When I was a kid my dad would tell me that thunder was the clouds banging together.

It's 11.30 on a Tuesday in June.

Outside there is thunder and lightening, a storm is raging in the heaven's above Manchester tonight.

Rain is bouncing off the window and every time a car rushes past I can hear the wash off the wheels.

And the air is heavy but peacefull from the constant bombardment of positive ions.

Yeah Binky, I was awake for that science lesson.

I love the rain, I love the Thunder and and the Lightening.

It is a primal force that can never be tempered, it is wild and natural.

Natures rage unleashed.

On a night like this it would be good to walk out into the storm naked and let the rain baptise you, let it wash away the past and allow you to be born anew.

Ready to face the rest of your life strong and proud.

If you can survive the storm,the rest is just details.

What we get as we get older is more control over our emotions.

We are not full of the angst and longing that fuels out teenage years and whilst love remains very real to us, it is not all consuming.

I have posted about my longing to meet the right guy, to be struck by the mythical bolt of lightening and have my world rocked.

And this remains true.

But,

All along I have loved somebody, but the love is not to be returned, I know that.

He is a wonderful, wonderful man, strong and sexy. Witty and caring.

And so, so handsome!!

I have enjoyed wonderful sex with him, not just a quick fumble and a kiss but really good, hot and horny sex.

But I know he does not want me and that is fine.

I treasure his friendship more than he will ever know, I wish him all the love in the world.

My own special mojo.

homo mojo!!

And this is what I have gained with the turning of thirty. He doesn't love me and my world is not collapsing.

It is NOT the end of the world as we know it.

And yes, I feel fine.

Work tomorrow.

I've had a nice week off but tomorrow I have to go back.

I am determined to have the conversation with my boss I have been wanting to have since I detailed it a few posts ago.

I know I've been slow with this, mainly because I don't like this kind of confrontation.

But I do care about the hotel.

So it has to be done.

Shit.

I was channel hopping yesterday, with no particular destination in mind.

I ended up watching 'Maid in Manhattan' with Jeniffer Lopez.

And I enjoyed it. I got emotional.

It's the beginning of the end, isn't it?

So the village was quiet last night.

I had a friend down from Newcastle and he arrived at lunchtime , and had never been to Manchester before, and after lunch and shopping and some afternoon sex we headed out to the village.

It was warm enough warrant shorts and a shirt so we headed off about 9pm, tracing the canal as far as we could.

There were no geese, please note.

The Rem was busy but not as busy as it usually was and we stood outside watching the bears, the cubs, the skinheads, the twinks, the goths, the dykes, the hen nighters and the curious straights pass us by.

Oh and the trannies.

There were a lot of trannies out and about last night, I could not tell you why. I know as gays were not supposed to mock another 'oppressed' minority but I couldn't help it.

They were begging to be mocked.

So mock I did.

A bad wig and a pair of tights does not a woman make.I know this and I know NOTHING about women.

Never been with a woman and never will.But that's another blog.

After the Rem it was a couple in the Company Bar and then down to the Union for the 80's disco.

I adore the disco at the Union. There is something so wrong and yet so right about being able to dance to 'Don't leave me this way' nearly twenty years later.

But that didn't happen last night as we we're refused entry on the basis of our shorts.

I told the butch lesbian on the door that it was discrimination.

Shocked that she -a lesbian- could discriminate anybody she asked 'Against who?'

I replied 'Me. And my shorts'

I laughed, she laughed.We had a moment, we moved on.

The Outpost is not worth mentioning. It was horrendous.It is time the Bears in Manchester went a little more upmarket.

So it was home,but not to bed and sex.

But that's another blog.

It's 3.05 pm and I'm standing in line at the checkout in the Supermarket.

I've got one basket but it doesn't contain too much: milk, bread, some orange cordial, a stick of garlic bread and a small bottle of water to apease the thirst I'm feeling.

It's incredibly warm outside, the sun is at it's warmest and it is unrelenting. Here in Manchester the weather is always a hot topic of conversation, as it usually rains so much.

In fact a friend of mine from Spain has nicknamed the city Rainchester.

And when the water is pouring from the heaven's we wish for the sun.

The sun is here and we want the rain.

The air con system in the store is losing it's battle, it's just simply too warm, it can't cope.

So the store is hot and sticky and uncomfortable. And waiting in the queue is not pleasent.

So I'm waiting as patiently as I can, I'm drifting into my own little world as I wait, lost in thought.

I'm pulled back when a small kid, a boy, crashes into me.

He looks up at the mountain that has stoped him.

I look down. I'm not angry, I feel and think nothing and I'm just about to smile when the mother pulls him away.

As she pulls him she smack him hard.

He starts to bawl.

She shouts at him to stop, saying that if he doesn't she will give something to cry about.

He can't stop and she smacks him again.

And now I'm angry.

And I think you fucking animal. You fucking bitch. Leave the kid alone. Just because your life has amounted to a pile of crap, don't take it out on the kid.

She pulled him out of the shop, crying kid in one hand, packet of cigarrettes in the other.You know the type. Back to the council estate.

You know, you have to have a licence to have a television, you have to have a licence for a dog. But anybody can have a child.

How sadly true.

Camsex.

For or against?

Personaly I'm for.

Hey, it's sex and I don't think it's any different from the stimulation you would get from a porn movie or magazine.

Well, a little different, but in a good way.

The guy on the other end is live and responds to your requests.

Well, nearly all your requests.

It's also a good way to screen potential fuckbuddy's. We've all been drooling over a guy's photo and we have all experienced that moment of utter horror when the person who arrives at your apartment bears absolutley no resemblance to those pictures.

And no, the Trades Description Act does not apply.

The only time camsex is a bad thing is if your a soap star who has returned to the programme 18 years after you were 'killed off'.

Then it should be avoided at all costs.

Oh, too late.

I'm like this.

I don't get to see every movie I want to. Well, not right away anyway.

If a movie interests me, if I see a review in a magazine or read about it on website some little gizmo in my brain records the relevant tags and it gets stored for future reference.

Yes, Binky, I do posses a brain.

Take the 25th Hour for example. I must have a read a review or been party to internet chatter but it was lurking somewhere in the back of mind and last night when I was channel hopping I caught it.

And it caught me too. It's a Spike Lee movie and I have to say I'm not to fond of him as a writer/director. Nothing personal to him but his movies - and I have seen them all- have never engaged me.

Until the 25th Hour.

It's a story of Monty Brogan (Edward Norton) who's got one day of feedom left before he goes off to serve seven years in clink for drug dealing and he spends his last day putting his life in order.

At one point he is having dinner with his father and excuses himself to go to the bathroom - read for yourself:

(Monty walks into the bathroom. He looks in the mirror. In the bottom corner, someone's written Fuck You!)
Monty: Yeah, fuck you, too.
Monty's Reflection: Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama Bin Laden, Alqueda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place.
Monty: No. No, fuck you, Montgomery Brogan. You had it all and then you threw it away, you dumb fuck!
(He takes a breath and tries to rub away the words.)

It's almost like poetry.

Beutiful,angry,dark poetry.

http://www.theonion.com/2056-06-22/index_b.php

If your not reading this site on a regular basis, you should be.

Those guys over at the onion are -in the words of Peter Griffith- freakin sweet!!

Follow the link for a mock up of the Onion in 2056,and if you don't laugh, see a Doctor as you've probably died and not realised it.

Well.

I didn't go to London last weekend.

Instead I helped my mother and The Stepfather move house.

There's a running joke between my mother and myself, every time I see her I remind her that in 25 years of marriage she hasn't managed to find a divorce lawyer.

Long story, Binky.

Instead of having a cool pint in the Kings Arms,( or more likely outside the Kings Arms in the beutiful weather)looking at the many sexy guys and then going onto XXL I moved beds, wardrobes, sofa's etc from one house to another.

It was 32c.

And my parents have a lot of crap.

My mother asked me if there was anything I wanted from the house and funnily enough, there wasn't.

Like George slaying the dragon I slew spider after spider when clearing the two garden sheds and garage.

And I hate Spiders. The only good spider is a dead spider in my book.

If my inheritance is not secure now, it never will be.

Tomorrow is a special day.

Since I can rememeber Dr Who has been a part of my life , just as countless other science ficion shows have been, but Dr Who has always been top of the list.

A number one.

King of the hill.

It ignited my imagination at a very early age and I can remember being frightened of the Sea Devils and the Giant Maggots.That would have been 1973/1974 with me being less than five years old and the tv world that we witnessed from afar like council estate (not olympian) gods was monochrome.

As I grew up and left my father to live with my mother Dr Who was a constant in what was at that time a period of upheavel.

My mother would shop on a friday night at Carrefour just outside Birmingham and I woild go with her, it was here that I got the first issue of Dr Who weekly with Tom Baker grinning on the cover.

I would read it and re-read it every week and the weekly became the monthly and Tom regenerated into Peter Davison and the show become more popular in England than an ever before.

For a long time Davison was my Doctor. He was kind and intelligent,but no fool.

But his summer was a short one and winter came in the shape of Colin Baker.

In my teenage mind Colin Baker killed the show with his over acting and garish if not offensive costume. I didn't know or care for the politics behind putting the show on hiatus for 18 months, as far as I was concerned Colin Baker was found standing over the body the best science fiction show on tv with a smoking revolver.

Sylvestor Mccoy started badly but ended magnificently, adding a darkside to our hero, showing him to be manipulative and ruthless.

The series ended in 1989 but I continued to followthe Time Lord's adventures when Virgin produced a range of ongoing novels and the Mccoy got a second lease of life. When the BBC refused to renew Virgin's licence for the novels and instead produce their own range, I stopped buying them out of loyalty to Virgin.

I queued outside Virgin Piccadilly at midnight in 1996 to buy a copy of the video of the Paul Mcgann tv movie and I rushed home to watch it. And rewatch it.

It was good,but what was with the Doctor kissing his companion?

The movie was meant to be a pilot for an American network but no series was forthcoming.

It looked like the good Doctor was no more.

Then along came Russell T Davies in 2003. He promised us a series we would be proud of, not embarassed by.

Christopher Eccleston was going to be the Doctor in a brand new weekly tv series to be screened in early 2005.

Boy, did they deliver.

The whole season has been building toward the climax tomorrow, with half a million daleks poised to invade Earth and the only the Doctor can stop them.

Google dalek if you have to, but I hope you don't.

The last thirteen weeks have been amazing. I have loved this show, I have loved the TARDIS, the stories, Rose and Captain Jack but above all Christopher Eccleston has been fantastic as the Doctor.

He has become 'my Doctor' and tomorrow he departs the role only after one season. He will regenerate into David Tennant and the Doctor's wandering through time and space will continue.

He has recieved critiscism from some quarters of geekdom but I thank him, he has helped give me back something that was such an integral part of my childhood, the spark that ignited my imagination in every way possible.

He gave me back my hero.

I was walking through the very busy Market street in Manchester today, it was very warm and humid but not sunny. There were a lot of people rushing about and I was weaving through them.

A small bearded guy -quite nice looking- came rushing toward me and of course, caught my eye.

As he passed he looked at me.
I looked at him.

After about a second I Looked over my shoulder and he did the same. I walked on with a big smile on my face.

It was a nice moment.

I saw Batman Begins tonight.

*WOW*

This the Batman film we've been waiting for.

Batman has always been my favourite comic character. I like his uncompromising attitude, I like there's a line he's not prepared to cross but gets as close to that line as he can. I like that underneath the suit he is an ordinary guy with no superpowers, just his wits and training to rely on.

This movie - to me - is much better than the 1989 Micheal Keaton version. This is darker, grittier and in some ways more believable.

I liked that we don't see Batman for at least fourty five minutes, I like that Bruce Wayne has several abortive attempts at crimefighting, I liked the baptism of fear in the batcave with the bats, I like Micheal Caine as Alfred, Gary Oldman perfectly cast as Sergant Gordon,as was Christian Bale as Bruce Wayne/Batman, I liked that it set up the next film perfectly at the end, at the Batmobile....fan fucking tastic!!

In fact the only thing I didn't like was the Batsuit. It looked a little over designed. I get that it's armour, but it just looked like too much thought had gone into it.

But that's a minor gripe.

This is the second movie from DC Comics, The first being Constantine. even though I liked Constantine overall I couldn't get past the fact that the actual character had been bastardized, going from a blonde haired cockney inspired by Sting to a black haired Los Angelian.

Typical Hollywood, but I guess we were spared an encore Keanu's very bad english accent a la Bram Stoker's Dracula.

But If BB is anything to judge by, then confidence is high for Superman returns next year followed by Wonder Woman by Buffymeister Joss Whedon and Xmen3, Spiderman3 and Wolverine...

The future is looking good for us geeksD

A bear friend if mine from Paris came over for the GREAT BRITISH BEAR BASH recently and met a guy from Liverpool and they hit it off.

Liverpool went to Paris and they are now in love.

Makes your heart swell, don't it Binky?

I was chatting to Paris and he said it was destiny.

Hmm. Destiny.

Is there such a thing?

Is everything in our lives pre-ordained? Was I supposed to have a career in hotels? Was I supposed to move to Manchester? We're my relationships just distraction's from my 'destined' single life?

Gee,I hope not.

But destiny? I don't think so.

If we all have pre-ordained destiny's then surely we are relieved of any kind of responsibility.

Those poor people who went down with the plane, they weren't MEANT to die. It was just bad luck.

How can you convict a murderer if the victim was meant to die? Surely he was just helping them fulfill their destiny?

Destiny? No.

I'm with Luke on this one.

But if it is all down to chance and playing the odds then there's no harm in pushing them in your favour. If you like big old hairy bears then go and hang out where they do.

Sooner or later you'll meet the bear of your dreams and be in love like Paris and Liverpool.

LOVE.

Don't get me started on love.......

So.

Micheal Jackson has been acquited.

We can all sleep easy, the american dream is safe.

For only in the USA can a small black boy grow up to be a rich white woman.

I'm going to tell you a story of betrayal.

This is not a story of a lover betraying a lover or a friend betraying a friend, it's the story of a mother betraying her son.

Pretty heavy, huh Binky?

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin.

Our story starts on Christmas night, 2001 and it concerns two brothers - we'll call them Paul and Patrick. Patrick is the older, Paul is the younger by eight years. They have always enjoyed a fairly good brotherly relationship with the usual fights and arguements but nothing terminal.

Anyway back to Christmas 2001.

Christmas day had been a bit of success in the household,presents had been exchanged, a fabulous lunch had been served and generally the family was in good spirits.

After extended family had gone home and the Stepfather had gone to bed (his loud walrus like snoring could be heard downstairs) the two brothers sat playing a game of checkers.

The checkers board was the normal black/white square but there were no pices as such, just shot glasses filled with black and white vodka.

A shot was slugged back once it had been lost.

The game went on until Patrick made a comment about the Stepfather as he sometimes did. It wasn't a nice comment and Paul took great exception to it.

Which was unusual as Patrick had made many comments before and Paul had never reacted in this way.

I should mention at this point in the tale that The Stepfather was only Stepfather to Patrick and not to Paul, Paul was his son.

At 2am that night War was declared in the small house in Birmingham and the two brothers fought. Not with fists but with voices and barbed comments.

A lot was said that should not have been said and could not be taken back.

On both sides.

Patrick had always made it clear that he did not like The Stepfather. Secretly his hate for the man who had married his mother went deep.

The fighting only stoppped when the Mother was awoken by the noise and sent Paul to bed. Patrick who no longer lived at home slept on the sofa, with thoughts of cutting his trip home short and realising that he did not -and maybe had never- belonged to this family.

But with the morning sun came sobriety and he knew that he both liked and loved (although he would never admit this) his brother.

He was sorry for his part.

The mother may have sensed how Patrick was feeling as that morning she gave him a hug and told him that she loved him. This had never happened before.

Ok let's rewind a summer night in 1989.

Patrick arrived back to the pub to the sound of smashing glasses and bottles. Curious he goes through to the small kitchen behind the bar where the Mother is standing, her face crumpled with concern. Before any questions can be asked the small window on the explodes and a bottle of Vodka flies through, impacting on the floor and disintergrating.

Patrick walks into the bar and is confronted by a small man with a cricket bat, smashing everything behind the bar. In a second he is subdued by some customers and they escort him out.

He asks who the man was, he is told it is the husband of a woman who the Stepfather was fucking.

Patrick asks where The Stepfather is. Nobody knows.

Patrick looks into the small storeroom that holds all the bottles waiting to go on sale and he sees the Stepfather standing in the corner, his face to the wall.

And one word passes through Patrick's mind:

Coward.

We rewind even further to an afternoon in 1983.

Patrick has not been long home from school, he sitting opposite Paul, who is only five years old watching the TV and eating a bowl of ice cream.

The Stepfather arrives home, not in the best of moods. He mumbles something to the kids and Patrick sticks his toungue out to the Stepfather, but he does not see.

Paul tells his dad that Patrick has just stuck out his toungue.

The face of the stepfather changed and he puts down Paul and picks Patrick up by his school tie and throws him across the room, shouting at him.

As The Stepfather throws Patrick around -bouncing him off several walls- he calls him every name under the Sun and tells the already self concious schoolboy how fat he is and how useless he is.

The Stepfather is raging and shouting, telling Patrick that ''He is a useless pice of shit'' and '' A litte fucking fat bastard''

The Stepfather only stops to pin the kid to the wall and raises his fist as if to hit but the Mother steps in.

Patrick went to bed before 7 o'clock that night with no dinner.

And he cried.

The next day Patrick goes to school by himself as he usually has a lift with the Stepfather, but not this morning, he doesn't want it.

When he arrives home the Mother is ironing in the lounge, in front of the television.

He says nothing.

At one point she stops irioning and looks at Patrick and asks him when he is going to apologise to the Stepfather.

And in that split second with the question still hanging heavy in the air the Mother betrayed the son.

Patrick never did apologise and the seeds of hate were sewn deep inside him.

So.

I could go out tonight and yes, I do have a stitch to wear.

But I don't think I want to.

I seem more inclined to stay at home these days and watch a decent movie and have a vodka, I don't care if I'm home alone.

Right now I'm on the sofa in shorts and a shirt, feet up, laptop on my..lap. The tv's on, the volume is cranked up ( I have no neighbours)and well, I'm pretty comfortable.

I could go out. I could take a shower, get dressed, walk over to Canal st, see what the talent is like in the Rem, be disapointed, head down to the Company Bar, then head down to the Outpost and -hopefully- I would have downed enough booze so I would be feeling a little flirty.

Then a Kebab and home.

Hmmm Sounds like a plan.

But.

But I'm way to comfortable and I really,really can't be bothered.

No where is that remote control.....................?

So I need to have a conversation with my boss.

I need to call him into my office, close the door and sit him down and tell him that the mustard is no longer being cut.

Thats, right Binky, I need to tell HIM.

I have been wanting to have this conversation for a while now, I have been in a position to step back from the operation of the hotel and look at it with a little objectivity.

And sometimes, it's not a pretty sight.

I feel we have lost our way. Strayed off the path and away from the vision we had as a hotel.

Too many compromises have been made for the sake of ego.

And I hate it.

The hotel has been open a year now and even though it has been the most challenging thing I have ever done I have loved every second of it. When I moved to Manchester we had no staff, the hotel was a building site and we found ourselved purchasing everything from bathrobes to coathangers to teacups to luggage carts to.....well you get the picture.

He was the GM and we were all committed to making his vision real, even I , who can be a little cynical at times bought into it.

And we achieved a lot.

We opened a week early to incredible problems, everything breaking down. But we persevered.

Every guest that arrived was roomed automatically, we raised the bar in terms of service and guest interaction. We started with a clean slate, no bad habits to break. We installed every system, every procedure.

Every VIP was met on arrival and departure.

For the first four months a day off was a luxury for me, but I didn't really care. I would be there until all hours if we had a high profile function on, welcoming the guests and bidding them goodnight.

And slowly it got better and it got easier. The hotel was coming together and as a management team we became very close. We were all very loyal to the BOSS, he was working just as hard as we were.

In terms of revenue November was a bad month for us and I know he took heat from London. I sent him an email telling him that we were all behind him and whatever we had to do we would do.

He said he was touched.

Christmas came and went.

And then we had a new arrival from London and it was all change.

My role was to change, I was to take on a more financial, procedural role, focusing on the greenbacks and not the guest.

THE MAN FROM LONDON was to focus on service aspects of the hotel as this was his field.

He quickly became the number two in the hotel and for the first time there was some distance between THE BOSS and myself.

I noticed this.

Our relationship that had always been respectful changed. And sometimes not for the better.

After giving it my best for the first six months I found myself looking at other jobs and updating my CV for the first time in years.

As the hotel started to change, where once I felt an integral part of the hotel I now felt the complete opposite.

Where I would be fairly quiet in meetings I became more daring and offered opposing and challenging points of view, sometimes to the chagrin of THE MAN FROM LONDON

We shouldn't make good people 'redundant' and then replace them with somebody more experienced to make our lives easier. That is not the way of the company I have worked for for the last eight years.

We shouldn't sack people because of the way they talk.

We are the senior guys, we should grow them into their positions and develop them.

Clip them around the ear when they have done wrong and praise them for doing right.

There is no pressure in the system to room a guest or to meet a VIP and if THE BOSS doesn't care why should I?

But I do.

My heart is as much apart of that hotel as any brick or stone or tile.

I would sit in my office thinking about how I need to ask my boss for a coffee, to tell him that this is not the hotel that it was, that ego has become paramount when it should be the guest.

And the time has come to have that conversation.

I want to give him the opportunity to listen, to go and think. I want to give him a point of view that is different to what he usually hears.

He needs to hear a few home truths and Binky, it ain't gonna be easy.

For both of us.

I hate this kind of thing, I would rather run a mile than to have that kind of confrontation.

But at the end of the day if I am prepared to move on than stay there what have I got to lose?

No drama, just thank you and goodnight. I'll close the door behind me.

Wish me luck, Binky.

I got an email from a schoolfriend I have not seen in nearly twenty years.

Wow.Twenty. Years.

The passage of time does not seem as real as when it is written down.

He tracked me down through friendsreunited and I'm glad he did. We were great friends at school, the two fat kid's. Strength in numbers I guess and the two of us were about the size of four.

He's married and has two kid's, Harry and Emily. Beutiful names. I saw a couple of pics and Emily is sitting in a high chair, jam around her mouth, dirty bib.

Typical.

And please don't worry I'm not going to waste my time blogging about the injustice of being gay and not being able to have children....there is no injustice and I don't want kids.

But I'm happy for him, I'm sure he's a great dad.

Ok, pickup the antiquated personal stereo, open and remove the cassette.Read the label. ''ELO Out of the Blue''. Grimace with embarassment and toss it in the bin. Pick up the new cassette, check the label. ''Bronski Beat''. Much better.Hit play and fall into the music....

School for us was a grammar school called Lordswood Boys School on the Hagley Road. It was a school that traded on former glory but was at this point like a tired old uncle who refused to leave the party even though he was embarassing himself.

It was a garish concrete and steel establishment from the fifties that overlooked a huge sports field and the adjacent Girls school.It's one saving grace was that it had a an observatory.

A fucking observatory!!!

How cool is a school with it's own observatory - how many imaginations can be ignited whilst looking to the stars?How many horizons could have been expanded whilst looking toward the ever expanding universe?

Typically it got demolished with great relish by the teaching staff.

Thats right Binky it was a boys school, you've had your caffeinne haven't you?

It was a boys school but my sexual awakening did not happen there. But thats another blog.

The Great and Powerful Morrissey said it best when it came to the teachers ''..spineless bastards all...'' All of them frustrated and bitter, quick with temper slow with wisdom.

Sorry guys, your lives were not my problem.

But thank you for sharing.Not.

I surrounded myself with a small circle of friends that did not really change for the five years we were there. Out of the six of us four have turned out to be gay. I wonder if we knew back then? On a subconcious level did we recognise a fellow freak? We never spoke about it because even then the fear of public humiliation was as strong as it's ever been.

I saw my first real naked man at school.

Rugby. I hated Rugby.

On the cold winter mornings -and I mean cold- we would play rugby, on mud that had frozen. The sadist's who masqueraded as teachers would throw boys into the mud if they felt they were not diry enough.

I hated getting changed in front of the other kids 'cause I was big.And the shower was a total no go zone.

Anyway one day I had to go the gym teachers office after games (I can't remember why)and I knocked on the office door.

He opened it and as I was talking to him there was another teacher who had obviousely just come off the field showering behind him.

He was beutiful. Big, strong and naked. I was transfixed by his manhood, wet and limp but magnificant.

I confess to having a crush on a teacher during school.

A big burly bastard who taught science. Rugged in feature but truly handsome. He would drone on about molecules interacting and I would be wondering what it would be like to have my head between his magbifent thick legs.....well you know the rest.

I failed science.

Cassette has stopped.Eject.Side two?

Maybe another time.

Some days are like this:

Your duty manager.

Or Duty Booty as we call it.

You've taken your handover from the night manager , they've gone home to sleep and you've settled down at your desk with a steaming cup of coffee and the newspaper, you've just popped a couple of aspirin to fend off the usual hangover when your called to the front desk.

You appear and greet the guest warmly and you know by the look in the eye that they are not there to congratulate you on what a fabulous hotel you have, how nice the rooms are and how enjoyable dinner was.

She just wants one thing.

You listen patiently and you appear to empathise but inside you want your coffee. You give an oscar winning performance worthy of the greats. You apologise in all the right places and assure her that whatever the issue was it will be dealt with.

You smile warmly and touch her arm in a very informal way, as if to say ''I know. I'm your friend.Trust me''.

And then she says the line they all say. As if you have never heard this one before.

You remind yourself that she is only after one thing.

''This is not what I expect from a 5 star hotel''.

In less than a second you have looked her up and down and you always think the same and wish just once, -just once- that you could say it.
One day you will, one day you will not be able to hold yourself back.

She stands before you, jeans trainers, bare midriff, hooded top,big hoop earings, long hair with a braid and is that a Burberry baseball cap?Oh puh-lease.

And you think;

''What the fuck do you know about five star hotels? Stayed at the Dorchester, Lainesborough and Claridges have we? No? You do suprise me. Caravan in Bognor Regis is it? Of course it is. Well get used to it love, that's going to be your life''

But of course you smile, she's after only one thing and you just can't be bothered to argue. You escort her back to the Reception and instruct them to reduce the room rate by £25. You smile warmly and shake her hand, you walk back to he office collecting your oscar along the way.

The coffee is still warm and you take a mouthful. You pick up the paper and begin to read.

After a few minutes you are aware of somebody standing behind you. You acknowledge them and they inform that another guest would like to see you, to complain about how powerful the flush is on the toilets in the public bathrooms.

You take a moment but you don't think how petty this all seems, that there are children dying right now of poverty and starvation.That in the paper there is a story of an old lady who has been beaten and raped. A child in Liverpool is fighting for his life after being beaten and probably hung by some other kids. And this bloody woman wants to talk about how the flushing of the toilet saplashed her, and what are you going to do about it?

You don't think any of that, because as you smile and empathise all you can think of is how good that Gin and tonic is going to taste when you finally walk out of the hotel that night.

This is a great episode of South Park. Repeated tonight on Paramount Comedy.

In the future there are too many people so they decide to come back in time to present day South Park to work. They work for next nothing and before you know it they have taken every job in South Park.

How do the rednecks react? With typical South Park logic (i.e. none) they decide to turn gay so no children will be born and hence no future!!

Cue Orgy.

Sounds like a good plan to me

It was the Wise and All Powerful Morrissey who said that DJ's used to have the power to inflict record collections and musical tastes on the masses. Then along came the playlist and the order was issued by Mozza to hang the dj as they had become impotent voices on the airwaves.

Well Binky, that's what blogging is.

In a way.

There is no power in blogging, I am not forcing my views or opinions on anybody who has stopped by, I am sharing my thoughts, thats all.

I wonder if I could be as bold as to say that blogging is the latest and last pure medium. Would that be a valid statement?

There is no censorship and no editorial control (the editorial control is excersized by the writer-blogger- therefore there is none.). Every other medium goes through an editorial process or censorship, even public message boards and chatrooms have a moderator.

Could it be the last bastion of free thought? Wow.

Why do we blog? Blogging is a valuable oulet for the ego. We think we have something interesting to say and want to share it.

Whether what has been said is actually interesting and valid is up to you to decide.

And comment, if you feel strongly. Blogs have succeeded if they have forced a discussion.

I follow several blogs amongst which are www.silentbobspeaks.com (Cute Kevin Smith's blog) and www.wilwheaton.net.

He was the kid from Star Trek who is no longer annoying and is now a very talented and published writer.

Anyway, when all is said and done we don't have enough free thought floating around the web, so click on the link and start blogging.

We'd love to hear what you have to say.

I turned down a free ticket to go and see Elton John in concert in Huddersfield.

The Queen Mum of Rock and Roll in 'Uddersfield. The mind boggles

We have the band staying at the hotel and because one of our Reservation gals has a good relationship with the agent they were happy to give her about 25 to be shared amongst the staff.

So I aquired six (!) and my team and their partners went and I hope they enjoyed it.

Me?

I'm happy to enjoy a quiet night vegging in front of the tv and slutting it over at eurowoof. And Bearwww. And Gayder.And........

Well you get the picture.

Begin rant.

I hate it when you log into Gaydar and go into one of the chat rooms, click on a profile but there is no pic.

If these guys are happy enough to go into a gay chat room they should at least be happy enpugh to put some kind of picture on their profile.

AAAGGGHHH

End rant.

My brother Paul was going to come up this weekend , which was cool as he's a good lad and I can take him along Canal st and he's cool with all the gay stuff.

(Canal st is at it's best right now. The warm summer evenings sitting outside, the fairy (sic) lights in the trees, anticipation of meeting Mr Right hanging heavy in the air.....)

In fact this brings to mind a story - a true one. When I came out to my father -nearly ten years go now- my stepmother also told my two younger brothers. I was living in London at the time and on one of my rare trips back to Lichfield she showed me his diary.

The entry was simple but very sweet; ''I found out Neil was gay today. But that's okay because he is brother.''

I know Binky, I know. (sniff).

He's a bit screwed up at the moment - nothing too serious he's just lost his direction. He's graduated Uni but ended up in a crappy job he hates but doesn't seem to do anything about it.

I was hoping to have a big-brother-type-chat with him sometime over the weekend but now he's not coming, having spent too much money last weekend in London impressing his new girlfriend.

Girlfriends.eeewwwwwww.

So this leaves me at a bit of a loose end.

What can I do except do some eXtreme couching during the day and go out to the Rem, the Company Bar, the Outpost and indulge my inner slut at night.

I know, tough life.