tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51409042011-07-30T23:07:03.615ZInvisible StrangerCollecting Crises on Old Compton Street and Beyondnigelnoreply@blogger.comBlogger2781100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-71293920839373787732010-05-03T15:11:00.002Z2010-05-03T15:26:27.828ZSecond Spring in SohoOoh, is that a pansy I see sprouting seductively there between the cracks, my dears? God knows where the archives and the comments have gone though. Anyone got any Turkish Delight?nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1108028057009197122005-02-10T09:32:00.000Z2005-02-10T09:35:23.513ZMake My Bed And Light The LightI'm invisible, all right? You may have noticed. But shed not a tear, my little darlings, I'll never be a stranger. For I'll be around. It's just you won't see me much for a little while. That's what invisibility is all about, after all.
Yet keep your wits about you, and your thieving hands off my Stellas, and you might just spot me. That faux-naïf in your comments nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1104941566487339592005-01-05T16:11:00.000Z2005-01-05T16:12:46.486ZThings I Learnt Over The Holiday SeasonShowbiz-wannabe and actor manqué that I am, I'm a sucker for party games, and none more so than charades, as long as you remember just whose opportunity it is to seriously show off. (Song. Twenty-one words. Come on, my twinkle-toed dear, you really don't think you can catch me out on that one, do you? This theatrical Stranger can get it in one.) But please,nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1103553358830661232004-12-20T14:34:00.000Z2004-12-20T20:31:06.273ZIsland LifeAs part of his job as a money-launderer and part-time smuggler I do keep the most select company, my dears, you really ought to come out with me more often one of my erstwhile friends used to fly over on a regular basis to the UK, or the "Island" as he called it. It wasn't meant as a term of affection.
Depending on which piece of bad attitude he was sneaking through customs nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1102506923014081152004-12-08T11:53:00.000Z2004-12-08T11:55:23.013ZYou'd Better Watch Out…I'm flying off to Berlin next week for a couple of days. Regular readers will be aware of my long-time love affair with the city on the Prussian plain. You all must know by now that I'm really just an Isherwood wannabe, brooding in a bar, and searching for his very own Sally Bowles. This time, however, I'm particularly looking forward to the trip.
When it comes to the nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1102506660998945162004-12-08T11:50:00.000Z2004-12-08T11:51:00.996ZLove StoryHappy twentieth anniversary, darling.nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1102068252940207392004-12-03T10:03:00.000Z2004-12-05T00:00:04.676ZSmall WorldOnce I used gently to mock my mother's class and generation for spending their entire lives working, living, playing and dying in the same tiny town, often down the same narrow Coronation Streets, never thinking of venturing outside its cobble-stoned borders into the wider and foreign world Now, as I stumble dazed towards a crisis not just on Old Compton Street, but in mid-life too,nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1101905856737669662004-12-01T13:56:00.000Z2004-12-01T21:15:23.546ZAsk MeThese days, I rarely wear a red AIDS ribbon. From once being a badge of awareness and solidarity, it’s now been reduced to a mere token, no longer even a politically-correct fashion statement, and so common and everyday it's for all intents and purposes invisible.
And I don't want it to be. And that's why today is the only day you'll ever catch me wearing one. And I want people to stop nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1101398535001410332004-11-25T16:01:00.000Z2004-11-25T16:03:06.510ZMistaking IdentitiesI love shattering illusions, and altering the way people perceive things. I don't do it maliciously though. Well, not since I was a brat in short pants and I gleefully informed next-door's pig-tailed six-year-old there really wasn't a Santa Claus after all (although in later life I was to discover that there were very definitely fairies at the bottom of my particular garden).nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1101142404236675632004-11-22T16:49:00.000Z2004-11-22T19:05:46.343ZHere I Am In A Roomful Of StrangersA couple of days ago, I got a call on the mobile. It was one of those frantic Friday-evening SOS calls, when you suddenly realise it's the weekend and you've nada on your dance card, and where's the Queertown kudos in that, my shallow Soho socialite? Never mind though, when everyone else has stood you up, there's always Stranger. He'll never let you down, and nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1100798234213225982004-11-18T17:15:00.000Z2004-11-19T12:52:02.623ZThe Roar of the Greasepaint, the Smell of the CrowdThe Producers, Mel Brooks' smash-hit stage version of his cult movie, is currently the hottest ticket in London, with the homo-world and its shag-on-the-side prepared to sell their comprehensive stash of Class A's and Clarins just to nab a couple of tatty seats up there in the gods.
And for once it's a show worthy of the hokum and hoopla, the nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1100191397927004292004-11-11T16:41:00.000Z2004-11-11T16:43:17.926ZWaiting For My ManWhen the most exciting thing you're looking forward to is Saturday morning's home delivery from Sainsbury's, and the best fun you've had recently was an argy-bargy last night with some call-centre chappie from Mumbai, then reason suggests that, if you intend remaining a card-carrying Compton queen for much longer, you really ought to start getting out just that little bit more.nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1099048144531599832004-10-29T11:07:00.000Z2004-10-29T20:15:52.290ZClothes-LinesOver the weekend I spent a couple of hundred quid on a new leather jacket to replace the third-favourite one I've had for I can't remember how many years now (no, it's not this one – it'll take more than a twister in Kansas to part me with that particular piece of designer cowhide).
Now, a Brando I most certainly am not, and the closest I ever come to being a Wild One is when nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1098706586533622232004-10-25T13:11:00.000Z2004-10-25T12:16:26.533ZThe Waiting GameIf patience is a virtue then I'm Public Enemy Number One. I don't do queues, you see, and if my name isn't on the guest-list then don't expect me to turn up and grace some sorry little shindig with my strangeness. I've even been known to refuse to stand in line for the ATM when I was down to my last fiver in cash. And I once stormed out of a car bound for the South of France to nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1097842288008806482004-10-15T13:10:00.000Z2004-10-15T12:11:28.006ZSwatOf course, there's a plus side to all this sweetness and niceness lark, you know.
Bless, but Stranger is simply so nice isn't he? I always feel safe and secure when he's around. Oh my dear, I'd trust him with anything.
Oh, rather! That Stranger, well, he is just soooo sweet. He wouldn't hurt a fly.
Sppplaaaatt!
Er, what was that?
Dead fly.
nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1097755831580219072004-10-14T13:08:00.000Z2004-10-14T15:00:28.503ZCat And MouseA friend recently revealed that until she'd got to know me she'd always found me somewhat intimidating, and regularly approached me with all the enthusiasm of Christian in the arena taking Tiddles his tea. And that was so silly, she said, as she slurped on her second sherry, because actually I'm really rather nice.
(Sweet one week. Nice the next. If this carries on much longer thennigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1096898138876682352004-10-04T13:54:00.000Z2004-10-04T13:55:38.876ZSour GrapesSweet. That's what he called me. Sweet. Now, handsome I can handle, cute I can cope with, and should you ever desire to describe me as "mad, bad and dangerous to know" then you'll get no denial from me.
But sweet? Has there ever been a more saccharine, insipid, unthreatening and frankly vomit-inducing term of endearment as "sweet"?
And no, I am not feeling bitter. Much.
nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1096296347944316132004-09-27T14:44:00.000Z2004-09-27T14:45:47.943ZStranger Takes A TripThese days I hardly ever have hangovers. Perhaps it’s down to the quality of the upmarket plonk I choose to get pissed on, but the morning after the night before I'll usually wake up, if not quite as fresh as a daisy, at least more chipper than is proper for a pickled pansy my age. And even back in my old all-night-bender daze, I was always the one who never suffered the nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1095710264009886792004-09-20T19:55:00.000Z2004-09-20T19:57:44.010ZSaturday Night's All RightThe general perceived notion round these parts (well, Compton Street come closing-time) is that we metropolitan Marys all lead hugely hedonistic lives, mwah-mwahing our way from guest-list to A-list with our cutting-edge clothes and designer drugs, setting the standard in all things superficial, and generally shagging anything remotely resembling a member from a boy-bandnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1094826472714332202004-09-10T14:25:00.000Z2004-09-10T14:27:52.713ZSuits You, SirAs a single gay man, with a disposable income and a subscription to Arena magazine (sorry), I should be every fashion retailer's victim dream, the style-conscious Pink Pound in person, prime Patsy in designer jeans and 2(x)ist knickers, shopping till they drop and charging to plastic anything which is on a Harvey Nicks hanger.
Only I'm not. In fact, I am so adverse to the wholenigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1094130976449948712004-09-02T13:14:00.000Z2004-09-02T13:16:16.450ZCarry On DoctorIf your body is meant to be a temple, then I reckon mine's more ancient ruin than gothic splendour, more the weary, seen-it-all rubble of the Acropolis than the thrusting, virile grandeur of Notre Dame. Yet, in spite of all the abuses I've put this crumbling wreck through over the years, I rarely get ill.
Properly ill that is. I catch the odd cold every now and then, and the nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1093956671628918602004-08-31T12:49:00.000Z2004-08-31T12:51:11.626ZAdviceIf I had a penny for every time I've been told to cheer up, then I would be a very wealthy Stranger indeed. Sorry, my dears, but if you want insufferable chirpiness, and unbounded enthusiasm on demand, then I suggest you run off and get yourself a Bonnie Langford workout video instead.
Drama queen that I am, I would, of course, love you to think I am carrying the weight of the world on nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1093436277472496632004-08-25T12:15:00.000Z2004-08-25T12:21:38.696ZCome Fly With MeI make a crap Old Compton Street queen. Apart from the fact my hair is once again creeping over my collar, Madonna's currently my Mogadon, and I still haven't caught up with Queer As Folk, I spend far too many of my homo-hours outside the gay ghetto and in straight bars, certainly far more than any self-respecting scene-queen ever should.
On the whole, it’s fun being the only nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1092910394236077552004-08-19T10:11:00.000Z2004-08-19T10:14:48.993ZComedy TonightIt won't have escaped the sharper ones among you that I'm something of a sucker for a show tune. Give me a pair of tap-shoes, a follow-spot, and a row of chorus boys, and I'll put on a performance for you. Oh, sod it: skip the tap-shoes and the follow-spot, and you'll get a performance from me any time you want.
Of course, back in the old days, if someone enquired whether you nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1092752329175199072004-08-17T14:16:00.000Z2004-08-17T14:19:34.173ZInvisibleDon't worry, my children, I'm still here. It's just that I'm a touch Invisible at the moment. But you do know I'd never dream of being a Stranger to you, don't you?
Work. The curse of the blogging classes...nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1091797385364086832004-08-06T13:02:00.000Z2004-08-06T13:03:05.363ZFrozen FoodWhen I was young and pretty (and that's a thousand years ago), I had no problems making new friends, or even new "friends", for that matter. Most people on the London scene knew me, some of them actually quite liked me, and, at best, the others tolerated me even when I was being my most sickeningly cute. And believe me, no-one could do cute as sickeningly as me. Still can't, come to nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1091455038753596402004-08-02T13:56:00.000Z2004-08-02T13:57:18.753ZThe Machine StopsIt used to be just plants and flowers that died on me. I've only to walk into a room or a garden centre, and wisteria wilts and cacti cower, and it's never a good year for the roses when I'm around. Now it looks as though technology's had it with me as well.
My freezer was the first to go. I returned home a while back from a Saturday-morning food-cruise round Borough Market (nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1091016511447424022004-07-28T12:05:00.000Z2004-07-28T12:08:31.446ZOnly Make-BelieveForty years ago, and all I really wanted to be was Doctor Who. Sure, he was a cantankerous old git but he did get to travel around a lot, have exciting adventures in time and space, and save the Universe every Saturday tea-time. Instead, I settled for a TARDIS moneybox and a PVC Dalek playsuit.
At sour and spotty sixteen I would have given anything to have been Lois Lane. She nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1090487187446300382004-07-22T09:05:00.000Z2004-07-22T09:06:27.446ZSaint JudyIt may come as not a great surprise to discover I do indeed possess the odd Judy Garland CD or two. You'll find them filed carefully away in the "diva" section of my collection, right after the Dietrichs and the best of Gracie Fields, and just before the so-bad-it's-good Ethel Merman Disco Album. And yes, that's right, the crashing sound you hear is whatever remaining butch street-credsnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1089884186504647722004-07-15T09:35:00.000Z2004-07-15T09:38:01.016ZTake TwoThe more candles on the cake I blow out, the less I think about how old I really am. Anyway, there are always enough queens around who will quite eagerly bitch about it on my behalf, and wonder loudly what an eighties reject is doing wearing Diesel rather than Debenhams, and drinking in bars where the combined age in years is rather less than the combined price in pounds for a round of nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1088630062069599522004-06-30T21:10:00.000Z2004-06-30T21:14:22.070ZFirst PrideThere's a kind of hush over Queensville right now, as everyone stays at home, saving up all their pink pennies for this Saturday's fairy frolics instead. Last weekend was so quiet you could hear a pill drop on Old Compton Street. You couldn't move in the gym though, with a hundred Marys muscling in on just one pec deck, in a desperate last-ditch attempt to buff themselves up to nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1088003639610089522004-06-23T15:11:00.000Z2004-06-23T15:13:59.610ZNever Gonna Be Respectable?The first time anyone called me "Sir", I was sixteen, and the other person, a particularly sarcastic and snooty hotel employee, was no more than a couple of years older, and clearly taking the piss.
For people just don't call the likes of me "Sir". (Well, apart from one occasion in a deeply dodgy dive, and that was one of those, um, "special" requests it would have nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1087905486155227352004-06-22T11:53:00.000Z2004-06-22T12:00:02.803ZClean QueenBelieve it or not, I don't quite fit the stereotypical notion of a metro-nellie (yeah, right, I hear you say). For instance, my obsession with faux-zebra skin and my Warhol and Mapplethorpe prints aside, I'm not really one for soft furnishings, tasteful interior design and subtle lighting. There are, after all, only a certain number of ways you can stylishly hide the inadequacies of a nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1087303107786020252004-06-15T12:36:00.000Z2004-06-15T12:38:27.786ZDaydreamerI decided to take a different walk into work today, detouring down relatively quiet side streets, away from the hated hordes belching out from Holborn tube. Contact with that pinstriped, corporate, Metro-wielding lot on any day is bad enough; in this weather I really can't be held responsible for my actions.
So, unusually for a work-day morning, I was able to switch off totally, awarenigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1086956161098682962004-06-11T12:11:00.000Z2004-06-11T12:16:01.096ZMy Shout(I wrote this in a slightly different form a couple of years ago. I'm running it again, because it sums up my mood at the moment, and is a sobering reminder that, for certain Strangers, some things just never change.)
* * *
Apparently, I'm a Really Good Listener. Everyone tells me so. Most of my friends and acquaintances have at one time or another revealed to me their juiciest nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1086797330888452292004-06-09T16:06:00.000Z2004-06-09T16:08:50.886ZLord SnootyIn the Old Time, when I still naïvely believed that what matters is what you know and what you have done, rather than who you know and who you'll do it with, I actually bothered sending CVs out to potential employers. And when I did, along with all my other academic achievements, and made-up hobbies, I would always claim a deep and intimate knowledge of "popular culture".
I'm not surenigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1086114783448293832004-06-01T18:31:00.000Z2004-06-01T18:33:29.823ZFalling ApartAching where once I was shaking quite fetchingly, I'm still feeling the aftershock of a party from two days back. There was a time not too long ago when this gay blade could blag his way, and strut his stuff, non-stop from Friday night through to Sunday teatime, before getting home for a few hours at the PC, and then eight hours of uninterrupted sleep. Now, the pathetic pansy can't nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1085566987653898282004-05-26T10:21:00.000Z2004-05-26T10:23:07.653ZFears Of A CloneThis week, I chose to buy my very first Abba CD, rather than getting some obscure but ultimately rewarding World Music recording which I'd really have to work hard at to appreciate; and, in a particularly grumpy and snooty mood, I scowled at the middle-aged stranger who bought me a drink, while conveniently forgetting that I am also a middle-aged Stranger, who never buys drinks nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1084999440330025862004-05-19T20:35:00.000Z2004-05-19T20:44:00.330ZManifestoI know it was over five days ago, and it's already been blogged to death by the " title="troubled eurodiva"> best, but bear with me. I've only just easyjetted in from a few days with Sal and " title="isherwood">Chris round their gaff, and I'm determined to chuck in my two Euros' worth as well.
The highlight of my weekend away was, naturally, the Gay Cup Final (or the Grand Prix, as nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1084531228041607052004-05-14T10:37:00.000Z2004-05-14T10:40:28.040ZCheap Music Noël Coward got it spot on when he marvelled at the potency of "cheap music". Play Fauré's Requiem, and the greater part of the country will wonder what all the fuss is about and go off and listen to Kylie instead. But plonk Elton behind the old Joanna with a vulgar, trashy and totally apposite reworking of "Candle in the Wind", and he captures perfectly the hysterical mood of an nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1084207108539260352004-05-10T16:35:00.000Z2004-05-10T16:40:34.436ZWhat I Did On My HolidaysBought brand-new digital camera. Took two piccies before sadly realising neither my friends nor myself are glamorous enough for me ever to be considered the new Testino. Lost interest. Resolved to lose unglamorous friends as well, and get myself a makeover.
Decided to be Dead Cultural and view the documents and manuscripts on display at the British Library down the road.nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1083748578327869032004-05-05T09:16:00.000Z2004-05-05T09:20:36.326ZWake-Up CallI’m on holiday this week, and globe-trotting, Prada-clad poser sophisticate that I really, really wish someone would think I am, I’ve decided to slum it at home in classy N7 instead. This means that rather than being woken up at six in the morning by the radio, I’m now sleeping in much later, and the first thing I hear is the workmen, doing whatever it is that workmen do, directly nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1083510845720058262004-05-02T15:14:00.000Z2004-05-02T15:20:02.606ZKeeping Up AppearancesI’m a private sort of person. For example, I rarely invite friends over for coffee. These days, they don’t even get invited back for, ahem, “coffee”. In the past five years I’ve lived in my flat, I doubt the number of people to cross the threshold has even reached double figures. And two of them were the gas-man and an extremely disappointing pizza delivery boy.
It’s lessnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1083418380183412502004-05-01T13:33:00.000Z2004-05-01T13:38:25.280ZWell, Bugger Me…… as from today, I’m legal. And about time too, my dears. There's only a finite number of unlawful acts a Stranger my age can get up to, you know.
And Beltane's come and gone, and Todd and Karl have got it on, so I guess the blog-break's over.nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1082448378134579062004-04-20T08:06:00.000Z2004-04-20T08:11:51.060ZShort IntermissionI'm taking a brief blog-break. It won't be long – two weeks max, I reckon. You must surely know by now that I love the sound of my own voice far too much to stay away from that "Post & Publish" button for any longer than that.
Grown-up work, from being for ever so long a sweetly compliant, and actually rather cuddly, pussycat has suddenly mutated into a voracious, man-eating nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1082029074642089112004-04-15T11:37:00.000Z2004-04-15T11:43:45.686ZQuentin And MeI’ve just finished reading " title="quentin and philip">Quentin and Philip, by Andrew Barrow, a dual biography of writer and poet Philip O’Connor, and " title="crisperanto – a celebration of his crispness">Quentin Crisp, sexual pervert and stately homo of England (his words). I recommend it as an evocative portrait of London’s Bohemia from the twenties through to the present day, nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1081855877474216062004-04-13T11:31:00.000Z2004-04-22T20:38:02.310ZQueer Up NorthI’m a gay man. I realise this is hardly front-page news, and that few of you will now be choking on your coffee and wondering why you never guessed before. Yet I think this is probably the first time I’ve ever said, or written, those four little words.
I’ve never properly come out, you see, not in the conventional, “hey guess what?” sort of way. That was mainly because I’ve never nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1081428274124431272004-04-08T12:44:00.000Z2004-04-08T15:25:52.076ZVatican RagAt this time of year, I always feel a bit of a fraud, taking time off for a major Christian festival, when I stopped believing all that Roll-Away-The-Stone nonsense years ago. I think I started to stop believing when, as an infuriatingly precocious kid, I asked Father McCann why we couldn't do something for the poor people by selling all the pretty pictures in the Vatican, and he nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1081258132875887062004-04-06T13:28:00.000Z2004-04-06T13:35:02.733ZDrive My CarWhile waiting for Godot this morning, or rather the 390, which is more or less the same thing, as neither of them turn up when they're meant to, I decided it was about time I got myself a car.
It made good sense. I'd no longer be dependent on public transport, or forced to play sardines with the tube's huddled masses of terminally unwashed. And it would give me the opportunity to nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-108090364077103882004-04-02T11:00:00.000Z2004-04-02T11:04:15.356ZApril ShowerAt my gym, a new sign has just been attached to the tiled walls in the men's changing room. There may be a similar one in the ladies', but I'll bet my last Molton Brown against your Radox multi-pack there isn't. It reads something along the lines of: We expect all members of our club, which is a wide and a diverse community, to respect at all times the rights and considerations of nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1080649077472154552004-03-30T12:17:00.000Z2004-03-30T12:29:44.670ZBeing BoringNot content with stinting on the Stellas, I'm now seriously considering cutting the coffee, or at least opting for the de-caff variety. I appreciate the kick-start my tall Americano gives me in the morning, but I can never stop at just one. By the time work chucks out, I'm Starbucked with so much caffeine, that I'm kicking and screaming like a bronco rider on crystal meth.
Oh dear. nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1080219827357645122004-03-25T13:03:00.000Z2004-03-25T13:07:11.450ZAcc(id)ents Will HappenI studied Modern Languages at University. Back then we called it Frog and Kraut and there was always more emphasis placed on literature than on the languages themselves. All quite brilliantly useless, of course, even though they always came in handy chatting up Armand from Antibes and Kurt from Cologne. We read some great books The Tin Drum, just about anything by Zola (nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1080046088679086002004-03-23T12:48:00.000Z2004-03-23T12:51:29.513ZTime LordI've never had problems with being on-time. Quite the opposite, in fact. Sure as clockwork, I always wake up exactly one minute before my alarm goes off in the morning, my day is planned with an almost jackbooted military precision, and I have never once missed a train, a plane, or the opening of an envelope. Friends set their watches by me, and everyone knows I have a twenty-four-hours nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1079701990206919942004-03-19T13:13:00.000Z2004-03-19T13:44:32.623ZHomo For The HolidaysI've just discovered I've a whopping twenty-three days of holiday left, all of which has to be used by the end of August if I don't want to wave goodbye to them. Unfortunately, they can't be taken all at once, otherwise I'd be flying down to Rio before you could say "her name was Lola", and instead must enjoy them in bite-sized chunks. Still, with some crafty playing around nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1079445812071084442004-03-16T14:03:00.000Z2004-03-16T14:06:44.420ZLast OrdersLast week I opted to give up the Stellas and the sherbet for a while. It's a decision I take every so often, a resolution so regular you can set your Rolex by it. The difference this time was that my decision to detox was taken not in the shambles of an oh-my-god-how-drunk-was-I-last-night, self-loathing sort of daze, but arrived upon in the cold and sober, holier-than-thou light of nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1079095981162798272004-03-12T12:53:00.000Z2004-03-12T13:03:08.140ZRadio-GagaLately I've been listening more and more to the radio. Proper radio, that is, radio with joined-up words rather then the catatonic caterwauling of some pimpled and pre-pubescent Pop Idol reject. Radio as in Radio Four, in fact. Is there any other? For me it’s one of the best things about the BBC. Well, that and a stripped-to-the-waist Dennis from EastEnders.
As ever, the Today nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1078837466168491822004-03-09T13:04:00.000Z2004-03-09T13:29:10.996ZI Came To DanceOnce again several disapproving stares were shot my way in the gym this morning. Apparently, it's simply not the done (and definitely not the butch) thing to perform a little dance in the free-weights room, even when the song playing over the PA is DB Boulevard's rather wonderful "Another Point Of View".
But the boy can't help it, you see, for he loves to dance, and will at the nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1078753700375181912004-03-08T13:48:00.000Z2004-03-08T13:52:27.920ZBack To BusinessAfter a relaxing week's holiday, spent largely not doing all those useful things I should have been doing around the house (oven-cleaner: what is that for?), I returned to work refreshed, determined to face my daily grind with a smile on my face, and a merry little song in my heart. Because a positive attitude, well, it's the new black, isn't it?
No. Actually black is the new nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1078522365539824282004-03-05T21:32:00.000Z2004-03-05T21:35:43.310ZHere We Go AgainIn case anyone hasn't noticed yet, that ever-so-troublesome Diva has just gone and come back, hasn't he? (Oh yeah, and like he really went away, did he?) And about bloody time as well, is all I can say. Apart from: we've all missed you something rotten, Mike. Welcome home.nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1078429175489145192004-03-04T19:39:00.000Z2004-03-04T21:54:25.090ZRespectableToday I removed the shocking-pink faux fur which for the " title="invisible stranger last year">past year has rimmed my bathroom mirror, in preparation for its replacement by a rather funkier, chrome-framed and rivet-studded, gun-metal grey model.
With an aching heart, I realised this also meant that the similarly coloured drapes covering one entire wall would also have to go. And nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1078339800105153712004-03-03T18:50:00.000Z2004-03-03T18:57:14.560ZIn The Lands Of The North Where The Black Rocks Stand Guard…Wandering purposelessly through London’s West End today, I stumbled quite by chance on a VHS chronicling every last adventure ever experienced by these fine, everyday Northern folk.
Those of you who know what I’m talking about will know precisely why I’m talking about it. Those of you who don’t will undoubtedly sigh sympathetically, patnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1078162300471130512004-03-01T17:31:00.000Z2004-03-01T17:39:03.233ZOblivionThe fact I woke up today, on the first day of a week off, to face several empty wine bottles and two of Stoli, three shattered glasses, and one unbroken tumbler half-full of what I really do not want to know, several cut-price flyers from certain establishments of a very dubious nature, two undecipherable phone numbers which I really dare not call, a numbing headache and a nagging sense nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1077889536153891242004-02-27T13:45:00.000Z2004-02-27T13:48:24.246ZBig ReadAll the books worth reading have already all been read. Or at least it sometimes seems that way. Just a few years ago, you'd rarely see me without a book in my hand. No literary snob, I was a paperback junkie-slut, indiscriminately devouring everything from fiction to non-fiction, pulp to poetry, Trainspotting to Tennyson.
I was what they called "well-read". Why, my dears, I used to nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1077630034998213112004-02-24T13:40:00.000Z2004-02-24T13:43:19.170ZWaiting for The ManI spent most of yesterday at my desk, checking the Timex every ten minutes, impatiently awaiting the hourly visit of one of the mail-room boys, like a cokehead in the bar on the look-out for the candyman. No, my dears, this is not the start of some sort of hopeless crush on one of the office juniors. For starters, I don't do crushes: grandes passions certainly, full-on "Total nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1077285607772106652004-02-20T14:00:00.000Z2004-02-20T14:02:47.076ZMistaken IdentityStraight-acting is probably not a term you'd use to describe me. For starters, the fact I rather enjoy snogging and shagging people of the same sex is a bit of a giveaway. And while I'm hardly a screaming queen (and I'll scratch out the eyes of any twisted bitch who says I am), it has been observed that at times my behaviour can get a little – er, how shall we put this? – nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1077108879693285672004-02-18T12:54:00.000Z2004-02-18T13:32:18.640ZSongs Of The Old DaysRecently I've been updating, or more properly retro-dating, my music collection, replacing some of the crackly old vinyl of my teens and early-twenties with nice shiny CDs. The last time I played some of them was back in Uni days, on a tiny, held-together-with-Blutac Dansette record-player with one built-in speaker that had all the sound quality of a battered tin can.
So nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1076936234071194492004-02-16T12:57:00.000Z2004-02-16T12:59:47.233ZPoison PenThere are few other ways in which a Stranger can be better or more gainfully employed on a Monday morning than penning a well-considered letter of complaint, carefully enumerating one by one all the points on which a certain, supposedly trendy fish restaurant failed him the other night.
A maître d' whose welcoming charm and effusive joie de vie made me suspect him to be the bastard nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1076505633615047612004-02-11T13:20:00.000Z2004-02-11T13:31:32.590ZFirst Theatre Rant Of The YearFor anyone foolish enough to miss out on tickets for my current theatrical rave, the sold-out adaptation of His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman's already classic kiddies' adventure/ fantasy sequence/ sci-fi trilogy/ ripping yarn/ theological treatise (and it's all of those, and a mind-engagingly whole lot more besides), the good news is that it's returning to London'snigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1076345376207361072004-02-09T16:49:00.000Z2004-02-09T16:52:19.186ZI Wanna Be In Your GangI hate being left out. It dates back to my junior school days. Then, whenever it was anyone's birthday, the lucky seven-year-old was ceremoniously lifted onto the teacher's desk, and everyone crowded around him to sing "Happy Birthday" very badly. It was probably excruciatingly embarrassing for the person concerned, but I so much wanted to be that boy. But my birthday was nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1076073579787365012004-02-06T13:19:00.000Z2004-02-06T13:24:22.576ZIn DenialYeah, course I go there, mate, I mean, don't get me wrong, it’s not like I'm a puff or anything, but them bender blokes, well, they're all right once you get to know them, and they've got some blinding clubs, and the music's like real cutting-edge too, and there's always some fantastic-looking birds there too, nah, not lezzies but the actual real thing, some proper stunners too, yeah, nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1075911673420458322004-02-04T16:21:00.000Z2004-02-04T16:25:09.310ZPerfumeFreshly-baked white loaves crisp from the oven, and the early-morning aroma of just-brewed and nut-brown Columbian classic, and let's have none of that latte nonsense. A newly-mown lawn or park, or just about anywhere after a real killer of a thunderstorm. And those alcoholic fumes from the long-gone days when your corner boozer still had a proper cellar: as a kid, you’d end up pissed justnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1075735243117656542004-02-02T15:20:00.000Z2004-02-02T15:25:11.746ZMunchkinlandI am notoriously bad at estimating numbers, or weights or distances, in fact, quantities of any kind. I can't tell you how long is a mile, or a piece of string, and don't expect me to guess the number of jellybeans in a jar. I don't know whether I'm lifting pounds or kilograms down at the gym, and frankly don't give a toss how many holes it takes to fill the Albert Hall.
For so manynigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1075566052375432922004-01-31T16:18:00.000Z2004-01-31T16:23:04.983ZNight And Day"I've been around a lot of places. People do awful things to each other. But it's worse in places where everybody is kept in the dark. It really is. Information is light. Information, in itself, about anything, is light. That's all you can say, really."- Tom Stoppard, Night And Daynigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1075384245339822212004-01-29T13:50:00.000Z2004-01-29T13:57:01.873ZSome Things Which Keep Me Going Back to Berlin
(Apart From The Bleeding Obvious, Of Course)C&A
They still have a C&A here. And, you know, for the basics, it's actually rather good. Over the years, I've bought from here everything from leathers to feathers, and even once some rather saucy underwear, and still had change from 30 Euros. I cut the label out as soon as I get them home, of course. I nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-107529244605404432004-01-28T12:20:00.000Z2004-01-28T12:32:31.060ZDesperately Seeking SallySally Bowles would still be able to find her way home without much trouble. Even today, seventy-odd years on, and after a World War which flattened much of central Berlin, the house where she lodged alongside gay English author Christopher Isherwood is still standing.
There really was a Sally Bowles, the best-remembered character from Isherwood's Berlin Novels, and nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1074786410568764442004-01-22T15:46:00.000Z2004-01-22T15:49:49.356ZDon't Tell MamaMust dash, my dears. Sally Bowles, that foolish child, has just invited me back to her darling little place for a couple of nights on the town, and it would be ungentlemanly to refuse. I'll be sure to give your love to Christopher and Wystan while I'm there, and I'll be back on Wednesday with stories to tell. nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1074680035845559712004-01-21T10:13:00.000Z2004-01-21T10:20:19.560ZHands That DoHealth and Safety turned up today to give me a work-station assessment. I was touched by their concern, until I realised they're only covering themselves should I get struck down with RSI and decide to sue.
However, I'm pleased to report my posture is perfect (those nights spent down at Love Muscle balanced precariously on some Mary's shoulders not in vain then); and, hard as it isnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1074530633293938012004-01-19T16:42:00.000Z2004-01-19T16:45:49.746ZA-ChooFor the first time in I can't remember how long, I had no chores and nothing planned for the weekend. No deadlines to meet, no domestic admin to catch up on. My flat was so spotless my mother would approve, and even last November's ironing was all done. Each outstanding task on my "to do" clipboard was neatly ticked off, and I felt ever so pleased with myself. Two whole days to myself, nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1074173175504074032004-01-15T13:26:00.000Z2004-01-16T15:11:57.106ZDarkness Visible 2I love the National on London's South Bank. I reckon it’s my favourite theatre. OK, the concrete complex is so naff and seventies-ugly on the outside you're not surprised Doctor Who was once filmed here, on the grounds it looked like a prison camp of the future, but inside there's a whole different show going on.
There are crush-bars which are anything but, a couple of nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1074086566059034092004-01-14T13:22:00.000Z2004-01-15T13:27:39.326ZDarkness Visible 1Last night I saw the first in the National Theatre's two-part dramatisation of Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials novels. So today I should be offering a carefully-considered critical analysis of the performance, commenting on its fidelity to the original, as well as discussing the quality of the acting, dissecting the production values, and revealing what I really think about nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1073915791223371292004-01-12T13:56:00.000Z2004-01-12T13:58:31.576ZFriends In Low PlacesOver the weekend I had to act as referee for a friend who's applying for British naturalisation. It was just the usual stuff, stating he was of good character and gainfully employed, and had never harboured any mucky thoughts about the Queen's corgis.
To be honest, I was surprised and quite chuffed when he asked me. After all, there are so many others, some mutual friends, nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1073657481912498022004-01-09T14:11:00.000Z2004-01-09T14:14:22.700ZAnd On The Conveyor Belt TonightThe past couple of days have been spent clearing out my desk and immediate office space. Lest you think Mama Boss has finally twigged, seen me for the cynical, scheming what's-in-it-for-me sort of person I really am, and quite sensibly shown me the door, let me reassure you that this ludicrously early spring-clean is just the preparation for a major office move nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1073394996699770082004-01-06T13:16:00.000Z2004-01-06T13:18:16.233ZCalendar BoyI've given up on New Year's Resolutions this year. Usually by the time the blood's been mopped up on Albert Square, I've broken most of them anyway.
This doesn't mean, however, that I've signed on to sail serenely through 2004, rudderless and lacking ambition, taking each day as it comes, and ignorant of any glittering new horizons of opportunity. For, instead of the Resolutions, nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1073128908341454632004-01-03T11:19:00.000Z2004-01-03T11:25:54.060ZSmall WorldYesterday, after successfully refraining from out-Heroding Herod in the infanticide stakes at the HMV sales on Oxford Street, I bumped into an ex on Old Compton Street, someone I hadn't seen for about fifteen years. No surprise there: sooner or later, everyone you've ever slept with comes back to remind you just how desperate you really were in your gagging-for-it twenties.
Then I nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1072905900861680752003-12-31T21:23:00.000Z2003-12-31T21:26:32.890ZHere We Go AgainA genuine thank-you to all of you who have come, clicked and commented here in the past nine months or so. Believe it or not, it really means a lot to me.
And even more thanks to all of you whose blogs have entertained, provoked, and infuriated me for the last year, as well as those whose weblogs I'm only just discovering. Whether I agree with you or not, I know just how much nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1072792069309878442003-12-30T13:47:00.000Z2003-12-30T13:49:19.373ZReview Of The YearIn this fed-up, run-down No-Man's Land between Ch**st**s and the New Year, when the Royal Institution Series of Lectures is the only telly worth setting the video for, I tend to go into work.
With hardly anyone in the office, I'm effectively being paid for sauntering in and doing sod-all. Anyway, if I stayed at home, I'd only end up going out every night, having such a crackingnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1072634538646184882003-12-28T18:01:00.000Z2003-12-28T18:05:04.233ZI'm Coming OutDoors have been unsealed. Outdoors access has been allowed. A daring expedition onto the planet's surface (Selfridges) has been attempted. Results have been. . . satisfactory. Contact has been re-established with the indigenous life-form (well, a barman on Old Compton Street, but this evolution thing takes time). And the 390 is running to schedule.
Know what, my dears? I think nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1072285805522089712003-12-24T17:06:00.000Z2003-12-24T17:13:31.076ZBunker MentalityNecessary precautions have been taken. As of five minutes ago, all outer doors have been sealed and time-locked. Windows have been shuttered to block out the outside world. All electronic communication has ceased.
Emergency life-support systems are now in operation. The occupant will be fed and watered until such time as it is deemed unnecessary. Humbugs have been bought. nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1072187557711586392003-12-23T13:52:00.000Z2003-12-23T13:53:59.123ZGoody Two-ShoesJustin Timberlake dropped round my local boozer for a bevy recently. Unfortunately, I was at work and couldn't make the date. Not that I would have recognised him even if I had been there. As someone whose last-remembered Top of the Pops coincided with "Mad World" being a hit first time round, these days I live in blissful ignorance of who's in the singles charts. I've always been nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1072097533531521992003-12-22T12:52:00.000Z2003-12-22T13:01:47.640ZNo Socks PleaseSocks never held much appeal for me. Socks make my feet hot and smelly, and most pairs survive only three or four washings before my big toe pokes through them anyway. Most of the time, I pad around my flat barefoot, and rarely pull them on with my gym-shoes. I do wear them in the street and for work, however, mainly because, if I didn't in this weather, all my toes, and not just nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1071761392696131922003-12-18T15:29:00.000Z2003-12-18T15:33:20.623ZTerritorial RightsMost of you know I go to the gym regularly, usually arriving there just after seven a.m. It's an Achievement, I'll have you know. It's especially so in this brass-monkey weather and when you only got to bed past midnight last night, after having seen Matthew Bourne's Play Without Words, a modern dance piece set in Swinging Sixties London, and the sexiest thing I've seen at thenigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1071580050698916172003-12-16T13:07:00.000Z2003-12-22T12:58:38.043ZChampagne SupernovaAt this time of year, when most people I know are celebrating the birth of someone they don't believe in, I tend to get given bottles of champagne. These not-so-wise men bringing me these gifts hope it will make me believe in them this coming year, and push some lucrative business their way.
Well, I've news for you, my generous and scheming little dears: the Zanussi is nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1071418979157492672003-12-14T16:22:00.000Z2003-12-14T16:25:52.700ZDream A Little DreamLast night I dreamt I was flying. Nothing unusual in that, my dears: it's a dream I've had ever since I discovered which way is up. The dream dictionary informs me that this represents my quest for freedom and my urge to soar above the mundane banalities of my humdrum existence. Apparently, it also means I'm on top of whatever situation most concerns me at the moment. And nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1071159500936532812003-12-11T16:18:00.000Z2003-12-11T16:19:26.343ZIt's So Nice To Be Insane (No-One Asks You To Explain)When you live alone, talking to yourself is perfectly acceptable. Indeed, it's to be expected, if you don't want to turn completely bonkers. Sometimes, a decision can only be made correctly, or a thought process taken to its proper conclusion, when it's expressed aloud. Nothing wrong with that, is there?
So I've no problem with chirping nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1070982380155133212003-12-09T15:06:00.000Z2003-12-09T15:10:09.606ZThose Were The DaysFor some queer reason, it's assumed I have a up-to-the-minute grasp of the pop-cultural Zeitgeist. Work-colleagues all congregate round the water-cooler, like acolytes to my Delphi, for pronouncements on last night's must-see telly, and my opinions on the latest artistic vibe down Hoxton way.
It's all down to being a gay man, I suppose, a colourful and comparatively rare birdnigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1070552005764353672003-12-04T15:33:00.000Z2003-12-04T15:36:56.450ZCatch Of The DayYesterday was spent suffering with a funny tummy, the result of an evening passed with a cash-strapped friend at one of those all-you-can-eat-for-a-fiver places. I should have known better than to trust a "restaurant", which, despite having an Italian name, serves Spanish-style tapas, dished up by moon-lighting Korean students, and where the house red is Bulgarian gut-rot. Classynigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1070381195841521042003-12-02T16:06:00.000Z2003-12-02T16:07:29.606ZLet Go OutsideI leave home round about 6.45, to be at the gym by seven. After my workout, I avoid the Wild Hunt of commuters streaming out of the tube station for an early start at my desk, located in an open-planned basement into which no natural light is allowed to intrude. Lunch is rabbit-food snatched from the canteen (also in the basement), and the next hour or so is spent in the glare of mynigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1070285930367740542003-12-01T13:38:00.000Z2003-12-01T21:59:45.840ZBuddy's BlogI don't normally talk about my private life on this blog. Perhaps today I should.
When I first arrived in London in the early 80s, I was young and gagging for it. My life was one long shagathon, and I'd make more new "friends" in a week than I now do in a year, and I rarely enquired after their names. My arrival in the capital also coincided with the opening of the notorious and nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1069928330630857202003-11-27T10:18:00.000Z2003-11-27T10:19:37.310ZDalek, I Love YouLast night, a friend, far too young ever to have met them in real life, and only familiar with black-and-white newspaper photographs, casually asked me what colour a Dalek was. Only, not knowing any better, she pronounced it "Day-lik", instead of "Dar-lek".
After I'd corrected her and then patiently explained in great detail that it all depended on which rival faction you were nigelnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5140904.post-1069767380451983222003-11-25T13:36:00.000Z2003-11-25T13:39:49.326ZNorthern LifeI live in North London, no more than a whore's toss from King's Cross. I've done so for the past four years, the longest time I've ever lived anywhere in the capital. Over my twenty-odd years of a gypsy and rootless existence in London, I've had flats in the south, west, east and the centre, and even, for one ghastly year of mediocrity, in Twickenham. But no matter where I've hung mynigelnoreply@blogger.com0