terracotta homicide
Where were we? Oh, yes, last week…
Friday evening, after a gym workout with Udo, the not-hot-but-thats-ok personal trainer that involved kettlebells, bruised wrists, sweating, heart racing and a pounding thump-thump-thump that turned out to be my heart, rather than the latest club tracks, was a quiet and civilised evening that began at the Mucky Duck with a glass or two of Champagne to celebrate the upcoming new beginning, moved on to a fab Belgian Beer place that sold Strawberry flavoured beer (less cloying than, say, Pear Cider, but still not something you want to drink all night), and where we (a few founder members of the BTS, and a couple of newbies) stood outside in the deepening early autumn night talking shit, laughing, and badly hiding our fears for the future. At least three of us - yours truly included - are about to embark on major life changes. All of us have elected to make the changes; still, none of us can pretend that the decision comes with absolutely no qualms whatsoever.
It’s the Clash all over again - should I stay or should I go? But you know what? Only you can answer that question. Only you can decide, and, once decided, the views and opinions of others - whether they contradict or match your own - are merely the background noise. The fear of the unknown - of failure, perhaps - or simply our own lack of confidence, keeps us listening to the background noise long after we should be hearing only the whoooosh of our own wings taking us to higher and better places.
So we decided: “Go soaring, my friend, but don’t lose radio contact with those of us still circling the airport.” It’s one of my own fears, and a truly truly stupid one at that: Will I lose these Friday night friends, who have become so much more than Friday night friends? Stupid because, of course, we can only lose each other if we let it happen. My new job - the one that I’m already almost-unconsciously accepting will be long hours - could kill my social life. But it won’t. ‘Cos I won’t let it. Must. Stop. Being. Such. A Freakin’. Pussy.
So, after the quiet and civilised (only two broken glasses, one spilled pint, three cigarette burns and a slightly over-matey straight boy to contend with 
) evening, I made it home by 5am. Long story involving cab rides, missed trains, more cab rides, and hanging out in London’s less salubrious areas for way longer than felt nice…
Saturday, whilst D trooped off to the Gym I had a lie-in. Unsurprisingly. What was surprising, however, was that, on rising in the early afternoon, I was so productive: had a haircut, did a full grocery shop, put away groceries, made dinner, did laundry (well, split that part with D), sorted some paperwork out. All in all, considering I should have been in a post-alcoholic sludge fest, very well done.
Saturday night, watched ‘The Night Listener.’ It’s the first dvd I got from lovefilm.com. Now, I debated about joining an online subscription dvd service. I don’t watch that many movies, I never get to the cinema to see what I want to see, and there’s so much time between my visits to the local Blockbuster that I always end up having to rejoin because they’ve purged my name from the records. But I figured ‘nothing ventured…’ Besides, they had a bunch of the less obvious movies that I wanted to see, and I can select the gay’lesbian section (not that I’m all-gay-all-the-time; but if all I want is Hollywood Blockbusters, I can wait for them to appear on cable) far easier than I can at the Blockbusters in The Valley of the Trolley Dollies. (Where, strangely, the Gay/Lesbian selection always seems to consist of ‘My beautiful Laundrette,’ ‘Gigi,’ and ‘The Merchant Ivory collection.’) Mind you, I think Lovefilm probably has those on the g/l list too.
I’ve prebooked a bunch of movies, and this weekends films were the aforementioned ‘Night Listener,’ in which Robin Williams is very very good. For once, he only does those stupid overacting voices that worked so well in Aladdin, but which get really tiring really quickly away from animation, in the ‘bonus’ interviews. Honestly, he was great as the middle-aged gay writer (Armisted Maupin wrote it, and, to be honest, it’s almost autobiographical), whose telephone friendship with a 14 year old boy may not be all it seems, and Toni Colette was, as always, truly truly believable. She’s a genius is Ms Colette. Whether she’s ‘Terrible, Muriel,’ or the mother of a boy who sees dead people, one half of a Victor/Victoria type drag duo, or, in this, a truly scary obsessive, you never for a minute see a performance. Only a believable and, almost despite yourself, sympathetic person. Great film.
Sunday, D went off to Footie, and I hit the gym for another solo hard pounding workout.
The afternoon, I curled up with the second move: “Bear Cub.” A Spanish movie about a sweet Gay guy who agrees to look after his nine-year-old nephew whilst the boy’s mother goes to India for a fortnight. Of course, the trip doesn’t go to plan, and the Bear is left with the boy. A film that deliberately avoids the obvious melodramatic plot devices, and opts instead for an honest view of gay life - the sex, the drugs, the friends, the lovely old dear downstairs whose clearly unphased by the big old ‘mo upstairs, the getting up and going to work, the looking after a nine year old boy. For once, nobody is exclusively anything. The characters, although, to a certain extent, ghettoised, are of the world, are in it, and have ‘normal’ everyday lives.
The relationships that the Pedro has with his friends, with his sister, with Bernardo, the nine year old, are so real, and so human, that they just made me all smooshy inside. A great film, with it’s moments of tension and of comedy, but, ultimately, one that’s about how, sometimes, Life doesn’t go to plan, and we just have to deal with it, and know that there are still people who love us, even if they don’t always seem to act that way, all around us. I loved it.
And it made me cry.
And, all during it, I was aware of an ache in my body; a joint pain here or there. A headache. I’m never sick, and so I put it down to two really hard workouts. Except it wasn’t.
I’ve been sick for two days now - headache, joint aches, muscle pain. Fever - oy! such a fever, like you wouldn’t believe. Hallucinations (woke at three on Monday morning convinced that an alien being had taken control of a Terracotta Warrior and was trying to kill me; still, even in my extremely disturbed state, I made a mental note: Call Russell T. that’s a Doctor Who story if ever I heard one), and night sweats that have soaked the sheets with possibly gallons of bodily fluids since Sunday night.
Two days were spent enjoying my other new toy Sky+ (like Tivo , for those Americans out there). I lost count of how many Law & Orders I watched, but I did renew my acquaintance with the father of my chillun, one Mr C Meloni. Mmmmm Meloni.
Today, a little better, though still feeling a tad spacey. I guess the ’standing in the gathering autumnal dusk whilst consuming alcohol and wearing only a shirt,’ not forgetting the ‘you’re not as young as you once were,’ and the ‘why you stressing about old job / new job’ all added up to ‘germ magnet.’
Still, how was your weekend?