Saturday, January 21, 2006

Confession is the New Black

It seems you just can't move for confessions at the moment. Shortly after Charles Kennedy kicked the bucket of political doom and the leader of the Lib Dems in the House of Lords confessing that he used to be an alcoholic, Mark Oaten quits the leadership race and then his Front Bench post after confessing (or being confessed - can you be confessed? - I think you can these days) to having a relationship with a 23 year old rent boy.

Now, I'm sorry that anyone is forced into doing anything by the scum tabloid media. And I'm sorry that a leading politician (like any of us had ever heard of him until about two weeks ago) has to struggle to maintain both a family and a healthy interest in younger men in the face of media outrage. However, can we just return to the 23 year old rent boy?

It's the rent boy bit that puzzles me. He's 23. He's not a boy. I assume he was getting a lot more than his rent paid, too. So why rent boy? Back to class I think. Though the story has yet to emerge, you can bet that the lad is not an Oxbridge graduate doing a little escort work on the side to pay his fees at the bar until he gets a place at a decent chambers. Oh no. Rent boy = working class = even worse than shagging some one a bit posher with whom you could chat about the absurdity of dashing for every division bell and what's on this week at the National.

Oh well.

On a more cheerful note the police have relieved Celebrity Big Brother's rubber faced bin sucker Pete Burns of his monkey skin coat.


And on the subject of animal rights and politics, the BBC story about a Rat Snake adopting a guinea pig that was thrown into its cage to be dinner, set me thinking.


Who do they remind you of? Let me think; a snake featured reptile in a position where he is acting against instinct and conditioning in a weird and inexplicable relationship with a round faced hoarder of valuable goods... No, can't think. Must put a call through to Downing Street to find out - 'Operator, Number 10 or Number or 11 will do'.

A beautiful day today. I ran along the river to the Quays though only stayed out for half an hour or so and then walked into town. I've become strangely used to the site of the Beetham Tower through my bedroom window - it's just there, day and night - growing and getting taller and shinier and more worrying day by day.


And although I pass underneath it nearly every day, it was only on the way home from town that I took a close up to get the full size.



I really don't like the whole jutting out a bit half way up thing that's it's got going on. If I was on that side of the building, I would be afraid of the whole slice coming off and plummeting to the ground. Now that would be ok on the Deansgatge side where there is a nice row of ceramics, wooden flooring and bathroom appliance shops. But on the otgher side? Can you imagine the embarassment of plunging to your death infront of the Greater Manchester Exhibition Centre on one side and some really apalling bars on the other? No, me neither.

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