Author Archives: Myles

My Week, For What It Was Worth

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On chilling out in a Southern Italian town…

Montescaglioso is where a story ends. But I picked a week when the Italian weather was unwelcoming: fine by day, but extremely foggy by night. It is to be expected, because Montescaglioso sits high on a hill.

And then the winds came—strong Sciricco and Maestrale winds that brought heavy rain and quickly sent it away again. For this reason, the locals were happier to stay indoors until conditions improved.

Montescaglioso is where the heart beats a little slower.

Where there are people, I watch them… observing their character and capturing their mannerisms. Most are unaware that this old town was once inhabited by Greeks and Romans.

Some of them will end up in a story.

There is the young boy who is inconspicuous in the corner of a café; he drinks Coke with lemon and reads a paperback copy of Black Run by Antonio Manzini. Every few pages he stops and scrolls through his iPhone. He appears to have friends, but at that moment is bored with his own company.

Then there is the handsome boy, whom I watch with curiosity until it becomes something closer to obsession. He eats pasta with one hand, while the other rests inside his underwear, absent-mindedly playing with himself. He stops when he realises I am watching, and I am immediately disappointed. I want to tell him it is none of my business what he does, but that feels like a perverse thing to say.

The teenagers who congregate beneath the tall statue of San Rocco, the patron saint of Montescaglioso, in Piazza Roma. They are immaculately dressed in smart jeans, designer puffer jackets, and new trainers, because the nights are chilly. They talk for hours because there is nothing else for them to do. I do not understand what they are saying—they speak too fast—but they seem friendly.

The man who pulls up in a Grande Panda and sees me sitting on a bench outside an old building, its yellow paint faded with time. He speaks remarkably good English and educates me on the history of the town: the stories of local people who left at the beginning of the last century and moved to New York and Toronto. He tells me that Francis Ford Coppola is a second-generation Italian-American, born to parents of southern Italian descent. His paternal grandparents emigrated from Bernalda, which is only a few miles away, and the director now owns a hotel there.

The old man who walks his dog every evening and stops to talk. He points to the Chiesa di San Rocco and tells me it was badly damaged in an earthquake that struck Montescaglioso in 1827, and was later restored with the construction of stone vaults and a new façade. He tells me that ancient Greek tombs were once discovered beneath the piazza, and that the church once stood outside the town—there is the possibility of undiscovered graves beneath the surrounding houses.

I decide that there is much history to be found, but I am only interested in the present, where the young people appear permanently sun-tanned, animated, and possessed of an easy, unstudied allure that feels particular to this part of the world—especially to someone from northern Europe.

On lusting over Benjamin Voisin in The Stranger…

I know somebody who claims to have met French actor Benjamin Voisin. It may or may not be true because that person has a tendency to tell lies. But the story he tells is a good one because he said that Voisin smoked a lot, wasn’t completely fluent in English, but came across as a nice chap. And he was convinced that he was gay, but that bit has yet to be confirmed.

I first saw Voisin in François Ozon’s Summer of 85 (Été 85), and at the time I thought the director might have chosen a better-looking boy. But then came the trailer for Ozon’s The Stranger (L’Étranger), along with the publicity stills, and I kept finding myself asking, “Who is that good-looking guy?”

It has felt like an age waiting for The Stranger to arrive. Based on Albert Camus’ novella, it was originally shot in colour, though Ozon ultimately chose to release it in black and white—a decision that feels entirely right.

There is a scene in which Meursault (Voisin) kills an Arab boy. He studies the body on the ground—first the armpits, then the lips—before firing… several times. It’s one of Ozon’s familiar devices, turning something ostensibly straightforward into something quietly, disconcertingly homoerotic.

“I wanted to make everything erotic,” Ozon says. “The girls are erotic. The boys are erotic. The nature is erotic. Everything has to be erotic and sensual. That’s what I wanted. And the choice of the black-and-white [cinematography]was a way to show this sensuality in the world.”

If that wasn’t enough we see Voisin’s naked body a few times, a pretty bum that requires squeezing, and even get a glimpse of his manhood.

On coming upon an unwelcome adversary…

The boyfriend of the love of your life stands before you. What are you supposed to do? Granted, he’s good-looking. But he lays claim to someone who should be mine. For that reason, I can’t ignore everything that’s wrong with him. I want lightning to strike him dead. There is a solution to this jealousy—but it’s not one I dare to consider.

On reading an anecdote from Rufus Wainwright…
“What’s the best thing a cabbie has said to you?”

“Well, my handle on Uber is just the letter R, and I went into a cab once and the driver said, “R, what’s that stand for?” And I said, “Rufus.” And he said, “Oh, like Rufus Wainwright? I wonder what happened to him?” I just went along with it…”

As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods…

The Wanton Boys, Mark Oliver, 1959.

“He was a thin, brown-eyed, sad-looking boy, one of ten children of a poor Italian fisherman who had been drowned at sea. Sometimes he begged a little, and sometimes he stole, but hunger grew in him every day. There was no more salt in the home, only garlic to help the long loaves down. Garlic or one of the half-rotten tomatoes that the wasteful spaghetti-makers threw away, and it was a race in the mornings to get to the garbage cans before the dogs and the other starving scavengers.”

I found a parcel on the doorstep. Tearing it open, I uncover a battered copy of The Wanton Boys. I am beside myself with excitement. It’s an early birthday present from a friend too impatient to wait for the day itself. This ragged mass-market copy, improbably, is worth a small fortune.

The blurb is enticing:

“A shattering novel about Italian street gangs, their hates, lusts and perverse and brutal ways in a world that scorns and damns them.”

I love a book about lust – and perverse and brutal ways.

On the cute and willing…

Vimzrut. Photo by Ruslan Pukshyn, 2026

Gypsy Blood: Some Bare-Knuckle Fighter in his Family

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Colvey said I had something and wanted to know more. I had no fuckin’ clue what he meant. He stepped in close, his face right up in mine, and for a second, I thought he was gonna headbutt me. His eyes were this icy blue—never noticed before—and they had that look that made you feel small. I stared back, like I wasn’t scared, but I was.

I wanted to ask what his problem was, but Colvey always said silence spoke louder than words. So I kept my mouth shut.

“There’s no one here,” he said. “Told the boys to fuck off.”

Just then, a bit of glass dropped from the busted skylight and smashed on the floor. He didn’t even blink. “But they’re still watching,” he said. “They wanna see me cut you.”

I didn’t dare look away. If I did, he’d know he had me. So, I just stared at his face. They said he had gypsy blood—some bare-knuckle fighter in his family. Probably bullshit. There was a scar under his left eye from when someone bottled him once. Bit of stubble, strong jaw, eyes like razors. Eyebrows shaped. Long lashes. Minty fuckin’ breath.

“You tryna stare me out, bro?”

Didn’t answer. Then he blinked. Looked away for half a second. Tiny moment, but I saw it.

Then—slick movement—blade at my cheek. Pressed it in till I felt it cut. Warm blood sliding down my face.

Door creaked open. Metal scraping.

“You cool?” Mason shouted.

“Fuck!” Colvey hissed. He was pissed.

“All good, bro,” he yelled back, easing the knife away.

I could tell he was gutted. He’d wanted to slice me good. Maybe he still would’ve, but Mason was climbing through the mess toward us.

“What’s going on?” Mason said.

Colvey wiped the knife on his T-shirt, leaving a red smear. “Nothin’, bro. Just sorting a few things. Where’s the boys?”

“They’ve gone. Told ‘em to call it.” Mason clocked the blood on my cheek. “Clean yourself up, dickhead.”

They turned to go. Colvey slung an arm around Mason’s shoulders. Whispered something. Kicked a paint can that rattled off into the dark.

My heart was still banging. I took deep breaths. I’d got off lucky. Stood my ground, though. Still here.

At the door, Colvey turned and shouted, “I’ll see you again, pussy!”

Mason flipped me the finger, then did that wanking motion. “Fuckin’ knobhead!”

That’s when I realised I’d pissed myself.

“Bro, answer your fuckin’ phone!” Blake was yelling when I finally picked up. Music blasting behind him. “I’ve been calling loads, you blanked me.”

“Yeah, been busy,” I said.

“Why’s Colvey after you?”

“I dunno,” I said. “Didn’t say.”

“He’s goin’ mental, bruv. Proper mental. Said he’s gonna kill you.”

“Well, he didn’t,” I said. “And I’m goin’ home to sleep.”

“Nah, come Billy’s,” Blake said. “The boys wanna hear what happened.”

I thought about it. But there was a wet patch on my joggers that made me feel sick, and a cut on my face that didn’t bother me at all.

I kept replaying it in my head. I’d done something to piss him off, that much was clear. I just didn’t know what. I hadn’t stolen from him, hadn’t touched his gear, hadn’t said shit behind his back. And I sure as hell hadn’t been with his girl. That was never happening.

Still, this was proper bad. I’d half expected him to stab me, but he hadn’t. Told myself Colvey’d never killed anyone—but who knew? Maybe he just hadn’t needed to.

What scared me most was thinking he might cut me off from the crew. Then what?

The night felt dead. Cold. Empty. And I felt smaller than I’d ever felt before.

Charlie: The Promise of Paris – Partie 3

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Caught Between Brothers, Desire, and Sex
French films—where sex feels real. Skin is just skin, textured, imperfect; faces carry lines; bodies are allowed to be naked, warm, a little unguarded. That was my first thought when I woke the next morning: that I had been inside a film, and now there lingered a soft, satisfied glow, the sense that something good had happened.

We were all naked.

Thomas lay close beside me, his right arm draped across my chest. Ambre was sprawled over our legs, her head tipped over the edge of the bed. Léo’s head was tucked beneath my left arm, one leg thrown across my midriff. I couldn’t have moved even if I had wanted to.

It had been very late when we returned to Thomas’s rooms. We had drunk far too much. And somewhere in that blur, the three of them had shown me something about sex in France—something unforced, unashamed, almost instinctive. The rest dissolved into fragments, but I woke with a lingering, uncertain impression: that, perhaps, I had crossed a threshold I hadn’t expected and shared something new.

And then I thought of Charlie, back home.

The anger I’d felt—at discovering those explicit photographs of him in Le Pénis—had dulled overnight, settling into something cooler, more measured. In its place came the faint, unsettling sense that the balance had shifted. I hadn’t replied to his messages, hadn’t answered the calls he’d tried to make. I imagined him now: alone, uneasy, carrying the weight of a secret no longer entirely his own.

And there was something else.

I had slept with Thomas, with Ambre, with Léo. The thought lingered, complicated and strangely satisfying. That I had been with Charlie’s brother felt, in some quiet, private way, like the sharpest form of retaliation available to me—an unspoken act that tilted things, however slightly, back in my favour.

For it to have the effect I imagined, Charlie would have needed to take the first Eurostar of the morning and walk through the door at that exact moment—only then would he have found us as we were, the four of us bound together by something reckless, unguarded, and impossible to explain away.

“Bonjour,” Thomas murmured into my ear, his voice still heavy with sleep as his fingers idly traced my chest. “How are you today, my English lover?”

Léo was awake too, stretching out beside me. It was only then I noticed the words Esprit libre tattooed along his arm—something I had somehow missed before. “Miles,” he breathed softly, shifting closer, his warmth pressing into mine.

Amid all of this, Ambre slept on, undisturbed, as though the morning belonged entirely to her dreams.

Thomas was the first to get up. The night before, he had warned us that he had work in the morning—that he would come to regret his small indulgences. I watched as he slipped from the bed and wandered, still naked, into the small kitchenette to make coffee.

He moved with an easy, unselfconscious grace—tall and lean, his pale skin catching the soft morning light. There was something quietly inviting in the ease of his body, a softness to him that made it difficult to look away.

I felt, unexpectedly, a flicker of disappointment as he pulled himself from the warmth of us, as though something of the night had gone with him.

Léo took it as an invitation to move closer. He kissed me softly, his lips brushing mine, the faint roughness of his stubble grazing my skin. There was a quiet confidence in him, a suggestion that the night could easily begin again.

But Ambre, roused by the promise of coffee, chose that moment to wake. With a casual gesture, she tossed a crumpled sheet over us both before slipping out of bed and wandering into the kitchenette, where she joined Thomas and helped herself to a stale croissant.

“What are you thinking about?” Léo asked.

“I’m thinking about that Bertolucci film—the one where a brother and sister take in his teenage friend.”

“Innocents,” he said, after a moment. “The Dreamers was the English title. It shows how different French sensibilities can be—more permissive, less constrained. Like Les Enfants Terribles, with its own tangled intimacy between brother and sister. But there are no siblings here.” He paused, a faint smile forming. “The only brother worth mentioning is Charlie, who—if I understand correctly—has managed to embarrass himself rather thoroughly with his boyfriend.”

“Ah, Charlie,” I said. “That’s something I’ll have to deal with.”

Ambre perched on the edge of the bed, finishing the last of her croissant. She retrieved her phone from the floor and began tapping out a message, only half-listening.

“Miles,” Léo went on, his tone light, almost teasing, “you find yourself in a rather enviable position. You’re able to make comparisons—observe what each brother has to offer. Charlie, who, judging by Le Pénis, is… generously endowed. And Thomas, whom you seemed to appreciate last night, is rather more modest. Would you agree?”

Ambre raised her little finger in the air, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I don’t think Thomas is in any position to impress anyone with the size of his bifler,” she said, laughing.

She wasn’t entirely wrong, I thought. Thomas may have come second to Charlie in that regard, but there was something about him—something understated, quietly appealing—that stirred a different kind of interest in me.

As if to underline the point, Thomas reappeared with the coffee and came to stand over me, the morning light catching him in a way that made it difficult to think of anything else.

“What are you going to do about Charlie?” he asked.

“I’ll message him later,” I said.

“Forgive me, Miles,” Ambre added, almost lightly. “But I’ve already messaged him. I told him you spent the night with us—nothing more than that, of course—but enough for him to understand that the four of us may have… misbehaved.”

“Oh,” I said, caught off guard. “Was that wise?”

Thomas came to sit beside me and brushed a quick kiss against my cheek. “Brothers are meant to share their toys,” he said with a faint smile. “And besides, Ambre’s right—after what he did to you, he deserved to hear something.”

Léo shifted closer, his touch unexpectedly intimate, then lifted his gaze to meet mine. “There’s a difference, isn’t there,” he said quietly, “between posing for photographs and actually taking part in something.”

And just like that, I felt it—the subtle, unwelcome shift. The balance, which had briefly seemed to favour me, tilted back toward Charlie.

After showering and dressing, we followed Thomas down to the bar below. We found a table outside and ordered Orangina, which he promptly fortified with generous measures of Cointreau. It might have suited the night before, but just after midday the taste felt oddly sharp, almost unwelcome.

“A few of these,” Thomas said, with quiet encouragement, “will put you in the right frame of mind to speak to my little brother.”

The conversation was interrupted when one of Thomas’s colleagues appeared at the table, breathless with excitement. She spoke quickly, hands moving as much as her voice, pausing only when someone cut in with a question.

Thomas frowned, then glanced at me, unwilling to let me be shut out of something so clearly urgent. He began to translate, his English halting, searching for the right words as he went.

“She… she is saying… a group of American boys, they went into a café nearby, last night. And—how you say—they noticed a very beautiful French girl, sitting with her friends.” He hesitated, brow furrowing. “One of them, as… a kind of bet, tries to speak with her. But she is not interested. She shows this, very clearly. Still… he continues.”

Thomas paused, as if rearranging the story in his head.

“Then a French boy—he does not like this—and he punches the American. In the face.” He gestured vaguely to his own cheek. “And after this… it becomes worse. The American, he takes out a gun. He fires. He misses, but… the café, it is chaos. People shouting, more guns, even knives…”

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly.

“The police are called—the Préfecture. The Americans, they run upstairs, to escape. And then…” He faltered, searching again. “A policeman, he is pushed from a window. He falls—rolls over the awning—and lands in the street below.”

Ambre and Léo both reacted with open disgust, though how much of the story was true remained uncertain. Léo placed a hand on my knee and gave it a small, deliberate squeeze, as if to underline the gravity of what we’d just heard.

But the moment quickly lost its weight.

Outside Bar Dieudonné, Charlie was standing on the pavement.

The others hadn’t noticed him yet, but I had—and for a second, I could only stare, caught somewhere between disbelief and recognition.

He moved towards us, a travel bag slung over his shoulder, running a hand through his thick hair. I tried to read his expression—whether it was anger, or embarrassment—but couldn’t quite settle on either. By then, Thomas had seen him too, his voice cutting gently through the table.

“Charlie. What are you doing here?”

Charlie’s eyes went straight to me, sharp, accusing. “I thought it would be easier to come to Paris,” he said, “since none of my messages or calls were being answered.”

Thomas stood to greet him, pulling him into a brief embrace, but there was something restrained in it—something almost reluctant. I felt it too, that same flicker of disappointment.

It seemed Charlie had a way of appearing wherever I went.

Charlie dropped his bag to the floor and pulled up a chair, his movements abrupt, almost territorial. He made a visible effort to ignore Thomas, Ambre, and Léo, as though shutting them out might simplify things. As for me, I still had no idea what I was going to say.

The waitress slipped away unnoticed, sensing the shift in the air, and Thomas drew up a chair of his own. The five of us sat there, suspended in a strained, uncomfortable silence.

Charlie broke it.

“It seems I have gate-crashed an orgie,” he said, placing deliberate weight on the final word.

No one reacted. Ambre and Léo shifted awkwardly, and Thomas reached for my hand, a quiet gesture of support.

“We were drunk,” I said at last. “I had reason to be. It’s not every day you discover your partner naked in a gay magazine.”

“I wanted to explain that,” Charlie replied, his tone tightening, “but I haven’t exactly been given the chance.”

“Then explain,” Thomas said evenly.

Charlie exhaled. “They were taken a long time ago. I was in Paris, and someone offered me a lot of money to pose. I didn’t tell you, Miles, because I knew it would upset you.”

“That’s true,” I said. “But not as much as it did yesterday.”

“It isn’t something shameful,” he continued. “The male body is beautiful. I liked the idea that someone thought I was worth photographing. And posing for images like that is not the same as…” He hesitated, his gaze flicking toward Thomas before settling back on me. “…what you’ve done. With my brother. And the others.” His glance toward Ambre and Léo carried a trace of disdain.

“It was one night,” Léo said lightly. “It didn’t mean anything.” Ambre let out a small, disbelieving snort.

Charlie shook his head, his frustration now turning toward Thomas. “I can’t forgive you. This happens every time I have something of my own—you take it. That’s why I left for England. And still, somehow, you manage it.”

“Wait,” I cut in. “None of this would have happened if we hadn’t found those photos.”


“That’s not true,” Charlie said, his voice sharpening. “I knew something was going on between you and Thomas. When you came to Paris, I knew you’d see each other. So Ambre’s message…” He gave a small, bitter smile. “It didn’t surprise me. It only confirmed what I already suspected.”

“We are French,” Thomas said, with a faint, knowing shrug. “We do the wildest things when they are expected of us. We have welcomed Miles—made him feel at home. For that, you should be grateful, Charlie.”

Ambre, who had been silent until now, leaned forward, her tone calm but unflinching.

“And we also know that the two of you don’t sleep together. Miles hasn’t even seen you naked.” She tilted her head slightly. “That isn’t natural. The fault is yours, Charlie. You are boyfriends, yes? And yet you keep him at a distance. So he looks elsewhere.” Her gaze shifted to me, softer now. “I hope last night was good for you.”

She had, with disarming ease, landed on the truth.

“It’s true,” I said. “I don’t really know what we are, Charlie. We live together; we get on well—but I’d be embarrassed to explain it to anyone else. That this is all there is.”

Charlie looked unsettled, as though trying to assemble a response that would satisfy both me and him.

“You came to Paris to find him,” Thomas said, more gently now. “That must mean something. Forget everything else—what’s happened, what you think it means. If you came here to make things right, then do it. There is still something between you worth saving.” He paused, then added, without apology, “As for Miles—I won’t pretend otherwise. I like him. And I know he likes me. But I also have Ambre, and Léo. They know who I am. I follow what I feel, while I can. There’s something in that, little brother.”

In a few quiet sentences, Thomas stripped the argument back to its core, leaving little room for accusation.

Charlie drew a breath. “I’ve spoken to our parents,” he said. “I’m staying with them while I’m in Paris. I asked if Miles could stay too—they said yes.” He glanced at me, something softer now beneath the tension. “But if you’d rather stay here… with Thomas… I’ll understand.”

I realised then how deeply I had been pulled into something that had begun long before me—a quiet, unresolved rivalry between two brothers. I hadn’t expected to stand at its centre, still less to feel responsible for how it might end.

I loved Charlie. That much was certain.

But Thomas—there was something about him, something immediate and consuming, that I couldn’t ignore.

And it seemed, whether I was ready or not, that a choice had to be made.

Stolen Words: Pasolini – The Projects

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This iconic photograph captures the Italian film director and poet Pier Paolo Pasolini at the Monte dei Cocci (also known as Monte Testaccio) in Rome, 1960.

It was there that I had met, or in fact only seen, another youth, Nino, who was reduced almost completely to his pure image. It was a sunny day, and everything shimmered, the garbage and weeds, tall buildings and shacks. He was standing in the sun in a purple shirt, his deep blue eyes filled with a strange, almost cruel innocence. He was a boy like so many others, with a job, or perhaps in search of a job. I saw him some time later, grown up and somewhat thickened, on the train to Ostia, with his father and mother, and probably some younger brothers and sisters. His gaze was somewhat cloudy, but it was still pure and innocent. He joyfully introduced me to his parents. His father was robust, still young, and seemed like an honest factory worker, and his mother, who also seemed young, showed the brusque tenderness typical of Roman mothers just slightly softened and mitigated by the fact that her son already had the bearing of a young man. A year or two later, I’m not sure, I crossed paths with a friend of Nino’s called Bruno and asked about the boy. Bruno thought for a moment, comically knitting his brow. Then he came to a decision and raised his hand in front of his face, with the fingers apart. He meant that Nino was in jail, at Regina Coeli.

From: Chronicles of Rome, Pier Paolo Pasolini, 1961.

My Week, For What It Was Worth

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On writing a long story…


It was the story that gave this site its name. Perfectly Hard and Glamorous was originally meant to be nothing more than a platform for a single, serialised story. But it didn’t quite turn out that way—other characters and other stories found their way in, and gradually took over.

The journey began four years ago and came to an end yesterday. Along the way, it wandered, stirred a bit of controversy, and at times became unexpectedly difficult to write. But despite all the twists and turns, it arrived where it was meant to—just not quite where I had imagined.

I wrote it mainly for myself. It was a way of proving that I could sustain something long-form and actually see it through without losing momentum. It also gave me space to experiment with different styles. Because of that, it isn’t perfect—but I enjoyed writing it, even if it didn’t always find an audience. I could go back and start again, reshape it entirely, but there are too many other things now that I want to write.

So how does it feel?

Strange, really. A mix of emotions. There’s a sense of achievement—a quiet, personal victory—but also a lingering sense of loss. Almost like a small ending, or a kind of absence. I imagine it’s not unlike what authors feel when they finish a novel.

The characters stay with you. Some you grow fond of, others less so, but they all leave their mark. So, goodbye to Harry, Andy, and Jack. Goodbye to Paolo—who I grew so attached to that I had no choice but to let him go. Goodbye to Tom, who may yet find his way into something else. And goodbye to Park Hill in Sheffield—seen here from its struggles in the 1980s to its later reinvention.

It’s over now.

On finding an old photograph by Herbert List…

In 1945, Herbert List faced the ruins of Munich just as the dust had settled, capturing the wreckage and those who remained to pick up the pieces. The devasted Academy of Arts’ storeroom. The figural group on the left is probably a design for a large motorway monument by Josef Thorak. The seated figure in the middle is a plaster cast of the seated Hermes of the Herculaneum with an aries-relief from the school of German artist Adolph Hildebrand.

On dreaming about Pasolini in Roma…

Short pieces written between 1950, when Pasolini arrived in Rome, and1966.

Whilst in Paris, in brief moments of sleep, I dreamt that I met Pasolini in Rome and he gave me a book to read. It was a collection of short stories about the city which he had written when he was young. I told Thomas about the dream, and he secretly ordered me a book that was delivered the next day by a cute Algerian guy. Reading it, I realised I had subconsciously named a character in one of my own stories after Pier Paolo Pasolini. 

I might be the reincarnation of Pasolini. The more I write; the more shocking it becomes, and soon I shall be left with only gay porn to write about. But Pasolini’s writing career faded and he directed films instead that were also shocking. And Thomas said that the more daring we become, only murder can silence us. My friend, Freddie the Fraud, once told me that when I am in Italy, the ghost of murdered Pasolini follows me, like he wants to get into my shorts.

On finding an old manuscript about William Butler Yeats…

John Singer Sargent, 1908. From a charcoal drawing. Frontispiece to Yeats

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was an Irish poet, dramatist, writer and literary critic. 

He was ‘not available’ to admiring young men. 

“No,” the young Irishman would have said. “Surely the stirrings within me are meant for naught but the fairer sex, and no other creature besides.”

Katharine Tynan, a prolific Irish poet and novelist who was a regular contributor to The Sketch magazine during the 1890s, was one of those who were enamoured by him:

Prominent in the disorder is a book bound like a mediaeval missal in cherry-coloured brocade and tarnished gold. 

What may that fine thing be I ask. He answers with a slight blush. “That is my MS book. A friend brought me the cover from Paris, and I had the book made to fit it.” 

I inspect the book. It is such thick paper as one finds in editions (le luxe, and, one imagines, must be rather uncomfortable to write upon). The fine book is a part of the literary dandyism which rather distinguishes Mr. Yeats. 

In the old Dublin days he was as untidy as a genius newly come from the backwoods. He was an art student then, and generally bore the stains of the studio. 

He used to affect scarlet ties, which lit up his olive face. They were tied most carelessly. Ordinary young men who had been at school with him, and resented his being a genius, used to say that the carelessness was the result of long effort but one never believed them. 

Now he wears the regulation London costume, plus a soft hat, and his ties are dark silk, knotted in a soft bow. He is extremely handsome in his strange way; he is very tall and very slender, so dark that he was once taken for a Hindu; by a Hindu, a long, delicate, oval face, beautiful brows, and large, melancholy, velvety brown eyes that see visions.

There used to be a picture of Willie in his boyhood on an easel over against me as I sat. The dusky face had carnations in the cheeks which now are pale olive. If it was at all representative of him, he must have been a beautiful boy, full of rich Eastern colour. I did not meet him till a year or two later, when he had assumed the man’s colourless cheeks, with the silky, dark, very youthful beard he then wore.

William Butler Yeats – The Sketch – Wednesday 29 November 1893

On not giving PSB about The Beatles…

Pet Shop Boys Volume: The complete visual record. Chris Heath, Philip Hoare. Thames and Hudson, 2026

Why does every generation have an obsession with The Beatles? The fucking Beatles. I’m one for old music but I don’t get the hype around them. It wasn’t as if they lasted long. Boring. Give me the Pet Shop Boys. They’ve lasted longer and still hit us like they’re trying to be young again. But the gay one doesn’t/never appealed to gays, while the straight one did/does. Happy 40th Anniversary. 

On watching Before Night Falls…

Javier Bardem and Johnny Depp in Before Night Falls, 2000

Reinaldo Arenas, an exiled Cuban writer suffering from AIDS, took his own life in New York in 1990. It was a dramatic end to a dramatic life—the final escape of someone who had always been in flight: first from abandonment and neglect as a child, then from stark poverty, and finally from sexual and political persecution. Arenas was imprisoned several times in Cuba by Castro’s government, his manuscripts frequently confiscated. On one occasion he was detained on a vague morals charge and subjected to repeated indignities and cruelties, including torture. He arrived in the United States during the Mariel boatlift of 1980, that headlong exodus of more than a hundred thousand people—an event he renders vividly in his memoir, Before Night Falls, published in 1993.

I confess I knew nothing of his story until I watched Julian Schnabel’s 2000 film, drawn from both the autobiography and Jana Boková’s 1990 documentary Havana.

A few things to note. Javier Bardem is excellent as Arenas. But others linger: Johnny Depp—who once took a piss beside me—appears twice, as the outrageous Bon Bon with the big arse and as Lt. Víctor; Sean Penn turns up as Cuco Sánchez; and Olivier Martinez as Lázaro Gómez Carriles. It was Martinez who did it for me. Handsome—absurdly so. Not anymore. He dated Kylie for a while, married and divorced Halle Berry, and somewhere along the way the looks went with it.

On the cute and willing…

Artem. Photo by Archie – Saint Petersburg (2025)

The Distance Between Us Was Never Truly Death

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“Paolo went to your country to die, and now, Harry, you have come to his country, where you will also die.” Harry arrives at the small Italian town of Montescaglioso, where it is time to make peace with the person he once loved. The final part of an unlikely story.  (Parts 1 to 24 are available to read in the menu)

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous – Part 25

April 2026

The clock struck twelve at the Chiesa di San Rocco in Piazza Roma. The warmth from the Easter sun was unfamiliar, but as shadows crept from the old buildings and advanced towards the monument, the coolness of the spring afternoon would follow, and remind us that where we came from didn’t matter. One place could be much the same as another.

Piazza Roma was mostly deserted except for a handful of pedestrians who emerged from between these crumbling buildings and went about their business. The peace was only shattered by the noise of a scooter which entered from Corsa della Repubblica. On it, a ragazzo, wearing short sleeves and crash helmet, noticed me standing alone, revved its engine, and circled several times around me. All the time he watched, as there would be other people watching too. 

High above the square, on top of an unlikely building, was a webcam; its five cameras pointing in different directions. Somebody in a cramped New York apartment or a hotel room in Bali, was able to see what was happening in sleepy Montescaglioso. The views were familiar. I looked at them every day, and now, I was also one of the strangers on the screen.

The ragazzo eventually pulled up beside me and cut the engine. He removed his crash helmet and revealed himself to be in his late teens, with black curly hair and neat stubble on his chin. “Sei inglese?” he asked. “Sì, io sono,” I replied. “Then you must be Harry,” he said with broken English. 

He introduced himself as Tino and retrieved a second crash helmet from the sottosella. “Put this on,” he advised, “and get on the back.” I did as I was told and placed my arms around his waist. The engine kicked into life, and he sped off down Via Cavour; through cobblestone lanes that twisted and turned, both sides lined with old houses painted in shades of pink and yellow that the southern sun had slowly faded.

The farther we rode out of town, the wider the roads became, and the houses grew larger and newer. When we reached the petrol station at Strada Provinciale, Tino swung right and came to a stop beneath huge Italian cypresses leading to the gates. We dismounted, and I took in the panoramic views of the surrounding Basilicata. I noticed that the area below the cemetery had been used as a dumping ground for builders’ waste from the construction sites we had passed. Tino opened the sottosella, deposited both helmets, and retrieved a plastic bag. 

“Paolo went to your country to die,” said Tino. “And now, Harry, you have come to his country, where you will also die.” An exchange of the dead. I was the lad from the working classes who had sunk to the bottom before being gifted a chance to rise again. I was about to confront my past again.

Tino took me into the Cimitero Comunale and along corridors of loculi, multi-storey rows of concrete vaults stacked several levels high. The sight was striking; each grave was decorated with vases of fresh flowers. It was a Catholic tradition, an artistic expression, and a practical solution to space limitations. Italian culture maintained a strong, ongoing connection with the dead.

“My family were upset when you asked to visit,” Tino told me as we walked along. “The older ones are still angry and did not want you to come. But it was the younger ones who were able to change their minds.”

“Please thank them for doing so.”

“They call you the ‘English Boy’—the one who came from the projects. Our elders believe that Uncle Paolo did something gravely wrong, and that you were the cause of it. It is the only way they can forgive him. Blame you. Maybe the younger members of the family have more compassion and understanding, and we are more interested in seeing the boy who became the source of such hatred.”

The boy he referred to was no longer a boy. I was now in my sixties and had waited far too long to come here. Tino looked at me, and I could not help noticing his delicate brown eyes, which seemed to be searching for answers.

“I am older than Uncle Paolo was when he died. He will remain a boy forever. In the same way, you have not aged either, Harry. You are still the boy who was responsible for sending him to his tragic death. It is the boy that people will condemn.”

Like Paolo’s family, I had also believed that Paolo had taken his own life. The shame of being arrested and exposed as a homosexual had been too much. But Frank Smith had taken forty years to tell me otherwise: that Andy, my best friend, had blamed Paolo for coming between us—for ruining my life—and had sought revenge by sending him to a horrific death from the top of an abandoned factory.

It had taken me twelve months to process that news. Those last seconds, when Paolo knew that he was going to die. What had been going through his mind? Those intense emotions—fear, love, regret. Had Paolo thought about me in those last moments?

I was about to tell Tino the truth but didn’t get the chance. He had stopped in front of a small, rectangular niche on the bottom row and pointed.

I noticed the flowers first—chrysanthemums, alongside a mix of vibrant and white blooms, carefully arranged in small glass vases. There were also tulips, symbolising the freshness of spring, new beginnings, and hope.

And I saw Paolo again—for the first time in forty-one years.

There was a black-and-white photograph: a headshot of him looking at the camera, that nervous expression, expressive eyes, thick black hair with the same curl that always fell across his forehead, and a half-smile. Paolo was looking at me. A look of surprise. I had finally come to see him. The years of regret washed away, and we were back together again. I saw him smiling. “I loved you, Harry, but I was taken away. The years were long, but you found me again. Ti amo, Harry.”

It was a moment where grief, memory, and love converged.

Tino reached into the plastic bag and handed me a white rose to place in front of the photograph.

“I shall leave you to make your peace,” he said, and slipped away to a bench at the end of the avenue.

I put my hand on the marble slab that had been used to seal the tomb. It felt warm in the afternoon sun. I traced the inscription with my finger—Paolo Antonio Moretti—Amato da tutti coloro che lo conoscevano—beautifully carved in italics by an Italian craftsman. 

“Well… Paolo. Here I am. I never imagined that I would speak to you again. The last time I saw you was at that big house, when we were all arrested. My last recollection is of you looking terrified and shouting my name. I’ve replayed that moment every day for over forty years. Shouting my name because you were scared, and I couldn’t do anything. Do you know how painful that memory has been?

“I tried to speak in the days afterwards, but everyone hated me and wouldn’t let me anywhere near you. They said that I had corrupted you. I suppose your parents were trying to protect you… and they told me that you didn’t want to see me. That hurt, and I’ve tried to come to terms with it ever since, but I never believed it.

“And then you were gone. Forever. Do you know how that felt? The realisation that you love somebody so much, but can never see, touch, or love them… ever again. It was the most painful thing that ever happened to me.”

A tiny sparrow landed on the ground beside me. In Italian folklore, these are seen as a sign from the dead, and it hopped around my feet before flying up onto Paolo’s grave.

“Last year I saw Frank Smith. He told me that you didn’t commit suicide. That was a relief to me—for a while, anyway—but then I found out that it was Andy who killed you. It meant that your parents were right to blame me. My best friend killed you because he was jealous of us. That is something your family needs to know.

“What happened afterwards? I went to pieces. I nicked a car and drove to London, where I stayed for years. I worked as a rent boy and then became a writer. Can you imagine that? A small-time shit from Park Hill who couldn’t string a sentence together. But I’ve written books that proved I could do something with my life. I also met a guy called Scott, who I thought I loved, but now I realise that I probably didn’t.

“I went back to Sheffield—to Park Hill—which had completely changed and wrote about our past. It is the most successful book I’ve written. Everyone thinks it is fiction… but everything in it was true. About growing up, the Geisha Boys, meeting you, loving you, and the things we did.

“But I had to leave again. I didn’t belong there anymore. Many ghosts were laid to rest, but I couldn’t exorcise the memories.

“And now I’m here in Montescaglioso, where I can stay close to you. I’ve brought Tom with me and we’re buying an apartment on Viale Europa, not far from here. It’s modest, but for someone who lived at Park Hill, it will herald a new start.

“Tom is Jack’s youngest son and was a bit of a tearaway—a bit like I was. But he’s attached himself to me and will look after me as I grow older. Growing old is something you won’t know about, but it’s very overrated.

“And I met Jack again. I needed to know that he had forgiven me, but it turned out that he wanted my forgiveness too. The tragedy is that we wasted years feeling guilty. Both of us were afraid to make contact.

“Most importantly, I needed his blessing about Tom, and do you know what he said? When we were teenagers, he thought there was something different about me, but couldn’t pin it down. When it all came out into the open, he expected me to make a move on him. If I had, he said that he wouldn’t have said no. That floored me. He gave me his blessing about Tom because he knew that I’d turned his life around.”

Tino was approaching, and the small sparrow flitted between the flowers with a burst of energy. I stopped talking but couldn’t leave it like that.

“I must go now, but I shall return soon. Ti amo, Paolo.”

“I heard what you were saying to Uncle Paolo,” Tino said. “Did you love him as much as you say you did?”

“I did,” I confessed, “and it was a relationship that should never have happened. Did you know that the first night that I met Paolo, I punched him in the face… and immediately regretted it. He was incredibly sweet and beautiful. I wish you could have met him.”

“And this Tom that you spoke about—he has come to Montescaglioso with you?”

“Another unlikely relationship. Tom is much younger than me, and the story is far too complicated to explain. But he is a link between the past and the present.”

Tom was waiting for me when I returned to Piazza Roma. He smiled—a dazzling grin that showed his face had already tanned under the Italian sun. I explained that Tino had promised to visit us at the new apartment and that he had also asked for a copy of Perfectly Hard and Glamorous.

“But the book is in English,” he replied.

“I know,” I said, “but he wants it because that book is part of his family history.”

And that is the end of this long story.

The journey from a bleak northern city that had little going for it in the 1980s to the present, in a small Italian town that nobody has heard of. Tino was right when he suggested that Paolo had travelled to another country to die, and that I had done the same. And that is what will happen.

We are both happy here and will never leave.

Sometimes, when I stand on the balcony of our new apartment at Viale Europa and look at the house across the street, I imagine that I am seeing Park Hill again. And then the laundry tries to break free with the help of the strong wind that blows from the distant olive groves and wheat fields, and the memories evaporate.

I watch people going about their business—the animated, loud conversations, the frequent gesticulation, and that strong personal style. Both the young and the old, slipping into cafés, shops, and gelaterie. Walking between sun-drenched, ochre-washed buildings and piazzas, with the noise of Vespas weaving through the narrow streets. They are blissfully unaware of that sensory blend of ancient history and modern life; unaware that historic architecture is now adorned with contemporary graffiti.

The Italians are wonderful people.

I also think about everyone who shaped that journey: those who are dead—my parents, my best friend Andy, whom I may never forgive, and Paolo, whom I visit every week. I even think about Frank Smith and Billy Mason. Then there is the living—Jack, who will make regular visits to Italy and remind me that I was once a Geisha Boy, who swore, fought, and offered my body to anyone who wanted it; and Tom, who one day will replace Paolo as the love of my life.

The David Problem: Notes from a Life

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Peter Snow – Cleaver Square from Kennington Park Road (1988). From the Southwark Art Collection.

The Countess, the Living, and the Dead

There was a video featuring Adam Rickitt, who had been big in Coronation Street, in which he appeared naked. The song had been around when David had been clinging to the frayed edges of his youth. He hadn’t pulled it off. Everything went downhill afterwards. Adam Rickitt went to New Zealand to appear in a soap and was accused of stealing a block of cheese, a bottle of HP Sauce and a jar of coffee from a supermarket. David had moved out of the family home because the banks were knocking at the door.

On Sunday night, they had called at a gay bar, and David saw Adam Rickitt on the screen again. “I would gladly have sniffed his bollocks,” he told Joshua, who turned his nose up. “What the fuck is this shite?”

David recalled dancing to Adam Rickitt at Cruz 101 in Manchester. He was high on ecstasy at the time. But he’d gone to a friend’s flat afterwards and written the best chapter of a book he had never written—longhand, too. Then he had left it behind, where it ended up in a black wheelie bin.

Mancunian days. Every weekend in the North West. But he remembered little. The only memory he retained was of a cute little chicken who had taken his shirt off and started singing, “Sexy… everything about you, so sexy.”

David went home with him. The biggest shithole in Longsight, with every room knee-deep in empty Coke bottles. The bed was hidden behind a mountain of takeaway boxes. It had taught him that all that glittered was definitely not gold.

He related the story to Joshua while walking home in the rain.

“You’re too posh,” Joshua warned him. “Too many frills and high expectations.”

“But I ended up with you,” David replied.

 “Your problem is that you look too much at the past, and forget about the future.”

“But there isn’t much of that left, is there?” 

David was feeling down.

March had been a bad month. April looked bleaker.

“There are too many deaths, Joshua. Once, I went to weddings all the time. Now I go to funerals. I suppose we’re all in the same boat, because everybody dies.”

But Joshua was too young to understand and nudged him on the arm. 

David was referring specifically to their next-door neighbour, who had surrendered to the inevitable. In the square, Dorothy Jerman had been known as the ‘Countess’ and lived alone. Not many had known why she was called the Countess, but there was a suggestion that it was a nickname given to her by a former landlord at the Prince of Wales opposite.

“That’s right,” she once told David. “He was the Brixton Bomber, a former boxer, who took over in the 1960s and upset residents by installing a juke box. It attracted teenagers and the lawyers and solicitors who lived nearby wanted a quiet pub and drove him away. But he was a good chap, and called me the Countess because he wanted to get into my knickers. Little did he know that I never wore any.”

The Countess, a portrait painter, had moved here in the early sixties when Cleaver Square had been different to what it became. She shared it with her kids after a messy divorce and remained after they had grown up and left. By all accounts, she was a ‘rebel’ who famously held wild parties that spilled out into the street. 

David inherited the house next door and on most fine days, the Countess could be found sitting on the front steps, a glass of wine at hand, either reading a paperback or making conversation with anyone who passed. 

And the Countess had loved Joshua from the moment David invited him to move in with him. Two fucking artists, David had mused. Joshua would sit on the steps as she stroked his blond hair and told him stories about her life.

She claimed to have chosen Cleaver Square on the recommendation of a friend, Innes Fripp, a landscape painter and portrait artist who had taught at the nearby City and Guilds of London Art School and once had a studio in the square.

David had looked up the connection and found that it might have been true. He also discovered that the area had once been called Prince’s Square, named after two houses flanking the entrance, built for Joseph Prince by Michael Searles in the 1760s. The name was changed in 1937, a throwback to Mary Cleaver, who had owned the land in the eighteenth century.

“This is where sea captains lived,” the Countess once boasted, “but the square fell on hard times by the end of the nineteenth century and attracted old music-hall stars instead. It fell on evil days—crumbling brick façades hiding three families across three floors. During the war, the council requisitioned many of the houses for bombed-out families. The trees died, and the gardens were razed.

“South of the river was one vast slum when I arrived. When I fled Chelsea’s superficiality, the square was dilapidated, with shabby red-brick houses—homes for dockers and clerks—but every door stood open. Everybody knew everybody else. Materially, they had little, but they shared it when needed. Then the developers came, and with them came the barristers, judges, and MPs. That was when the doors shut. The young people drifted away, saying the square was not worth living in—it was dead. That is how we ended up with John Major.”

The houses went for millions now, but the Countess had not been tempted to sell. She could have died a millionaire, but preferred to live with her memories and pry into the lives of people she did not know… and who might have looked down on her, had it not been for her cheek and charisma.

When David arrived in the square, the Countess welcomed him as somebody who lived on her level. Shortly before he died, David’s uncle, William, had kicked out the previous tenants with a view to selling it. It was vacant when David discovered that the property now belonged to him.

But now the old woman had died.

It was good fortune that the Countess had resolutely refused to lock her front door. Joshua had gone looking for her and found the body slumped in a fireside armchair: a flute of flat champagne beside her and a dog-eared copy of Valley of the Dolls in her lap. He had panicked and gone running round to David, with no idea what to do.

Only the day before, David had made an unnerving discovery. The Countess had told him that he was not an Aries after all, but a Taurus. It had taken sixty-two years to learn the truth. But David, who normally paid little heed to astrology, realised that he preferred being a ram to a bull—it was better for a gay man, he suggested.

“A cusp baby,” the Countess commiserated, “and if it helps, you have adopted elements from each star sign.

“You do love a grand romance—you throw yourself into it, heart first, and breathe your partner in as though they were oxygen. But you bruise easily in love, my dear, and you’re far too quick to feel taken for granted. You’ve a weakness for strays as well—people from all walks, the straighter the better.”

“I do have a weakness for working-class boys,” David agreed. “And Joshua comes from a relatively poor family in Thamesmead.”

“Really?” said the Countess. “I had no idea. He speaks with such charm and dignity—and is incredibly handsome. And Thamesmead is perfectly lovely in the summer.”

“I met him when he was only twenty-one and working at Morrisons. For some reason, I was walking around the lake and came across him standing there, looking at the birds on the water. I found out later that he didn’t know one bird from another—except when we were talking about cocks. He had been cruising for a shag, which he didn’t get, but we talked. I pointed out that Thamesmead had been the setting for A Beautiful Thing, which turned out to be his favourite film. Eighteen years later, here we are.”

The Countess had not finished.

“You may have secret love affairs or fall in love with someone who is quite unavailable to you.”

“That’s not true.” David had been a bit too quick to reply, and the Countess raised her eyes, because she had not, for one minute, believed him.

David was thinking about Miles, his provincial friend, whom he had first met when the boy was eighteen. Putting Joshua aside, he had spent the last eight years trying to seduce Miles, but had failed at every attempt. Unknown to Joshua, David had once fallen in love with Miles. It was never reciprocated, but that feeling never changed. Miles was only interested if you happened to be a good-looking French or Italian boy—certainly not somebody like David.

“Are we referring to Freddie, dear?” the Countess asked.

Freddie lived in Hammersmith and was the same age as Miles, but his eccentricities annoyed David—not least his tendency to point out dead people whom he claimed to see at the most inappropriate times. Once, David had slept with him, and Freddie had told him that there was an old woman sitting knitting at the bottom of the bed. He had also ingratiated himself with the Countess because he claimed that a family friend had used his name for a character in The Archers. That had gone down extremely well, because she listened to the programme without fail.

“The last time that I saw Freddie,” she laughed, “he suggested that there was the presence of two dead women—Christine and Hannah—who once ran a brothel here. I talk to them all the time now, and suggest that far worse things have happened in my time.”

“It is definitely not Freddie,” said David, “and I would appreciate it if you did not repeat that to Joshua.”

“Because Venus represents attraction, and the twelfth house is associated with the feet,” she said, “your feet may be especially attractive—and have erogenous zones!”

He had turned his nose up.

David and Joshua headed home and passed the Countess’s house, which stood in darkness.

“I wonder what will happen to the house,” Joshua speculated.

“Well,” said David, “she must have had a will, and I suppose everything will go to her family.”

They were both aware that the Countess had fallen out with her three children, and only one of her grandsons, Owen, ever visited her. The two of them had known him as a young teenager and knew that he did much of the maintenance work around the house, though there were difficulties the Countess had often fretted over.

“If Owen gets everything,” Joshua mused, “it could prove interesting.”

David thought that Owen had grown into a striking young man, but conveniently overlooked that he suffered from a severe case of ADHD, which made him prone to violent bouts of temper.

“He would most likely sell it and become fabulously wealthy,” he suggested.

David knew that the Countess was of sound mind and that she had deliberately led her family to believe that she suffered from delusions—among them that she saw thousands of long-tailed birds clinging to a tree in her back garden, that the other trees were covered in hundreds of cats, and that dead dogs with fiery eyes lived beneath the bushes.

“At least it stops them visiting a crazy woman,” she had laughed.

“Whoever it is left to will find it contested,” David added, “because they will say that the Countess was of unsound mind when she made it.”

“Maybe she was deranged,” Joshua decided. “She often claimed that all sorts of famous people visited her at one time or another. She once told me a magnificent story about Vivienne Westwood, David Bowie, and Marc Bolan coming to tea—and that they ended up bouncing along the street on great big orange balls.”

Space hoppers,” David implied. “I had one when I was a small child in the 1970s. Did you know that Russell Harty was also a personal friend of the Countess?”

David knew that Joshua would not know who Russell Harty was.

“What was he famous for?”

“Sexual escapades with much younger men,” David replied, “and for hosting chat shows on television.”

David had met him once, when he had still been young enough to turn heads in the street. Harty had just returned from Paris, where he had lunched with Nureyev and Charlotte Rampling at the British Embassy. He made small talk, and David was disappointed that this brief encounter on Greek Street had not led to anything more. Still, it had been enough for him to brag about at Comptons.

A few months later, Harty was dead, having suffered liver failure—a result of hepatitis.

“The Countess knew everyone, or said she did. And now there’s no one left to confirm it.”

“That’s the problem,” said Joshua. “Did these encounters actually happen? Was she connected, or just a brilliant bullshitter? I often wonder the same about some of your stories.”

That last comment hurt David.

“Everything I tell you is true.”

“But nothing ever seems to happen to me. The Countess knew famous people. And you’ve done things—wild things—that make my existence seem ordinary.”

“The older you get, what once seemed ordinary suddenly becomes fascinating. We all look back and realise that we did something special.”

The funeral was due to take place the following Friday. The cortège would leave Cleaver Square at lunchtime and travel to Lambeth Crematorium, where a short service would take place before she was handed over to the devil.

Joshua unlocked the door and turned to David. “Do you think we’ll see anybody famous at the funeral?”

“Probably not,” David replied.

Stolen Words: A digital mask allows people to be authentic

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“Man is least himself when he talks in his own person. Give him a mask, and he will tell you the truth”

Words by Oscar Wilde in his 1891 essay The Critic as Artist.

My Week, For What It Was Worth

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On returning to that bronze statue…

Gaston George Colin (1891–1957), by most accounts a young cyclist, perhaps even a jockey, and later a pilot—but certainly a chauffeur to Harry Graf Kessler, the well-connected German diplomat, writer, and patron of modern art.

Kessler’s diaries reveal that he began a relationship with the seventeen-year-old in 1907, hosting him both at the family castle and during stays in Paris, Rome, and Denmark.

While in Paris that same year, Kessler asked his friend Aristide Maillol to create a life-sized marble statue of the young man. He was said to have wanted a likeness of Narcissus, inspired by ancient Greece, which he saw as a culture where relationships between men and youths were openly acknowledged.

The outcome, however, was not a marble statue but a smaller bronze work, The Racing Cyclist (Le coureur cycliste), capturing a classical ideal of beauty and strength.

Maillol, who rarely worked with male nudes, struggled with the piece—his efforts complicated by Kessler’s constant attention to detail. The sculpture was not cast until early 1909, and Maillol remained dissatisfied, noting its unusual proportions, particularly the enlarged head and penis.

It was eventually exhibited in the French pavilion of Decorative Arts at the Turin Universal Exhibition in 1911.

Following the Nazis’ rise to power in 1933, a fearful Kessler left Germany for Paris, later moving on to Mallorca and finally to southern France. It was only in 1985, when his early diaries were discovered in a bank vault, that the extent of his fixation on Gaston Colin came to light.

Four casts are known: Kessler’s original is now held at the Kunstmuseum Basel, while others are in the Museum Folkwang, the Musée d’Orsay, and the Bavarian State Painting Collection in Berlin. Additional versions may exist, as Maillol is believed to have produced a second edition around 1925.

On finding that Joseph (or Sam) was queer…

It turns out Joseph lied to me. I found out that the flirty boy with the rolled sleeves, the nice arse, and the quiet smile is called Sam. And he hasn’t served me coffee for weeks. I still go in every day, but he’s disappeared—off studying, or back to his girlfriend. Then on Monday, he came in as a customer, joking with the staff behind the counter. A good-looking guy followed him in. Sam touched him lightly on the arm, and the guy patted him on the arse. They left holding hands, and I had to accept that Sam wasn’t available to me anymore.

It was an emotional snap. The interest hadn’t been given time to fade; it just hit a wall. That turns into jealousy very quickly—why them, not me? Seeing that physical ease between them—the touch, the closeness—intensified everything. It wasn’t simply that he was taken; it was seeing what that looked like. That’s what stung more than I expected. I told myself not to inflate things beyond what they were. I hadn’t even been rejected—just abruptly cut off.

I had to stop idealising someone I’d barely interacted with, especially once they became unavailable. That was the truth of it: there had been no real interaction. My mind had filled in the gaps, making Sam more significant than he ever really was.

But there was still that lingering feeling—a symbol the mind clings to—a sense of missed opportunity.

On discovering Arthur Rimbaud’s homoerotic poem…

Stupra II (1871)
Our buttocks are not theirs.
I have often seen people unbuttoned behind some hedge;
and, in those shameless bathings where children are gay,
I used to observe the form and performance of our arse.

Firmer, in many cases pale, it possesses striking forms
which the screen of hairs covers;
for women, it is only in the charming parting
that the long tufted silk flowers.

A touching and marvellous ingenuity such as you see only
in the faces of angels in holy
pictures imitates the cheek
where the smile makes a hollow.

Oh! for us to be naked like that,
seeking joy and repose,
facing one’s companion’s glorious part,
both of us free to murmur and sob?

Arthur Rimbaud (1854-1891)

The Latin ‘stupra’ is plural for stuprum, which means an obscene and/or illegitimate copulation. Because of their explicit homoerotic content, these poems were not published during Rimbaud’s lifetime. They first appeared in a private, limited edition in 1923.

On watching a film that seemed familiar…

There was a similarity — a flicker of déjà vu. It softened the boundary between experience and memory, as though something new had already been lived. For a moment, my mind misread the present as the past, conjuring a false familiarity. Certain scenes felt strangely recognisable, as if they belonged to me already.

To Dream is a story of friendship — hopeful, intimate — set against a harsh inner-city backdrop. Best friends Luke and Tommy live in an unforgiving corner of London. Having dropped out of school and still at home, they find themselves dreaming of what might come next. Their shared ambition has always been escaping: to leave London’s grime behind for an imagined American paradise. It is a dream that has carried them through the realities of abusive homes, and one that binds them tightly together. But as family tensions worsen, and Luke’s new love interest begins to unsettle their bond, loyalty pushes Tommy toward a decision that will alter their lives forever. (Winter Film Festival – New York City).

Change the setting, reshape the structure — the dynamic remains. Four years on, as I approached the final instalment of Perfectly Hard and Glamorous, this little-seen B-movie felt like an omen.

Then I realised what I had missed: the father. There is always an abusive father. Somehow, I had forgotten him.

To Dream. United Kingdom (2026). Directed and produced by Baltimore-born, London-based Nicole Albarelli. Starring Freddie Thorp, Edward Hayter, Adam Deacon, Frank Jakeman.

On the cute and willing…

Artem. Photo by Archie – Saint Petersburg (2025)

The Truth Will Set You Free, but it Will Also Hurt

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Harry Oldham is writing a novel based on his criminal and sordid past. To do so, he has returned to live at Park Hill, where he grew up, and the place that he once left behind. That was then and this is now, in which the old world collides with the new. (Parts 1 to 23 are available to read in the menu)

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous – Part 24

April 2025

I swear there were tears in Tom’s eyes when he finished reading the closing chapter of my story. The reasons were unclear. Perhaps he believed I had been dealt a cruel hand. Perhaps he had come to realise that Jack—his father—had played a part in my abrupt departure from family and closest friends. And then there was Paolo’s suicide, and the shameful way the police had treated us.

I was young, and everything had become intolerable. The only option had been to nick a car and head for London, where I was unknown and made to feel thoroughly unwelcome. But youth is resilient, and even though it took me nearly forty years, I climbed out of the gutter and—dare I say it—became almost respectable.

I knew, of course, that I had played a part in my own downfall.

But this was now, and something had shifted the moment Tom revealed who his father was. We had become unlikely lovers—the ageing novelist and the young drug dealer. It pulled the past sharply into the present, and with it came complications.

The most obvious issue was the age difference. Tom had gate-crashed my world and taken root within it. The intrusion had been deliberate, set in motion by his father, Jack. Yet Tom had stayed; a compelling glimpse into a generation with which I had no real connection. More than anything, I had watched him change—from a surly young man into someone capable of warmth and compassion—and that, to me, had been irresistible, though I had no right to expect anything at all.

There was also Jack, whose hand I had last shaken forty years earlier, when my fate had been sealed. Those final words—“Seeing your boyfriend?” He had meant Paolo, whose own destiny was unfolding elsewhere, and without me. At the time, I had taken Jack’s question as sarcasm, but years later, when time had dulled the memory, I began to hear it differently; perhaps he had been genuinely interested.

The question still lingered.

I imagined Jack asking it again: “Seeing your boyfriend?” Only now he was no longer referring to Paolo, but to his own son—and this time, I heard it as a threat.

But there was another complexity that I hadn’t expected. 

A letter arrived on April Fool’s Day, forwarded by my publisher. It promised answers to past events.

One sunny morning, a few days later, I found a dilapidated bench overlooking the city centre. I waited until he arrived and sat beside me. He was a very old man now, moving only with difficulty, supported by a walking stick. He reminded me of someone from long ago. “If you’re not with the Mooney’s, then who are you with? You’re not with the Park lads—I’ve never seen you before.” “We’re the Geisha Boys,” Jack had explained.

We did not look at one another but stared out at the view.

“I did a lot of business here. Do you remember this bench, Harry? It’s where you and Paolo first met.” The voice was frail, the muscles long since weakened.

“How was Torremolinos?” I asked.

“I don’t remember,” Frank Smith replied. “I drank too much, smoked too much, and the wife would’ve read the riot act afterwards. Gone now, bless her. She was the only one who could keep me in line.”

He turned to me and held out a conciliatory hand.

“I thought you might punch me,” he said. “But I told myself, if you did, it would probably kill me.”

I shook his hand. More than that, I offered him a cigarette, which he accepted.

“We’ve spent a lot of time shaking hands and sharing cigarettes—but I think this is a first for us, Harry. I came here thinking I might give you a hard time, for old times’ sake, but I realised it was only in my head. I don’t have the strength for that anymore. I’m ninety-two now.”

“I got your letter.”

“My daughter has a way with words. Not like me—I’d have been dead before I finished it. She didn’t want to send it. Thought I was too old to be dredging up the past.”

Frank began to cough, and I hoped it wouldn’t take him before he had the chance to explain. When it passed, he took another drag on the cigarette.

“We left things badly, Harry. But I watched from a distance. I had connections in the Met—they kept me informed. There were a few scrapes, as you know, but my boys saw to it.”

I thought back to the arrests. Three for soliciting, twice for violence, once for shoplifting. I had always assumed the London coppers had gone easy on me.

“It worked, Harry,” he went on. “I knew you’d come good in the end. You became a successful writer. That eased my conscience. And here we are.”

“It’s only possible to ease a conscience if you had one to begin with.”

“I’m going to tell you a few things, and I want you to listen. Will you let me?”

I nodded.

“Sheffield was a bad place in the eighties. Crime, vice—the police were struggling to keep a lid on it. We were under pressure to get results, whatever it took. Some of us became… unorthodox. But we got results, and that kept the ‘pips and crown’ happy.

I was tasked with clearing out criminal gangs who thought they could make money exploiting a minority—the gays. We had to infiltrate them, and the best way was to pose as bent coppers who could help them. I’ll admit, I took my share of hush money along the way.

“We started with the weakest gang—that’s where you came in. The others thought they were paying me to remove the competition. What they didn’t know was that I’d use the same tactic on them. And it worked. There were smaller players too—groups who saw what happened and abandoned their plans. If I’d failed, Harry, I suspect you might have tried your hand as a small-time operator yourself.”

So far, Frank had told me nothing I didn’t already know.

“You might have wondered how you got pulled into it. There was a night I came to your flat—we thought you’d set fire to Manor Library. You’d just had a bath, and I did something small, just to make a point. I ran a finger down your chest. I expected you to live up to your reputation and kick off. But you didn’t. That made me think. Had I stumbled onto something about Harry Oldham that he didn’t yet know himself?

“I already had Paolo in my pocket—that was easy. He was scared out of his wits, would have done anything. What I needed was someone who looked the part and could handle himself. That was you, Harry. My instincts were right, though I was surprised how naturally you took to it—not least, becoming involved with Paolo.

“The rest, as they say, is history. I made Inspector off the back of it.”

Frank had mentioned Paolo, and even now, after all these years, it still hurt.

“I never saw Paolo again, Frank. And I never got the chance to say goodbye.”

“You mentioned having a conscience. But I must ask you the same. Did you have a conscience, Harry? You were happy enough to take the money. It only stopped when Billy Mason outed you.”

“Maybe I only found my conscience afterwards.”

“At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing. And, if I’m honest, I hated queers—and then the AIDS crisis began, and I hated them even more. But I changed. And the two people who changed me were Paolo and you.”

“What do you mean, Frank?”

“I liked Paolo. Sweet little Paolo, always polite. I never had any intention of outing him to his parents. I liked you too, Harry—rough and ready. If I kept you in line, everything held together. And you were different from the others. There was a spectrum: Andy, a complete head case; Jack, who wanted to be the same but didn’t have it in him; and you, who didn’t have the faintest idea what you wanted to be. I never intended to out you either. But I needed you both to believe that I could.

“And don’t think I didn’t have regrets. I had plenty. Things went downhill quickly. I hadn’t realised that DC Ian Thornhill was such a bastard. He hated queers even more than I did—and he had it in for you, Harry. He couldn’t understand why I was trying to protect you. To him, you were scum who deserved locking up. I came back from holiday to find you’d been arrested and charged. The work I had to do to sort that out…”

“And Paolo’s death made everything worse. Questions were asked—why he’d taken his own life. I was one of them.

“The gaffers got involved as well. The ringleaders managed to slip away, leaving their lackeys to take the fall. There were bigger names mixed up in it all—judges, solicitors, doctors, even coppers. Anyone with something to hide. What they were doing was illegal, but they were never charged. They knew the right people, high up in the force. I questioned it, and do you know what the gaffers said? Keep quiet, Frank, and we’ll make sure you’re looked after. The weight of it landed on ordinary blokes looking for a cheap thrill. The publicity ruined most of them.

“And then everything changed after Hillsborough. New bosses came in, looking for scapegoats. Everything had to be squeaky clean. They started reopening old cases—anything where the police might be held accountable. It got uncomfortable. I was questioned about Paolo, about you, about my role in it all. What I’d done was illegal too—and there was no one left to protect me.”

“What happened?”

“I left the force. And I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since, expecting a knock at the door.”

Frank’s revelations showed me a side of him I had never imagined. Not once had I thought him capable of regret. It changed something between us—but it did not change what had happened. And once again, I knew I had to accept my own share of the blame.

Frank had not finished.

“I’ve read all your books, Harry. Had to, didn’t I? In a way, it gave me some satisfaction knowing you’d made something of yourself.”

“There’s something you should know,” I told him. “The next book is finished. It’s about the Geisha Boys—Andy, Jack, Paolo, me… and you, Frank. And you don’t come out of it well.”

He smiled.

“I’m not going to ask you to leave me out. What’s done is done. Go ahead—publish it. But there are a few things I need to say first.”

Frank gripped my arm.

“Do you know what happened to Andy and Jack?”

“I’ve met Jack’s son,” I said. “Tom. It’s a long story. I know Jack was asking questions about me, but he doesn’t know anything about Andy.”

“Things changed after you left for London,” Frank went on. “The case was closed as far as the exploitation went, but there was another side to it. Andy and Jack thought they could carry on without you… but it didn’t work out that way.

“I knew Andy was trouble, but you pushed him over the edge. Everything started to unravel. He began operating on his own—serious stuff: drugs, armed robbery, the lot. Jack wanted no part of it.

“But the deeper Andy got, the more he attracted attention from people bigger and smarter than him. All we had to do was wait. It ended badly, a few years later. Beaten to death at a flat in Nottingham. His body wasn’t found for weeks. I won’t pretend I was sorry.”

For years, I had held on to the hope that one day I might reconcile with Andy and Jack. Wishful thinking. But learning that Andy—my oldest friend—was dead still struck hard.

“Did Jack know?”

“Probably not,” Frank said. “Andy turned on everyone who knew him. The family kept it quiet. By then, Jack’s lot had already moved out of Park Hill.”

“We looked up to Andy,” I said. “He was everything we thought we wanted to be.”

“But he couldn’t cope without you.”

“That was his choice,” I said, bitterness creeping in. “I needed him. I needed Jack. But then I got arrested. That settled any doubts they had about me. After that, they didn’t want me anymore.”

“That part was your doing. You wanted out—you made that clear enough. I wanted to hold off, because I wasn’t going to be around, but you forced my hand. If you’d waited, it would have ended anyway… just without the mess it caused.”

I wanted to ask Frank something I had asked myself countless times. The answer mattered.

“Do you think I was to blame for Paolo’s death?”

“Well,” he said, “his family certainly did. According to them, you turned him into a queer and drove him to take his own life. They moved back to Italy afterwards. Not what you wanted to hear, is it?”

“No, Frank.”

“But I knew Paolo loved you. He told me. I told him not to be a sentimental fool. So—do I think you were to blame?” He paused. “No. I don’t. If anything, I’m the one who should carry that. And there’s something else I need to tell you. Something that changes everything.”

“When I came back from holiday, I couldn’t find my notebook—the one with all the names, addresses, telephone numbers. I searched my desk. Gone. A few days later, I needed a file from Ian Thornhill’s desk, and while I was looking, I found the notebook buried under a stack of papers. When I asked him about it, he said he’d needed a number for a case. Which case? I asked. He said he couldn’t remember.

“I checked the notebook—made sure nothing was missing—and noticed a coffee stain on the page for M. There were only three entries there. Two were old informants already inside. The third was Moretti—Paolo.

“I asked Ian again. He said he’d needed Paolo’s number in a hurry and had grabbed my notebook instead of going through the files. It sounded plausible. But something didn’t sit right.

“I checked the records. There had been calls and visits between Paolo’s family and other officers—but none from Ian. Anyone else might have thought nothing of it—that he’d passed the number on to someone else. But I knew better.

“That night, I took him for a drink. Started talking about Paolo’s case. Told him the gaffer was asking questions about the lead-up to the suicide, that I needed to know everything—even anything off the books—so I could cover for everyone if it came to it.

“That’s when he told me.”

“Told you what?”

“A few days before they found Paolo’s body, someone had called asking for me. Ian told him I was on holiday. But the caller said he’d been told to ring me for a number. And the idiot gave it to him—just like that. No questions. And worse than that, Ian reckoned the caller was Andy.”

“What?” I gasped. “Andy didn’t even know him.”

“Let me finish, Harry.”

“After that, I went to Park Hill to find him. It wasn’t difficult. He was with Jack in the Parkway. I told Jack to clear off and dragged Andy outside. That’s what I liked about that place—plenty of dark corners. He looked a mess: bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, drunk. There was no fight in him. I pinned him against the wall and told him exactly what I thought.”

“What was that?”

“Oh, Harry,” he sighed. “Don’t you see?”

I didn’t.

“The next day, I went to see Paolo’s family. I asked his mother if he’d received any calls before he died. No, she said—she’d tried to intercept them all. But then she let something slip. There had been one call she hadn’t reached in time—when your mate managed to pass on a message, telling Paolo to meet you at your usual place.”

“What place?”

“An abandoned factory.”

“Frank, I can’t believe that. Are you saying—”

“Yes,” Frank said. “I told Andy what I suspected. Paolo had gone out, thinking he was meeting you. But when he got there, it was Andy. And Andy blamed him for everything—for coming between you, for being queer, for making you the same.”

I shook my head, unable to take it in.

But Frank went on.

“He killed Paolo. Pushed him from the edge of the building.”

“No, Frank. That can’t be true. Andy was many things, but not that. I don’t believe it.”

“All Andy said to me that night at Park Hill were two words: Prove it. But that was enough. Enough to know I was right. And he was right too—because he knew I could never make it stick.”

I broke down, and Frank let me.

“It was good to see you again, Harry. I mean that. And I’m sorry things turned out the way they did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this years ago?”

“I thought about it. But I knew what you’d do. You’d have wanted revenge.”

He was right.

“There’s an expression—never shit on your own doorstep. I remember saying that to Billy Mason. He did me a favour—a big one—and he waited for the right moment to return it. Took his chance somewhere else… Nottingham, as it happens.”

“What are you saying?”

Frank struggled to his feet.

“I have to go,” he said. “My daughter’s picking me up in five minutes.” He began to hobble away, then paused.

“I meant to ask,” he said. “Are you seeing anyone?”

“Would you believe me if I said I was involved with Jack’s son?”

“Yes,” he said, with a faint smile. “I would.”