were startlingly handsome - and some were just startling.

And then there was a man called Keith. Wearing chaps. And weirdly pretty. Well, pretty for a man in rubber trousers. Having an awful lot of muscles appears to help. He'd just come from another fetish night "God, it was filthy," he said. "Not fun filthy, mind. Just filthy. The toilets were disgusting - no seats or bog roll. And men were squatting down by the urinals with their gobs open. I ask you. Floors hadn't been cleaned, either."

We sat down on steel beer kegs and watched the chaos around us. The gimp was grovelling on the floor, cleaning boots with his tongue. Someone else was doing something with chains.

"Do you mind if we go?" asked Keith. "It's just these steel beer kegs are rather cold, and these trousers are open at the back. My cheeks are freezing."

Fair enough.

24 Dreams

I'm adoring the third series of 24 on DVD. You can fast forward through the boring bits, the torture scenes, and the stuff with Mexicans.

I had a blissful evening curled up in bed watching it while drinking gin and irn bru (surprisingly nice). And I thought it was great - although you can tell the difference between Hardened Regulars and Guest Cast.

Hardened Regulars are now getting very cautious in their acting, playing their cards close to their chest as they know that any moment now it will be revealed that Their Entire Motivations Have Changed And They Were Evil/Good All Along. Gasp.

Guest Cast don't know that Everything Could Change At Any Moment, and so wear a look of alarmed surprise when it is revealed that All Is Not What It Seemed. The President's girlfriend, for instance spent the last episode wide eyed, and shaking her head in cautious quiet disbelief.

There are two exceptions....
1) Kim - she knows that things are going to go wrong and has taken to wearing a mop on her hair. Bet she's so hated the IT guys keep sticking pictures of cougars on her desktop.

2) Nina - who just looks pissy. Every year they give her more eyeshadow.

Watched so much last night and got so drunk that eventually I started watching it through flickering eyes, and finally drifted off into a 24 dream, where, in order to stop the virus being released, Jack had to race around LA organising a party with Nina.

The two of them were constantly fighting over which brand of sausage rolls to buy ("These are kosher!", "You killed my wife!"), while the President is trying to make jelly ("My mind is set"). Sensibly, no one let Kim do anything to help organise the party.

Briefly my eyes opened, to see Jack's young companion, still tied up and spitting teeth after being Tortured With A Spade. My last thought before I went to sleep was "Why isn't he wearing a party hat?"

Restaurant at the End of the Universe

For no good reason, someone's opened a very classy, exclusive DimSum restaurant in my street. On a council estate. In Euston.

It's the foodie equivalent of The Man Who Fell To Earth - plonked between a Massage Parlour and the Filipino drop-in centre and needle exchange is this alien palace of chic design - it's outside is all frosted glass and tinted windows. No menu, no sign, no door handles.

Inside is a triumph of elegant design, with a great menu, amazingly attentive waitresses and an ambience of restrained luxury only heightened by the specially mixed music.

It is, of course, empty.

During our amazing meal, a man staggered in, holding a pack of beer and plastering tools. He blinked at the dazzling gloom. A waitress materialised next to him. "Do you have a take away menu, love?"

She giggled regretfully. "Alas, we do not have a menu. So sorry."

At the end of the meal, one of the waitresses, leant over me, her placid elegance suddenly abandoned. "How did you find this place?" she whispered to me.

"I live on the estate."

"Oh. It's just we've been open for a fortnight, and no-one's come in. The owner's getting worried." She indicated a fat man sitting in the distance behind some drapes, laughing and drinking with his friends.

"Well - you can't see if the place is open, it's dark, and there isn't a menu outside. No one knows what you do, or how much it costs."

"Ah. Yes. We asked the owner about printing a menu, but he's not yet sure it's right for the brand. We have business cards."

It was at that moment I realised the restaurant was doomed.

Mucky Mark

Evenings with my friend Mark always start well, and end messily. Last night, for example, began with fine cuisine and a pretentious 1928 Maury, and ended up in Barcode where someone tried to remove my nipple.

There was a lovely bit in the middle where we went for a nap in a grassy square. A genuine, rather lovely nap - but it was simply the calm before the storm.

Whenever we go to Barcode, it always appears to be a reunion of Mark's exes. You could throw a glance and hit four of them. Last time we were in there he pointed at a man and said "See him? I jerked him off in speedos on a rock in Mykonos."

This time, Mark managed the immortal comment: "See that Dutch guy? I pissed on him in a car park."

These things appear to happen to Mark. He has a messy magnetism around him. This is a man who swears his Pride included sticking his hand down the pants of Will Young.

Barcode was just a blur of exes, including said Dutch piss artist. It appears that, having been urinated over, the Dutchman then drove Mark back to his flat and introduced him to his boyfriend and a big pile of drugs. On subsequent occasions, he met a large number of useful media contacts. And an old man in stockings and suspenders. He stopped popping round after that.

The absolute low point of last night, though, was Mark's ex Ian, who shambled drunkenly over, announced he was off on holiday to buy boys in Sitges, and then tried to amputate my nipple. He just made a sudden grab, clawing into my breast like he was trying to squeeze a spot or open a jam jar.

I screamed in pain. He didn't let go.

So I lost it for a few seconds to the Red Mist. My normal personality just left the Red Mist to get on with tidying up. In this case promising to "fucking shred you if you touch me again you drunken shit".

I like my Red Mist. It's terribly effective, and I only have to use it a couple of times a year. Normally after some near death experience while cycling or photocopying.

By the time I was back in the building, Ian was shuffling away. And I was rubbing the bruised site of the attempted mastectomy.

Mark coughed. "Sorry about Ian. He's like that. We used to beat each other up all the time on K."

This morning I have welts. And a weird question: When he drove Mark home, did the damp Dutchman put his clothes back on, or do it naked?

Alcazar!

Suddenly wondered whatever became of the insane Stockholm group behind "Crying at the Discotheque" and Alcazar, an album that it was impossible to jog to without giggling.

They're still alive! How lovely. And, since they last made their album, they got a fourth member (Duckface gay Magnus). Magnus and Andreas (Snippyface gay) got together.

Enter The Castle Of Disco (As this Stockholm band call their official site).

It's full of news stories about nothing written in slightly stilted prose, such as...

Is Magnus and Andreas a couple again? The ring on Magnus´ finger has re-started the rumours once again. But they denies it all and says: All that we have together now is our dogs.

and

Progressions in the album plans! The band has now decided what picture to use on the sleeve

There's a video of a new single "Menage A Trois" which has the chorus:
"Would you like to come to a Menage A Trois?
There's room for one more in our boudoir."

Joy of joys, there is a second album, called Alcazarised. I instantly broke my "no Play.com madness" vow. Despite half of the tracks being undoubtedly dreadful.

Extra joy:
Customers who brought this CD also purchased:
Various - Sixties Jukebox Classics
Silver Convention - Very Best Of Silver Convention
Sertab - No Boundaries
Abba - Waterloo
Various - Eurovision Song Contest Istanbul 2004

Cabin crew

One of the weekend's conquests was a very pleasant airline steward called Simon. He explained to me how the pecking order went (Ryanair are the worst and Virgin quite the best). He worked for BMI - apparently the customers aren't quite as horrid as the Ryanair ones. He packed in being a politics degree to join Ryanair a couple of years ago and hasn't looked back.

His outlook on life was as follows: "I'm 21 now, and I can make as many mistakes as I want. I don't want to get a boyfriend and settle down. I just want to explore and travel. After all, by the time you're 30 you've done everything."

Now I feel old.

Second man was a make-up artist called Stuart. He was 39 but didn't look it. So, obviously a good make-up artist.

Office totty

We have a coder sat with us for a week. He is terribly easy on the eye.

It's not quite as bad as when we had beautiful Eduardo the designer in the office -strangely the laser printer next to him kept on running out of paper, which meant he had to keep on bending over to refill it. Sometimes several times a day.

But it's still a cause for concern. I don't think I've managed to look him in the eye, and Daniel keeps on pausing before he says his name.

Thanks to the "Queer Blog" ring thing at the bottom of the page, I can now link through to the purplest prose imaginable on gay office romances.

The Sun's "Bring Back The Daleks" Campaign

A Dalek's been sat outside television centre. Wearing an enormous Sun badge.

Ten minutes ago, a bus stopped by, dropped off a crowd of "Protesting Who fans" who stood, chanting for two minutes, and then they got back on the bus and went away.

Then Natasha Kaplinsky walked past with a glitter ball.

This is all true.