The pendulum of sexual preference.

Like most of you I imagine, over the years some of my opinions have evolved and my personality has had a few tweaks here and there as I have got a bit older and wiser. Growing up on a working class Yorkshire housing estate instilled in me a few "default" ways of thinking that I never thought to deviate from until I became a bit more self aware and gained enough real world experience to form my own opinions. One of the standard beliefs held by my peers (and so by association me as well) was that any male that deviated from the sexual norm of liking girls was disgusting, a person to be feared and hated. This led to the mistaken belief that where we lived and where we went to school there were no gay people. To us gay people were so alien they seemed to live a million miles away from our world where people drank, swore, had tattoos. went to the footy and got into fights.

Obviously this was due to the fact that if anybody at any of the schools I attended had admitted to being gay then their lives would have been made a living hell for the entire duration of their education. In my last few years of high school this prejudice was at its peak and although there were a few vague rumours about one or two lads and lasses, I never actually met a bona fide "out" gay person until I was in my early twenties and even then I had the firm conviction that a person was either 100% straight, 100% gay, or in the case of the bisexualised, 100% a swinger of both ways.

It was only when I begun to have the casual acquaintance of homosexual people via friends of friends or through work did I begin to give the subject any more than a passing thought. I'm not sure whether this is due to some kind of personal repression or if I am the same as everybody else but I do recall a time when I could never have admitted it to myself, much less the entire world, that I could acknowledge the attractiveness of another man. Nowadays, and more increasingly the older I become, I couldn't give too much of a fuck what most people think of me and anything as trivial as people speculating about my sexuality would make me cackle like a witch but back in my teens I would have been very embarrassed at the prospect.

I never really recall going through any cast iron doubts about my being straight, I knew from a pretty early age how affected I could be by a nice looking lady wearing not very much and I never harboured any feelings for any of my mates or any male celebrities but I found it a bit strange that I could see someone that was better looking than me and who got more attention from girls at school and along with being envious of this, there was a very definite sense of appreciation on my part. I was not at all comfortable acknowledging this.

Much later it occurred to me that absolutely everyone can be placed on a sliding scale of sexual preference and none of us are homo or hetero by default. The very, very gay are on one end of this scale, wearing outrageous outfits and buying everyone champagne and on the other there sits a man with a pint of mild and a copy of The Sun secretly terrified that his Son might one day come out because he is still single and listens to Robbie Williams.

On this scale I would place myself at about the 80% straight mark, as I am a man that goes doolally when my girlfriend seduces me with new underwear BUT on the other hand I can comment on how well another man wears his suit without being self concious. I like watching a good scrap BUT I cry at the drop of a hat when kids are suffering on TV. I can easily have my head turned in summer by a lass with long tanned legs, and will mostly let my eyes linger for a moment too long at the risk of getting busted BUT I did once see a picture of David Beckham with his top off and thought he looked strikingly good.
Take a moment dear reader to be honest with yourself and put a percentage figure on how straight or gay you are.

Nowadays people (especially youngsters, or "the yoot") seem to find it a lot easier to comment on such things and seem to lack the repression of years gone by. I was struck by this the other day when reading the excellent Generation Kill, Rolling Stone reporter Evan Wright's account of his experiences with 1st Recon Battalion of the US Marine Corps during the second invasion of Iraq.

One passage of the book quotes a Marine referencing the physical attractiveness of Sgt. "Fruity" Rudy Reyes, a (straight) fitness guru and martial artist who is considered to be the most attractive man in his platoon:

"It doesn’t mean you’re gay if you think Rudy’s hot. He’s just so beautiful," Person explains. "We all think he’s hot."

I was surprised that such an attitude would be present, much less comfortably vocalised by a gung ho US Marine and experienced badass killer but there it is and I thought it to be an hilariously candid quote.

In a weird kind of way I suppose I am quite proud that I am not a product of the environment I grew up in. For instance I know men for whom even discussing two men kissing or having sex is too much for them to bear, they squirm and screw up their face as if to vomit, as if the mental image will somehow turn them. Way I see it is: ok, as long as there are nubile young ladies in stockings and thongs with push up bras and nice heels in this world it's not for me and never will be. It wouldn't arouse me or give me any pleasure but fuck it, whatever makes you happy or gets you going is what you should be doing, in accordance with the standard disclaimer that it's all consensual and nobody comes to any harm. I could certainly never be offended by two people of the same sex being affectionate in public as I know some people are and I see it as progressive that I have such a radically different attitude than the one I was programmed with as a child.

So in essence what I am trying to say is
A: "Go me! I am so accepting!"
and
B: "I admit that I am 20% gay."

Arrogance is worse than genocide. Probably.

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Oh My Good Lord. Dubai Interpol headcase poster update.

I was strolling home tonight after a hard days work and decided to check my balance at a rather secluded cash machine. What should be taped above it ladies and gentlemen but PART FUCKING TWO!!! THIS WAS A COMPLETE COINCIDENCE!!!



This revised and expanded edition now includes such gems as the all new list of references which include Harrods owner and crusader against government conspiracies Mohamed Al-Fayed, MP and founding member of RESPECT with a nice line in sexual cat impersonations George Galloway and "dead beside a bottle of gin on a mountain" Chief Constable Micheal Todd.



I have decided to refrain from indulging myself for once and let the pictures speak for themselves so I implore you dear reader to take the time to read this madness in it's entirety. I do however feel that I must at the very least quote the following line: "Digital Star trek Deborah came late, no room on Page 3 for you. You Exposed silly girl." That is sage advice right there.
CLICK ON THE PHOTOS TO MAKE THEM BIGGER!



THIS INFORMATION ORIGINATES FROM A BIOGRAPHY WHICH WILL BE PUBLISHED UPON THE DEATH OF IT'S AUTHOR.

I can't fucking wait to read that, it will beat the living shit out of Katie Price's.

Interpol/What the fuck is going on here?/TEH SAS!

In the window of my local library (just as I imagine is the case with most others) there is a host of information for the bored nicotine fiend to check out before entering such as details of the local flower show, info on where to obtain help and support for the hard of hearing or those among us that only read Punjabi, museum and theatrical events and so on. Today they have been joined by this product of a diseased mind (who incidentally must have obtained permission to display it meaning more than one person thought it was a good idea).

I will try to break it down for you as best I can:

Interpol (probably the Dubai branch) are apparently keen to speak to the pictured gentleman who is a killer.

He has more than one name (as is usually the case with these Carlos The Jackal types) including the Patrick McGoohan-esque moniker "Number 14" and his interests include cross dressing, dressing up as a fireman, practicing stage accidents (what?) and receiving identifiable injuries (don't we all?).

He has a pilots license that was probably issued in Zimbabwe and his known associates include an old fella from the village I live in, controversial seller of American weapons to Iran and US soldier Oliver North and Andy McNab, the famous Security Expert for The Sun newspaper.

Andy McNab (or Steve Mitchell as anyone who has ever served in the British armed forces and heard a grapevine once would have you believe) you will recall was the SAS Sergeant that led the ill fated Bravo Two Zero Mission in 1991 during the Gulf War and the first member of that patrol to write a book about it. Our man Number 14 knows some serious people.

All this is presented in a black and white photocopied format that has been annotated with black felt tip before duplication. Those reading old enough to recall skateboard/music zines of the 1980's and 90's will be familiar with this layout and it lends itself well here to the insane cut and paste paranoia of whoever knocked the poster up.

What kind of mentalist takes the time to do the "research" for this kind of thing and then print it out and ask to display it in the window of a public building? Foreigners it will be, you mark my words.

I am in no way trying to pooh pooh the seriousness of the issue and if there is a wanted killer roaming around our village I want to know about it as much as the next man but the main reason this has unsettled me is that as I sit here in the early hours of the morning with a shaved head, spectacles, a bit of a beard and a slightly satisfied grin (I had a wank earlier*) I am terrified that someone saw me take a picture of the library window and has passed the information to Interpol. What if Andy McNab's former regimental colleagues are fixing to come storming into my house in a case of mistaken identity in order to take me out? What then?

The saddest part of this hypothetical scenario is that I would well get off on that. I would be checking out the cut of their Nomex overalls and asking to look at their firearms. "Can I hold your MP5K if you take the mag out of it!!?" I would shout with unrestrained glee as they dragged me from my desk.

*It has been brought to my attention that my sister read this and so I would just like to point out the statement about having a wank was completely untrue. I only put it in there to sound funny. To reiterate, I have never indulged in that sort of sordid activity and frankly, I never will. Especially not into a sock or while watching Loose Women. The very thought makes my skin crawl. Thank you.

Winding up Malaysian internet scammers.

The company I work for has recently been bombarded with fraudulent orders and before I blanket block the perps's IP addresses I thought I would have some fun with them. They have created two different accounts and have been placing a few orders a day for the best part of a week. I don't expect a reply and although it does pain me that I never seem to be able get my teeth into a really good back and forth with them I thought I would share them anyway and post up any replies if and when they come through. They ignored the first email (you should have seen me, I was fuming) and carried on placing orders so I sent the second one. I should start doing this with English people, at least I might get some mileage out of it.

I am fucked off with Google now as well/Businesses named by winners.

This is a multi subject post dealing with my inadequacies as a "blogger", the fact that Google are too selfish to let their streetview technology prevent me from being a lazy fucker and almost as an afterthought the fact that some businesses are named by geniuses and some are named by idiots.

Let me begin by explaining that I did intend to take pictures of some shops and shit to illustrate this post but then kept forgetting/was too idle. I actually did do it once but it was dark and they were a bit wank and if you don't know by now that quality is my watchword here then it's unlikely you ever will.

I even asked a few people to send me photos of shops and stuff that they had mentioned when the subject came up in conversation but I got exactly fuck all so I am taking it upon myself to do it anyway and then maybe edit later (this will 100% never happen, it's like every time I promise my girlfriend that I will put the bins out on a Sunday "no love I won't forget" and "yes love just go to bed". I have every intention of doing it, am even offended by her assertion that for some reason I might not, I just somehow just never actually achieve it and she then has to get up in the morning and rush after the dudes in the truck with our full wheely bins).

Anyway I had an Archimedes moment and thought "just use streetview and then screencap it you FUCKING OLYMPIAN OF A MAN".

Here are the results:


Takin' The Pizza.

When I was a young man I professed to a few friends that I had an ambition to one day open a pizza shop and call it "Pizza The Action". Looking back it was a poor ambition to have, the moniker was neither funny nor rude enough and didn't have anywhere near the amount of "je ne sais quoi" as the above purveyor of fine pizzas.

I like this one, it mixes elements of the inane with the potential for profanity and so works on a few very clever levels. If you are a patron and assuming you are not having your pizza delivered by the goons in the modified Pergeout 206 that provide this service, then you may want to walk in, order your meal and "take it away". Are you with me? You would then literally be TAKING YOUR PIZZA. But get this: sometimes in English parlance, if a person is seen to be taking advantage of a situation in order to satisfy themselves or perhaps for personal gain then they are said to be "Taking the piss". It is I am sure you will agree a fine thing when someone decides to combine the two and push the envelope in this manner.

The problem here was that streetview won't let me pan around the bus stop and so the shop front is less than visible. At least we can see the sign so it's not a completely lost cause unlike:



Tanorexic.

This one didn't work out so well for reasons that are evasive and on the tip of my tongue. Come to the fore I beg of you! Ok so you will just have to take my word for it but this is now a tanning/beauty salon called Tanorexic, I shit you not. The beauty (fnaar fnaar) of this name is that it isn't even just a massively misguided play on words. That would be bad enough, but Tanorexic is actually a term used to describe people that are addicted to going on a sunbed, something that can be detrimental to ones health and lead to cancer of the skin.

It's akin to calling an off licence "Tommy's Liver Cirrhosis, Impotence and Lung Cancer Emporium" or a supermarket "We Fuck Farmers And Local Businesses Right Up Their Puckered Ringpieces And None Of You Poor Bastards Are Left With a Choice" (although the signmaking for those could possibly prove to be a pain in the arse.)



Ace Dentura.

It's snappy, to the point and a reference everyone will get isn't it; you think "my car has a minor imperfection or ding in it's bodywork that could be remedied by conveniently calling a mobile repairer of such things" and before your synapses have finished firing you have equated said service with a mid nineties comedy vehicle and springboard that launched the career of Jim Carrey. It is a link lost on no fucker this one.

I am especially proud of this picture as it is not from streetview but one of my own taken with my phone from the bus stop I wait at on a morning amid a load of commuters, in the snow and freezing cold with one hand while trying to keep steady and not look like a raving lunatic that takes pictures of passing cars. So there.

This entry or whatever the correct term should be was encouraged by @Linz_Smith.
Follow him on Twitter and if you happen upon him in a London nightclub or gig then suck him off in the toilets. But make sure he finishes.

If.

"IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!"

-If by Rudyard Kipling.

If (careful now!) there has been a poem written that illustrates perfectly the manner in which I aspire to conduct myself in every day life then the above surely must be it.

Kipling, in later years became the subject of criticism because it was perceived by some that his poetry was lacking in intellectual depth. Personally I think that "If", at least, has enough to teach the everyday person as regards integrity, being humble and how to be a decent soul with a bit of self belief that I couldn't care less about it's complexity or lack thereof. It's just a great, life affirming, fear abating poem and it is one that I revisit often especially in times of strife.

I have a funeral to attend tomorrow and reciting this poem has helped me face what must be done.

"A choice like that ain't no choice at all."

Deep within the catacombs of a Northern shopping centre there exists a long corridor lined with ducts and huge piping. Walking down it reminds one of a scene from A Nightmare On Elm Street and it is easy to imagine looking over your shoulder to be greeted by the sight of stripy maniac Freddy Kreuger bounding in pursuit with his razors scraping and sparking off the walls and spittle dripping from his burnt lips.

Anyway, at the end after a right turn is a lonely and somewhat ripe service lift and upon entering you are presented with a surprising choice. Neo had his little Blue or Red pills, Alice was asked to "Eat Me" or "Drink Me" and yesterday I too was asked to make my selection. Which button did I pick dear reader? Well let me simply state with a wry smile and a wink that a Gentleman never tells.