There’s nothing like a birthday to make you feel loved and appreciated. As well as the usual gifts from family, I got cards from people in work, from new friends I’ve made recently, and from old friends that I previously thought had forgotten me.

Things are going well for me at the moment. I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that I’m happier now than I have been at any time in the past. Even more excitingly, I firmly believe that things are going to get even better for me in the months ahead. Life isn’t perfect, but I feel ready to take on anything that the Universe throws my way.

Partly as a result of my new-found enthusiasm, I’ve finally pulled my finger out and started to renovate and generally fix up this web site, which has stagnated a bit over the past year or so. A redesign is on the cards, but until then some more minor adjustments have been made, including an answer — finally — to a question Seb asked, on 19th August 2003: “how long does a links page take to make?” The answer, as it turns out, is seven years. I’m sure it was worth the wait.

This opinion (it’s an overstatement to call it an “argument”) ignores the fact that Pride is possibly the one day each year that LGBT people can live their lives completely openly without fear of intimidation or violence. One could easily argue that the other 364 days of the year are de facto Straight Pride days.

Such thoughts were in the back of my mind as I travelled into the city centre for the inaugural Liverpool Pride celebrations. Accepting my sexual orientation has been a long and difficult road of turbulent emotions and long phases of denial and self-loathing. Until very recently, I was out to hardly anyone. Truth be told, I felt like a bit of a fraud for even thinking of taking part in a Pride march, because for a very long time, my feelings were of shame, not pride.

Hopping off the 82 bus outside Lewis’s, I soon rendezvoused with Scott and Andrew who, separately or together, have been partners in most of my exploits over the past year or so.

The first sign that something was going on came via Subway and the nearby Masala Wok restaurant in Ranelagh Street, which had both opportunistically jumped on the rainbow bandwagon:

As we walked the short distance to the starting point for the march at St George’s Plateau, rain began to fall. I was worried, not because rain would dampen people’s spirits, but mainly because I had dumped half a bottle of FCUK gel into my hair and spent a sizeable amount of time wrangling it into shape. Fortunately the shower was light and lasted only a couple of minutes. I prayed for the rest of the day to stay dry.

As we approached the Hall, I saw that the rainbow flag was proudly flying above. This was even better than seeing it outside Masala Wok! I felt a little flutter of excitement and realised this was going to be a special day.

The confirmation e-mail from the Pride organisers had asked us to arrive at 11.30am. We arrived bang on time, but it seemed that the rest of the city’s gay community was applying the principle of fashionable lateness to proceedings as the crowds were decidedly thin on the ground at this stage. We sheltered from the rain in the magnificent portico of St George’s Hall while we waited for proceedings to get under way.

We didn’t have to wait long as people started to arrive in droves soon after. Individuals, families with children, groups of friends and representatives of large organisations (including a contingent from LGBTory who drew Scott’s ire) all turned up to take their place.

The march organisers stood holding signs, showing each group where to stand. I was in a different group to Scott, and Andrew hadn’t registered at all, but we ignored that minor technicality and stood together. We were then joined by Scott’s friend Jamie. The steward assigned to our group didn’t seem too bothered that three out of four of us were in the wrong place, as he ticked us off his list.

We were conveniently stationed just behind the Garlands contingent (shirtless man on stilts, yay!) and ahead of the Citizens Advice Bureau team. There was also a man in rainbow hotpants nearby, who deserves credit for being far braver in his sartorial choices than I would ever be.

The rain had stopped by now and the clouds parted briefly to allow the sun to shine down on us. An actual rainbow at this point would have been excellent, but sadly this particular cliché was not to be.

The Lord Mayor emerged from inside the hall and made a speech. At least, I think that’s what happened: our assembly point had an obstructed view of the dignitaries and the PA system – if it was working at all – was too weak to carry the voices to us. Anyway, it must have been inspiring because a cheer went up at the end.

And with that, we were off! With drums beating and whistles blowing, we set off down Lime Street, where there were crowds of well-wishers waving and taking pictures. We passed a City Sightseeing bus, loaded with bemused tourists, that had got caught in the traffic and moved on towards Queen Square bus station, where nobody seemed to mind too much that the number 17 to Fazakerley was going to be seriously delayed.

Just in front of us was a man wearing what appeared to my untrained eye to be an SS uniform complete with gas mask. Lots of people were taking photos of him and his female companion; I suspect I am in the background of most of those photographs.

After Queen Square, the march turned towards Whitechapel and Lord Street in the heart of the city’s shopping district. Staff and customers emerged from inside the shops to take in the spectacle. Most passers-by stopped to let the parade go past; a few of the more impatient ones looked for a gap in proceedings to dash through. A man in a dress broke off from the parade to go into Betfred.

The one unsavoury note to proceedings came as we passed Derby Square, where a small contingent of anti-gay protesters had set up camp outside the Victoria Monument, with the obligatory quotes from the Book of Leviticus. Nobody ever mentions the bit of the Bible about not eating shrimp. To quote Reverend Lovejoy: “You ever sat down and read this thing? Technically, we’re not allowed to go to the bathroom.”

Still, it wouldn’t be a proper Pride march without that element, and the marchers were easily able to drown them out (not that anyone was paying attention to them anyway). I think it needs to be pointed out at this point that there are many, many gay Christians who can reconcile their sexuality and their faith.

With that unpleasantness out of the way, we reached journey’s end at Dale Street, where the actual Pride celebrations were set up. As well as three stages and open-air bars, there were a multitude of stalls where everybody from News from Nowhere to Merseytravel had set up shop.

With the initial excitement over, we retired for a drink, eventually ending up in Cumberland Street where the patrons of the Masquerade Bar had spilled out onto the street.

Of course, that wasn’t quite the end, as the biggest star of the day came out to shine: the one and only ADAM RICKITT, star of Coronation and Shortland Streets. Er, yay?

OK, so maybe some of the entertainment wasn’t top notch, but it is a free event (and hopefully it will stay that way) and it’s the first year. 2,000 people took part in the march and an estimated 21,000 turned out altogether. There was a fantastic and friendly atmosphere in the city this weekend, both on the streets and in all the bars. I hope that in 2011 the Liverpool Pride organisers can build on this year’s success and make next year’s event bigger and better.

It’s immensely frustrating that a city of the size and stature of Liverpool is so late to the Pride party (FFS, even Chelmsford has one now!) but oddly enough the timing has worked out well for me. I have struggled with my sexual orientation for years, but now — finally — I feel accepted and part of a community.

The days of hiding who I am are gone. Here’s to a happy fulfilling future, living life in the open at last, and with a lot more of this sort of thing:

So what’s been happening? Well, Network Rail have decided to shut my local rail line down for five weeks for some major renovation work to the ageing tunnels between Liverpool Central and Brunswick. The Echo took the opportunity to employ their usual “public transport is shit” angle, theorising that the Mathew Street Festival could be disrupted (even though the engineering works are scheduled to finish before then, and there’s absolutely no reason to suspect that they will overrun).

I thought the extended closure and the subsequent bus usage would stress me out, but it hasn’t at all, mainly because the rail replacement bus service has actually been rather good. This was a surprise to me, as I’ve been sceptical about “bustitution” for a long time. This is, admittedly mainly due to an incident where I was stranded at Hooton for an extended period, after the provided Happy Al’s bus broke down before it even got out of the station car park. This time round however, Arriva have been doing a sterling job of running the show, despite some delays due to traffic congestion in town. A bus service is never going to be as good as a train, but this is as good as can be reasonably hoped for.

I’ve also been using the scheduled bus service (route 82) and it is rather nice to arrive at the stop and see the poster which reads “every 5 minutes”. I am free from the tyranny of timetables! I can just turn up when I feel like it! Woo!

Of course, its also handy to have your own transport as a backup, so I have finally taken steps to put right an oversight of mine which has been annoying me for some time. It’s a source of some shame and until very recently it wasn’t something I liked to admit to in polite company…

I never learned to ride a bike.

I know, you’re shocked and appalled, aren’t you?

You see, despite the best efforts of my parents to teach me when I was a kid, I never showed much interest in it. Because, let’s be honest, riding a bike would have involved leaving the house. And the house had cable TV and an Acorn A3010 computer in it. But recently, I’ve come to regret my sedentary childhood. I see people riding their bikes and they always seem to be having a really good time. So when my brother-in-law gifted me his old bike a few weeks back, I decided it was time to get some of that action for myself.

So Sunday afternoon found me in the car park of Otterspool Promenade, with my brave (some would say foolish) teacher Andrew Bromage. Having patiently explained that yes, tyres work best when they’re inflated, we went on with the task at hand.

Otterspool prom is a great place for cruising (so I’m told) but is probably not so good for a grown man who feels incredibly self-conscious to learn to ride a bike. For one thing, there were lots of people around — after days of cloud and rain we had received a rare day of sunshine and most of south Liverpool had seemingly converged on our location to experience it. Children frolicked on the nearby grass, elderly gentlemen walked their dogs, joggers in unflattering lycra sweated their way past, and (of course) there were lots of cyclists. Fortunately, few if any of them stopped to pay attention to the idiot and his companion on the adjacent tarmac.

We quickly hit on a good learning pattern. I would start pedalling while Andrew jogged alongside holding onto the bike. Then Andrew would let go and I would immediately fall off. This went on for the best part of an hour.

Cycling is harder than it looks, and it looks quite hard. Pedalling, maintaining balance, steering and looking where you’re going? That’s four things to do at once, and for a while it proved impossible. I persevered despite numerous incidents of falling onto Andrew, falling into a pile of weeds by the roadside or hitting the kerb and falling off. At least one person parked up in the car park saw what I was doing and moved his vehicle further away where there was less chance of me denting it.

After a while however, I had started to make progress and was able to go a few metres without losing my balance. My steering still wasn’t up to much however, and I usually ended up lurching to the right more severely than Nick Clegg (POLITICAL SATIRE) and crashing off the side of the road.

I’m not quite sure what happened, but after about two hours, something clicked, and I was able to ride in a straight line from one end of the car park to the other. Then I got really cocky and decided to push myself to the limit – yes, I steered round a corner. I was feeling really pleased with myself until I hit a pothole and lost my balance.

Fast forward another half an hour or so, and I was really pushing it and I was doing lap after lap around the car park.

(the above photo was taken mere seconds before I wobbled and crashed for the 79th time)

This was quite enough excitement for one day and we called it a day, but not before we arranged for another practice session in the near future. Despite the early setbacks, I felt strangely exhilarated by the whole experience and really pleased with the progress I made in that short time.

I’m not going to be entering the World Naked Bike Ride any time soon (thankfully for people’s eyes), but hopefully at some stage I will be able to go cycling purely for fun (and fitness).

So that’s one more thing crossed off my to-do list. Suffice to say, I’m really pleased with the way things are going at the moment.

I feel some sympathy with him, despite being a full 13 years younger. The last week has seen me falling asleep in front of the TV, poring over an Experian credit report and comparing ISA interest rates on MoneySupermarket. When did I get so old?

The looming general election might provide some material for me, but at the moment all I have this well-timed demonstration of old-school Tory unpleasantness, so I will leave it at that for now.

Also, you could follow me on Twitter, where I’m posting all sorts of interesting stuff:

I guessed 225 and thought no more of it until today, when I discovered that not only had I won the prize, but that my guess was EXACTLY right. What are the odds?

OK, it’s a tiny victory in the grand scheme of things, but I enjoyed my moment in the sun:

Everyone has their own story to tell about the cold weather the country has been experiencing recently, which saw parts of Scotland reach temperatures similar to those at the South Pole. People in work have been swapping stories about having to walk home on Tuesday afternoon after Liverpool’s bus companies withdrew services, allegedly due to the Council’s failure to grit the roads.

On a related topic, thanks to the amazing staff at Merseyrail, who pulled out all the stops to keep their trains running, even running empty trains through the night to keep the lines clear of ice. The end result was that, except for a few minor delays and cancellations, the trains have been running normally, even on Tuesday afternoon when there was a near-whiteout for a time. The Liverpool Echo, not known for its love of the railways, had to grudgingly recognise the achievement. Let me just add to the praise: you guys are AWESOME (Merseyrail, not the Liverpool Echo)!

As the trains were running I had no excuse not to be in work, but on Wednesday morning the pavements in the city centre were like glass. I was wearing the least practical shoes imaginable and had barely set foot outside Central station before I slipped and landed on my bum. It wasn’t even a dignified fall: there was much flailing of arms and feet before I eventually toppled over. Still, it seemed to amuse the man on the corner who was giving out Metros.

(satellite image taken on 7th January 2010, NASA/GSFC, MODIS Rapid Response)

In London, the Police proved once again what a wonderful organisation they are. In Rome, a swimmer suffered an embarrassing wardrobe malfunction.

Gents — ever wondered what it would be like to wake up with a vagina? YouTube was on hand to envisage that scenario.

My sister graduated from uni, proving that they’ll give degrees out to ANYONE these days (only kidding, sis!). I also wasted a whole day playing Atari 2600 games, and I still have the Pitfall II music stuck in my head.

August saw the first Adventures in Public Transport post for quite a while, as yours truly hunted for a lost Saveaway ticket in the rain. I had a much better transport experience a few days later, as I cruised to Salford on a Mersey Ferry. The peace was shattered – literally – on my evening commute when my train was bricked.

I celebrated the Internet’s ability to create new friendships as I met up with the Mersey Tart for the first time — a meeting surely up there with Livingstone and Stanley’s encounter on the shores of Lake Tanganyika.

The Echo cemented its local credentials by relocating scores of jobs to Oldham. PowerPoint celebrated 25 years of making already tedious office meetings absolutely unbearable. Channel 4 axed Big Brother, meaning I can now watch television during the summer without feeling the urge to kill.

September saw me considering Macs again. I still haven’t decided whether to switch to a Mac or not — never let it be said that I’m impulsive. Then I decided to go on strict diet, a process which went quite well over the following months, until Christmas intervened and ruined it. The London tube map was redrawn to remove the River Thames; I thought this was a huge improvement, but TfL did not consider my views during their consultation process and swiftly moved to put it back. I also bemoaned that society seems reluctant to pay for anything these days, although I felt some sympathy for that view as my Railcard expired and I resigned myself to paying full fare on the trains.

October saw the Tories proving they’re crazy. BBC4 dramatised the rise and fall of Sinclair and Acorn in Micro Men. A-Ha split up, shocking people who didn’t realise they were still together. Royal Mail workers went on strike, thankfully AFTER I got all my parcels. That woman wrote that article in that paper about that singer, and that man from that party went on that programme.

I finally joined the iPod owners club with a purchase of a new 5th gen Nano. Sun and Cloud made a welcome (it says here) reappearance.

In November there were fireworks-a-plenty when the Government sacked its drugs adviser for… advising on drugs. Morrissey walked off stage at the Echo Arena after being hit by a bottle, Rupert Murdoch launched all-out wars against Gordon Brown and Google.

National Rail launched Stations Made Easy, allowing people to explore the nation’s railway stations without leaving their comfy seat. Anyone using that site to look at Liverpool Central could understand why it is one of the top ten worst stations in the UK. One station that definitely wasn’t on the worst list was Workington North, a temporary halt which opened to serve the flood-hit town after less than a week of planning.

December contained the story of the year for me. Never mind Jacko dying or bombers with explosives in their underpants, the toy mouse that sings “paedophile”, as featured on the Today Programme(!), was a highlight.

Christmas came and went, and I explained why people complaining about “political correctness” are missing the point. The BBC proved its worth by having 9 out of the top 10 programmes on Christmas Day.

Otherwise it was a quiet month. I checked out the Take That musical, Never Forget, lamented the fact that The X Factor had a stranglehold on the Christmas number one spot (except when it didn’t) and mocked an LFC player’s sincerely held religious beliefs.

Thanks to my regular readers (all four of you!) and Happy New Year.

January started out with one of my favourite shows being revived. Despite being up against EastEnders and being hosted by Ben Shepherd, the Krypton Factor did well enough to be recommissioned for a second series. We found out Who would replace David Tennant, and a year later we still haven’t actually seen him in the role. ITV’s latest attempt to ape the success of Doctor Who was Demons which failed spectacularly; the only creative thing about it being the number of different excuses the writers found for Christian Cooke to remove clothing.

In the wider world, various eras were drawing to a close, as Woolworths closed its doors, Tony Hart kicked the bucket and Dubya left office. Meanwhile, yours truly had an enjoyable night in London Theatreland.

In February it snowed, proving that global warming is rubbish if you’re an idiot. Superlambanana was guaranteed a permanent home in Liverpool. BBC2 followed ITV’s lead in finding excuses to get people naked — although not Christian Cooke.

A right old slanging match developed in the Guardian between Hazel Blears and George Monbiot. The Government announced a new high-tech, high-speed train for the nation’s railways, leading me to complain (prophetically as it turned out) that money should be spent on electrifying the network. Milk won about 500 Oscars, but Dustin Lance Black’s heartfelt acceptance speech has now been blocked on YouTube by AMPAS. Boo.

Surely the most exciting moment though, was my public debut on Twitter!. 720 Tweets later, and I’m still going strong.

March saw me add another book to my Merseyrail-themed collection. I was depressed to read a study which concluded that brain function starts to decline at age 27 — on the bright side, I got an excellent pun out of it. Meanwhile, Merseytravel managed to tie the recent election of Barack Obama to their own integrated transport policy, and bravo to them for managing that. Useless Home Secretary Jacqui Smith was embarrassed by her husband’s viewing habits. He likes watching Second Homes Under The Hammer (SATIRE).

Also: Stewart Lee slagged off everything brilliantly and OK Magazine & Chris Moyles each did their bit to raise the standard of national discourse.

April started out with my irritation at the tendency for companies to say “search for us” instead of providing a proper web site address. The police proved themselves to be wholly unfit for purpose. Another Radio 4 stalwart was lost.

I visited Hall Road station and had an emotional and strangely cathartic appearance (plus I took a photo for the Friends of the 502 Group newsletter). I then linked to an amusing Daily Show clip, but I can’t tell you what it’s about because Comedy Central have blocked their videos in the UK, because they are WANKERS. It was something to do with mocking the elderly, which became something of a theme thanks to the residents of Frinton-on-Sea.

Oh, and that woman went on that show and sang that song. Trivia note: the girl in the audience who rolled her eyes when Susan Boyle first walked on stage is now world’s most hated person, just behind Osama Bin Laden, but ahead of Piers Morgan, oddly enough.

I linked to an excellent David Mitchell piece on the Sachsgate affair. Associated Newspapers attracted my scorn, not for the last time this year.

May brought the worst possible news, as FXUK dropped the Colbert Report from its schedules. Jacqui Smith proved what an asset to the nation she was on two separate occasions. The MP expenses scandal rumbled on, and I thought it would lead to disillusioned voters switching to fringe parties. Just as well THAT didn’t happen, eh?

Star Trek was rebooted and earned the coveted Hampo Seal of Approval. A man and a violin won the Eurovision Song Contest, while an even more interesting music contest was shaping up in the US. How come America gets Adam Lambert and Kris Allen, while we get Danyl Johnson and Joe McElderry?

I had a wander round the Wirral peninsula, taking photos of abandoned railway lines in Birkenhead. Surely I’m on a terror watch list by now. I also pondered why Merseyrail were stripping wall panels from Central station. The unexciting answer was: “to replace them with new wall panels”. Elsewhere on the railways, I had a good old-fashioned moan about pain-in-the-arse Advance fares.

June saw national joke Jacqui Smith resign at long last. The strictly London-only joke Boris Johnson continued to deliver what the public expected of him: amusing footage. Twitter proved an invaluable tool for anti-Government protesters in Iran, until they took the site down for maintenance.

Michael Jackson died, and my total commentary on this momentous event was two sentences. I was more concerned with the growing menace of dead animals getting inside food. I also asked if Australian TV viewers have no sense of humour. Network Rail closed my local railway line for three days, in what would prove to be the biggest flooding event of the year — right?

I was still not in possession of an iPod at this time, but the BBC thought it would be oh-so-amusing to give a teenager a cassette Walkman to try out — cue all sorts of isn’t-this-quaint style hilarity.

I spent most of the night helping to wrap presents for my nephews, which engrossed me so much I didn’t even notice it had been snowing. I only realised when I looked in our back garden and saw this untouched snow lying on the ground:-

I can’t wait for Christmas!