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Changing times…even snails can travel miles given enough time.

17 Aug

I’m two years old…those bastard boys I live with only remembered the week after my birthday.  Slightly better than my first birthday when we had a party a month late.  Bitterness aside, my point is I’m only young;  The world hasn’t changed much since I’ve been in it.  Maybe it has, maybe I’ve just not noticed…

I was around at Noo Noo’s new house the other day to admire how far he had progressed with decorating (bravo to him for tackling it himself, we wimped out and got men in).  He had been ripping up some old flooring and underneath was some yellowing, local newspaper from 1958!  We found the front page (amongst sheets filled with ads for hair curlers and push-along vacuum cleaners); the cover story of the day was:

” “COUPLE HAVE BLACK BABY”  When [generic man name] comes up from the pit, his face is black and his hands are black.  After a quick wash he is white again, unlike his new son…”

We were shocked,  how was this ever headline news (or news at all)?  It got me thinking, when did this stop being news?  Was there a cut off point in history when suddenly adopting a child of a different race from yourself didn’t require a picture, full-page article and interviews with your neighbours (Angelina, Madonna, Sandra Bullock-you’re all excused)?  Of course not, like a glacier, cultural and social norms move imperceptibly slowly.  Who knows, in fifty years or so there may even be a black president of the USA!

Being 28, I’ve never really been exposed to this sort of crazy race-carnival-show mentality.  Even growing up in a small, mainly white town with only four families of differing race in the my whole school (the Cronins’ and Nizar Sudani were the black contingent, the Hadads’ covered the Arabic sector and my family were the oriental representatives), the white kid with the bald head and medical crash helmet got the brunt of school-yard teasing (I got the odd “chink” and “ching chong” kids can be so… creative).

My life as a present day gay is generally a pleasant hassle-free life.  Maybe it’s the people I socialise with, the places I go, the place I live…no problems at all.  Had a big, gay wedding (well, civil partnership), shacked up with the hubby (OK, civil partner), all is rosy; It seems not everyone is as lucky.  The Prop 8 issues in America highlights that we are in a time of transition.  It was only 2004 when same-sex civil partnerships were legalised in the UK, we still can’t actually marry.  I remember when I bought my first house my Moogie said to me (after her and the Old Man generously gave me a pile of pennies) “well we won’t have to shell out on a wedding”.

It’s 2010 and the tabloids, blogs, podcasts, TV shows are full of “such a Z-lister is gay!” and “Mr fat-old-politician is fucking rent boys!”.  Gay is news, gay makes the news, gay requires a picture, full-page article and interviews with your neighbours.  What the LGBT is fighting for is to not be news.


I was around at Robo-Noo Noo’s new house the other day to admire how far he had progressed with decorating (bravo to him for tackling it himself, we wimped out and got decorating cyborgs in).  He had been ripping up some old flooring and underneath was some yellowing, local newspaper from 2010!  We found the front page (amongst sheets filled with ads for breast augmentation and Roombas); the cover story of the day was:

“MIXED REACTION TO RICKY MARTIN’S GAY REVELATION” Puerto Rican singer Ricky Martin’s announcement that he is gay has prompted a host of reactions from fans and pundits, ranging from support to indifference. In a statement posted in English and Spanish on his website, Martin said he was “very blessed” to be “a fortunate homosexual man “. “

It’s 2010, we’re getting there.


Reinforcing stereotypes and supporting preconceptions.

5 Aug

The classic stereotype of a pretty, Persian cat is a big, lazy, narcissistic lump that sleeps all day…Irritating, but I’m probably the rule rather than the exception.  Stereotypes exist for a reason; Does it bother you?  Do you embrace playing the role people expect of you?

In a similar vein, I’m not a dog fan.  I’m sure there are nice dogs about but, every time I encounter one it acts like a slobbering fool…my experiences have only served to reinforce my preconceived notions…

On my way to work I often pass a Tesco in what is considered an undesirable neighbourhood.  My loathing of Tesco aside, I’ll pop in for some chewing gum or a Coke Zero.  I postulated months ago that the only people who shop here are ne’er-do-wells, dullards and miscreants…

Exhibit A: The Nicotine Bride

Standing in the kiosk queue with my Trident Soft (tropical twist) in hand…a woman in a wedding dress ran in.  “Excuse me love, can I nip in front of you?  I’m in a rush.” I obliged out of shock more than courtesy.  She proceeded to buy 20 “Marley Light” then ran out.  It was like Cinderella but less glass slipper and more smokers cough.  I was desperate to follow her to see if she had pulled up in a ribbon covered wedding car…or if she’d whip a lighter from her garter.

Exhibit B: Mr Observation Obfuscation

Walking into Tesco with my umbrella up as it was most definitely precipitating.  One trolley collector man said to another “I think it might rain”.  I’m generally too lazy to raise a brolly unless absolutely necessary…it was certainly raining.  Carol Kirkwood and Derek Acorah should watch their backs; we all know what happened to Cristal Connors when Nomi got a taste of the big time.

Exhibit C: Mr “Dinglehopper”

I stopped off with the boss for a beverage in Tesco Costa.  There was a man in a business suit that must have been taught table manners by the little mermaid.  After stirring twelve sugars into his cappaccino using his fork (then licking it)…he proceeded to SCRATCH HIS HEAD WITH IT! He then used the same fork to not only eat his lunch, but also pilfer a chip from his colleagues plate!  I’m sure we’ve all slurped the last bit of bisque from the bowl in the privacy of our own homes, but at a business engagement in a public place?  It’s not really the time to act like a chimp with a pointy stick.

I realise I’m judging these people on snapshots of their lives.  They may be wonderful, interesting people (except Dinglehopper he is beyond redemption).  Classic confirmation bias, I do enjoy the smug sense of “I am so right about this place”.

So, I fully admit I am guilty of subscribing to local stereotypes but what about more well known stereotypes? What if I’m the person feeding into them?

I never got into the Glee thing at all and I turned down free tickets to SATC 2 but, like a stereotypical flaming homo I love, love, love the Gaga and Kylie’s Aphrodite album is glued into my car stereo.  I also sport a slightly fay hair do and subscribe to the school of guy-liner.  If anyone saw me driving (badly as my mandatory attendance to my 5th driver awareness course indicates) I’m sure I would be adding weight to the typical homosexual stereotype of a glittery, camp queen.

Here lies my problem, I dislike stereotyping and like everyone, I don’t like the idea of being pigeon holed; but I’ll still judge others if they support my preconceptions.  I have no defence, I’m just a big hypocrite.  But what else can you judge random strangers on?  It’s not like I could crash the nicotine brides big day and ask her what her life goals are.  Is being aware of your own twattery any better that just being a twat?

It is a satisfying feeling to have your personal ideas validated even if you realise you are probably remembering things selectively.  On that note, I’m off to bitch about slobbery canines and groom myself.

Nº1 CDA: More is Less Hypothesis: Trial 1

17 Jul

Last night saw the first trial for More is Less 2010.

Plan for the weekend…let’s recap:

  • Drink then drink some more
  • Test level of intoxication next morning via comedy “nose touching/line walking” scenario
  • Rate level of hangover (from 1 to “oh god! why?!?!”)
  • Examine belongings for signs of debauch behaviour

It is a fair assessment that there was “drinking to excess” happening last night.  To the point of hangover-no-return…or was it?

A brief overview of proceedings is in order to make sure everything is well documented and above board (it is a rigorous and well planned experiment after all!).

Started the evening with a nice bottle of Villa Maria Sauvignon Blanc with dinner.  Civilised, delightful…then it went down hill.

Arrived at Mr Moxleys lovely new apartment where we waved a sad goodbye to the last bottle of original recipe Sailor Jerry (Farewell my friend!  You have inspired many a bad idea and will be deeply missed!).  I also think there was some Vodka involved…things got a bit hazy.  On an unrelated note I made up with Danny (look at me growing and everything).

After a brief trip to GLAM finding it deserted, it was off to BOLLOX where I’d never been before; I was a Bollox virgin…but my hymen was soon torn asunder.

I was introduced to the “Jager Bomb” by Mr Whits which we indulged in probably more than we should have.  They seemed to bestow Mr Whits with the strength of ten men as he kept picking Ms Kimmers and I up together with a roar…leading to squeals as our wombs were squeezed to buggery.

He also kept knocking the cue ball around the room whilst playing pool (I don’t know when, how or why pool happened…it was a self-righteous shoe-icide)

Jager Bombs also inspired the accessory of the century…FRANK SIDEBOTTOM HEAD!!!!

I’ve never spent so long or had such a fun time with my head up something.

A good time was had by all…mucho alcohol was consumed…let the experimenting begin!

Intoxication Test:  Well I could touch my finger to my nose and walk in a straight line (or what I imagined may be a straight line as I couldn’t fine one…that’s scientific rigour for you), but I was still totally off my little titty bags until after midday.

Simons testimony: “You could touch your nose but you kept telling me and showing me with gob volume turned up to 11…and you were clomping around like a fool…you were still wankered love.”


Yes! Fuck yes! No hangover for me!  Had a nice bowl of miso with prawns and enoki mushrooms (the best post drinking snack ever) and am just starting to feel sober (it’s 3.12 pm).

Mark one up for the More is Less Hypothesis!

Of course we need to repeat the experiment to build up a good data set…to the drinks mobile!!!


Somehow everything appears fine!!!  There was no cameo appearance of vomit on the taxi ride home…even the new Superstar aren’t all scuffed and dirty!  My Visa is a little bent from being in my pocket but that is reasonable wear and tear.  Unfortunately the Frank Sidebottom head didn’t last the night…some douche decided it would be fun to smash them up…what a wank faced super cunt…RIP Frank.

So…trial 1 has raised more questions!  It does appear to be possible to drink all night long, escape hangover and avoid ruining belongings!  How?  Was it the Jager Bombs?  Was it related to my broken Bollox hymen?  The experiment continues…

T-Birds and Pink Ladies

12 Jul

My cat brain doesn’t quite get the LGBT aggregate.  I know each have various support groups and other avenues for information but as a gay kitty, whilst I can relate to the issues of other gay kitties, lesbian kitties and bisexual kitties…trans kitties surely have many more issues that are a total mystery to me.  Is trans even totally related to sexuality?

Kids and puppies…both can be a handful and in many areas parents and dog owners have to cope with the same shit…often literally.  Both get brought home and have to get used to a whole new life ahead of them.  Both go for vaccinations, schooling, potty training; both need to be taught right from wrong, both need love and hugs…both can be left in a cage over night with a bowl of food and water…

Some people compare raising children and dog ownership but they aren’t really analogous.  Yes, in the beginning there are similar problems to be faced, getting used to a new environment and becoming comfortable with different situations, both require support and people to keep them happy and healthy.  But then things change.  Puppies become dogs and can generally fend for themselves.  They know what time they will get some meat, they know the best ways to get a belly rub, they know they can get away with sniffing a crotch or two…Kids I think, require a lot more work.  There is the long drawn out years of schooling, learning to fit into social situations, learning which kids will beat you up and which can be trusted.  Then there’s puberty, getting used to body changes and new feelings, getting comfortable with the new you…  By this time, little puppy is probably on it’s last legs and has lead a long happy life being a bouncy doggy…still a lot of growing up for the kid.

The boys get the luxury of being happy, married gays.  No issues or problems, they just get on with there lives…not pointing or abuse (well not much).  Whilst the boys could give advice or a shoulder to cry on to their gay/lesbian/bi friends could they relate or offer advice to a trans person?  What could they say about hormone injections or surgery or living like another person or dealing with ridicule or abuse (apart from travelling on the Metro!).  This is why I don’t understand why LGBT is all put together.  Boys like boys.  Girls like girls.  Boys/Girls like Boys and Girls.  Is who you are attracted to the major issue for T people?

Sticking LGBT together seems as insane to me as combining the RSPCA and NSPCC.  I don’t think LGB people have any sort of idea how to offer support or relate to the issues of Ts.  What I am going to do is tell the boys off for giggling to each other and whispering “tranny-alert” every time they drive past a T not really passing for the opposite sex.  They also need to stop committing the “fake tits fallacy” as I’m sure they pass many without noticing.

My little brain and kitty paws may not have bestowed me with the eloquence to articulate my point with clarity…I hope people take this in the spirit in which it was written.

No Pay for Gay?

8 Jul

Well I’m relaxing at Grandma and Grandpa’s house as I can’t face the thought of living in the mess that is the half decorated house.  The boys went out over the weekend and even though they got a little tipsy they noticed something odd…

Drinky, drinky, dancy, dancy was the order of the day.  After drinks at Mr Moxley’s we wondered out and for better or worse decided to check out New York, New York (due to varying reasons not allowing everyone to get into Thompsons or Tribecca…not good).  The strange thing was you had to pay to get in if you weren’t gay!

How exactly do they enforce this?  Do you have to give a demonstration if they are unsure you are queer?  What if you are bi?  Do you get in half price?  We just sauntered (stumbled) in without a problem…our gayness must be visible from space.

Is this discrimination?  Is this equivalent to a “ladies get in free” evening you see in dirty looking, small town pubs populated by fat, male, double-baggers?   Or is it like letting Black, Asian or Oriental customers in for free?

The most amusing thing was how blatant the bouncers were.  Even Thompsons manages to display a modicum of subtlety with their “no heels” policy.

Bars and Clubs obviously have a certain clientèle they are aiming for.  A BDSM club probably wouldn’t be an enjoyable night out for the women of Warrington WI and I would understand if they were turned away…

How far can an establishment go before they are being illegally discriminatory?

Worse gift ever? The cringing mix of gratitude and horror.

5 Jul

Everyone loves presents, exquisitely wrapped surprises that scream to be ripped open to reveal the perfectly thoughtful delights nestled inside…or not.

Every now and then there is an absolute nightmare contained in that package that promised so much…your face contorts in a pseudo-smile that does it’s best to conceal the grimace that says plainly “what the fuck were you thinking?”

The worse gift I’ve received is a white velvet, sterling silver and swarovski crystal collar that Mykie thought would be adorable on me.  It gets tangled in my fur so fortunately I escape the other cats calling me a big pussy.

Mykie and Simon have been given some absolute atrocities too…

I was talking to the wonderful Mr Nicksy on twitter a few days ago and was reminded of the most horrendous wedding present we were given…

It is so comedy terrible; it is literal LOL.  Thank goodness I was unconscious on the stairs following The Big Cheese Crash 2009.  Simon had the joy of opening this wonder alone in front of the givers whose sanity and taste level are obviously questionable at best.

The picture really doesn’t do it justice…As you can see, it is supposedly two gayers with strange rubbery faces that have tied the knot.  What you might not be able to see is that under the dashing 1980s jackets they are shirtless…and wearing jeans.  Yes, the sculptor obviously thinks that the gays get married semi-naked and in denim.  One of the men is missing a finger…is this an accident in transit; or, does the sculptor believe that unrelenting anal finger-blasting causes queers to loose digits?

The strangest thing about the whole debacle is who bought us this pewter nightmare…It was from an elderly couple who don’t drive and are as familiar with the internet as I am with a vagina…where in hell did they get it from????

We felt so awful and I feel a pang of guilt still for deriding what was a thoughtful and relevant(?) gift…but that is the agony of the gift from hell……but all said and done, we didn’t feel bad enough to keep it…

I think the boys win, my collar is actually quite adorable…I had to stare at the statue of homo holocaust for nearly a week until the bin men arrived to put it out of its misery…it was fucking awful.

Quintessentially English vs Quintessentially Gay

29 Jun

As my food bowl was filled to capacity and two extra water bowls were placed on the floor I knew the boys where neglecting me yet again and going away over night…They were off to Stratford for a culture based weekend…was it worth the trip when Manchester packs quite a cultural punch?  More importantly, to what degree did the planned quintessentially English trip become a big gay away?

over to Mykie…

As we were over packing our suitcase Saturday morning (QG) and trying to squeeze my second toiletry bag into the luggage (QG) the post man delivered Simon’s pre-ordered “Kylie: all the lovers pack” (QG) which became the anthem of the road trip (QG)…picked up the in-laws and we were on our way!

We arrived in Shakespeare Land and spent a lei surly afternoon eating ice-cream by the river (QE), visiting Shakespeare’s house (QE) (well we looked at it…there was a big queue), and, on the hottest day of the year, shopping for Christmas ornaments in an all-year wonderland with faux snow and everything (QG)!  
We also spent a large portion of the day wondering how hot the living statues were in the heat and paint (QE).  The statues in Stratford are all gold and Shakespearian, much more impressive than the dull, grey scary ones in Manchester…win for Stratford!

In the evening we walked to the theatre to see “Morte d’Arthur” (QE).  The RSC is amazing!  The Royal Exchange Manchester is decent but this was something else!  Flying angels, horses made of people, tranny-devil and even a noteworthy shirtless man episode (QG).  The acting was top drawer, Arthur aged from a twatty imbecile to an ageing, wizened monarch seamlessly…Mordred was a deformed Geordie who brought a great touch of comedy.  It was a fast paced, fly by the seat of your pants tour of the whole of Arthur’s rein (for four hours! a 25 minute interval and a 5 minute pause (piss) I can’t sit still through a Dr Who usually but I was enthralled).  Great production! Bravo RSC (QE)!  As I was sweating like a whore and we were at the theatre, darlings…we needed a little razz-ma-tazz…that’s my explanation for purchasing a pink hand-fan which I spent the weekend wafting myself with (QG, so very QG).

Sunday, after being interrupted mid coitus by Mama Dotsy knocking on our hotel room door (QG), we had a lovely full English (QE). I had cereal as I had eaten so much the previous day I was feeling very Gabourey Sidibe so went for a low-fat breakfast (QG) (and I’d just eaten a sausage).  There was a woman, unfortunately, screaming at the hotel staff about her “boyfriend” not being able to find a parking spot and he had “a very expensive car”…this turned out to be an over-tanned, mid 50s, “long hairs are more hairs” man in a Z4 who proceeded to reverse 50 meters down the pavement…they obviously thought they were the Zeta-Douglas’ but they were just common, trashy scum…vile (is Jezza Kyle QE? I hope not)!

We strolled down the river late morning (QE) (OK, I had found a craft market so Simon sat on a bench whilst I rummaged (QG)).  I rowed my husband down the Avon in a row-boat (QE sort of).  Simon was steering, I was rowing…we crashed into a pile of trees trying to turn around (QG) (This was so Simon’s fault not that he admits it).  A brief trip to Anne Hathaway’s house and garden (QE)…(no, not that one QG) who I’m guessing didn’t have a gift shop attached when she resided there.  It sold pink quills and ink (QG) I wasn’t allowed any as I had my fan (QG).

Ended a perfectly delightful weekend bombing home down “28 days later motorways” as the football was on which we didn’t give a small rat crap about (QG).

This England never did, nor never shall,
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror.

William Shakespeare, “King John”

(Sorry football fans)

It seems Stratford is worth a visit if you enjoy a nice, quiet weekend and excellent theatre…It also appears that Mykie can’t even get through a play without buying a gay piece of tat.  Manchester theatres are great but if you really want a treat, get yourself some RSC tickets…hope next season has some good shows because I enjoyed having the house to myself!