Uggghh...

The hoo-hah has started. St. George's crosses displayed everywhere, and wall to wall 24 hours a day eat sleep drink football. Because as we all know, EVERYBODY in the British Isles loves, nay adores, worships even the almighty Soccer.

Except me. And possibly a few others (I'm looking for moral support here, Nottingham...!) I am quite looking forward to the inevitable period of national mourning/demands for the scalps of Sven Goran Eriksson and David Beckham, when England drop ingloriously out of the tournament.

I can dream, can't I?

Play sausage! Who has the longest?

After a little thought, I've gotten rid of that damn Sausage posting. I feel a little stupid for falling for it in the first place, and to those who also fell as a result of this posting, heartfelt apologies.

To those who created it : May the fleas of a thousand camels infest your armpits!

Unknown Territory...

After much cajoling from rock_bear, I girded my loins so to speak and headed out into the warzone that is Portsmouth on a Saturday night. Or at least, so it has appeared when I've been doing ushering duties at the New Theatre Royal. I decided to hit a couple of the gay bars.

First, The Hampshire Boulevard. Definitely one of those places where I felt the oldest person there. A lot of 'buftah buftah' music blaring out. The bar staff seemed to have little idea as to where the bears hung out. I sighed, and finished my Southern Comfort and lemonade.

Headed off to The Old Vic. Bit more of a mixed crowd - at least one transvestite with fag hag, and a few more of advanced years. And a decent juke box. But still no bears.

I have a horrible feeling I'm going to have to bite the bullet one of these days and head out to Marthas on Commercial Road - from what I've heard, it's where all the pretty boys go. Oh well...