Saying it brings it on, possibly?

I suppose that you never think that the things that you write can be a sort of premonition and can “bring on” events.
Well, having written about my B/F’s brother’s wife [sounds like a bit of Lloyd George knew my father sort of thing] being a lover of suffering and death, it’s come to fruition.
She found her father dead this morning.
Had she won the lottery, she couldn’t have been…. If not happier, certainly, more in her element.

Family Values #4 aka Family Value for Money

More family, and, once again, it’s David’s family, not mine [I know better to either invite or encourage my kith and kin to visit].
This time it was David’s brother, Eamon, and his wife, Pauline.
Bit of a double-edged sword this one coz they’re both a fukin nuisance but each in their own different way.
Eamon is a know-it-all would be multi millionaire who just can’t get / keep the money.
Pauline had, until recently, Stockhousen Syndrome by proxy [look it up].
I like Eamon…. when I have him on my territory. Anywhere else and he is a complete pain. He always knows where you can get “it” better, cheaper, more under / over cooked, hotter / colder, etc, blah blah, you get the drift. Oh, and he’s never learned how to get from one place to the other. Arse to elbow strikes a chord….
I’d managed to escape most of the visit because I was working / moonlighting and so that Dave didn’t have to run the gauntlet of having to cook for them [and coz I was moonlighting], Sunday dinner went for a Burton and was planned for Monday evening, supposedly after they had gone.
Eight o’clock Monday night finds me trapping my fingers in my locker door and fumbling for my phone.
“I’m not cooking, we’re going out for something to eat with the Adams Family” [this means that the niece, Fat Bird, is coming too].
Well the swearing etc from me told him that he could go but that I wasn’t going.
“Why?”
“Because he’ll complain about the food, the place, the price and anything else he can find” [and he’s a diabetic and every meal begins with him exposing his belly and jagging himself like a fukin heroin addict].
And so they went and when they got back, me having had my beans on toast, all was as I’d predicted. They didn’t like the menu [the colour, you understand, very hard to read in low light] the content was also not up to par. The place was far to small AND, they allowed smoking [hence for the duration of their stay I burned more Mayfair Superkings than Customs & Excise do in a month.
Then they cribbed the bill. He always does.
“Did we have this? I don’t remember having X item, who had X item?”
Or
“I’m sure this was only £2.95 on the menu, not £2.99”.
Pauline for her part suffered. Not suffered in silence or even suffered Eamon, she just suffered.
The first time I met her, her opening gambit was about a distant relative of David who “took Leukaemia” like you would take aspirin say or Beechams Powders.
She revels in other peoples illness’ or long drawn out deaths.Well now she can relax. Earlier in the year she was diagnosed with breast cancer, had the chemo, lost the hair and is now up there among those who “took” in the pantheon of ailing relatives. Problem is that she’s the keeper of this pantheon, nobody else gives a fuck when you’re rotting away before their very eyes. Nobody, that is, except Pauline.

I am a cannibal [apparently]

Talk about how to win friends and influence people!
I had the dubious pleasure [in my official capacity] of attending the Steering Group Meeting for the Camden Green Fair 2006 today.
I’ve done these sorts of things before and they tend to drag on for more time than enough and nothing ever seems to get resolved. They bicker about things like should the background colour for the posters be light blue or dark blue, that sort of thing.
The only attraction of going to this particular meeting was that it was being held in a café in Camden.
REFRESHMENTS WILL BE PROVIDED
Well, count me in!
I should have known better, really. Camden, I mean……
Par for the course, I arrived just in the nick-nick of time.
“Can I get you a sandwich and a cuppa?”
“Ooh, a bacon sandwich would be grand!”
Icy silence complete with a stare that said “Fascist Pig Eater”.
“We’re vegetarian, actually”
“Just tea then, thanks”
Well fuck knows where they buy their tea but they need to go somewhere else. Raspberry & Cranberry. It was like warm Ribena!
Having made one social fox paw I didn’t fancy my chances in seeing how far down the vegan road they’d gone so I thought I’d better not ask if there was any milk for the tea. They may have thought I was really taking the piss!

Now it can be told

Some things you know because you are told, some things you just know by instinct.
Well I always knew that my beloved was reading my blog. Not that it contains any great secrets or any secrets at all for that matter! It’s just that he’s never passed any comment on it before.
Now, after Sundays post, the cat is out of the bag.
Having explained away two of my…. peccadilloes, he wants me to explain the origin of the rest of them!
Could be a bit like getting the cork back into the bottle at this stage of the game, I fear.And speaking of getting corks into things……

Dress to the left

I know that it’s bad form to blog about other people’s blogs but I couldn’t resist on this occasion.
GawBlimeyGuv, this is your fault.

Who- ho, fags in uniform, my second favourite topic!!!!
I have to hold my hand on my heart and say that my one massive, black cloud on my past horizon is that I never joined up.
I’ve always known that I was queer and, from the few people that I’ve asked, they always knew too, so I think it must be the same for all breeders too, as it seems to be for benders. Sexuality must be “hard-wired” from birth.
Wiz-wiz-wiz… back in time to fifteen years of age and the love of my life and my best mate, and still a very good friend, John White. But first, as ever, the long, and, for you, doubtless very dull, background.
John was my second fuck and my first love.
We were at school together and had been since age 11. It was one of those things where I suppose we were drawn together, none of that romantic, soft tone, sepia coloured shot sort of drawn together, we just got on from the word go [there wasn’t just the two of “us” the whole bunch of us Pete Cashion, was our un-elected leader, Mick Gains his 2IC. The rest of us seemed to just gel into some sort of non-competitive mass.
I had the most massive crush on Pete Cashion.
This wasn’t public knowledge until one day [and I know it was a Monday [because the timetable was screwed and we had PE twice on the one day. Double art, double PE, double history, double PE]].
St. Thomas Aquinas was not renown as a great educational institution but it was shit hot on discipline. Uniform was de-rigueur and this extended to PE kit. Blue; shorts, shirt and socks.
Well for the second stint of the day Pete, claiming that his other kit was wet, turned out in the, then, brand new Leeds Utd strip of all white [previous seasons had been piss yellow].
Instant erection.
Our delightful games master, Mr O’Kane [Ian Paisleys bastard offspring] nearly turned protestant.
“Cashion, get that kit off!” [in the strongest Belfast accent].
My very own un-voiced sentiment exactly but, even better than dreams, actually was brought to life on the football pitch!
O’Kanie wouldn’t let him go back to the changing room and put on his blue kit but made him play in his undies [not in that way!].
Now I blame this for several things, one being my fetish for guys in undies and the other, a fetish for sports kit [thanks Gerry O’Kane, I owe you for a lifetime of furtive wanks!].
“‘Ere, I’ve got a jack on as well!” [Then, the current terminology for a hard-on] confided John White to me.
Well that set the seal on it and things between us just progressed from there.
Wiz forwards a few years and that time of awful dilemmas, what to do for money after leaving school.
I really wanted to go into the Army but couldn’t do it because I knew I was queer. I knew that I would never be able to do the Cleopatra, Queen if Denial thing [must be the only time in my life I’ve had the cowardice of my convictions].
John was determined to go into the Navy.
I said that I thought he was mad and that he would get found out and end up in nick.
Well, into the Navy he went and never once made a secret of being queer.
I never had that sort of courage. For many years I worked for the military as a civvy so it never made any difference as to whether I was queer or not. I was and always will be jealous of John.
Many years after, while working in Northern Ireland, one of my friends back in London had sent me a “Brief Encounter” tee shirt. When on leave I virtually lived in the place. It was the staff uniform and I had wanted one. Day-glow yellow and with a pink triangle on the front, it was the best advert for bringing the closet [and non-closet] fags into the armoury on the slightest of pretexts.
Things usually started with “where the fuck did you get that [tee shirt] from, do you know what it is!”
Well if they knew, they must be “in the know” so to speak.
That was how I met my ex, Boyd.
If his regiment was / is representative of the number of queers in the forces well, I’m surprised that Pride parades aren’t full of squaddies, not just a token hand full.
You honestly think all of those copper are there to police the march?
I never kept my sexuality a secret; it never tainted those with whom I associated. I’m the same now and I’ve still never had and abuse / prejudice etc for what I do in bed [and occasionally elsewhere].
I don’t hold with the theory that those who shout loudest have the most to hide, something, maybe, but I do know how to pick them out of a crowd. They are the ones who ask the questions that most people wouldn’t ask. The deeper questions that make you think, “Hmm, why would you want to know that? Must be one of us”.
But then they go away and condemn us.

Moonlighting

More moonlighting, more festivals. Same old, same old.
Thursday finds me in Cleveland Street at the All Souls Club House for my mornings training on “Disability Awareness” in readiness for the Liberty festival in Trafalgar Square on Saturday.
So, having booked half a days leave I now know that it’s not PC [and that’s not Police Constable, by the way] to call spazzers, spazzers and that not all disabilities are immediately obvious. Oh, and not to be patronising.
One of my moonlighting colleagues, who is also a pig and a loves all this “I am one [of whatever group [spazzers, on this occasion]] ergo I’m qualified to teach you how to behave”. He knows how to work people and the spazzers who was tutoring us was backed into a corner bit by bit by bit. Problem was she must have been blinded by the gleam of her wheelchair to notice.
By the time he’d finished showing her the chip on her shoulder, it couldn’t have been more obvious had it been up their with a super size Pepsi and a cheese burger.
Well, Saturday dawned bright and sunny and the event passed off without any… well anything at all really.
It just never seemed to start. The music was so low key we could have been in a lift. The performances were so unperforming that they were more like the live-statue-fool-covered-in-grease-paint that you tend to find in Covent Garden and the only way you could tell something was going on was when the guy who was doing the sign language at the side of the stage was waving his hands around.
Oh, and by the way the biggest spazzers were the able bodied, everybody’s-equal organisers.
[N.B, Tuesday 22.30, I’ve just stood like a lemon for 18 minutes (I always note the length of time I queue in Tesco) in Tesco at Bolsover St and upon reaching the front f the queue, almost, one of the staff shoves past me / us with a blind oriental guy.
“Do you mind if I take this gentleman to the front of the queue?”
Now this is one of those rhetorical type questions that nobody in this day and age would dare say “No” to. Well I did.
This chap is one of David’s regular customers and gets the raging hump if anybody attempts to help him in the pub. So why, all of a sudden should he get preferential treatment in Tesco?
You could have cut the air with a knife. But he went to the back of the queue!]
Sunday finds me moonlighting at the Regent Street Festival. It’s now Tuesday night and my feet still ache! After last year I said I wouldn’t do it again and this time, I mean it!