Apparently, I'm a Really-Good-Listener. Most of my friends have at one time or another divulged to me their darkest secrets or deepest emotions, secure in the knowledge I will never repeat them to anyone else. Ever.

But occasionally, I wish that they would shut up with their whinging. Yes, despite my chirpy, little-tinker exterior, I, too, have my depths, my drives and my hang-ups. Sometimes I just want to say: Look, for once I do not want to hear about your problems with your boyfriend/ girlfriend/ creditors/ employer/ landlord/ fellow gym queens/ nasty little rash you contracted after that drunken night in the backroom. Sometimes I just want to scream: Won't you f***ing listen to me for a change!

But I never do. Because I'm nice. Apparently. And I love 'em to bits.

But sometimes I think I should be a lot less nice.

And shout.

That'll teach me for dumping the old faithful mobile. It weighed a brick but at least it worked. The moment I buy Sleek New Sexy Model, the whole phone network went down, which meant I missed one majorly important call.

And the moment I stepped into work, our entire intranet crashed, and another web-hosting system started to become majorly petulant, which had me apologising to loads of people-who-get-paid-lots-more-than-me.

I feel like the Masque of bloody Cyber Death , and I spent most of today calmly assuring colleagues-who-for-some-inane-reason-have-faith-in-me that no, you really haven't deleted two years' worth of work, and yes, we really, really, really do have a back-up. Somewhere. Honest.

I call the IT helpdesk who answer from their desk helpfully with the usual helpful response: Oh-just-reboot-mate-and-then-it'll-all-be-alright.
Well, thank you again, but no, it bloody well wasn't.

Question: Does anyone anywhere have an IT helpdesk which is actually helpful ?

Thought not.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Came out smiling and scarred in the end, so had a quick drink with Renaissance Man and Party Boy, and then home to relax with the lovely Kate .

I would like to announce that, after much soul-searching and major Angst, I have dumped my long-time companion of almost five years.

Yep. That's right. The Motorola mr201 has been thrown onto the scrapheap.

Let's face it, it was a particularly stupid, ugly and loud-mouthed model at the best of times. Bit like someone else we know, in fact.

And when I found myself having to make calls from darkened alleys because I was ashamed for the two of us to be seen in public together then I knew it was time for something drastic.

So I've traded it in for a sleek, stylish and sort of sexy Japanese model.

This time it's forever.

Christopher Street Day in Berlin Part Two

I've only ever attended gay parades in three cities. The Sydney Mardi Gras parade is the most colourful by a long way, but it's now a purely commercial proposition, the city's biggest annual draw for ocker tourists who want to look at the "freaks". (Comment made on Taylor Square to me and French Boy, dressed in our spangly shorts: "Hey, can I take a picture of you. You know, I'm straight, honest, I am, but some of my best friends are poof-…." Oh puh-leeeese!) In Oz, unless you're one of the lucky muscle boyz to be allowed on a float, your only option is to stand on your milk crates behind the crash barriers and watch the parade as it passes you by. When I tried to join in a couple of years ago, I was actively discouraged by the stewards along the route. A case of look, don't get too involved, mate.

There's not that problem back here on the Island, but London's parade, is dreary by comparison. Nothing, for once, to do with British reserve or weather, but with the restraints put upon it by killjoy Westminster, the council borough through which the parade passes. As the event's classed as a political march, there's a legal limit on the number of floats we can have, and even their position in the parade (right at the front). Try as our brave Mardi Gras Committee do to party things up, with the main body of the parade trailing behind the floats, the whole thing has the feel of a student demo from the seventies.

In Berlin the few crash barriers get dismantled pretty pronto. The parade spills drunkenly out onto the city's wide boulevards, drags you into its chemically-fuelled, Sekt-swigging, techno-playing, arm-waving, show-off rollercoaster of a parade. It spins you around till you're dizzy and then spits you out again, before dragging you back in for just one more ride (come on, Liebchen you know you really want it, don't you?).

It's the biggest gay street party in Europe. It's an incredibly kitsch celebration of hedonism and sexuality. It's eighty-plus floats, from the naff to the incredibly elaborate. This year it's also a demand for the continued recognition in Germany of our gay and lesbian partnerships.


But most of all it's more than fifty thousand gays and lesbians dancing and partying and boozing and snogging their way through central Berlin, along the course of the old Berlin Wall, up past the country's seat of government, and into the Tiergarten, one of the largest outdoor cruising areas in Germany.

Political? You bet. Just by us being there. A party? What do you think?

After all – it really is a cabaret, old chum.