When the tide is out and the sand is hard I ride my bike from sea wall to breaking waves. Edward runs in front of me barking and laughing and leaping over scurrying sea crabs. We are deafened by the heavy duty winds from the Irish Sea as we zig-zag through the pier supports. Edward unearths pebbles and shells and re-buries them in wet shallow pools then digs them up again and runs off towards the waves where he drops them in the surf. He jealously chases away dogs with testicles and flirts like a eunuch with the bitches. We work up an appetite then head home slowly for hot sweet tea and a sticky muesli bar (muesli bar imported into Lancashire from that London as such items are ‘not to be trusted’).

And so it came to pass that I was the most immature member of the audience at the 13 going on 30 screening last Thursday evening in Blackpool. I howled with laughter and gobbled popcorn noisily. Cheeky young chavscum girls tut-tutted at me then hissed sshhh! All gayers will like this film.
Saw a special screening of Collateral on Sunday and thought it very good. Tom Cruise is the new Richard Gere (the old Richard Gere being currently indisposed on a spaceship hovering over Montana looking for one of Ron Hubbards lost socks).
I bought a Morrissey ticket on Ebay for his show this Saturday in the Empress Ballroom in Blackpool. Darren is working so can’t make it. The fuckers at Railtrack are meddling with the track between Preston and Euston until next week forcing me to go from St Pancras via Manchester which takes an hour longer. Might take Friday off work and go early. Might not. I wonder if he will have a swift pale ale in the Flying Handbag after his performance? (I think he will as they now sell Pot Noodle and he's bound to be hungry)

The seaside needs us more than ever so I'm off to Blackpool.
"Egg and chips luv, and a mug of 10p tea".

Well I'm here
But where are you?
You're inside
With better things to do
Like sitting in a room
And staring at computer screens
And fax machines

You've gone away, gone away for the weekend, step outside
Hurry up, hurry up, put your shoes on, steppin' out tonight
The seaside needs us more than ever,

The man says, you've gone and spent
The money he ever so kindly lent

Enjoy your pretty things
The things you'll never use
You're overdrawn and underpaid
And overweight

You've gone away, gone away for the weekend, step outside
Hurry up, hurry up, put your shoes on, steppin' out tonight
The seaside needs us more than ever,

The seaside needs us more than ever

You're gone away, gone away for the weekend, step outside
Hurry up, hurry up, put your shoes on, steppin' out tonight
The seaside needs us more than ever.

The performance at Duckie on Saturday night was by Pat Butcher (no, not that Pat Butcher). One member of the Pat Butcher troupe is real-life ugly person (and Bobby Gillespie look-a-like) Philip Normal. They had painted faces and wore childrens-entertainer type clothes and danced badly to Kates Wuthering Heights on the tiny stage. They were shit and most of the crowd let them know this. I didn’t get bagels on the way home but I did rent The Cockettes DVD the night before and loved it. I haven’t shaved since Thursday last week and now I look like Kenny Rogers. Which is OK because here’s a picture of Darren with my Dad (that's Dad on the right). Sunday was strangely sunny so we sat in the garden drinking tea then went to Pizza Express for cheesecake. Then I went back to bed. Other things what we did over the weekend were watching ‘Anita And Me’ and ‘The Birthday Girl’ (both great), cruising at Tesco Extra, eating curry and picking poop up from the lawn. It’s pissing down again and I’ve got chores to do. Need a haircut, need to collect train ticket for tomorrow evenings journey to Le Pool Noir, bathe Edward (don’t want train strokers sniffing their hands and thinking us mucky) and catalogue and burn Color Filter and Nigo downloads so that I can listen to them on the new Virgin Pendolino and pretend I’m on the Bullet Train to Osaka.

Listening to 'Pay To Cum' by Bad Brains while compiling a brief on VAT loopholes in Kazakh law (no deadline as it’s for my own benefit). Looking forward to barbecue roast pork from the Chinese takeaway for tea while watching Coronation Street. May get chips and curry sauce as an extra treat (when did life get so fabulous?). Thanks to TD I now have an MP3 of the fantastic Johnnyboy single. Spectortastic! And while downloading that top tune I discovered some great tracks by The Go! Team so I’m going to hunt down their album. Popping into Blockbuster on the way home to rent The Cockettes DVD which I spotted last week. Always wanted to see this documentary about the legendary theatre troupe from San Francisco. I prefer drag queens with moustaches (official term - scag drag). Plans for the weekend include picking up dog poop from the lawn, lying down (not on the lawn), researching the specifications for the upcoming Roller Coaster Tycoon 3 game (as this will affect which PC I buy), buying a bucket of chicken at KFC, Tesco Extra shopping with my fella, some punk rock at Duckie and bagels on the way home, bit of laundry, bit of male grooming, some snogging and taking down the footy scores for Darrens pools coupon. How common!

I still have no PC of my own. I am nearly finished that Curious Death Dog book and am loving it (I have no one to pass it on to as I am the last person in the world to read it). Next up is Jake Arnotts True Crime. Then I can partake in the ' 3 for 2' offers at the book shops. A Staffordshire bull terrier ripped apart a Yorkshire terrier and killed it in our park last Saturday. The killer dog was destroyed too but the unstable 13 year old boy owner has been told that his dog is 'living in the country with uncle Terry'. If you've read The Curious Incident Of The Dead Dog then you will know how spooky all of this is. I'm ten and a half stone now. Nine months ago I was thirteen and a half stone. Exercise was not involved in this fat disappearance and Kelly at work says that the baggy arsed 31w jeans I'm wearing are ugly. Amazing rain storm last night as i was driving home. The drains couldn't cope and I was drenched through to my underpants (small) despite wearing a one-piece protective wet suit (waste of money). Lunch today will be a weight watchers chicken hotpot with a tin of garden peas (no sugar or salt added). Darren returns this evening after three days away in Essex but he won't be back in time for Six Feet Under so I must remember to tape it (note to self: find the end of Tuesdays episode of the Sopranos). Next week I have three days off work and so I am heading to Blackpool on Tuesday night. Darren will join Edward and I at the weekend. The Scissor Sisters concert at the beautiful Empress Ballroom in Blackpool (October 29) sold out in an hour so I was forced to buy two tickets on ebay. Only a tenner extra too. The Morrisssey show in the same venue on September 4 sold out in minutes and tickets are reaching offensive prices on ebay so we shan't be attending. We saw him earlier this year in Manchester anyway but we've never seen the Scissor Sisters. How brilliant is that Johnnyboy single (the one about the shoes)? Bloody brilliant.

Not dead.
No pc. Which is quite liberating following the initial shock. Been reacquanting myself with the other square box in the house. Watched a kids show yesterday morning where ex Blue Peter presenter Peter Duncan (is he the one who made porno movies on a trampoline? he certainly liked getting his kit off - check out that link) dragged his wife and three kids round Central Asia and China. Three days into their 'holiday' you could tell that they really really wanted to be staying in a five star hotel at Disney World. And then they got their bags stolen! Poor dears.
Watched Cold Mountain on saturday night. It looked great and the script was lovely. The whole experience was a bit grim though (it's no Legally Blonde). Then we watched Shaun Of The Dead which was an hour too long and was basically an extra-long episode of Spaced. Darren really fancies Simon Pegg.

The PC doctor arrived and immediately got to work on his knees under my desk. Turns out it's my processor (Pentium 2) and my motherboard. £76 to tell me that. Bugger! £200 to fix it (incl. labour). I told him to get the hard drive out for me and just leave it. So, I now need a new PC. It must come with a network card (though the PC doctor can come back and put the old network card in the new PC for £76). Any suggestions? And where can I get the stuff on my hard drive put onto CD? Grateful for any comments from techy-type readers.

Went to the pictures really pissed off after the PC doctor left so I had a large popcorn while watching The Bourne Supremacy. Highly enjoyable and much better than a Wallace Arnold coach tour of Europe. Then we went to Blockbuster for Maltesers, Hagen Dazs and School Of Rock. Went to bed at midnight and watched a great documentary about doo-wop singers. Woke up in shock at 3am and sat bolt upright as we'd forgotten the new series of Six Feet Under started last night. Damn and blast. Yesterday was a day of ups and downs and today is Friday the 13th (and Spookily I'm wearing a long sleeved t-shirt today with a '76' logo on the front, 7 + 6 = 13!!!). Should have just gone back to bed instead of coming into work. If you don't hear from me tomorrow then I'm dead.

My PC is fucked broken. I'm writing this on Darrens machine. Waiting for the PC Doctor to arrive and charge me £65 to say he hasn't a clue what it is and that he needs to take it away. I won't let him though. It's at that point that when you just know it will be returned three weeks later with a bill for £300. Which is way more than it's worth now (8 years old).

Yesterday was smashing. We had a great table at The Ivy and the food was 1st class. Haddock and leek tart, mixed grill, rack of lamb, spinach, chips and sticky toffee pudding. The Edward Hopper show was good. I liked the pictures (that's all I can say, I'm no Brian Sewell). Next we walked fron Bankside to Farringdon via Smithfield and had a pint in the Eagle. Then we walked to Kings Cross and took the oven-on-wheels tube home. Popping out to see the Bourne Supremacy soon, so the PC Doctor better get his skates on.

Darrens birthday today so we're off into town to see the Edward Hopper exhibition at the Tate and then I secured us a table at The Ivy for some grub (it was like pulling teeth from a hen getting into that place).

I was travelling home on the train on Monday afternoon reading the Rhona Cameron book. During chapter 11 (November) she describes the death of her Father from cancer. It's written from the perspective of a 14 year old lezzie lassie from Scotland and it made me burst into tears. I had to look out of the window, pretending to be engrossed in the scenery, till my eyes dried. The book is called 1979 and I recommend it to anyone who did their growing up in the late 70's (listen to Rhona talk about the book in that last link).

I'm just back from a long weekend in Northumberland. Thighs are a bit firmer as I digged Dads bike out of the shed and put some air in the tires and re-acqainted myself with the old pit village. I cycled a few miles to Newbiggin By The Sea which I always remembered as a bit of a dump but which has now been re-born as the perfect Northumbrian seaside vilage. There is an ice-cream parlour there that hasn't changed it's decor in 50 years. Bertorelli's was featured in one of the Sunday colour supplements a few weeks ago as one of the last remaining seaside parlours of it's type (excellent pics of the cafe here). I had one of their home made ice creams as I sat on the sea wall and watched the sand begin to steam in the afternoon heat. Pictures to your right.

On Saturday afternoon I cycled eight miles inland to attend a garden party in the country. Loads of the old scooter gang were there and a wooden dancefloor had been built in the woods. I did two hours as the DJ. Why is the dancefloor always packed for 'Rock The Casbah' and empty for anything post-1984? Old punks are shit:

"Oi! Dave! put some Stranglers on"

So I played House Of Jealous Lovers by The Rapture which sent them off looking for cider. Fucking hippies! A nasty mist came down from the hills about 9pm so I left to cycle home as I didn't have any lights for the bike.

Mum and Dad have gone off to the pictures to see that Krappy King Arthur movie. I was going to tag along and go to see ‘13 Going On 30’ but the timings were all skew wiff so I stayed at home to scan old photos.

Anyone who grew up with two Grandmothers will know that one Gran is always a bit more special than the other. My Nana Bella was the special one. She was my Mums Mum. She was married to Granddad Mick (real name James but everyone called him Mick, and no one knows why) who was a weekend alcoholic and manic smoker/gardener. They hated each other, slept in separate rooms all their married life and barely spoke. She cooked, he ate it. She brought the papers home after her early morning cleaning job, he read them in silence all day. I spent a lot of time at their house while I was growing up and despite themselves they made the house a warm and fun place to visit.
Nana Bella was a cleaner all her life. She cleaned Pat Telfords (the towns swishest hairdresser) for the last twenty years of her life. They closed the hairdressers for a whole day the day we buried Nana Bella. Summer holidays always involved Nana Bella and me in the back seat of the car sharing boiled sweets and reading old Womans Weekly magazines that she’d taken from the hairdressers. We shared bunk beds in the caravan and every morning she would wake us all up getting dressed at 6am because she found it impossible to have a lie-in, even on holiday. She’d leave the caravan and walk to the nearest town and return with newspapers, fresh milk, bread and bacon.
Nana Bella was coming home from work one day when she noticed that the curtains of the house opposite were on fire. She called to Granddad Mick in the garden and he came running out. He dashed into their bathroom, wet a towel and wrapped it over his head and kicked down the door of the burning house. He crawled into the house and several minutes later pulled out the blackened body of the old dear that lived there (Nanas bingo buddy). As he pulled her across the lawn her head came away from the body. A terrible thing for anyone to see but they got over it. No counselling, no mention of stress trauma, just lots of cups of hot sweet tea. Nana Bella was also ‘flashed at’ by a man in the alley near our house and I remember her being more upset by that than the headless bingo buddy.
Nana Bella died of lung cancer. She never smoked a cigarette in her life but lived with my Granddads forty-a-day habit for fifty years. She died while we were all at the Theatre Royal in Newcastle watching Jesus Christ Superstar. The hospital couldn’t reach us. When they rang early on Sunday morning and broke the news to my Mum she howled like a banshee which woke me up. She sent my Dad up to my bedroom to tell me but I knew what had happened after hearing that howl. He walked into my room, looked at me, burst into tears and walked out. That was a grim day. Granddad Mick was brought to our house (they had no telephone) and allowed to get drunk. He withered and died six months later. Couldn’t, and didn’t want to, live without Nana Bella.

Nana Bella, Me and my Mum under a tree in Scotland. I loved that cardigan.

Mum, Me and Nana Bella outside our chalet somewhere in Norfolk. I wasn't so keen on that cardigan.

Me, Mum and Nana Bella somewhere in Cornwall. Just look at that trouser and cardigan ensemble! And those shoes! Proto-Camper!!!

Nana Bella (looking tres cool in her Ray-Bans) and me on the beach in Scotland.

We loved a wee boat trip. Me and Nana Bella setting sail for a jaunt round Scarborough Bay.

10 weight watchers points and worth every one of 'em. Classy grub eaten at our £8 green plastic garden table in the blazing sunshine tonight. Actually, it was too hot so I finished my haute cuisine on the couch watching the Channel 4 news. Off to Newcastle on a train now. I got a bargain in 1st class too. Can't wait to get my corned beef and pickle sandwiches out (wrapped in tin-foil). Back on Monday but I may post if my Mum lets me near her shiny new Dell. See ya chicken.

The gathering of buggering bloggers on Saturday was a huge success. It felt like a cross between Peters Friends, Bright Young Things and Gosford Park. All the ingredients were there for an X rated Merchant and Ivory movie: Stately country home, Lord and Lady of the Manor, ‘below stairs’ shenanigans, spinsters and cowardly gentlemen, a tragic death, copious amounts of food, drugs (the liquid variety, though I’m sure I saw the maid with a bottle of poppers up her beak while warming some wholemeal pittas), foreigners with fussy customs, fashion-challenged fairies, high jinks with a cauldron, spells, breasts, bulges and bare feet. It was a party with a capital pee. You simply had to be there darling (it took me hours to get the grass seeds out of my wig).

I can scuba-dive, water-ski, jet-ski, slide down vertical 180ft water slides, dive from spring-boards and anchored yachts, swim under waterfalls, hold my breath for the length of 25m pool, make huge arcing splashes with my dive-bombs, do 50 lengths in 30 minutes, retrieve a brick from the bottom of the pool in my pyjamas, blow air into a CPR dummy, boogie board for miles, withstand the temperatures of the North Sea, snorkel with sharks, inflate a lilo with my gob in 10 minutes, hang onto a speeding yellow banana and para-glide from a floating platform just off Acapulco bay. Mark Spitz in his speedo got me really flustered when I was 10.

Of course we went. Of course it was fun. Of course we stood on the outskirts of a huge crowd and gave marks-out-of-ten to shirtless mo’s. Of course falafel was eaten. Of course we wondered when ‘bear’ became the predominant guise among the gays. Of course we shouted “Mother!” at every passing tranny. Of course we laughed at the very messy and fucked up pill-heads in their flip flops and truckers caps. Of course we hoped that Jeremy Scott has patented that spiky mullet ‘do’. Of course we flirted with Police and Paramedics. Of course we queued for twenty minutes to pee. Of course we laughed at cars getting clamped. Of course I saw at least fifty other queers in the same t-shirt as me (of course I looked the best!). Of course I didn’t give the evil bar owners my money. Of course I bought gay mineral water (aka diet coke) from a shop. Of course we were home for ten. Of course we won’t be going next year. Of course we will.

Oh Joy! Soho Pride!
A day concocted by the bar owners of Soho to squeeze even more of those pink pounds out of alcoholic scene queens. Hurrah! A free ‘event’ too (except that the only thing that makes it an ‘event’ is a cabaret stage in an old graveyard which you can’t access unless you have a £25 wristband). Oh, I stand corrected. The ‘event’ status is guaranteed as apparently some DJ’s will be spinning generic dance music tunes in the street (thereby making it very difficult to hear the witty repartee of ones drunk friends). I sense a party (I-am-so-there).