| Friday, November 29, 2002 |
 | Of course, this week saw the release of the UK budget, which has been broadly discussed and dissected. It's one of those "we are so optimistic we can comfortably borrow massively to offset the optimism of our previous forecast" budgets, but there you go. Is anyone getting the feeling that the wheels are coming off the economic miracle somewhat?
And meanwhile, comparatively unheralded, UNAIDS released its summary of HIV and AIDS growth worldwise - the whole report is here. And makes depressing reading. As you might expect. Not many gags. Heterosexual infection in the West is up, and Eastern Europe in particular is going great guns, although the Right will probably be OK with that because the major victims are still drug users. But the really depressing reading comes form the reports on the developing world and, in particular, Africa. AIDS is not just killing people, but it is vitiating the capacity of sufferers to raise their children, grow food, work - it is going to contribute massively to the farming crisis and subsequent famine across the continent, and is destroying the infrastructure of whole countries.
Basically, Africa is fucked. But let's imagine. Let's imagine, say, that drug companies stopped restricting the production of generic anti-retrovirals, or discounted their own to take into account the fact that African health services tend not to be cash-rich. At present heroic missions are undertaken by activists who smuggle generic drugs into countries where their sale is prohibited. But heroes are themselves an antibody; if a country needs heroes, that's a sign that it is sick. And then. perhaps, the IMF could stop positing austerity measures as a condition for aid, and instead help to build infrastructure to allow aid to be distributed efficiently and without corruption. And while we're there, why not provide the time, the space, the resources and the personnel to take health education a little more seriously? Because when an entire generation is dying, including your doctors, nurses and key workers, you really don't have much spare energy to look at prevention and protection.
Oh, sorry, you're right. I'm being silly. We have a war to engineer (a wedding to plan, a bride to murder....we're swamped). Africa will probably improve on its own. All the signs for a healthy recovery are there, after all. It's not like we're looking at nations with the lowest GDPs in the world having to beg for scraps at the table of the richest nations on Earth or anything.
A friend mentioned to me last night that when Foucault discovered that there was a disease that appeared to be specific to gay men, was fatal and had no cure, he just fell to the ground and laughed hysterically for about five minutes, on the grounds that it was just too perfect. As you look at the statistics, and count off the list of risk groups (women, Africans, African-Americans, drug users, homosexual men) it just seems to get more and more so. The virus was designed by Norman Rockwell. It's the only logical conclusion.
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| Friday, November 22, 2002 |
 | Bollocks. There was no pudding. There ain't no sunshine.
Sorry to everyone I have failed to email or call in the last fortnight or so, by the way - life has been incredibly hectic. And, if I am self-laceratingly honest, I've developed a Deus Ex habit. The shame, the shame. I've also spent a lot of time lately debating the epicene pronoun, of which more later.
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| Wednesday, November 20, 2002 |
 | Speaking of death, I don't see the problem here. One of the things that I really miss about being a child is having the spare time just to hang out.
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 | On a more serious matter - today is gender.org's Day of Remembrance, when victims of violence against people of variant gender are remembered. I don't know much about this organisation, or how they are defining their terms, but I'm not sure that's really the relevant part. Go along. Have a read. have a think.
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 | Well, you'll be glad to know that this particular mystery has been solved. Gerard has explained fully, firmly and frankly why he needed to change his clothes. I never thought such things could happen in Suburbia, is all I'm saying:
Jamie and I were going to stay over at Jon's because I had to be in Henley in the morning (Jon lives very close to Henley). So I needed a change of clothes for the morning.
However, Jon wasn't feeling too good and decided to go to bed early. As it wasn't too late, thought I might as well drive Jamie and myself home. Had planned to stay over, hence the clothes, but never did in the end.
As for the two dinners and hanging out with Saber, that is simple. We are both at the same Uni and both hadn't had a chance to grab lunch. Met up with Emma and we all had dinner. As my car was parked at Jamie's, I offered both him and Saber a lift home. On arriving at Saber's, his mum offered us dinner (she always does and you *really* can't say no).
The problem being that every answer reveals a new question. Why can't you say no? Does she become violent? Once again, the lives of other people become a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in dinner. Can't wait to see what's for pudding.
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| Monday, November 18, 2002 |
 | The part I don't understand. After his second dinner, Gerard returns home to pick up a change of clothes. But he is not staying over at anyone's home that night. So why the change of clothes? Was he perhaps wearing yesterday's clothes previously, having not made it home on Thursday?
Why, for that matter, did he and Saber decide to hang out in three different places over a single stretch of time? Or have two dinners? Did whatever kept them out on Thursday night also mean they slept through lunch? Even the most pooteresque life is, when the topsoil is turned, a source of endless fascination.
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| Friday, November 15, 2002 |
 | On the evening of October 18th, 2002 at 7pm, 7 performers connected to the same "Quake III Arena" game server online. Instead of participating in the graphic, three dimensionally simulated environment of death, my group of performers recreated, by typing on our keyboards, an episode from the popular sit-com "Friends" - each of us logged in as one of the characters from the show.
Sheer fucking genius.
Via Matt.
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 | The firefighters are a bit screwed, really. The public goodwill depends on their perception as thoroughly decent blokes. However, to maintain this, they have to keep breaking their own strike to help out at fires. Thus, rather than working for 21K a year, they are working for free.
Conversely, if people start dying, public goodwill is going to abrade fairly quickly, particularly if that deadly terrorist strike does in fact hit London. But if casualty rates remain low, it makes it look as if we can all get on perfectly well without firefighters, thanks, and the strike is thus etiolated.
There's only one solution I can see. The firefighters should continue to break their strike, but only for the salvation of nice people. Local lads, octogenarian veterans, girls next door, all these they strive to preserve while leaving the venal and unpleasant to perish in the blaze. So, Jimmy Stewart yes, Lionel Barrymore no, basically. The resulting local heroism would occur against a backdrop of econoimic crisis as those who held the purse-strings of the country are immolated one by one. How could it go wrong? The governnment, venal and unpleasant pretty much to a man, would have to back down, really. And everyone is happy. Except the government, the other public sector workers, and Jimmy Stewart, who will probably be a bit pissed off at losing his 24-hour coverage.
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| Thursday, November 14, 2002 |
 | Meanwhile, my attention is drawn to the various and separate stories of the terrible effects of the love affair between straight men and breasts.
Lolo Ferrari is one of the great tragic figures of our time - a woman turned by circumstance, self-loathing and deeply reptilian company into caricature, and thence to nothing. And she cannot even rest in piece.
Meanwhile, cower in your holes; poisoned breasts are on the prowl.
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 | Well, the answer was the time it took to journey from my home to Hampton to meet my priest chum. Cigarettes, alcohol, general bad behaviour. All rollicking good fun, and a good period of Evangelical-bashing is always good. Plus, I have half-inched a collection of Lord Peter Wimsey short stories, which confirms me happy.
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| Wednesday, November 13, 2002 |
 | And here we are, almost exactly halfway through my first week as a remote worker (shading towards being an aloof worker). It's an interesting experience. Began in fire and panic as the shiny new web/mail server went down at 9:20am on Monday, causing connipitions in the boss' office. Since that was sorted out, though, it's been pretty smooth sailing. Except that, relaxing as avoiding the morning commute is, the realisation that at this rate I am unlikely to leave the house, or indeed my chair, very much unless I work at it is a little bit worrying. I must start planning exercise breaks.
On the bright side, the nearness of carbohydrate-rich foods is making my I'm-not-quitting-but-I'm-also-not-smoking jag much easier. How long it will survive in the outside world remains to be seen.
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 | Still, there's more to life than abusing grayven images; there's poetry, art, and the sweet recollection of music.
The sweet recollection of music I am thinking of right now, inexplicably, is a song rehearsed but, to my knowledger, never recorded, by a friend of the younger brother of an old girlfriend. Which is pretty damn random. However. This song, which I firmly believe should take its place among the great love songs (specifically, slap-bang next to "I Will Always Love You" by Whitney Houston) had the heartwarming chorus:
I'm gonna come, come,
Come all over your face.
I'm gonna come, come,
Come all over your FUCKING FACE
There's no arguing with sentiments like that. There is only room for a Marti Pellow-style sweet surrender. Hmmm...Marti Pellow facials. Nice.
So, for lovers of Marti Pellow everywhere, here's a complete guide to face-based spuffery. Drive carefully.
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 | Sliding Doors moment. If I were Cal, which I am not and never have, I could whip up an army of B3ta stalwarts to portray Graybo being stroked by lemurs, nibbled by a loris and, ultimately, gently sexed up by Color Me Badd.
Alas, I am not Cal. So that's that plan knackered.
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 | Lots of positive feedback about the redesign, so kudos to Tom and hugs and puppies to all you lovely people.
But there is yet an evil in this land. Specifically, that evil is the continued absence of "Spider-Man, the Musical", which I refuse to link to because actually describing or depicting it in any way would surely ruin the magic. The magic that a friend of mine shared on a frosty night in Boston last week. She has yet to bear report. In the meantime, tell me what you think should feature, and how it should live in song. My humble effort so far:
Ever since my uncle Ben, he died,
I've beaten every punk identified
As wrong-doer or thug,
Now they're all in the jug,
But there's a green guy on the scene, guy, who makes me want to run and
hide.
It's the goblin, man,
And I'm wobblin' man,
I don't know how to defeat,
A man with his feet,
On a rocket-powered sled,
I could end up dead,
But I've gotta knock him upside the head,
For Mary-Jane,
In Aunt-May's name,
Oh help me, Uncle Bennnnnnnn......
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| Saturday, November 09, 2002 |
 | Well, darlings, after a year or so of viciously camp maroon and viciously camp sniping at my compadres and commadres in this wild and wacky Interwebnet world, this weekend should usher in a new look (thanks to the lovely Tom) and a new direction for Venusberg. I am now actively going to drive people to projectile vomiting. Yes, ladies and gentlemen....welcome to Venusbarf.
It does look lovely, though, doesn't it? My only real concern is that I have been enjoined not to let any of the paragraphs reach less than one line, under threat of the whole thing looking dreadful. So, I am going to have to forego my usual tense style so reminiscent of the young Hemmingway and instead throw my painter into the dinghy of the verbose. Or just stop doing that "wrote a paragraph and then put 'Twat' beneath it" thing.
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 | Meanwhile (cheers Kevan) Lewes has burned George W Bush in effigy. I nearly went to the last year's Cliffe Society bonfire, but was held up and back, in a most charming manner. And now it is all ashes for another year.
Meanwhile, for those clamouring for more Matt conversation, I promise I will put them up just as soon as I have found the damn book. In the meantime, expect a lengthy peroration on moving offices.
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 | Fuck me, it's the New Wave of the Cutting Crew. Between this and his championing of lachrymose kid-killing ballad "Tears in Heaven", I'm beginning to suspect that Gerard is just a baroque in-joke created by Britney Apple, Britain's own Kaycee Nicole.
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| Monday, November 04, 2002 |
 | Some things you simply take for granted. That there are plenty more fish in the sea. That your team will always be your team.
Well. Quite.
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Venusberg.org finds Blogger very attractive...
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elsewhere:
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and finally...
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