Rant Inevitable

It's not like it should be any surprise to me, but this year I've really realised how there is absolutely nothing in my hometown for me any more.

I left Mallow with great hopes when I was 19, bound for Trinity College, in Dublin. For reasons that are too long to go into right now, that exit didn't go well, and rather than cut ties with the auld dump, I kind of stayed in touch. I was in limbo for my early twenties. I had left Mallow, but had never really settled anywhere else. That changed when, after a two-year break from Dublin, I returned at the beginning of this decade, and that was it. Things went well, I settled, and knew then that I would never come back to live in Mallow for any length of time. In spite of the odd spell on the dole, which saw me return home as I was broke, I stuck to that plan, though I maintained contact with a few people I had gotten to know in the area since I left secondary school.

I got a great send-off from both my Mallow friends and Dublin friends when I went to Brighton, and while I've seen the latter group consistently over the years since I left, it's been a different story with the former. I can't complain too much, I've moved on, and only see them when I'm back in Mallow. Deep down, I know that we're not an important feature of each other's lives any more and that's fine.

What's frustrating is that when I'm back in Mallow, I'm more reliant on them than they are on me, or so it seems. Most of them don't go out any more, having either got sick of the social scene down here (fair enough) or because they've found long-term partners and now seem to be preparing for a life at home (eye-roll!). Then there are people who I simply have nothing to say to anymore.

I saw all of this coming this year, but circumstances worked against me. My parents asked me to come back the day after university finished for christmas because they were celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary and wanted me there for it. That was fair enough, especially as they paid for my flight home. I was given some leeway with the flight bookings, but very stupidly chose to return on Friday 4th, rather than booking to come back before New Year's Eve. I'm regretting that in no small way now: I went online about a week ago to see how much it would cost to change them, but by then it would have been about £150.

Most of this is stuff that I'm used to, more or less, but what's sparked off this moan is that I've just rung around to see if anyone I know is going out tonight for New Year's Eve, and no-one can actually be bothered to do anything. I'm ranting because I'm in a situation I don't have much control over, and it sucks.

I was thinking about making sure that Christmas is spent abroad in future, to avoid this kind of thing happening again, but that's a bit like cutting off my nose to spite my face. Unless you're attached, your family are probably the best people to spend Christmas with. From now on, I vow simply to spend at most one week at home for Christmas itself, and make sure to spend New Year's Eve somewhere else.

Back to Brighton on Friday. Bring it on...

A reflection.

Recently, whenever I bring back to my house a man hot'n'beefy, I always feel that I have to warn them in advance about the state of my bedroom. My place of sleep is quite exasperating. No matter how often I tidy it - at least once every six months, for christ's sake - it always seems to revert back to its ground state: that of a complete and utter pigsty. A San Franciscan who I had (back) recently commented 'Ooh, this is glamorous' when I invited him into my boudoir.

This time around, the guy I had back didn't really care. I was in the Bulldog, having met Mizz 'Flee, and I was ogling as usual. We had paid £1 to go upstairs to the sex party organised by Brighton Orgies, but it was shit, what with the two of us being the only ones there.

As an aside, brighton-orgy.co.uk is the most amateurishly-run operation I have seen in a long time. The weekly e-mails are amongst the most poorly written I've ever seen ('cut hear' instead of 'cut here', when you want to detach a coupon, for example), and the London excursions that the bloke tries to organise every week end up being cancelled due to lack of interest. So far the private house parties have been titled 'Subs for top', 'Under 30s' and 'Over 40s'. What happens if you're active/versatile and in your 30s, like me? The organiser seems possessed of a bit of neck, but without the brains to match.

Eventually, my eyes settled on a rather fit beefy cub. Unfortunately, an ex-fling of mine had fixed his eyes rather unnervingly on me. I escaped outside for a smoke only to find FBC outside as well. We got entangled, I departed Mizz 'Flee (awfully sorry, Dahling) and headed home.

It was decent enough, though I found out soon enough that I wouldn't really ever be falling for his mind, and when he left the next morning, we said our goodbyes without any plans to meet up again. Still, the rough and tumble wasn't bad, though I could have done without spilling poppers all over myself while we were in bed. Yuk!

Home saturday. Sex life on hold for 3 weeks.

Operation Soho

...appears to have gone tits up.

It has not been a particulary inspiring few months on the employment front. As I mentioned previously, the application process for hospital vacancies began a while back, and neither of the two interviews I had yielded any fruit. West Middlesex Hospital told me that for the four vacances they had, I was ranked fifth amongst all the applicants. I can't decide if that makes me feel better or worse. Then began the clearing round a month ago for vacancies unfilled. It would be reasonable to assume that because I missed out by only a hair's breadth on the first round, that I would be a safe bet on the second round.

That has turned out not to be the case. I got turned down for all four without an interview. I can't work it out. The only thing I can think of that could be wrong is that one of the references I gave on my application isn't coming through for me, and once I get the contact details of the hospital pharmacists, I'm going to e-mail them and ask them for feedback on my application form.

So, no hospital in London. Most likely no hospital anywhere. Now and again, hospital vacancies pop up during the year as new posts become available, or people fail to take up ones that they originally committed to, but hoping for one of those is a gamble. If I hang on too long, and I get nothing there, then god knows what will be left on the community pharmacy front when I start applying there. It's like playing a game of chicken, in a way. I'll wait until after Christmas before deciding on a plan of action, I think.

I'm not too despondent. Everyone who graduates from pharmacy walks into gainful employment of some sort. The question is, will it be the kind I'm hoping for? In the long run, it doesn't matter. Once I'm licensed, a year after I graduate, I can pretty much get work wherever I want. The only thing that could limit me is if I only scrape my degree (shit shit shit!). It would have been nice to do my pre-reg in a hospital all the same, and seeing quite a few people in my class get one isn't exactly doing wonders for me right now.

I'll definitely be making a beeline to London at some point. My night out last weekend in a central boozer near - ahem - Soho bolstered my resolve.

Sicko.

I've had my moments in the past where I've doubted Michael Moore's methods. One sided arguments, hysterical ranting, and distortion of facts have all featured in his documentaries, but when I was watching this, an examination of healthcare in the US, I came to a realisation.

Most socially concious left-wing documentaries (can they even be described as left-wing, really?) don't have the broadest of fanbases. Naomi Klein, as much as I like what she does, can't be described as a household name. Sales of Joel Bakan's book The Corporation aren't exactly up there with the Holy Bible. It's to be expected, but that kind of notoriety is what's needed if the kind of change propounded by them is to take place. People will read these people's books -myself included - and think 'Gosh, don't we really need to do something about all of this?', try and convert a few people, change our voting habits and our shopping habits, and then leave it at that. Hardly the basis for a mass revolution.

The thing about Michael Moore is this. He is the megaphone for all this activism, and he genuinely does have an effect on how politicians and CEOs operate: Witness how the Bush administration tried to have Fahrenheit 9/11 banned just before the presidential election, and - in this film - how one insurance company decided, after exposure on this documentary, to pay for the medical treatment of a small child, having previously refused.

In this, Moore basically examines healthcare in the US - or lack thereof - and compares it to that in other countries. It all comes down to health insurance. If you don't have it, you're fucked. If you have it, but contract a fatal illness that the company can somehow weasel its way out of covering, you're fucked. The latter is what happened in more than one case here, and in the film, the presentation of footage of a person alive and well who would subsequently go on to die, because the emergency life-saving surgery he needed wasn't covered by his insurance company, isn't just sad, it's chilling. The one thing I loved was the naming and outright shaming of the companies involved, lawsuits and libel cases be damned.

After that, it's trips to Guantanamo bay for free healthcare for 9/11 workers and comparisons to Canadian and European healthcare. The NHS is portrayed as being a flawless model of socialist medicine, which was ...erm...something of a creative leap on Moore's part, but then again, it's by way of comparison. The price comparisons betweeen the cost of medicines in America and in other, supposedly lesser developed countries was something of an eye-opener though.

The one thing I was surprised by was that at one point in the documentary it looked as if there was going to be a shift in focus onto the pharmaceutical companies, but the opportunity was allowed to pass. Time constraints, maybe? Who knows...

Anyway, there you have it. Go see. I personally found it to be more stimulating than Fahrenheit 9/11 in some ways. The one thing I was surprised by was that on its opening night over here, my flatmates and I had no problems in getting tickets to see it. It seems that people weren't exactly beating the doors down to see it. Maybe I've overestimated Moore's box office appeal. I hope not...

Facebook.

I joined Facebook a while back. I didn't feel under pressure to do so at the time, as only a few people I knew had mentioned it, and I didn't realise that upon joining it I would find just about everyone I ever knew in life has a profile on it. Which it seems they do, not least most of the people in my pharmacy class.

For some reason, this site has mushroomed way beyond Bebo, Hi5 and other networking sites in popularity. I'm kind of liking it, though still getting used to the friend requests from people I have never met in real life (Though some of them, such as Oscar Soria, have interesting profiles about political activism and meeting Naomi Klein, which is cool).

Of course, where there are mass gatherings, there will be bears.

Such as this throbbing vortex of hotness

And this one

And this one

And... Oh, you get the picture.

There are also groups you can join, such as ...erm... Facebook Bears, and Bears Cubs And Their Admirers, and...

...

Other groups, such as ones for appreciation of cinema. I've joined that too!

Still, the whole concept on online networking is looking interesting for once, might stay with it for a while. All people have to do is stop getting me to install all the crap extra applications...

Update: Jesus, just how much shit can come out of this website? Werewolves, vampires, zombies? Constantly being poked by people? Survey questionnaires? Give it a rest!

Control

Anyone who's into moody alternative rock knows the story about Ian Curtis. He was the singer for a band called Warsaw, who later changed their name to Joy Division. They released one album called Unknown Pleasures to critical acclaim, started to become popular, and were poised to go on a tour of America. Things were scuppered, however, when Curtis was unable to cope with personal problems, and killed himself. The band had accumulated enough recorded material, however, to release 'Closer' posthumously, which makes everyone concerned with it regard it as Curtis' personal suicide note. It was after that that the band decided to carry on, renaming themselves as New Order. Sound familiar?

A few things about this film:

a) The actors in this film looked almost exactly like their real life counterparts. You think Val Kilmer looked like Jim Morrison in The Doors? That likeness has nothing on how much Sam Riley resembles Ian Curtis.

b) The film didn't deify Curtis in the way that many journalists and artists are irritatingly prone to doing. It presented him as flawed, struggling to deal with the circumstances imposed on him in a less than ideal way.

c) In spite of the fact that the film makes Manchester (and Macclesfield in particular) look as grim as shit, it still comes across as interesting, and somewhere I wouldn't mind visiting.

The film was based on the book written by Curtis's widow Deborah, Touching from a distance. I never bought it, but read through most of it when it was on sale in a bookshop near where I lived, years ago in Dublin.

I didn't have much sympathy for Ian Curtis after reading the book. He came across like an egotistical prima donna, and an unstable father figure to boot. The latter is where I draw the line: Once you have children, your live is no longer your own and you have a duty to other people (the main reason why I will probably never opt for parenthood). He didn't really seem to care about his wife either.

But of course flicking through a book doesn't give you the proper picture, and the film helped put his life into perspective a bit more. I didn't know about the extra-marital affair, and I didn't know about how his epilepsy only started to figure in his life at the same time as his band were starting to take off. His appointment with a neurologist was interesting. Standard guidelines on prescribing didn't really exist back then, so Ian simply had a bucket of anti-seizure medication thrown at him, and told to get on with it. I've seen people struggle with an ongoing course of Carbemazapine, one anti-seizure medication. Curtis (if I remember rightly) had three to deal with, as the doctor adopted a sledghammer-to-kill-a-fly approach. This was where he started to get my sympathy.

All things considered, I can now kind of appreciate where it all came from. He had problems imposed on him - some of his own making, some not - and finds it too much to bear. He gets married at an age that would now be considered ridiculously young, and then decides to have a child almost on a whim. I get the feeling if he waited and got his head together, he would have made a better fist of his life, but instead he goes ahead and takes all this responsibility at a time when he should be cutting down on his stress levels. He has an affair with a woman, and then falls in love with her, and finds himself unable to finish it, in spite of his wife issuing him with ultimatums. Top this all off with the fact that he's not exactly swimming in money, and you have some idea of what he's going through. And so he decides not to hang around.

Other than that, you get a good insight into how the machinations of a local music scene works. Their manager was desperate for someone with talent to look after, because nothing was going to happen for him of his own accord. I remember when I was growing up, my brother was a roadie for a popular local band. Their songs were good enough, but egos and in-fighting fucked it all up before they could even get a record deal, and they've all since moved onto sensible jobs, though not without having a laugh along the way. One thing I remember was the older musos hanging around them, people who had never made it themselves and looked just too plain grown-up to be involved with that kind of thing, but didn't really have any other options open to them. There were a few people in this film like that.

One other thing I knew nothing of was how Curtis used to work at employment exchange, and seeing him having to deal with people on their terms rather than his own was funny.

Lastly, I was always a bit dubious about some of Joy Division's music. I felt that they walked a fine line between atmospheric and turgid, and only really started to get things fully right in their incarnation as New Order. It was only in the last while that I realised that there were some undeniably good songs in the back catalogue of the beleagured former though, I can't take that away from them, and they certainly offered a blueprint from which just about every 90's miserablist claims to work these days.

The rugby is over

...it wasn't as good as last saturday, for the following reasons.

1) I had been out the night before, and had a stinking hangover on saturday as a result.

2) I organised it badly, trying to get into a pub in town 10 minutes after the game had started. Not surprisingly, I was turned away, as the pub had reached capacity. I ended up watching it at home, which of course wasn't the same.

3) England lost, so the prevailing atmosphere of good cheer was dispelled soon enough.

4) There weren't half enough close-ups of Lawrence D'Allaglio, reason enough to suggest he should have been substituted into the game earlier. If he had been, perhaps the result would have been different?

Oh well, at least I managed to locate the guy with the beard to some extent. He's one of these two here, George Chuter I think?

So that's it for a while. Setting my sights back on the bears again...

Jumping on the bandwagon

Saturday saw me sit (or stand, rather, in a pub into which we were all squashed like sweating sardines) through my first competitive team sport match in quite some time, England versus France in the Rugby World cup semi-final. Yes, dear readers, I was more preoccupied with the players than the playing, but hey, Lawrence looks as good as ever and I've noticed another player on the team sporting a hot beard, but whose name escapes me, in spite of a careful search over the internet.

I was kind of going for France, although Sebastien Chabal looks like an untamed gorilla. At the end, I got quite the land when England pulled ahead, and cheered loud and long when Lawrence appeared on camera, and the pub I was in erupted. An Irish pub, though there still wasn't any mean-spirited Anglophobia, and now I'm looking forward to England playing against South Africa next weekend. Beer, good cheer, and hot men on screen. What more could you want?

After that, I went to a 21st and got hammered, along with everyone else, and got to bed at 4am.

Roll on England versus South Africa...

John David Lake. RIP.

This entry was going to be a rant about what a dreadful shower of cunts Boots Alliance are (again), but then I came across something on the net that put things into perspective.

A chap in Kansas City who went by the name of John David Lake passed away on Wednesday evening. He was 50 years old. He is survived by his partner Tony and his dog Spud.

I never met him in real life. I happened across his online journal one day via a comment he left on someone else's, and was hooked. As a writer he was funny, and from the stories he told, he came across as a person who was funny in real life too. His blog was studded with gems about:

- Weirdoes he had to deal with at work
- Having crushes on his co-workers
- Feigning heterosexuality during NASCAR season
- Bluetooth device users
- Ogling hot men
- Video games
- Bad spelling and grammar (we very much shared the same opinion on this)
- Having to suffer a zit on his nose
- His dog Spud, and the conversations he had with him.

and my personal favourite,

An ode to toast

So with that, I direct you to go over to the blog entitled A Spasmodic Attachment and read. You will like it. Hopefully it will be left up there and not deleted. It would make for a nice epitaph for him, I think.

It made me think about other related things in general. No one in Mallow has any idea about my blog that I'm aware of thus far, and in common with a lot of gay men who grew up in provincial areas, most of the life that I've built for myself since I left is separate and distinct from my life in my home town. If, God forbid, I were to die, most of the people who would turn up for the funeral would be unknown to my parents, especially all the people I've come to know in Brighton. Is building a life for yourself so separate from your parents and where you grew up a good thing? I imagine it's par for the course for a lot of people.

When I was at Joop's funeral, I remember thinking about whether or not it would be a good idea to have the address of my blog given out to people at my funeral as a way of remembering me. It would probably cause a little bit of discomfort to some of my family, but in the long-term, I think it's a good way of remembering someone for ever. Like a mark that someone made while they were here, whatever it amounts to.

I've often planned a road trip across America, going from place to place, living in different cities, meeting different people. I thought to myself more than once that I would like to meet John, Tony, and their dog Spud in real life, to put a personality on their internet story. Now that story has taken a sad twist, and lost one of its leading players.

Oh, the power of the internet.

Farewell John. You were funny, you were a good writer, and you were hot. You died too young. Rest In Peace.

Friday night

The two hospital interviews have come and gone, and I can summarize them as shit (Brighton) and OK (West Middlesex). Then again, I haven't heard back from either of them yet, so maybe that's indicative of shit (Brighton) and shit (West Middlesex). Kings have spurned me without even an interview. Fuckers don't know what they're missing. I'm still waiting to hear from Central Middlesex, but I'm not holding out much hope.

On Friday, after humming and hawing, I decided that since I couldn't make the wedding in Ireland I was originally supposed to go to, I would go out somewhere else. I'd had my eye on a bear night in Vauxhall, in the Area club, as a certain DJ called Kevin Rolfe was playing, and his boyfriend was with him. Their stage name as a couple is The Beards.

I first happened across the online profiles of these two a while back, here and here, and was intrigued by the list of bands they listed on their web pages. I've always felt a bit put off by the music that gets played in standard gay clubs - too much mainstream fluff - and hadn't at that time met any other blokes, gay or straight, that had the same musical leanings as mine in quite some time. So I went digging around a bit.

These two organise a club night called homoelectric (be sure to click the link 'Why we bother' for a good read), and seem to be two pretty talented artists. This is another one of their sites, which features a rather funky electronic tune which has got very firmly stuck in my head (and in the head of the people I work with in college, as I keep playing it on my computer at work ha ha). On another of their sites, is a poem written by one about the other called 'You saved me'. To find it, click on the 'Word' button and then select the poem from the left-hand pane. It's worth the effort. There's also another piece 'Neil's Perspective' which features a turn of phrase that resonates with me, 'We are on loan to each other', which kind of describes the last guy I was with, as he had a boyfriend, and sums up how meaningless that kind of encounter can sometimes be, but that's for another time.

Anyway, the bear night was based around the launch of a book Bearflavoured, which as far as I could tell, was a collection of various artistic pieces seemingly - for the most part - by bears for bears. I found out afterwards that the aforementioned poem was included in the book as well.

So on Friday morning I rang Sarah Al, my drinking partner in crime, to find that she had just arrived back from a holiday in Egypt, and a rendez-vous was organised. After a few drinks we agreed that Sarah would come to the club with me (anytime the poor girl has been out with me lately, I've always dragged her to cruisy gay bars in the name of getting pissed, but she didn't seem to mind this time).

By the time we got out of the cab at the club, we were already pissed, but never ones to be bothered by a trifling detail like that, we went straight to the bar and continued on our bender. We eventually met The Beards (nice chaps) and chatted a while, and after that I checked out some men (the eye candy at London bear events always beats the Brighton ones hands down). Then I got talking to this guy, who is much wider in life than he looks in his photos. I've become acquainted with the american term 'fireplug', used to describe broad guys, and I like 'em.

After that, insanity flowered. Sarah and I danced on the stage, and when I went to dive off, I landed on a wet patch of floor and my legs went out from under me. I didn't so much land on my arse as bounced on it. Of course, in my drunkeness I felt nothing, and he who dances and jumps away, comes back to dance another day.

What is it about alcohol that makes you think you're a scolarship-winning candidate for a performing arts school?

After a while, the lack of sleep got to Sarah, and she decided to nod off in the club, for an hour or so, amidst all the noise. At least she was in a place where she probably couldn't be safer.

At the end of the night we got a taxi home, driven by this slightly..erm...politically opinionated guy, who ranted about The System all the way home. Thankfully the drive only took us about 10-15 minutes.

This morning I rose, cringed as the flashbacks of the night before hit me, and went home. Halfway back to Brighton, a family of screaming children settled in my carriage. I wanted to produce a machine gun and kill them all.

Now I sit here with a delayed-onset headache. Staying in tonight, methinks. 'Creep' on Channel 4 tonight, House of Flying Daggers tomorrow night...

BOLLOCKS!

The long weekend I was looking forward to next week in Galway and Dublin is not happening!

As mentioned previously, I was supposed to fly to Dublin next week, meet a few friends, and then head out to Galway for J's sister's wedding. One thing I was afraid of was that the hospitals I had applied to for my pre-reg would get back to me requesting my attendance for interview during the time I was supposed to be in Ireland.

They have done exactly that.

(What the hell is going on here? I'm sitting here waiting for the progression lists to go up on university website, and they keep putting up the ones for the first and second year classes first)

The first e-mail came through last Saturday (I hope these people don't make a habit of working at weekends, or expecting me to), calling me for an interview with the Brighton Sussex group of hospitals, for Wednesday 26th of September. On Monday, another e-mail came through, requesting my attendance for another interview on Thursday 27th of September...


(THANK GOD! The progression lists have just gone up for the third years and I've passed. But anyway, where was I...)

I contacted the hospitals and requested a reschedule. They politely refused. So now everything has gone pear tarte-tatin. Instead of going to Ireland for a good aul' knees-up and meeting up with my friends, I'm staying here and doing job interviews. I've done well to get to the interview stage, but getting into hospital pharmacy is a competitive business and for the interview I have on Wednesday, there are 21 applicants (whittled down from 50-odd) competing for 7 places. No pressure. None whatsoever.

Some people on the course have taken the time to fill out their preferences for their four hospitals on the online application site, only to have been turned down for all four without an interview (not to mention any notification, save for a small note on their online application). I can see how my application got me an interview, but I don't really see how I can make an interview get me a job. Fingers crossed it works out. I'll DIE if I have to spend a year in a community pharmacy.

So there goes my long weekend, and I'm back in College on the first of October. Oh the joys...

Joop Wopereis. 1952-2007

It has been a mental two weeks. The stress started to pile on the weekend before my pharmacy repeat exam. By the morning of Monday the 3rd, as I was walking down towards the college to sit the actual paper in college, my stomach was tying itself up in knots.

Luckily it seemed to go well, though I won't find out for sure until this coming Wednesday.

Monday night, I moved house, which was the usual nightmare. The longer I stay in Brighton, the more superfluous clutter I seem to accumulate, and now it's got to the point where relocation of any kind is fast becoming a monumental pain in the arse. I managed it, and so far the new place is going well, though I'm still not completely unpacked and organised yet, at the time of writing this.

On Tuesday morning, I got up to go to work, as I still had a couple of days to work to make up the time for my pharmacy placement. I left my new house roundabout the same time as I normally leave the old one, except my new house is much closer to town, so when I found I was running about 15 minutes early, I decided to pop into Costa for a quick cappucino and bask in my newfound proximity to Brighton's city centre. It was then my phone went off, telling me I had a text message from my mother, at that time visiting her family in Holland. It related to my uncle:

'Joop very sick. Pray for him. Mam.'

Joop was married to my mother's sister, which technically made him my uncle-in-law. A funnier nuttier man you could not hope to meet. My memories of him consist mainly of him having a beer in one hand and a rolled up cigarette in another. When my brother and I first hit adolescence and started getting into things that would have made our parents frown, we were in awe of his ability to casually hold a converstation while rolling a cigarette with one hand. In about one minute. He probably could have done it blindfolded.

When I went over to Holland to celebrate a different aunt's 25th wedding anniversary, a group of us went on an ill-decided excursion to the pub the night before. I woke up with a day of celebrations ahead of me, not feeling the Mae West, and as soon as Joop ascertained what was wrong with me, he had the solution. "Denis, you must have more beer, it will make you feel better. Is good, Ja?" I eventually relented, and of course his suggestion of the hair of the dog turned out to be just what I needed that day.

When my brother and his wife got married at the start of this year, Joop and his wife dithered over whether to come over for the wedding. Money had always been a bit tight for them, and Joop operated on a contract that was renewed on a yearly basis. They had no guarantee that he would be working in the new year on their return home. They went anyway, as was always the case, and the day was made all the better by them being there. I didn't see much of him that day, as I was running around like a blithering idiot, drunk as a lord. If I'd known what was to come, I would have made more time for him. I replied by text to my mother, and then headed into work. I left my phone in the cloakroom and did my usual thing in the dispensary. At lunchtime, I checked my phone again.

'Joop dying. Matter of hours. Mam.'

I got lunch and then started to text everyone I knew connected with him, to find out more, but nobody really knew anything. Like me, they were just flabbergasted.

I went back to work and kept my phone with me. Towards the end of my time at work, I got the text I was dreading:

'Joop RIP. 4:45. Mam'

It was then that the phone calls began. My sister told me that it was suspected that he had cancer of the throat, as for the last while he could hardly eat, and had lost loads of weight. The real problem lay in the fact that he had a bowel obstruction and died most likely from the resulting perforations. The obstruction itself most likely was caused at least in part by the opiates he was continuously prescribed. An official report on the whole thing is expected in due course.

In conversation with my sister, I tried to point out that at least his life, while he enjoyed it, was lived to the full. She replied with the fact that with three children, he still had a lot of living to do.

I dithered over going - I was hardly flush with money - but then came to the decision that I had to be there. I booked my flights and headed over on Saturday. I stayed with Mark and Marjon, the cousins I had stayed with before. It was nice to see everyone, but to do it under the current circumstances took some of the joy out of it. The widow and her children were remarkably brave about it though.

Monday was the cremation, and while it was heartbreaking, I was struck by how great a send-off he got. He was presented in the coffin in his normal clothes, how we always remembered him, instead of in some stuffy suit which he would never wear except under extreme duress anyway. In the background was a choir, singing adaptations of some of his favourite songs, including Eric Clapton's Tears in Heaven. Different people got up and read out little pieces about him they had prepared, which was much nicer than hearing the standard religious readings that mean nothing to anyone about anything, least of all the person whose death they are mourning.

In the crematorium, there were more readings, the main one drawing a few laughs, which made me regret not having learned dutch years ago, as I couldn't understand much of it. Then there was more music, and from now until the day I die, I will always be reminded of Joop when I hear U2's You don't have to make it on your own. One thing that struck me, and nearly made me cry, was how one of Joop's brothers tapped on the coffin as he walked past it, in the same way that a lot of Irish people knock on the roof of a carful of friends when they are seeing them off into the night, after getting together. It was brought home to me how tragic this death was, as the previous passing of other relatives was different. They were reaching the end of their life anyway, and I didn't really know them that well. This was different on both counts.

On the way out, little cards were given out summarizing Joop's life. When he was born, his marriage, when he died, how everything was done to try and save him, and how he had been a loving father and husband. It was signed by his widow, and his three children.

Now his family have to look to the future, and I don't envy them. Joop was the main breadwinner in the family, and his wife Ineke only did occasional work as a home help to supplement the family income. Now she has to try and manage the family on her own, with a fifteen year old son and two ten year old twins. Matters are complicated even more by the fact that one of the ten year olds has a rare heart condition, where she has to constantly take antibiotics and must make regular visits to the doctor. She already has some lasting heart damage, and will most likely need to have surgery in the next year. Now Ineke has to face into all this on her own. My heart goes out to her.

I arrived back here on Wednesday evening, and since then things have been pretty sedate. I (hopefully!) start back in college at the start of October. In two weeks time I head over to the wedding of the sister of J, and to see a few friends in Dublin. I'm looking forward to it.

So. Farewell Joop. Like many people who lose someone they like, I wish I had known you better, or seen more of you. Good luck to you and yours. I thought you'd be around for a lot longer. It is not a mistake I will make with my relatives again.

A question

How in the name of God does someone hold down a full-time job and find time for anything else? I've started a new job, and in that time, it's taken me TWO weeks to churn out two posts about Pride.

It's been three weeks since my pharmacy placement began, the monday after Pride weekend. It would be no small exaggeration to say that I was nervous. Last summer's placement, the one I walked out of after only three weeks, would have been considered a disaster by any one's standards, and as it was my first proper job working in a dispensary, more than a little disheartening. What if this one also went pear-tarte-tatin?

Luckily it hasn't. The first two days I was in there, it was a locum, and not the pharmacist I had been assigned to for the four weeks. This gave me a chance to get a feel for the place without the obligation of making a first impression, or at least making one that wouldn't stay with me for the rest of my time there. By the time the main pharmacist arrived on Wednesday, I was reasonably confident about what I was doing (and, it has to be said, had learned more in those two days than I had in the three weeks I was in Lloyds last summer). This buoyed me up a bit, especially since the pharmacist said on more than one occasion that I was doing very well.

The placement is coming to and end this week, and it's gone reasonably well. I don't want to work in community pharmacy really, but hopefully this will give me an edge when I'm applying to hospitals. I've pretty much nailed dispensing, can do some basic recommendations for over-the-counter stuff, and also have been involved in the needle exchange scheme we're running, along with methadone dispensing. Methadone users are supposed to be high maintenance, but I haven't really seen much evidence of that yet, and it adds a bit of variety to the customer base.

This day week is my repeat exam in college, and I also have to move into a new place for the coming year. Thankfully, it's in a reasonably interesting area of Brighton this time, and is pretty convenient to the city centre and college. Combining the two events is of course going to be a barrel of laughs. I'm trying to get someone to take my current room for the month of September, the last month of the lease. It looks pretty promising. I've lined up someone who definitely seems like they're going to take it. I'll be glad to get out of this place. It has been quite a trial living here during the year at times.

News about my fellow classmates is starting to filter down to me through the grapevine. A bucketload of students, a lot of whom I would consider academically solid, have failed at least one exam this year, and one exam in particular is starting to stand out: Medicinal Chemistry. It seems that quite a lot of people have to repeat this, and as usual, the faculty have blamed us. A few stats have been tossed out by the people who teach this course:

a) Two-thirds of the class scored below 50%
b) The average mark was 44%
c) The short answer questions were poorly attempted
d) Out of the five long-answer/essay questions, where you had to answer three, a lot of people went for the same three questions, thus highlighting that the class is excluding some material when revising.

Here's what I think:

a) This is a difficult subject, and only having one day a week devoted to lectures, without any tutorials, isn't enough to help people pass this course.
b) Ditto
c) My knowledge of the course was fairly comprehensive, yet out of the ten short answer questions, I only recognised the factual material required for three of them, and even then, they were phrased awkwardly, and what was asked of the student was at times as clear as mud.
d) One of the areas in this course is devoted to the area of pharmaceutics, which is basically dosage forms (i.e. tablets, capsules, suppositories, creams, etc.). I don't think I have ever come across an area that is so univerally disliked by pharmacy students, and when that particular lecturer used to make her appearance on Thursday mornings during this last year, there was a mass exodus to the coffee shop. Exclusion of parts of a module is frowned upon in healthcare courses, but the university has to realise that it would take the equivalent of John Keating in Dead Poet's Society to make this stuff anyway engaging, and students are always going to have their preferred areas, no matter what course they're doing.

This is more than a little irritating, as the feedback implies that the class are a bunch of dossers, when in fact most of them are pretty diligent. Myself, I came out of the exam thinking I had comfortably passed, only to find out when the results came out, that I had passed only by the skin of my teeth. Methinks if they are going to have exacting standards, they need to have exacting methods of teaching this stuff. The equivalent module in the fourth and final year was failed by over 80% of the class because the faculty thought they'd be smart and devote most of the paper to material that comprised only 20% of the areas presented in lectures. It backfired, and they had to hold a special resit, so that people could still be awarded their degrees in time before they were due to start their jobs.

Hopefully, now that I'll be staying in a house that looks nice and is reasonably central, I won't feel the need to leave it every day, and that this will translate into a more productive and efficient final year. Fingers crossed...

Another Pride picture

Me. At Pride. Shitfaced.

Courtesy of Jonathan, my Kung Fu sparring partner, to my immediate left.

Brighton Pride II

Upon hitting St. James' street, I found the party in full swing.

First I was treated to dinner at a Chinese by Jim, Phil's significant other, and then headed out to take in the gay atmosphere. I'd executed it better than last year, where I was wasted and tired by early evening. This year I'd paced myself and was ready for it all. I floated around the Star Inn and the BUlldog, throwing myself at various hot bears. Then I met a few girls from my pharmacy class, who, like a lot of girls at Pride, were bemoaning the lack of straight men. I chatted for a whie, went off on my own, and then...I came across the hot bloke. After making small talk, we locked lips passionately, and groped each other twenty different ways. He wanted to go off and meet some friends, so I got his phone number, saying I'd be in touch later.

Then I rejoined the pharmacy girls and dragged them to the Star Inn. I was pretty mashed at this stage, and wasn't doing a very good job of chatting to the bar staff ("It must be AWFUL being a gay man in a gay bar and having to work at Pride") and if I didn't know better, I'd think that they were giving me a wide berth.

Then, I tried ringing hot guy, but no answer.

At this stage I was WRECKED, but I'd heard there was a beach party happening later, and I wanted to hang on and see where it was. I downed two vodkas in the company of the pharmacy girls, got my second wind, and we headed on down to the beach. There I boogied, but the atmosphere lacked a certain je ne sais quoi after St. James' Street, so eventually I headed home, and got to bed at 6am. I plugged in my phone to charge it (it had died earlier) and I got a message from hot guy saying he was sorry to have missed my call and we would have to hook up again soon.

The next day I rose, went into town and wandered around a bit. I walked around and eventually settled on the Bulldog for the evening, where I actually met a second year gay pharmacy student (For a while, it appeared that I was the only one) and we various discussions about kinky things.

I eventually went home, as I had to start a placement in a pharmacy the next day.

Overall, it was a better Pride than last year, as last year I didn't even go into Preston Park, and had to go home early because I was too tired, This year I got it mostly right. Hopefully next year I'll get it even better. It's unfortunate in one sense: As my favourite time of the year, I almost feel under pressure to enjoy it. But it never disappoints...

Brighon Pride I

Well it's been a week to the day since last Pride, and I loved it.

Friday 3rd saw me get out of bed at my usual time (lunch) and head downstairs to discover that my Got Woof top had arrived. It wasn't very flattering as a long-sleeved top, so I headed into town to get it altered to make it into a t-shirt, which the tailor did for me while I waited.

So with that particular preparation taken care of, I headed to Vision Express to stock up on contact lenses. No self-respecting man-on-the-pull can be seen wearing glasses at Pride, so that was next on my to-do list. However, when I went into Vision Express, the woman told me that I couldn't buy any more contact lenses from them until I had an aftercare check up, and the soonest I could have one would be in a week's time. "But I can't wear glasses over Pride weekend!" I howled. She hastily found me a single pair to tide me over until the appointment. Which was yesterday. Which I completely forgot about. Oops.

After that, I went to get my beard trimmed. I opted for a sort of Chow-Yun Fat effort like from Curse of the Golden Flower. It looked Ok, but I don't think I have the face for it, so while I went with it on Pride weekend, I'm reverting back to normal beardiness now.

After that, I went to Lidl to stock up on food, and Sainsbury's to stock up on alcohol. Pride is always cheaper if you bring your own stuff to the park, and that's what I organised myself enough to do this year. Lastly, as I passed the Bully, I saw all the Bears who arrived early in preparation for the next day. I had an uncontrollable itch to join them, but I knew that if I got into a session, Saturday would be spoiled by a hangover. So I went home.

Of course, with all the excitement I didn't get to sleep untl about 4am anyway, but oh well...

Saturday I rose. Running late at 11:30, I had to order a cab, but I got to see the parade right from the start, which was pretty impressive as usual (and damn if some of the men in Brighton gay men's chorus aren't half bad looking).

Once that was over, I headed to Preston Park for the main event and took in the atmosphere, along with the the big hairy beasts at the Chunk tent. Yum! Then I met some people from Kung Fu and we sat around drinking for ages. At our end of the park, there were no toilets, so certain bushes were designated as Female, and one tree in particular was designated as the magic tree for men. Sample conversations overheard:


When a man tries to use the 'woman-only' bush:

Woman: "Excuse me! This is a woman-only bush!"


When I went to use the magic tree and found a man sitting right next to it:

Me (drunkenly) "Excuse me. Would it be alright if you moved so that I can take a leak against this tree?"


Shortly after that, I went off on my own, and shook my booty in the Wildfruit tent. On my way out, with about half an hour till the park was emptied and closed off, I bumped into a bloke. Bulging of muscle, this guy had a profile on gaydar I'd seen for the first time over a year ago, and I'd lusted over him ever since. We exchanged pleasantries, and then went our separate ways, but not before I found out that he would be in town later...

To be continued...

Brighton Pride!

It rocked, but now that I have a job for the first time in ages, I'm finding time management a bit of a problem.

All the gossip will follow shortly.

The big smoke

Yesterday saw me go on a junket to London to visit two hospitals that I'm thinking of applying to for when I graduate.

Thursday morning I rose, went to the bank to discuss some current account matters, and then got on the train. At 11:11am, the train pulled into London Victoria, and I felt relaxed, congratulating myself on having done everything on schedule.

The first hospital I needed to go to was in West Middlesex, so I went to the information desk to find out which tube train to get there:

Me:	"Excuse me. Can you tell me how to get to West Middlesex University Hospital? Which train is best?"
Woman:	"You can't get there from here."
Me:	"What?"
Woman:	"You should have changed at Clapham Junction. You need to go back there, and get another train out to Isleworth."
Me:	"Nnnnnngggghh!"

So, back I went to Clapham Junction (thank God for the British rail system. If that had happened in Ireland, I'd have been fucked), got another train out to Hounslow, and then another train to Isleworth. I arrived half an hour behind schedule.

The chief pharmacist didn't mind, thank God, and another pharmacist showed me around the place. It was a bit of an eye opener. Not much time is spent on the wards during your first year, in fact about 80% of a first year's time is spent in the department itself. This hospital in particular was not exactly within easy reach of London, and a rotation in mental health no longer forms part of the year, so the place won't be my first choice, but the pre-reg tutor and chief pharmacist seemed nice people whom I could work with.

Once I'd left, I headed off to Central Middlesex hospital. I had to get a tube (which was JAMMED with people), change at two stops, and then get a bus. I arrived for my next appointment, a short talk on what it was like to do the pre-reg year there, fifteen minutes late. Luckily they had only just started.

This one was more of a bit of an eye-opener. The surgical pharmacist chatted with us for about forty minutes about all the different rotations we would go through during the year, rotations which did include mental health this time, and we saw all the fancy instruments, which included a dispensing robot. This was one hospital I could definitely see myself working in, with it's proximity to central London, and I asked her about the competition for pre-reg places:

Me:	"Excuse me. Do you get many applicants for the places that are available?"
Her:	"Yes, it's quite competitive. Last year we got about 70 applicants for 3 places. This year, we expect to get 50 applicants."
Me:	"What?"

And this was one of the hospitals that didn't have an asterisk next to it on the online application website, meaning it's one of the less oversubscribed ones! Bloody hell, if I ever manage to get into a hospital, I can see it being in the remotest region of Wales or Scotland, at the rate this is going!

So after all that, I went back to London Victoria, toyed with the idea of going to (you guessed it!) Soho, dismissed it, and went home.

London Victoria is a sight to behold, though. I though Brighton was pretty multi-cultural, but the amount of different races I saw up there takes the biscuit. There was a definite buzz to the place, though, and I could definitely see myself living there in time to come.

All I have to do is get a first class honours degree. I can so see that happening.

De Job for next year...

I've begun applying to prospective hospitals for work after I (finger's crossed!) get my degree. The deadline is the 31st of August of this year, almost a full year before I am due to start work as a pre-reg.

So where to apply? The strategy is simple:

1. Identify on a map of London where Soho is.

I was thinking about Earls Court originally, for a more understated gay feel, but there's no way I can afford to live anywhere near Kensington on a pharmacist's starting salary.

2. Try and get into a hospital near Soho.

Unfortunately the most centrally located hospitals have half the country trying to get into them. A summer placement would have increased my chances of getting in with a particular hospital, but most of them are now unpaid, which puts them out of bounds for me. Central Middlesex is looking like a distinct possibility, but the programme looks interesting and it's only fifteen minutes by tube from Soho.

3. Try and get a house not too far from either Soho or the hospital, preferably such that all three are connected by tube lines in such a way as to minimize walks between stations and any of the above three locations.

Not sure how this is going to pan out. West London is expensive generally, so I think my house is going to have to be west of the hospital itself, rather than the ideal situation of being halfway between the hospital and ... Soho. Is there a pattern emerging? Oh shut up...

4. Party time!

Head on down to the Kings Arms and let the good times roll...

The blushing brides

MizzFlee (left) and Bear on their wedding day...

Dahling!

...surely not?

What on earth could have happened?

Here come the brides...

Saturday saw the wedding of the year...

I rose at 1pm, a little tired and delicate thanks to an ill-advised excursion the night before (but one which netted me a hot scottish bear), and got on with the business of shaving my head and ironing my clothes for Flee and Bear's civil partnership. It was a great day, and the Royal Pavilion is a nice place to have a civil partnership. You also get to pick your own readings (Our resident South African picked an excerpt from Mapp and Lucia, and the supervisor recognised his thespian credentials straight away. You go girl!). Then we got a tour of the Pavilion, which was once occupied by George IV - if I have the number right - a great sinner in his day.

Finally we ate and drank. And drank. Whilst the meal was in progress, there were slides of a photographic history of Bear and Flee being played on an overhead projector, which was a nice idea, and one that I shall nick for myself if I ever have one of these ceremonies. MizzFlee, if you're feeling generous, do send me a few of those, and of the night as well, so I can post them up here. Rather fetching you two did look in those top hats.

One of the waiters who served our table was rather doable, and I'm almost certain he played for my team. In spite of my repeated eyeballing of him, however, he failed to respond. Damn these men who play hard to get!

After that, we repared to the Dragon, and met ourselves some Irish travellers, who seemed to be quite nice once I'd let my guard drop a bit, though some people who were there have gone to great pains to point out that they were acting suspiciously. After everyone had gone home, I went to the Bully for one, met an old trick, tried to get into this guy's pants, failed, and went home. My head touched the pillow at about 7am. I rose quite a few hours later, so now my body clock is shot to shit.

I've just finished watching Jet Li's Hero. I rather liked. I'll be practising my own moves tomorrow...

That's it for a while. Taking it easy for a couple of weeks. In other news, I got my exam results and I have to retake one. That's the best case scenario as far as I'm concerned: It could easily have been two or three.

Roll on Pride!

Rugby players

Rugby doesn't rub me up the wrong way, in the way that football/soccer does. The one criticism that is often levelled at it, that it is a socially elitist sport, is in my opinion the saving grace of it. Also, because of the way rugby was organised in school, it was strictly extra-curricular, so I never had it inflicted on me in the way that I had to suffer other ball sports, and never really had the chance to grow to hate it.

And then there are the players. Phwooaar.

My first proper object of lust when I was in school was my applied maths teacher. Who happened to be a rugby player on the local team and coached rugby. He wasn't the tallest - even at the age of 16 I remember looking down at him - but he had an arse to die for. I wasn't the only one who thought so either: When he started teaching applied maths to the girls school up the road from us, one of the girls I knew told me that she kept getting him to go upto the board to do problems so that she could look at how his pants showed off his rear.

Since then I've always had players from various different teams in my crosshairs. The old faithful has been Lawrence Dallaglio, though it has to be said there are a fair few contenders on the English rugby team for my attention in general. Keith Wood is someone I wouldn't mind rattling the duvet with. Also, when there was some rugby match on the last time I was home, I noticed that the team playing against our side were dressed in pink tops. I since found out that they were French, and some of them were serious candidates for getting an ass-pounding from me.

When my father's birthday came to pass last week, I noticed my brother giving him a present of a dvd called 'Reaching For Glory', a documentary about the Irish rugby team filmed over the last year. My interest was piqued, and when my parents had gone to bed, I put it on.

After they had gone to bed, as if they had seen me watching it, and knowing my disinterest in ball sports in general, they would almost certainly have put two and two together, and that might have been a litle embarassing.

Her are a few that jumped out at me. They are choices that would normally be considered bizare, as only one of them have beards, and all of them are around the same age as me (some are, in a first, actually younger than me).

John Hayes Big n' burly n' barrel-chested. Just the way I like 'em. And with a shaved head too. 125 delicious kilogrammes of man-meat.
	David Wallace Younger than me, and bland enough of face, the basic template is still there. Weighs in at a hefty 103kg. An ideal candidate for improving himself by growing a beard.
Denis Hickie Younger than me but looks older. Must be the shaved head. Wouldn't say no if I found him next to me under the duvet. Kind of light at 93kg, compared to the others, but still heavier than me.
	Bernard Jackman Another guy who looks older than his years. Must be the shaved head again. 112 juicy kilogrammes of man mass to get your hands around.
Brian Young At last, a player with a beard. This guy is a whole six years younger than me, but I still wouldn't say no. His team-mates have nicknamed him 'The Bear'. I wonder if they, as straight men, fully understand the ramifications of that tag.
	Gordon Darcy Again, at 90kg and 27 years old, one of the younger and lighter ones here, but it is in the documentary 'Reaching for Glory' that we see him with his back to the camera, walking off the pitch, barechested, his hands in the air, and boy does he have the big guns. Well, it's either him or this next chap...
Shane Horgan I tried to do a screenshot of the player who looks like this bloke or the one previous (don't know which) from the DVD 'Reaching for Glory'. Shane, if it's you, nice biceps. You'd improve no end if you grew a big black bristly beard though.
	Gavin Duffy Treads a dangerous line between pretty and handsome. There's only one way to erase that ambiguity, Gavin! Grow a big thick untrimmed beard.

So, lads, if ever you feel like raising money for charity, get a photographer, get yer kit off, say cheese, and stick it all on a calendar. I'd buy it.

Countdown to Pride!

The climactic weekend of Brighton's Gay Pride (i.e. the weekend that sees the St. James' street party take place, with all the attendant groping) is one month away. I'm all excited!

In preparation for this event, I have been looking online at t-shirts to wear for the day. One guy I know told me that last year he wore a t-shirt with 'Big Balls' emblazoned across it, and that everyone was coming up to him to 'verify' his claim.

That sounds like a plan.

With this is mind, I went onto Spreadshirt, and used their novel t-shirt designer tool to come up with this:

Direct? Perhaps, but subtlety usually goes out the window at Pride festivals generally.

Alternatively, I could go for a more understated come-on, from cafepress.com:

Not sure which one to go for. Perhaps both? Advice in the comments, please.

TV star sacked for using homophobic slur

In the latest non-news, Isaiah Washington has been sacked from the cast of Grey's Anatomy, for using the word 'faggot' in connection with co-cast member TK Knight, who is gay in real life.

Washington's response to the decision was, get this, to accuse the producers of racism. He says the word was used in the heat of the moment, in an argument with fellow cast member Patrick Dempsey, and was not meant to refer to Knight in the negative way that everyone perceived that it did. He went on to say that he believed that because he refused to play to the submissive 'yes massa' role that he believes is deemed suitable for black men, he was penalised. There is also the belief that America is currently undergoing a serious backlash against homophobia, and that it is now considered as heinous as racism, and that Washington fell victim to this.

I have a number of thoughts on this.

1) There is no 'backlash'. People are finally waking up to what they should realised years ago: That homophobia is a form of racism, and should be treated as such.

2) Because of the previous point, it is a bit fucking rich for Washington to start bleating about racism, given that he just displayed it himself. If he had used the slur in a standard workplace, he would at the very least have gotten a written warning.

3) Is there anyone out there who believes that black men in general are submissive, or that they should be?

4) Grey's Anatomy is shit. I watched about two or three episodes, and quickly came to the conclusion that it was aimed at teenyboppers. Any critic who tries to big it up does nothing only undermine their own credibility. The same goes for House.

5) Lastly, Washington is about as good-looking as the arse-end of a bus. The reason the producers could also have fired him is because of that: He's unlikely to find much favour with the core audience of this show: Young girls. (Don't try to deny it. Of all the people in my class who watch it, 90% of them are female).

The whole thing does seem like a storm in a teacup, and washington's defense is a bit pitiful, but if this kind of thing happens enough times, people may eventually start to get it.

Other than that, stick with ER, people.

Yay for contrariness!

MSNBC Journalist Burns and Shreds Paris Hilton Story:

And such restraint in the face of those two gobshites as well. You go girl!

Unfortunately, such restraint was not present in GMTV's coverage of the same event, who cut from a report about flooding in Yorkshire to go live to cover the non-entity's release. They subsequently issued a public apology.

Some of the points made on either side of the argument in online forums also made for a little eyebrow raising. One person argued that GMTV needed to be light and fluffy, in order to provide an alternative to the BBC breakfast show, which was boring, and anyway, the last thing you need in the morning is to be 'sent back to sleep' (Translation: We are a nation of complete fucking idiots). Another one was that the GMTV feature on the floods was an issue of national importance, and that Paris Hilton is pretty meaningless over in this neck of the woods. All I can say to the latter is:

SHE DOESN'T MEAN ANYTHING ANYWHERE!

Ah Sod it!

Bearlix has been shut down, due to the owner 'lacking the resources to push it beyond this point'. Going forward, to use corporate speak, he puts his support behind Bearciti. A shame, as bearlix had a very fetching interface, and looked like it was gaining members rapidly.

Now I'm going to have to set up a profile at Bearciti again, having deleted my old one off their site a few months back. Oh well...

Good riddance.

Over last weekend, one of our flatmates moved out. She had become such a pain to live with over the last 9 months, and departed under such a cloud, that when she left, myself and one of the other flatmates went to the pub to celebrate.

At the start of the year, she claimed one of the biggest rooms in the house on the basis that she 'needed room for all her stuff'. This was met with no small amount of hostility by the others, but eventually we let her have it. Rather than organise a rotation of the rooms to make it fair, however, she held onto it all year.

Not long after that, I found out that her mother wasn't well, and at the time of going to press, there isn't much that can be done except make her comfortable and give her pain relief. As the year progressed, said flatmate spent less and less time in the house, and more time back home with her parents. Understandable enough, except when it came to paying her way, she was probably amongst the most unreliable people I've had to live with in a long time. Whenever a bill was due, she was nowhere to be found, and developed an irritating habit of ignoring phone calls and text messages. The landlord, who I wouldn't normally go out of my way to defend, was getting increasingly exasperated with her, and resorted to phoning us in an attempt to reach her.

Around the time of her departure, she organised someone to take over her room, but barely told us anything about it, and when we tried ringing her and sending her messages (she had left to go to London), she ignored them, and then offered the pitiful excuse that she didn't have any credit to listen to her voice messages. At the last minute, she moved in the new guy right under our noses, much to the chagrin of one of the other flatmates, announcing that she had cleared it all with the landlord. The latter hasn't returned my calls, so I don't even know if she's telling the truth.

Oh, and she left without settling up her share of the bills, mumbling something about how she was coming back next week 'to sort things out'. Well, we still have her deposit, so we'll be getting it one way or the other. We'd better.

Alas, said flatmate is in my class, so I'll be bumping into her next year, unfortunately. I'll just have to put as much distance between her and myself as possible.

I can't wait to get over this phase of living with annoying younger students who don't seem to understand that if you don't pay a bill for a utility, that utility will be withdrawn. Or people who think that it's OK for you to pay their share until they deign to obtain the money for it themselves.

Going home tomorrow to Mallow for a week. Some time away from this place is what I need right now.

An update on things in general

It's been a great few days, not have the constant drudge of 12-hour study marathons to have to deal with, and I'm fast getting used to it.

On Friday night, I got picked up by a daddy bear in the Bulldog and headed back to his. It was a bit strange, as the first thing I noticed was that he had about three layers of jackets on. The second thing I picked up on (not that it would have been hard) was that he kept interwining his fingers with mine, and then trying to bend mine back, trying to get me to submit. I didn't. The third thing was that, figuratively, his lights were on upstairs, but nobody seemed to be home: He KEPT repeating himself, right upto the point where I had to (just about!) good-naturedly tell him to shut up.

Back at his flat, I got him undressed, and found that in addition to all the jackets he was wearing, he was wearing a blanket under his shirt! I asked him why, he replied that it was to make him look big.

Whatever.

Once we got down to it, he kept telling me I was gorgeous (fine by me) and that he could make a lot of money out of me (er...say what?). After quizzing him about this, he said he would be my pimp and that together, we could target young gay affluent men. I thought about it for about three seconds, and then dismissed it.

Shortly after that, I grew impatient with his clumsy fumblings, made my excuses and left. As broke as I am, I don't think I'd be comfortable with getting it on with strangers for money.

The search for a new house for October grinds on slowly, with people entering and exiting the equation, but I have another two months before I start getting worried. We're trying to organise bills at our current house, because one of the flatmates is leaving, and it's quite a pain. Also, after getting NO water bill for the whole year, IN SPITE OF THE FACT THAT I RANG THE COMPANY LAST NOVEMBER AND TOLD THEM WE HAD MOVED IN, we have now been told that a 'cumulative bill will arrive, based on estimates made since January'. Wankers. Some public service companies are breathtakingly incompetent. The electricity company still have to sort out a refund for us, even though I've been chasing them since last november.

I hereby vow to avoid taking responsibility for ANY bills for the next house I move into, if I can help it.

Also, I seem to have landed myself a decent dissertation for next year. Research is being done into Angiotensin IV, a neurotransmitter that seems to have some impact on cognition and memory, and it looks like I may be a part of the drive to find out more about it. It's all territory that's pretty unchartered, but in an area I've always had an interest in, so fingers crossed it should go well. The weird thing is that my supervisor told me I could well end up experimenting on mice, but I've always held that animal research is necessary to some extent in this area, if a little unpalatable.

Finally, I have at long last landed a pharmacy placement. It's in a branch in a chain of community branches in Brighton, so I don't have to move away for it. The only thing is that it's only for one month, so I have July and September to worry about in terms of money. It should be OK, I just wish my bank at home would finalise my loan top-up, which they were supposed to do 3 weeks ago!

Righto. Time to go, and work out how I'm going to spend my evening.

Bliss...

THANK GOD!

The exams are over with, and I really don't have much to say about it all, other than that I intend to do NOTHING for the next few days except lie on the beach.

Well, except maybe prowl the Bulldog looking for potential suitors.

It's only now I've noticed

1) Coffee is NOWHERE to be had within the vicinity of the university after 8pm.

2) The parts of the building that have vending machines are locked securely at about the same time.

What the fuck is that about? The staple diet of an exam-stressed student consists of two things:

1) Coffee

2) Chocolate

If someone set up a coffee stall outside the library at this time of year, they'd clean up.

First one tomorrow. Or should that be today?

Amen

Shame about some of the comments that followed. Nothing like the 'net to bring out the sub-literate, eh?

(Courtesy of MediaWatchWatch. As the site says, watch it before it gets pulled.)

I do NOT need this right now!

The gas bill arrived this morning. It is £214.

£214

Thanks to the carelessness of my flatmates (I suspect one in particular), the boiler was on constantly during the period of February to March, and during this period £175 was racked up on our account. Once the weather got better, I switched the boiler to the 'summer' setting, and in the two months that followed, we notched up only £25.

Words will be had at a house meeting tonight.

Our landlord still has to fix the the two separate leaks in our ceiling. I was advised to get a rent abatement on account of this before, but I dismissed the idea. It's starting to look like a viable option now.

My exams start on Wednesday.

I'm doomed...

In the post yesterday.

It has recently come to light that 'Flee and Bear have decided to tie the knot in a civil partnership in Brighton.

That clanger I dropped upon hearing this announcement from MizzFlee in the Bully ("I'm so happy for you both! Make sure you send me an invitation...) must have worked: When I got home from the library yesterday, I found this in the post:

It reminds me of a purple feather boa. So you, Ms. Flee.

And on the inside...

I've it pencilled into my diary, honeez. See you there, for the Brighton social event of the year!

I HATE exams!

They are in exactly two weeks.

In time honoured tradition, I am now getting to grips - for the first time, it hardly needs to be said - with material that was presented to me over 8 months ago. God bless the blood coagulation cascade. It's all starting to make sense now, but why couldn't I have done before Christmas, instead of last night, at 1am?

4 other lever-arch binders await, stuffed to bursting.

I swear to God, I'd nearly try hypnotherapy at this stage to break this last-minute habit of mine.

Onwards and downwards.

I like films about paedophiles

I saw an ad for a film on Channel 4 a while back that piqued my interest. It was called Secret Life. Billed on the More4 website itself as:

'...a powerful feature-length single drama that questions the lack of effective measures in place to prevent convicted child sex offenders from re-offending after prison, and ultimately seeks to explore ways to best safeguard our children.'

...the review highlights how it can sometimes do a disservice to the film it is trying to summarise. In the film, the lack of effective measures was called into question, but it was given nowhere near the amount of emphasis the main character's perspective was. I'm guessing whoever wrote that review had children.

In a climate that spawns undereducated mobs (Remember the attack on the paediatrician's house in the wake of Rebekah Wade's Name and Shame campaign?) and where even the otherwise normally restrained join the 'bang 'em and hang 'em' bandwagon, making films like these is one of the few genuine anti-establishment things left you can do.

Usually when this subject is touched upon by mainstream cinema, it invariably features a victim is slowly and profoundly destroyed by some one-dimensionally evil maladjusted predator, or else a victim that struggles to overcome the violation and - in a move with which we are often invited to sympathise - returns years later to exact revenge.

Or other such similar rot.

This was the first film I'd seen where not only was the plight of the perpertrator was highlighted, but where sympathy for him was invited. Telling the story of a man just out of prison, after being jailed for sex crimes against young children, it showed how he tried to adjust back to life on the outside.

*spoilers ahead*

This was different in a few ways. For one thing, it didn't dwell to the point of pain on what he had done to merit his jail sentence. In fact, the film opened with what could be construed as a get-out clause for his behaviour: He was at his last support group meeting, explaining how his father had abused him, and that he himself getting caught was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

Once he was out, he was presented almost as much of a victim of his desires as his past victims were. His efforts to avoid temptation were valiant, but often futile, and it was with only heroic restraint on his part that he kept himself from reoffending. Still, he was met constantly with a lack of sympathy and often with barely hidden contempt at every turn. His psychologist only barely managed to conceal her feelings of repulsion, his parole officer was unprofessional at best, but more often than not disdainful, and then there was the incident with the police officer.

Having arrived at the police station for the obligatory daily signing of the sex offenders register, the main character found another woman who was in obvious distress, having just been mugged outside a shopping centre. He offered her (if I remember rightly) the bus fare home, as her purse had been stolen and she didn't have any money left. Gradually her look of distress start to be replaced by wan gratitude. That is, until the police officer bellowed out from under the glass partition "Are you here to sign the sex offenders register?!" The change in the girl was instantaneous, she retreated with her pram, as if the kindness he had offered her had never happened, and at the same time, everyone looked at him, and then away when he looked at them. Am I alone in thinking that could've been handled more professionally?

It goes downhill for him from there. Every now and again the tabloids stir up an interest in his case, and he ends up running from mobs with baseball bats as a result (the second time it happened, I derived particular satisfaction from that fact that one of the thugs ended up getting hit by a car as he tried to chase his target across the road), and then, thanks to a bunch of reactionary Not In My Back Yards protesting outside his rehabilitation centre, it gets closed, and he gets transferred to an ordinary hostel with little to no support as he attempts to reenter the community. After a while, he meets a girl of 12, and spends the day trying to woo her. Having no idea about his past, she eventually warms to him, but he sees her to her home untouched. After he leaves her, we get a glimpse into what his thoughts on her are, but the film ends in tragedy.

It made me think about the nature of paedophilia in general. Is it a sexual orientation in its own right? It seems to be, given that a lot of offenders don't seem to have a distinct preference for one gender over another, and it seems to be just as deep-rooted, because if it was a mere disorder, the so-called afflicted would be bending over backwards to rid themselves of it. We're all familiar with closet gays who try to maintain the outward deception of non-interest in boys, but in private are unable to keep it in their pants. Paedophiles seem to be the same: temptation seems to win eventually. If that's the case, then they're pretty much fucked. We've already learned that so-called reparative therapy for gays is a waste of time, not to mention potentially extremely damaging to the person involved. It wouldn't be an outrageous extrapolation to assume the same for reparative measures for paedophiles. It would appear that the only practical solution is to take a vow of celibacy.

It also makes me think about the nature of sexuality in children in general. 14-year olds are going at it hammer and tongs these days, yet if they were to embark on a relationship with an adult, the latter would be thrown in jail. I remember having a discussion once with a psychiatrist who worked mostly with teenagers and young adults, and she said that in the current climate, people seem to be averse to recognising the existence of sexuality in young children. Part of this is why some people go into meltdown when confronted with a situation like this, one that seems unnatural, when it actually isn't. I remember fancying one of my teachers when I was 12, but if anything had come of it, I would have been considered a victim, in spite of the fact that if I had known I was in with a chance, I would have encouraged it.

Funnily enough, the age gap between me and some of my men has more or less maintained itself since then. Har har...

I've gone off the point somewhat, but the fluidity with which sexuality emerges in children needs to be recognised.

As for paedophilia itself, I'm stumped. In this age, if that's your inclination, then the future looks substantially less than rosy. It was particularly unfortunate for the character in Secret Life, as the evidence is there to suggest that it was thanks to his father that he was thrust into a world that no-one in their right mind would want to be a part of. I really don't know what else to say, other than if you're going to follow your instincts, make sure the object of your affections won't suffer for it later. Otherwise resort to good old-fashioned DIY.

As for the tabloids, their offices need to be bombed. While their editors are in them. That would be one problem solved.

Are you getting this, Rebekah?

It just flew by...

On the Friday just gone, I turned 32.

Normally I try and do something for my birthday, like go out for a meal or whatever. This year, though, because I had an exam the day before (which I'm still not sure about passing) and went out that night afterwards with my class, I didn't feel like doing anything on the day itself. I didn't even get it together to invite friends down from London. Oh well, 32 is hardly a landmark. Still though, I wish I'd been a bit more organised.

Also, as much as I would like to go to Manchester next week and chase hot bearded men, I can't. With only one month left to my end of year exams, I don't have the time, and I don't have the money either.

Ho hum. It's not going to be an easy month ahead.

Oh, and a special mention goes out to Luke Vernon Brooks, son of Dan and June, who also celebrated his birthday on Friday. He is now one year old.

Drool much?

I recently came across someone's profile on a dating site on the internet. The guy has to be one of the beefiest daddy bears I have ever seen.

Behold, this pinnacle of blazing hotness.


Boy, what I wouldn't do to wake up next to that in the morning. And get a load of this one:

I'm not normally a nipples man, but looking at that makes my tongue hang out of my mouth, ready to run it around those pencil erasers.

Just one more, I hear you cry? Oh alright then.

Gentlemen, we have lift-off.

This guy is actually going to the great British Bear Bash in Manchester at the start of May. I've been toying with the idea of going, but hesitating due to lack of time and money. This guy, though. On his own he would make the trip worthwhile.

Internetty profiley things

I've a few internet profiles here and there, on gaydar, bear411 (yes, I'm still there in spite of everything), and bearlix. In the past, I've given my hobbies as 'music, books, films and fitness', which is as about as useful as tits on a bull when it comes to imparting information that is unique to yourself, especially on the gay scene. So now I've changed it to list the bands I like, some of the books I've read, and the film makers I like. Behold, and see if you share my interests:

Musical preferences: Aphex Twin, Autechre, Squarepusher, The Cure, Siouxsie and the Banshees, (Some!) Captain Beefheart, Ornette Coleman, John Coltrane, Galaxie 500, The Stooges, Sonic Youth, Patti Smith, Pavement, Dinosaur Jr, Nirvana, Smashing Pumpkins, Therapy?, My Bloody Valentine, Roxy Music when they had Brian Eno, The Velvet Underground, Simon and Garfunkel, Air, Stereolab, Glenn Branca, Port Royal (Criminally underrated italian electronic combo), The Smiths, Radiohead, NEU! Orbital, Clint Mansell, Good Film Soundtracks, Arab Strap, PJ Harvey, Jesus and Mary Chain, The Pixies, The Chemical Brothers, Television, Donna Summer, Jimi Hendrix, Johnny Cash, Kate Bush (the Queen!), Joy Division/New Order, Ride, Q magazine's Chillout CD, David Bowie, Sigur Ros, Beck, Bjork, The Breeders... it goes on and on...

Film preferences = anything by the following, Danny Boyle, Steven Speilberg, James Cameron, David Lynch, David Cronenberg, Quentin Tarantino, Stanley Kubrick, Darren Aronofsky, Sofia Coppola, Francis Ford Coppola, Mike Leigh, Ken Loach, The Heathers, Carrie, Three Colours: Blue, White & Red, L.I.E, Ringu, Terminator 3, Kill Bill, Amelie, 21 grams, Alien(s)

Like books by Nuala O Faoláin, Eric Schlosser, Naomi Klein, Armistead Maupin, (some!) Steven King, Kurt Vonnegut...

I've since set up a myspace profile as well, as most of my online profiles are geared towards trying to get me with as many hot bears as possible, but I feel it's now time for a change. Here that one is.

I'd better work on my friend space though. Having only two is a little embarassing.

I've also set up a bebo profile. I wouldn't normally go with that site, but half the irish pharmacy class seem to be on it, so what the hell. Click here to be filled with envy of the shining beacon of my life.