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This is the first in an occasional series in which we let It Was Ever Thus explore some aspect of contemporary life. Here he muses on the pursuit of Pilates amongst certain posh postcodes of London. I find his musings edgy, occasionally sweet and sometimes difficult to take.
Like snorting sherbet. We hope you like it too….
Cellular Memory
We apologise in advance to those who might have Googled ‘cellular memory’ in search of stories relating to bits of other peoples bodies inside them (which is to say bits within and not bits attached to others without – that’s an entirely separate and, frankly, somewhat oversubscribed internet category). We speak here of the memory of what we physically had which like most memories is distorted by present events so as it may more accurately reflect what we might have always wanted to be. 
In thus fashion has an industry been created to cater to this memory or aspiration to memory. I exclude from this discussion those fat kids who in memory terms remain forever rotund and though possessed of bodies of the gods have that forever goblin on their shoulder to remind them of the skin sloughed off . You can usually identify this person through their baton-charge-ugly lover who clearly would never leave them out of sheer gratitude.
As with most things the gay man takes the premise and ramps it up – why be interesting when you can be FABULOUS? So the protein shake guzzling, chicken breast eating, is-this-fennel-is-their-fat-in-fennel faggot is the guy in the artfully-coordinated gym gear with the just out of bed tousled hair that took three hours to gel into place. He has the body born to be displayed at Vauxhall, and while much of it is achieved through pain and sheer dint of will, much is also achieved through mechanisms that make his donor card an accessory rather than something that will be executed on.
The day will come when the Vauxhall arches close in, the spotty back not such a good look, the porn star coupling with fellow hard bodies easily achieved but maintained with difficulty. The lure of the North London dinner party and arch conversation over glass tables proves irresistible and, while he yields the bitch tits to the mists of time, his cellular memory convinces him that toning and stretching and paying sixty quid an hour will somehow hold and encage the inner fat child reasserting his dominance over your gay middle ages.
Welcome to Pilates.
Feargal: Man should not lie with man. It says so in Leviticus!
Natalie: I think many men should lie with many men…. next to me.
If you have a spare 25 mins, you could do a lot worse and watch two people getting hitched.
It was a textbook example of a beautiful and fun day. The sun shone magnificently. The guests were jovial and witty (and patient with yours truly shoving my Flip in their faces).
And the two grooms were handsome and genuinely full of love.
If I get married, I’d like it to be like this.
Congratulations again, boys! xx
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Fourth Plinth july 28th 10am, originally uploaded by Lilac Bonzai.
I haven’t been selected for Anthony Gormley’s Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square yet, but this guy will take some beating.
Ouch. Poor Jeremy Hunt, Conservative MP. Not only does he have a surname that lends itself to all sorts of nasty rhymes, but he was selected to address the spangly crowd in Trafalgar Square at London Pride. 
The line up at Pride tends towards the cheesy (anyone remember Sheila’s Wheels a couple of years ago?) and one could be forgiven that the crowd will cheer for just about anyone who goes onstage as long as there’s a rainbow Union Jack nearby and sunshine, but, the gays, it would appear, can remember things.
The ever-erudite It Was Ever Thus puts it well:
The Idiot Leader is a barely acceptable face to what remains fundamentally the same old nasty party. Allied with right to extreme right parties in Europe who’s national governments would consider section 28 a wimps charter, they continue their dog whistle approach to courting the base elements in the British character – “family” values, immigration, Europe, fat cat public servants and the same tired nonsense they spouted for 18 years, buying the votes of the populace while destroying the infrastructure of the state.
The Idiot Leader as recently as 2002 voted for the retention of Section 28. Not abstained, not held his nose and voted with the whip, voted in favour. I know it seems a tired cliché but take section 28 and play around with the gay bit to replace with black, Jew, woman, African, catholic.
WebCameron, we can embrace Denise (Ex of Five Star) and atrocious hi-NGR covers of Sex On Fire, but we can see through you.
Watch the full bottling, booing and general middle finger disapproval right here:
More on this story in Pinknews.co.uk.
Well, that was a blast.
Thanks to the 70+ people who came to the party, did nice things, boogied, nattered, helped with the shopping and clean-up, commandeered the music (grrr…), conked out on horizontal surfaces, wore gorgeous frocks, didn’t freak out the neighbours (much), gave their tributes to Farrah & MJ (see above), engaged in witty banter, were welcoming to people they didn’t know, stayed up all night, travelled from different countries, modelled their Slankets and Lycra, made tea, didn’t require ambulances, were devilishly handsome, crushed ice, helped themselves, and generally were a very fricking groovy bunch of lovely people.
A&E
xxxx
It was ace.
I know they are a bit tetchy about people making recordings at gigs, but these lo-fi, wobbly moments really shouldn’t be anything to be concerned about. It’ll help me remember what was a fantastic night from an act who are still managing to surprise and innovate 25 years on.
Well done, guys!
Best bit: Neil’s cube head when he came on stage. Kerazy!
It’s gig time and tomorrow night I see the Pets for the fourth time live in concert.
The first time was in 1999 in The Point in Dublin (now reborn as the O2 incidentally) avec the Mexican Ex (henceforth known as t’ExMex). It wasn’t a sellout and they barely filled half the venue. Oopsies! They were pretty good though.
The second time was in London at the Astoria (RIP) for their Release tour. Again with t’ExMex. Amazingly that was my first ever visit to London, where I now live! ‘Acoustic’ and great atmosphere.
Fast forward to 2007 and a Hallowe’en gig back in Dublin. Are we not jolly. Gig was great but a slight bit lifeless at times. Still, we looked utterly deranged in our outfits, no?
And now it’s time to see them in the monster venue of the o2. 16,000 sellout it appears. Who would have thought, eh?
I’ve heard no reports of the gigs so far, but the vids on YouTube at least look impressive. The Boys themselves are a bit grouchy about people making shaky video recordings on phones and Flips (hee hee), but we shall forgive them as they are getting on and no doubt a bit precious. (They have embraced Twitter though, which is pretty impressive.)
So, just to annoy them, here’s The Way It Used To Be and Jealousy from Moscow.
The things one sees on the way back from Waitrose. This is attached to Whitecross Gallery on Whitecross St, just across the road from where I live. Brats…
Fourteen miniature sombreros that say ‘Viva Mexico’. Quite why and how these have existed in the back of my wardrobe for almost eight years is beyond me, but there you have it.
And now I’m trying to finalise my move to London by sorting out what is essential, what can be recycled, what can be given to charity and what can be trashed.
- My cd collection has been reduced by about 40%.
- Books will be axed by about 75%.
- Clothes halved.
These categories are straightforward enough, but what of the other things that one uncovers? The artefacts of my pre-digital life?
- The envelope stuffed with boarding passes, receipts, stubs and other paraphernalia from old holidays?
- The rather cheap and nasty incomplete set of kitchen knives I had completely forgotten?
- Old Valentine’s, birthday and Christmas cards, wedding invites, letters from people who once figured more prominently in my life?
- My first iPod? MiniDisc player? Cassettes of those songs taped from the radio? Floppy discs?
Sorting and sifting through all this stuff does bring one back through the years and one can’t help but marvel at how quickly things change and we move on. Some friendships have distilled and improved, and new people have arrived on the scene. Some that were once a huge part of one’s life have moved on while others have been, ahem, ’set free’.
But the music shall last. That has remained a constant in my life since about 1978!
Right, scorched earth policy, I say.
The fucking sombreros are toast.
