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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.

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.”

My Week, For What It Was Worth

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On reading Like People in History…


In January 2000, somebody called Gregory Nash pencilled his name on the front page of a paperback book. I don’t know what happened to it for the next 26 years, but a few weeks ago, a friend found it at a second hand book shop in London and gave it to me as a present.

Published in 1995, Like People in History, by Felice Picano, traced not just the protagonists’ lives but provided the defining moments of American gay history between 1954 and 1991. 

‘The big novel we’ve all been waiting for – the gay Gone with the Wind,’ wrote Edmund White at the time, which was hardly surprising. Picano and White were both founding members of the Violet Quill Club, considered to have been a gay urban version of the Bloomsbury Group. They met regularly in Manhattan and on Fire Island in the early 1980s to discuss their works in progress.

I must explain that I thoroughly enjoyed the book although comparing it with Gone with the Wind didn’t do it any favours. 

“Sex is the defining characteristic,” critic Patricia Rodriguez wrote back then. “He (Picano) buys into every stereotype that many gays wince at, giving ammunition to bigots. Nothing’s ever as good as it was when THEY were on the cutting edge.”  (Fort Worth Star-Telegram 1995).

If I have interpreted her correctly, Rodriguez was referring to the 1970s. The archetypal mincing queens with moustaches and lots of hair, who danced to loud disco music, and spoke to each other like they were girls. 

“Mary, you are too much. She’s giving everything. Don’t be so dramatic, girl.” 

Well, they were having a good time, and who could have blamed them. 

But afterwards it became a problem with some gays, particularly for those who hadn’t been there. Such as me. 

I guess that what I am trying to say is that the seventies gay scene (particularly in the USA) aged badly. Too flamboyant and in your face – and decades before RuPaul hyped it up again. 

If AIDS curtailed the eighties, then the reset came in the 1990s. 

Since then, everything seems to have been less colourful and non-scene, and which those from the 1970s might consider boring.

I prefer it this way.

Picano, who published 17 novels and eight volumes of memoirs, died last year, and was better qualified to write about the scene than most. And he did it well. Me? I am trying my best not to come across as a disrespectful and ungrateful cunt.

My adopted copy of Like People in History goes onto my gay literature shelf and stands alongside other members of the Violet Quill Club: Christopher Cox, Robert Ferro, Michael Grumley, Andrew Holleran and George Whitmore. Four had died of AIDS by 1990 and only Holleran is still alive. 

 Last word to Picaro:

“We were all friends and lovers – literally. Robert Ferro and Michael Grumley were partners since the University of Iowa writing school. Andrew Holleran was also at that school. Michael and Robert were together for years. I met Edmund White in Greenwich Village in 1976, and George Whitmore in ‘77. Chris Cox was Edmund’s boyfriend: George and I were tempestuous boyfriends at the time, but he was instrumental in forming the group. Robert was also very socially active, so he and George pulled it together.”

On coming upon a skanky boy…


I don’t know your name. I don’t know how old you are. I don’t know where you live. I know absolutely nothing about you.

But I do know that you are a bad apple that has fallen from the tree. Realise that people judge you for what you are.  A skank – dirty, untrustworthy, disreputable, and sexually promiscuous.

Levi, the Polish boy with the Yorkshire accent, once picked up on something I had written.

“Boys who stuff their hands down their underwear because they think it makes them hard. Boys who pretend their sweet smelling piss and cum fingers are guns.”

He understands that I am hopelessly addicted to skanky boys.

And lust is only a starting point for deeper connections.

On realising that if I had been around in 1960…


I would have been going to the cinema and masturbating over Alain Delon in Plein Soleil. That unnatural beauty, chilling menace and simmering homoeroticism. And don’t get me started on Rocco and his Brothers.

On that furtive glance from beneath his baseball cap…
The look that said: “I know that we’ve known each other for ten years, and I know that you’ve always loved me, and I’ve been a complete shit to you. But now that I’m in my prime, I’m ready and willing to have that relationship.”

On the barman who smiled at me…
I cannot say, in all honesty, whether he was handsome or not. But beauty is not everything. He was shy, and polite, which said something. And when he faced me there was a hint of attraction that appealed to my shallow mind. 

I cannot say that wearing shorts was a good idea either. I know fine legs when I see them and yet I was still deciding whether it was the case here. But he was brave enough to wear them on a cold March night and that showed guts. And when the realisation hit that I was still staring at them, I knew that he probably had good legs after all. 

But what absolutely blew me away was when, amidst his boredom, he saw that I was giving him attention and cracked a most beautiful smile. It was all so sudden. A big genuine smile. The last time a chicken smiled like that, he ended up moving in with me. 

On the cute and willing…

Marcelo Jimenez, model. Photograph by Ryan Duffin

There’s No One Left Who Wanted Me Anymore

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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 22 are available to read in the menu)

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous – Part 23

March 1985

They played You Spin Me Round (Like a Record) on the radio. We used it in our act, and every time I heard it, it cut deep—a reminder that everything had gone tits-up.

I had wanted that night at the big house to end things. It had—but not as I’d imagined.

My body ached, inside and out. The lesions across my back, my legs, my arse burned like hell.

The night after the police bust, I tried phoning Paolo. No answer. I needed to see him. I wanted to hold him, to tell him everything would be alright, even though I didn’t believe it myself.

Over the next few days, I made call after call. Nothing. He never rang back. I began to wonder if he wanted rid of me—if he blamed me for it all. If he did, I needed him to understand that I was a victim too.

I couldn’t face going out. I stayed in, watching television, drifting through the day.

“Harry, what the hell’s up with you?”

Dad came home from work. Mum had already told him I’d been moping around the flat.

“Where are Andy and Jack? Why aren’t you out with them? I know you get up to no good, but even that’s better than hanging round here under your mum’s feet.”

I shrugged. Said nothing. They’d find out soon enough.

On the sixth day, Mum went into town. I trashed my bedroom. When she got back, I was gone, leaving chaos behind.

I’d decided to go to Paolo’s house.

I knocked and waited. Movement inside. The door opened to a woman wiping her hands on a towel—Paolo’s mother. She looked exhausted.

“Is Paolo in?”

“Who wants to know?”

“Harry. Can you tell him I’m here?”

She tried to close the door. I stopped it.

“Please,” I said. “I need to speak to him.”

She looked me up and down, eyes wet.

“I just need to know he’s alright.”

“Paolo has told us everything,” she said, her Italian accent hardening her words. “The last thing we need is you turning up here.”

I waited, hoping he’d appear, that he’d tell her it was fine. The house stayed silent.

“My son’s life is ruined,” she said. “He is a finocchio. He will be mocked, blackmailed… and in time, he will die a lonely death.”

“That won’t happen.”

She held rosary beads tight in her hand.

“My beautiful Catholic boy has danced with the devil. If anyone could have saved him, it was you. But you danced with him too. If you had been strong, this shame would not have happened.” She paused. “He trusts you. He thinks he is in love with you.”

“I love him too.”

“It is not love,” she snapped. “It is sodomy. Against the will of God.”

It landed hard.

“Paolo is not here. We sent him to his Aunt Luisa in London. He must return to answer police questions. After that, he will go to relatives in Montescaglioso.”

I felt myself breaking.

“Will you tell him I came?”

“He would never forgive me if I didn’t,” she said, dabbing her eyes. “He will be back Saturday. His father will be working. Ring then. Say goodbye—and promise me you will never contact each other again.”

I nodded. I had no intention of keeping it.

*****

I saw Andy and Jack before they saw me.

They were by the steps outside our block. Andy leaned against the wall in jeans and a white Levi T-shirt. Jack sat on the bottom step in black shorts and a Sheffield Wednesday top, staring at something on his knee.

They looked up as I approached.

I stopped in front of them. Waited.

Then I saw it on the wall behind them:

HARRY IS A QWEER

“Bum bandit,” Andy said, not even looking at me. Jack glanced around, pretending it wasn’t aimed at anyone.

“I want to explain,” I said.

Andy shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to face me. Jack kept his head down.

“What I can’t get over,” Andy said, “is knowing someone for years, then finding out they’ve been living a lie.”

“I never lied.”

“But you turned out queer. What’s that supposed to mean for us? All those years—were you fancying us?”

It seemed every bloke thought that.

“Maybe I didn’t know at first. But don’t flatter yourself. Not every ‘queer’ thinks you’re a catch. I don’t see girls throwing themselves at you either.”

“You’re a bent cunt!”

“Do you want to hear him out?” Jack asked, tentative.

“Don’t bother,” Andy snapped.

“At first I was blackmailed by Frank Smith,” I said. “Then I got pulled into something bigger.” I told them everything.

Andy spat.

“So, it’s true?” he said, almost hopeful it wasn’t.

“Yes. I made good money doing it.”

“But you never told us,” Jack said.

“How could I? What would you have said? Why didn’t I walk away? Because once I started… I liked it.”

“Where does that curly-haired little cunt fit in?” Andy asked. “You denied everything.”

“Paolo? He was in the same position. We got close.”

“Is he your boyfriend?” Jack asked.

No one had ever asked me that.

“Yes,” I muttered. “I suppose he is.”

Silence.

Andy lit a cigarette, offered one to Jack. Not to me.

“Show him,” Jack said.

Andy pulled out a torn front page of The Star.

POLICE SMASH GAY SEX RING

My stomach dropped.

“Want me to read it?” Andy asked.

I nodded.

“It says this is the second operation targeting fucking queers. Loads arrested. My mate Harry—turns out he’s one of them. Charged as a bender.”

Not exactly true—but close enough.

“Your mum and dad will see it,” Jack added.

Andy wasn’t finished.

“We’re done, Harry. You’re not one of us. Not anymore.”

“I want to sort this out—”

“Fuck that.”

I turned to Jack. “Is that what you want?”

He met my eyes. Said nothing.

That was answer enough.

I offered my hand to Andy. Geisha Boys never shook hands.

“Don’t want to catch anything,” he said. “I don’t want AIDS.”

I offered it to Jack. He took it. Held it tighter than I expected.

Then I left them.

“Seeing your boyfriend?” Jack called.

“I’m ringing him Saturday.”

Too much information.

“Harry is a queer!” Andy shouted after me.

His handiwork was on the wall.

*****

In the 1980s, everyone bought The Star. Ritual. Dad picked it up near work, read the football first, then the headlines on the bus home.

They were waiting.

Mum crying. Dad with his head in his hands.

I knew.

“Everything alright?” I asked.

“A few days,” Dad said. “That’s all you’ve got. Pack your things and get out. We’re ashamed of you. We don’t want to know you.”

His voice faltered.

“I won’t be able to show my face. My son’s a Nancy boy.”

*****

Saturday afternoon.

I rang Paolo. His mother answered.

“He’s not here. An old schoolfriend called. He went out for the day.”

“Did you tell him I’d ring?”

“I did,” she said coolly. “It seems he doesn’t want to speak to you.”

I tried again later. Still nothing.

“Tell him to call me.”

“I’ll tell him,” she said, “but he seems more interested in his other friends now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means he’s moving on. Someone like you isn’t what he wants anymore.”

I slammed the phone down.

*****

There was no reprieve from my parents. I delayed packing, hoping they’d calm down.

They didn’t.

On Monday, Dad gave me an ultimatum.

“When I get home Wednesday, you’d better be gone. If not, I’ll throw you out.”

I stood on the balcony, looking over the city. Below, Andy and Jack laughed as they walked down the hill.

Adam came up behind me, wrapping his arms around me.

“What’s going on, Harry? I don’t like it.”

“Me neither,” I said. “But I’m stuffed.”

*****

Tuesday evening.

I packed a few clothes into my Adidas bag. Counted the money I’d made. Hid it at the bottom.

Tomorrow I’d go to June’s.

My parents’ voices drifted from the other room.

I wished I hadn’t turned out such a disappointment. Then again, I always had been. Trouble from the start. Crime. Violence. And now this.

Fuck them, I thought. Fuck all of them. I was still a Geisha Boy.

I went into the lounge, turned on the TV. They left the room.

Basketball on Channel 4. I barely watched.

I picked up The Star.

A body found at a derelict factory in Attercliffe. I recognised the place—we’d smashed it up once. I flicked through, checking for more about the ‘gay sex ring’.

Nothing.

That night I went to Paolo’s street. Waited at a bus stop, hoping he’d appear.

Hours passed.

He never did.

I went home for the last time.

Voices inside. Not just my parents.

They stopped when I slammed the door.

“Harry, come here.”

Two uniformed officers sat on the sofa. Mum and Dad in armchairs. By the window—Ian. The lanky copper I despised.

I thought they’d come to arrest me again.

“Fuck me. What now?”

“It’s a delicate matter,” Ian said. “Sit down.”

I squeezed between the officers.

“When did you last see Paolo Moretti?”

“Not since the arrest. And he won’t speak to me.”

“And since then?”

A cold grip of panic.

“What do you mean? Has something happened?”

“Workmen found his body this morning. 

“No,” I said. “No, that’s not—”

“Found him at the bottom of an old lift shaft.”

Everything stopped.

“He jumped,” Ian added. “Couldn’t handle the shame. Mess everywhere. No note.”

I stood, almost collapsing. One of the officers caught me.

“Goes to show,” Ian laughed, “another homosexual bites the dust.”

“YOU FUCKING BASTARD!”

*****

Early Wednesday morning.

Dark. Empty road. A sign: London – 80 miles.

I didn’t remember how far I’d come.

After the police left, nothing was said.

I lay on my bed and cried into the pillow. Not since infant school.

I needed Andy and Jack—but they were gone.

More than anything, I needed Paolo. I thought of his body beside mine—warm, alive—and it almost broke me.

Gone.

Forever.

I thought about jumping from the balcony. Joining him.

Sometime after midnight, I took my bag and walked out. Said nothing. Not to my parents. Not even to Adam.

A Renault 5 sat near the flats.

I broke in. Hotwired it. Jack had taught me well.

I drove onto the Parkway. Then the M1. Straight towards London.

Fuck them all.

The David Problem: Notes from a Life

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The Boys of Harrow… and Rockley Beach

David had been researching his new novel: a story set in nineteenth-century Woolwich, where two families are pitched against one another. The plot was already mapped out, but he now wanted to weave in an episode he had discovered in an old newspaper.

In 1850, thirty-three boys were expelled from the Carshalton and Woolwich Military Academies for what the paper called “grossly immoral practices.” The report described their behaviour as being of “a distressing and disgusting nature.” Their humiliation was made public: they were marched through the streets and deposited on the doorsteps of their families.

David decided that the youngest son of the genteel Morgan family would be one of these unfortunate boys.

But the discovery distracted him. As he continued searching, he found other accounts of young men disgraced and dismissed from the armed forces.

In 1976, several young airmen in the Royal Air Force were reportedly paid to perform sex acts at parties hosted by executives from influential companies. The story surfaced soon after eighteen soldiers were dismissed for posing for suggestive photographs in a gay magazine.

A decade later, two sailors were discovered together in a cabin aboard HMS Torbay. The ensuing investigation implicated three more men, including an officer, for homosexual acts.

David knew from experience that when boys were thrown together, it was almost inevitable that those inclined that way would find one another. The thought brought back pleasant memories of his schooldays at Harrow in the 1970s—before he was expelled, that is.

When he was fifteen, David had been caught in flagrante delicto with another boy. Peter had been a year older and known to most as ‘cock of the school’. David had been afraid of Peter because he strutted around as if he owned the place. He was the toughest boy—and the most arrogant—and Peter had often been at the end of his cruel jibes. 

One sunny evening David had found a spot under a tree to read his well-thumbed copy of The Passing of the Modern Age. He had been disturbed by a group of older boys on their way to rugby practice. They hadn’t noticed him in the shadows and passed by without comment. David watched them go and marvelled that boys’ legs could be extremely attractive.

He had just tackled the crisis of individualism when someone came out of the bushes. Peter had split from the group and doubled back. David, in awe of the older boy, feared the worst and put his book down.

“Come with me,” said Peter.

David did as he was told and followed Peter through the bushes towards the tractor shed. There was no doubt that Peter was going to inflict some kind of schoolboy torture on him. He expected to see other boys waiting to witness his humiliation.

But there was nobody around.

Inside the shed, Peter forced David up against the back wheel of the groundsman’s Massey Ferguson. He stuck his bubble-gum tongue inside David’s mouth and started kissing him. David had not resisted. 

“Let me make love to you,” Peter had instructed and began tugging at David’s trousers. He stuffed the trailing end of David’s school tie into his mouth to stop him making any noise and bent him over the wheel of the tractor. That, as David reflected later, had been the most exciting thing that had ever happened.

They returned to the tractor shed often after that—until the day the groundsman, having left his house key in the tractor, came back for it. He found them both naked and reported them to the headmaster. They were expelled from the school and never saw each other again.

That first encounter with Peter never left his thoughts. All these years later, he accepted that their relationship had been purely physical—there had been no love between them. What remained was the memory of contact, and the illicit thrill of something strictly forbidden. The excitement, as someone had once put it, lay in the chase.

But David’s thoughts also drifted to Nigel—or Nige, as he preferred to be called—a young sailor he had met in the late eighties.

David had been twenty-five, holidaying with friends in Barbados. It was a hot July, and most days were spent lounging on the crowded stretch of Rockley Beach. Fifteen years later, he returned to the same place and found it completely deserted.

He could still remember the book he’d been reading—Koko, a horror-mystery by Peter Straub—pristine when he bought it at the airport, dog-eared within days. He had set it down in the sand, closed his eyes, and listened to the conversations drifting around him.

Vendors moved along the beach, trying to persuade holidaymakers that the unlabelled bottles of pure aloe vera they carried were the secret to a perfect tan. David had bought one, of course, only to discover it did nothing except increase the risk of sunburn. 

David had drifted off for a few minutes, and when he woke he found himself surrounded by young men in tight bathing costumes. “Sailors from a British warship,” his friend Debbie smirked. They were gathered in small clusters, towels spread out on the sand, cans of beer passed easily between them.

The one he later learned was called Nige lay stretched out nearest to him. David found himself drawn to the pale, slender body—the long legs, the flat stomach, and the way his shorts seemed to accentuate what lay beneath—of the nineteen-year-old.

They fell into conversation, and David learned that Nige was an able seaman aboard HMS Intrepid. A bit rough and ready, he thought—the Yorkshire accent lending him an air of unpolished charm—but friendly. More than anything, David found him most handsome.

It was David who suggested a beer at an open-air bar at the far end of the beach. They talked and drank bottles of Banks—“pee beer,” as the young Black barmaid jokingly called it—until they noticed the beach had emptied and a magnificent sunset had taken hold in the west. In Barbados, the day did not fade so much as vanish; the sun slipped cleanly into the sea, and night arrived almost at once. Then the tree frogs began to make themselves heard.

David never quite reflected on what followed.

Nige, in T-shirt and shorts, remarked with easy indifference that he felt hot and sticky, and wished he were back aboard ship for a shower. David—less innocently—suggested he come back to his room instead, where he could use his. The young seaman accepted without hesitation, and the two of them crossed the road together.

A few words might have applied; aroused, horny, frisky, and most definitely ‘in the mood’. Nige took his shower and invited David to join him, which was all that he had hoped for. And then they had indulged in hours of drunken sex, only halted by Nige’s necessity to get back to ship before curfew.

David stood naked in the doorway as Nige left. At that exact moment, Anderson—a good-looking, God-fearing porter—passed by, his glance lingering just long enough for curiosity to harden into suspicion, and then into something closer to disgust.

Still, David and Nige agreed to meet again the following day.

Only years later, after some research, did David grasp how serious the consequences might have been had they been reported. Nige—young, impulsive—would likely never have considered that homosexuality was an offence in the armed forces, one that could have led to immediate dismissal. David, meanwhile, would have risked falling foul of the island’s colonial laws, under which homosexuality was illegal. A conviction might have meant life imprisonment in Glendairy Prison, notorious for its brutality, overcrowding, and inhumane conditions—grimly known as a “house of horrors” before it was destroyed by fire during a riot in 2007.

Ignorance had allowed David to preserve certain memories, untouched and untroubled.

But he sometimes wondered what had become of Nige, who would now be fifty-six and long since retired—no doubt altered by time: the silky crew cut gone, the firmness of youth softened into weight, skin loosening, and body hair in unwelcome places. Had they passed each other in the street, he might not have given him a second glance—and Nige, he suspected, would have done the same.

Things had changed.

Homosexuality was legalised in the British armed forces at the turn of the millennium. But Barbados had been slower to catch up. The island had enacted its Sexual Offences Act in 1992, which carried a grim warning: “Any person who commits buggery is guilty of an offence and liable on conviction on indictment to imprisonment for life.” Even worse, the law specified that the offence applied “whether natural or unnatural, involving the use of the genital organs for the purpose of arousing or gratifying sexual desire.”

Homosexuality had gone entirely underground, though David took some comfort in the fact that prosecutions had been relatively few. It was not until 2022 that the law was finally repealed, and same-sex relationships legally recognised, when the Sexual Offences Act was declared unconstitutional.

David finally admitted the truth: he had let himself grow lazy. His novel would never be finished if he continued to daydream.

My Week, For What It Was Worth

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Le coureur cycliste (1907-08). Gaston George Colin was a young cyclist, Harry Graf Kessler a rich German aristocrat attracted by his figure, and Aristide Maillol the French sculptor stuck between them.

On falling for a bronze statue…
Aristide Maillol. He seduced us with stone. Flirted in bronze. Gaston Colin. A mystery. Le Cycliste. A favour for a friend. Harry Graf Kessler. But Maillol didn’t do dick. But Charlie said, “It is conceivable that he hated the male penis. Much the same as I do with the female vagina.”

On realising that I know nothing about female anatomy…
And so, to be real, I know nothing about female anatomy. Where to stick it? What to do? What to say? Multiple choice. Confused with a clitoris, vulva and a vagina. In case of emergency. Anus. Refer to Dummies Guide to Girl Parts.

On teenage scally boys messing with me…
Broken promises and lies. Rebellious and street smart. Teenage scally boys who disrespected me. No trust, I told them. I’m burned now. I kicked the shit out of one of them. They threw eggs at me.

On flirting with the guy with a girlfriend…
A flick of the eyes. Said it all. My heart surged. Not my normal type. A bit chunky. But good chunky. Everything changed. There was hope. 

On discovering Len and Cub…
Sweet boys. Lives can be forgotten. Lives can be rediscovered. Long after they are dead. I liked Cub.

Leonard “Len” Keith and Joseph “Cub” Coates fell for each other in early 20th-century New Brunswick, at a time and place where queer relationships were taboo. 

On a house in a small Italian village…
Tuscany. Eight houses. Fifteen people. Nine males. One handsome twink actor. No money to buy. Gutted.

On choosing my gay pen name…
Pericoloso Eros.

On lusting after Matchstick Man…
Getting thinner. Getting stickier. Getting bonier. Dickier. His girlfriend? Getting bigger, rounder, cockier. Fat bitch! 

On being jealous over Joe…
Because some Aussie twink in Perth claimed him and explored his cargo before I had the chance. 

On listening to two guys talking…
“Your psychology is impressive. Wikipedia or Chat GPT?”

On someone’s thoughts about Saturday Night Live…
“Here’s the thing: I’ve rarely met a British person living in the US who has actually found SNL funny. It’s hard to say why this is.” – Emma Brockes (The Guardian)

On the cute and willing…

Finny Tapp, model. Photographed by Gleb Behrens

Cruel is the Gospel That Sets Us All Free

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Harry – Charlie Marseille (2026)

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 21 are available to read in the menu)

Perfectly Hard and Glamorous – Part 22

March 1985

If Billy Mason knew everything that happened in Sheffield, then Frank Smith knew even more. That was frightening.

“Now is not the time to pull out.”

“I mean it, Frank,” I said. “We’re done. It doesn’t matter what you say or do. It’s too late.”

We sat around June’s kitchen table with mugs of tea. Frank and June faced us while a lanky CID copper loitered in the doorway. I drummed my fingers on the plastic tablecloth and waited.

Frank picked up a custard cream and nibbled it.

“Alright,” he said. “Billy’s cottoned onto your deviances, but that doesn’t change our arrangement.”

“Except Billy knows we’ve been in contact,” I said. “And it won’t be long before the Rufus Gang know too.”

Frank lit a John Player Special and slid the packet across the table. Paolo had noticed that Frank always smoked when he was thinking. We sat in silence.

June looked sympathetic, but the crease in her forehead told me we weren’t going to like what came next. Paolo bit his lip and rested a nervous hand on my leg.

Frank finally spoke.

“All I ask is that you work tomorrow night. That’s it. After that, it’s over.”

“No,” I said immediately. “We’re not doing it.”

“Well,” he replied calmly, “things might look bleak for you, Harry. Less so for Paolo. Do as I ask and you both walk away.”

He paused.

“But…”

“There’s always a fucking but, Frank.”

“If you refuse, I’ll have no choice but to tell Paolo’s parents.”

“You bastard.”

He shrugged. “It’s not too much to ask.”

Paolo’s hand tightened painfully around my leg. His greatest fear was that his parents would discover the truth about him. Frank knew it.

Blackmail again.

We both understood there was no real choice.

“Just do your stuff and give me the details afterwards,” Frank said. “Names. What they got up to.”

The evidence he’d gathered must have filled a dozen notebooks, yet nothing ever seemed to happen.

“Mind you,” he added with a smirk, “I’m not sure what you’re going to tell the Rufus Gang. Looks like you’ll be going to ground when they come after you. Fuck me, Harry—everyone’s going to have it in for you.”

I already knew that.

“The thing is,” he went on, “the gaffers are starting to lean on me. Especially with this AIDS business kicking off. I hope you’ve both been careful.”

We hadn’t. We’d never even thought about it.

“Oh, my poor loves!” June said softly. “You must be careful. Best you stop now.”

“Fucking queers. Hope it wipes the lot of you out.”

The lanky copper had spoken for the first time.

I’d always assumed my early death would come from a fight or some stupid mistake. AIDS felt distant, unreal—something that happened to other people.

“We have to go,” Frank said, standing.

Paolo spoke quietly.

“Isn’t there something you want to say to us, Frank?”

Frank paused at the door.

“Yeah,” he said. “You’re right. The fucking miners’ strike is over.”

Then he walked out with the other copper.

*****

The waiting’s over, in shock they stare and cue fanfare

The house stood on the edge of the city overlooking the moors. More mansion than house. Flash cars lined the courtyard.

Someone said it had once belonged to a steel magnate. Now it was owned by a man building a retail empire.

Our final gig was going to be the most extravagant yet.

A DJ had set up beneath a row of spotlights. Frankie Goes to Hollywood blasted through the room while beautiful young boys in skimpy shorts carried trays of drinks among the well-heeled guests.

“You might find yourselves a rich sugar daddy tonight.”

Our minder Kenny surveyed the room with amusement. He was built like a tank and clearly capable of handling trouble.

We were taken into an adjoining room where two blond lads were already undressing.

“Are you the Sheffield boys?” one asked.

The rule of Park Hill was not to answer straight away. I simply nodded.

“Mikey,” he said, offering his hand. “This is Joey. We’re Manchester boys.”

It was rare to see lads our age.

I dropped my battered Adidas bag on the sofa.

Paolo wandered over to a silver statuette of a naked boy and examined it closely—his usual trick when he didn’t want to talk to strangers.

“Been doing this long?” Joey asked.

“Too long,” I said. “But this is the last time.”

Mikey and Joey exchanged looks.

“Good luck with that,” Mikey said. “Nobody walks away from Ronnie Rufus.”

We’d heard the stories: ruthless money-making, nobody crossing them.

The DJ burst into the room.

“Hi-energy tonight,” he announced. “Same format, no set list. I’m meant to wind them up until they turn into animals. Fifteen minutes.”

I cracked open the door and peered through.

The room was packed.

Joey stood behind me, watching too.

“See that bloke?” he whispered, pointing to a lonely figure. “Used to be straight.”

“Did he?”

“Apparently, he and his mates tried a Ouija board one night. Next thing he’s a raging homosexual.”

I laughed.

“He reckons a ghost penetrated him and he liked it.”

“Let’s hope the ghost leaves me alone.”

Joey pointed again.

“Recognise the guy in the flowery shirt?”

I shook my head.

“That’s Bobby Blue. TV chat show host. But the rest—professors, teachers, vicars, company bosses, yuppies with too much money.”

I was a council-estate lad. It was strange to think men like this had come to watch four working-class boys behave badly.

Mikey and Joey opened the show.

We watched through the crack in the door as they danced, warming the crowd.

“What are we going to do?” Paolo whispered.

“Nothing else for it,” I said. “We go on like always.”

“And then it’s finished?”

“Yeah. We leave tonight and cut all contact.”

Paolo slipped his arms around me.

“Do you think they’ll leave us alone?”

I already knew the answer.

“No,” I said. “We’ll probably have to disappear for a while.”

Our set was meant to be the centrepiece.

We followed Mikey and Joey onto the floor. Afterwards they’d have time to recover—cigarettes, drinks, a breather—before returning.

We wouldn’t.

Until then we danced.

We touched each other, teased the crowd, played to the music. By the time Evelyn Thomas hit her pounding climax I was inside Paolo, holding back so it looked real.

The real thing came later—for anyone willing to pay twenty quid.

The music stopped abruptly.

“Five minutes each!” the DJ shouted. “Hand your money to the little chicken and form a queue.”

The lights dropped. Music roared back.

Spotlights fixed on us.

For a moment nobody moved.

Then one man stepped forward and handed over a twenty-pound note.

Others followed.

After that everything dissolved.

Hands dragged me in every direction. Bodies pressed against me. I was twisted, pinned, shoved onto a table.

Pain spread through my back and legs.

Across the room I saw the others struggling too. Paolo was taking the worst of it. His slim frame was no match for the men pulling at him. Tears streamed down his face.

Then something cracked across my back.

A whip.

Pain exploded through me.

Again.

Cheers from the crowd.

Again—across my back, then my arse.

Kenny shouted for them to stop, trying to pull people away.

Too late.

The room spun.

I saw Paolo—wide-eyed, terrified—shouting my name.

Then blue lights flashed through the windows.

Sirens screamed closer.

And everything went black.

*****

Because these stardust memories fail to please

“He needs to go to hospital,” the ambulance man said.

I came round inside the ambulance.

“Nah,” said the lanky copper from June’s house. “He’s coming with us.”

“But he needs treatment.”

The copper ignored him.

“Where’s Frank?” I asked.

“Two weeks in Torremolinos.”

Of course he was.

The copper—who said his name was Ian—threw my clothes at me.

“Get dressed.”

The ambulance man handed me water.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Back to the nick.”

“And Paolo?”

“Locked up with the rest.”

Frank had sold us out. The moment he realised we were quitting; he’d arranged the raid.

Once dressed, I was handcuffed and pushed into a police car.

At the station the custody sergeant looked up.

“And Harry’s here for what reason?”

Ian recited the charges.

“Contravening the Sexual Offences Act 1956. Gross indecency. Public decency offences. Age of consent violations. Assault occasioning actual bodily harm. Living on the earnings of prostitution.”

The sergeant raised his eyebrows.

“Cell two.”

Ian dragged me down the corridor and kicked me hard before throwing me inside.

That was when I knew I’d reached the bottom.

My body hurt, but the shame hurt more.

I had probably lost my friends, my family, and any future I thought I had.

And prison still waited.

The cell held a wooden platform and a filthy toilet.

A blanket was tossed in before the door slammed shut.

The hatch opened seconds later. Ian looked in.

“You lot fucking disgust me.”

Then it slammed shut again.

I hardly slept.

The next morning, I was taken to the Magistrates’ Court, where a duty solicitor listened as I told him everything.

“You must plead not guilty,” he said. “When this goes to Crown Court we’ll argue entrapment. A good barrister will try to shame the police.”

He paused.

“But I must warn you—cases involving homosexuals aren’t going well now. There’s mass hysteria about AIDS.”

I noticed he had called me a homosexual.

I followed his advice and was released on police bail.

Walking hurt. I considered a taxi until I remembered my money had been in the bag left behind the night before.

The police station was miles out of town.

So, I walked home.

It took two hours.

Charlie: The Promise of Paris – Partie 1

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Paris in the spring. The city had emerged from winter into blooming flowers, mild air, and sudden rain showers. Not like England, where winter still clung stubbornly to everything.

If I returned to Paris, Charlie had insisted that he should be the one to take me. It was the city where he had grown up, where his family still lived. But to Charlie’s frustration, he had not been able to come. He had recently landed a job as a nightclub DJ—something he had wanted desperately and had then come to hate.

“No, Charlie, you’ve only been here a few weeks. You can’t take a holiday.”

His anger and frustration were matched only by my hidden delight.

“You cannot go to Paris without me,” Charlie had pleaded.

“It is work, not pleasure,” I told him, adopting a serious tone. “I’m being paid to write about an art gallery.” It was an elaborate lie.

“But you’re not an art expert. I would have been able to tell you what is good and what is bad.”

I shrugged this off, quietly pleased at my good fortune.

“There’s no choice in the matter. I must go, and that’s that.”

Before I left, Charlie looked me straight in the eye.

“You must promise that you won’t see Thomas.”

“Charlie, I’m going to be busy. I won’t have time to see anyone—least of all Thomas.” 

He was not placated.

“Promise me. Cross your heart that you’ll have no contact with him.”

“I promise I won’t see Thomas,” I lied. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Thomas was Charlie’s older brother, of dubious parentage, and I had met him only once, years earlier, when he stayed at our apartment for a few days. Charlie was convinced that Thomas had tried to seduce me.

That part was true.

Nothing had happened, but Thomas had left an impression.

We messaged each other regularly. More accurately, we flirted—quite shamelessly—and Charlie had no idea.

It was the same with Bianchi in Verona. Charlie had no idea that he existed either.

I climbed the steps from the Métro at Rue du Bac and found the bar on Boulevard Saint-Germain. Bar Dieudonné stood on a corner, occupying the first two floors of a traditional Haussmann building. A striped, blue awning ran along the façade, beneath which stainless-steel tables and matching chairs spilled onto the pavement. A handful of people sat outside, lingering over drinks.

This was the bar that Thomas managed, though I couldn’t see him. A young waiter took my order and raised his eyebrows slightly when I asked for a café crème—it was well into the afternoon.

I have always thought the best parts of this neighbourhood were the little streets that slipped away from Boulevard Saint-Germain: narrow cobbled lanes with outdoor cafés and dusty curio shops. But there was no work to do, and there would be plenty of time for wandering. For now, I sat back and watched the passing crowds—bohemians and tourists alike—talking loudly, smiling, drifting past in loose, cheerful hordes.

A small Algerian boy approached and held out his hand.

My French is about as good as my Italian, and I struggled for something to say. In the end I muttered “fuck off,” which only earned me a puzzled look. I waved him away instead, and he slunk back into the crowd, looking dejected.

I assumed I must be close to the house where Jean‑Paul Marat, one of the more notorious figures of the French Revolution, had been stabbed to death while writing in his bath. Yet this elegant corner of the 6th arrondissement had attracted many other ghosts over the years—Oscar Wilde, Charles Baudelaire, Ernest Hemingway, Jean‑Paul Sartre, and Simone de Beauvoir, among countless others. Shadows from earlier lives, but still somehow present.

A pair of hands suddenly covered my eyes from behind.

“Ah,” a voice said. “I see my intended lover has finally arrived.”

It was Thomas—tall, slender, delicate, with skin as pale as snow. A baseball cap hid most of his blond hair, which seemed to have been cut short. He kissed me lightly on both cheeks and then pulled me into a hug that felt surprisingly strong for someone with such an elegant frame.

“I hope my brother isn’t hiding somewhere, ready to appear and ruin everything.”

“I’m alone,” I said, “though Charlie has an uncanny ability to know everything that goes on—even when he isn’t there.”

Thomas sat opposite me and smiled, revealing perfect white teeth.

A small pang of guilt drifted through me.

“Where does Charlie think you’re staying?”

“An Airbnb,” I replied. “That way he won’t be able to track me down quite so easily.”

For a moment I wondered what I was doing here. Why was I willing to jeopardise everything with Charlie?

There was only one honest answer: sex.

My friend Levi says I have an addiction to it, and he may be right. On the Eurostar to Paris I had looked up the symptoms, and the similarities with my own life had been unsettling: continuing despite knowing the consequences; using it as a coping mechanism for something missing; an inability to control the urges; risky behaviour; escaping shame through sex; living a secret life to hide things from partners; compulsive pornography; confusing sexual attraction with intimacy.

The list had felt uncomfortably familiar.

I loved Charlie, and I had good reason to believe that he loved me. He was the perfect pin-up boy—French, handsome, with a body people envied. Everyone said they were jealous of us. The perfect couple.

Yet I also knew that Charlie would happily sleep with anyone who offered, while somehow maintaining an aversion to sleeping with me. That hurt more than I cared to admit. It was an awkward conversation we had both avoided.

Which meant I was always looking elsewhere.

Charlie, I suspected, probably was too.

Thomas, I decided, was the next closest thing to sleeping with Charlie. The same genes, the same beauty—though expressed differently. He possessed an allure that was quieter, more evocative.

And impossible to ignore.

“I must work until late,” he said, “but you can stay in my rooms upstairs.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed him through a large doorway beside the bar. We climbed several flights of marble stairs, the walls decorated with faded mosaic patterns, until we reached his door.

“I should apologise,” Thomas said as he unlocked it. “My rooms are untidy. I’m not as particular as Charlie.”

He wasn’t exaggerating.

The place reminded me of the many student apartments I had visited over the years—not dirty exactly, but nothing seemed to belong anywhere.

The main room was dominated by an enormous television fixed to the wall. Beneath it sat what could only be described as a gaming command centre, surrounded by controllers, headsets, and cables. A huge brown leather sofa occupied the middle of the room.

Unopened boxes were stacked in three corners, while the fourth had become a kind of tech graveyard—a tangled nest of charging cables, old headphones, and abandoned power banks. The window ledges were crowded with pot plants, some thriving, others clearly beyond saving.

The small kitchen counters were cluttered with dishes and coffee mugs—clean, but apparently without a cupboard willing to receive them. In one corner sat the remains of several breakfasts: croissants, chocolatines, pain aux raisins, brioche, alongside fresh bread, ground coffee, and hot chocolate.

It seemed Thomas lived almost entirely on whatever the pâtisserie across the street happened to produce.

The bedroom was no better.

A floordrobe of clean and discarded clothes spread across the wooden floor. He had adopted the “bare mattress” aesthetic: no sheets, the bed unmade, pillows scattered in all directions except where they were meant to be.

“Throw your bag in here,” he said casually. “Like I warned you—it’s a bit of a mess.”

The bathroom was clean, though untidy. Half-empty bottles of shower gel and shampoo lined the edge of the shower, alongside an assortment of deodorants and colognes. Toothpaste tubes lay scattered near the sink. Two toothbrush holders stood side by side, each containing a single toothbrush.

The toilet and bidet had been recently cleaned with pine disinfectant, and a full roll of ‘papier toilette’ had been folded into an elegant point, as if in a luxury hotel.

The illusion was spoiled, however, by the pile of discarded cardboard tubes that had accumulated beside the waste bin.

I had the impression that Thomas wanted to impress in certain places, though for the most part the effort had fallen short.

The contrast between the way Thomas and Charlie lived could hardly have been greater. Still, I wasn’t too concerned. I had stayed in places far worse than this.

Charlie had insisted that Thomas had a girlfriend, although the tone of Thomas’s messages to me had suggested otherwise. Flirty, flirty French boy.

But one small detail gave me pause: the two separate toothbrushes.

Almost as if he had read my thoughts, Thomas chose that moment to complicate matters.

“My girlfriend, Ambre, will be along later,” he said nonchalantly. “She’s bringing my friend Léo with her. They’ve promised to take you out this afternoon.”

I was left alone and cleared a small space for my neatly folded clothes. There would be no confusion about what belonged to whom. I also placed my own toothbrush beside the others.

That meant there were now three toothbrushes in the bathroom.

I made myself a strong coffee and waited for the arrival of Ambre and Léo.

They arrived in a burst of energy. Like Thomas and Charlie, their English was excellent, and although they often slipped into French when speaking to each other, they were careful to translate whatever they had said.

Ambre was a slim brunette who seemed to radiate personality. Bright and bubbly, she swept through the rooms with an effortless charm that felt distinctly French.

Léo, by comparison, was quieter.

He looked about twenty: dark-haired, reasonably handsome, with the faint beginnings of a moustache that might have taken months to achieve.

“Thomas was right,” Ambre said with a wink. “You are a very handsome homo boy. So, we must take you to Le Marais and let our boys decide for themselves.”

I couldn’t quite tell whether Léo was gay or not, but he appeared perfectly happy to be included in the plan.

They were easy to get along with, and before long it felt as though we had known each other for years. We wandered through several crowded bars, drinking pastis and mimosas, before eventually stopping at Joe le Sexy—a shop that might best be described as a kinky gay boutique, selling everything from books to toys and explicit magazines.

Ambre bought several bottles of Rush poppers and dropped them into a brown paper bag that did little to disguise where they had come from.

Léo grew visibly embarrassed when I began leafing through several issues of Le Pénis, a magazine that contained exactly what its title suggested. He peered over my shoulder, offering approving or disapproving noises depending on the size and shape of the appendage on display.

Up to this point I had become so caught up in the carefree afternoon that I hadn’t checked my phone. When I finally glanced at it in the shop, several messages from Charlie were waiting.

They followed a familiar pattern: polite curiosity slowly hardening into anxiety once I hadn’t replied.

“Where are you?”

“Did you find the art gallery?”

“What are you doing this afternoon?”

“Answer me.”

“Make sure you do not go to find Thomas.”

I carefully composed a reply.

“All good, Charlie. Found the gallery. Busy talking. Call you later x”

Almost immediately a thumb-up appeared

I felt strangely comfortable with the small fiction I had created. The sunshine had put me in a carefree mood, and the alcohol had washed away any lingering doubts that I might be behaving like a bit of a skank.

When I put my phone away, Léo was still browsing through Le Pénis. I rested my chin lightly on his shoulder, and he seemed perfectly content for me to share the explicit photographs with him. He smelled faintly of Bleu de Chanel and something musky beneath it.

I decided that I really did like French boys.

He turned the pages idly, but suddenly something caught my eye, and I stopped him at once.

“What is it?” Léo asked.

“Turn back a few pages.”

He flipped slowly through the magazine until I told him to stop.

I froze.

Léo stared at the page, trying to understand what had unsettled me.

Unsettled wasn’t quite the word. It felt more like a bomb going off.

“I can’t believe it,” I said quietly. “These are photographs of Charlie.”

Léo looked puzzled. I later forgave him for not recognising him—he had apparently never met him—but there was no doubt in my mind.

Several glossy colour images showed Charlie completely naked, proudly demonstrating that this magazine truly deserved its title. In Charlie’s case, it might more accurately have been called Grandiose Le Pénis.

The penis was magnificent.

A rush of conflicting sensations flooded through me. Mortification. Confusion. Disbelief.

And anger—enough to make me want to tear someone’s head off.

“Fuck me, Léo,” I muttered. “That’s my boyfriend.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that this enormous dick shouldn’t be in here.”

Léo didn’t seem to know how to respond and called Ambre over for support. He spoke rapidly in French while she gave short replies that sounded increasingly disapproving.

“Let me see,” she said.

Léo held up the magazine while she studied the photographs of Charlie, although what this was meant to accomplish remained unclear to me.

“And you did not know?” she asked.

“No!” I snapped.

“Maybe it is AI,” she suggested thoughtfully. “Maybe this zizi does not belong to him. Maybe it has been… enhanced.”

“The point isn’t the size of his dick,” I said. “The point is that he’s showing it in a magazine—especially when…”

I stopped myself.

“Especially when what?” Léo asked.

“Especially when I have absolutely no idea what size his dick is,” I said. “Because I’ve never seen it.”

Ambre and Léo exchanged a quick glance. Neither seemed to know what they were supposed to say.

“Ça va aller,” Ambre said gently. “We must speak with Thomas. Perhaps he knows something about this. I will call him now.”

She stepped outside the shop and spoke quickly into her phone.

“Poor thing,” said Léo softly.

Ambre returned a few minutes later, slightly out of breath.

“I spoke with Thomas. He knows nothing about it.”

By that point I had slipped into a strange kind of numb shock.

Ambre bought the offending issue of Le Pénis and dropped it into the same brown bag that already contained the bottles of poppers.

“And now,” she announced firmly, “we are going to find another bar and get you extremely drunk.”

My Week, For What It Was Worth

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Klaus Mann (1906 – 1949)

On finding a photo of 16-year-old Klaus Mann…

Klaus Mann. Cute twink. What did you become? A chaotic mix: part mongrel, openly queer, a junkie, and premature anti-Fascist. The eldest son of German literary giant Thomas Mann. Born with a permanent side-eye for the world and zero patience.

Every book he published before 1933 got tossed straight into the flames during the Nazi book burnings.

His 1942 autobiography, The Turning Point, reads like a roll call of lost friends; an unsettling number of the people in it had died by suicide, more than feels believable in one life.

Seven years later, in Cannes, he followed the same tragic path.

“Memories are made of peculiar stuff, elusive and yet compelling, powerful and fleet. You cannot trust your reminiscences, and yet there is no reality except the one we remember.” – Klaus Mann (The Turning Point)

On being famous in a hundred years…

I will die and in a hundred years people will decide that I was iconic. Maybe I was just too avant-garde for my era, and everyone needed a lot of time to catch up. Or maybe… I was just a shit writer and in a hundred years time people won’t be writing at all. And when they rediscover my work, it will make my shit writing seem like that of an intellectual. 

On hearing about an intriguing snack…

“He said that he would fix me a snack, but that it might take a little time. I read while he disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned fifteen minutes later, he handed me a plate containing three salted crackers and an unknown delicacy that had been thinly spread over each one. I asked what it was, but he shushed me and said that they were best eaten straight away. I ate them and afterwards he told me that the crackers had been covered with his sperm.”

On the urge to write gay porn…

I write gay sex scenes in which nothing really happens. So why not write gay porn where everything does? The thought crosses my mind, but embarrassment stops me. I have no wish to shock anyone, or to offend.

People tell me there is money in it. In that world you can have sex with anyone you like on the page—the most beautiful man, the ugliest. No limits, no refusals. Anything can happen because you decide it does.

The urge to write it grows stronger.

But then my unhealthy fascination with Baron Corvo returns, as it often does, and he appears in my dreams again. He reminds me—rather coldly—that, like him, I am already sufficiently depraved, bordering on the disgusting, and that there is really no need to write about it.

On realising what I look at each morning…

I’ve started following a French blog called Gay Cultes—my daily hit of a beautiful male body, a little lust, and a sprinkle of homo culture. And it makes me a little jealous because it is simple and never misses. 

On loving these lines in a book…

“He spat and beat his donkey, which farted, kicking one leg. I followed his advice, as the commotion I seemed to be causing was making me a little uncomfortable.”

On observing three guys in a band…

Three guys are standing there with guitar cases on their backs, talking among themselves. From what I catch, they’re starting a band.

For a second I feel this urge to tell them they’re absolutely doomed. Not because of the music—who knows, they might be good. But visually? It’s a disaster. Two chubby guys and one tall, spotty skeleton. 

On finding a good poem…

Together
Sleeping together … how tired you were …
How warm our room … how the firelight spread
On wall and ceiling and great white bed!
We spoke in whispers, as boys will do,
And now it was l—and then it was you
Slept a moment, to wake-time fled;—
“I’m not a bit sleepy,” one of us said.
I woke in your arms,—you were sound asleep.
So close together we had tried to creep,—
Clinging fast in the darkness, we lay
Sleeping together,—that yesterday!

C. Mansfeld

On hearing a man say to his small son…

“Gi’ it a look. It’s reyt callin’ out, innit? All sat there beggin’ for it—everythin’ tha needs t’ knock up a proper bit o’ slopdosh, if tha’s not soft.” 

*****

Did I believe in life after love? In love after love? In life after life? I was unsure at that time.

But we were happy.