Gay Nazi Sex Vicar in Schoolgirl Knickers Vice Disco Lawnmower Shock!

They/them/theirs

  Wed 3rd August 2022

On Saturday evening I spent twenty minutes with a policeman at Temple Meads station, trying to cut the lock off my scooter. Someone had tried to steal it (from the racks outside the BTP station!) by using the scooter itself to twist the lock off. They didn't succeed, but the barrel was damaged in a way that the key wouldn't go fully, preventing its unlocking.

I had gone into the BTP office after I saw my scooter upended and the lock bent, simply to report the attempted theft and to warn them that someone who looks like me will be coming down tomorrow with an angle grinder to get the lock off.

The man on the desk heard my tale and came outside. After failing to make any impression on the lock with a pair of yard-long bolt croppers, he managed to unbend the twisted shackle back enough into straightness so that he could get the key in and release the lock. The strength required to do so this was considerable. I was impressed that a policeman was helping me release a vehicle that is illegal to use on public roads.

He told me that they had two people in custody who were caught that day attempting to steal bikes from Temple Meads. The next day, I saw a lock at the other cycle park at Temple Meads twisted in a similar way to how mine had been left -- but dangling open, without a shackle nor attached to a bike. My scooter survived with only with a few scratches. I was glad that I'd got an expensive Kryptonite lock rather than the Wilko crap and crossed fingers I normally rely on.


Had a right one on the train yesterday.

Rainbow coloured straw hat, rainbow jumper, and a belt with "No Pronouns" written on its buckle. He asked me if we had any oat milk, but before I could answer he told me how he has a lactose intolerance (really? how interesting, do tell me more - and he did), and normally takes five or six sugars but today he'll only have four. "No sorry mate, I've only got ordinary milk." Would you like a smack in the face instead?

The guard came down to check tickets. Rainbow Man started pestering him, regressing into a spoilt and needy child. He was demanding a taxi, because he'd spent too much time gazing at his non-binary navel to realise that giving yourself three minutes to change at Swansea isn't enough. He exuded entitlement. Or the air of some rich cunt, in the phrase which will later be used to describe him as we retell the story to colleagues.

The guard beckoned me over into the next carriage. "I've rung Swansea," he said, "and told them he's a pain in the arse."

Later, I checked, and noted to my pleasure that the train to Llanffychym left bang on on time and so it's likely he would have had to spend two hours wandering around Swansea trying to find an oat milk vegan biodynamic understanding latte. Although I imagine he rang his mummy and got her to pay the taxi.


Current reading is Of Human Bondage. There is, suggests a character, a certain dignity in forgetting. "It is better to have learned and lost, than never to have learned at all." Pessoa also has an epigram somewhere about the value of failure, or of resignation after trying -- even half-heartedly. It must be a much older idea, but it's especially apposite in this age of striving.

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There is a man in my room in the middle of the night

  Sun 24th July 2022

Back from holiday, to the din of the suburbs on a Sunday morning. The endless angle-grinding and sawing and banging deployed on houses that will never finally satisfy their owners.

My flight was from Gatwick at 0645, so I booked an airbnb within walking distance. Leaving the airport, there are signs for public footpaths which lead you over railway tracks in caged tunnels, and into a sylvan hinterland in which I ended up completely lost. Every bit of guesswork either took me further into the woods, or lead to a wire fence with barbed wire on its top.

After a long time of wandering, lugging my bag and feeling silly -- despite me seeing no-one, on account of my airport lounge dress style -- I decided to "retrace" my steps, if only I knew them. At last I came back to the terminal. I tried one more time and headed the other way, which landed me on a curving A-road where the only signs were for KFC and McDonald's. I gave up and got a big padded taxi driven by a big padded black man who was uninterested in my account of my peregrination, shouted from behind the plastic partition.

I settled into my bed. In the middle of the night, a man unlocked the door, went for a piss, then said "oh God! Sorry! Sorry!" And left.

The walk to the terminal next morning was a mystifyingly simple ten-minute walk. At 5am, the airport's bars looked like Bristol on a Saturday night. I had a pint of ale for seven pounds.


I spent a fortnight swimming, eating, drinking, playing cards with the girls, and reading -- To The Lighthouse and a witty John le Carré novel called The Naive and Sentimental Lover, which has a repugnant, bullying and vainglorious writer as its protagonist.

I bought Mel a necklace from the market, made from small tumbled semi-precious stones by someone in the next town along, who let me stumble on in my creaky French without jumping in in English. We went to a fest-noz -- a concert of Breton dancing and music accompanied by some pricey outdoor local food and drink. The cost of drinking out in France continues to soar, whereas to get sozzled at home costs next to nothing: a 25 or 33ml beer in a bar was anything from €3.50 to €5.00, whereas decent cider can be had from the supermarket for €2 a litre.


Back to work, and an online Health and Safety course, which has been adapted from an old Albanian Internal Security Department Torture Manual to see how much boredom you can stand. But then we got on to the Anti-Discrimination course, from which I learnt a great deal.

Drugs are dangerous for men. Ibuprofen can lead to brown ale and cod liver oil.


When a gay man and a black one work together, the gay man must avoid looking at the way that the black man is fiddling with his knobs, as this can lead to a nuclear explosion.


If you are accused of racial discrimination, you will be put on a very small chair at your hearing.


Ties on men can avert a nuclear explosion in a way that requiring women to wear bikinis cannot, so the requirements are different.

13 comments »

Good Pharma

  Thu 30th June 2022

One advantage of pulling a trolley backwards down a train is having a vantage point from which one can angle into women's frontages, and to see what everyone's doing on their computers and phones; so I slowed down as I passed a Fellow of the Royal College of Pharmacists who was wearing a brown v-necked dress with a scalloped black bra over-reaching the dress's seams. I come across as gay, which gives me an advantage.

She had this plastic folder of papers open, rectangular boxes and text. I was looking at her bra and stroking her tits with my eyes. I did a tilt of the head as I passed her. Smiling in a way that was probably too much of an attempt to please. "Any tea, coffee, refreshments?"

She wanted a coffee. I started doing the faff of it all. "So you're the lucky girl who's been sent to Crewe for a day out?" And she told me about a presentation she was going to for a recently deceased pioneering Welsh pharmacist. She told me about how he made outreach and inclusion efforts avant la lettre for people who wouldn't think of a chemical career. "Ah well you've got a lovely day for it," I said, to wind down the sex in my head, stroke, cock. My cock would be nice against your cheek before I pushed it into your mouth. "Right, that's two pounds forty, that's gone through fine, ok, have a good journey." I hope she understood at least some of it.


Sometimes I have quite a bit of idle time on the journeys so I read The Sea-Grape Tree by Rosamond Lehmann in one day. I get drawn into Lehmann. It's a benign addiction, to swim into someone's oeuvre.


I'm off on hols to Brittany tomorrow for a fortnight, with Kirsty, our daughters, and this increasingly large bunch of lezzer actressy girlfriends they're acquiring. It's gonna be ace.

12 comments »

Car Park Art

  Sat 18th June 2022

The company I now work for is a bit of a shambles in the way that they start new recruits. Emails go unanswered, and I had to wrestle from them my schedule for the first week.

As I was trying to unload my trolley from the train yesterday (making a hash of it, using the wrong ramp) I was upbraided by the Duty Station Manager who asked me why I had no uniform, no name badge, no staff pass, and no safety shoes. "I've not been issued with anything," I pleaded. He went to my superior colleague to confirm that I am in fact employed with them.

Later the same day, in the office, they dug around in some cupboards and found a shirt for me and name badge with someone else's name on it. So now I'm called Glyn.

On Monday, I was out for training with two men who soon discovered they were both Kurds. The younger one, who spoke in the half-Jamaican, half-Cockney accent that unmoored young men often affect, told me that this world is all temporary and that Allah is a God of forgiveness. Doing a little foot-to-foot dance, he told me that if someone asked for his last ten pound note, he'd give it to him. "I'd tell him to fuck off," I said, trying to slow this alms race of fundamentalist preening.


Trina came down for the weekend. We had an almost entirely enjoyable time. We went on a hunt in a car park for an artwork that was designed, it was said, for the mice, with little ladders, walkways, and mousehole covers, aligned on each floor.

On her last afternoon, we wandered into a protest organised by the local Hong Kongers, against Beijing's Security Law and Extradition Bill. Trina wandered off to the cathedral to use the loo. In an idiotic misjudgment, I decided to take the opportunity to ring Mel. As Trina returned I steered the conversation round to East Asian politics before ending the call. Too late: Trina quickly deduced that I was talking to Mel, and stomped off down the road.

From the train, she sent me a sad little couple of texts asking that I allow her to sever relations with me, and wondering out loud why she copes so badly with rejection. I couldn't think of anything to say that would be helpful, so I said nothing. That was a week ago, and nothing since.

5 comments »

Nothing to see here

  Tue 7th June 2022

My brother, knowing I am soon to be working in the only country that'll have me -- Wales -- sends me a touchingly unnecessary present of a Teach Yourself Welsh paperback from 1960. By Lesson 21, I should be able to say in Welsh "I was not playing piano in the parlour."


On Friday, being free from work until my return to the railway on Tuesday, I decided to scooter up to Westbury-on-Trym, a suburb that has a villagey feel, and is charming (for an afternoon anyway). I sat in a large park, stroked some friendly dogs, said some polite afternoons, drank a couple of bottles of cider and had a long phone chat with Kim. It was all calm. You expected Janet and John to come out with their mummy at any moment.

I set off to Mel's friends' house. There was a wee do going on with a couple of their rellies.

In central Bristol, on a narrow street just off the city centre, someone had set up a drum n' bass street party, more nitrous oxide than Battenburg cake. I went into the bar right outside the bottleneck created by the ten-foot-high speaker system and asked the barmaid what she thought of it. She wanted to say the right thing but clearly wasn't a drum n' bass fan. She said they'd got a licence for a Jubilee street party so it was all legit.

A bloke offered me some coke and tipped it into my hand. He said he could get me a half for twenty-five pounds so I went off and got the money, only to find he'd disappeared. Someone else was selling whippies -- nitrous oxide balloons -- which I find difficult to get the full effect from -- but I had a couple and it was funny seeing lots of people waggling them about in their mouths. It reduces people to children.

Time to go though. As I sped up a road, too fast, bit drunk, a little coked and nitrous oxide-ided, I swerved to avoid a pothole and then came erratically down onto the road. A car stopped and the woman asked me if I was OK, as did some young men on the riverbank. I so wanted to be polite to them, and return myself to sobriety that I said "yes yes", and asked the latter if they'd been fishing.

I carried on to Mel's friends' house but soon had to leave. I was shocked at the state of my bloodied hands, and was soon fading, trying to talk but making an exhibition of myself by doing so. got home, and went straight to bed. In the morning, I saw spatters of blood all over my tee shirt, and these stinging hands, short of skin, which still hurt now, four days in.

On Sunday I went to Mel's. "You kept saying 'it's a learning curve' at Tina's. You said that the last time you came off your scooter. Anyway, what are you going to do with those hands? You can't..." and she pushed her be-bra'd frontage forwards. When we hugged, I clasped her between my forearms.


I'm not over-keen on going out dancing by myself, so I post on a local forum.

There were many replies but none that have turned into an actual night out yet. Some people have said "come and say hello at my gig", but although I welcome the friendly intent, I wasn't fishing for invites to hang around a DJ booth awkwardly for five minutes before going back to the solitary condition I was hoping to escape.


Tuesday, and it's half past two now, when the second part of my online induction for my new job was supposed to start on the hour; but no signs of any activity. The company's inefficiency makes me think I might fit in.

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looby, n.; pl. loobies. A lout; an awkward, stupid, clownish person


M / 58 / Bristol, "the most beautiful, interesting and distinguished city in England" -- John Betjeman [1961, source eludes me].

"Looby is a left-wing intellectual who is obsessed with a) women's clothes and b) tits." -- Joy of Bex.

WLTM literate woman, 40-65. Must have nice tits, a PhD, and an mdma factory in the shed, although the first on its own will do in the short term.


There are plenty of bastards who drink moderately. Of course, I don't consider them to be people. They are not our comrades.
Sergei Korovin, quoted in Pavel Krusanov, The Blue Book of the Alcoholic

I am here to change my life. I am here to force myself to change my life.
Chinese man I met during Freshers Week at Lancaster University, 2008

The more democratised art becomes, the more we recognise in it our own mediocrity.
James Meek

Tell me, why is it that even when we are enjoying music, for instance, or a beautiful evening, or a conversation in agreeable company, it all seems no more than a hint of some infinite felicity existing apart somewhere, rather than actual happiness – such, I mean, as we ourselves can really possess?
Turgenev, Fathers and Sons

I hate the iPod; I hate the idea that music is such a personal thing that you can just stick some earplugs in your ears and have an experience with music. Music is a social phenomenon.
Jeremy Wagner

La vie poetique has its pleasures, and readings--ideally a long way from home--are one of them. I can pretend to be George Szirtes.
George Szirtes

Using words well is a social virtue. Use 'fortuitous' once more to mean 'fortunate' and you move an English word another step towards the dustbin. If your mistake took hold, no-one who valued clarity would be able to use the word again.
John Whale

One good thing about being a Marxist is that you don't have to pretend to like work.
Terry Eagleton, What Is A Novel?, Lancaster University, 1 Feb 2010

The working man is a fucking loser.
Mick, The Golden Lion, Lancaster, 21 Mar 2011

The Comfort of Strangers

23.1.16: Big clearout of the defunct and dormant and dull
16.1.19: Further pruning

If your comment box looks like this, I'm afraid I sometimes can't be bothered with all that palarver just to leave a comment.

63 mago
Another Angry Voice
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Clutter From The Gutter
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Exile on Pain Street
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George Szirtes ditto
Guitars and Life
Infomaniac [NSFW]
The Joy of Bex
Laudator Temporis Acti
Leeds's Singing Organ-Grinder
The Most Difficult Thing Ever
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Trailer Park Refugee
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"Just sit still and listen" - woman to teenage girl at Elliott Carter weekend, London 2006

5:4
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Desiring Progress Collection of links only
Golden Pages for Musicologists
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NewMusicBox
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Sequenza 21
Sound and Music
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