Author Archives: Delicto

Boys Burn Quiet: Open, Heaven

Open, Heaven: Seán Hewitt (2025)

“Now, this nightly ritual had been my secret for years. In my mind, it was linked somehow to that scene – the distance, the watching but never touching. I fixated only on those I thought would not reciprocate, but I could imagine the moment of pre intimacy when they would give in and a secret would be made between us. I understood that this was what desire was: wanting something I could not have, dreaming of holding it. But even then I knew there was a risk, a contradiction: if, by some chance, the object of my desire desired me, I had the sense that the desire might evaporate altogether. So, although there was this burning, urgent thing, I could not exorcise it, and my imagination went into overdrive under restraint. There was never a release, never a completion that didn’t feel soiled and voyeuristic.”

Joshua handed me a pristine paperback. “Read this,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.” The book looked untouched; seeing my hesitation, he added, “I enjoyed it so much I’m giving all my friends a copy.”

I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone do that, and I found myself wondering whether they could really afford such generosity.

But Joshua was right.

The novel is a debut from Seán Hewitt, better known until now as a poet, memoirist, and critic. He is also Assistant Professor in Literary Practice at Trinity College Dublin and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. His first poetry collection, Tongues of Fire, won the Laurel Prize in 2021—the same year he published J.M. Synge: Nature, Politics, Modernism. His memoir, All Down Darkness Wide, followed in 2023, and then came 300,000 Kisses: Tales of Queer Love from the Ancient World; a second poetry collection, Rapture’s Road, appeared in 2024.

Which brings us to Open, Heaven, a debut that confirms him as an all-rounder.

It is, in a way, a love story without quite becoming one—an infatuation we hope will deepen into something more, though it never does.

James, a teenager, dreams of a life beyond his small village; his emerging desires threaten to unsettle his shy exterior. Then he meets Luke—unkempt, handsome, charismatic, and impulsive—sent to stay with his aunt and uncle on a nearby farm.

As the seasons pass, a bond forms between them, one that quietly reshapes their lives. Yet James remains uncertain of Luke’s feelings, and as summer draws to a close, he faces a choice: risk everything for the possibility of love, or let it slip away.

I have a weakness for bad boys, so it was inevitable that I fell for Luke—made all the more appealing by the fact that he turns out to be straight. I was less taken with James, who seems destined to spend the rest of his life wondering, What if I’d forced the issue? Though perhaps that’s unfair. He could just as easily have been me.

I suspect I’ll carry my own catalogue of missed opportunities. Memory has a way of softening the past, making it seem brighter, simpler—chiding you for not taking a chance. But it was never that simple.

Hewitt proves especially perceptive when it comes to these almost-relationships—the ones that hover on the edge of possibility but never quite materialise.

I finished the book still hoping, right up to the final pages, that something might finally happen between them. Afterwards, I read other readers’ responses; the consensus, unsurprisingly, was that it leaves an aching feeling.

My Week, For What It Was Worth

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On driving behind a cute-assed cyclist…
I found myself trailing a cyclist who was hammering the pedals with admirable ferocity; his lycra-clad form rose and fell in a hypnotic rhythm, all sleek lines and aerodynamic intent. There’s something undeniably compelling about a well-put-together rider on a racing bike—graceful, efficient, almost cinematic.

But as I pulled alongside to overtake, the illusion collapsed rather abruptly. What I had taken for youthful athleticism was, in fact, a fully paid-up member of the MAMIL brigade—Middle-Aged Men in Lycra—an increasingly unavoidable presence on the roads. The term, apparently coined by Mintel in 2010, captures a very specific phenomenon in modern cycling culture.

The charitable definition goes something like this: men typically aged 35–50+ who embrace high-performance cycling, clad in tight technical gear and mounted on eye-wateringly expensive carbon-fibre machines. It’s said to be driven by a desire for physical challenge, a reprieve from work and domesticity, and perhaps a quiet rebellion against the passing of time.

Which is all very noble, of course.

And yet—at the risk of sounding deeply ungenerous—I can’t help but feel a flicker of disappointment every time the helmet comes into focus. If you’re hoping for lithe, Tour de France–calibre elegance, you may be better off watching the actual Tour de France. Out here on ordinary roads, the reality is… rather more middle management on wheels.

On binge-watching The Count of Monte Cristo…
There was only one real reason for watching The Count of Monte Cristo—not the recent film, but the Italo-French collaboration from two years ago. My interest lay not with Edmond Dantès himself, nor with the familiar arc of his imprisonment and revenge, but with two Italian actors—Lino Guanciale and Nicolas Maupas—who have recently piqued my curiosity.

Edmond Dantès, a sailor falsely accused of treason, is imprisoned in the Château d’If off Marseille. After fifteen years, he escapes, discovers treasure on an uninhabited island, and assumes the identity of the Count of Monte Cristo, plotting revenge against those who betrayed him. Like the figure in the Alexandre Dumas novel, he emerges compelling, if inevitably vengeful.

The production is noted for its cinematic look, authentic costumes, and striking Mediterranean locations. Reviews were mixed: The Guardian criticised its wooden dialogue and performances, though conceded it could still be an enjoyable watch.

It wasn’t Sam Claflin in the lead, nor was it Jeremy Irons—though Irons was, as ever, effective as the ageing Abbé Faria, lending the role a quiet authority.

Instead, my attention returned to Guanciale and Maupas. I’ve seen Lino Guanciale as the lead in two Italian-language series: La porta rossa, where he plays a ghost, and Il Commissario Ricciardi, where he sees them. Here, he appears as a chubbier Luigi Vampa, a quieter presence but still recognisable.

Nicolas Maupas, born to a French father and Italian mother, is best known as Filippo Ferrari in Mare fuori, set in a juvenile prison in Naples. In this adaptation, he plays Albert de Morcerf with a naïve, easy charm that makes the character immediately likeable.

My interest in Italian television and film feels increasingly insatiable, though it relies almost entirely on subtitles. Here, however, The Count of Monte Cristo was performed in English, allowing both Guanciale and Maupas to speak in my native tongue—an accommodation that also reflects the ambitions of an international co-production, assembling a cast drawn from Italy, France, Denmark, and England.

On ditching a short story…
I wrote a short story but something didn’t sit right. I thought it was good, but there was an uneasiness. Like it had the making of something but lacked oomph. And I worked at it from several angles but still it gave me reservations. I showed it to someone and they said, “This is not you at all.” And so the story was shelved.

On seeing a young guy’s underwear…
The only thing colourful about him was his underwear, which I discovered by accident, though afterwards I wondered if anything about it had been accidental at all. He carried himself so carefully, as if afraid of drawing attention, yet there it was—a glimpse of colour (blue and white) that didn’t belong to the guy I thought I knew. It unsettled me, not because it was bold, but because it suggested he was.

On hearing somebody talking about an elderly writer…
“At some stage he will be afraid to start writing a new book because he might die before he finishes it.”

Privacy is what we used to call liberty
Ubiquitous cameras in public spaces. Online tracking, data harvesting, targeted ads. Governments or corporations monitoring our behaviour. Something fundamental has shifted in how we understand freedom.

Liberty used to mean freedom from intrusion. The right to be left alone, to speak, think, move, and live without constant oversight. Privacy is now treated as a narrower, more technical concern—something about data protection, personal information, or what you choose to share.

Privacy is what we used to call liberty.

On the cute and willing…

Ilya Kovalev. Photo by Archie the Photographer, 2026.

The Avid Reader and Those Who Watched Him

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Hollacombe Court was a typical new-build apartment complex just off the Uxbridge Road. Four six-storey blocks stood around a large courtyard, entered through a gated archway at one end or via doors at the base of each stairwell. It was elegant without pretension and suited young professionals who preferred life beyond the city.

Elian—meaning God has answered—was of Iberian descent, though born in Dartford, and he had never considered moving to Spain. He had arrived at Hollacombe Court that summer and quickly became known to residents whose windows overlooked the courtyard. In his twenties, he might easily have been called handsome, and his athletic build drew the curious attention of anyone in search of an eligible bachelor.

He spent most summer evenings in the courtyard, with its cream flagstones, raised flowerbeds, and central water feature. He was often found sitting or stretched across one of the dozen stone benches set into the planted borders. He seemed to favour the one nearest the fountain, where water slipped between the fingers of the Greek god Zeus and fell into a circular pool below. Whether any of the residents could have named the statue, however, was open to question.

This was how Elian came to the notice of those living at Hollacombe Place.

Most assumed he had finished work, eaten, and chosen to pass the remaining hours of the evening outdoors with a book. That, above all, was what people noticed. While others switched on the television, Elian could almost always be seen reading. What he read remained a mystery, as few residents used the courtyard, leaving him—more often than not—undisturbed.

To those who glanced out, Elian had become a fixture. His presence lent a quiet reassurance. If, by chance, he was absent, it stirred a faint unease, as though something were amiss. Many had even taken to checking for him several times over the course of an evening. When darkness fell, it became customary to watch him close his book and make the short walk back into his block, though no one knew which apartment was his.

But there were those at Hollacombe Court who watched Elian for more selfish reasons. Had you challenged them, they would have denied it, yet it was hard to ignore that they had fallen in love with him—his Mediterranean looks, olive skin, and thick, black hair. On hot, humid days, they took particular pleasure in seeing him in football shorts, his six-pack on show, his long, smooth legs stretched out before him.

Elian enjoyed those evenings because he was an avid reader, with a particular fondness for novels, and for that reason he never felt lonely. He could summon characters from any book he had read; they were his companions.

His favourite writers were Lee Child, Alan Hollinghurst, and Colm Tóibín, and he often imagined himself as the protagonist in their novels. He had also discovered the work of André Aciman and Tim Parks, whose books stirred his imagination in different ways. When he finished a novel, he placed it carefully on his bookshelf, arranged by author and in order of publication. The classics, however, held little appeal; he found them too dour and overly wordy for his taste.

But reading aside, there was another reason Elian liked to sit in the courtyard.

Reading in full view of so many people made him feel connected. He knew they watched him, desired him even, and he welcomed the attention. He wanted to belong to a society that saw only his outward form; his need for acceptance was universal. Being seen confirmed his existence and importance, satisfying a deep psychological need for belonging. At times, he wondered whether this desire to be observed was a way of compensating for a lack of inner confidence.

And he was able to do this without interference. He liked that people looked at him yet respected his solitude. This paradox became a careful balance between the social need for validation and the personal need for quiet, self-reflection, and protection. He wanted the thrill of being in the spotlight, but also the safety of anonymity. When alone, Elian was answerable to no one, and in that freedom he could exist without fear of judgement.

And so the summer passed in a kind of quiet contentment. Elian with his books, and the curious residents of Hollacombe Court satisfied to watch over him.

The David Problem: Notes from a Life

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Giacomo crowned with passion-flowers. c.1890-1900. Wilhelm von Gloeden

Art, Innocence, and the Burden of Looking Back

David was in a quandary; the problem was of his own making. It was a friend of Joshua who wanted a name — a name that would read ‘curated by’ and command attention. Of course, David had agreed, but now he had his regrets.

An email from Pamela Hutchinson had been the source of it all. This exhibition is inappropriate and offensive. When David failed to respond, she went to the media, who were only too eager to champion her cause.

“Fucking do-gooder,” he had moaned to Joshua.

But it transpired that she knew far more than he had anticipated.

“The boys he used were underage and exploited by an unscrupulous man.” Those were the words a journalist from The Standard had used over the phone.

“How does anyone know that?”

The exhibition at the McDonald Gallery on Wellington Street was to include sixty photographs taken by the German, Wilhelm von Gloeden. The concept mirrored a similar exhibition mounted by the photographer in the 1890s.

Back then, there had been no objection to von Gloeden’s work.

“The Victorians were either more accepting or considerably more naïve,” David reflected. “His work has been displayed all over the world, and I doubt they faced the kind of problems I’m dealing with now.”

David wasn’t selecting the photographs — that responsibility lay with Nathaniel Wilson, the American who had approached him — but he had agreed to write a critical essay for the catalogue. Yet as the backlash grew, it was David whom people sought out. Mail Online had already published a particularly damning article, one that threatened his reputation as a credible writer.

Joshua had researched von Gloeden and discovered that his notoriety only emerged in the latter part of the last century. Before then, his work had received glowing reviews from newspapers around the world.

“Count von Gloeden is very clever in the way he introduces nude figures of Sicilian boys into his landscapes. It is something quite out of the ordinary, and for those who appreciate artistic work, the figure studies — with their almost classical subjects — will be found of especial interest.”

He read this passage out aloud to David, who noted that it came from a newspaper published in 1909.

“I suppose it’s my fault,” Joshua reasoned. “I must admit, I didn’t realise the subject matter might be considered objectionable now.”

The story of Count Wilhelm von Gloeden had always fascinated David. He had first encountered his work in an old book — The Spell of the Southern Shores; or, From Sea to Sea in Italy — written by Caroline Atwater Mason in 1915. It had been illustrated with landscape images taken by von Gloeden.

Von Gloeden had been born into a well-heeled Prussian family in 1856 and later travelled to Naples, where his cousin, Wilhelm von Plüschow, a photographer who also specialised in pictures of young nude men, encouraged him to take up photography. In his early twenties, suffering from tuberculosis, von Gloeden moved on to Taormina, then a remote village, only accessible by donkey, in Sicily.

He was one of two men credited with turning Taormina into a tourist destination.

The first was Otto Geleng, a Prussian painter who, having fallen ill in Rome, travelled to Taormina in 1863 to convalesce. When three Parisian critics came to visit, the only local inn — the Bellevue — proved inadequate, and Geleng transformed the house in which he was staying into a hotel. It became the Hotel Timeo, still thriving today. When the critics returned to France, the articles they wrote drew the first wave of tourists from Prussia and France, soon followed by visitors from Holland, England, America, Russia, and Poland.

The next was Von Gloeden, a member of the German nobility, who was wealthy, extravagant, sociable — and more than a little eccentric. He kept a large collection of birds — ravens, parrots, nightingales, canaries — and delighted in teaching them to talk and whistle military marches.

He began taking photographs as a hobby, but when his stepfather was accused of treason by Kaiser Wilhelm II and stripped of his possessions, the flow of money to Taormina dried up. Von Gloeden was forced to rely increasingly on photography for his income.

He installed a studio and laboratory in his villa and printed images of local landscapes and architecture as postcards and souvenirs.

The baron also set about persuading shy, nubile young boys to pose in the manner of Greek statues.

“Many of the pictures have a fascinating charm that recalls the odes of Horace and other classical poets of these sunlit lands. All his models seem to the manner born, their graceful lines and quiet, expressive faces harmonising so perfectly with surroundings of luxuriant foliage, abundant flowers, and sunlit glades.”

That, along with their easy smiles, was about all they wore.

David rang Nathaniel, who seemed to be keeping a low profile in New York.

“The problem,” David said, “is that people now see the photographs as child pornography.”

“They’re of their time,” Nathaniel replied. “They belong to a particular moment in photography — when people were still working out how to handle flesh in strong light and shadow. And you must admit, for such an early stage, it’s handled with real skill.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I mean,” Nathaniel went on, “you’re looking at sun-darkened skin under a harsh, blazing light — not the pale tones you’d get in England’s softer sunshine.”

David was none the wiser. It sounded as though Nathaniel was reading from notes laid out in front of him.

“And besides,” Nathaniel continued, “this was when photography was beginning to supplant fine art. Visitors wanted clarity — every detail sharp, everything evenly lit. That was what they valued.”

If David had been hoping for reassurance from Nathaniel, he wasn’t finding it.

“But the nude photographs appear to be of underage boys,” David suggested.

“They’re not underage boys,” Nathaniel replied. “They’re dark-skinned, classically proportioned lads — fine-limbed peasant boys. I’ll grant you, the work does come under scrutiny from time to time, but we are talking about art.”

“If that’s the case,” David said, “then I’ll forward all media enquiries to you.”

He ended the call and turned to find Joshua hovering with fresh information.

“I came across something about a von Gloeden exhibition in Sydney — in the nineties, I think. Detectives were sent in after a complaint, quite high-level, claiming the photographs amounted to child pornography. But in the end, they decided the images were harmless.”

“Exactly,” David said, warming to the argument, finding himself cast as an unlikely devil’s advocate. “Why do people take offence at something so trivial? The models themselves hardly seem troubled by any sense of impropriety.”

“But…” Joshua hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “there’s no getting around the fact that von Gloeden used these photographs of nude boys not just as art, but as a kind of advertisement — for the sort of clientele Taormina began to attract.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” David replied, though he was aware that von Gloeden had been openly homosexual and known for his late-night revelries, both at his villa and in the surrounding meadows. It spoke to von Gloeden’s charm — and his influence — that the people of Taormina tolerated his unconventional behaviour, even when it involved their own sons. The town, after all, had prospered, riding a wave of economic growth driven by the very visitors he helped to draw there.

Joshua continued.

“I don’t think we can deny that von Gloeden was a gentleman who liked young boys and took a great many photographs of them — mostly nude.”

That night, David resolved to look more closely into von Gloeden’s life and work. What he found would help him reach a decision: whether to withdraw from the exhibition or stay and weather the criticism.

He trawled through old newspapers and discovered that attitudes had shifted in the latter part of the twentieth century, and that von Gloeden’s reputation had suffered accordingly. The tone had hardened. One writer dismissed him as “that poor old homosexual, the Baron von Gloeden, who hid lust behind an academic glass.” Another claimed the photographs seemed “designed for a market of privileged oglers,” while a third described him as “an artful dodger whose work slipped past the censors.” Even the more measured critiques carried an edge, suggesting his images gratified “three desires at once: art, classical tranquillity, and the sanctioned glimpse of desirable bodies.” One publication went further still, branding von Gloeden a charlatan.

Von Gloeden’s work seemed almost tame by today’s standards, yet he could not ignore the fact that his steady production of homoerotic images had proved immensely profitable, earning him admiration across Europe.

Most of the photographs, he noted, were sepia-toned, printed on gold-hued salted paper. The boys posed with a certain taste and deliberation: a dark-haired youth stretching eagerly sideways and upwards to peer through a window; a group of boys reclining along the rough parapet of a height overlooking a lake ringed by mountains. Both compositions made full use of their romantic natural settings. The wider body of work followed similar themes, many images featuring boys whose graceful bodies were adorned with wreaths of laurel and flowers, set against pale masonry or slender columns. In some, distant bays appeared through arching boughs heavy with white blossom.

One journal compared von Gloeden’s photographs to the paintings of Lawrence Alma-Tadema.

But, as he delved deeper, David discovered a great many photographs of completely naked boys that left nothing to the imagination.

He also came across a reference to Pancrazio Buciunì, who had died in 1963, a year before David was born. At fourteen, he had entered von Gloeden’s service and later became one of his most frequent models — known as Il Moro — and, likely, his lover. Von Gloeden had taken more than 7,000 exposures and, upon his death in 1931, left them all to Buciunì.

In 1936, Buciunì was prosecuted by the Fascists for possession of “pornographic material,” and many of the Baron’s plates were destroyed under court order. Yet he had the foresight to conceal around 1,500 of them beneath the stones of his floor. While von Gloeden’s photographs had already travelled widely across the world, it was largely thanks to Buciunì’s intervention that many of the surviving images — including those now destined for exhibition — had endured at all.

But David’s thoughts kept circling back to the present.

Pamela Hutchinson, who had first raised concerns, spoke for a wider audience — those whose views were shaped by a more modern moral framework.

The ages of the boys had never been definitively established, and David discovered that many may have perished in the 1908 Messina earthquake, though Taormina itself seemed to have escaped the worst of it. In truth, the extent to which minors were depicted erotically might never be fully known.

There was also the question of power: von Gloeden, a wealthy aristocrat, and the impoverished peasant boys who lived at his mercy. In Sicily, young boys commonly went nude at the beach, and across much of the Mediterranean, homosexuality was often regarded as a passing phase in adolescence.

For struggling families, payment in exchange for their sons posing for von Gloeden would have been difficult to refuse. Yet it was equally hard to ignore the likelihood that he exploited these boys, his images serving, in part, the interests of sexual tourism.

David could not deny that, throughout the twentieth century, von Gloeden’s work had frequently been labelled obscene. What unsettled him was the realisation that earlier generations had not seen it that way at all — to them, it had been art: a new form, even, one that threatened to unsettle the dominance of traditional fine art.

Joshua interrupted.

“Have you made a decision yet?”

David toyed with a ruler, buying himself a moment, as though the answer required more thought than it did.

“I have,” he said at last. “For all the criticism, the exhibition matters. I need to write something that acknowledges everything we’ve uncovered — the admirable and the troubling — and accept that some will find it distasteful. There’s a temptation to sanitise the past, to smooth it into something more palatable, but ignoring it doesn’t make it disappear. It happened. The least we can do is face it honestly, from all sides.” He paused, then added, with a faint shrug, “Besides, as they say, even bad publicity has its uses.”

Giacomo garlanded with passion-flowers. c.1890-1900. Wilhelm von Gloeden

Boys Burn Quiet: To Find a Kiss of Yours

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To Find a Kiss of Yours: Federico García Lorca
(Translation by Sarah Arvio)

To find a kiss of yours
what would I give.
A kiss that strayed from your lips
dead to love.
My lips taste
the dirt of shadows.
To gaze at your dark eyes
what would I give.
Dawns of rainbow garnet
fanning open before God—
The stars blinded them
one morning in May.
And to kiss your pure thighs
what would I give.
Raw rose crystal
sediment of the sun.

Renowned for his vivid imagery and emotional intensity, Lorca’s work often circled longing and desire; here, those themes unfold through a sequence of questions—each one probing what the speaker might sacrifice for intimacy.

Federico García Lorca (1898–1936)
This year marks the 90th anniversary of Lorca’s death. He was, by all accounts, a striking man: Iberian elegance, cultural poise, a magnetic presence. Thick, dark curls; penetrating eyes; a face alive with expression. Today, Lorca is recognised as one of Spain’s most important poets—his reputation only sharpened by the brutality of his death at just 38.

In the early days of the Spanish Civil War, Lorca was arrested in Granada, imprisoned, and within days taken to a roadside outside the city and shot by forces aligned with Francisco Franco. The exact reasons were never formally clarified. The regime’s official statement reduced his execution to a bureaucratic fiction: he had died of “war wounds.”

His body has never been recovered, despite repeated attempts to locate the mass graves into which victims like him were cast. Ian Gibson’s The Assassination of Federico García Lorca remains one of the most thorough investigations into the circumstances of his death, suggesting that his sexuality—at least as much as his politics—made him a target. One member of the execution squad reportedly boasted of firing “two bullets into his ass for being a queer.”

Lorca’s romantic life remains partly obscured, but figures associated with him include sculptor Emilio Aladrén Perojo, composer Manuel de Falla, and writer Juan Ramírez de Lucas. Whether he shared a romantic relationship with Salvador Dalí is still debated.

Across his work, Lorca returned again and again to the tension between desire and repression. Male longing appears coded, fractured, and often veiled—its intensity heightened precisely because it could not be spoken plainly within the society he inhabited.

Emilio Aladrén Perojo and Federico García Lorca

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…

“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…

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…

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