Thank God!

Settled into the new place now (thanks to YellerKat and MizzFlee for helping with the move) and everything is now unpacked and internet access organised. It's been a hellish week of being tossed from pillar to post, but now I can put roots down for the next two months. The new bunch are cool: They laid on a barbeque this evening, and yesterday offered me some pasta bake, so I haven't had to cook anything since I moved in.

Also, for some reason, the presumed fault on my PC monitor (shades of red weren't rendered properly) has corrected itself. A mystery...

Close to four hours on the nudie beach today, and a colour is now starting to materialise (Red. Again!). I left at six, just as two of the police force were coming into my section over some matter or other. Just as well I was off, that could have gotten awkward.

I met Daffy again recently, as I had to give him his socks and cock ring. We met for drinks, and had a bit of a chat, but he reaffirmed in a way I didn't like about how he was in a closed relationship with someone else. I had been dimly aware of this on the night I met him first, but had chosen to psychologically brush it under the carpet. I left after the second drink, not really wanting to talk to him after that.

It's a shame, as I kind of like this guy, and he's the first suitor I've met who I wouldn't mind getting to know a bit more, but there's no point. He's investing in someone else, and being a third party like that isn't my style. He offered to help me with my move, but I was too proud to accept.

*Sniff*

Oh well...

Pride is about 5-6 weeks away, and in order to facilitate my attempt to give up the smokes, I think I'll be staying away from the pubs, and alcohol in general until then. Will I succeed? Oh, why do I even bother asking?

Mind you, 'Flee and Bear have taken off to Spain, so that's one temptation out of the way.

I'm moving again! Oh fun...

I have found somewhere new to live. Thank fucking Christ.

The only problem is that it's for two months, so I have to start looking for somewhere else to live towards the end of August. The other is that while I have to move out of my current place on Sunday 25th of June, I can't move into my new place until the following Wednesday, so I have to move into temporary university accommodation on Sunday, and then move from there to the new place on Wednesday. The stuff of envy, I'm sure you'll agree.

I met the new flatmates last night and somehow got talked into going to see the England vs. Sweden game in a pub. The flatmates seemed fine anway, which is just as well, as I was utterly disengaged from the game. A goal? Oh is that what happened? I was looking at the floor. Who was it that scored? More beer, anyone?

I went to London on Monday to visit J. We went to see an exhibition, 'Bodies', in the Earls Court museum. Made up of real human bodies and their parts, preserved using some new polymer whatever process, it has attracted some controversy owing to use in parts of the bodies of the victims of murder under the current and previous Chinese regimes, apparently without the consent of their relatives. One of the press releases on this urges people to question not the use of the bodies in the exhibition, but the circumstances under which they were killed. Meh, I suppose they're right, but if that was someone I knew and loved up there, I'd be pretty pissed, to say the least.

The preservation process gave the bodies a somewhat plastic appearance, making them look like mannequins at times. Yet it was pretty much to the forefront of my mind that I was still looking at real dead people. Three things stood out in my mind. The first was the section of the anal canal, and how diminutive it looked. It must be pretty stretchy if it can take a ... oh, you get the picture.

The second was the two pairs of lungs. One pair, that of a healthy person, the other, that of a smoker. 'Leave your cigarettes behind here' urged the sign over a glass box with an opening on top. The box was full of cigarettes cartons, lighters and matches dumped by those who had been affected by what they had seen. I'd found the £17.50 entrance fee rather extortionate, but Joanne pointed out if I did give up, it would be money well spent, which is true.

The third was the unborn child section. Foetuses that had perished before birth were on display. The museum was considerate in that you were warned before you entered this section, and were given an alternative route if you wanted to keep viewing the exhibition, but bypass that section. It was really weird seeing the foetuses at weeks 1-8 of a pregnancy. Halfway through this early stage, you could make out the mouth on the face of the potential baby, curled up into what looked like a smile. At week 9, a dramatic increase in size was observed. I imagine it would be pretty hard for anyone involved in a miscarriage or abortion to look at something like this.

Then there was the placenta, which brought Tom Cruise, unbidden, to mind. We left.

So it's onward ho over the next few days. Tomorrow the packing and cleaning up begin. Joy!

CJ Haughey, 1925-2006

One of the advantages of living in where I am right now is that while I may have to suffer other people's fever for England in the world cup, I'm pretty much saved from hearing anything about Ireland's progress in the same event (Did we even qualify? Do I even care? Actually not and definitely not, respectively).

The flipside of this is that events of no small consequence can come to pass in Ireland, and only by chance do you find out about them via a third party. Such as it was with the passing of former Taoiseach (Prime Minister, if you're not Irish) Charles Haughey, announced on Tuesday 13th. His funeral, complete with state honours, was the following thursday.

If ever there is one politician who should form a central part of a college course in political psychology, it would have to be him. Course PS203: How to screw a country out of a substantial part of its collective wage packet, yet still command the unwavering loyalty of its majority and get re-elected into power again and again. Independent reading: How to claw your way back into public favour after suffering a disgrace that would see other politicians retire in ignonimy (cf. arms trial in 1970).

It's the brass-necked hypocrisy, more than anything, that has me open-mouthed in wonder. The 1980 speech where he urged the naton to tighten its belts while he was living his lifestyle on money he had basically grabbed from the hands of the Irish, the speech he gave about family values just after returning from Paris, having entertained his mistress there, oh, this goes on and on. But most striking is the manner in which people have been prepared to overlook his misdemeanours, write them off as not as significant as they actually are. Not as significant, I suspect, as they would be if committed by someone else.

This, of course is it. To get down to brass tacks, what did CJ have, something no-one else had, that allowed him to carry it off?

In one of Nuala O Faoláin's articles in the Irish times entitled 'Spirit of the Nation', she wrote:

The first of the Irelands Mr Haughey commands is the Northside, which is not just Dublin's northside but everywhere people live in streets and kids go to big, tough schools. He knows all that from the inside - playing football, robbing orchards, taking the bike out to Portmarnock for a swim. He was something of an exception in being very clever - first in Dublin for a scholarship - and very bookish. He haunted Marino Library. But not that much of an exception. His personal friends - still Northsiders - a motor trade businessman, a supreme court judge, an auctioneer - would all have been the same kind of boy, reared in modest circumstances, but with the brains to transform them.

There is also the fact that at 15, elsewhere wrote about in the same article, he joined the local defence force.

Could this be it? The fact that he was a bit of a bruiser gained him the respect of the man on the street, to the point where that same man might overlook his waywardness as a consequence of someone with a strong personality, an unfortunate side-effect of the achievements in his lifetime. Most other politicians, having come from privileged backgrounds, don't have this quality, and this is probably what set CJ apart.

What struck me in the tributes left on the ireland.com page was the extent to which his supporters were willing to overlook the flaws in his character, write them off as minor, and focus on the 'great things' he did for his country. Any naysayers are dismissed by these people as begrudgers, symptomatic of the Irish tendency to build people up and then tear them down, as if that was a mindset specific to Ireland alone.

There are a two important flaws in this reasoning, though: His achievements, upon examination, weren't that great, and his misdemeanours were many and substantial.

He screwed Ireland for money in the 70's and 80's in a way that no-one else did before or since. upper band tax rates, a 'reward' for people who had managed to maneouvre themselves into a position where they were high earners, were just totally fucking insane, yet he siphoned off his money to the Cayman Islands so that he himself could escape the financial net he had created for everyone else. More than anything else, this demonstrates complete contempt for the country he had under his watch at this time.

He was involved in gun smuggling in the 1970s, at a time that saw the emergence of the IRA in its present form - an important point, considering that the organisation had deteriorated to little more than a collection of thugs at that point - a form that would prevail until it was disbanded. He had the phones of his opposition bugged so that he could anticipate their next move. Physical intimidation was used in the Dáil to quell dissent. His restriction on the sale of condoms, his opposition to divorce and the Anglo-Irish agreement.

Money that was collected with the intent of paying for important surgery for his friend Brian Lenihan, he used on himself. His friend.

Yet I have never seen denial like that which I have seen in his supporters when confronted with all of this.

And now onto the bloody Celtic Tiger. It has been put forward that he laid the foundations for the prosperity that Ireland enjoys today. I have yet to see an expert in economics conclusively prove that this is the truth. Fintan O' Toole put it best once, when he said that just because sunrise follows someone having an early breakfast, it doesn't mean that the person eating that bowl of cereal has caused the sun to rise. It happened independently of the breakfast. The same logic is applicable to Ireland's economic boom.

It may be closer to the truth that he saw it coming, and made preparations for it. Such as the building of the IFSC, for example. Of course the tax incentives used to attract multinational investment over here could well turn out to be a band aid solution: Of the corporations whose incentives have expired, some have withdrawn from the country. It remains to be seen if the rest will do the same.

Of course all of this deflects from the basic unassailable fact that while he was in power, Ireland was in recession, and after he left, Ireland boomed. It always annoys me when politicians try to claim credit for fiscal successes like these, as if a substantial part of it was under their control, when really, it is not.

Then again, if we are to apply the skewed logic, he is therefore responsible for the current mess in Irish hospitals. We got rich, but our healthcare system got shit. Nice trade-off, CJ.

Free travel for the elderly? A free TV license? The cost of these was borne by CIE and RTE, respectively. The reaffirmation of the artist within Gaelic Ireland? The action of someone with thought processes.

Under his leadership, a guy getting hot n' heavy with another guy? Illegal.

Elsewhere in the aforementioned 'Spirit of the Nation' article, O'Faoláin writes that his background makes him seem "an outsider, an anti-establishment figure, permanently challenging, even when he is in power". Bollocks. He bought into something bigger than himself and became corrupted in the process. For a woman of O'Faoláin's insight, I'm surprised at her short-sightedness. She's just like the rest of his supporters in this regard.

Ultimately his position was made available to him by democracy, so it could be argued that he represented all aspects of the nation, that he represented the best and worst of the Irish people. That someone like him can flourish says something about the people who allowed him to flourish, who elected him into power.

Like many a man with talent in no small amounts, he had his moments, but they were too few, relative to what he was capable of, and capability was his middle name. I have no doubt he could have been a great leader, simply, he wasn't. But we got the government we deserved because we voted him back in again and again. We accepted his many warts, when we should have been demanding higher standards of him. This is what exasperates the most.

He's gone now, and it's over to others to do away with the climate he created in politics, if they see fit. Hopefully it'll happen. Indirectly it'll reflect damningly on the the population of Ireland if it doesn't disappear, because it means they'll have sanctioned it, directly or otherwise.

The Da Vinci Code

Two things about it that were good.

1. Jean Reno's hotness (not his acting, as he was an autopilot all the way through).
2. The scenery/locations.

Two things that weren't so good.

1. It stuck rigidly to the book, with one or two exceptions of artistic license. Because of this, I knew exactly what was going to happen at almost any given moment.
2. The flashbacks sucked.

I remember reading this ages ago, and thinking that while the writing wasn't great, it might adapt well to a screenplay. The constant cliffhangers in the book didn't transfer well to the screen, though, and the character development was pretty ropey, to say the least. All in all, I'd be inclined to blame the source material and just leave it at that. Tom Hanks wasn't as miscast as some would have you believe, and Audrey Tatou was as valid a choice as anyone. As I'd said before, the lifting of the lid on the history of Catholicism was interesting in the book, and would have been interesting to see on film if you had not come across it before.

One thing I've noticed about this phenomenon is that more and more people are coming out of the woodwork and criticising it, and recent coverage of the Cannes film festival featured a selection of critics turning their noses up at the whole thing. If ever there an example was needed of a frustrated bridesmaid, it has to be a film critic, and it does nothing except increase my resolve to see the film even more. Have a go at making your own films boys, and try not to speak out on others. The sound of jealousy getting caught in your throat can be heard by all.

Incidentally, Sofia Ford Coppola's new film, Marie Antoinette, is coming out next year, and she's done the same with it as she's done with The Virgin Suicides and Lost in Translation in terms of the soundtrack. This time, it's the New Romantics that are spicing up the background a bit. Should be interesting. Incidentally, a selection of critics showed their appreciation for that one by booing. Very mature, ye of little consequence.

Must Have More!

Need sound.

Likes cuddles. And Daffy.

The last few days have been interesting.

On Friday night I was bored. I stayed in, foregoing my usual rendez-vous with the Bitches of BN2, only to get itchy feet at about 12:30am Saturday morning. Where in Brighton, I hear you ask, can you get drink in a bar at this time, without having to pay an entrance fee? The Bulldog, we cry!

So down I went,on my own. Got a drink and surveyed the eye candy. 'Anvil', a sort of kink-themed night, was just finishing up in another club, so soon the Bully was enjoying (well, I was enjoying, but I digress) an influx of men big n'beefy. After talking to a few of them, including two ex-entanglements of mine, I settled on a big burly cuddly dude. It led nowhere. Then I spotted another tanned and rugged specimen and swooped. That led to my place.

The journey home was a bit fun, in a smartarsery kind of way. He moaned constantly, but kind of jokingly, about the walk, and said that if we had gone to his, we'd be there by now. I hotly denied this and told him to shut up and keep moving. He then wanted to know what I intended to do when we got back to mine. I told him I was expecting to get into his knickers. He shrugged, not explicitly ruling it out as a possibility, but declared that when we got there, he would expect a nice cup of tea.

He got a nice strong cup of tea. The rest followed in due course.

In the course of the night, or should I say early morning, I learned two things about him that still make me smile. 'I love cuddles', he proclaimed at one stage (We cuddled at this point). I asked him about the tattoo of a bear paw on his ass. He told me that when he was younger, about 15 years old, he got a tattoo of Daffy Duck on his ass. In due course, he thought the best thing to do would be to cover it up. So step forward, paw of the bear.

This made me laugh to myself at work later that day, while on the checkout, serving customers. I now have him stored in my phone as Daffy. It's just as well: He left his cock-ring and his socks behind him, under my bed.

I suspect, though, that there is something about him that marks him out as someone who is not really suitable for anything other than a bit of fun. His insistence that I 'be discreet', for one. I think I might have to investigate that a little if I meet him again.

On Sunday evening after work, I met an interesting Greek man. His blog can be found here.

Yes, I'm a believer in keeping more than one iron in the fire.

Moving out

I have just over two weeks left to find somewhere else to live.

Over the last few days, the others in my flat are moving out one by one. I've noticed that certain things of mine seem to be departing with them. A blue mug of mine vanished round about the time of the departure of one of the lads, and I came home from work tonight to find that the (admittedly free) TV guide that I donated to the communal area, had the tv times for tomorrow and monday ripped out. Errmm.....

At least the ones that are left until last are amongst the nicer of the lot.

In any case, I think I'll be stashing my kitchen utensils in my room between now and my departure.

Thank FUCK!

The exams are over now. It's been a car-crash week and I'm relishing being able to breath again.

It looks like I'll be staying here for the summer, at this moment in time. House hunting starts tomorrow. Or maybe the day after. And then the job hunting. I still have the supermarket job, but after 8 hours behind a cash register today, I was reminded of how boring it was.

Like I had forgotten! Bah!

This blog as a graph

Unlike BN2 Beeyatches, which seems to have a somewhat nuclear structure, mine is an entity more diffuse, with arms outstretched. I'm so original.

Do your own, and add it to the Flickr group here.

Announcement

As and from today, The Friday Thing, weekly satirical e-newsletter par excellence, is free to those who may wish to subscribe to it.

If you have a brain, you owe it to yourself to get on it.

And we're off...

... to the worst start ever.

Immunology this morning, and I can say with 100% certainty that I will be back in early autumn doing that again.

As an aside, it is rather strange for a module as comprehensive as this one to only barely feature HIV in lectures, and have not even one question (not even an MCQ) on the exam paper on the subject. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you don't have to be a genius to work out what area I put most of my work into there.

Now I return to the books, and make sure this doesn't recur. On it's own, this damage is controllable. If it makes friends, I'm screwed.

Later...

A declaration

I hate this time of the academic year.

Here we go AGAIN!

I found this on BuffTuff, the blog of a hot n' hairy Canadian biker. It's from a recent CBS edition of "60 Minutes" conducted by correspondent Lesley Stall. It's long, but worth the effort, upto a point:

Psychologists used to believe homosexuality was caused by nurture — namely overbearing mothers and distant fathers — but that theory has been disproved. Today, scientists are looking at genes, environment, brain structure and hormones. There is one area of consensus: that homosexuality involves more than just sexual behavior; it's physiological.

Dr. Bailey , a noted sex researcher, and his colleagues set up a series of experiments in his lab at Northwestern University. In one study, researcher Gerulf Rieger videotaped gay and straight people sitting in a chair, talking. He then reduced them visually to silent black and white outlined figures and asked volunteers to see if they could tell gay from straight. The idea was to find out if certain stereotypes were real and observable. Based on physical movement and gestures of the figures, more often than not, the volunteers in the study could tell a difference. "So, is the conclusion that gay people do in fact move differently?" Stahl asked Rieger. "Yeah, absolutely," he replied. It's not true 100 percent of the time; it is true on average. The researchers also studied the way gay and straight people talk, and they found differences on average there too. This research is controversial. Some say it is reinforcing stereotypes. But to Bailey, the stereotypes suggest there's a feminizing of the brain in gay men, and masculinizing in lesbians. Ironically though, when it comes to their sex lives, he says gay and straight men actually have a lot in common. "Straight men tend to be shallow in terms of focusing on looks. Gay men are shallow, too. Straight men are more interested than straight women in having casual, uncommitted sex. Gay men are like that, too," says Bailey.

"One has the impression that gay men are much more inclined toward casual sex than straight men," Stahl said. "They're just more successful at it, because the people they're trying to have sex with are also interested in it," Bailey explained. "But don't you find this interesting that the one big area where gay men are more like straight men is in sex? I mean, that is…both amusing and odd," Stahl said. "It suggests that whatever causes a man to be gay doesn't make him feminine in every respect. There must be different parts of the brain that can be feminized independently from each other," Bailey replied.

But how and when does this feminizing occur? If the differences were already apparent in childhood, that would point to an early, perhaps even genetic origin — and that's what Bailey and Rieger are testing in a new study using childhood home movies. In the study, volunteers were asked to rate each child's femininity or masculinity. Stahl took the test and rated two girls highly feminine. When shown video of a toddler girl running a truck off of a table, Stahl observed, "She's really not girly. Isn't that interesting? She's not girly." She also observed differences in two boys, one of whom would grow up to be straight, while the other is now gay. If you can spot a child's future sexual orientation before the child even knows he or she has one, doesn't that prove it's genetic? Studies have shown that homosexuality runs in families. So genes must be the answer. But then the researchers tell you identical twins can have different sexual orientations.

60 Minutes found identical twins Steve and Greg Lofts in New York. They had the same upbringing, have the same DNA — and yet Greg is gay and Steve is straight. When people meet the twins and find out one of them is gay, Greg says people have asked if he's sure, and how it can be. "Everyone is curious about that," he says. There were signs, even when they were little kids. Their mother told Stahl that Steve loved sports and the outdoors while Greg liked helping out in the kitchen. But it wasn't until high school that Steve became convinced Greg was gay. Asked if he said anything to his brother, Steve says, "I did actually. And I think the way I worded it was something like, 'You know, Greg, if you're gay, it's OK with me. And I'll still love you the same.' And he gave a very philosophical answer. He said something like, 'Well, I love the soul of a person and not the physical being.' And in my mind, I was like, 'Yep, he's gay.'" "I wasn't ready just yet," Greg added. "

Does this prove that it's not genetic? "What it proves is it's not completely genetic. They have the same genes," says Bailey. Asked if that brings us back to the mother and the father, Bailey says no. "But that's environment," Stahl said. "That's environment. But that's not the only environment. There's also the environment that happens to us while we're in the womb. And scientists are realizing that environment is much more important than we ever thought it was," Bailey explained.

A newborn rat pup in the lab of Dr. Marc Breedlove at Michigan State University, may, oddly enough, hold important clues to what happens in the womb. Dr. Breedlove says he can take a male rat and make it behave like a female for the rest of its life, and vice versa for a female, just by altering the hormones it's exposed to at birth. Because rats are born underdeveloped, that's roughly the same as altering a third-trimester human fetus in the womb. But first, he said, Stahl would need a crash course in rat sex. Dr. Breedlove explained that male rats, including one he showed Stahl called "Romeo," will mount any rat that comes their way. In the mating process, the female performs something called lordosis, where she lifts her head and rump. If Romeo goes after a male, Dr. Breedlove says the male will seem profoundly indifferent. But Breedlove says he can change all that. He gave a female rat a single shot of the male sex hormone testosterone at birth. Now grown up, she will never perform lordosis. But a male rat did. He was castrated at birth, depriving him of testosterone. "So you created a gay rat?" Stahl asked. "I wouldn't say that these are gay rats. But I will say that these are genetic male rats who are showing much more feminine behavior," he explained. So the answer may be that it's not genes but hormones. "That's exactly the question that we're all wondering. This business of testosterone having such a profound influence. Does that have some relevance to humans?" Breedlove said.

While biologists look at hormones for answers about human sexuality, other scientists are looking for patterns in statistics. And hard as this is to believe, they have found something they call "the older brother effect." "The more older brothers a man has, the greater that man's chance of being gay," says Bailey. Asked if that's true, Bailey says, "That is absolutely true." If this comes as a shock to you, you're not alone. But it turns out, it's one of the most solid findings in this field, demonstrated in study after study. And the numbers are significant: for every older brother a man has, his chances of being gay increase by one third. Older sisters make no difference, and there's no corresponding effect for lesbians. A first-born son has about a 2 percent chance of being gay, and the numbers rise from there. The theory is it happens in the womb. "Somehow, the mother's body is remembering how many boys she's carried before," says Breedlove. "The favorite hypothesis is that the mother may be making antibodies when she sees a boy the first time, and then affect subsequent boys when she carries them in utero." "You mean, like she's carrying a foreign substance?" Stahl asked. "And if you think about it, a woman who's carrying a son for the first time, she is carrying a foreign substance," Breedlove replied. "There are some proteins encoded on his Y chromosome that her body has never seen before and that her immune system would be expected to regard as 'invaders,'" he added. It's still not a proven theory and it gets even stranger. "One of the things we've only found out lately is that older brothers affect a boy only if the boy is right-handed," Breedlove said. "If the boy is left-handed, if his brain is organized in a left-handed fashion, it doesn't matter how many older brothers he has, his probability of being gay is just like the rest of the population." I'm right handed and first born, with no other brothers.

You can give yourself a headache trying to apply all the theories to real people. Greg and Steve Lofts both are right-handed, and they do have an older brother, so maybe that's why Greg is gay. But they also have several gay relatives, which suggests it could be in the genes, except where does that leave Steve? Adam and Jared, fraternal twins, have older brothers, but they're ambidextrous. Then there's the question of how something in the womb could affect one twin but not the other. There are many more questions at this point than answers, but the scientists 60 Minutes spoke to are increasingly convinced that genes, hormones, or both — that something is happening to determine sexual orientation before birth. Adam has come up with his own theory. "I was supposed to be a girl in my mom's stomach. But my mom wished for all boys. So, I turned into a boy," Adam explained. Asked if he wished he was a girl, Adam nodded. "Do you think there was anything that you could have done that would have changed Adam?" Stahl asked Adam and Jared's mom Danielle. "I could have changed Adam on the outside to where he would have showed me the macho boy that I would want as a boy. But that would not change who he is inside. And I think that would have damaged him a lot more," she said. Stahl asked both boys if they are proud of the way they are, and both boys gave her big nods. "Yup," Adam replied.

More at: www.cbs.com

There's a few things that I have to take issue with in this, and other articles like this.

From time immemorial, the scientific community, just like the psychology community, seem to hold with the idea that one of the fundamental characteristics of homosexuality is that it apes femininity. In the above article, there is a subtle allusion to masculinity (however the hell that is defined these days) being suppressed by a mother's immune system while she carries a male child in the womb. This is similar to a view, widely held for a while but since discredited, that a certain gland (I can't remember which one, but I think it was the pineal) in the brain of gay men is smaller in size than one in straight men, and surprise surprise, comparable to that of a straight woman. It would appear that the old preoccupation with size has spilled over into the realm of anatomy and physiology.

A few years ago, someone I know who was a psychology student, and very good at it, wrote a thesis postulating that rather than aping femininity, homosexuality should be regarded as an alternative masculinity. It's not hard to see why. To describe the archetypical camp queen as 'effiminate' is inaccurate. While some gay men have mannerisms that can be described as more flamboyant than those of straight men, comparisons of said mannerisms with those of straight women highlight the difference between the two. Gay men, often possessed of a certain something that allows them to be identified as such by a keen observer, have a 'style' all of their own. I'm not attacking the idea of effeminacy in men, in itself not intrinsically 'wrong', just saying that it doesn't exist to the extent everyone thinks it does. People of course will point out that gay men often prefer the company of straight women rather than straight men, not stopping to think that this says more about straight men generally than gay men in particular.

And now to the issue of sex. Who was it that said 'Women's virtue is man's greatest myth'? Anyway, there is the somewhat outdated notion that women (or more disparagingly, 'nice' women) don't like casual, unattached sex as much as men. Men may have higher sex drives on average, but to say that 'a woman only does it with the man she loves', well, some of these people need to get out more, and more specifically, go to a local pulling joint at a weekend and see what goes on there. But there's no point at all in denying that this notion still exists.

Women want lots of sex, end of story. The way current courtship rituals are set up in the straight world just means that they can get it whenever they want, so they can afford to discriminate a bit, provided they're someway attractive. Straight men, on the other hand, have to do more work to get it, so will jump at the chance when it's offered to them, thus perpetuating the notion that men are governed by....

I suppose that's one thing we have in common. Oh well. The point made in paragraph two about the success of gay men in getting laid is a good one though: Straight men would be putting it about so much more often if straight women would allow it.

I suppose what I'm advocating is the idea that gender roles no longer exist (if they ever did in the first place) at completely opposite poles. These days, a lot of us gravitate somewhere towards the middle, and occupy a ground that can be described as 'other'. This is a position that is occupied by gay men and lesbians quite a lot of the time, and should be considered instead of this rubbish of a gay man's brain being 'feminized' and a lesbian's brain being 'masculinized'. And anyone who thinks that men are inherently more competitive than women should think about why straight women have a reputation for being more bitchy towards one another than straight men.

Interesting piece though. Still, biological theories like this have been disproved before. I can't see this lasting forever. Perhaps scientists should stop looking at this through the lens of gender roles, and approach it from another angle.

Shit, I need to get back to studying.

Let the bitching begin

The new Big Brother contestants aren't even in the house a wet week, and already the bickering has started. What a bunch of twats.

At least The Sun can stop trying with their usual bollocks now. They're in headlines for most of the summer. God help us...

Plug

Readers of this blog may have noticed references to a certain newsletter called The Friday Thing throughout my time writing here. It's a weekly e-mail which gets delivered to your inbox every friday, thus guaranteeing that any other work you have to do that day goes flying out the window. Its parent company is called The Friday Project, and even though it is similar in name to the Friday Night Project, it has nothing to do with that turdpile, and even less to do with its supporters.

It's better than PopBitch, Private Eye, and any other satirical publication you may care to mention. It runs to about 25 pages of a Word document, so there's plenty to keep you entertained, and with a letters page at the end, there's plenty of opportunity for feedback. Just be prepared to have your missive cut to ribbons, which was once what almost happened to me.

I started reading this one day early in 2001 when someone I worked with sent on the link to me. In those days, it was little more than a campaign to get friday off work, and the accompanying newsletter, then free, amounted to about 8 to 10 pages in Word. Even if we couldn't get Friday off, these people reckoned, we could certainly find distractions for ourselves at that time of the week. Then an extended edition became available, but you had to pay a subscription fee (to be fair, it was only £10 a year at the time). Then the short version was discontinued, so it became subscription only, but it was still worth it.

Well, because of the success of the parent company, from the 2nd June the full weekly newsletter is now being offered for free. So, all of you who like your writing witty and bitchy, go to the Friday Thing site on that day and sign up. I'll try and remember to post a reminder on that day too.

For a taster, go here, a rather good essay on the nation's hopes for the world cup.

Hooray!

I'm an uncle. For the third time. My sister gave birth to a 8lb-odd boy this evening at about 5pm. In keeping with their obsession with Irish names, he's going to be called MacDara Seán, or something. A brother for Sadhbh and Fionn.

This level of patriotism in a couple who are firm leftists is a bit of a curiosity at times. Oh well. It's all cool. I must remember to send them a card.

"We don't have much time"

The study is, as per bloody usual, progressing at a funereal pace. I'm getting through subjects at roughly one-third of the speed required to cover the amount of material that would net me a reasonable pass this year. I've already given up on replicating last year's achievement of a 2.1. All I want is 40% in everything so I don't have to come back and do anything again.

This morning we had seminars on Medicine Design, and I don't feel quite so bad about what has to be done now, but then again, blind panic is usually the only thing that will motivate me to work, so I'm not sure if that's a good thing.

I've pretty much decided that if I don't get a decent job in Brighton for the summer, then I'll go home and see if I can get some work in IT. I can NOT see myself sticking out the supermarket job for more than a couple of weeks, and doing it for a full summer would cancel out all the positive aspects of staying in Brighton, and then some. Hopefully I'll get some office admin or data entry job instead. It'd be nice to catch up with some of the old heads in Dublin, though. It's been a while, and Pride in Brighton falls on a weekend this year (well, the best part does) so going to that is still a possibility even if I don't end up staying there.

Now I must go back to work, and stop googling Lawrence Dallaglio.*

Mmmmm. Mighty fine. I'd almost sit through an entire rugby match just to look at him. Almost.

*The secret to a good google nudity search is to make sure Google's SafeSearch facility is off.

It's the last line that cracks me up.

Thanks to Basando la vida en el Pene, or if you like, 'Basing life on the Penis', if Babelfish at Altavista is to be believed.

Pinched...

... from BN2beeyatches. Again.

My blog is worth $564.54.
How much is your blog worth?

Also, I did this online survey thing, which generates a blog code for you (a bit like a bear code, but for bloggers). I am:

B6 d- t- k- s- u-- f- i- o++ x+ e l- c

Pissed OFF!

The last few days got off to a shit start last Friday. In Asda I decided I'd be a bit adventurous and try and new recipe or two, so I bought some utensils (a colander and a roasting tin, to be exact), along with a slightly bigger shop than usual. The bill came to £46. I only had £50 to work with that week. Only £4 left for an entire week, which was used to buy a carton of milk and do my laundry.

Then began work. I have noticed something.

Saturday: My shift coincides with bitchy supervisor. It sucks.

Sunday: My shift coincides with other laid back supervisor. In spite of the fact that we're flat out all day, it doesn't feel too bad, as we're left alone to get on with things.

Tuesday: My shift coincides with main manager. He's just about alright, but having to stand at a till all day - 8am to 5pm - with only one hour break, along with the attendant back ache, results in the shift being only barely tolerable. At about 3pm, the bitchy supervisor comes on, and the moaning about the insignificant begins again.

This is the problem. I'm listening to this woman whinge about how the £20 note compartment is jammed while I'm serving a queue of ten fucking people, bitch about how I have to ask for change for my till, and make a production of anything in general that has to be done. The other guy delegates, or else gets it done without any noise. Management has be the biggest area of underperformance on the planet with some people.

It might raise an eyebrow to hear my complaints about the job only this far in, but I've managed to put the finger on what the overall problem is: I'm not afraid of exertion (as long as there isn't too much of it), but the kind of work where you are constantly watching the clock, willing your shift to end, is the kind of work that has always done my head in. Sometimes this reminds me of the days when I used to work in a factory, always looking at the clock with longing. I've worked in places where there were no small amount of physical demands, but I didn't mind it, and the time seemed to fly.

There are jobs going at the pharmacy down the road from the shop. I've applied. I am praying. If it comes down to a choice between software testing in Dublin again this summer, and having to support myself in Brighton by working in the supermarket, I don't know if I could tolerate the latter.

I nearly fell over myself trying to make it in time for a lecture in malaria this morning, only to get there and find out it was cancelled. Aaaaarrggh!

At least the recipe I tried out - oven roasted vegetables with steak and peppercorn sauce - didn't turn out too badly, though I must remember for next time, peel garlic, NOT aubergines, and use less olive oil.

Delia Smith must be quaking in her boots.

Yippee!

I have discovered myTunes Redux, a file-sharing thing tailor-made for university halls of residence. I am like a baby in a sweet shop.

Current mood: Greedy

The last couple of days

It's been an interesting day or two from a college point of view, and it's been a while since that's happened.

Firstly, we had a rather interesting lectures on parasitology on Wednesday. The lecturer, who also happens to be my personal tutor, pertinently made points about how pharmaceutical industry control of drug prices in developing countries is fucking up efforts to treat patients with malaria, and how millions are dying as a result of this. Yeah, not exactly breaking news, I know, but you tend to forget these things when you get enclosed in your own little bubble after a while. One rather interesting development as a consequence of global warming, though, is that this affliction is headed right for our hemisphere, and it's already starting to show up in Italy. Watch the innoculations come out in force when it reaches us.

Secondly, I'd been pencilled in for a round on a HIV hospital ward on Thursday as part of the coursework. Although I knew squat about HIV drugs, I knew the treatment regimens were fairly complex, so I called around to a certain positive someone to get the low down on all of it (thanks again sweetie), and armed with this knowledge, toddled along to the hospital the next day.

While not being a complete eye-opener (there were no visibly-on-death's-door patients), it certainly raised an eyebrow at more than one point. Namely:

1. HIV treatment regimens are complicated enough, but if you think that's bad, trying being HIV positive and having other long-term conditions to deal with. One guy who'd also had a stroke had to wrestle with the less-than-enviable situation of being on 11 different medications a day.

2. Some patients can be difficult to deal with, to the point of hanging up on doctors when the latter are on the phone trying to tell them that it's in their best interests to admit themselves. Can you say 'idiot'? Then there's the ones who don't take their drugs, even when non-adherence in HIV+ patients can be seriously damaging, but I suppose I need to walk in their shoes when it comes to that one...

3. Some will lie about certain aspects of their lifestyle to health professionals, even when this falsehood is so blatantly obvious, hearing it raises questions about how they perceive others to see them.

4. The... er... theme of unpredictable uncontrollable diarrhoea as a side-effect of some of the HIV meds recurred constantly, even with those who were on anti-diarrhoeal drugs. Personally, I think highlighting this would go a lot further than some of the safe-sex campaigns that are always doing the rounds, but maybe that's just me. Then there's the nausea and God knows what else in individual patients.
   I feel inspiration for a prevention campaign coming on...

Then there was the bodybuilder who was taking anabolic steroids that would normally be used on horses. And the one who had come off heroin years ago, only to resume using it as a method of controlling pain.

At the end, I had an interesting chat with the pharmacy chief. Among the things we talked about was the perennial topic of how although the work in this area can be fulfilling, it - as per bloody usual - doesn't make half as much as working in a high street pharmacy, fielding questions about nappy rash and chesty coughs. Gah! When it comes to buying property on your own (something I, at the age of 33 when I graduate, am going to have to think about), these kind of economics get more consideration than they deserve, and it sucks.

I finished off the day by meeting the hot bear I had referred to previously, and bringing him back to mine. He turned out to be quite well versed, and the only problem that presented itself was the drunken giggling and shrieking of some of the girl flatmates outside my bedroom door, which is rather distracting when you're being worked on, so I had to march out there and, willing some piety into my voice, announce that 'I was studying'.

It wasn't a complete lie, if you look at it from a certain perspective...

Midweek

I should've know better than to head out again on sunday night after work, but that's never stopped me before. I had received word from Bear that 'Flee was in the Bulldog so I decided to drop in.

After a short while, I got ..er.. talking to a hot bear with a rug on his chest. His boyfriend was there too, but they are in an open relationship. He gave me his number. If anything is to happen, I need to ring him tonight or tomorrow night at the latest.

The Fleemeister can't quite recall, but he reckons that the man is a target he has previously acquired. Surprise!

Everyone in college was talking about all the essays they're currently working on this morning, and it all made me quite nervous. I distracted myself by looking at a hot barechested skin lying out on the grass on campus in the sun. Yum!

Back home from work...

... and feeling a little bit better. I circled the shop today before I was due to begin work, willing the shift that I was about to start to be better than the one I did yesterday. Thankfully it was, and I don't feeling like throwing in the towel any more. The duty manager who was on today, a chap called Lee, is more laid back and better at getting things done than the woman who was on yesterday, and he himself referred pointedly to her style of doing things as we walked home, so at least I know it's not just me.

Our takings were up by a substantial amount on last sunday as well, so that should please the powers that be.

Tomorrow I get up and make a start on endocrinology, before I forget why I came here.

Lots to do, little time...

Update

Just back at my room after work now (I've got broadband in my room now. Yay!). It was a day from hell. I didn't get enough stuff moved from the storage area to the shelves, according to my supervisor, and she didn't really seem interested in the fact that storage was crammed to the rafters and finding particular products was a nightmare. Having said that, I need to become more efficient in this area. Then again, if a minimum of stuff needs to be shifted during a shift, it should be made clear, and supervisors running around having panic attacks don't help, as don't staff shortages (I had help last week when I was doing this).

Hopefully this won't become a bigger incident, but one thing is certain: This job sucks.

Anyway, I got back to the house after my preceding entry about my birthday and found a text on my phone from the man Dan. His girlfriend June has given birth to a baby boy (9 pounds! Bloody hell...) after running almost two weeks overdue. So Luke Vernon Brooks, the baby in question, shares my birthday. It should be fun taking him out for his first legal drink in 18 years time.

I met Dan and his parents that night for a few drinks, and then came back here, and even though a certain tipsiness informed the scene, I still managed to install a network card and drivers onto my computer. Nice to see I haven't forgotten some of what I learned in IT. Incidentally, when I walked into the kitchen, some of the girls I live with had been out, and were lolling drunkenly all over the couch, giggling with uninhibited abandon, the smell of girlie farts permeating the air. They had torn a piece of white card off of something, and wrote 'Happy Birthday Dennis, from ?', with a balloon drawn next to it. It made me feel special, even though they spelled my name wrong.

Friday, I was joined by 'Flee and Phil, along with Sarah, for a meal for my birthday (thanks for treating me, people!) and then drinks were had afterwards in Dr. Brightons. The staff behind the bar were hot.

Sarah and I continued to party into the small hours, and the two of us ended up at that bastion of gay maleness, the Bulldog, where Sarah ended up what looked like being chatted up by some guy. A guy who had a boyfriend. After I had dropped her off at Phils to sleep I returned for one more, and got talking to a hot n' burly bloke name Gary,who has been texting me since.

As an aside, some people just couldn't let the fact that I was with a girl go without passing comment. Paul, an ex-stalker entanglement of mine, huffed that I 'seemed to have changed', and when I re-entered without Sarah, the moron manager of the Star Inn said "Well, that was a short shag". Grow up, ye twats!

Today, I met Sarah for breakfast, and then she got the train back, and I went into purgatory, sorry, work. So endeth the fun. With a bang.

God only knows if I'll stick this. I think the worst thing about it is that there is no-one to really pass the time with there, and for that kind of job, only a twenty minute break in an eight-hour shift is not enough.

Someone say a prayer for me.

Birthday boy

It's my birthday today. I'm 31.

In hexadecimal (base 16), that's... erm... 1F. This makes me look like I'm still a teenager. On the whole, I can't think if this makes me feel better or worse. Worse, I think.

31 years ago today, the song 'Oh Boy' by Mud was number one in the UK charts. The song 'He Don’t Love You Like I Love You' by Tony Orlando & Dawn was number one in America. No, I've never heard of these either, which is weird considering the current album I have on my discman was made in 1973 ('For Your Pleasure', by Roxy Music).

Famous people born on April 27th? I fed my name into this online history thing, and from what I can see, a great many composers were born on this day, including Sergei Sergeyevich Prokofiev, in 1891. There was also a physicist named de Broglie, whose laws I vaguely remember struggling with when I was doing physics courses in university before. Sheena Easton, in 1959. A baseball player named Chris Carpenter shares my birthday, year and all...

Oh, WHATEVER!

It's also Freedom Day in South Africa - FYI Slagella - and today is also World Day of Design.

Right, I think I'll quit while I'm ahead...

Nothing doing today. The party is on tomorrow night, with 'Flee, Phil, and the venerable Sarah, who is coming down from London for the day. Party time!

On the TV the other night...

Bill:	"What do you think we should do?"
Alice:	"What do I think we should do?"
Helena (in background):	"Look, Mommy!"
Alice:	"What do I think? I don't know. I mean, maybe... Maybe I think.... we should be grateful. Grateful... that we've managed to survive through all of our... adventures... whether they were real... or only a dream."
Bill:	"Are you sure of that?"
Alice:	"Am I sure? Only as sure as I am... that the reality of one night... let alone that of a whole lifetime... can ever be the whole truth. And no dream is ever... just a dream. The important thing is... we're awake now... and hopefully... for a long time to come."
Bill:	"Forever."
Alice:	"Forever?"
Bill:	"Forever."
Alice:	"Let's not use that word, you know? It frightens me. But, I do love you... and you know... there is something very important... that we need to do as soon as possible."
Bill:	"What's that?"
Alice:	"Fuck."

(Now dowload and listen to the song for the closing credits here.)

I don't care what any of the critics say. Eyes Wide Shut rocks.

Work

The weekend was a blur, spending most of it as I did working in the supermarket. On Saturday I came in, stood watching one of the till girls do her thing - a waste of time, as she did it so quickly I couldn't learn anything - and then went onto the tills myself. I was more than a little nervous, what with a queue snaking halfway down the shop and only two of us to deal with all of it. After a while I settled in. Barcode readers are a cinch, making most of your work brain dead, and you only have to think when someone asks you for something like a lottery ticket or a mobile phone top-up. My only mistakes were IDing a 21 year-old for cigarette papers and a 28 year-old for alcohol. A bit of paranoia on my part.

There's also shelf-stacking though, which can be very tedious and take quite a bit out of you with all the lifting and bending. I have to work tomorrow as well, I'm not sure if it's an eight-hour shift or a nine hour one, but it's a pain having to go in. I'm already tired after the last two days - yawning at my desk here - and I wouldn't normally take something like this on so close to my exams, but I need something to carry me through the summer, in the likely event of me not getting anything anywhere else. I'd prefer to stay in Brighton for the summer, and at the moment working at this is the only way I'll be able to do it. Having to return to Mallow and suffer unemployment would be unbearable.

Anyway, any job as a counter assistant after this will be a cinch. Roll on my next job, in something like Next or CloneZone.

First day on the job, sort of...

It went well, but then I was only there for 3 hours, watching videos as part of the induction process. There was one about the 'Philosophy of Co-op', which featured a rather inofffensive looking chap droning on about the history of the company, how it was set up with the community in mind, and about its social responsibility. There then followed a health and safety video about how spillages must be cleaned up as soon as possible after they occur (duh), and not to overreach for stuff when on the top of a tall ladder (ditto) and about how stuff shouldn't be left lying around on the shop flower in case people trip over them (unnhhhh!), along with the mandatory example about lifting stuff while keeping your back straight.

There then followed a rather scary video about restricted sale products, i.e. alcohol, solvents, and cigarettes. If a counter assistant gets caught selling booze to someone under 18, they can be held personally responsible for it and fined rather a lot of money. A lot of money if you're a penniless student anyhow. The same for the other two categories and their respective age minimums. Apparently the till reminds you of this on its screen automatically, but just to be sure, I think I'll be IDing anyone not old and grey who's buying booze, smokes, or lighter fluid for the next week or so.

I start Saturday afternoon. I've never worked in this kind of environment before, so I'm just a tad nervous. Fingers crossed...

Thank GOD!

After having another application for a pharmacy placement rejected (Lloyds) and having my interview for phone debt collector for Lloyds TSB lead nowhere as well, I was getting pretty despondent. It was one rejection after another, but today I had an interview for a job for a branch of the Co-op chain of supermarkets. The manager just rung me back to offer me the job! I'm in gainful employment again!! Yayyyyy!

I've zero counter experience with a cash register, and the work does sound back-breaking in parts, but sod it, I should be able to manage. I'll need counter experience for pharmacy work anyway, so this should be a good way of getting it. Fingers crossed it won't be a complete disaster.

This should soften the blow when I ring up my parents and ask them for help with paying the rent on my room again!

Out last night with Bear and 'Flee and Phil for Bear's belated birthday. Thursday 27th is my birthday. I think I'll have the night out on Friday night. Sarah Al is making an appearance too. That should be good.

In other news, I found the previously mislaid old CD-R of men that I had collected over the years, thankfully, so my man-gallery is complete once more! It was fun going through it the other night, taking a trip down memory lane, recalling where I got each of them...

Also, the grand opening of my brother's restaurant went really well, by all accounts. Good-oh, I'll have to bestow upon them an improptu tasting session when I next get home. Whether they like it or not.

Pictures!

Steady yourselves, ladies and gentlemen.



On the train to London on Friday morning. This was taken by Phil. I had been out the night before, and was trying to grab an hour's shut eye before hitting the smoke. This has been put on my gaydar profile for the simple reason that if you're going to sleep with someone, it's important to know what they look like asleep.



I woke up after a while. I rather like this one, and it's been put on my gaydar profile as well.





The first of the pictures taken in Expectations. Not a candidate for my gaydar profile. I really should've known better than to wear something with short sleeves. Phil said the cap was a cliché. Perhaps he's right, but they can look hot on some people, whomever they may be.






A slight improvement, with the shirt a size slightly bigger, but still not the best of the bunch. Especially with the sodding tag clearly visible on the right.





Better. No tags, long sleeves, and extra breadth in the shoulders. When I have enough money to splash out on this kind of stuff (Mid 2008+) this is the combo I shall opt for. Also put on my gaydar profile.






So there you go, ladies and gents. I wouldn't ever have thought that leather would be my thing, but in some circumstances, it appears that it can be.

Orders, contracts, rabid entreaties from men who want me in their bed, in the comments section, please...

London Bear and Leather Pride

Well, I'm back and fully recovered. Friday was more a day of fun than a day of debauchery, and that was just the way I liked it.

I rose slightly later than expected on Friday morn to the sound of BigPuppy ringing me demanding that I get up and get ready. Once I shook off the hangover from the night before, I did my thing and met him at Brighton Station at noon(-ish) and we jumped onto a train.

Hitting LondonBridge at around 3pm, we headed straight to Expectations to try on some leather gear. This store has a policy of no photography, but luckily the counter assistant disappeared off behind the scenes at one stage, and the Pupster was ready with his camera. Full advantage was taken - many outfits were tried on - and I wanted to upload these pictures here, now, but this stupid computer won't let me (in an internet café as all the college facilities are shut today). I'll have to wait until Tuesday. In the end I left the shop having bought a red jockstrap.

Once we had that done, we headed to Soho to check out the gay strip. We settled on Comptons first, where I could have stayed downstairs all day drooling over the hot bear couple across the bar from us. We went upstairs and settled into a big pair of armchairs next to a window that looked down onto the street. You can see these in the photo on the website. We eventually headed off to take in the Kings Arms. We headed upstairs to the poolroom with our drinks, and I salivated over the hot bears playing. After that, we headed off to Italian Graffiti to eat (nice!) and then back to the Kings Arms. At this point the bar had filled up with masses of hairy beasts, and the sensory overload was making my head spin, probably because of the blood rushing from it to go somewhere else. There was just so many men I didn't know where to begin! Having said that, I did manage - after much deliberation - to march upto one guy and tell him he had a great arse...

Then it was on the bus to Chunk, where they were having the friday night bear social. This was more of the same: loads of big hairy men everywhere, and we got talking to two guys I recognised from Brighton and stuffed our face with the barbeque food. We eventually got talking to one of the hot bears who I saw playing pool earlier, who turned out to be nice and chatty, though unavailable to me, *sniff*.

Later we boogied (Even Phil! Alas, no camera) and I locked lips with two or three different bears, including a hot Belgian one who was quite a vociferous kisser. At the end of the night, I hooked up with a small stocky cub, and it was decided that I would go back to his. It was only in the taxi queue that I realised that he was coked out of his head, so I jumped ship and quickly re-connected with Phil, and he walked me down to the Chariots sauna in Vauxhall.

It was at this point, regrettably, that things started to go pear-shaped. This was my first time in a sauna, and I was only there to while away some time until the trains to Brighton started running again. The customer base seemed to fall into one of two camps, twink or muscle boy. I've been a bit cynical lately about bear club's assertions that they are 'attitude-free', but the laid-back antics of Chunk were in stark contrast to the meat-market feel of this place. It was a bit of a catch-22 situation: The people who I fancied weren't into me, and equally the people who moved on me weren't my cup of tea either. You have to be pretty thick-skinned to cope with the goings on in a gay sauna, and I wasn't used to it. I got entangled, but the sparks didn't exactly fly. One thing I noticed was that one of the Brighton guys I was talking to earlier was there, and even though I'm still not sure if I like him, he is hot, and I checked him out getting hot n' heavy with some other guy for a while. After that, I tried the darkroom, and although I messed around with a couple of guys in there, I found the fact that you couldn't see your hand in front of your face, never mind the face of the others, more than a bit irritating.

After about two hours or so, I got bored and headed for the video lounge and fell asleep there for a while. I was woken by a twink groping me at about 10:30 in the morning, and after throwing him off, I showered and got dressed and got the train back to Brighton. There I grabbed a few more hours of sleep, thus righteously cocking up my sleeping pattern for last night, so that was why I was still up at 1am watching the Amityville Horror for the twentieth time...

Bear & Leather Pride is still ongoing in London right now, but that's it for me. It was a fun Friday, discounting how I ended it, and I know where I'll be going next time I'm in London.

Back to earth with a bang. College on Tuesday. Exams only seven weeks away. Only my birthday on the 27th of this month to look forward to now. Onward ho...

Woo hoooooo!

My grant cheque has cleared into my accout in time for Bear Pride this weekend! Yessssss! So I'm off to London on Friday for a night of debauchery. For too long, me and Phil have been planning a night like this, but something has always gotten in the way. Well, no more obstacles! This Friday is partytime!

My brother and his fiancé have recently moved back to Mallow to take advantage of the business opportunity of opening a restaurant that has lain dormant for a while. The grand opening is this Saturday. I wouldn't have minded being there, but the flights are too expensive to book this close to the time. Oh well...

Anyway, tomorrow I shop for army boots to complete my combat pants/t-shirt/black jacket military ensemble. Watch out London!

The Road To Guantanamo

I saw Michael Winterbottom's The Road to Guantanamo the other night, and it was pretty gut-wrenching stuff.

It's the story of the Tipton Three, a group of British Muslims who head to Pakistan where one of them is to get married. While there, they decide to head to Afghanistan to see the place for itself and help out other Muslims in the process. To understate it substantially, this turns out to be a mistake, and they decide to head back to Pakistan. It is then, without giving too much away, they end up being detained in US Custody, in one of their infamous interrogation camps.

It's hard to watch the treatment of these three at the hands of British and American soldiers and not feel outraged. The army, so often romanticised in adverts and films, is shown as a group of spineless bullies here, as they are afraid to approach the prisoners in anything other than full riot gear. The whole thing highlights the misdirected zeal of the two countries of interest at the moment: These three were arrested purely because of their nationality. It would seem that in attempt to stand up and rid themselves of terrorists, Britain and America are at once on their knees, such is the current climate of fear that these two powers live in. The interrogation sessions were funny in a macabre kind of way: The three were accused, without any proper foundation, of being members of Al-Queda, which is the kind of thing you'd expect in a racist-by-numbers sketch of someone shouting something across the street at a Muslim.

It invokes new anger with biggest-cunt-for-US-president-EVER Bush, and just as much for Britain, who are right up there in their participation of the managment of these camps. Apparently a civil suit is being taken by the three against certain state figureheads, amongst whom are Rumsfeld and Cheney, if I'm not misinformed. I hope they sue them for the roof over their heads.

Go see this. If you can't, download it here. £5 for something like this is small change.

A headline I didn't really see coming

Ireland backs legalizing gay partnerships

Well, it's a step in the right direction. I'm somewhat surprised to see those quotes coming from the mouth of Ahern, but then again, I reckon he's just being political about it. Labour have traditionally courted the gay vote, and Bertie probably realises that if he doesn't get in on the action soon, he'll be left behind. Or maybe I'm being cynical.

Of course the reference to the clause in the constitution that 'protects' the institution of marriage shows that we still have some way to go, and if the only way to loosen the grip that the church has on the country is by amputation of the corresponding limb, then so be it.

▪

My clinical exam wasn't a complete disaster, but I made a couple of very stupid mistakes. Hopefully I won't get penalised too much for them. I'm on holidays for the next two weeks, and I'm staying here in an attempt to get some work done. For the first time since I moved in, I can relax, knowing that I'm stable for a while.

One positive outcome of the move from the other hole house that I forgot to mention was that, a week prior to my departure, one of the other girls also moved out, and as her computer proved too cumbersome for her to take with her, she simply left it with me. It's not a bad one: Windows XP/Office XP/DVD player with speakers and a microphone set. It could be a bit faster, but hey, beggars and choosers and all that. I now have all my mp3s are organised in one place on the hard drive, along with all the other stuff. Only one disappointment arose from all this: I did an inventory of my collection of man pictures, and one CD-R, with a gallery of big hairy men on it, appears to have been lost, or else left at home in Ireland (a possibility I really don't want to consider, considering my parents would actually know how to read the contents of one these days).

Oh well, I'll just have to start over with my collection, which is a bit of fun in itself :-)

I saw a documentary last night about living for 30 days on the minimum wage in America (Columbus, Ohio to be exact). It starred limelight-hogger du jour Morgan Spurlock and his girlfriend. Ok, maybe that last bit was unfair, seeing as he's quite good at this kind of thing. The only thing was that I'd seen it all before when Des Bishop did it as part of a roadshow documentary, so there was nothing new there for me. However the '30 days' thing will continue with other people, and one such concept will be a redneck texan being part of the gay community in the gay stronghold of Castro, in San Francisco. That should be interesting, and the photo op that Spurlock did for that, with leather cap and arm bands but otherwise barechested, was kind of hot.

Moved again!

I am now comfortably ensconced in my new room with the bulk of my unpacking done. The room is fine (my own en-suite!) and the other flatmates seem ok. I'm only there for two and a half months before I move on again, but it'll do for now.

As an aside, there is very little that takes it out of you more than moving. Aaaarrrgggh!

I got all the money I was owed from my previous landlord, but in spite of my protestations he gave it to me as a crossed cheque, the wanker, and then ignored my phone calls later when I told him the university wouldn't accept it. It has been lodged to my account, but as usual, I can't get at the money until next Tuesday. I am so glad to see the back of that twat.

Easter break on Friday for two weeks, but I'm staying here to begin my hunt for a job with renewed desperation. Not only do I need money for the rest of the year, I need work in order to stay here for the summer.

Clinical exam tomorrow. Cross your fingers for me, readers!

Yippeee!

On Friday, I was told by the accommodation office that I have a room in Phoenix halls of residence for the rest of the academic year. Phoenix halls are the most central of all the university residences so I'm still a BN2 boy, and I'm that bit closer to where all my lectures are. Woo hoo! Tonight I get the bulk of my stuff out of there, and all going well, the rest of it tomorrow. Then I have to meet the twat landlord to get my money back. I've just spoken to him on the phone, and he's agreed to the amount that I want as a refund. With a bit of luck, this will pass off without incident. I just want to get the hell out of there.

Saturday night saw me in the Bulldog with Bear and 'Flee for a while before I got talking to a cute stocky cub and we ended up going back to his place. His house was just around the corner from the pub, so I anticipated that the fun wouldn't last too long and I would come back to the Bully after. It didn't turn out like that. We ended up frolicking for the night back at his, and I was woken by his two dogs jumping on the bed and panting in my face the next morning. The chap was a cute little meatball with a rug on his chest and stomach, and he was nice. He left in a hurry the next morning, and surprisingly, trusted me to leave afterwards. I left a little note on the draining board in the kitchen with my number. Who knows where this might lead?

Sunday saw me go to Bears R Us in Candy Bar, and it was as dead as a doornail. Hardly anyone there. Maybe Candy Bar, traditionally being a lesbian bar, wasn't too suited to the theme. An unremarkable night, memorable only for a group of council estate chavs calling me and 'Flee 'batty boys', 'arse bandits' and just about every other unoriginal homophobic name under the sun, when we were queueing to get smokes at a service station hatch. I felt like taking a baseball bat to them, but they were too large in number.

An important clinical exam this coming Friday, which I'm dreading. I must get on this move as soon as possible and get it out of the way. Hopefully this won't be a case of getting out of the frying pan and into the fire. The other students in the flat are young (19-22), but I have an en-suite bathroom, so if I need to keep to my own space, I can. Fingers crossed we'll get on OK though.

A film review

While at Dan and June's place for Sunday roast three days ago, we went down to the video shop to pick out two DVDs to watch after the meal. One of them was I "heart" Huckabees, which I didn't actually stick around to see afterwards, and the other one was 'Primer'.

This is a science fiction movie with serious difference. I had heard good things about it - it has won awards at Sundance - and I had meant to see it when it first was released but had never got around to it, so when I saw it at the video shop, out we got it, and after the meal, we threw it on.

*Great endeavours to exclude spoilers follow*

This is a story centred around two engineers, who while working on a project in their spare time, end up devising something that was quite accidental and definitely mind-blowing, and how to react to this discovery. Revealing a part of the plot, the discovery is that of time travel. Once they realise what they're holding, they begin to experiment with it, and without giving too much away, this is where the shit hits the fan.

The one BIG difference between this film, and other films about time travel, is that this one has what I think is the most realistic treatment of what would happen if such a thing existed. In all other films, such as Terminator (1, 2, or 3) and The Butterfly Effect, to name but a few, certain elements of improbability are glossed over for the sake of keeping the plot from spiralling into the realms of mystifying complexity. Dumbing down? Maybe, but it kept the film ticking over.

This one takes everything into account, with scant regard for whether the viewer is able to follow the plot threads ('a recursive problem', as one of the characters says) or not. Given that certain events in the film are precipated by the actions of the main characters where they have travelled back from a later time section in the film to witness that certain event at which their earlier selves were also present (if you...erm...know what I mean), the shit is simply confused out of everything. At one point during the film, Dan, who is one of the smartest people I know, turned around with a big smirk on his face and said "Right. Does anyone know what's going on?"

The experiment inherent in this film is admirable, but I'm not altogether sure if it succeeds. Sometimes (quite often, I'd wager) a film is quite simply better off reflecting a slightly fantastical version of events, no matter how worthy it purports to be, for the sake of the overall artistic statement. I'll have to take my hat off to that director, though, who used to be a work in various engineering firms before quitting, teaching himself film making, and then pulling this off three years later.

As someone who used to do engineering in college, and who worked an an allied domain for quite some time, I must say his representation of the people working on the device, and the process of the discovery itself, is spot on. Apart from anything else, it shows how what is fundamentally a very interesting area of intellectual endeavour can be reduced by soulless corporations to the preserve of worker drones. This is a thriller without the usual signposts of build-up and climax and it's definitely staking out new territory that way. It should definitely be slapped on all undergrad courses in film.

So that's it. It's hot stuff, but it should carry an Intellectual Advisory sticker on it, and that's coming from someone who likes maths and related technical concepts. As it is, I'll definitely need to see it again, or at least read the script, if it's up on the net by now.

A reason why gay relationships rock.

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More butcherings of the vernacular

My landlord to me: "I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but you've really pissed me."

Well, under circumstances that can only be described as startling, matters have come to a head. I'm moving out. As soon as humanly possible. The little shit mentioned above called to the flat this morning, and formally issued me with one months notice. He refused to offer it for debate, and I simply didn't care.

The ball started rolling after my encounter with the irritant yesterday, who in hindsight I should have slapped, when I rang the landlord about him. As per bloody usual, the spanner didn't answer his phone, so I left an irate message summarising what happened, and requesting that he get back to me. After a heinous day of labs, I still had heard nothing from him at 5pm, so I headed off out for St. Patrick's Day to meet the man Dan and all the other Irish pharmacy students.

Later in the night, I saw that I had missed a call and got a message from said landlord, so I rang him back.

One of the things I heard defied belief. Aside from the usual shit about how he had had complaints from other lodgers about me (I was accused to leaving the bathroom untidy, which by the standards of some of the people I live with, means nothing more than leaving a facecloth on the edge of the bath) and about how 'un-housetrained' I was, and how I had insulted his wife (where he got this from I don't know, and it's a bit rich considering the notes I got from her), he told me that one of the other tenants - no prizes for guessing who that might be - had discovered that someone had taken a dump in the downstairs bath, and had told the idiot that it was most likely me.

As I've said previously, I'm usually too nice and accommodating for my own good when I've had a few drinks in me, but right then, the exception to the rule became apparent. I lost it. I asked him how on earth he could think that I would do something like that, who had told him this (he wouldn't tell me), and I told him that I found his house to be the most depressing place I had ever lived in and that I wanted a meeting with him first thing in the morning to sort out everything.

This morning he turned up at 8:45, the time of my request, and gave me the notice. He took exception to my demand for a visit, saying 'you don't summons me', and stomped off in a huff, quickly after. For pretty much everything he said, I had a retort, but I was still glad to see the back of the gimp. He's agreed (for now) to refund some of the rent that I have payed if I move out before that month is up, which is pretty much the best case scenario from that point of view.

Rooms are currently available in university halls of residence right now, so I am going to take one of those until my exams are out of the way. First thing monday morning, I'm into the accommodation office, and hopefully I can fast track my way into a new place. The clown returns from a trip on Wednesday, and I'm hoping that I can have everything out of there by then. I'm itching to get out of there right now.

Looking on all of this, I feel a bit annoyed, because in one sense the irritant has won. I'm pretty sure he cooked up the bathturd story to stitch me up, and now he's getting what he wants, which is me out of there. But then I think about how depressing it was there, how I may have just let it go on for longer out of an aversion to having to find a new place, and how I may have lost money if I had left suddenly to take up a new place. In a way, the haemhorroid has done me a favour, albeit with intentions that were exactly the opposite. I'm not going to waste my time - well, not that much anyway - working out how to exact revenge. Apparently, he's a floor manager for MacDonalds. His life must be shitty enough already.

Phil jokingly said I should take a DNA test to prove myself innocent of the faeces. I wouldn't mind investigating the story a little more, but I really don't want to have to deal with the shmandlord any more than I have to from now on.

London didn't happen, but under the circumstances, it's probably just as well, as I wouldn't have enjoyed it as much. As it was, my St. Patrick's Day got messed up (which required messing up, for me to appreciate it) no end. Even the two hot guys I moved on in the Bulldog turned me down. Bah!

Oh fast forward beyond all of this...

MURDER!

The Scene:

Me, coming out of the downstairs bathroom, one that I wouldn't normally use, but for the previously mentioned fault with our own.

The players:
Me, and the irritant who has just come out of his own room.


Irritant: "Did you just use that bathroom?"
Me: "Yes."
Irritant: "You are not ever supposed to use that bathroom!!"
Me: "We have been told by Diane [the landlady] to use the downstairs bathrooms for the time being!"
Irritant: "No! You must never use that bathroom, that bathroom is for us only. I need to go to work!"
Me: "Yes, and I also need to go to college!"
Irritant: "Oh....You never listen to me, you are a bastard, a bad man, a bastard man(sic), a -
Me: "I am not listening to this shit, JESUS CHRIST!"
Door of flat: SLAM!

If I see him again, I may kill him. The landlord has been contacted and if he doesn't resolve this satisfactorily, I may kill him too.

Aaaaaarrrrraaaaaggggghhhhhh!!!!!

A clip

Family Guy - You've got the AIDS

Of the two with HIV that I know, one of them found it funny, the other didn't. Hmmmm....

I had a job interview yesterday. If I get it, I'm basically taken care of for working in Brighton for the summer, and hopefully the interviewer didn't cop that I was hungover from a night of frivolity chez Phil & 'Flee.

In other news, our shower is leaking. I was interrupted yesterday morning - while covered in soap - by the LANDLADY knocking on the bathroom door squeaking that I needed to turn off the water. So now I have to use the bathroom downstairs until that's fixed. Brilliant. As for the woman herself, she strikes me as a bit thick. The lights are on upstairs, but there's no-one home, know what I'm sayin'?

Going to London this weekend for a weekend of debauchery, so tomorrow (Paddy's day) is going to be quiet one, but hopefully I'll have something to blog about when I come back on Sunday.

Back in Brighton...

...And may I just say what total cunts Ryanair are, for charging me 40 euro because my suitcase weighed 20kg: Their baggage check-in limit is a ludicrously small 15kg, which is why my electric guitar is here with me now, but without the practice amplifier I wanted to bring with it. Damn them! It's been quite a while since I flied with this shitty airline, and now I am reminded why. From now on, they shall be boycotted if at all possible.

I got into Brighton just in time for ER at 10pm. I was bored and wanted to go out, but a text to the ladies who lunch of BN2 yielded no fruit. Reply next time, beeyatches!

Now I go to the accommodation office. If they have a room in halls of residence becoming vacant in the near future, the landlord will get his notice tonight. He's already offered to move me downstairs to another room - below the irritant - and as a result, I'll have full access to the main (and only decent) kitchen of the house, but I fear this won't cut it. I need to be somewhere else..

Somewhere that is still close to the Bulldog, though.

Harrrummmph.

God, Mallow holds less and less for me as time goes on.

Prior to departing to Brighton, most of my close friends I had were in Dublin, and when I went home to Mallow, which wasn't often, it was only then that I renewed acquaintances. This is fine: There are still a small group of people that I look forward to meeting up with when I come home, but most of them have moved, for the sake of their jobs, to surrounding areas, and don't go out very much. Other people I have long lost contact with, and that's no accident. Others just don't seem too pushed.

It might just be me, but if someone I hadn't seen for a while touched down on my turf for a week, I think I would make an effort to see them fairly promptly. It seems like some people just can't be bothered. Maybe it's just the simple explanation that other people have their own lives now, but I know that if I had arrived in Dublin this week, I could have counted on meeting up with at least two separate groups of people on arrival into the city.

Ho hum...

My landlord rang this morning, as it was rent day. In spite of the fact that I had left a note in my room telling his wife that I had gone home for a week and would pay him next week, and in spite of the fact that the dozy bat had read the note, she didn't tell him. Which is why he was ringing me in a tizzy this morning. I explained. He understood. Hopefully when I arrive back and explain that I'm giving him one month's notice of my intention to move out, he'll understand then too.

I e-mailed hybridimages.co.uk about the hottie I had paid tribute to earlier. He replied back with a big spiel about his photo shoots and how much they cost, but said that he could only pass on my contact details to the grizzly, not the other way around. I think I'll bite the bullet and approve that. Nothing ventured, no spirit-crushing rejections gained...

Niiiiiiccce!

This month's issue of GScene, a magazine aimed at the Brighton & Hove gay community, is a bear special. On the front cover is a man who is pretty much the quintessential essence of hotness in the male of the species.

Drool...

There is also another picture of him on the inside of the front cover that looks something like this...

Any more, I hear you cry? Just one, then...

All pictures are taken by a photographer whose site is www.hybridimages.co.uk, as you can see from the watermark. Perhaps I should e-mail him and ask him who this hottie is.

The downside of the special is that a clown who manages a certain bear pub in Brighton (and who, mystifyingly, has a nice boyfriend) gets a full interview, but you can't have everything I suppose.

At home...

...since yesterday, where my flight narrowly avoided getting redirected to another airport because of fog.

The weekend just gone was one of the more interesting ones. On Saturday, I went on a day trip to Ostende in Belgium on a bus with lots of others, quite a few of which I knew from the Winchester (which still has to change hands, at the time of going to press) and much fun was had, much mussels were eaten, and much Belgian beer was drunk. The only fly in the ointment was not knowing how to speak to the natives - in that region, they all seem to speak Flemish, which sounds like a variation on Dutch or German - and I hate having to rely on natives knowing English when it should really be the other way around.

We then headed back via the Eurotunnel, and were back in Brighton for about 9:30pm or so. Not bad transport for only £22, especially since I was sitting next to the 'Flee, availing of his tasteful lavender-walleted iPod.

Sunday night saw me in a lock-in until 4am, and so I didn't rise until rather...erm...late on Monday. Oh well.

As an aside, I know of certain people of have given up alcohol in the last while, and they have all been keen to extoll the virtues of the exercise. I am seriously considering it myself, though I fear my willpower, which is that of a dying jellyfish, may prove to be something of an obstacle. We'll see.

Oh, I've just had a sense of deja vu...

The fun never stops around here...

In spite of the fact that others have violated this rule, I've always adhered to it. Yet, even though a note was put up over said washing machine, I get my own personal reminder left in my room. Aren't I the lucky one? Also, I came down to collect my washing from the machine this morning, only to find that someone had paused it mid-cycle. I restarted it, and then headed into town. If anyone so much as moans about laundry being left in the machine when I come back, they're getting it in the neck.

To top it off, the guy (the irritant) whose room is below mine is obssessed with any amount of noise, no matter how small, that I make in my room, and has taken to banging the ceiling directly under my floor in what appears to be some attempt to make a point. God help him if he comes near me in the immediate future.

I don't think I've ever lived in a place where people are wound so tight. Even a short-term lease in university halls of residence is starting to look like an attractive option right now.

Not really the last night...

... as it looks like the transfer of the lease has fallen through, and so it may be business as usual, but hey.

That's me toward the front with the white shirt. The 0h-so-dashing cowboyhatted one to my immediate right is The 'Flee, whilst behind us crouches the Philster.

(courtesty of bn2beeyatches)

Bollocks.

My application for a placement with a Tesco pharmacy went the same way as my application to Boots. Now I'm starting to get worried. Having said that, a Kemptown pharmacy had an ad up in its window looking for a counter assistant, and my CV has been handed in.

In other news, I'm going home for a well-deserved holiday next Monday, for a week.