My Belated Valentine

I sleep beside the banisters of my stairs, so getting out of the wrong side of bed would result in serious injury, if not death. I was therefore pleased just now to land unscathed, on my feet, and to clear blue skies well before the alarm, as it routinely does, scares the bejesus out of me. Fear, I've decided, is not a good way to start the day, so with the extra few minutes afforded me I replaced that buzzer sound with the sound of birdsong: not so loud, but no less scary.

My attempts to rid fear from my daily routine were soon proven futile however as my sleepy eyes wandered over to my desk calendar, which read, 'Monday, February 14'. Has the week since Valentine's been a loveless dream? No, it turns out. I've just been away on business (see The San Also Rises). After joyfully tearing seven sheets from the calendar my confusion nevertheless continued as I found amongst the morning mail, and exactly a week late, a scented pink envelope postmarked February 12 and a card, distinctly resembling a Valentine, signed, "your SY1 admirer" - SY1 being my post code area and, to confuse matters further, the name of my hairdressers.

The clue in the card leads me either to my foxy, but nevertheless married, hairdresser Rachel, or - let's face it - any one of the 28,000 women in the SY1 catchment area. The walk to work this morning will certainly be interesting. And I'm thinking my hair needs a trim.

The San Also Rises

Hemmingway's The Sun Also Rises, known in this country as Fiesta, was written, or at least I’d like to believe, in Parisian cafés and bars with its author, a voice of a Lost Generation, penning his acute post-wartime observations in a Moleskin Notebook. Similarly, I write this, with handwriting recognition software and an HP PocketPC, in a greasy spoon café at Barrow Railway Station. I'm in the glamorous North West, or at least for the next 37 minutes until my train arrives, on business and spending company money (so sue me – actually, please don't) on breakfast.

It's one of those cafés where if there were music playing rather than regional talk radio it would stop at my entrance. Nevertheless greasy spoons and heads dropped and turned as I walked in, holding a red leather briefcase in one hand and quickly unfastening a white flower brooch from my lapel with the other. During my brief stay in Barrow I'd met one other person of colour, who incidentally had been bottled when out the night before. (And by bottled I don't mean scooped up lovingly and packaged for consumption.)

I felt eyes on my back as I walked to the counter and, holding a Microsoft Publisher produced menu, asked for a Big Breakfast. "American?" The lady asked. "Um...I spent a year in California." I replied, wondering what she meant. "Er no," she sighed. "Do you want Black Pudding with that or sausage?" "Oh right! American then." I laughed. "I assume the sausage is American." Then, realising that I sounded completely stupid, and as though I expected imported sausage, stopped talking, settled the bill and thought twice about asking for a Grande Café Mocha.

Why People Are Calling Me Gay

Burn It: 'My Bloody Valentine'

Although I'm not a religious man I will readily celebrate Christmas and Easter. Valentines, on the other hand, though not technically a religious holiday, typically yields fewer cards and candies and therefore demands less of my attention. Of course, should I be on a date tonight rather than writing this, between a board meeting and sleeping alone, I might be more enthused. Instead - and as part of the estranged Burn It series - I've compiled a playlist for the dateless. We are alone together.

My Bloody Valentine (Total Time: 1:20:21)

1. 'Are You Lonesome Tonight' - Elvis Presley
A qualifying question from the King. If your answer is 'yes' please proceed to song 2.
2. 'Excuse Me While I Break My Own Heart Tonight' - Whiskeytown
Nothing says drunk and alone like the sound of slide guitar and fiddle. Here the Ryan Adams vehicle, Whiskeytown, articulate both states of being in a style both a little bit country, a little bit rock and roll.
3. 'Bye Bye Love' - The Everly Brothers
Only the Everly Brothers can sing the line, "I think I'm gonna di-ie", with one too many syllables and a disposition so sunny to belie the song's doomful lyrics.
4. 'I Don't Love Anyone' - Belle & Sebastian
"Not even Christmas"? Not even Christmas.
5. 'What A Wonderful Thing Love Is' - Al Green
What sounds like a rather odd choice for an anti-Valentines playlist is, on closer inspection, rather inspired. The Reverend Al Green, as he is now known, has that remarkable ability to evoke empathy in even the most callous of listeners. Here however his delivery is so curious in its phrasing that the song's supposed romantic sentiment can be read as ironic. Such a reading is only promoted by Green's troubled love life and the story of his former girlfriend, Mary Woodson, who broke into his Memphis home, October 1974, and poured boiling grits on the singer while he was bathing. She inflicted second-degree burns on his back, stomach and arms, before killing herself with his gun.
6. 'Today Has Been OK' - Emiliana Torrini
Emiliana Torrini is an exquisite concoction of Italian and Icelandic decent, with a voice not unlike Bjork's and a pathos that recalls Nick Drake's Pink Moon. Torrini's boyfriend was killed in the 'honeymoon period' of their relationship; she herself was attacked by a gang of muggers in London. So although her problems might surpass being alone on Valentines, I nevertheless find some affinity tonight with this track.
7. 'Shit, Damn, Motherf*****' - D'Angelo
A day not so okay is recounted in D'Angelo's obsenity riddled tale of infidelity, revelation and ultimate murder, when our hero finds his wife in bed with his best friend. Over a mid-tempo, soulful groove D'Angelo sings, "Why the both of yous bleeding so much?" 'Cause you shot them mate. That's why.
8. 'F*** It, I Don't Want You Back' - Eamon
As if to outdo Mr Angelo, Staten Island vocalist, Eamon, takes his profanity-laced pop to a new level and finds a profitable outlet for his long-suffered Tourette Syndrome. The result is the insanely popular 'F*** It, I Don't Want You Back', its offensive language and misogyny cleverly censored by a series of indecipherable asterisks and silent pauses.
9. 'Cry Me A River' - Justin Timberlake
Not to be confused with the melancholy Arthur Hamilton standard that was a hit for late Jazz singer/actress Julie London in 1955, here is a song utterly devoid of dignity and grace, a melodrama with atmospheric rain, a chiming Greek chorus and a speaker, velvet voiced and vindictive. It's also the most interesting track on the otherwise bland Justified album, but as a tell-tale piece on ex-girlfriend Britney Spears it does little to incite our sympathy. Its accompanying video, in which JT breaks into his ex's house, films himself fooling around with new lady friend and leaves the video playing, does little to help the situation.
10. 'The KKK Took My Baby Away' - The Ramones
A pretty good excuse for being alone on Valentines, I think. (Though actually a story of how Johnny Ramone stole and later married Joey Ramone's girlfriend.)
11. 'Cold Hard B****' - Jet
More mean spirited misogyny from Australia's finest cock-rockers, Jet.
12. 'Hallelujah' - Jeff Buckley
A perfect, though hardly romantic marriage of Leonard Cohen's words and Jeff Buckley's voice, this version of Hallelujah is a masterpiece of bitterness and spite, bubbling at the surface with intimacy and urgency, and saved only from self-destruction by the effortless grace of Buckley's guitar and vocals. "Love," according to Cohen, "is a cold and a broken 'hallelujah'".
13. 'Solitaire' - Jesse Malin
Between Jeff Buckley and Ray LaMontagne, Jesse Malin is in fine company and manages to hold his own in this ode to solitude from his 2002 debut, The Fine Art of Self-Destruction, a record of fight-or-flight mentality with its love-sucker heart worn proudly on its alt-country sleeve. Malin's voice is a raw as his emotions as he sings, "got some cigarettes/I don't need anyone."
14. 'Burn' - Ray LaMontagne
It was indeed late and I'd had a bit to drink when I discovered LaMontagne on a re-run of 'Later with Jools Holland'. By the morning, like some kind of a gay one night stand, his gruff voice and rough beard were fresh in my memory but his name had escaped me. I found him, of all places, in a Virgin Megastore, after asking an assistant for Ray Lasagna. My humming was more helpful and she promptly handed me a copy of his debut album, Trouble, which I can heartily recommend. An obvious choice for this playlist for the lyric, "It's so hard to ignore/All this blood on the floor/'Cause this heart on my sleeve/Won't stop bleeding." And a cracker of a voice.
15. 'Creep (Acoustic)' - Radiohead
A rather brilliant fan video, linked below, does little to contest Thom Yorke's reputation as a bit of a weirdo. Watch a mini Yorke sing his little heart out in a cartoon cross between Stressed Eric and The Office. Video
16. 'Last Night I Dreamt That Somebody Loved Me' - The Smiths
"Just another false alarm." Not one of the more cheery - and I imagine, unreleased - Smiths songs.
17. 'Cheers Darlin'' - Damien Rice
One of the more exciting moments of the largely acoustic, O, which is, I think, at its best when Rice is given the freedom to experiment with scale, sound effect and indeed electricity. "Cheers darlin'," he mumbles over a lazy electric guitar, "here's to you and your...lover man."
18. 'The Rat' - The Walkmen
"Can't you see me?!" shouts front man, Walter Martin. "I'm pounding on your door," which incidentally, is the overall effect of this from New York rockers The Walkmen. It breaks briefly in the middle for the line, "when I used to go out I would know/everyone that I saw/Now I go out alone/If I go out at all," and then repeats its joyful anger until it hammers home.
19. 'Chelsea Hotel' - Leonard Cohen
The Chelsea Hotel, I've decided, is not a nice place to stay. It's spawned several songs of loneliness and insomnia, characterised by these old and new songs from 1974 and 2004 respectively. Here Cohen hands us a snapshot, a Polaroid picture of a moment in time, remembered in detail but shaken dry by denial. "I remember it well/in Chelsea Hotel," he sings. "But that's all/I don't think of you that often."
20. 'Hotel Chelsea Nights' - Ryan Adams
"And I'm tired of living in this hotel," a lovesick Senõr Adams sings, "TV and dirty magazines," which just about sums up my valentines. I'm San Sharma. Thanks for listening.

Time and Company

As a man, working in a predominantly urban environment it was with great surprise that I received my complimentary ticket to this year's WiRE Conference (WiRE standing for Women in Rural Enterprise). Particularly surprised - and I imagine, somewhat annoyed - was my boss, Fay Easton, who had to buy a £50 ticket in order to drive me there.

Once inside the Country Living Magazine sponsored marquee however my surprise turned quickly to delight when I realised that it had been quite some time since I'd shared a tent with 600 women. Eagerly, I found my seat at the very front row before motivational speaker, Abigail Cooke, greeted the crowd with a minimal, "ladies," and my delight, just as quickly, returned to embarrassment. Nevertheless, I was suitably moved by Ms Cooke's speech and left the first session believing that I was indeed "a strong, confident woman."

But the fun really began after lunch, during a 'Lean Marketing' workshop, when the tutor instructed the crowd of women (and me) to remove any unnecessary items from their handbags or purses as an excercise in 'lean living'. As I was without my handbag or purse that day I opened my wallet and pulled out a condom that was quickly approaching its expiration date.

The tutor then walked us through an excercise routine that finished with a "deep breath out" and our arms in somewhat of a twist. She asked the crowd who had finished with their left arm atop their right. I was one of three people to raise my hand. "Right," she said. "You are highly sexed people." And with that the audience laughed, the three with their hands raised went slightly red and I returned the condom to my wallet. I've still got time, I thought. And, looking around, company.

My First Birthday

It occurs to me, as I sit to write tonight's entry, that tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of this here blog. I thought then that I'd use this opportunity to look back at some of its highs and lows, but decided that, like a flashback filled episode of a sitcom, it's really a disappointment for the audience and an excuse for the writers to take the day off. But rest assured readers, I'm not resting.

In fact, as this momentous occasion approaches, I find myself anxious about a decline in quality, an anxiety brought about by the comments of a dear friend. "It's crap San," Pete said. "It’s just not that funny anymore. Where are the funny stories?" The funny stories, it seems, are fairly rampart in the months of July and August when – twice – my sexuality was mistaken (see Is there something gay about me? and De-Gay Me, both popular posts.) "You're best when you're anecdotal." Pete added, although I'd take that to mean that it's funny when bad stuff happens to me.

And so, in an effort to please my readers, and indeed escape the wrath of my friend Pete, I've been making note of those things in my day that are both funny for you and excruciatingly embarrassing for me. Take for example what happened yesterday at work.

My boss had asked me to count the number of invitees for a reception we had been organising. As I reached the last name in the list, Victoria Williams, I remembered that she had called earlier and left a message. "69..." I counted. "And that reminds me, Victoria called." And so the office fell silent. But at least with this little embarrassment it wasn't my sexuality in question.

The Ha Ha Wall

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Michael.
Michael who?
Right. You'll do for the jury.

The Blackest of Sheep

Everybody claims to be the black sheep of their family. Statistically speaking, such claims are most often made during family holidays. But for the blackest of sheep there is no such thing, and no more have I felt my blackness than last week when a chain of events confirmed my position on the outer branches of the family tree.

"We're planning a family holiday!" my sister Uma said, in a barely audible mixture of excitement and poor network reception.
"Oh yeah? Where to?" I said, in an audible yet curious mixture of fascination and fear, remembering the rows and sulks of family holidays past.
"The South of France."
"Cool," I said, assessing the relative pros and cons of location versus company in my mind. "I'll have to call you back later," I looked at my watch. "I've got a date."

During which, incidentally, my mum had phoned and left a message on my machine. "Hi San," it started. "We’re trying to book a family holiday and need to ask you something! Can you call us back?"

And so I did, having decided that being in the South of France might outweigh actually being with the family. But, it turns out, I had misunderstood my mum's message. "We were trying to book the holiday on the Internet," she explained. "But couldn't work out what the security code was that they were asking for. Don't worry though - we worked it out and booked the four tickets."
"Only four?" I asked.
"Yeah," my mum replied. "You don't mind staying behind to look after the dog, do you?"