9 September - Sharks & Schnapps

It's official: I can go live in Iceland. Last night went to small gathering of icelanders and passed the most important test of all ie. the ritual ingesting of local delicacy: fermented shark. No, the smell of ammonia is not due to it being buried under ground for a few months and having been pissed upon by the buriers, but by some other chemical reaction. I was told not to smell it before I put it in my mouth, but you know, you say that and of course you want to do it. I figured it couldn't be worse than the smell of thai fruit the infamous durian. And it wasn't. It helped that the sharck was cubed into tiny pieces that looked like er.. any sushi you care to mention. So one went down and of course some smart arse had to let me know that I hadn't really tried the worst bit as picked a whieish morsel instead of the more potent darker coloured ones. So I picked one of those too. And it was fine. To be hones, the BF who has actuall eaten it before and puffin as well, oh and whale, said it would return in my mouth for the following day but it hasn't. Various checks have also revealed that it doesn't give you bad breath either. Hurrah! Or maybe it was the following schnapps that act as a cleansing agent. Anyway, there you go! Iceland here I come or here I return I should say. However, my 6 morsels are nothing compared to the full on Ms PE who had a dozen and thank god someone snatched the jar away from her. We can't decide if winter or summer would be best and want to do both. Ok, winter now comes first so maybe that's the obvious course of action to follow. After all, I'd love to go to both the Artic and Antartic so am not worried about the cold.

20 June - West End Whingers

Thank you P. for an excellent 50th birthday party full of vibrant and attractive people just there to remind me that it won’t be so bad after all when I get to – gasp – mine. However, gay men do hang on to their looks with much more ‘my life depends on this’ commitment than straights, and their female friends bar the usual totally fat and ugly fag hag, are also the ones that were gorgeous when they first met clubbing in London in their 20’s. So, really, too pleasant a backdrop by half.

We ate great salmon and cheese, drank a truly tasty red wine (I don’t touch the white much) and we chatted to various old friends of Toph’s from his days as a cherished roommate to the gays. The longest conversation was about the state of the Arts Council which seems to be headed by an old acquaintance of his. M. our friend in the know had not a good word to say about its relevance today and much time was spent bemoaning how Ken’s beloved ethnic minorities hijack it and its funds. It’s unbelievable to me that in such areas they still go on and on about issues of gender and the like. It feels it’s for people who never want to let go of writing their PHd’s basically and view everything from the Marxist or the feminist or the ethnic perspective. Ok I don’t know that much, but I think I’d die in that environment, I’d spend my days rolling my eyes and being offended by words such as ‘strategy’, long skirts and ethnic jewellery and superfunky spectacle frames. Yes, I am small minded when it comes to how the arts are run.

After the interlude, and before they closed the party at a respectable midnight hour, we got to dance like old spastics to Kylie, Madonna, Sylvester, the Weather girls, Abba and the small Parthenon that constitutes gay anthems. Such abandon! Such good shirts! The following day news reached us that we got good post party reports - I was an admired novelty and they still think Toph has held on to his looks, no higher accolade can be bestowed. And P. and his friend write this great blog about their outings to the theatre. The westendwhingers. Find it if you like and enjoy.