Dance & Drink & Screw

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Geek Killer

There wasn't enough gay in The Big Combo for me. It was included in this year's London Lesbian & Gay Film Festival under the flimsiest of reasons: two of the main villain's henchmen appear to be a couple - American versions of Ronnie and Reggie Kray, those infamous Eastend twins.  They share a bedroom (separate beds though), plan on running away together and don't appear too keen on women, but nothing's ever explicitly said... it could just be that they are <b>really</b> good friends.  Sadly, they didn't appear very often in the film, leaving a ridiculous plotline the job to hold my attention. It's a classic noir though, with private detectives, loose brunettes, dumb blondes and lots of bad lines.

Again, so lovely to sit somewhere in the South Bank, surrounded by lesbians, gay men and trannies of all ages and back grounds, sipping on a pint of ale, before going into one of the BFI's comfy cinemas. I was invited by my neighbour blu_bear to see The Big Combo and afterwards we debated which of the two possibly-gay henchmen was the most fanciable (consensus in the end was Fanny, a sort of meaner version of Jude Law.) We also thought the film had some great quotable quotes and a decent soundtrack, but was otherwise pretty boring and not worth watching unless you are surrounded by an audience keen on laughing at it. Might also help to smoke a big spliff beforehand.

It put us in the mood to visit the Lady Luck Club soon.

Rich celebrities like Paris Hilton get sent to jail for short sentences during the summer. No cameras allowed, not even at their arrival.

Non-entities like these people sign up for a short jail-term during the summer. Excessive amounts of camera allowed.

But which of the two shows does the public actually want to watch? The Simple Life indeed.

Creative writing exercise: Start a blog today and pretend that you are Paris Hilton's cellmate. She arrived in your cell today (well, last night at 11.30pm) and she will be doing time with you, in matching orange jumpsuits, for the next three weeks. Detail your life in prison with her. What kind of conversations do you have late at night when the moon shines through the bars? Is she a snob? Is she interested in getting to know you? Does she have salacious secrets to trade in exchange for protection? What do you do to kill time?

You can treat this exercise as a sort of NaNoWriMo, which ends when Paris Hilton gets released while you stay behind to rot in jail.

I went yesterday to my first (and only?) Christmas party this year. It took place in London's Southeast, supposedly near a maximum security prison, where the government has permission to shoot down any flying objects above it. The house in question stood quietly near a park, not too far from Plumstead Station. When I got off the train, I bumped into The Gay American. We walked together to the house, past Nee Naws and desolate subway paths.

There was enough food in the party to feed a troop of monkeys (or of escaped prisoners.) The hosts, Rosie and Steve, had mellow Christmas songs going, malt beer boiling and plenty of Pound Stretcher gifts to make everyone happy. More guests arrived after me, games were played, an entire bottle of screwtop red wine was drunk (by yours truly), and many many slices of carrots chewed. I managed to win a set of candles, which is fortunate since I think Suzi had planned all along for me to have them.

Suddenly, like all goth parties go, people had dropped their manners and were singing along to *Heart* at the top of their lungs. Suzi and I retired to the sofa underneath the stairs and gossiped, which seems like something we always do in parties nowadays. Paper hats were worn, pictures snapped, but thankfully everyone kept Christmas' spirit in mind and didn't expose their genitals to the room (at least while I was there). Bedrooms remained safely off limits for Lesbian shenanigans, windows remained locked against daredevils and nobody tried to crash the party despite the front door being left open for some fresh air.

Around 11:45, Suzi, myself and Aden left the party and caught a bus to Greenwich North tube. Plans were made for a future goth excursion to Brasil, where I'll be able to take everyone to Sao Paulo's one and only goth club Madame Sata, as well as the beach and my mom's farm (where the goths will be able to pet my mom's cows and horses, and breathe some good Brasilian fresh air.)

I gave my quick goodbyes to Aden and Suzi and ran to catch the last Jubilee train heading west. To my drunken shock, as I walked into the carriage I spotted Doris sitting down with some people. Doris was the first girl I became friends with when I was 17 years old and had just moved to Hong Kong. During my first weeks in high school, she sat with me in the canteen, as well as in homeroom, and was basically that friend we all have before we naturally find the crowd who will turn out to be our real friends. I did the shitty thing and dumped Doris, though we always remained in good terms -- even after she moved away to London, to a private school, but came back to Hong Kong on holidays and dated sailors. I remember going to a football match with Doris and one of her sailors -- a guy whose dream was to be a hairdresser (!?) -- and having a really good time. Years went by and I lost touch with her... so yeah, she was in the Tube last night... and I completely avoided her. I was tired, drunk, and she looked different, with her hair long and dyed blonde. But it was her. She got off at Green Park station and walked away without looking back.