So it seems that yet another airliner on the way to the States has diverted because of a “passenger disturbance”. Now as I keep saying, I very much want to be safe on board aircraft, but I can’t help but wonder if American aircrews are sufficiently proficient at spotting the difference between psychopathic suicide bombers and the mildly eccentric non Anglo-Saxon white protestant. It’s got to be noteworthy that each of the three airliners that have done an emergency landing (accompanied by a fighter jets for no reason I can understand) have all been US airlines flying out of the UK. Each one of them has been found to be totally harmless, after some considerable hoo-ha. All the hoo-ha has been carried live on television, of course.

So, if you happen to be somewhat dark skinned and on a flight out of the UK, you would be well advised to sit silently and don’t ask for anything. Any sort of behaviour out of the ordinary will result in the aircraft landing at the nearest airport, while a flight attendant holds a gun to the back of your head.

On my flight back from Prague to Manchester last week, I realised that I’d left a tub of hair gel in my cabin bag. This is prohibited at the moment, as people with knowledge I mercifully lack can apparently concoct an explosive device from a tube of Studio Line and some Colgate. I’d just forgotten about it being there. Imagine how bad that would have been on a flight to the States. You just know that no amount of profuse apologies when asking a member of crew to confiscate it would avoid a landing in Bangor, Maine with a gun in the back of one’s head (ruffling up the hairdo).

With the US dollar so remarkably weak (USD/GBP = 1.89!), a trip to the states would be really cheap at the moment. For all the paranoia, the Bush administration and so forth, America is an agreeable place to visit. The whole thing would be such a drama though that it’s just not worth it.

Grade inflation

There's a new annual tradition in the UK. Once a year, the A level results are published and there is a goodly amount of debate whether standards have fallen.
What I fail to understand is how there can possibly be any debate. 24.1% of A level candidates (candidates, not those getting a pass) got a grade A. This is the twenty fourth year in a row when the pass rates and proportion getting a grade A have increased. Fully three quarters of candidates scored a grade C or above.
Bearing in mind the fact that the number of people going to university has increased a great deal over the same period, I can't help but think that people getting a grade C in 1987 might well have got a grade A in 2006. They certainly would have got a B.
Apparently, this is due to better teaching. Decent teaching, it seems, was only invented in the late 1980s. Trust me, it doesn't show in the application forms that I read.
What utter, utter, utter nonsense.

Get real, fatso

There’s a hit programme on British TV at the moment called “How to look good naked”. A young man who is clearly a queen (albeit a nice one) goes out of his way to make very fat birds feel better about, well, existing. The principal tool used in this is to persuade the subject that there are many, many people who are even fatter and all is thus well. I imagine he’d look pretty good naked, as he appears to be about 5% body fat, which I suspect is the maximum body fat for any person he’d personally consider having sex with.

When did British society come to rejoice in this sort of delusion and hypocrisy? As a fat bloke, I confess that I’m not wholly happy about it but at least I know what reality is. He says daft things like “curves are very sexy”. Objection 1: the words “curves” is a dumb euphemism for lardy. Curves can be sexy if they’re in the right place and of less than two feet in diameter only. It does violence to the English language and commonsense to use the word curve to mean the same thing. If you’re lardy, either accept it or do something about it. Don’t kid yourself though; lardy is resolutely not sexy. If a lardy (sorry “curvy”) person is sexy, then they’d be very sexy if they weren’t lardy. Sorry, curvy. Objection 2: how in the name of God would he know? He’s clearly never been sexually attracted to a woman in his life, curvy or otherwise. Would he be attracted to a “curvy” gay man? No chance, trust me. He might have a nice chat, say lovely things, but he’d go home with a stick insect with designer glasses. I’d do the same.

As I write this, he’s giving the curvy woman a crash course in corsetry. No kidding. The programme should thus be called “How to look passable with the assistance of an industrial strength corset”. Nobody would watch that though, would they? Eh? Eh? Perhaps a more truthful name could also be “How to look passable enough to become my fag hag”. Not sure that would much boost the ratings either.

Bloody young people

The BBC news website today told me that apparently nearly a third of the under 24s in the UK lost their virginity below the age of consent. Click here for the story. The age of consent in the UK is 16, in case you’ve lost track. It’s now the same whether straight or gay sex.

Am I being a sceptic or a cynic here? We surely all know that anything to do with sex amongst the young is subject to considerable exaggeration. In the older, it’s just subject to moderate exaggeration. It is reminiscent of how any time gentlemen are invited to, ahem, measure “themselves”, the results show their measurements are more than an inch more than when measured by a nurse. I wonder if they were told that the nurse would audit their figures after? To be fair, the unexpected popping up of a stern nurse with a ruler would explain a sudden loss of an inch for most of us.

But I digress.

I suppose I lost my virginity twice and in neither case was the age of consent nearly an issue (ages of consent were 16 and 21 at the time). I didn’t know anybody when I was 16 who anybody believed had actually “been there” with anybody. There was, of course, much laddish pretence otherwise.

How can it be that if youngsters are all frantically shagging each other, they find time to all get such excellent A level grades? I believe that more than a quarter of A level students get a grade A these days. Who could ever have imagined that genetic improvement could be so marked in but one generation?

I got A level grades AAAB when it was hard to get As. It’s all been downhill academically ever since then so I’m protective of it.

Now look here! I can cope with the idea of people being younger than me; I can cope with the idea that people can be cleverer than me and I can even cope with the idea of people getting more sex in their life than me (not hard). But the idea that a big chunk of British society is managing to beat me on all three fronts at the same time is damned unfair.

An improbable but beautiful meeting

Last Wednesday, I went out with my Maiden Aunt (her description) for one of our occasional evenings out. We endured an “informal evening of champagne” at my local lesbian coffee shop for nearly two hours before being able to make a polite exit. In essence, it was pretentious and horrid. If there’s one thing I hate more than a pretentious person, it’s a northern pretentious person.

Having escaped the insufferable champagne “do”, we went to the Fat Cat at Deansgate Locks with the express purpose of drinking a lot of ordinary drinks amid a lot of ordinary people.

I came back from a visit to the gents’ to find Maiden Aunt chatting somewhat nervously to a young gentleman and his quiet friend. It transpires that young gentleman was a Royal Marine on leave from Afghanistan. He seemed to have said a brief hello to a fair few people, in the hope of finding somebody who thought that we were doing the right thing by being there. The parallels with the Vietnam war are becoming clearer every day. This guy was in harm’s way daily and wasn’t getting any thanks for it from the folks back home. It’s sad and it’s unfair. Asked for my opinion, I said that I felt we did the right thing to get rid of the Taliban but Iraq was a mistake. However, all respect was due to servicemen who were there, conducting themselves with professionalism and restraint. He said he just couldn’t help himself from hating Muslims. This seemed somewhat out of character somehow but I guess that being shot at a lot by the Taliban is likely to colour one’s opinion. I took a chance at this stage and I said that I had no particular beef with Islam. As a gay man, Judaism, Christianity and Islam all hate me in equal measure. Give me a moderate Muslim over a home schooling American Christian any day.

Bit of a risk though to say this I suppose. One wouldn’t normally assume that a marine who was showing some signs of post traumatic stress would react positively to the news that his new mate was a batty boy who might well be mentally undressing him as we spoke. His actual reaction couldn’t have been more “fair enough” and “respect”, which is pleasingly a near universal reaction in Manchester in 2006. We chatted. It was nice. Maiden Aunt left to get a train, which had been my planned hometime, but I had half a pint left so I thought I may as well finish it with my new pals. When I got back to the bar, there was another pint sitting waiting for me, conjured from military wallet. A real man who knew I was gay was buying me drinks. What was there not to love about that situation, eh?

11pm came and, it being England and not a special occasion, the bar decided it was time to close. Marine and quieter mate had planned to go to the huge club up the road from my flat. I’ve walked past this club many times and inwardly sneered at it, in the disagreeable manner that superior ageing old queens do when they walk past straight clubs. However, I was a bit straight-curious, especially as I was in the company of a charming, young and cute 25 year old real man who was oddly keen that I should go with him.

It was all very surprising. Marine insisted on paying me in and buying the first three rounds. It was becoming odd. Odder still was the fact that the atmosphere was superb. I suppose that means it was a student night. Technically, I’m still a student which felt oddly comforting. Comforting too was the way that Marine pal had said quite clearly that nobody would give me any grief (lest gayness be obvious from pheromones or something), as he would be there to protect me. I truly can see what a lady sees in a soldier. They may kill with their bare hands, but eeeh, they treat you right. I know that hypersensitivity and over protectiveness are symptoms of PTSD. I shouldn’t take it as a compliment.

At 1.30am, I had a moment of clarity: I was trashed on a school night amid kids half my age. I love the fact that evenings like this occasionally happen when one lives in central Manchester . My new Marine friend had become ever more touchy feely all evening and even seemed reluctant to let go of my hand or to take his arm from around my waist. He was remarkably tender for a straight guy, let alone a killing machine. Look, you can't blame me for completely loving that, can you? Had he not shown me his military ID a few times, I would have doubted he was anything other than a bi-curious student. Deeply satisfying as it was to have a handsome, charming real man being tactile and protective, it seemed that it was time for an exit. His bond with me was surely nothing more than combat stress issues and the fact that I had shown him respect, affirmation and affection. I'd listened carefully and told him it was OK that he’d shot people in the line of duty. Emotional maelstroms such as this can progress to improbable sexual encounters. Honestly, they can. Those of you who have enountered this phenomenon will recognise what I mean. The rest of you will probably be very sceptical and I don't blame you. When it does happen though, the reaction after sobering up aint always pretty. It seems best to avoid that with an exceptionally fit man who's trained to kill.

I did tell him many times he ought to respond to some of the looks he was getting from young girls (one of whom sarcastically asked him if I was his father: bitch). I really believed that a marine on three weeks’ leave should be racking up as many uncomplicated life affirming (hetero) sexual encounters as possible and I was in the way of that. He saw it differently. In other words a 25 year old squaddie was less shallow than me. Ouch.

He was very keen to swap mobile numbers and that he’d be very pleased if I would call him. Long hug later and I was on my way into the Manchester night alone, torn between walking the few minutes to my flat and turning back.

I’ve since spoken with a friend in Manchester who has had a similar encounter, except that he actually slept with his soldier (for info, it didn’t end unhappily). These things happen more often than one would imagine, it seems.

There was something beautiful about the whole thing. I may yet give him a call and ask if he fancies a beer and a chat. I genuinely care that this man has somebody who he can talk openly with, as he seemed to be lacking that. He deserves more respect than he seems to get. My friend who'd had a similar encounter said that this is the sort of beginning of a lovely friendship. I'd be up for that.

What should I do?

Chomsky was a knobhead?

Since moving to Manchester from Prague a couple of years ago, my language has changed. Shortly after getting back, I noticed that I naturally swore in Czech and said “cheers” to somebody if they sneezed. As Czech and Spanish both use the same phrase for “cheers” and “bless you”, I can see where that came from. It certainly appeared somewhat sarcastic to say “cheers” to somebody after they sneeze. Nervously explaining this linguistic confusion made me sound like a pretentious arse. I learned that the hard way and hoped it would go away all of its own accord. Soon enough I was no longer sarcastically thanking people for sneezing in my vicinity, nor muttering in Czech when I knocked a glass over.

Certain northern dialect words have eased themselves back my vocabulary naturally, such as “skrike” to describe a crying child. I welcome their return.

I’m no linguist but it seems fairly self-evident to me that we all constantly relearn language from those around us. How then can I possibly explain where I learned the phrase “Oh arse, I’ve just spazzed it up again!” (When on the phone to a call centre helpline). I really am going to try to unlearn the word “spaz” to indicate foolishness or minor error. It’s just not polite and nice boys should not use it, lest they look a knobhead.

Books, their covers and judging

Today's dominant mood (due to hangover):

Picture, if you will, a slightly built and somewhat short woman of about 40 years of age. Imagine that she is flanked on both sides by unusually burly, invariably silent men. These men have a look of suspicion when surveying all those around them. They are invariably dressed in dark suits of unexceptional quality. There is always a cable thing around one of their ears, which presumably is some sort of communication device.

You’re probably imagining that I’m describing a former first lady of the USA on a shopping trip or something? No. I’m describing the combat lesbian in charge of the door at one of the best known pubs in Canal Street, Manchester. I won’t name that pub to avoid risk of libel, except to say that its reputation as a gay pub is now spurious. If the Walt Disney Corporation were to have a gay pub at Epcot, it would be like this place. It now principally welcomes tourists who don’t know better, bi-curious, generally curious and (worst of all) every hen night in the Northern hemisphere. It’s truly loud, tasteless and horrid, although not as loud, tasteless and horrid as your average Canal Street hen night. They shall be the subject of a wholly different rantlet.

The “lady” in question is, in fact, one hard, thoroughly disagreeable cow. Her sole recreation appears to be giving attitude to punters and harassing them for imagined misdemeanours, such as leaving their coat over a banister. No, dear reader, I don’t know why that should be an infringement of general good taste and manners either, but it is deemed thus. The two quiet, muscular men flanking her are not her protection squad. They are her bitches. They presumably had some dignity once, but certainly no longer. Occasionally one sees them try to suppress a wince when they hear her pick an argument with a valued customer over some minor imagined infraction. They then generally get the task of dealing with the would-be customer who has been made irate by her querulous manner. Get some self-re-sodding-spect, gentlemen.

I drunkenly staggered past said establishment last night and marvelled for a moment why anybody should voluntarily subject themselves to the indignity of her sneer and her sniping inspection. The range of options very nearby is positively bountiful, mostly with a happy crowd and conspicuously pleasant door staff. The combined bodyweight of her bitches must be four times her own, yet she holds them in her absolute power by some means that I assume must have something to do with Stockholm syndrome.

We staggered on past and went to Hollywood Show Bar, where I sadly discovered that the lovely Babs has decided she’s leaving. Babs is everything that the combat lesbian isn’t and the Gay Village will be a slightly duller place without her. Babs, we salute you.

Life as a former technophile

Yesterday's prevailing mood:


My Sony Ericsson K750i camera mobile phone and I have been together for a year now. It's not been exactly a sparkling coexistence, but it's been comfortable and I feel mutually beneficial. I arrange for it to be given electricity and it arranges for me to pay to vote people out of the Big Brother house. Suddenly yesterday it broke its usual silence with a text message that I was lucky enough to be due for my annual phone upgrade. Woo hoo! If there's one thing I like more than consumer durables, it's free consumer durables. I finished the sentence I was writing then bolted out to the mobile phone shop, looking somewhat like the fire alarm had gone off.

I have dedicated most of my life to the earnest task of acquiring unnecessary consumer durables. Mobile phone upgrades are thus like candy to a child for me, you understand.

A couple of hours of "upgrade hell” later (call centre queues, half-truths from shop assistants, arseyness generally) I brought my O2 xda mini to its new home. This is a lovely little gadget that I now realise I have precisely no idea how to use. I fear that this is an age-related thing. As I get older, my capacity to understand new technological stuff reduces and reduces. As both my patience and attention span are reducing at a similar rate, this is unfortunate.

Were you to take a tour around my gracious apartment, you would find many clues that I am a technophile. Wi-fi encrypted network, two laser printers wirelessly connected to my laptop, a hi-fi stack to rival a dreary suburban night club, for example. However, each of these only eventually worked after a familiar and laborious drill, which typically comprises some or all of the following:

Step 1: Rip packaging off new toy in a frenzy not dissimilar to a sudden shark attack on an unwary surfer.

Step 2: Having found the target consumer durable in the centre of all the packaging, feel a moment of elation like a kid who's won "pass the parcel". Immediately dispense with the instruction manual. Instruction manuals are for halfwits and softies.

Step 3: Faced with a bewildering array of cables, think better of having spurned the instruction manual and dig through the packaging to find it again. Briefly wonder how the foot high pile of packaging came from such a small box. Note the instruction manual seems somewhat smaller than one might expect, even though it’s printed in "English (US)", Spanish, Polish, French, German, Italian, Suomi (which is what exactly?), Hungarian, Russian, Bulgarian, Chinese and two other unidentifable languages. Spend 10 minutes hypothesising what the secret languages might be, as sense of foreboding grows.

Step 4: Discover the manual’s apparent ease of use is only achieved by leaving out most of the things you need to know. Notice with despair the proud suggestion that you call the premium rate number to speak to a "trained operative". Presume that "operative" is "English (US)" for "person". Further presume that a "trained" operative is a person who once did a two day course somewhere in the Midlands on how to drag my 75p per minute phone call out as long as possible, whilst putting callers on hold and spinning round on a swivel chair. Conclude that "trained operative" is a last resort.

Step 5: Feel sinking feeling of disappointment and frustration. Make another coffee. Look at the remote control and wonder if it's possible that "DNIe" will ever get to contribute in some small way to making my life happier and more fulfilled.

Step 6: Press a few buttons on remote control in the hope that new toy will spring to life. Become bored with, and slightly resentful of, new toy. Go back to doing the job that was in progress prior to step 1 above.

Step 7: Find oneself woken up at approximately 3am as new toy enthusiastically switches itself on and plays some unknown music at window-rattling volume. Press every button can find until it silences. Assume toy is not malfunctioning, but is obediently doing what it was told to do in the random button pressing in step 6. Worry that the most recent radom button pressing will not cause another outbreak very soon. Dimly remember that the "sleep" button tends to be another term for "snooze", ie just lulling you back to sleep before exploding again.

Step 8: Remove plug and battery from new toy. Just in case.

Step 9: Do other things generally for a period between one day and three months (the record is DVD copying software which has sat untouched for six months). Become used to new toy and its packaging being something that one just hoovers around.

Step 10: Finally plan to give over a whole miserable afternoon to the mirthless task of working out why the bastard Bluetooth doesn’t “self-configure” or “interface” with the 802.11g or other such things that nobody fully understands. Suspect that bluetooth and similar terms might just be a big hoax that some people in South Korea are peeing themselves laughing about.

Step 11: Convince self half of the features that made the new consumer durable attractive in the first place aren’t useful anyway. Note with a mixed sense of relief that they've now been overtaken by more up to date consumer durables new to the market. Decide that managing to make half the features work is both a sensible and admirable compromise. Mentally declare the battle won and accept that many buttons and functions shall forever be a mystery. Give new consumer durable a permanent place to sit in the home and add its remote control to the pile of remote controls besides the television.

Step 12: Receive notice of new upgrade and (failing ever to learn) go to step 1.

A picture of strength and self-denial

Today's prevailing mood:

Oh how virtuous am I? I was honestly meaning to go to the gym all day but was having a nicely productive day of working at home and so didn’t get round to it. So how virtuous do I feel about having got my arse off to Homos Place at 8pm for half an hour of jogging. That's the third day in a row. The only way to make it worth going to the gym is to really try to get into a routine of going every day. Fear not, dear blogee, it shall not last.

Homos Place is, as the nickname implies, is full of poofs but in a nicely Manchester not in your face sort of way and everybody seems to coexist pretty happily. It’s all very New Manchester. When I say poofs, obviously I mean gay men. You don't see lesbians in gyms. Boxing clubs perhaps, but not gyms.

So now I’m at home celebrating my self discipline and athleticism by eating Sainsburys family sized trifle out of the container, watching Big Brother on television. Who needs a boyfriend when you've got Big Brother and trifle?