Gay culture...

After a day spent sunning my gay butt at the gay beach and, fearing the worst, last night at about 22:30 I hit the Yumbo Centre - the Canaries' gay Mecca.

If you want to discuss the Yumbo Centre in terms of its architecture or in terms of its cuisine, then I think you're on to a non starter. However, if you want to discuss the Yumbo Centre in terms of trashy gay culture, then surely it ranks up there with Manchester's Canal Street, New York's Greenwich Village and Madrid's Chueca.

More gay bars and clubs than you could wave a wand at and an impressive fluttering of rainbow flags, the Yumbo Centre caters for all tastes - as long as those tastes include cheap drinks, Spanish drag, sex clubs, bear bars pretty waiters with attitude and... did I mention Spanish drag? I loved it!

I started at Construction, laughing my ass off at the pretty bearded waiters chasing punters up and down the street outside, wearing wigs and the biggest silver platform stilettos I have ever seen.

I then moved on to a drag bar upstairs where every miming turn was introduced using the term, "international". As the evening passed, their costumes and makeup became increasingly detached from reality and the shrieks, whoops and whistles grew louder by the minute.

I couldn't help thinking as I gazed on, how similar Spanish drag is to Kabuki theatre in Japan; highly stylised Gestures and loaded with meaning. Indeed, it seems performers in both genres are idolised by their followers for what they do.

After being satiated by drag, I then returned to Construction, dodging the invites to every other gay venue along the way, for a final "one for the road", enjoying the male go-go dancers high on their podiums, shaking their booty for all it was worth.

I must say, that despite initial misgivings, the Yumbo Centre has its place and excels at what it does. One day we'll accord a well deserved and correct level of appreciation to this gay culture in the same way we've recognised Yiddish culture's influence on comedy and musical theatre and black culture's influence on music and dance.

Europe's gay holiday capital...

I'm tired; indeed, I'm shattered. I've not washed, I'm sweaty, I have a busting headache and I've not slept in over 36 hours. However, despite all of this I am as a happy as a porcine animal wallowing in it's own excrement.

Last night, I began my marathon trek via Cardiff bus station (sad and lonely) and then Bristol bus station (sad and lonely but not nearly as sad and lonely as Cardiff's bus station) to Gran Canaria for a week. By midday today, I was proudly stood (well, lying flat out actually) on the gay beach with all the other friends of Dorothy.

Maspolomas (or Playa del Ingles, as I'm unsure where one ends and the other begins) must be Europe's gay holiday capital. If you want to know what the latest gay fads are, come here for up to the minute trends in swimwear, accessories, body piercings and body hair topiary styles. My horizons were broadened this afternoon (and that's not a euphemism).

It's often quoted that on average one in ten in the population is gay; given that in Maspolomas it seems every other man is a little bit queer, this must skew the figures in other places - one in two here and one in two hundred elswhere. Given the plethora of homosexuals here, I wouldn't be surprised to find that back home, I am "the only gay in the village".

This is borne out in the number of rainbow flags they have flying here. It seems that every other business is proud to brag about how gay friendly they are. Spain may be in the news right now for its financial misjudgements but when it comes to gay rights, it leads the way in Europe.

What is the collective noun for rainbow flags? This has puzzled me today. What about "a spectrum of rainbow flags" (it certainly captures the diversity of the gay community) or "a refraction of rainbow flags" (a little too scientific, perhaps)? My favourite is, "a fluttering of rainbow flags" (it echoes a camp fluttering of eyelashes, like those glued on to a Spanish drag queen).

And the weather here...? Well, it's warm and sunny; like a typical June day in the UK...

Sorry, I quite forgot!

Cardiff World Naked Bike Ride...

Tomorrow sees the fifth Cardiff World Naked Bike Ride, "highlighting the need to escape vehicle dependency and focus on the power and individuality of the human being".

100 naked cyclists are expected to participate in the event that starts on Saturday June 9th at 2pm for bike and body decoration in Park Place behind the National Museum. The ride then sets off at 3pm around Cardiff; the 9 mile ride finishing at Sophia Gardens.

Cardiff Council has not granted permission to the event to use its parks and is keeping a careful distance regarding this event, "Although staff would only intervene in the world public bike ride if a complaint is made by a member of the public, we would neither facilitate the event nor condone it."

I'd be tempted to participate myself but sadly I'm not in Cardiff on Saturday...

Now is the winter of our discontent...?

I'm a fair weather cyclist but enjoy running in any weather. In fact, I quite like running in the rain, I find it quite invigorating when it's windy and, after the initial sting, hailstones have a burn to them that's quite pleasant. As much fun as it was to run in these conditions in the Winter, it's not the sort of weather I've come to expect in June.

Tonight's run consisted of all of the above weather elements. I knew it was quite blustery from looking out the window before setting off. However, I bore the full force of those winds once out on the bridge crossing the Taff. It was at this point I was pelted with hailstones. My legs were numb and my bald head frozen. Some 15 minutes later as the hailstones subsided, a downpour of rain started.

As I returned to Mermaid Quay I could do nothing but grin in response to this wintery weather. As tourists bolted for shelter, I skirted the Oval Basin, drenched and sporting the widest lunatic grin I could muster. Whilst I might feel a little short changed, were I on holiday in Cardiff Bay today; as someone who lives here and enjoys a run after work to unwind, all I felt was glad to be alive.

Today's run at 17:16
Distance	5.16 km	Time	28:57
Pace	5:37 min/km	Cadence	81 spm
Comments: Windy and rainy with hailstones.

To be played at maximum volume...

The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars is 40 years old today. At the age of 10, this was the first album I ever bought. I was a precocious child with an ambition to look like David Bowie but bearing an uncanny resemblance to Jimmy Osmond.

Judging from the images of Bowie in 1972, you'd be forgiven for thinking that we all wore shiny space suits and lived in plastic modules. We didn't; we lived in grubby backstreets, wearing man-made fibres in garishly patterned colours and chain smoking Embassy all the while.

I must've spent hours gazing at the back cover to this album (above); the world of Ziggy Stardust was so removed from mine. While Bowie sang about a crumbling future, I was trying so hard to escape the crumbling past. I would have gladly swapped my life in a small Welsh backwater for his dystopia.

Bowie added to the mythology of Ziggy with each appearance and every turn. The press went wild for Ziggy; this androgynous bisexual alien who practiced fellatio on Mick Ronson's guitar. We were shocked, outraged and in love with him. Here he is performing Starman on Top of the Pops. It's hard to imagine now the sense of wonder we all felt when this burst on to our TVs in 1972.