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Today I went to Hampstead village for the first time in years. I'd forgotten how different it is from the rest of London. The people are dreadful, but the buildings are so crooked and ancient and up so high above the city that if you ignore the smug stockbroker faces/chintzery and just look at the architecture, the backstreets have a perverse, fairytale quality to them; part Brothers Grimm, part Miss Marple and part Portmeirion. Most of the public school dreadfuls were traipsing up and down the high street so I stole away and lost myself on either side. I prefer the east side - probably because it's closer to Kenwood Ladies' Bathing Pond - but it's so expensive I can't imagine being able to ever afford anything there unless I have a lottery win. Maybe tonight's the night! Anyhow, I was intending to check Maida Vale and further out west along the canal, but to be honest, once I'd snooped about for a couple of hours I realised I didn't really want to live in a geographic basin again.

My first serious g/f once had a job at the Pentameter Theatre in H'stead and I remembered her saying how it was her ambition to live on a hill. At the time I thought she was crazy (all that climbing), but today I could finally see her point; there's a sense of mental clarity to be gained through freedom from the 'urban surround' endemic to basin-dwelling. So, I am willing a win tonight. If I can conjure up 300K for myself after sorting out Stick and Uncle Derek, I'll be able to move to Hampstead, and what a lovely thing that would be. I might ask Stick if she fancies living there too in a split residence. Dodgy, but an idea. I know this will sound horribly bourgeois, but people look after their surroundings in Hampstead; they use the bins, they don't wee in the streets, and they paint their front doors and windows. I know I'm lucky to have such a big place in Brixton, but the dirt and squalor start getting to you after 14 years. Every day some bloke pisses stinky male wee through the front gate, and I have a nasty feeling one of my neighbours has started dealing to street callers. I keep getting late night buzzes from people wanting the flat "above X" but not knowing the names of the people who live there, and the other day I saw a Lambeth bin man disappearing inside with a guy in a suit. I don't mind so long as crackho's and people with violent/scary mental health issues don't start using the premises as they used to (one poor, bedraggled streetwhore used to fuck punters on my doorstep on a cardboard box), but once you start going down that route on an urban thoroughfare that kind of patronage - and some fucking scary characters with guns - are not usually far behind. Hopefully I'm wrong and they've just been having a few fun parties.

So, today has been a posh day. My new watch arrived safely but without its 'anchor' and without an invoice. I called the jeweller but got the same dopey girl who didn't pass my message on the other day and, judging by the lack of return call, performed the same non-feat today. Anyhow, I've been excited about the watch, and also fearful. I've been considering what a ghastly expenditure it is, and how gratuitous it is, and how I could have better spent the money and so on and making myself sick. I awoke burning up with nausea and totally disorientated this morning after dreaming about it, but when I opened the box and saw it I had this odd feeling of completion, like it was a lucky charm that ended a period of fecklessness or something. In iconic terms it's a watch that screams "arsehole" but to me it represents a lot of very hard work with no other reward. I allowed my work to virtually destroy me over two years; I have no girlfriend, a shabby home, friends I've mainly lost contact with, a death of dreams & inspiration etc. - the watch symbolises an end to all that. It's a retirement gift to me; as symbolic as the bracelet from Stick, the ring from Lila, the ring of independence and the necklace of adventure. It is the watch of idle contemplation and, like all the other trophies, it represents a new beginning. Oh, and if I manage to sort out the receipt and anchor business I can always flog it if I fall on hard times!

Lastly, every day in every way I love Crusty Tina more and more. Every night she sits down beside me and offers up her unconditional friendship in the kind of independent, undemanding but devoted fashion of a perfect wife. If only she could sand and plaster.
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A small post, a minor *wow*.

Yesterday was horrible.

I've been feeling numb and uninspired for months so it was in an empty frame of mind that I trotted along to meet someone who needs a science series 'reversioning' for Channel Fuckwit. I'm not around straight men enough to be able to readily read 'arsehole' from 'eccentric' every time, but I was getting a distinct bungholio vibe from the office (posh chicks doing no work and making too much noise) and the guy's general aura. He was saying the right things, but something was off-kilter in the frame. We got to the end of the meeting and he asked me what my current situation was so I told him I was taking time out to do short projects and development 'cause I'd done 50 weeks of 18hr days last year and it nearly killed me. Quick as a flash he comes back "Oh, that'll be *PRICK*. He's a slave driver", but in such a way it made me think he was joking and that I was supposed to laugh it off, only I didn't laugh, because *PRICK* is a psychopath who creeps around peopel further up the food chain and crushes those over whom he has (crazily) been given power. Anyhow, he said it again and laughed, and I stonewalled again, and he says "I really like *PRICK*, he's a good bloke". My blood ran cold. I think, on the basis of that exchange and the fact I was radiating extreme laissez faire, (the biggest sin in telly), I won't be offered the job, but whether I am or not, I know I don't want it now, which at least is an improvement on complete numbness.

So... after that, rather scary and disappointing experience I trundled off into the West End where I met an old, fondly-remembered colleague from around 8 years ago. He's a total stud shagging-machine who's finally sesttled down (I hope) with a wife and baby + has a great job at a respectable company. I really like the guy and was dismayed that every question he asked me generated what to him, I could see, was a sad and/or disappointing response.

Work = mainstream shite
Relationship = n/a
Future = dunno
Ideas = uninspired

He was very sweet and said we should meet up & exchange ideas next week, but I got the feeling he felt a bit sorry for me, which was slightly depressing 'cause until that moment I didn't feel sorry for myself at all.

Anyway, this is where the *WOW* bit comes in 'cause later (after Misshapes - where I saw the most mega-fit girl since Rat Girl) I got home and this tsunami of ideas came rushing out to the extent that I couldn't sleep and had to keep getting up to write 'em down. 100% volte face. So, now I'm gonna write em up and get em off to Mrs Lovely at W.O.W. post-haste. What a happy, happy feeling.

Ask and ye shall be made to wait, but not always forever.
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Obviously i only update this thing every two years, and even then I don't bother with the details or interests, just the diary. I wish I had a special reason for updating it each time but that doesn't seem to be the case. I'm just updating 'cause I'm bored. This time my boredom's scaring me because I really really really have no excuse to be bored at all: I have a house to renovate, no job, no girlfriend, a development exec I need to send some ideas to and - here's the killer - no inspiration, which says it all really.

I can't remember a previous time in my life when I had no inspiration, but that's exactly where I'm at. I make a living from thinking up ideas, but right now none of my ideas excites me. I'm still having them, but every one of them feels stale or - what the hell is wrong with me? - I simply can't be bothered to execute it.

Considering that last year I worked 18 hour days almost every day for 50 weeks out of 52 and you'll appreciate I'm not a lazy person; I'm a hard-working muthafucker who likes making things work and sharing ideas and managing people in the true sense of getting the best out of everybody, but I cannot shift this down-tools block and it's going to eat me alive. My savings are dwindling. I have no pension. I'm spending most days either sitting around, walking aimlessly, huffing weights or watching films. What the hell is wrong with me?

Was last year so awful I'm in delayed shock or something? I dunno. I spoke to a lady today about re-cutting and developing a series someone has obviously loused up for one of the terrestrials. I have to wait in for my *new watch* to arrive in the morning, but once it's here I'm off to see her and her exec. It's just two weeks work but unfortunately, if I decide to do it, it'll cut right through the period I was hoping to help my friend Amy edit some stuff. It might be just what I need to get me out of the house, but really I should be looking at getting out of TV and into something else. I can't fathom it at all. After 38 years of screaming through the streets like Roadrunner I really do think I've lost all my motivation.

If I'm honest about it I think part of this ennui stems from the girlfriend thing. I've been going to the LLGFF every day in the hope of bumping into someone I'll call Rat Girl. The LLGFF is the only gay event Rat Girl is known to attend from year to year, so my likelihood of bumping into her elsewhere is zero and of all the eligible ladies of a certain age in London, Rat Girl is top of my list. What's irritating is that over the last year or so four or five different people have independently said to me, when the g/f issue has arisen, "Have you ever met 'Rat Girl'? I would have thought she'd be your type." Because, albeit very briefly, I have met Rat Girl I know damned right she is my type, but Rat Girl doesn't go out and I have no way of meeting her without doing something weird and stalky that I wouldn't do in a million years. It's not even that she's just my type: she's a vegetarian, non-smoking, arty farty, animal-loving femme "ball of hate" (allegedly) who likes boyish types. Annoying.

Talking of annoying, Mrs Schwarz has finally started paying back the £750 she borrowed from me two years ago in £50 installments. I'm amazed but very glad she's bothered. So many people have told me she'd never pay me back and I've had to argue, against a mounting pile of evidence to the contrary, that she would. It's made me look a right saddo - clinging to good faith in the face of a hostile ex-g/f - but she's come good and proved my shaky confidence in her correct, which is a good thing for both of us.

Last August Pony Girl recommended I read Frankie Hucklenbroich's 'A Crystal Diary' which resulted in me making a terse, Frankie-style, gangster phone call to old Schwarzy, very out of character and packed with menace. I was ultra pissed off about the lack of follow-through on promised payments, but the call had no effect whatsoever. It is without doubt better for me not to see old Piggy, but despite her appalling flakiness, substance issues and temperamental viscitudes, she is a sterling quality girl of unshakable substance when she wants to be, and a sexy, comedy, upright, brainy bitch to boot. If only she didn't know it and wasn't quite such a thumping great teller of porky pies. "Lesbian vegetarian", indeed.

That's all I have to say in the bitch department: there's long-gone Piggy Schwarz, and never-to-be-seen-again Rat Girl, and the rest of the female metropolis is one great slip-sliding grey 'just good friends' morass to me. Am I, could I, possibly, be straight? I think about male bodies but I can't get 'round the head and personality bit. I've been asking myself if I could have sex with a man, but whenever it looks like a possibility something in me just says 'no. you don't want to do that' you're not connecting here.' and off I trot again. I've wondered whether I should do it anyway, but my shrink friend, Unis, who knows all my fetid secrets, has warned me off. Not that it matters too much. I'm kind of ok being single, it's just difficult being single and celibate in a world in which everyone else seems so impossibly fascinated by sex and at it 24 hours a day.

Which brings me to a new hate: I fucking hate Ruby the GB mod. I don't hate many people on GB which, considering my general hate levels, is quite something, but I really, really fucking hate the idea that someone so personal, snooty, vindictive and aggressive is in a position to flame people on a public messageboard from the privileged position of moderator. She's only been snooty with me so far, but over the last few weeks I've seen her really savage other people for absolutely sod all. In the secret dab-dab stylee I know I'll wreak revenge somehow, but it's an irritant in the meantime.

Other things: Pony Girl has her first proper lesbian date for over five years on Friday. I'm thrilled to the crows' feet for her. I hope they've booked the removal van. I hope it's happy-ever-after. I hope they do all the sad things lesbians used to do and get married immediately. On paper they're almost as good a match as me and Ratty G + Pony is so excited I strongly suspect morning sickness. Uh oh. That's another Rat Girl mention. Please, please, god send me someone else to at least get a little crush on or a little fancy going for. I managed to conjure up a bit of a crush on the Space Cadets doctor last year, and of course it's always nice to work with the Endemol hot squad, but someone with a 'vaguely available' sign hovering over them, and a liking for animals, would be best.

Ok. Since this will probably be the only post for another two or three years I want to tell you that last summer a garden spider faked its own death outside the kitchen window, and that earlier this year a buzzard landed on the rear terrace and carried off a blackbird. Johnny Hopper Mk3/4/5 (?) is back, all covered with scars (my mother thinks the buzzard is to blame). I wrote an email to Key, asking her if she wanted her showreels and a lovely photo of her ex-g/f that was hidden inside one of them back. No reply.

Lastly: there are a lot of nice women in my life at the moment on a friendly, casual level. I like that, but I don't understand why I don't fancy any of them any more than I understand why my motivation has dropped out through the floor. What can it all mean?
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Well, it's been fuckin AGES since I was on here. To be honest this is something I started then forgot about cause there were so many other things to keep me busy. Anyway, a lot has happened since my last visit: girlfriend stuff, gender stuff, friend stuff and job stuff. The biggest thing which changed a couple of years ago was my social life with the opening of Nag Nag Nag in London and the gay electro scene. That's all boring now. Within four months Nag had been completely ruined by Hoxton straights so a lot of people defected to The Cock, Kashpoint and the other small clubs which were springing up everywhere. At around that time I got a job producing a paranormal tv show which took me away for a month. When I got back I spent a few weeks hanging out with old friends but then one job came hot on the heels of another and this year I produced a world-famous TV series which I don't particularly want to advertise here. Now, of course, I'm completely done with TV and never want to work in it again so I've been writing poetry and have started work on a screenplay. I'm also doing a lot of embroidery which is very satisfying + you can go out in what you've made when you've finished. I wish I had the guts to sit in my garret making art all day but unfortunatelty earning a decent enough wage gives you lifestyle expectations which are hard to let go. Thankfully I've never evolved a champagne & coke lifestyle and remain pretty thrifty so I can afford to rattle around doing this for a while but I'm sure it won't be too long before I'm working on some crock-of-shit show for more readies to fund another semi-permanent holiday. Of course, if I sell the screenplay that's another story, but I'm not gonna count on it or the lottery (although, fuck! I lost AGAIN this week!). Ciao for now. Chops.
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Brighton Pride takes place again tomorrow for us Brits. This will be my third Pride this year, if you count the NY dyke parade and the ny pride parade as separate entities, which I do, believing that women-only events count in their own right and not as some pathetic add-on to mixed or largely male goings on. The NY dyke parade was a real inspiration. We haven't had a dyke parade in the UK since the late 1980s when a political riot over the London Lesbian and Gay Centre deciding to flirt with capitalism brought the whole event - and ultimately the LLGC itself - to a close. It's nice to see that despite America's reputation as the great cannibal of individuated cultures outside its great fat greasy melting pot, there's still a lot of internal resistance to the commodification of minority politics. If only the same could be said for sad little England, and specifically London, where virtually every fag and dyke has caved in to the comely charms of sponsored lager and largeing it to the fiscal tune of homophobic organisations which seek to swallow us whole.

Despite this frustration with the native status quo I'm looking forward to tomorrow and getting on a train to one of the few regional Prides left that has a political component and rocks.

I'm also looking forward to seeing one particular girl who I've had long distance designs on for months. There's always been a strange vibe between us and I thought when I got back from my trip we'd be okay with each other. Seems not. Whenever we're in the same space we both act really weird and I don't know what it means. My guess is either she knows I fancy her and is trying to put me off/disgusted or she fancies me too and feels weird about. Either way it's very odd. I saw her the other night but had my back to the area she came in and sat down in so couldn't actually go "oh hi." I hadn't seen her for months and vice versa but instead of coming over to say hello (the friend I was with told me she was behind me) she stood about three people back along the bar and started talking in a really loud voice. I was dying to turn around but couldn't bear the strained "oh! hi - didn't see you" situation which I knew would be the inevitable faux consequence. Instead we both brazened out ignoring each other. When I couldn't stand the tension any more I slipped out during one of her drug-fuelled visits to the toilet. What can it all mean?!!! There were only about twelve peoplein the whole bar including this girl - who I know socially AND through work - and we both studiously ignore each other while talking loud and trying to be noticed. Maybe it means we're just self-absorbed bar queens. Anyway, I 'd really like to have a proper conversation with her and find out all about her dodgy little life at some stage. One minus point - I did overhear her telling the barmaid she liked "tall black girls with big arses. No prostitutes." I may not be a ho but then I'm not a tall black girl. I do have a great fat arse but that's not what I imagine she has in mind.

On a more practical level a very interesting lady has been e mailing me about her sexual interests and exploits. She's into some of the same sick stuff I like AND she's a dyke sub into cock and boot worship, which always goes down well in this department. I just hope it's not someone I already know or have slept with. The drawing she sent of herself looks a lot like my flatmate. If it is she knows my secrets now so I'm gonna have to kill her.

On that cheery note, adios 'til tomorrow
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Despite the overwhelming optimism I was feeling last Sunday this has been a difficult week. Although there are some very good people in my office were structurally handicapped by others who are either too professionally inexperienced to handle whats turning out to be a difficult job or have lead too sheltered a life to understand the cultural territory were attempting to engage with. Thats before we get to age old problems unique to the notorious institution I work for. The place is a real bugger and it really annoys me that when I come to writing up the weeks events its once again work which dominates the picture. Who gives a shit anyway? I know I shouldnt.

Last night I went with a friend to Londons biggest fetish beach ball at the old St Matthew's Church (now MASS) in Brixton. I was very excited at the prospect of having something to dress up for and spent an enjoyable evening hurtling around the home in my new House of Harlot jodhpurs and 14 eyelet (vegetarian, yawn) shit kickers. My friend kept leaving messages which threatened an early arrival but eventually turned up late and bombed. Shes been having a disastrous affair with a local semi-celebrity and is in a state of profound cognitive dissonance which she feels only drugs can silence. Unfortunately the drugs just leave her catatonic and morose which considering shes normally the most charming, entertaining and socially intelligent person I know is pretty disturbing - especially since the same poison has the non-traditional effect of making me very conversational and devil-may-care. Equalisation wasnt going to happen so we were forced to wait until the worst effects of the shit had worn off and my friend was in a fit state to leave the house.

Eventually the lights flickered on long enough for us to lurch on over to the party. Wed - infuriatingly - missed the main show and both the dance floors were chock a block with a mixture of dressy fetishists, semi-naked men in Y-fronts and the boring old crack clowns who litter every rubber event. Crack clowns are basically Camden Town cyber punks who, six or seven years down the line, are still wearing day glo plastic hair and platforms but have veered away from the hippy-dippy origins of the species and found themselves a prize collective crack problem. This manifests itself in bar-side smoking followed by 30 seconds of spastic dancefloor action followed by another suck on satan's cock followed by another 30 seconds of crashing into people followed by another drag on the old ad infinitum.

The organisers had decorated the event quite beautifully and much, as I love New York etc., it reminded me that nowhere does glitzy kink quite as well as we do in England. The whole massive venue had been fully themed with multiple projections, a real sand-covered beach, painted murals, thatched tiki bars, inflatable sculptures and so on. They'd succeesed in effecting a total transformation of the place and enough people had found latex bathing costumes and other aquatic rubberwear to make it all worthwhile.

Since the stage shows were over and my friend needed a corner to collapse in we headed downstairs to the dungeon where you can always guarantee a seat even if its not the one you originally had in mind. They had two whipping posts, a suspension cage, a grope box, a set of stocks and a dark room on the go so there was plenty to peer at through the gloom although some of it we felt wed rather not have seen. There were also a lot of men ignoring the no harassment rule and covertly attempting to feel us up.

Considering my friend and I are fiery dyke tops it didnt take us long to turn homicidal, although given the circumstances the most punishing strategy we could come up with was to ignore the fucking shits. I was enraged. Its a while since Ive been to a 50/50 mixed night and it reminded me how fucking stupid and ignorant most men are. Being a lesbian I thankfully dont have to deal with their crap too often but why is it that the majority of men seem to have no sense of womens personal space or think its their divine right to ignore it? All the usual shit was going on last night: elbows in tits/cocks rubbed against arses/men standing directly in front of women to watch things etc etc. The womens bathroom was so full of smelly blokes spraying the floor I decided to use the Gents whereupon, of course, every silly little prick in there kicked up a scream of "youre in the wrong room/youll have to leave/no women in here, blah blah blah" while attempting to conceal his pathetic strip of gristle behind his hand. One wanker actually followed me into the stall and attempted to drag me out, forcing me to slam his fingers in the door. I just feel like fine if you dont want women in your bathroom go and drag all the fucked up men and shagging straight couples out of ours. Not only do women clubbers usually get less pissing posts than men anyway, we then have to meekly contend with men using them as sexnsnorting booths while we cross our legs and queue politely . Bollocks to that. It's time more women took issue with apparently "small" issues like this and did it without a fucking smile. And its time the "okay" men out there took their asshole brothers to task not that thats ever likely to happen, which is why I feel its right to assume all men are complicit in the shit their entire sex perpetuates on a colossal and seemingly inevitable basis. Im boycotting mixed venues from now on until the fuckers sort it out.

On another disturbing note there were a hell of a lot of fetish Nazis there last night. I cant imagine any other country outside East Germany where it would be deemed acceptable to strut around in full Nazi regalia and although Im not the most right-on person it surprised me that the good people of the Torture Garden would consider it okay to have these characters rocking their shit in the social powder keg of Brixton just one week after a race riot. Just how many levels of insensitivity and idiocy are there?

On a personal level Ill admit to a bit of double think on the uniform per se issue since despite being a hereditary Jew myself I cant deny that the SS garb, taken out of context, is graphically glorious. I suppose what worried me most last night was that one particularly attractive older woman in a swastika armband and Germanic pin curls made a pass that I had great difficulty in turning down. The idea that her stupid outfit was a turn-on was, of course, repulsive but it was also a matter of uncomfortable fact. I was wondering why shed singled me out and then I realised in horror that she probably thought that in my shiny black and skinhead accoutrements I was a Nazi-fancier too. Despite being a kike mongrel with Irish, Aboriginal and Chinese ancestors I look also look utterly East European and am frequently mistaken for a German, a Russian, or - in Asia - a blonde Thai.

I was wondering what the hell I could do to make my position clearer in future and am considering getting a stylin' SS style shirt run up with Star of David insignia instead of that beautiful but wretched iron cross. Either that or some kind of lezzer emblem - NOT the double wimmins thing or that bloody axe. Talk about a passion killer.

Oops. Too tired to continue. Goodnight.
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Last night Bill arrived back in London from her trip to Portugal. Her brother's selling his house out there so soon there'll be nowhere abroad for Bill and her mum to go for cheap holidays which is sad 'cause neither of them have got much money and, modern travel being what it is, it's more expensive for either of them to get up or down the country to see each other than it is for either of them to fly to Portugal and take a two week holiday. That's how crazy Europe has become. We had a really nice evening being stupid together. Since we went out together for seven years we've still got loads in common and lots of stupid rituals - I always try to get a Benny Hill-style squeeze of her enormous tits/she always delivers a few home truths/one of us always gets insulted over something stupid and then we have a minor row and forget about it. Cosy. Anyway, we talked a lot about girls last night and gossiped extensively about the Brixton lezzer scene which is currently full of what could be described as negative intrigue, ie: no one's actually sleeping with anyone else in interesting or unusual combinations but there's some weird flirting going on and the bizarre case of somebody who has, to all intents and purposes, gone straight (ie: only sleeping with, romancing or showing an interest in men) but insists that she is still a dyke even though it is obvious to the rest of us that she has been utterly disinterested in women since first sampling hetero union late last year. It's very strange. The same person who would have, quite rightly, been ultra fucked off if some creepy straight man had chatted her up in a gay bar is now delighted by the very same assholes, so now when we all go out together (which is an increasingly rare occurance due to her infatuation with certain straight scenes) we have droopy little men hanging, most unwelcome, around our table while she shoots them "fuck me" glances and the rest of us sit there steaming at the besmirching of our lesbian stronghold. Anyway, there's a lot more to it than this and basically there was a whole dollop of nonsense to catch up with last night. Bill and I also talked about tattoos. She hates the one on my wrist and doesn't think I should get any more 'cause my arms are my best body part. I don't know why I was flattered by this but it kind of made sense. There are people a million times better looking than me who are heavily tattooed but if you've got a beautiful face (like Theo Kogan or Dr Ducky) or really long legs or whatever I guess you've got something to fall back on if you get fucked off with them - it's not like you screwed up your main asset by getting your forehead inked or whatever. With me I've got nice arms (touch wood) and that's pretty much it . Maybe I should stop tampering and leave them as they are or maybe even get the wrist thing burnt off. When I was a teenager I tattooed my name across the back of my left hand with a compass and a fountain pen and was so horrified when it healed into an illegible series of smears and blobs I physically cut it out of the flesh with a scalpel. So maybe tattooing really isn't for me and it took a good, very pro-tattoo friend to show me the light. But then why am I so attracted to them on other people? I can see myself with a lazered-off tat scar on one arm and a full sleeve on the other, balancing things out. I guess all this - the diary and everythimg are just symptomatic of too much thinking about things that don't matter. Distractions from the main plan. Today I contacted House of Harlot to see when those jodhpurs are gonna be done and if there'd be time to change the colour of the stripe down the side and the inner knee reinforcements (had gone back to fancying all-black) The things were already in their packet waiting to be mailed so black and pewter it is. Hopefully there are going to be a few exciting weeks postal-wise. A few weeks ago I sent Katrina Del Mar <http://www.katrinadelmar.com> a request for one of her glorious prints so with any luck that'll be decking the mantlepiece soon - a wistful reminder that life and pretty girls and talent and gratuitous creativity are blooming out there in that great concrete wilderness of the lesser known. I've been feeling very zen at The Company since I got back although today I revisited that old caught-in-the-headlights feeling for the first time in months. The team I've been handed seems quite inexperienced and I suddenly realised that, aside from co-ordinating what should happen and cracking the whip, if we collectively fail to deliver the goods it'll be my neck on the block. Since I would rather be living a parallel life in the Lower East Side, sleeping with long haired tattooed rock girls and dreaming on fire escapes than stuck in the cold, dirty, stinking, comparatively dyke-free capital of England I'm not prepared to break my heart over it but heads are gonna roll. The situation reminded me of an old saying me and another researcher used to use when we were contractually obliged to work on really diabolical CV-destroyers: "Don't worry, you'll be thrown clear of the wreckage." When you're a researcher or an AP that's true but once you're a producer money and responsibility strap you right in there and when the bastard goes up you get fucking flamb�ed with it. Last year I produced a documentary which was re-edited and utterly butchered while I was away. I'm totally ashamed of it and never want it shown but guess what - my name's right at the fucking end of the titles in a spot all of its own so anyone seeing the damned thing is going to think it's my all handiwork. The person who utterly screwed with it has hidden his name two or three rolls back which, I guess, might have been done as a favour to me but is actually the total opposite. Just one great whopping cringe. Years ago I used to write for a couple of mags including that old hacker, Time Out, and that drove me mad too - strangers would sub your work so it looked like you were an illiterate asshole with nothing to say and then leave your name on the bottom to take the flak. More and more I'm thinking I should go back to college and do a fine art masters so I can get back some fucking control over the creative stuff I do 'cause once money's changing hands that's the first damned thing to go. I really pity session singers etc. - imagine having to tour endlessly to promote something you don't even like or believe in? Yuk. Anyway, it was warmer than usual today and I paid my first wage check in for months. It felt nice. I'm just counting those dollars by the hour to make good my eventual escape. There has to be more than this.
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Lots of excitement in the last week. First of all we had another riot here in Brixton on Friday night. Basically it was the Brixton Usual a black man gets shot by armed police; a group of peaceful protestors get together to make their political point and then a few thugs wreck their efforts by going on an out-of-hours shopping spree and turning over a few cars in the process. This being Brixton you could tell exactly the kind of characters involved by the premises looted: Carphone Warehouse (cellphones), Claires Accessories (hairbands + junk jewellery) and Morleys household department store which contains the local JD Sports concession (trainers.) McDonalds, KFC, local surveillance cameras and the police station - which would have been the main targets in an anti-capitalist/anti world trade or Reclaim The Streets demo - were completely untouched.

All its achieved is bringing mounted riot police to Brixton once again and a surfeit of armoured vans parked in shady corners awaiting Round Two. Of course these excess coppers are too busy waiting for their next burst of action to tackle the crack dealing, daylight mugging, chronic junk casualties and underage whoring that are business-as-usual on Coldharbour Lane; have recently taken a grip on Effra Road and have now started scuzzing up the former glory that was Trinity Square.

Since I live bang in the middle of Brixton in an apartment overlooking the main junction which is the locus of any riot and also serves the town hall Ive been privy to almost every major incident of public disrest in the neighbourhood. The past five years have seen at least three riots, five big Reclaim The Streets demos, a major bombing incident, a drive-by machine gun attack (the next morning there was a man-sized streak of blood that emerged from a sticky pool outside McDonalds and carried on right over the road to the tube station some two hundred metres away no victim/witnesses/shooters ever found) and ha!ha! about three "re-brandings" for the local council. Has everybody gone so insane they cant see its the fucking product that stinks? Brixton is in total fucking melt down and the people responsible for sorting it out are too busy buying themselves new notepaper to deal with even the most minor affronts to decency like chronic litter and pavement cycling. The town hall is currently draped with a huge flag that reads "No Room For Crack and Smack in Brixton" against a montage of other supposedly positive words including graffiti which makes you want to run out in the night and spray huge warning signs for anyone trying to lead a victimless life here.

Moving on riots arent the only exciting thing to happen in Brixton. Today I went up to the Lambeth County Show with my flatmate Emma and my good friend Louise. The County Show takes place in the local park. Its always a quaint mixture of oldy worlde English and afro-Caribbean exhibitionism with prizes for flower arranging and home grown vegetables run by old white folk, a big display of working Shire horses and Shetland ponies put on by various urban stables + a big reggae stage run by the massive afro-Caribbean population who have been the majority in Brixton since the 1950s. Theres also a fantastic fun fair with Bensons Pride Of London Waltzer - probably the fastest, scariest and most beautiful waltzer in the world. Louise and I went on it together and were spun so fast Louise started choking on her own vomit. Being waltzer connossieurs we agreed it was probably the scariest example either of us had ever been on although the cars and stage were very well maintained. None of the safety bars were secure but if youre a Northern hardnut youre not supposed to use them anyway. Despite thinking our spines were going to snap and feeling the skin of our faces pushed to the back of our heads we made do with bracing our legs against the seat edge and felt grimly superior for it later as we shakily dismounted.

Back on Friday night I met up with Louises flatmate, Lisa, and Emma at Candy Bar, the soho lezzer watering hole, for an after work drink before heading off to Duckie Up West. Since Ive been away for the best part of six months its a long time since Ive been there and it was actually much better than I had remembered. For a start it was full of fit women and the music wasnt too bad either. Princess Julia came on at ten which cheered things up a bit and I think we were all hopeful we might get lucky if we hung around. Unfortunately we had already arranged to meet Louise at Duckie so just as things were warming up we had to push off knowing that we were heading to, basically, a bar full of men. It was a bit of a pisser although Amy who runs Duckie is a good friend and it was lovely to see her after such a long time, especially since shed returned from New York just that morning. That aside things werent too hot and a couple of hours later Lisa decided to go home. Since I was a bit jaded I thought I might as well go and catch the bus with her.

What with the riot being in full swing all of the buses and trains were a total mess so we ended up trapped in traffic for an hour and a half instead of the fifteen-to-twenty minutes journeys normally take to Brixton at that time of night. It was really nice talking to Lisa and we found out we had loads of really horrible stuff in common like teenage bedwetting and gross piss/shit/vomit stories which always make me roar with laughter. We were so busy laughing we missed our stop by about three miles and ended up walking back almost as far as wed come in the first place we might as well have walked home from the club. It was damp out and the pavements were covered with snails so our saunter through suburbia was somewhat hindered although we kept on talking talking talking. I saw her to her door and kind of wanted to give her a kiss goodnight but sometimes things are best left lovely so I just went home and made myself a tempeh salad.

On Saturday morning I got up and went out shopping for a top to go with my jodhpurs (decided on black with a pewter stripe + knee reinforcement). Went to Regulation and got a couple of wrist restraints made up but didnt think much of the clothing which looked as though it had been cut out with nail scissors. After House of Harlot everything else looks a bit crap but I couldnt bring myself to spend good money on anything so I traipsed down to Into You on St Johns Street to admire everyones fancy tattoos. There was a guy there with a really stunning Alex Binnie sleeve and I was very tempted to book myself in for something major too, although I need to decide just what it is I want. Ive got a fixation on having some sort of orange/pink Japanese lobster (or lobsters) with trad pink flowers, jade green mushroom clouds and black shaded background but the right lobster image is proving difficult to trace. Also I dont want something mock Japanese where all the elements are misappropriated so I need to do more homework. I expect Alex Binnie already knows all that stuff but the staff are so bloody unfriendly its not like you want to go in quavering at all + I like my skin colour at the moment. I just feel a real fraud digging women with major ink work when all Ive got is one pissy specimen. It makes me feel creepy and inauthentic although tattooed women probably don't give a damn.

Work improved dramatically last week and Im hopeful itll continue on an upward swing from tomorrow. On Thursday night I went out with my best friend from work, Caroline, and a former friend from work, Kate - both of whom I love to death. They filled me in on all the dreadful things that had happened at the office while I was away and we discussed all the things you can never discuss with social friends cause you might end up hating each other, and you can never discuss with strangers for the same reason politics, ethics etc etc etc. Caroline came up with a brilliant documentary series idea on the spot and Kate was just beautiful, amazing Kate. We ate too little and drank too much and shouted over each other although thankfully we didnt end up in the same mess as per our last get together which resulted in Caroline taking two days off work and me redecorating the bed, bedroom, hallway, bathroom and WC with red wine vomit. Wed eaten Thai that night and it looked like a sea of blood strewn with dried flowers. Six months later theres still a metre-round stain from it on the hallway carpet outside my room.

Im looking forward to this coming week. The jodhpurs should be arriving any day + on Thursday Im DJing at the Ritzy. On Friday Im off to the Torture Garden Beach Ball with Tutu which should be a riot of a different kind when perverts from all over Europe decend on Brixton in their fetish gear. On Tuesday Bill and her new g/f Tanya get back from Portugal and
next weekend my mother, Stick, gets back from France. Stick called me all excited yesterday to tell me shed indefinitely rented an amazing place in Normandy for Christmas and holidays. She was obviously really thrilled so I must make an effort to go and see it with her. She was going to sell up in England and buy somewhere in Italy but since she "cant take it with her" and she knows I dont want to live in Europe shes decided to rent which seems like the perfect solution. Sticks triumphed over a life chock-a-block full of horrors so it will be fantastic if she can finally retire to somewhere nice with no responsibilities and fewer worries than she might have here. Bloody good luck to her.

Today is my father's birthday. He'll be seventy. We haven't spoken to each other for ten years but I still think about him. Somehow I just can't find it in me to get in touch although perhaps I should. At what stage does the parent then become the child?
Current Mood:
optimistic optimistic
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First week in new job/old company. After five months travelling the world I was hopeful that things back at my old company would have moved along a bit but as usual there were a variety of in-situ fuck-ups to deal with before I could actually get on and tackle what I've been hired to do. Everything should be easy but all of the regular support networks are down and I can tell already that this is going to be another show dragged kicking and screaming into existence on the reserve tanks of my endurance. I'm kind of pissed off but at the same time I'm in a real "whatever" mood at the moment. If nothing else my lengthy sabbatical gave me the chance to take stock of what matters and what doesn't and I'm noticing that rather than getting steamed up and f-ing and blinding around the office I've been able to shrug most of the inevitable bugbears off as the minor trifles they truly are this week. The real fucker is the hours you're expected to work . I had hoped to be able to start work on an extra-curricular project during my evenings this week - especially since someone I like and respect is waiting for my input - but that just didn't happen and not having worked for months on end I spent most of the weekend in bed absolutely knackered having returned from New York and started work almost immediately with no time to put my domestic paperwork and housework in order. Moan moan whinge whinge.

To escape cabin fever I trekked up to Camden Lock today to check out the House of Harlot gear at a shop in the stables up there. House of Harlot make the most amazing rubber gear in the world and while the intention of my visit was purely voyeuristic I ended up trying on some jodhpurs and a military jacket that took my fancy. I expected the jodhpurs to look god awful since I've got full-on rugby player legs and an arse like a cleaved pumpkin but as it was they fitted pretty damn fine and looked very macho with the wifebeater I was wearing. The jacket looked a bit of a dog and seemed a tad pointless since none of the pockets worked and the shop assistant recommended a LOOSE FIT (?!) Am now trying to decide whether to pay through the nose and get a tailor made ensemble run up for the Torture Garden Beach Party on the 27th but it all seems hideously decadent and being a strict vegan/non-smoker/self-denial type I'm not sure I can weather the extravagance. The biggest non-ethical question revolves around colours - do I go for classic black with a white sidestripe (aesthetically pleasing but - horror! -denotes novice) or olive with a black, olive or pewter side stripe? The jodhpur decision affects every other part of my intended outfit so the equation's not as simple as it might first appear. If I go for black they'll have the thing run up in a jiffy and it'll be easy to get a matching mask/cap, gloves and accessories. If I go for olive I run the risk of being barred from Fist (heavy gay S/M club - no coloured latex allowed) and it'll be murder trying to get hold of anything that matches however I like olive clothing and the colour suits + my own feeling is that olive rubber looks more sinister than black which is just boring boring boring. So I'm obsessing. Will have to decide tomorrow or else it'll be too late to get anything for the various fetish balls taking place over the next few weeks.

Tra la la.

Broke a window yesterday/not cool - looks out onto the street and will be a devil to replace.

Went out with London dyke friends on Friday night to new wimmins club at the Vauxhall Tavern. A very depressing experience after the goddess-holes of New York where you can rely on seeing at least five gay women you fancy every time you venture to the corner shop. The place was a fifth full of drunken/fighting types drinking-not-dancing to the most shite array of tunes I've ever had the misfortune to hear in a single lineup. Every time someone approached the dancefloor and got a groove on the DJ changed the tempo with a rapid-fire eruption of dub or gabba, instantly clearing it again. In the end my mates and I gave up and started clowning around/body popping and doing robotics to inappropriate songs etc. but considered we'd made the best of a shockingly bad night out. My friend Lou and her flatmate Lisa both have this fantastic ber '70s Roxy Music look going and were doing some kind of 'Slave to Love' dance in sequence which looked terrific but was completely out of sync with whatever happy house shit/reggae was hitting the decks. I was dressed like an old Jamaican guy (with figure to match) and my other friends were wearing their own fucked up shit so between us we must have looked completely fucking retarded and out of place. One good thing: paid on the door with a twenty + got the twenty back plus change from a tenner so actually went home with more money than I'd gone out with. Another good/weird thing:- There's this woman that I've vaguely known for a year or two now. I hadn't realised it before Friday but there's some kind of strange tension there. I'm not sure if it's sexual or not but for some reason we kept gravitating towards each other to talk and I started thinking maybe I was attracted to her and hadn't realised it before. I always doubt that my interest will be returned but she kept sidling back over to talk about interesting/non-club stuff and, well, we'll have to see... I'm just not sure what it all means yet.

While I was away on my extended trip I started thinking a lot about another girl in London who had made a pass at me a year or two ago. At the time I had just split up from someone longterm who I really loved and I didn't want to get fucked up or jeopardise someone else's emotions by entering into something else too quickly. Also this girl did, and I guess does, have a few mental health issues that I didn't feel equipped to cope with at the time. I tried to rebuff her nicely but she ended up junking her own longterm relationship 'cause of her previously undisclosed and unrequited thing about me. I feel really arrogant writing this but the gory details were all over town and I felt really bad about it, especially since it was something I hadn't encouraged and had no control over. It wasn't even like I could apologise to anyone for the devastation - there was nothing to directly apologise for except being alive but it seemed like someone should be held responsible. Afterwards she went on this horrible sex and drugs spiral where she was sleeping with virtually anyone who'd have her and taking dangerous amounts of shit. Some disgusting arsehole-butch attacked her and got away with it and it was all very sad and hideous and just typical of what happens to scene dykes in London all the time - people just get lost. Anyway, I saw her a while before I went away and realised how fond I am of her and that if I'd been in a better headspace myself all those months ago maybe something much better could have happened for both of us. I was talking to a mutual friend about it on Friday and this friend,who was a lesbian but has recently discovered that she's bisexual if not straight, gleefully told me she thought (didn't know but had deduced) that the girl had also gone straight and wasn't hanging out with dykes anymore but with men down at this trendy/vile pub in Brixton. This really pissed me off, partly because this ex-lez was obviously trying to place this woman in her own hasbian camp but also because if it's true it's yet another tick in the box of every asshole who thinks femme lesbians all secretly prefer dick. I really hope it's just some kind of malappropriation on my friend's part. Anyway, tonight I contented myself by surfing through NY club sites and reminding myself that there are tonnes of gorgeous gay femme women out there who really do prefer pussy and have no desire to sleep with men at all. They just happen to be in America and not perched on this tosspot little island.

Enough kvetching. Goodnight.
Current Music:
Le Tigre, L7, Gosub, Laid Back, P.I.L.
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Spent most of today working on my forthcoming website and dreading setting foot inside my room which is strewn with three years worth of detritus following a messy split up and the need for an excuse to keep women away from The Inner Sanctum. Not that they're queuing up, but anyway, the idea of some exquisite girl coming back here and seeing the hell I sleep and wake in makes a great mental prophylactic. I'm the safest fucking walk-home a girl can get.

Went over to see my friends Tutu and Nicky for dinner tonight. There was a really cute young girl called Denise there who's working as a glamour model in Soho and another girl called Sheridan who's living in San Francisco but visiting home for a couple of weeks. Sheridan's really into Manga porn which is cool 'cause I just got back from New York where I met a whole load of women into all that stuff so we had plenty to talk about + I'm hoping I can put Sheridan in touch with a dyke who'll be able to draw up some of her stories which would be cool. Tutu knows how much I love go go girls so Denise was a bit of a treat. Very young, very sweet, not in the least bit jaded which was nice considering I'm the most bitter and cynical old lez on the block. Tutu's setting up a big cabaret club at The Fridge in Brixton and had loads of photos that her friend, Leslie, had taken of Denise and London's most famous neo-lesbian rapping/breakdancing + otherwise multi-talented 'erotic dancer', Crystal, for the flyer. We all spent a long time looking at those and trying to decide which one Denise could cut the tits off and send her mum. Every single pic was screaming Hot Lezzer Action so even though there were at least fifty images it wasn't that easy to make a decision, especially since both girls were working a big up heavy goth look and Denise's mum is a strict Catholic. Oh well.

Before the others arrived Tutu showed me some of the photos she'd taken of Crystal and Paris and they were fucking incredible. Considering that Tutu's spent her entire adult life in front of a camera or an easel it's amazing to think she's got a better eye than the people she's posed for but there you go. I really hope she does something with her newly discovered talent.

Crept home pretty early to prepare for first day in new job working as Features Producer on a big arts/entertainment series which could be really amazing and there again... I've given up looking forward to new TV jobs 'cause you just don't know how they're gonna pan out until they do. Right now I'm still waiting to see the final edit of a documentary I produced over a year ago. There's always that sickening dread that some commissioning big wig will have decided to rip the piss out of your most treasured subject or that all the really good stuff you shot will end up on the cutting room floor because someone higher up in the pecking order has decided to stitch you up. It happens all the time so these days I try to be really honest with all the people I film and say "I don't know how this is going to turn out. You have to take a gamble on it but the odds are in your favour/pretty shite." I feel so bad for all the people who've given their time to a project for the sake of some over-privileged suit's cheap laugh. I've persuaded so many people I admire to let the companies I've worked for film them only to see them torn apart in the edit. It's completely galling. Anyway, at least this series has an amazing pedigree so fingers crossed for tomorrow.

It's quarter past 1am now so no time for a wank before bed. Whatever...
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