I wish I'd thought of that

Funny how things go, somebody will say something to which a witty reply is in order but not forthcoming then, you read something which would have been the perfect explanation / putdown or whatever.
On Friday I had the joy & pleasure of patrolling with one of those delightful PCSO’s things. In the normal course of things you can always find something to talk about but I knew from the outset that this was gonna be a tough one.
I recon in a former life he must have been a scaffolder.
Now don’t kid yourself that when the uniform goes on the sex drive is left in the locker, it isn’t. It just gets hidden under the helmet. Supposedly we can’t troll around ogling women / men or whatever but, being human….
Well this boy had his eyes out on stalks and I had to warn him not to make it so bloody obvious.
“Why, didn’t you think she was fit?”
“Not my type, sorry”
“Shit you’d have to be queer not to want a piece of that!”
“Well, as it happens…..”
Now some subjects can kill a conversation stone dead and mentioning that you’re a fag is one of them.
Well, it took him a few streets to mull this over before he said anything.
“Aren’t you embarrassed telling people?”
“No, but I’m not going to turn it into a crusade either so I don’t run around shouting it at everybody”
“But don’t you care what people think?”
“What is there to think about?”
“Well, er, the, er, taking it in the bum thing”
“There is slightly more to it than that”
“Is there?”
And at that point, the conversation lapsed completely.
Later that evening, doing the moonlighting job, I was reading this week’s copy of BOYZ there was an article about coming out and explaining being gay. [I actually never describe myself as being gay, I call it queer]
The example that made me giggle was a quote from Queer as Folk when Steve’s Mum is telling one of her friends that Steve is queer….
“It’s fine if you don’t think about the arse thing, forget about the arse thing. If it was your daughter you wouldn’t think about them having sex so why should I do it for my son.”

What more can you say.

All wrapped up

Some people look the part, others look like fuk all.
Doing my moonlighting stint last night and up to the door steps this dozy little scrote who thinks he’s the bollox in oh so many ways.
He has some kind of pattern shaved into his hair. He wears one of these [not a very good description coming up] headbands with a peak that seem to be made out of baby’s nappy type thing pulled down over his eyes.
He sucks the face off of my “bouncer” colleague to give the appearance of being “in”.
He never pays to get in [coz he snogs Rob, Rob lets him in for free].
He lets his jacket [anorak, as mother would call it] hang off his shoulders.
He always looks at me with that “I know the main bouncer and you cant throw me out” look.
Well, Rob having gone to New Zealand for a month, Friday and Saturday sees me as chief Clip Board Nazi. OOOOOOOH the power!
Up steps this prick
“£2 sunshine”
“What?”
“£2 entry”
“Where’s Bob”
“His name’s not Bob and anyway he’s not here. £2”
He paid with all the good grace of Princess Di scraping shit off her shoe and made to squeeze past.
“Hang on, I want to check your pockets”
Now here he missed an opportunity, he could have refused. I have no rite to search him, but I can refuse him entry if he does refuse.
He obliged.
Nothing of any interest, just the usual pocket crud.
In he goes and all is forgotten until about 12.30 when we stop letting people in and I go for a wander around inside to try and illicit a quick snog from this cute little French guy I’ve been working on for a couple of weeks [no result, sadly].
Low and behold, on the top floor is this knob sitting in a corner minus his shirt but wearing his beast gangster frown.
One of the carved in stone rules of the venue is that no matter how hunky you are, you keep your kit on. Peter André this guy isn’t.
“Do me a favour, pet, put your shirt back on, please”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t want some old minger like me wanking to the thought of you without kit, do you? Put it on”.
[Works every time]
Another half an hour or so later and having cleared the other floors [we always leave the top floor till last] we head upstairs to tip the DJ the wink to play his last track so we can kick out and go home.
Who is standing in the DJ booth [along with the DJ] but “laddo”.
Not only standing up there with Soho Squares very own FatBoy Slim but he’s got the mike in his hand and is…. well it’s generally known as “rapping” but coz this cunt is white, clueless and loads of other things besides, all it consists of is “YEP, YEP. CUMMON, YEAH”.
Not only is the content AND the quality crap but he has a voice pitched such that only dogs can hear it and the track he’s. …performing [?] to is Madonna’s Vogue!
Now Andy [the DJ & owner of the place] is nobody’s fool but on this occasion he must have left his sense in at the jewellers for a new battery.
Vogue is defiantly the last track. I can tell this by the look on Andy’s face.
As a parting shot, as he’s going down the stairs, my compadre says to him,
“Well done that’s the best I’ve ever heard it done to Madonna”
What “it” was, she didn’t elaborate.

“Cheers, I fort it wus good too”.

More Family....

Sydney Hound being a fair minded beast has taken onboard the complaint of Boots E Puss that he shouls also have his pic displayed here [seeing as how everybody else, with the exception of the fish, who don't count as family, have theirs on the Blog].

So, here is Boots doing his "Lion on the Town Hall Steps" pose.

Hysteria

Here we go again…..
Cast your mind back to the August Bank Holiday of 1988. Can you remember anything special about that particular Monday? No, I thought not. Well let me remind you, that was the day that sanity, in some form, returned to the licensing laws [oh no, he’s back on that old soap box again!!!!].
Well if you remember that momentous day you may also remember all the hysteria that preceded it in the press in the weeks and months running up to the big day. Call it ground hog day if you want but the same thing is happening again.
My trusty Mail on Sunday has virtually put out a call to lay down the twin set and pearls and pick up the stab vest and CS spray and gird up the loins in readiness for the millions of drunken yobs who will be pissing in the streets come November when the pubs will open 24 hours a day.
Ooops, slight error on the part of the MoS. [this bit of info comes from my B/F and his union NALHM – National Association of Licensed House Managers]. Only 35 establishments in the whole of England & Wales have applied to open 24 hours. Whether or not they have the application granted has yet to be seen.
What lots of people seem not to have noticed is that it always has been [almost] possible to drink the full way around the clock. Here’s how.

• Pub has a “Market Licence” [think of the Hop Poles in Hammersmith]. Where the premises serves an “ancient and traditionally known market”, the premises may supply refreshment to such persons using the facility of such a market between the hours of 04.00am until the terminal hour of 10.00am with a “drinking up time” of 20 minutes.
  Pub has a Section 76 “Full, On Licence” letting them open at 11.00 am through until 11.00pm [your normal pub hours, plus the 20 mins drinking up time”
  
• Pub has an additional “Supper Hour” licence. This is a bolt on to the Section 76 but the downside of it is that for people to stay and drink they must be having “Substantial Food” i.e., not a bag of crisps but a knife and fork job. Drinking up time doesn’t apply to the end of a supper hour extension.
  
• Pub has a “Public Entertainments & Music and Dancing of a Like Kind” [PEL] Outside of “Greater London” this would let you go until 01.00am [this is granted by the Local Authority cunts not the magistrates].
  
• Pub has a “Special Hours Certificate” This, again issued to the Local Authority, and is a bolt on to the PEL. Each SHS is unique and the “Terminal Hour” can vary. If the terminal Hour is 04.00, you are only left with about 40 mins in the day when you can’t walk up to the bar and buy a dink.
  

Going back to 1988 the first day of “All day opening” and the pubs were bunged full. Two weeks later when the novelty had worn off, many of them went back to closing on an afternoon. There were no drunken hoards staggering the streets, no starving, and abandoned kids all over the place. In short, people only have a finite amount of money to piss up the wall and when it’s gone, it’s gone. The same still applies.
I doubt that drink is going to become the new Crack Cocaine and people are going to start stealing to finance their drinking habit.

I’ll have a pint please!

Afterthoughts

I've just read my last posting and realised that i mentioned the National Front without getting on my soapbox or go off at a tangent, which i normaly do when they crop up in the conversation. I forgot to spit. I should have spelled it National Cunt.

Fighting for peace

Tom Hundell
Eight years for killing somebody. Injustice or what?
Well I suppose it depends on the circumstances. In this case it was an Israeli soldier who got eight years for shooting a “peace activist” [and a British one at that]. I think they should have given him a fukin medal not a prison sentence.
Peace activist my arse.
What in the name of fuk was he doing in Israel anyway? Why wasn’t he being active for peace in this country [where his parents spent all that money sending him to private school]?
He should have been fighting for peace between some of the sections of our community who live in and around Kings Cross, that would have been worth a punt, or for that fact any of this countries strife ridden inner cities.
No fukin merit in that though, is there? Not the sort of thing that makes for good reading in the Guardian. Our inner cities only make for good reading when they’re being brutalised by the Old Bill or rampaged through by the Nation Front.
I had the dubious pleasure of spending six months in Israel [when I was stupid enough to follow the back-pack crowd] working on a kibbutz. Israel is a flyblown, sun-baked shithouse. Why it’s been fought over all these years is a puzzle to me. Its one redeeming feature is that the Israelis have put in no small amount of effort in getting a living out of the desert. Kibbutz and the Kibbutzim work like slaves and they do it to live. They also do it in / on occupied land [remember, it’s all occupied land, Britain, in co-hoots with others concocted the Israeli homeland out of bits of other peoples countries as a fob off for the Jews after WW2]. All of this occupied lands bit, well the land wouldn’t be fit for goats to graze, which is about as agriculturally far as the Palestinians have come since the days of the Bible.
You ever wondered why, when you see the Jews leaving their occupations, they take the whole shebang apart? It’s because they want to return it as they found it. They don’t leave any of the irrigation kit, de-salination plant etc etc. and what happens to the land they un-occupy? Nothing, absofukinloutly nothing. It goes back to being wasteland.
Peace activist, he should have been hoeing the spuds that the Jews grow, sell to the pallis.
Effectively, by working for ”peace” he’s starving those he’s trying to help.
Had he not done a Hans Morretti and bitten the bullet, you can imaging the overheard conversation on the tube twenty years hence…“But, yah, like I worked for peace when I was, like, young”

Muscle Mary

While I'm putting pics on, I may as well add one of my beloved. Dave is the typical fag, he spends most of his spare time in the gym [which if he actualy did some work he wouldn't need to do] and always has his phone in his hand, ready to talk shite to some other fag, very rarly me, and never very far away from his handbag. Enough said.

Festivals

More bloody festivals. Soho Pride this time but in my moonlighting capacity.
Not bad as Soho Pride goes. Not half as hot as last year nor half as busy but loads more trouble. Sad to say all the fights [and what would ordinarily have been classified as Public Order Incidents] that I dealt with involved lesbians. Actually, it’s not sad, it’s no more than I would expect. Cunts, in every sense of the word.
What made me giggle was the Bel Ami Boys. Bel Ami is some east European porn brand. I’ve never seen any of the vids [although I do watch porn [hence my wrist is nearly as thick as my neck!]] but the adverts for it show toned, ultra gorgeous guys. In the flesh, so to speak, I found them plain [not even cute] with the most appallingly bad skin and the atypical Slavic flat backed, wide head and sticky out ears. The must have been the B team reserves!Give me a nice German boy any day.

This post was a bit late coz my connection went dead [Thanx BT] and it's taken me nearly a week to get it restored. And no, they didn't cut me off for not paying the bill!

As promised, here is a pic of the eponymous Sidney after whom this blog is named. Looks more like fukin Bag Pus from this angle!

Disenfranchised

As the poem says
“Hot July brings cooling showers, apricots and Gilly flowers”
It also brings more festivals and community events than you can wave a stick at.
Saturday found me slogging around the Hillview festival in Kings Cross.
Not a bad event as housing estate community festivals go, the usual stalls selling buns, cakes and samosas [samosii?] It also had the digest, smokiest BBQ in the world. I don’t think the Bismarck laid down a smokescreen like that!
The smokescreen added to the tears of sundry Bengali youths [Bengali is the name by which they describe themselves, the closest any of them have ever been to Bengal is when they head east, along Pentonville Road, to the curry house, they’re really British].
The “Coram Street massive” think they look more like hard-line gangsters if they shamble around with scowls that could sour milk.
It annoys me.
“Don’t you ever smile?”
“Fuck off you racist cunt”
“Why do you always look so miserable?”
“Coz it’s shit, init”
What’s shit?”
“This” [meaning the whole festival]
“What’s shit about it?”
“It’s all for Pakis”
Sometimes, you just can’t win!
This from a fourteen-year-old kid of Bengali origin [going back a couple of generations] whose one aim in life is to be a Jamaican yardie and because he isn’t, blames everybody else.
A comparable situation……
When I was fourteen I realised that Leeds was a shithouse [not that it took much realising] ergo, I decided to get out at the earliest opportunity. Don’t worry, this is not going to be one of these stories of the poor kid who does well at school goes down to the smoke and makes good.
I had this horrible vision that if I didn’t get out of Leeds, then in twenty years time I would be stuck in a dead end job, only enough money to pay for my 60 cigs and 10 pints per day and a Gerry Springer Show wife from hell [+ kids] and not being able to be the [out] out and out queer that I am.
Well, I did it, bunked from Leeds, went and did sundry different things in sundry different places.
Me, been there, done that.
Salim, never been out of Kings Cross.
The only think that’s keeping him there is peer pressure. Being the gangster that he is, he hasn’t the courage to say to his “homies” “ ta ta guys, see you in twenty years when you’re still here sitting in the pub complaining that there’s nowhere to go & nothing to do”Some people just can’t see beyond the end of their own street.