The Guardian today has a good lambasting of Robbie Williams and cheap gay stereotyping. The article is an amusing enough rant, but mainly I appreciate it for introducing me to the word floordrobe.
Floordrobe! You remember that moment when you first had a gin and tonic, and it was both delicious and thrilling, and yet felt so natural that you could hardly believe you had lived fourteen or fifteen years without experiencing one yet? Well that’s me, now, with the word floordrobe. I have one, I have always had one. Being something of a vagrant, I have often had multiple floordrobes in a range of residences around the world. If you put me up even for just one night, I will—despite in all other circumstances being useless at DIY—erect a quick, makeshift floordrobe in minutes, and if you’re very lucky I’ll leave it to you to enjoy once I’ve gone. In fact, I don’t just have a floordrobe: I have a state-of-the-art, walk-in floordrobe replete with absolutely no fixtures or fittings of any kind. I like to pretend that there is some kind of organizational principle behind it, but the reality is that it is that quantum physicists should come and hang in my room* rather than spending all that effort faffing around with spin and particles and whatnot, because it is perfect proof of Bell’s theorem: there is no logically possible organizational system which could fully specify its distribution. There may be a small, en-suite bedchamber located somewhere in its vicinity, but generally I find it easier to slump down on the least obviously festering pile and let my freakish self-devouring brain do what it is best at.
Floordrobe. Thankyou, Patrick Strudwick, for giving me a word I have always lacked and yet never even known I needed. And, in the spirit of the original article, how nice that I heard it from a gay man. Such witty chaps, you know.
* Not a phrase heard that often, one suspects.