Violent Vera

Christmas day this year was an interesting one. Interesting? In what way Richard? I hear you ask. Well for one I managed to get a photograph of every one of the sixteen guests wearing a false moustache - quite an accomplishment I'm sure you'll agree. Secondly I had the great fortune to referee a very drunken conversation between one of my cousins and one of my brothers about the true reason for the invasion of Iraq and the state of the situation in Afghanistan. Neither Rachael nor Matthew had the slightest clue what they were talking about in their drunken state and I, in my drunken state, grasped the opportunity to throw in all manner of pointless - and in some cases untrue - tit bits of information just to encourage more ridiculous claims and counter claims regarding the various situations.

It was also on Christmas day this time around that I learned of my cousins' grandmother's nick name. When Vera arrived my dad asked her in a loud voice, "Have you got your machine gun Vera?" which struck me as quite odd. Vera being nearly ninety and not so nimble on her feet. Within half an hour someone else asked her the same question which again was a little puzzling. Anyway it turns out that Vera (pictured with moustache) is also known as Violent Vera and has a reputation for fighting, using excessive violence and killing people with semi automatic weapons.

Other highlights of Christmas day included a walk on the beach at Rossall near Fleetwood (picture taken about 2.30 in the afternoon on Christmas day) and the hunt for spirit orbs with my Aunt Amanda at my dad's house - made all the more amusing by the fact that my cousin Rachael kept referring to the whole experience as 'hunting for oicks.' Rachael is 33 years old.

You're so vain

I've done some terrible things to myself over the years. Take for example the time that I plastered my hair with blue boot polish so that it matched my electric blue PVC trousers for the last Flesh night at the Hacienda. If anybody had have lit up near me I'd've been a gonna. What's worse is that this isn't the only time that I boot polished my hair. Other crimes to my bonse include dying it black - again this has happened a few times. Why I didn't learn the first time when my boss told me that I looked like Marc Almond I don't know. It has been bleached a couple of times too - once successfully, once not... 

It has been long and short, cut professionally, hacked with a pair of scissors and even plaited over night in tiny little braids so that it was wavy the next day (this was a very very long time ago...)

Besides my hair there have been other faux pas. I have been pierced - once in my nose at the corn exchange in Manchester, once in the nipple at the ink pot tattoo studio in Oldham (who incidentally allowed me to be tattooed when drunk with the world's worst tattoo) once in my upper ear at a back street hairdressers in Blackpool and when that reacted badly and blistered my ear I removed it - with scissors and a pair of pliers - waited for it to heal then did it all over again at a chemist in Lanzarote. I sound a bit rough don't I? I'm not I can assure you... The last time I was pierced was in my ear lobe. God knows what possessed me to do that at the age of 31 but there I was - Chelmsford town centre on a busy Saturday afternoon, sitting on a high stool in the window at Claire's Accessories whilst Chantelle, who was wearing deeley boppers or bunny ears - I forget - put holes in my ears. Come to think of it... it wasn't long after this that I last dyed my hair black - another mistake.

Fashion-wise I have already mentioned the blue PVC trousers (can you imagine? Jesus Christ what was I thinking?) but beyond there I can reveal such beauties as the leopard print jacket, the odd socks - one luminous yellow and one luminous pink - the beautiful black and white trousers which looked like television interference which I wore with plastic, slip on shoes and of course my staple of the 1990's night club - the tartan trousers. Three pairs.
As far as footwear goes there have been some gems. The Frankenstein boots which I bought in Ibiza, the replacements which I bought in Manchester after leaving the originals at a friend's house in Cardiff. There were the burgundy patent leather loafers, the blue spoon shoes, the red nubuck leather rockabilly shoes and the blue suede boots. I am truly a style icon.

Before I finish, I hasten to add that this is not the end... Besides the glow in the dark liquid which I used to paint patterns on my face with and the sweetie necklaces that I would wear whilst clubbing there have been ever more weird and wonderful accessories and I'm sure that there will be more in the years to come.

PS Oh oh oh oh! I just remembered whilst reading this back - the necklace with letters on it which read the legend SLUT. That was dead classy. Enough now...

Hate

I have only ever called the police on the telephone once. I was working in Manchester and was in the staff room overlooking St Ann's Square when I heard a commotion outside. I peered down into the square to see a small group of Christians preaching to passers by. 

Now normally this would have just annoyed me because of the noise but on this occasion I happened to hear them informing everyone - very loudly - that all gay people would go to hell. I don't believe in hell but all the same this perpetuation of hatred angered me enough to call the police. When the lady answered I was asked which service I wanted and then when I stated, Police please, I was asked what they could do for me. I told her that there was a disturbance in St Ann's Square. This seemed to prick her interest and she said that she would put me through to the emergency team. As this clearly wasn't an emergency I panicked and hung up. A couple of police officers did speak to the Christians soon afterwards but I don't know if this was my doing or the hand of God.

I once had the opportunity to give blood but was told that as a gay I wasn't allowed to. Apparently I am 'high risk.' I assume that they consider me high risk in the same way that some mortgage lenders have a box to tick on their application forms if you are Gay, a prostitute or an intravenous drug user. One question - one box.

I don't tend to think of myself as a victim of prejudice but sometimes I suspect that I, as most people are sometimes.

Sugar Puffs

Gilbert - the cat - has black stuff up his nose. I reckon he's been in London for the day, riding the tube and doing a bit of shopping. He's quite accomplished when it comes to using public transport you know. I once bumped into him on the night bus coming back from Manchester to Sale.

Moochie - the other cat - is not quite as talented and regularly has trouble walking in a straight line.

Anyway - that's by the bypass...

Ghosts. Real or not real? Maybe we'll never know. I personally don't believe in them but having said that I am very curious. As a kid I would regularly take part in Ouija board readings. I always cheated and pushed the glass around the board - just to liven things up. One of my friends, Becki, would take it all very seriously and have all sorts of accouterments in order that spirits may be contacted. One of these was a glass of water which represented purity and was part of the safety net against evil spirits crossing over and getting us. I did wonder just how pure a glass of tap water from Clarkesfield actually was. Becki had a spirit guide when she used the ouija board - if I remember correctly he was called Bill. Bill had a sign with which he would indicate to Becki that it was really him and not an intruder. His sign was a figure of eight. I caused chaos on the night when I pushed the glass around in a figure of eight so that we could get on with it quickly and it turned out that Bill had changed his sign just the day before!

Becki had some right run ins with the other side - like the time that she told me about going into her bedroom and some malevolent ghoul had turned each and every one of her Corey Haim posters up side down.

I recently lived in a seventeenth century converted coach house where some friends of mine sensed things. I did not sense anything but they still put the willies up me by telling me about it. Two separate friends on different occasions and without prompting told us about a young girl upstairs on the landing which was odd.

As somebody with a very scientific outlook on life I have trouble believing in ghosts and spirits and the like but sometimes I would like to believe. I don't go to my mum's grave because of this. My cousin believes that her dad is watching over her and her family but when I go to the cemetery where my mum is buried I don't feel that and I just get upset at the thought that my mum's body is in a box under the ground. I get no comfort from going there.

On that miserable note I will leave for the evening but before I go - just one question... Have you ever noticed how Fizz on Coronation Street has an uncanny resemblance to the Sugar Puffs Honey Monster?

Clones

Google Richard Douglas and this is one of the first images that pops up. Funnily enough I did once consider becoming an Aussie Rules footballer - mostly just for the shorts and vest combo - but work commitments got in the way.

Unfortunately there is not an actual photograph of me on Google but if you run through a few pages there are some real gems.

My personal favourite is the Richard Douglas who is the producer of the gay porn classic Fine Daze.

There are a lot of Richard Douglas's out there - I even have a little Facebook group of Richard Douglas' from around the world. There's one from New York, an Australian, a soldier and some bloke from Anglesey.

Richard means - a man rolling in money. I bet the director of that mucky movie has more money than I do.

What do you think this Richard Douglas might do for a living? Neckerchief designer? Women's wear manager at an old fashioned department store?

China In Your Hands

When I was a youngster I would regularly go with my neighbour Damian, his mum and another neighbour Clara, to Ashton Market (see picture of market hall on fire Tues 25th May2004) My enduring memories of Ashton Market are peppery Cornish pasties, a grey tee shirt with netting sewn onto it as an over-layer which was possibly my first venture into fashion, a key ring with a little white, rubber Scottie dog on it and a stall which sold cassettes of famous songs re-recorded by not so famous, anonymous artists.

In comparison Tommyfield Market in Oldham felt somewhat less glamorous. Having said that I loved the sparkly floor of the inside market and also the chip shop which was in one of the permanent huts around the edge of the outside market which sold the best chip muffins in town.

I once spent a very long afternoon helping out my girlfriend Michelle on the pound stall. Three thousand toilet rolls for a pound, Two million AA batteries - a pound love. One hundred biros - that'll be a pound my dear. Eight hundred and fifty thousand blank videos - just one pound my lovely. Ta very much. I once bought a soap on a rope and a T' Pau record for my dad from Tommyfield Market.

I always loved Camden Market on a Sunday morning - especially when it was cold. I re-discovered Aretha Franklin's Until You Come Back To Me whilst milling about Camden Market sipping warm spiced cider - I also discovered the mad lady with pink wire in her hair at Cyber Dog on the same day. Still in London Spitalfields was always worth a visit - if only for the falafel - and down on the south bank the best place to get a free lunch, Borough Market.

It was outside Borough Market one night that I met Big Mo from Eastenders. I'd been on a tour of pubs with my cousin Rachael starting at Embankment and ending up - rather messily - in a pub very close to Bridgette Jones' flat. Well Big Mo was there and we said hello before she drove off in a mini. On the tube afterwards we started a debate (based on a news story about a Thai zoo) and got everyone on the carriage to vote, with a show of hands, as to whether or not they would eat giraffe burgers. I don't remember the final count. Sadly, this is all completely true...

http://www.oldham-chronicle.co.uk/

Zoo

We went to the zoo last weekend. It was very exciting. A wintry Sunday morning has to be the best time to see the animals. We made a bee line for the giraffes - natch. There were three giraffes which had been put out in the yard and locked out. Walking around in large slow circles it was reminiscent of a Sugarbabes video except without the insipid music and with the addition of a substantial amount of grace and style.

The Sea lions were next - they were gorging themselves on fishy tit bits offered by the keepers in return for showing off their jumping skills to the gathering crowd. Theresa was playing up.

We found the spider monkeys fighting over an old piece of bark and noted the freedom with which the males of the species showed off their pink monkey willies (in stark contrast to their black fur.)

My least favourite attraction was the children's zoo. The wallaby, the miniature donkey and the stinky goat were all miserable. They all stood in their individual pens glaring at us whilst doing nothing more than standing in the sun. Granted it was very cold and there was melting ice raining from the trees but even the tiger had a bit of a walk. I don't ask for much entertainment from the animals but a smile wouldn't hurt would it?

The red panda in contrast was active, cheerful and even spared a few seconds to swap phone numbers with us. We have become great friends in the short time since we saw him and we are expecting him and his fiance to visit this weekend. I will be serving ants and bamboo for dinner - as a vegetarian I will bypass the ants but I am greatly looking forward to the bamboo.

http://www.blackpoolzoo.org.uk/pages/home/