Water Lilies – les petites lesbiennes francais

Being the big gayer that I am I eagerly invested in the last two available two tickets for the screening of Céline Sciamma’s new film Water Lilies (Naissance des Pieuvres) at the BFI London Film Festival last Sunday. French language, young (but legal, I thought) girls in swim suites and more than a hint of the lesbienne, were all good gay signs.

And, anyone who knows a lesbian will know there is nothing more effective than a good lezza film for getting Wah Wahs out of house, away from the cats and on a hot date to the local arts cinema. So, if you just clicked on that Water Lillies link, you’ll understand why I was far from being the only gay in the kino that night.

However, any dirty old lezza who thought they might be treated to a display of young-French-girl lesbian porn – a la Tatu – will have been distinctly unimpressed. If you click on this link, then you’ll understand why any dirty old pervers will have returned home disappointed at the lack of lezza action. This is another typical ‘growing up with my teenage angst and insecurities’ movie, but slightly more interesting because it’s en Francais and involves ‘synchro’*.

Despite the *synchronised swimming displays, swimsuit shower scenes and general abundance of opportunities for the young ladies to get it on, there was no lesbian action to speak of. There was teenage boy (with teenage girl) sex, awkward fiddling (which involved crying) and vast amounts of smouldering longing (ah, mon Dieu!), but that was it. C’est tout. Pas de saucisson.

Actually, wait there…I can’t believe I just included ‘synchronised swimming’, ‘swimsuits’ and ‘showers’ in the same sentence as ‘no lesbian action’. I must be losing it. OK, it was certainly weird – one of the three central girl characters was distinctly speciale, but the whole thing was positively dripping with lesbianism. It was like a soaking sponge in need of a firm squeeze. But there was no squeeze. And so, the film stayed dry.

It’s Sciamma’s first feature length film, so she can be forgiven for beating around the bush (oh, see what I did there?) somewhat – I’d be cautious with a cast of 15 year-olds, even in La France. And looking back, it was by no means the worst lez-interest film I’ve had to sit through (Better than Chocolate, anyone? No, I thought not…). But really, and this is a moan at the BFI’s advertising techniques, selling this film with the following still shot was more than a little unfair…

Water Lillies

Yes, that may have actually happened in the film, but no – it wasn’t a film about girls lezzing each other in the showers. I should probably add here that my decision to buy tickets wasn’t in any way related to the above picture. It was the French language and the assurance that Naissance des Pieuvres actually means ‘Birth of Octopussies’ rather than ‘Water Lilies’, that did it for me.


(Twist In) My Sobriety

I am currently being tortured by a medically enforced ban on drinking alcohol. Bloody antibiotics. This is the longest time I’ve gone without a beer since I had Glandular Fever and although my liver is doubtless breathing a sigh of relief at its recent lack of pickling, my mind is starting to go a little mad.

It’s been a challenging week – the highlight of which was a trip to Lounge. A sober trip to Lounge, with a group of pissed up lezzers. What fun! Actually, sarcasm aside – it was eye-opening. I particularly enjoyed the in-house cage fighting display, courtesy of a large and unruly pack of middle aged Wah Wahs.

I thought I was dreaming when I heard someone yell, “fight!” but no, sure enough, when I turned round for a Butcher’s the fists were flying. Two particularly aggressive and burly looking ‘ladies’ were being separated by the almost as aggressive and burly looking bouncers (who, thankfully, were male and thus strong enough to successfully intervene and sufficiently unlezzery to be totally impartial). Guess someone put their hand on the wrong arse. At least now I know what the ‘suited and booted’ bit of the ‘sophisticated night of tomfoolery’ is all about (Lounge’s words, not mine). Haw haw haw…

Eventually the sobriety made my patience evaporate (just after 12, so not bad going) and I dragged my pleasantly pissed girlfriend away from the tomfoolery (or what was left of it, post-brawl) and made a break for K-Town. Which lead onto the next non-alcoholic treat – a sober Nightbus ride home. This was a novel experience, but not one I intend to repeat any time soon. Drinking clearly does something strange to my senses, because I never realised quite how bad even semi-enebriated people smell. (Except my girlfriend, who despite operating under the influence, didn’t smell bad at all). For all the other Filthy Fuckers I have just two words – chewing gum. Or mouthwash perhaps. God, I hope beer doesn’t do that to my breath…

And another thing I seemed to have missed on every previous Nightbus trip is the obligatory wanker that gets on at every stop. If he (and as far as I can tell, this seems to be the preserve of blokes) doesn’t sit on the lap of the nearest (apparently) single girl, he will either fart, drop slithers of sweaty kebab meat on your shoes or do sick-burps as he slumps with his head hung forward, perilously close to where you are sitting, or more likely, standing. (Guess the girl equivalent is the obligatory pack of hens who insist on caterwauling a cappella Abba songs while fiddling with the g-string that’s ridden to full visibility above both mini skirt and muffin tops).

Fortunately, on this particular ride home I was looking distinctly un-single and thus avoided any such undesirable attention. Unfortunately, the poor girl in front of me wasn’t so lucky, and had to put up with some pathetically pissed man staring at her, mouth opened, as he swayed back and forth, all the way home. Nice. Happily there were no hens out that night. Oh, I can’t wait to have a beer.

That said, there is a small silver shimmer, which could almost call itself a ‘lining’. In case you were wondering what the ‘twist’ in my sobriety was (geddit – Tanita Tikaram?), when I woke up on friday morning I felt great. Unlike, I suspect, all those other drunk Lounge Lezzers. I’d especially hate to be the one with the black eye who was last spotted being fireman lifted down the fire escape stairwell, still kicking, still screaming…

Lesbian poppies, a legacy

Jealousy is an ugly, ugly creature – especially the lesbian breed. It’s a dirty vulture poised ready to swoop at the slightest hint of decay (even if both bird and rot are so fantastic as to be beyond the realm of Walt Disney).

Surprisingly I’m a classic case (not quite a basket, thankfully). Take today, for instance. The slightest mention of anything remotely predatory and my back is up – I’ve now taken on the form of a human Stegosaurus Rex (the meat eating sort) which is tramping around indiscriminately in a bid to bring the temperature of its head back down to something resembling normality. Talk about Metamorphosis. Tomorrow I’m hoping that Shaz will awake from unjealous (and thus unrestless) dreams to find herself transformed (back) out of the verminous form. The cheese-heavy pizza I just scoffed isn’t boding well.

Anyway, I won’t bore you with anymore of the (embarrassingly non-event) details, but I can assure you that even by the most hysterical hysteric’s standards of pre-hysteria, it is really nothing to get one’s whalebone in a twist about. And I’m not really wound up – I just needed something to write about. (Note to self: when reading Sylvia Plath be sure to dilute with Viz, Heat or the like, at all times, to prevent potentially damaging mind-altering tendencies – she was certainly on to something with those Poppies)

The annoying thing is that my brain has engaged itself with something that it’s not used to – or at least, hasn’t had to be used to for a while. Last time I checked I was most definitely an island. Yep, cliche. But, fact. It was all about me, me, me, my cameras and football. And my friends. Everyone knows that islands almost always come in clusters. What would Guernsey be without Alderney, Sark and Herm? Lonely, that’s what…

Despite me not being lonely in the slightest I’ve spent the past year operating on a permanently busy basis – to ensure I have had little or no time to even think about girls, let alone actioning any thought that might have slipped through the web-of-activity net. As I said, friends, cameras and football. Oh, and work – to pay for two of the above. Not the friends, thankfully they don’t charge me. But now there’s a girl. Not such a good net, afterall. And so of course the mainland is looming, I’m passing the football a bit more and my pals have been introduced. Don’t get me wrong – it’s all good. Very good, in fact. I’d even go as far as to say ‘splendid’ – but that wouldn’t be in the spirit of The Blog, so I won’t say that (here).

The trouble is that now I’ve had my first taste (in ages) of the light, I’ve stupidly allowed myself to nibble at the unhealthy dark side (of the moon). And, I can’t shake that image of the omnipresent predator – the vulture that hasn’t seen carrion for months and stalks you from not-so-afar, saliva pouring from its sagging odaemic jowls, as it searches frantically for food to feed its dirty mouth. Ugh. Talk about war wounds. Good thing I’m being rational and reminding myself that even the most ravenous scavenger would not feed off something that isn’t dead, much less something that’s [insert inappropriate Blog content here]

That said, I should really stop reading Sylvia Plath’s poems:

Poppies in July

Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?

You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns.

And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.

A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!

There are fumes that I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?

If I could bleed, or sleep!
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!

Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.

But colorless. Colorless.


A blog sans lesbians

On the very odd occasion that I write about work in The Blog it’s usually to slag off some poor unsuspecting (and most likely loser-ish) colleague who has had the audacity to irritate me (woe-betides them, every time). Thus, generally, you all remain none the wiser about my day-to-day job…

However, today I make an exception by allowing a fleeting glance into the fascinating world I inhabit within the traditional (37.5 – often more, never less) office hours each week. The reason? Well, today I observed some of the most impressively unintelligible public sector jargon I have experienced since working where I work. It was like something out of The Office but far far worse. (When I’m Prime Minister I’m going to outlaw the use of management speak, with capital punishment for anyone who dares to ‘run it up the flag pole’ or tries to ‘facilitate’ or ‘action’ anything. Same for anyone suggesting ‘user empowerment’.

This morning saw me sitting in a meeting where the sky (in some grey suited cock’s opinionated thinking) couldn’t have been more blue. This chap even suggested the need for ‘clear blue water between aligned policies’ to ensure that ‘affected camps didn’t appear to be trespassing on each other’s territory’. Quoi? Anyone would think these policy people were a pack of feral cats with an unmanageable urge to piss up walls…

So, once we’d all ‘squared circles’ and ‘locked down key points’ I headed back to my relatively plain English speaking area of the ‘Office. Only to be met by a telephone call from a journalist who, and I quote, honestly, informed me that she “wanted to top and tail it pdq.” Well, congratulations to her for making me sound like vegetable supplier (I believe they’re known as grocers…) Last time I checked the only things that got topped and tailed were carrots and small children at sleepovers (and the latter only in poorer families where there isn’t a spare bed). Believe it or not she was actually referring to an interview she wanted to carry out – I hope for the interviewees sake she doesn’t have access to sharp knives.

Ah yes, the ‘policy wheel’ was spinning today, as we ‘crunched through segment by segment’ and debated whether there was a need for ‘wet towels to be wrapped around collective heads’ while ‘sweating through the details’. Yes, really – I visibly gagged at the thought of being in a room full of sweating suits. Does anyone know what a dovetail or a silo looks like, by the way? And just so you know, this is a fully engaged scenario, so feel free to feedback your input – it will be actioned accordingly.

The highlight was at the end of my second meeting of the day, when the very important chair of affairs (rhymes so it must be true…) mused (aloud), “‘I wonder why we don’t have anything intelligent to say about this?” No idea, mate. But if I have to ‘bottom out another robust response after fleshing out the facts’ I may have to laugh madly (and very loudly) in the grey people’s faces.

FYI: Tomorrow I have a very important interview and as I’m sure you are aware, even the faintest scent of nerves/stress/anxiety causes compulsive blogging.

Lesbian wake up calls

I rarely give much thought to the first thing I think about when I wake up in the morning. This is because (on good days) I’m preoccupied with whoever I’m sharing the bed with, and (on not so good days) I’m too busy Running Late – simultaneously straightening my hair/making sandwiches/cleaning teeth/leaving the house (it’s hard work being a one-man-band).

Hence if you asked me what was the first thing that popped into my mind when I woke up this morning, I’d have to lie to make myself appear well-informed. Same for any other morning. FYI – I rarely remember what I dream about either. So, although logic tells me my waking thoughts probably relate (however tenuously) to what I’m doing/who I’m with/where I am, I still can’t remember what it was that crossed my mind when I woke up this morning.

That’s not to say I have a rubbish memory or lack attention to detail – au contraire. I can name all 50 American states, would win Radio 2’s Pop Master if I entered and officially rule the Trivial Pursuit roost. I also notice all sorts of silly things like the fact that “t’is” is an anagram of “it’s” and also has the same meaning. Clever, huh?

Almost as clever as the FedEx logo, which by a stroke of absolute design genius has a subliminal forward arrow contained between the ‘E’ and the ‘x’. Look: ‘FedEx’. Brilliant. (I should probably admit that someone pointed that out to me – but I can honestly claim that I have noticed it every time since)

Anyway, the reason for thinking about this previously un-thought-about thinking is a mildly amusing observation I made over the weekend: apparently it’s possible to think about a rugby match first thing in the morning! And let me be clear about this – I would never wake up thinking about Fiji beating Wales in the rugby. Who does that?! Bloody sporty lesbian girlfriends, apparently. Huh. And all this despite my (far more interesting) self being the first thing in eyeshot.

Maybe I’m being naive but it surprises me that sports (especially sport on TV) could take precedence over Me, especially if I’m in the bed at the same time. I managed to stifle my utter shock with a bemused laugh as she opened her eyes, looked affectionately at me and sleepily chuckled, “Ha, can’t believe Wales got beaten by Fiji.” Bloody jocks.

I’m now considering what obscure and un-girlfriend related piece of photography trivia I should conjure up to mumble at her next time we happen to wake up together. Or maybe I’ll break into one of my rants about Diane Arbus (hero, muse, fit). I certainly do not intend to lose a Battle of Affection with the Rugby World Cup