Mother Christmas October 19, 2007Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Oh my god. My mother’s coming to visit. For a week.
Oh my god. The phone calls about Christmas have started. Rival bids for our attendance. And everyone claiming – falsely – that they won’t be offended if we opt for another option. And the thought of children expressing dissatisfaction at their miserly presents and being comforted by their parents who say, “There, there, poor little darling. It’s just miserly old Uncle BiB and the Russian. It’s because they’re gay and don’t know what’s normal.” No wonder we usually boycott the bastard.
So a survey-cum-game for us to be going on with.
The worry of it all meant that the Russian and I decided a spontaneous booze-up was in order. That followed a spontaneous shop-up. I don’t have a bean, of course, but I’d just paid 20 kopecks off my credit card bill so decided I could give it a bit of a pounding. The Russian thinks shopping is pleasant and wondered why I was preparing a noose for myself as we approached some department store where he wanted to buy a guide to London for future reference because my local knowledge is out-of-date and useless (though I could, thankfully, point out that it had wrongly located a landmark on the first page I saw). “Buy music,” the Russian instructed me. Oddly, and just as I was about to install my portable gallows, I remembered there was something I wanted to buy. Well, wanted to possess. I’d rather have stolen it, in a way, or have had it sent to me, but as I don’t do crime and can’t spend all my time waiting for people to give me presents I haven’t intimated I’m expecting, I trotted downstairs to look for Beethoven’s Cello Sonata no.3 in A. Darlings, if you don’t know it, find it this instant and listen to it and feel inadequate – unless you are brilliant – that a fellow human can have composed such brilliance. (Here’s a bit so you can have the fun of seeing how nuts Glenn Gould looks at a piano.) It gives Britney a run for her money. I wanted it played by Jacqueline Du Pré and Stephen Kovacevich but the only cheapo CD I could find was the good lady and Daniel Barenboim. “Oh wanking fuck,” I shouted out loud and then decided I’d try to pretend to be one of those posh people that knows about music and went to hassle the staff. “‘ere, see this recordin’ ‘ere, ‘s by Du Pré ‘n Barenboim, ‘n I wan’ Du Pré ‘n Kovacevich, dunn I?” Except I said it in bad German. The staff member looked at me pityingly and then said, no, they didn’t have exactly what I was looking for but might I be interested in a Jacqueline Du Pré box-set? I had a peek. 50 euros. And then box-sets make me think for no good reason of people who like Dire Straits and I wondered if I might not have to start drinking real ale and grow a beard if I bought one.
“Darling, buy me a box-set,” I texted the Russian a couple of floors above me, including texting symbols for throwing a tantrum and tears.
“Fak off. Buy yoursyelf.”
And then I remembered I had a credit card and that it would, therefore, be free, so I did.
Anyway, where were we?
Oh yes, so we decided to get drunk. Or tiddly. In my blogging pub. Where I’ve supped with all these folks. Now the blogging pub has a hint of the gayers about it. It’s not as much as gay, but it must be semi-officially gay-friendly or gay run or there’s something in the water because it always has an above-average sprinkling of whoopsies. But yesterday it was, or so we thought, wall-to-wall shirt-lifters. All shaved heads and delicate manners.
This for no good reason made the Russian and me wonder again what sort of hets we’d make. I drifted off – the blogging pub has massive, fuck-off windows so it’s hard not to stare out of them, especially when you get distracted by a nice bit of awkward socialising. A correct young lady with a bike ran into an acquaintance, a correct young man with glasses, and a friend of his. They were introduced – there was awkward kissing and awkward hand-shaking – and the threesome attempted small-talk. And they were so brittle that I actually worried they might shatter and end up as shards of person around each other’s feet – as he described me as being liked by one parent-in-law and hated by another and I saw myself as my older brothers. They can both drive and play football but probably aren’t much better acquainted with a drill than I am. They’re not ludicrously butch so the leap of faith wasn’t too far. The Russian has a hetero twin so I imagined him as him with a very nagged wife and, again, the prospect wasn’t too ludicrous.
A German member of staff asked an English member of staff how to say a couple of the dishes’ names in English. “What?” I thought to myself. “That group of classic Berlin homos next to us aren’t German?” I cocked my bad ear towards them. And, do you know, they weren’t gay at all. Just Danish.
Darlings, what type of gays/lezzers/hets would you make? As ever, bisexuals are barred from the survey/game. As are Scandinavians. My findings will probably appear in The Lancet.