Something has reactivated my LOVE of Kate Bush, particularly the 3 minutes and 40 seconds she spends prancing around in THAT white sheet, which could also be a dress. As we decided to actually create a club night and the ideas for what to call it were appearing, out popped Kate. Quite suddenly, ‘coming at me through the trees’ as she would say. Like the leg-cocking poutess that she is.
So now I’ve found her cropping up everywhere. She’s perched on the last ‘E’ of the logo (which I can’t show you yet); she’s in the corner of the poster wearing a dunce’s cap; she’s top of the playlist; she’s already been linked to three times in this blog. I hope she comes to the Disco.
There is a good reason for all of this. She describes (better than words) exactly the sort of dancers we want to come to the club night. Girls who don’t care, and look good because they don’t. White sheets are optional. And boys too, although they should dress as Heathcliffe, perhaps, rather than the Mighty Bush herself.
My latest obsession is the club night that a friend and I have decided to set up. This means that instead of thinking about girls all the time, I have a new angle to my personality. Music…and girls, dancing to it.
Which was always there – I obsessively memorise lyrics, collect CDs, follow certain bands, but now it’s being channeled into something productive. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages yet at the same time putting the fear of God (not that he exists) into me. One of the cool things about it is the need for numerous ‘Field Trips’ to other club nights, to pick up tips.
Observations so far include:
Wish – too busy, too expensive and it has a techno room. i don’t like queues and it’s hard to dance unless you’re in the techno tomb.
Unskinny Bop – can do no wrong. Last night it ended with “I Knew Him So Well” by Elaine Page and Barbi Dickenson. And it’s run by two of the coolest lesbians I’ve ever seen. We must never double book.
Club Jolene – nouveaux. And nice, although a touch too heavy on the hard house. A launch party with more hot girls than I have ever seen in my life. No room to swing a pussy and feels like it’s been fingered by the 80s. like it.
Another current task is building the website, which is providing my obsessively (used that word three times already) tuned mind with all sorts of exciting things to do, like taking photographs, thinking about images and trying to work out how to say ‘gay friendly’ without sounding like someone’s floral blouse-wearing nan.
There’s also the ‘indie’ dilemma. How do you communicate selective cuts of guitar based music that might include the Smiths, Cure, Metric and Clor without suggesting you might play something vile like Oasis. It’s hard.
Is it a coincidence that the names La Roux, Ladyhawke, Little Boots, Lily Allen and Lady GaGa all begin with the letter ‘L’? I’m sure it’s got nothing to do with the fact that they are all female synth-based popular music artistes du jour. And that it means their CDs all sit on the same shelf in HMV…
Having watched the Brits tonight I now have:
a) a new appreciation for the Tings Tings (and more strangely, American Boy, sorry, Estelle)
b) visual confirmation that Duffy has abnormally small feet (UK size 3)
c) white teeth ennui
d) autocue fascination
e) renewed LOVE of where “dogs run roaming suburban boys”
f) reinforced aversion to megamixes/remixes
g) silver leotard camel toe envy
h) a fear of Tom Jones
Apart from the fact that a few of my best friends are lesbians I’m really not that gay at all. Rapid mental arithmetic tells me that I spend most of my time working, taking photographs, watching 90210 and listening to music. I can’t remember the last time I did something gay – I even missed the last Wish club night because I had flu.
I know for a fact I spend more time with cameras than I do girls. Is that a problem? In fact I probably spend more time with Brandon Walsh than I do girls…
I do play a little bit of football, which is a little bit gay, but seeing as how the team is ninety per cent straight that must be statistically insignificant.
I was thinking about this earlier – mainly because Gaydar is failing me (and probably anyone else who is sane/fit yet stupid enough to use it) – in an attempt to work out how lesbians meet other lesbians for dating related activities in London. I think it’s really hard, even if you are a social butterfly with fluttering tendencies.
I’m yet to work out where best to hover. For a start, most gayers can’t see past the cloud of attitude that surrounds them. Those that can tend to present other faults pretty soon after opening their mouth.
It’s not a huge problem, as there are things I want more than dates. Another pair of Swear shoes, for example. It’s just I’m going to start getting a spinster’s reputation soon, if I’m not careful. And given both my Homies are entwined in relationship ivy I seem to have plenty of time to consider my own company.
All I need is a grey hair or two and before I know it I’ll have beaten my allergies and shipped in a couple of cats. Sadly, not the preferred choice of pussy.
I’ve just hit the wall with Gaydar (again). There is a strict limit to the number of fishnet clad out-sized asses, six-footers and hair gel-abusing pikeys that I can take. There’s also the depressing monopoly of unacceptable usernames involving words like minx, sex and flap. I know I’m on the fussy edge of the standard pot, but COME ON. Anyone for ‘kissflaps69’?
I should add that on the odd occasion that I don’t sick-burp at seeing someone’s profile picture and/or glaze over at their chat, they usually don’t reply. They are probably writing similar blogs slagging off the high volume of dull conversation, vile photos and all-round unsuitability of the website that implies you may have ‘what you want, when you want it’. Actually, I made-up the comma in the middle of that slogan.
Such was my frustration about five minutes ago I subconsciously hit the WordPress link and started ranting, which is something I haven’t done for just over six months. Clearly any kind of girl-sourcing activity, or related activity (read, stalking) is the driver for this blog. Clearly I’m back on the bus.
After one whole week of grooming Gaydar the nit comb is exhausted, not to mention full of debris. If I had an ounce of motivation left, I’d shake it over the bin to get rid of the scraps of flaps, specks of txt spk and empty egg shells from optimistically opened and curtly closed profile pages. Enough.
That my left hand is showing signs of RSI from overuse use of the ‘apple+w’ command is the least of my worries – my mind is seriously starting to question whether there are, in fact, any lesbians between the ages of 25 and 33, anywhere, but most importantly, in London. Jesus.