conversion

so we are finally rid of phony tony. allelujah. a change long overdue. but more importantly the chance for our deceitful (remember weapons of mass destruction anyone?) ex-prime minister to own his true colours.

it seems that the belligerant boy has decided to bite the bullet and come out as a roman catholic. surprisingly it seems the pope is not all that enthusiastic. might be something to do with hubris perhaps? which doesn't readily translate as humility no matter how hard you spin it. or perhaps his holiness is keen to protect his own job. after all tone is looking for career development in a role which reflects his obvious talents and abilities now that he's left gordon behind to pick up the pieces.

it may not come as a surprise that saint tone has waited until now to reconcile his faith with his conscience. after all it could well have limited his personal trajectory as leader of the british government to come out as a papist. especially when dealing with the likes of messrs paisley and robinson. and there is at least one thing he can be relied on for above all others and that is never to let morality interfere with his pursuit of his own personal and political aggrandisement.

it is of no concern to this writer what faith he holds. he could be a buddhist or a baptist or a jew, a muslim or a martian for all i care just so long as he is what he says he is. although i wouldn't complain if he was a buddhist. on the grounds that we might now have less innocent blood on our hands.

of course it may be that his holiness needn't worry too much for the mo. now he's established his credentials god's anointed (not the pope silly, the other one) is being sent to meddle with the middle east. a new testament to the insensitivity with which western governments appear to treat the islamic world. altho could the consensus be that he can't do much more damage there than he has done already? and at least if he's in the middle east he's not burning his brand onto anything else.

and he does like to leave his mark on the things he touches. the uk national health service for one, which has recently had a hefty funding surplus squeezed out of it despite staffing levels that only function if the nurses manage to consistently levitate at least six inches above floor level to minimize frictional drag.

also not forgetting the institution he was elected to lead. re-formed in his image the labour party now attracts the likes of erstwhile minor thatcher minion and iain duncan-smith shadow front bencher quentin davies to jump ship and join his soul mates on the opposite side. these days free-marketeer quentin has more in common with blaire's version of labour than he does with the conservatives. gulp.

this however is history for tone. from here its onwards and, particularly, upwards. with considerations of electability no longer determining his path to heaven perhaps our good ex prime minister will soon re-surface as the natural born tory he's been all along. once having dealt with that minor detail he'll have shaken off the shackles of both religious and political disguise and be primed for forty days and forty nights admiring himself in the hot dusty wastes. then with a toss of his head and the scent of freedom in his nostrils the re-structured holy tony really will have the chance to consolidate his career ... as the virtual saviour of mankind.

so on second thoughts, if he wants to hang onto his job perhaps the pontiff had better look out after all.

and so had his boss.

peace and love.

music

" of course the big thing about music is not confusing your flarps with your sh**s." sorry to have to admit it but i overheard this one in the pub.

definity 2

use your head....

dance from the heart.

coming out

ok ok ok. so its confession time.

i've always had the feeling that i didn't fit into a neat gender identity pigeon hole. after all who really does? i suppose there are archetypes that society finds acceptable and to which we, the hoi poloi, are expected to aspire. john wayne for example. (marrion morrison to his mummy. christ no wonder he affected a deep voice and pugilistic manner.) what a guy.

then there are the strong women. the psycho sexual behemoths and their 1970s dead-wood dinosaur dogma with which unreconstructed, hairy arm-pitted, retired bra-burners scourge us wimpish males. the andrea dworkins and camile paglias of this world for example. although i notice that, aging gracefully, sister germaine now advocates toy boy joy. (all very well being unattainable when everyone wants to sleep with you. not quite so imposing a stance when no-one gives a toss. eh germaine?)

i guess my point is that we all have to navigate our own course along the paths of passion. and this may lead us round some surprising corners before we stumble over our own true nature.

in my case my friends saw it coming long before i did. all i know is that a couple of years ago i started to dance. i also began to learn to play the chromatic harmonica at the same time. no not while dancing, but in the same month. january 2005 actually. but that's a story for another time and place. and blog.

now in south wales there is not a strong male dance culture. hard to believe i know but none the less true. boys don't dance. they might do a bit of hanky-waving, bell-jangling Morris prancing if their parents happen to have been librarians. and they might have jived if they were teddy boys. but seeing as most of those are now getting to grips with their zimmers that tradition has latterly waned. so generally speaking the BDD rule applies. as i said, boys don't dance.

especially if they are over fifty. the indignity of it all for one thing. i mean imagine a man of some years supporting a not insubstantial tummy, waddling round the dance floor. jesus he'd be sure to curdle the milk wouldn't he? or at the very least frighten the horses. "well may be. but heck," i thought, "i'm going to give it a go."

despite the unease, and in one particularly sad case the disapproval, of my peers i've been writhing, as much as my sagging abdomen will permit, around the dance floor, at least once a week for 30 months. and i'm getting better. couldn't have got worse. i can now spin a lady and lead her through the intricate pathways of rhythmic motion from one end of a staccato brass and exuberant conga melee to the next. without either of us falling over.

but my new enthusiasm has not been without cost. as i dance i find myself more and more in contact with the ladies. ladies of all shapes, ages and sizes. not to mention levels of terpsichorean accomplishment and even, it has to be said, of personal freshness. and the more we touch the more i realise we have in common.

i find satisfaction in the physicality. with no booze in my veins i lurve the salsa rhythm groove dragging my feet over the tiles. i thrive on the intensity of the brief ecstatic relationships and, as my endorphins continue to recklessly bejewel the inside of my skull i find myself bouncing on the invulnerable high the following morning.

in fact i'm so in tune with it all that i think i must be one of them. i have to confess i don't even mind wearing a bit of boys' scent. nothing too over the top. a squirt of lacoste maybe, or the odd dab of paco rabanne. my friends' fears were obviously well founded.

it seems i'm more than just 'one of them'. in fact i've been getting so in touch with my feminine side on the dance floor that i decided its about time i came out and admitted exactly who i am.

so i take this opportunity to proudly announce to the world that i am in fact a lesbian.

anybody want to make something of it?

p&l