Saints stuff

I've always fought shy about mentioning my near pathological love for St Kilda FC - after all, there aren't too many Saints 'tragics' in the UK, especially when I lived in Cornwall, it would've been a bit of a giveaway in terms of my 'real-life' identity - but given the fact very few people even read my blog (albeit that I'm grateful those who do!) it's tantamount to paranoia if I don't talk about the club at all. So the fact the 2018 AFL draft is happening tomorrow (the first round, at least) is a good time to discuss Sainters news as any. We've had a terrible season, by any standards, third-last in the ladder, and there have been threats of torches and pitchforks massing (figuratively, if not literally) at Moorabbin lately, particularly aimed the head coach. I can't pretend that I'm happy with everything in 'Saintsworld' at moment, but some of the 'punditry' has been close to hysterical, as far as I'm concerned. Looking at the bright side, though, it does mean that we're going to get a good pick in the draft - the somewhat arcane rules of the AFL mean that we're going to have pick 4 rather the nominal pick 3 we would have had originally - and the 'Class of 2018' is supposedly is going to be good. Three of the players are, by common consent, have been earmarked as 'the best of the best' and not available to us (although I'd be happy to be wrong about any of the three), so much of the speculation has been centred around 'number 4'. The 'smart money' says the Saints will nominate a guy called Max King, a tall forward who is, as far as I can see, a very good player, but my concern is that we need a elite midfielder more than a forward. For the little I know as a Brit from 10000-odd miles away, I'm going to pin my colours to a young man called Bailey Smith, who I think is the sort of player we need, in my opinion. My opinion is meaningless, of course, in the grand scheme of things, but I hope that I'll be right. I'll find out tomorrow morning (UK time), doubtlessly.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Bittersweet, not for the first time

I watched a film tonight, from one of my meagre collection of DVDs, the first time I've done that for, literally, years. It was a film I've seen several times - I couldn't say, exactly, how times, but it must be at least a dozen - but I hadn't watched it for at least five years. The film is quite elderly these days - it was released in 1984 - but I still find it compelling and relevant for me, with its elements of hypocrisy and society's expectations, the expectations that you transgress at your peril. It's a very beautiful film aesthetically, in my opinion, and there's an absolute cutie in the cast, too (Adrian Ross-Magenty, playing Wharton, albeit that the actor will be pushing 50 now in real life), but it's achingly sad for me, all the more because the world is just as unaccepting for people for in my situation, if not more so, that it was when it was produced. The film? Another Country.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

Doleful anniversaries

It's not been a cheerful couple of days, if I'm being honest. After my 'waah!' moment on Saturday about Cammy, Sunday brought reflections about my cousin, the greatest love of my life, bar none, given that yesterday was his birthday, followed by today, the anniversary of meeting my ex for the first time (27 years ago, almost half my life, and for what?). I'll survive, doubtless, but it seems pretty pointless, sometimes.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B

How are you?

That question. The one that so many people ask, but the one they almost never want to hear, at least in terms of an honest answer. If I was to be asked, I might soften my response by using the old chestnut 'How long have you got?', but if I was to be completely frank, the answer at the moment would be 'I'm totally pissed off'. This is nothing to do with the new flat - I spoke to the solicitors on Thursday, and everything seems to be going to plan, albeit that I don't know exactly when I can expect the contracts to be exchanged, yet - but the knowledge that wherever I end up living, 'society' will still hate me, generically if not specifically. My feelings have been exacerbated by thinking about Cammy, my 'little friend' from my old local Wetherspoons (I might just well say where it was, I guess, now it doesn't exist anymore, and that fact that K and I don't live anywhere near the place now - it was The Man In The Moon in Stanmore, although we didn't live in Stanmore, it was far too expensive, but it was the nearest Wetherspoons to our former flat). 99%, or more, of people would doubtless assume that I would only have been interested in the boy by way of stuffing my penis in his mouth, or his anus, but as far as I'm concerned, that was never my intention - I wanted to be his friend, and for him to be my friend, too, and I'm convinced it could have happened, without the spectre of sexual abuse ever having been present. As I say, almost no-one would have believed me - even Cammy himself, once he was old enough to be poisoned by the world's hatred for boylovers - but I'm sticking to my assertion. It doesn't change anything, of course - I'm still desolate, not even remotely close to having the sort of relationship I would choose. How am I? Feeling like the pub, or its merchandise, more realistically, is my only friend. And I'll be there this afternoon, almost certainly.

Love & best wishes to all
Sammy B