First Things First. I've put off writing about last Wednesday's lunch with the bonzerlicious Max because of laziness; but there's not a great deal to say – I don't think I was on my best form that day. Certainly it starting to, then continuing to be, pissing down half an hour after we met certainly put a bit of a damper on my mood – I wasn't looking forward to having to face the drive home; which eventually took hours because I had to take to the back roads, the A12 being pretty much undriveable because of spray and water.

Anyway, the afternoon: after more than a little sodding around [and finding that the London Borough of Islington is the worst place in the western universe for car parking - thanks, Mr Arsenal] we did a little driving then dived, more through "hey, it's dry" than anything else – at Itta, a tiny pizzeria down the Kentish Town Road. Well – it did the job fine, it's nothing special; at least it's not Pizza Froggin' Hut.

Subjects included: her latest profile piece, my latest adventures in Munchland, weird religious shite, Personal Services [you must find a copy, sweetie], and why photoshopping Labour leadership candidates into schoolboy outfits would not be something that would benefit Western civilization.

Thanks, gorgeous: and I promise next time I won't make you shop for phallic umbrellas…

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Actually, it's been autumnal all round for the past ten days – for the first time in months this morning I put on my fleece to go out.

…Isn't it amazing what you find in clothes you've not worn for months? "Oooh, there's my Trout Mask Replica badge".

Those of you who closely follow my health will be glad to know that the cold/infection has just about gone, although I still have a bit of a cough. However, rumours that I've been signed up on a contract to be "the mandatory coughing fucker" at the quiet tragic bits of films, concerts and plays are, as yet, unfounded….

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In a way, the end of summer opens up a few opportunities, because it means my friends who have school-age children are less tied down to being 24/7 babysitters.

Plans include Chelmsford Market, which apparently has a "specialist" footwear purveyor; the Polish Arts Festival in Southend on Sunday 12th, in which for once the sausage I'll be ingesting will be an actual dead kielbasa; and, stuff permitting, I just might get to go further afield for once…

Watch this space.

Some spacey shit that I used to get completely out of my tree to, to accompany you whilst you're watching this space.

Three days of mild fever, successful male shoe shopping [boo], unsuccessful female shoe shopping [boo], shifting too much furniture, showering a lot, disliking local politics, disliking national politics [way to make a shitty situation really shitty, HMGovt], a Pakistan test win, Wagner reminding me of Bugs in drag, and the new Iron Maiden album – this has been almost the entirety of the past seven days for me.

In other words, you ain't missed much.

I did write quite a bit whilst I had a mildly inflated temperature, mostly on paper rather than on laptop, and it was all total and utter shite. This is fairly standard for me when I'm feverish.

Coincidentally [or maybe not], this entirely mirrors the days when I used to do far too much dope; I'd produce reams of stuff, all of it useless. [The few bits that remain now are far too embarassing to transfer to an electronic medium. One of the - alas - lost gems, though, is "Dissonance", the hour-long play in which two people on an abandoned Tube train recite Fish lyrics one word at a time and be silently pretentious inbetween. I wondered whether it'd get an Arts Council grant...]

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Upcoming Wonderment, though: on Wednesday I'm in the big smoke with a bonzerly amazing person, again wandering the streets in the eternal search for decent pizza and coffee at a reasonable price. "Trust those who look for the Pizza; be sceptical of those who say they've found it."

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One in three adults takes a soft toy to bed. Which might include me. Does a bat count?

[Interfauna link]

Random Facebook Status Generator. Those of you who are "friends" with me on FB *might* think that I use this. I don't. Honest.

[The way to tell is that I've clicked the generator 100 times and it's not yet mentioned Falkirk....]

Warning: This post, whilst safe for work and not really containing any kink in itself, may be TMI for some people. AYOR, etc.

A munch is a casual lunch or dinner with other local people who have an interest or experience in BDSM (Bondage & Discipline, Dominance and submission, sadomasochism) and/or Fetish. Munch groups have many different characters depending on locations of where they meet. Some are held in locations where a demonstration can be given on different techniques, but most are held in family restaurants or bars where 'play' or fetishwear is not permitted. A munch is a great atmosphere to meet like minded locals, discuss a variety of topics, and make friends and get validation without people behaving 'in role'. [ref]

So on Tuesday night I popped along to a pub nearby – yes, a pub, I know, but since drinking wasn't going to be the main focus of the evening I guessed it would be okay – where about twenty people gathered for the monthly "munch" for the area.

I'd sort of flagged up my upcoming attendance on a forum, so that they knew to expect a long-haired bloke in a Simpsons T-shirt [note; as in the definition above, dress code is "vanilla", otherwise I might have...]

There were a few characters who immediately recognized me and took me under their wing, introducing me to whoever was there, telling me what was to be happening, letting me into their group. One [lovely] surprise was meeting *name removed* from the site beginning with "O" which we do not name any more, who I'd exchanged mails with over there. You know how it is when someone off El Interwebz suddenly turns up in your 'meatspace' – "OMG, SQUEE!"

Everyone gathered in an upstairs room, away from the pub's [two] other customers. [It was a *very* wet Tuesday night.] The night had been advertised as having a workshop on "needle play" – not my cup of tea, I must add – though this turned out to be a workshop on safety in general in play, with information on the risks of sharing of fluids of various kinds.

Afterwards was scones and general chatter. There was a core of about four or five people in the room who I felt immediately comfortable with, and I generally went round and shook hands to introduce myself with everybody. There was no "play" – well, okay, one woman took a quick flogging – and the only way you'd distinguish it from any other social meeting would be a] slightly more black worn, and b] the collars on the "owned" subs.

It'll take some time to work out the group dynamics as a whole, and to get used to the "etiquette" of such a gathering, but that is broadly true of all social gatherings. [Tries not to engage social worker mode and go off into 'group theory'.]

It seemed to me that although there may be an inner core of "scene" which would be difficult to make one's way into even if one wanted to – and I'm not sure if I do, my interests in this area are "play" recreational rather than "lifestyle" or "scene" – it's supposed to be fun, for smeg's sake – certainly there was an overall group ethos which was open and accepting. And certainly a few women who enjoy playing with the long hair of certain men.

In the end, these things are about expectations. I went there hoping to meet some nice people who just happened to have an interest in kinky things, and that's what I got. If I'd turned up expecting to immediately force my way into being able to whack someone's hide raw, or to be suddenly King/Queen/Princess Of The Group, I'd've been disappointed – and quite rightly so.

So on the level in which I was operating, I was very pleased with myself on the night, in the way I interacted, the people I've met, and the pleasant chat I was part of. [Oh yeah, plus the bonus of "I spent three hours in a pub without once wanting to drink it dry".]

I'll be back there next month.

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Slightly related, but not really, pic:

If it hadn't been "vanilla dress code"…

So watching a motorcyclist fly into a fence wasn't exactly the best start to a Goddess Tori day.

I'd just turned off the dual carriageway onto the little country road leading south towards town, and thought "hey, there's a lot of bikes around" [was there a rally?]. Slowing down for an upcoming uphill right-hand blind corner, I watched the blue-and-white Suzuki – and the blue-and-white-clad rider – appear from the corner, fly across the road, and into the wooden fence two metres off the other side of the road.

I immediately pulled over and called 999; the driver behind me had stopped and went to see what was going on. Miraculously, the biker had escaped with only superficial injuries: the wooden fence had cushioned his impact. If it had been a different material – or, say, had concrete posts…

Once it was established that the ambulance wasn't needed, and that whilst the bike may not have been driveable at least the rider was, I left – and it's at that point, after one is needed, when the adrenalin/shock kicks in. Aaaaaaa…

Given the amount of miles I've done and still do – professionally and otherwise – I've seen a few cases of people and metal flying across roads. Whichever Gods there may be grant that I continue to see them and not feel them…

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And so, after much delay on the east side of London, into town: I managed to get to our meeting point about 4:15, only to find Max was similarly delayed by railway smeg-ups on the west side. It was pushing 6 by the time we met.

Finding that the restaurant we'd originally set our sights on wasn't open yet, we ended up in Ask [ok Italian chain]. Not bad pizza, except that eating it with cutlery that's blunter than a Charlie Brooker column on football is a bit of a challenge.

And so to the theatre. The Apollo Victoria is the home of "Wicked!", the offshoot musical from The Wizard of Oz. Quite why Tori had got herself into the place remains a mystery, but seeing her in a 500-seat theatre rather than a 3,500-seat concert hall would be a bonus.

The support act sounded from the foyer like an identikit dreary bloke with a guitar, so we skipped it. Little merchandise – the T-shirts were all last year's "Sinful" stuff – so at least that temptation [and strain on wallet] was avoided.

photo from here

And so to the show. The Goddess herself in blue and gold – shhh, don't mention the Botox – by herself, in contrast to 2007.  Set list from undented:

• Bells For Her
• Precious Things
• Silent All These Years
• Dragon
• Northern Lad
• The Power of Orange Knickers
• Marianne
• Space Dog
• Beauty of Speed
• Virginia
• Rattlesnakes [Lloyd Cole]
• Yes, Anastasia
• Me and A Gun
• Garlands
• Hey Jupiter
• encore
• Desperado [The Eagles]
• Personal Jesus [Depeche Mode]
• Take To The Sky

Okay, so I did spend the first two songs just sobbing like a big girl. But, hey, c'mon, talk about a double whammy…

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I liked being in the presence. I loved hearing the music straight from. But, I'm afraid, I'm getting increasingly misanthropic amongst crowds of anybody – even fellow worshippers.

Like: you've paid somewhere around £40 a ticket for this, right? How about you try watching the show, rather than watching yourself film it on your bitchenly amazing iPhone? If you have to use a flash, can it actually be a "flash", and not a blinding searchlight as used in Escape From Colditz?

Like: can we actually hear the music, and not some arse whooping in my ear?

Like: shouting "I LOVE YOU, TORI!" is, at least in this context, a little redundant. Out of the 500 or so present, how many would have said that they don't?

I conclude that as much as I appreciate seeing "live" artistes, I'm getting too old for this shit. Paying top dollar and negotiating Central London, to sit amongst people I'm becoming increasingly misanthropic about [at least when they're a crowd], is getting less and less attractive. Nor are you getting me to "Billy Elliot" over the road. Even if it has got the woman from "Prisoner Cell Block H" in it.

I guess, though, sometimes on special occasions like this was…

Happy Birthday, Max*.

* [only a month late, but who's counting?]

Today's Post is brought to you courtesy of OMIGOD WHAT DID I DO TO MY WEAK LEFT SHOULDER LAST NIGHT, which is currently stopping me raising my arm above shoulder level and explains why my hair is currently a mess.

Long-time readers will know of the story of how I dislocated it twenty years ago – drunk, and falling off a toilet – and the muscles have never been the same since. I don't usually get any problems with it, except if I have to have my arms in the air for a long time. Since I've not recently done any weightlifting or waved my arms about at a Barry Manilow concert, I have no idea why it's hurting today.

[If I had been at a Barry Manilow concert, it wouldn't be my arms that would be hurting, but my legs from the fast running away I'd've been doing...]

There was the nearby-village Field Dance on Saturday night, but it's not like I did any dancing. To escape the nightmare of dosey-does and twirl-your-partners, I volunteered to help run the [unofficial] bar. That's not really a good idea – it's kinda like putting the Chief Rabbi in charge of Danepak Bacon; I had a mouthful of each of the ales to sample them and had to stop myself from pouring out pints for myself. Proof to myself  that I'm still recovering, not recovered: in different circumstances in different times with different people, I'd've drunk the whole sodding barrels dry.

Despite my dancing-avoidance, I did have a good time; the people of that little community are lovely – even the groups of teenagers. Despite a little alcohol, they were friendly, inclusive and didn't need to scream at each other. What's their secret?

Probably what did do the shoulder in was trying to sit comfortably on bales of hay reconnecting with my friends Paula and Claire, who I've shamefully neglected for too long, and who reminded me what bonzer people they are. But next time I see them I want there to be a proper sofa.

Today's big news is that I am "reserve choice" for the job I interviewed for a few days ago; as I suspected, it's gone to an "internal candidate" – i.e. they knew who they wanted to appoint but just went through the motions of an open application process because they had to. Good feedback though, they liked me and thought I could do a good job, with one or two minor reservations as to the breadth of my experience.

The position was to work with and for our local "sex workers", ensuring that those forced into it were given an escape, that those who'd been trafficked were removed from harm, and that others were at least keeping out of trouble and not annoying anybody, and had a route out if they wanted it.

Long-time readers will know of my close interest in these issues, and I thought that the job would be very challenging – especially for a man, there's very few male sex workers round here – but ultimately also highly rewarding.

Ah well. I'm not unduly disappointed, because I kept myself more in hope than expectation; nor is it the case that I'm disadvantaged, since I'm still in my current night care/supervision work. I'm still keeping my eyes open…

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At about the same time I took the call, a parcel flopped on the doormat -

Thank you, Ang and Rem; your timing, as ever, is immaculate…

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Of course now the World Cup is taking up major parts of the day; although I'm finding the radio coverage much more to my liking than the TV, which is obsessed with instant "action replays" from six different angles each and every time someone kicks the ball ["less is more" is a philosophy that grows in importance all the time, I find].

After the first round of games, my preliminary conclusions are that Germany looked miles ahead of anybody else; adopted favourite team Slovenija will depend on their match against the USA as to what they do in the tournament; my £5 bet on Mexico, based solely on Giovani's eight games on loan to Ipswich, is pretty much wasted; and I wonder what noise it makes if you fart down a vuvuzela?

All complaints about the above image should be sent to atomic@b3ta through the link, and not to…