Bill Clinton.

But before you move rapidly on to look for naughty pictures, having in all likelihood heard more than enough about what an evil, dissolute, reprehensible man he is over the past few days, let’s just pause for a second. What precisely IS the problem?

The first part is the sex. Sure, the guy had sex in the Oval Office, and while he was on the phone to congressmen. But coming from the guy who is notorious for not grasping the concept behind how to smoke dope, this can only be seen as a major step forward — one just wonders whether Monica Lewinsky could also say, “I didn’t inhale”… Okay, he’s still got a bit to learn about the sex thing – penises were not specifically designed to go into your partner’s mouth, but he seems to have a handle on the basic principles, even if the bit with the cigar was somewhat mind-boggling. [Deeply amusing to watch the various news reports here, all of which managed to raise Hinting Darkly to an artform, without actually mentioning precisely what it was he DID with the cigar.]

My major qualm is less what he did, than who he did it with. Take a look at JFK: he shagged like a bunny rabbit, but got his brains blown out in Texas, and is now a national icon, a status unlikely to be given to Clinton anytime soon. The difference is less that between Clinton and Kennedy, and more that between Monica Lewinsky and Marilyn Monroe. Bill: you’re the most powerful man in the world. YOU CAN DO BETTER! If it ain’t a top-class actress, singer or supermodel, don’t touch it.

And then, there are those who say, “Well, of course what he does in the bedroom is his own business, but he lied about it, and abused his position” — a nice compromise between the politically correct liberal, and the moral fascist. This is forgetting one major thing:

He is a politician

What did you expect? OF COURSE he lied! OF COURSE he abused his position! It’s what they DO! If he were a teacher, or a priest, or God help us, even a reporter, it would be a matter for some concern, but he’s not — he’s a bottom-dwelling, scum-sucking, politico. Condemning him for lying is like complaining because an estate agent was a bit economical with the truth. It only comes as a shock if you are taken in by the sax playing, the golf, and the general air of benign stupidity which all American presidents since Nixon seem to have cultivated.

I may be missing the point here, but then I haven’t bothered to go through all 400+ pages of the Starr report. This isn’t surprising, given that what’s on the web appears to be SCANS of the pages, which take so long to download that by the time you discover what Slick Willie’s supposed to have done, he, Monica, Hillary and, indeed, yourself will in all likelihood be dead. Two words, guys: “text” and “files”.

The more cynical amongst us will simply sit back and enjoy the spectacle; in my case, I’m especially joyed to be watching the humiliation of his wife. I don’t think he’s going to go (I hope not — Hazza may be a dreadful women, but at least she isn’t Tipper Gore), but I fully expect a lot more dirt to come out from under the couch regardless. Rarely has the Chinese threat ‘May you live in interesting times’ been more appropriate.

• Weight: 79.0 kg.
• Days of sobriety: 17
• Movies in unwatched video pile: 53

Apologies for the ‘Bridget Jones Diary’ style opening – what IS the appeal of that neurotic post-teen angst-ridden tripe, anyway? – but it seems an appropriate way to start, because one year ago, to the day, the TC web site opened for business. Since that day, I’ve written 48 editorials, 63 movie reviews and the site has expanded up to 3,323,525 bytes of information. According to the counter on the home-page, it has now been visited 13,913 times: of course, some people probably by-passed the front page, but on the other hand, a good few of those were probably just me logging on to see how many times it had been visited — especially in the early days! Thanks to every one of you for the encouragement, and for all the emails to tell me that my links weren’t working…

Generally, looking over the other ramblings which have been posted here in the past year is like going through a psychological photo album, as it brings back memories of what was important. And while occasional world events have intruded, largely this space has been occupied by smaller, less earth-shattering events: a medical, trips abroad, visitors, burglary attempts, and the gradually deteriorating atmosphere at work.

In some cases, such as pub bouncers, my opinions have mellowed slightly: last weekend, I spent a thoroughly entertaining afternoon down the pub, watching Charlton fans not getting served. Such is the inevitable result of the immediate nature of the Web; I can get pissed off on Thursday, write about it on Friday, and publish in on Saturday. This compares favourably with the, oh, eighteen months which could pass between writing for TC and the piece appearing.

Mind you, I may be mellowing across the board — I stumbled across the file which contained all my Usenet postings over the past couple of years, and I can’t believe TC Towers has not been burnt to the ground by an enraged mob of one sort or another as a result of my rants. I kinda wince on reading things like “American culture is all right in its place — America”. As one friend pointed out, now it’s “when can I go back to Las Vegas?”.

Way back in our very first editorial, I railed against the wave of Diana hysteria which was then sweeping the nation. Last weekend was the first anniversary of her death — the necroversary, perhaps? – and so, inevitably, we were treated to a whole new slew of programs on her “saintly” life and “tragic” death. Me, I commemorated the occasion with a triple bill of ‘Speed Racer’, ‘Lost Highway’ and ‘Crash’… However, I’ve been pleased to see how most people, save the real sad bastards, have had enough; in one poll, only 6% wanted to see any kind of official commemoration. Do I detect a fair bit of entirely justified embarrassment among those who let themselves get carried away by the tabloids last year?

But coming right up to date, my sobriety is now past the half-way mark — and thank Christ for that. Last night was VERY strange: was out all evening, but consumption of 2 1/2 pints of Diet Coke, on top of a couple of coffees, left me feeling more wired on caffeine than I’ve ever felt [I rarely have more than one coffee per day, so don’t exactly have a great deal of tolerance]. And it was not a nice feeling; if being drunk is like floating on a fluffy little cloud, a caffeine high is like someone scraping a razor-blade over your personality. I felt edgy, borderline paranoid, and distinctly twitchy. This was not nice, so for the remaining two weeks, I shall be sticking to the mineral waters.

And so, pausing only to raise a glass of cool, clear, caffeine-free Highland Spring: Here’s to the next year!

Er, hello… My name is Jim…
[“Hi, Jim!”]
…and I’ve not had a drink for four days.
[APPLAUSE]

Four days down, 27 to go. I refer to my annual month of sobriety, which kicked off on Wednesday. It was going to be Monday, but I forgot and bought a four-pack on my way home from work — and the best way to avoid temptation is to drink it. There is now no beer lurking on my fridge shelves — except for the remnants of some terribly dodgy French beer which a friend brought round six months ago, and which is so bad that it poses no threat to my will-power.

So why am I embarking on this strange pursuit? It’s actually my third year of doing this — after a failure to quite make the whole month in 1996, I managed it quite easily in 1997. It’s partly my annual sacrifice to the health gods – “I’ll be good for one month if you let me pummel my liver into submission for the other eleven” – though the actual benefits to my well-being are probably somewhat limited. Instead of beer, I inevitably find myself drinking a variety of sickly soft drinks, whose E-numbers are probably more of a threat to me than a natural blend of barley, hops, water and yeast. I also tended to make up for a lack of beer by consuming chocolate. This is not so good when I mean matching stomach volumes…

It is also partly an assertion of my superiority over the demon drink. I am fierce in defending my independence, and refuse to submit to the control of anyone, be they psychotic Japanese ex-girlfriends, film censors or Tony Blair, without a really good cause — such as a large, monthly pay-packet. This applies to chemical substances as well and, perhaps due to attending too many Victorian melodramas during my formative years, I am well aware of the perils of alcohol. By abstaining for one month, I show that I don’t rely in any way on it.

This naturally has an interesting effect on my social life. Some things, such as karaoke, are out right away, simply because they are no fun at all sober. Others have a lot less appeal; it’s surprising how much less fun it is to go down the pub and sip an orange-and-lemonade, when everyone else is slamming back the beers. It’s true, of course, that you don’t need to drink to have fun, but when you’re with people who ARE drinking, the novelty of watching their.. sentences…. get…… slower…….. and………. slower………… will eventually wear off. And you realise that alcohol may be a depressant, but no alcohol is still more depressing.

For while drink may fuel aggression, it also increases tolerance — like all drugs, it doesn’t so much expand your mind as shrink the rest of the universe. Your standards drop alongside your reaction time. This becomes painfully clear in the field of film; there are plenty of movies where the pre-, during- and indeed post-consumption of alcohol is an essential part of the leisure principle. Thus, for the next month, a large percentage of my collection will be off-limits, and I will be forced to watch quality productions. This may yet prove to be the biggest test of my will-power — can I hold out during the long, dark Hong Kong “comedies”, without a nice, cold Stella to see me through?

I have, however, carefully scheduled things to lessen the impact. While in previous years, it has been a straight calendar month — first to thirty-first — this time it overlaps. I didn’t want to make it August; one of the delights of last week’s trip to Bradford was buying two pints and still getting change from three quid [that, and cloakrooms which cost a whole twenty pence!] September is out, as old schoolfriend Phil is probably coming down: beer will be consumed. In October, Chris, TCs American Ambassador, will be visiting and it would be terribly anti-social not to drink alongside her. November is the start of the Christmas party season. And alcohol is not a luxury, but a necessity to get through December — see the current TC for details [I won’t explain further. Go buy it]. So that’s it for the year. The only good thing is that the ‘month’ now ends on a Friday: don’t bother trying to call me at 23:59 on Friday September 18th, because I’ll be on the phone to the speaking clock, bottle of Kriek in hand.

So I am sitting here, with a nice cold glass of Diet Apple Tango by my side – actually, it doesn’t taste too bad for a concoction which is, in all likelihood, chemically closer to washing-up liquid than apple juice. A quick nutritional tip here: the ultimate diet drink is Dr Pepper, which contains no calories whatsoever. This is simply because no-one can bring themselves to drink it. However, with 27 days still to go, there’s only one conclusion which can safely be drawn.

I think for the 1999 Exercise in Will-power, I’m gonna go for February…

I am blessed – or cursed – with an ability to fall asleep anywhere. When my brain decides it’s time, that’s it. I’ve lost count of the times I’ve dozed off in the cinema, but I’ve managed it in nightclubs too, and now also at an Alien Sex Fiend concert.

This was part of In-Fest 98, a selection of Goth, industrial and electronic bands which took place in Bradford the weekend just gone. Went up with Rob Dyer, ‘Dark Star’ editor and veteran of the previous TC trip to Hamburg (yeah, I’ll get round to reporting on it eventually). We took the coach — not a difficult decision, given that the train fare was exactly three times as expensive. It was just about survivable, though I think five hours on a bus is about the limit for me.

Our accommodation was in halls of residence, and this took me back a few years it must be said. All those little things I’d forgotten about — like having to take your keys when you went to the bathroom, and having a room at which an Inspector of Prisons would look disapprovingly. But, hey, for fourteen quid a night, who’s complaining? And most of the rest of the floor was packed with like-minded people, so it was a bit like attending Goth U.

For despite the title, the audience was almost exclusively Goth in appearance. Not that this is necessarily a bad thing, for there were plenty of Winonas to admire i.e. small, cute and dressed in black — readers are referred to ‘Beetlejuice’ for an example. While there were a couple of serious hippos on view, the general opinion was most favourable: as Rob Dyer pointed out, “Goth girls *know* how to dress”. Though the perpetual scowls were not particularly enhancing; how are you supposed to tell when Goths are enjoying themselves? Are they looking miserable because they’re unhappy, or just ‘cos they’re Goths? I suspect the latter, going by the way the song which got the dancefloor most packed was that Goth classic, er, ‘Barbie Girl’…

However, the most memorable sight of all was actually a bloke. From the shoulders up, he looked like a card carrying Hell’s Angel, and possessed enough tattoos to get him executive membership at any Yakuza golf club. This was nicely counterpointed by the leather corset, PVC trousers and platform soles. That, was a man extremely confident of his sexuality. Though precisely WHAT that sexuality was, I wouldn’t begin to contemplate. Instead, I just remember the Douglas Adams quote: “the things…the people…the things are ALSO people.”

Friday

• Dust to Dust. Turned up a bit late, due to an essential stop for a local curry (and very good it was, too), so only got three of their songs, all covers — a Goth tribute band?
• Leech Woman. Impressive percussion, using such things as acetylene cylinders and an angle grinder, which sent showers of sparks into the audience. Vocals disappointing, with all the intelligibility of Napalm Death.
• Ultraviolence. Hardcore techno. One man and his sequencers, accompanied by Leech Woman’s angle-grinder and two go-go dancers, one of whom was also a fire-eater. Press your head against the loudspeakers, and wait for the nose-bleed. Me like.
• The Horatii. Almost traditional Goth, yet also possessing a quirky sense of humour, which was endearing. Hell, maybe it’s just a big joke after all. Vocalist again a little underwhelming, but not bad, and had a nice rapport with the audience.

Saturday morning dawned bright and early…well, bright, anyway. Headed into town to explore a bit, pausing for the obligatory greasy breakfast. Bradford town centre is compact, and hilly, with plenty of character, and a good selection of shops. Rather nice. A copy of VR Baseball, four Xena comics, a book about Lara Croft and some pine kernels (don’t ask!) later, it was back to the campus for a marathon ten-hour session.

Saturday

• Sneaky Bat Machine. SOOOOOO Goth they had to be a parody, though it was some time before we were sure. I think flinging rubber bats into the audience gave it away. Doom-laded electro-pop, bonus marks for particularly insistent merchandise flogging, even trying to sell the window behind them.
• Man(i)kin. A real find, perhaps the band most likely to make it, with an excellent wall of electronic sound. Their vocalist, looking like a young Dave Gahan, needs work but, remarkably, this was their first time live, so we’ll give them the benefit. Most impressive.
• Passion Play. Maybe it was just in comparison, but this lot were utterly forgettable. No stage presence at all, and nothing new or of interest, though in their defence Goth music is perhaps not at its best on a bright and warm August afternoon. Next, please.
• Squid. Replaced Libitina (out due to an “industrial accident”): thrash-goth, worth catching before the lead vocalist commits suicide or his throat explodes. The former seemed more likely, until they did the theme to “Dad’s Army”, which made up for missing Libitina’s notorious ‘Gothic People’ cover.
• Nekromantik. A fairly lifeless duo, one on vocals, the other on keyboards. Their more upbeat numbers worked well enough, yet the rest proved insufficient to keep our interest, and we retired to find seats and played ‘Count the Babes’ for a while.
• Alien Sex Fiend. A long-time veteran of the scene, having been around since the 70’s, yet Mr.Fiend’s pasty-faced keyboard-backed doodlings were not what was really needed at this hour. Even at about ten minutes per song, it took him half an hour to deliver anything with a beat. From standing, I sat down with my back to a pillar; then closed my eyes to listen to the music…the next thing I know, a security guard is kicking my feet and asking if I’m alright.

Picking myself up, I managed to remain conscious for the last couple of songs, and then meander home experiencing a Bradford kebab. Something of a first to have one that comes in naan bread, and very messy it is too, with the assorted sauces spraying out over the vicinity. Trekked back to the hotel and crash out — the next morning, we discover Man(i)kin are actually just down the corridor from us!

Bradford city centre was almost deserted on Sunday, save for ourselves and a few other stray Goths wandering round, blinking in the sunlight and trying to find anywhere open that sold food before getting the bus back to London. Net result: shattered, hungover, broke, and having had a rather good time. Roll on In-fest ’99.

I’ve already bitched once before about the weather, but hey, I’m British, and so am allowed to find it a perpetual source of fascination. At least we HAVE weather, rather than a climate. As our American ambassador says, there they have two seasons, summer, and waiting for summer. Compared to this, the vagaries of the British climate are a delight to behold.

Personally, I wear it as some kind of badge of honour that, on the hottest day of the year, I crossed the doorstep for all of 15 minutes, preferring instead to lurk inside in the (relatively) cool shade. This is why I am writing this editorial at nine-something in the morning; normally, it’s not a part of Sunday with which I am usually familiar, but in this case, I decided to try and beat the heat. It’s warm enough as it is, without making things worse by being in a room with several hefty electrical devices.

It’s always struck me as somewhat odd that people slag off Michael Jackson for trying to make his skin lighter, and then spend hours and money attempting to get THEIR skin darker. I’m sure it’s not natural, the skin is just reacting to an unwelcome stimulus from the outside — there’s no difference between a suntan and a bruise, in these terms, but you don’t see people going round hitting themselves with mallets to get that healthy “battered fruit” look. You’re either white or you’re black. Deal with it.

Still, any excuse to avoid the centre of town. If one thing’s worse than a hot summer day, it’s a hot summer day on the tube. There are times when I am really glad that I don’t have to take the underground to work, and this week has been one of them. Concepts of personal space collapse, like matter round a black hole (and due to similar reasons of pressure and temperature), and you find yourself pushed into far-too-close proximity with people whom you’d rather not care to know. Needless to say, all the attractive actresses go around in chauffeur-driven limos rather than on the Tube, so the odds are against your newfound, extremely close, personal friend being a pleasant experience.

Above ground, things are unlikely to be much better. Summer brings two unpleasant plagues: wasps and tourists. Hard to tell which one is more unpleasant; at least wasps don’t clog up the pavements. Careful observation has revealed the general rule of intelligence at work: the combined IQ of any tourist or group thereof remains constant, regardless of the number in the group. Thus: single tourists are fine; two are bearable, but once you get beyond that number, you are dealing with people who appear to have the savvy of an upland sheep. And in some cases, that’s AFTER said animal has been carved into slices and placed on a plate with two veg and mint sauce.

This is largely why I choose to avoid Zone 1 during the summer months, as it become an unpleasant ordeal to fight your way along Oxford Street. But why the hell do tourists bother to GO there — “Oh, look, there’s a McDonald’s”. Don’t they have shops selling overpriced tourist tat at home? This also helps explains why most Londoners have never been to places like Madam Tussaud’s: a) it’s full of tourists, and b) it must therefore been an overpriced rip-off. I’ve BEEN abroad, and I KNOW they don’t charge a quid a can for Coke over there, so why are people apparently happy to pay it here? “Europa Food and Wine” are the past masters of this: a chain of food stores located wherever tourists congregate, specialising in heinous over-charging. I’m sure they’d claim it’s because of the rent in these “popular” areas, but you don’t see Books Etc doubling the prices in their Mayfair branch.

London is actually a fine city to live in…most of the time. But there are definitely occasions when it’s a place more to be endured than enjoyed. And when the temperature kicks up into the 80’s is definitely one of them.

Oh, and next week’s updates may be a little late, as I’m off to Bradford. On the other hand, this may mean they’re actually a bit early…but I wouldn’t count on it!