If you're not a cricket fan, like me you probaly don't understand the first thing about how the blessed game is played. In facy, my limit of sports expertise is confined to knowing the names of various sporting personalities. Of course, as you'd expect, Daniel's good at all kinds of sport and says I'm like the stereotypical gay man who's crap at it. I'm of the opinion, though, what's the use of being queer if you don't hate the damned stuff? And, anyway, I keep fit in far more interesting ways ...
That said, sport has had a large impact on my life – football, rugby and tennis particularly: Jimmy Hill's ex-wife was once my English teacher; Gareth Edwards gave his name to my kid brother; John McEnroe inspires my rebellious nature; and my insatiable sex drive is the result of schoolboy fantasies about absolutely drop-dead-gorgeous David Beckham.
Even I, though, can differentite between one sport and another (well, more or less), which reminds me of something that the legendary motor-racing commentator Murray Walker once said while summing up some or other race: "You might not think that's cricket, and it's not: it's motor racing."
Monday, 1 April 2002
Saturday, 1 September 2001
Jean Technology
Friday 14 September: not yet 7 a.m. and I'm exhausted!
With next to nothing left in the fridge, breakfast was looking like the bowl of liver-and-sardine Whiskas that Antimony had left in favour of my roasted-Mediterranean-vegetable-and-sticky-onion pain-champignon Pret.
I'm waiting for Mum to give me a lift to the station and daniel's in one of his strops. He's been ranting on all morning about how shallow I am and saying my writing's sewage. Well, his idea of a good bedtime read is a book on thermodynamics, whatever they are.
The boy's a real egghead; been watching some TV doc or listening to Radio 4 or something – I can't remember – and going on aout gene manipulation and the consequences for gay men. I told him, "I'm only interested if it's gay men manipulating the jeans I'm wearing!"
He's miffed that I'm off to GALHA's annual weekend in Manchester and won't take him with me. "Where does it say Christians can't attend?" he asks as Mum arrives puffing on a J. "Not that I'd go anyway. See you whenever."
Grabbing my bags, Mum gives me an unnecessary shove towards the car. "Sorry I'm late, dear, had to stop off at Channel 4." She's hooked on reality gameshows – Big Brother, Survivor, Castaway, Lost! – and wants me to audition for one of them.
Determined to put her off the idea, I (foolishly) said I'd rather fly with RyanAir, since when she's been busy arranging "some publicity".
"Don't sit on Brian, dear," she says, snatching away the photo of gay BB2 winner Brian Dowling from under my bum.
Arriving at Euston with only minutes to spare, I'm bundled on to the train. "'Bye, dear ... oh, here's some sandwiches I've made for the journey –' half a ton by the feel of them – "oh, and the book you wanted –" Julia Grant's autobiog, Just Julia – "such a lovely girl ... Don't forget to write."
And I'm only away for three days!
With next to nothing left in the fridge, breakfast was looking like the bowl of liver-and-sardine Whiskas that Antimony had left in favour of my roasted-Mediterranean-vegetable-and-sticky-onion pain-champignon Pret.
I'm waiting for Mum to give me a lift to the station and daniel's in one of his strops. He's been ranting on all morning about how shallow I am and saying my writing's sewage. Well, his idea of a good bedtime read is a book on thermodynamics, whatever they are.
The boy's a real egghead; been watching some TV doc or listening to Radio 4 or something – I can't remember – and going on aout gene manipulation and the consequences for gay men. I told him, "I'm only interested if it's gay men manipulating the jeans I'm wearing!"
He's miffed that I'm off to GALHA's annual weekend in Manchester and won't take him with me. "Where does it say Christians can't attend?" he asks as Mum arrives puffing on a J. "Not that I'd go anyway. See you whenever."
Grabbing my bags, Mum gives me an unnecessary shove towards the car. "Sorry I'm late, dear, had to stop off at Channel 4." She's hooked on reality gameshows – Big Brother, Survivor, Castaway, Lost! – and wants me to audition for one of them.
Determined to put her off the idea, I (foolishly) said I'd rather fly with RyanAir, since when she's been busy arranging "some publicity".
"Don't sit on Brian, dear," she says, snatching away the photo of gay BB2 winner Brian Dowling from under my bum.
Arriving at Euston with only minutes to spare, I'm bundled on to the train. "'Bye, dear ... oh, here's some sandwiches I've made for the journey –' half a ton by the feel of them – "oh, and the book you wanted –" Julia Grant's autobiog, Just Julia – "such a lovely girl ... Don't forget to write."
And I'm only away for three days!
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