Thirtysomething & Fabulous

In celebration of friends

2009-04-09T15:25:00.002Z

In difficult times, it's only natural to turn to our friends for comfort; having a sustainable support network is in part what friendships are all about. Lately though my friends, unasked and unknowingly, have been brightening up my life simply by making me enormously proud. Not through any seismic acts of brilliance – none of them has collided a large Hadron, or saved the whales, at least not yet – but by achieving something of personal significance against all odds.

Take Stephen for example. After years of bouncing between jobs in various sectors, admittedly doing very well in them all, Stephen recently took a huge plunge and, embracing a long-held ambition to perform, retrained as a drag artiste – yes, such courses do exist! He's now topping the bill every Sunday at one of London's top cabaret venues, Clapham's 2Brewers, as his hilarious alter-ego Lady LaRue.

Then there's Paul, the youngest of three adult brothers who lost their wonderful mum to cancer last year. Despite being the 'baby' of the family, Paul has taken on the role of linchpin, helping not only his brothers but also their families – including his four teenaged nephews and nieces – through their grief, whilst managing his own with immense dignity.

And I'm bursting with pride for my life-long bestie Andrew. He realised about two years ago, aged 31, that he wanted to be a doctor. He'd always loved medicine – at school we nicknamed him Doctor Andrew – but hadn't considered himself good enough academically despite having gained a first in Anatomy from a top university. He needed more Science A-Levels so he went to night school, achieving an 'A' in Chemistry. Knowing what medical school would cost, he tightened his belt, took a weekend job and saved up. Then he spent hours getting work experience with GPs and on hospital wards. The final objective - getting into medical school – is in sight. What's making me so proud isn't whether he becomes a doctor or not, but the selflessness and tenacity with which he's pursued his dream.

I'm telling you about these amazing men for no more profound a reason than this: that while in the wider world the news may all be doom and financial gloom, if you just look at the people you love, admire them, do as R.E.M. once sang and 'Take comfort in your friends', like me you'll soon feel, at least spiritually, very rich indeed.

A Love There Is No Cure For

2009-04-08T11:21:00.004Z

Benjamin Disraeli once supposedly scoffed that "There are lies, damned lies and statistics", and like Britain's erstwhile Prime Minister I tend to take survey outcomes and the like with a large pinch of salt. I couldn't however ignore recent reports of a study, published in the journal BMC Psychiatry, which according to one headline had found that 'One in six psychiatrists has tried to 'turn gays straight''.

It was reported that researchers had canvassed over 1300 mental health professionals and found that 17% (or one in six) had at some time in their career 'assisted at least one client/patient to reduce or change his or her homosexual or lesbian feelings'. In layman's terms, the statistics suggested that a substantial minority of psychiatrists and other mental health practitioners were willing to try to 'cure' homosexuality. Incredulous, I resolved to discover more and to inquire as to why, in 21^st century Britain, anyone would want to be 'cured' of their sexuality.

The first stage was to read the report to see if the newspapers had sensationalised or manipulated its findings at all. They hadn't – the 1 in 6 figure was clearly explained in (as my boyfriend would put it) language so simple even I could understand it – although the blanket use of the term 'psychiatrists' to cover a group which also included psychotherapists and counsellors was slightly misleading. If anything I felt that some of the articles I'd read had actually missed some of the report's more disturbing findings. For example, 72% of all respondents who had 'treated' a patient's homosexuality still believed that such treatment should be available. Also, while the survey covered a period of four decades from 1963-2003, 79% of all the cases fell in the last ten years; even allowing for the proportionally fewer respondents who would have been practising in the earlier decades this nonetheless pointed to there having been no decline in the number of patients seeking to be 'cured' of homosexuality from the years pre-legalisation and in times far more intolerant than our own.

What really alarmed me were some of the verbatim comments from practitioners invited to justify why they believed it was acceptable to attempt to 'reduce or redirect' someone's attraction to the same sex. One spoke with apparent pride of a man he "helped to become heterosexual" because the patient "came from a working class background where it was completely unacceptable to deviate from the norm". Another alluded to similar considerations, saying that a patient was afraid of the reaction of "the local community – which outside London is still very homophobic", placing the capital on a pedestal which even its most satisfied gay residents would consider lofty.

There were several variations on the theme of 'the client knows best', with respondents stating, in essence, that if a patient wanted to be 'cured', then they were duty-bound to attempt to do so. Finally, the most distasteful comment – fortunately, as the report observed, one of only 'very few' that were discernibly homophobic – stated that "The physical act for male homosexuals is physically damaging and is the main reason in this country for AIDS/HIV. It is also perverse…" prompting me to wonder if the psychotherapist quoted was more part of the problem than the 'solution'. I could only conclude that he must be from 'outside London'.

So much for the professionals; who, I wanted to know, are the patients? The report offered a breakdown of reasons for patients seeking help, with by far the most common reason being 'confusion about sexual orientation' at 57%. This greatly outweighed the next most common reasons, 'social pressures including the family' at 14% and 'mental health difficulties' at 11%; 'religious beliefs' represented a surprisingly low (I thought) 7%. Other than this there was little specific information about why, today, anyone could be so distressed by their homosexuality that they would want to be cured of it, so I decided to undertake some research of my own.

First off I spoke to Jack Jones, agony uncle for GT (Gay Times) magazine, to find out whether he'd come across anyone seeking to be 'cured'. He certainly had, the most recent being in the last couple of months. What, I asked, were the sorts of reasons correspondents offered for wanting to become straight? Predominantly, it would seem, religion – in some cases their own, in others that of their parents – but also a general difficulty in coming to terms with their sexuality, manifesting itself as a desire to avoid the problem in hand by 'turning straight'.

"Some of the guys who write to me are very vulnerable and confused," Jack told me; "they want or rather need explanations for why they're gay, and because this isn't something that's easily rationalised, they instead seek other ways of making the situation 'better'." In Jack's most recent case, a young guy of about 20 wrote asking whether he should accept the 'cure' being offered by his parents' church, despite the fact that his deeply religious parents had actually shown some degree of acceptance when he had bravely come out to them. Jack's advice to this correspondent was the same as he gives to anyone who writes to him about a 'cure': "I sympathise with the confusion they're feeling but emphasise that sexuality isn't something that needs to be cured, and instead advise them to get help with accepting it." Common sense, you would think, but evidently not for the one in six headline-making professionals in the survey.

I still couldn't quite get my head around why someone would want to be cured of their sexuality rather than accepting it. From a personal point of view, I know that I was very fortunate growing up in that I never, ever had any problem accepting that I was gay. Try as I might to empathise, I found it impossible to imagine a situation so bad that it would make me want to not be gay, or that could justify a professional in trying to 'cure' me. So, knowing that among my myriad happily-gay friends there had to be some different experiences, I asked about forty people the same question:

Thinking back through your lifetime, as opposed to how you feel now, has there ever been a point where had it been available, you would have accepted treatment to 'cure' you of being gay?

The responses I received were fascinating for their variety and candour. Fairly predictably, most answered unequivocally 'Never', with a few saying that while there'd been times where they had thought life would be easier if they weren't gay, they'd never actually wanted to turn straight. Indeed, several respondents said that their sexuality was something they drew strength from, with one describing his being gay as "the one constant that has never left me" and another saying that "I always revelled in it." Others were less sure, with about 15% being able to identify a time (all while in their teens and still coming to terms with being gay) when they were sufficiently distressed that they would have accepted a cure, but tellingly most of these respondents stressed that it wouldn't have been their sexuality they wanted a cure for, it not being clear to them what their sexuality was yet, but the terrible anxiety and stress they were suffering from. All of these, natural enough to say, are now happy, fully-functioning homos with no lasting signs of damage.

The answers which most interested me were those that said not only "Yes", they would have accepted treatment, but also that this was as an adult, already identifying as gay and therefore putting them in the same category as the patients in the survey. One, Adam*, said that he happily identified as bisexual for many years, making the mental distinction that men were purely for sex and that he would eventually settle down with a woman and have a family. When he realised however that he was gay and not bi, he was so upset at the prospect of never having a family that he would have considered a cure had it been offered. In some cases it would appear that it is on offer: the report found a number of professionals considered bisexuality "was not a stable category of sexual orientation" and would be willing to try to realign a patient's feelings – towards being heterosexual, of course. Other respondents, living as they were then in communities where they would not have felt safe had it been known that they were gay, described feelings of isolation and indeed of endangerment so severe that they would have been open to having their sexuality 'cured'.

Now, with hindsight, all agree that their sexuality wasn't the problem and that by moving away they were able to accept themselves as gay, as now have the families and communities which they felt compelled to leave. What if they hadn't had social mobility and had found themselves in the hands of one of the psychiatrists who considered acceptance by a homophobic community as being of greater worth than acceptance of oneself as gay? They'd be, most likely, in the same situation as the patient quoted in the Independent who, as well as admitting frankly that the treatment he underwent had plainly failed to suppress his attraction to men, said that, "The very structure of my being [was] torn apart in the name of science."

One good news story emerged from my survey which serves to prove that mental health professionals can – and do – play a positive role in the lives of gay people today. In her twenties, Jenny* sought counselling because as she says, "I didn't want to be different from all my friends or to disappoint my family; in my vulnerable state I would have jumped at the chance to make myself straight." Fortunately, that chance didn't arise; instead, Jenny saw a (coincidentally) lesbian counsellor who rather than take her down the route of 'redirecting' her feelings, "thankfully understood the whole process [of coming out]" and helped her towards becoming the confident, loved and loving lesbian she is today.

Dominic Davies, founder of specialist independent therapy organisation Pink Therapy, explained just how important this understanding of a gay person's thought processes is: "Straight therapists can find it hard to empathise with a LGBT patient and not appreciate the social context they're coming from and how they're living their life. They're more likely to collude with straight, patriarchal values of what's 'normal' rather than understanding what is possible; for example, that it's possible to be queer and have a family, or to identify positively as being bi." Pink Therapy have over 300 'queer-friendly' therapists on their books, all able and willing to help anyone experiencing confusion over their sexual identity.

The time people devoted to answering my 'survey' and the openness with which they did so showed just how emotive the very idea of anyone trying to 'cure' us of being gay is. Many were furious that the question should even be being asked in 2009, "morally repugnant" being one of the more printable comments. Overwhelmingly though, the message to come out of my research - and the message I would like to send to all mental health professionals, whatever their current views on 'treating' gay patients are – was that the best and surely only 'treatment' to offer is to help individuals to accept themselves as they are and to allow them to see that they can lead a fulfilled and happy life being gay.

I couldn't hope to summarise this better than my dear pal Robin; would he ever want to be cured of his sexuality? "NO NEVER. And you can publish my answer in NEON LIGHTS in the national press with my name and photo if you like. Purely and simply I love men, and I love being gay. I mean can you imagine life not being gay? How dull." Robin – and all the proud, happy, incurable queers who I spoke to – I salute you.

*Some names have been changed to protect the confidentiality of respondents.

My Grown-Up Gap Year

2009-03-06T00:06:00.002Z

So, here's the first of my pieces for your perusal, an overview of what I've been up to on my 'gap year' and how it came about. Please do let me know what you think!

Given the opportunity, I can't imagine anyone would pass up the chance to take a year off from working, travel the world, spend time with their loved ones and enjoy a life of leisure. For many it will only ever be a dream, but last year I was lucky enough to be able to make the dream a reality.

I'd been growing increasingly disenchanted with my job, a fairly senior and very well-paid public sector management role, for some time, but because I was heavily in debt I couldn't afford even to take a pay cut, let alone give up work completely. Then, suddenly, my circumstances changed. My mother, who suffers with mental health problems, decided that it would be best to sell her house and a rental property she owned in Dorset and move to a retirement flat in Norfolk, nearer to my sister and not too far from me. As well as being best for mum, it was great news for me too: I owned a third of her house and so when it sold, I would come into a pretty decent amount of money, enough to pay off all my debts, squirrel plenty away and fund a year or so of not working. I took the plunge and gave my notice; the next twelve weeks couldn't pass quickly enough, but time flew and in May 2008 I began my 'grown-up gap year'.

The first two months were somewhat like still being in full-time work, with daytimes taken up by the myriad dealings that selling two properties and sourcing and buying another necessitates. Notwithstanding my vested interest, this experience was very rewarding; emotionally, because of finally being able to do something tangible to help my mother after years of feeling helpless faced with her illness, and practically, because it gave me a valuable insight into the complicated processes involved in buying property.

Once at leisure, top of my dream to-do list, as I'm sure it would be for most people, was to travel. I'd toyed with the idea of disappearing around the world for a year, going everywhere I'd ever wanted to go plus a few places I hadn't, but two things stood in the way of this. One, having always liked the finer things in life, I could never envisage myself back-packing, and two, at around the time I quit work, I'd met someone who by the time my notice was up I'd fallen in love with and couldn't contemplate being apart from for too long. So, instead of going 'travelling', I settled on taking a series of individual holidays. I spent a month exploring Spain and three weeks in Italy, had a week larging it in Ibiza, enjoyed two weeks travelling around Mexico with my boyfriend to celebrate our anniversary, stayed with an old school friend in Bermuda for a fortnight and enjoyed three weeks spanning Christmas and New Year with friends in Sydney. Before the year is out, I've another couple of long weekends in Spain booked in, and I'm in the process of planning one last long trip to somewhere new.

While in London, I've indulged my culture vulture tendencies, attending dozens of exhibitions, visiting the major museums and many minor ones, and seeing tons of plays, films and gigs. In one especially memorable week alone I enjoyed Elaine Stritch's genius one-woman show and an afternoon Q&A with the lady herself, plus Kylie's X tour at The O2; recently I went to both plays showing at the two-space Trafalgar Studios in the space of ten days. My boyfriend and I spent a whole day enjoying the V&A and Science Museums, and another at Tate Modern taking in every exhibition. Going out of an evening knowing that there's no work to get up for in the morning, and having the free time to go to major exhibitions and attractions avoiding peak hour crowds, makes these activities even more enjoyable

The best aspect of all of the year off though hasn't been the travel or the leisure pursuits, but having been able, whenever in the country, to spend time with my much-loved mum. When she had a bit of a 'wobble' in November and was hospitalised for a while, I was able to visit her twice a week and attend all the necessary meetings with care staff that my sister couldn't because she was tied up planning her November wedding (planning, incidentally, which I was able to be more involved in than if I'd been working). Once mum was out of hospital, I devoted time to helping her settle back into her home and manage with day-to-day tasks; since then she's recovered brilliantly and our days together now comprise boozy lunches, shopping trips, cinema trips, cooking...all the things that we both enjoy, but enjoy ten times more when done together. It's bliss.

Of course, soon this all has to come to an end and I can't pretend that I'm not nervous about returning to work, if there are any jobs to return to. I don't want to go back to anything like the level of seniority I had before; I've overheard enough banal business conversations on trains and planes to know that corporate bollocks is not for me. I'm hoping to find something creative, perhaps in fashion, or involving my writing. My year off has helped me to re-evaluate my aspirations and values: acquiring knowledge through travel and culture and spending time with family and friends are what matter to me now, not professional status or a £50K salary.

My advice to anyone would be that if you ever get the chance at least to take some time out of the rat-race, from a few weeks to several months, then DO IT. Use the time to follow your ambitions, live a life you like, and spend time with the people who matter to you. I know that I've been extremely lucky to be able to do so, and for that I'll always be thankful.

It's Not You, It's Me.

2009-03-05T00:46:00.002Z

OK, so I know you're all waiting for the latest travel update - I promised, almost two months ago, to tell you all about Mexico, which I visited nearly four months ago - and in some cases (well, Richard's), waiting for my write-up of my stay in your particular corner of the world to see a) just how much I love you and b) if I really did enjoy myself as much as I claimed to have to your face (the answers are a) very much indeed and b) yes I really did). Well, I'm sorry to have to say it but...it ain't gonna happen. Or at least, not yet; see, the thing is I've decided that the blog's not working in the way I want it to and so it's time for a bit of a change.

Writing at length about my travelling has been fun, as has been receiving your comments about it, but try as I might - I started, re-started and finally gave up on my Mexico write-up about fifteen times, for example - I couldn't master doing things succinctly and just felt that rambling on about everything I did, everywhere I went and everyone I met wasn't, well, interesting enough for a blog. If you want to know about my travelling, I would love to tell you - in as much or as little detail as you prefer - but face-to-face; let's do it over drinks or dinner, my treat, in a world city of your choosing. When I started my blog a couple of years ago, it was with the intention of writing about life as it happens, the highs and lows, things that were occurring, activities I was enjoying (or not) and my cultural, culinary and carnal exploits. Travel blogging is fun but I should have done it as I went along; after the event, even a few weeks, it seems cold, retrospective and...OK if I'm honest, too much like hard work. In a nutshell, I just feel I've lost my traveloguing mojo.

That explains why I've let the travel writing slip (I hope?); so what's next? Well, I haven't just been sitting on my arse watching Trisha since my last post, although that has taken up an hour most weekday mornings (yeah yeah, mea maxima culpa). I've been writing all sorts of stuff for pleasure - reviews, comment pieces, rants and random musings - but not posted it because it felt inconsistent with the travel theme that I'd established. Some of it - in fact probably most of it - is total crap, but some of it might, I think, be of interest to others. Additionally, buoyed in no small part by the very favourable comments I've received on some of my past posts, I've decided that as well as returning to some form of paid employment when my 'Grown-Up Gap Year' comes to an end in May, I'd also like to try making a go of it as a writer in some professional capacity. And this, my loves, is where you and this blog come in.

From now on, TS&F is going to be a 'showcase' for everything I write, from one-line musings on any given day's TV viewing, via restaurant, theatre and cinema reviews, to essays and potential articles. Not all of it will be for submission, but all of it will be for your comments. If I'm going to achieve anything through my writing - other than entertaining a loyal few around the world, to whom I am forever grateful - I need to know first if what I'm doing is good, or accurate, or interesting...or not. I also need exposure; a post on here that might just be good enough to get published in a magazine is going to be so much more saleable if I can say that it excited chatter on my blog.

So what can you do to help? Three things spring to mind. Firstly, you can comment on and critique what I write, either directly to me or preferably on the blog so that others can see them; I promise not to be offended by anyone's views and in fact would value any comments be they positive, negative or ambivalent. Secondly, you can spread the word about the blog to any friends you think might be even slightly interested; the more exposure my waffling gets, the more comments and criticism I can hope to receive and accordingly learn from. And thirdly - and this is the cheekiest one - you can help by being my international ideas people, letting me know if there's anything going on in your neck of the woods (wherever that may be in the world) which you think I could do justice to and let me know of any publications you think I could potentially pitch it to, whether that's the Sydney Star Observer or the Walthamstow Guardian. Firing off unsolicited articles to magazines might not get me anywhere fast, but it'll be a start.

I really want to make something of my writing. Your support of my blogging to date has been so valuable and I appreciate it so, so much; now I hope you can help me to take it to the next level. Oh and as for Mexico? It was amazing; let me tell you about it over a burrito some time - I'll treat us with my first pay-cheque from Vogue...

Ibiza: Space Doubt, And Other Dilemmas...

2009-01-15T10:18:00.010Z

My hissy fit at having to leave Italy was hugely mitigated by the prospect of having the wedding-of-the-year to go to upon my return: Kate and James's Moroccan-themed nuptials in Lottisham, the bride's teeny-tiny home village in Somerset. Kaftan and bejewelled sandals packed, two car-loads of us (ours a very swish midnight blue Saab, driven expertly by Glenda) headed down the motorway for a weekend of love, laughter and lunacy - the latter in the form of the swarms of loopy New Agers and wannabe gurus who roam the streets of Glastonbury, where we were staying in a very agreeable hotel above an ancient pub. As weddings go it was a classic. The bride was stunning in a beautiful vintage style dress, and the tiny village church was pure Four Weddings. As was to be expected, the bride's side was packed full of The Gays, all clucking approvingly over the fabulousness of the hat worn by the one lady among them, Kate's old friend and sometime boss Christine. The reception, in a marquee dressed up in Moroccan silks with guests sitting cross-legged at low-slung tables, was utterly charming, made all the more enjoyable by all the guests mucking in to clear the tables and serve the food after a logistical mix up left the party staffless. Drunken dancing - yes, mothers were twirled - continued into the wee small hours; the hangovers the following morning bore testimony to the good time had by all. Back in London on Sunday evening, it was time to pack for the next foreign clime: Ibiza.

Now, somewhere during the organising process for this week-long Balearic jaunt, there transpired to have been a fairly spectacular break-down in communications. I had thought that it was to be just me, Richard and Simon, over from Sydney for a few weeks of family and fun in Europe. On arriving in the BA lounge at Gatwick, however, I found the boys in the company of three other chums, with another seven to be met up with on arrival. Our vacances a trois, therefore, was in fact to be a vacances a treize - a baker's dozen of us to keep entertained for the week ahead. Things didn't get off to a great start - the service on the flight left a very great deal to be desired - but before long we were sitting on the balcony of the boys' stunning apartment in Talamanca, sipping large voddies and looking forward to our stay on the White Isle. I wasn't checking into my hotel until the next afternoon so I stayed there that night, and was woken pleasantly the next day by the sunshine.

Day one was very pleasant and sociable; after a morning spent lounging around the apartment, we strolled en masse - nine of us - to Talamanca for lunch, tucking into paella while watching the boys on the beach. After that it was time to check into my hotel, El Corso, just a stone's throw from the beach and overlooking the new-ish, classy Marina Botafoch. As a base for the week it was fine, although unsurprisingly for somewhere booked through a travel agent it had been rather up-sold and didn't, in my opinion, merit its four stars; my room was very basic and lacked a minibar (horror of horrors) and although clean and bright, looked in need of modernisation. Still, it was only a place to sleep and so I headed across to check out the marina - very nice it was too - before repairing to the hotel bar for a few beers and to enjoy the views out to sea and across the bay to the old town.

Come evening, after drinks at the boys' apartment, we walked into Ibiza Town (I'm not enough of an arse to call it Eivissa as hard-core island goers insist on doing) and the full thirteen of us convened for drinks at the quayside Mar y Sol cafe bar before going on to dinner at Studio, a cute outdoorsy affair in one of the old town's myriad cobbled squares. Comedy ensued when I asked our very cute waiter, in Spanish, if it was possible to exclude the coriander from my starter salad; he replied - in English: "Your Spanish is excellent but unfortunately mine isn't - so could you say that again in English?" He turned out to be Polish; thank heavens for a common language. After dinner it was off to Angelo's, the sprawling multi-level bar in the shadow of the old town's ramparts, where the gay crowd flocks to catch the club parades which culminate in its huge courtyard and to see and be seen. What was left of the group, which inevitably dwindled as the night wore on, moved on to the island's only officially gay club, Anfora, where we dispersed among the club's various areas, some better lit than others...

Next day, after a very pleasant day spent sightseeing in Ibiza Town and dinner at the hotel (€15 all you can eat = happy Hugh!) we once again headed to Angelo's and managed to score free tickets to La Troya at Space, the 'world-famous' gay party and according to one guide I read, 'perhaps the best gay club night in Spain'. Well, all I can say is that that guide writer's experience of Spanish club nights must be fairly limited because I was seriously underwhelmed. Space, like so many clubs, has suffered from the island government's insistence that clubbing hours be limited to 6pm-6am and that all clubs be enclosed; this latter regulation has completely ruined Space's legendary covered terrace, reduced now to nothing more than just another room. I didn't like the music, the crowd - for a putative gay night - was very mixed save for the inevitable cluster of muscle Marys huddled together in a corner gurning at each other, and trying to find a part of a room, far less a part of the club, upon which the group of us could all agree was next to impossible and so reluctantly I split and went off to find a corner that I could at least be happy on my own in, before making a relatively early break for home. To be fair, the others all liked it very much more than I did - three of the guys didn't in fact return home until the following evening, having continued the party all day at various venues of varying salubriousness - so perhaps it was just me, but I wouldn't recommend it in a hurry.

Probably the highlight of the whole week came on the Friday when, after a morning spent browsing the town's jewellers and boutiques, punctuated with a couple of little beers here and there, I met up with Richard, Simon, Ron, Shane and Dr Yaz to take the Jet Cat to Formentera, Ibiza's neighbouring island and smallest of the Balearics. Although we all baulked at the eye-watering €41 return fare (day trips by pleasure boat, admittedly with very limited travel times, can be had for about €15), such qualms were soon forgotten as we whizzed across the turquoise water, docking in what felt like just a few minutes later - actually half an hour -at La Savina on the island's northwest side. We stopped off for delicious bocadillos at a pavement cafe, then walked for about fifteen minutes until we found a beautiful spot on Es Cavall beach where we pitched camp. For the next four and a half hours - the longest, I think, I've ever spent on a beach! - we swam in the cool, azure sea, snoozed under the beach umbrella, read our books and ogled the boys, until we decided it was time to pack up lest we miss the last boat home. Walking back past a very swanky looking bar-restaurant, Mediterraneo, none of us could resist temptation and we made a heavenly pit-stop, sipping beers and nibbling delicious, free tapas for an hour or so before scurrying along to the harbour for the 8pm boat. Dinner that evening, 'just' the nine of us, was at an anonymous Italian chiringuito at Talamanca, where we enjoyed good pizza, tasty fresh salads and lashings of sangria for a bargain €20 a head, including a deliberately small tip in light of slow, surly and inattentive service, characterised by none of the staff being able to agree on which of them exactly was supposed to be looking after us!

Saturday morning saw me waking late - surprisingly, as no-one had been up for going out after dinner the night before and thus it had been an early night. After another delicious breakfast at the hotel (I must say that for all my whinging about the facilities there, the food was superb) I took the boat into town to find an internet cafe and get a flight home booked, as for reasons too boring to go into, I'd only booked a single out. This achieved (via Barcelona for a night with Tigger, then home to - yay! - City Airport), I bagged a coveted pavement table at the town's hippest cafe, Croissant Show, and enjoyed people watching while lunching on their famous Bocadillo #1 - toasted tomato bread with olive oil, Serrano ham and Manchego cheese all for a fairly reasonable €4.90.

It was clearly destined to be a day for great food, as that evening, after a siesta, I dined alone at La Barraca, a restaurant on Talamanca beach which the group had discovered earlier in the week and universally raved about. The high praise was completely deserved; I was welcomed effusively by cool, kaftan-clad hosts, shown to an excellent table (not the crappy one in the corner by the kitchen many restaurants try to fob off on solo diners) and looked after by attentive, amusing as I tucked into two delicious courses washed down with a fresh, fruity Torres de Casta rose. For my starter, I indulged in foie gras sprinkled with truffle salt, served with wafer-thin toasts and quince puree, and followed up with a hefty 200g serving of excellent steak tartare, super-fresh as it should (and indeed, must) be and perfectly seasoned. Pudding didn't appeal but I happily sipped a coffee and read my book until Richard and Simon dropped by to join me.

The three of us boarded the boat across to town and started a bit of a bar crawl, not at Angelo's for once - I'd asked if we could at least check out somewhere else - but at Koko's just down the hill; we then moved on to Angelo's for a while, then to JJ's on the carrer de la Verge, the heart of the Ibiza gay scene. Flirting, in his native tongue, with the French barman was rewarded with passes for Anfora; after a couple of hours there, Richard and Simon called it a night while I - feeling intrepid, taxied it to Playa d'en Bossa to try out Deep, the island's only gay after hours. I have to say I loved it; it was dark, loud, cruisy but also, perhaps surprisingly, really rather friendly...when I staggered out the sun was up - and beating down - and I squinted my way back to the hotel and bed and slept well into Sunday afternoon.

My last full day was spent extremely pleasantly; after finally getting up I headed alone to the beach for a long swim in the warm, if (on the shoreline at least) seaweed-choked sea, then walked round to the apartment having received the kind of invitation I get so rarely but love so much - to help drink the place dry. Richard, Simon, Ron, Shane and I then returned to La Barraca (clearly everyone's favourite restaurant of the week) for a last supper, and while my choices weren't quite as spectacular as the previous nights, I nonetheless greatly enjoyed my steamed mussels starter and main of suckling lamb ribs with the kitchen's signature, delicious, char-grilled vegetables. We strung the evening out with coffees and some dubious Ibizan herb liqueurs (which I'd thought were on the house but turned out, embarrassingly, not to be), all brought to us by a cute and sweet, if inept but happily Hispanophone, waiter. Instead of pudding there we mosied back to the apartment for some very good red wine and cheeses before calling it a night to allow the boys to get some sleep ready for their departure at early o'clock next day.

On the Monday, having breakfasted and checked out of El Corso, I boarded the boat for Ibiza town and killed time in the best possible way - drinking, of course - before busing to the airport. This latter journey was achieved more through luck than design; I'd headed on foot, following the signposts, for Ibiza Town's new bus station, only to find that it had yet to open, and then having found the existing departure point for buses to the airport, struggled to get sense out of anyone as to how one might purchase a ticket - it transpires that one can perform this transaction at only one tiny, obscure and unwelcoming kiosk hidden away on a very unlovely stretch of road about three quarters of a kilometre outside of the town centre. But achieve it I did, and made my flight in plenty of time, landing in Barcelona just 55 minutes later. Matthew and I had a lovely, low-key evening - just a few drinks locally and dinner at his flat - and the next afternoon I took off happily for my beloved City Airport; I was home and sipping PG Tips by 3.

As I always do before clicking 'Publish'. I've re-read what I've written and am aware that in contrast to some of my other travel posts, this one doesn't read like much of a recommendation for the destination in question. Not so; I'd recommend Ibiza to anyone as a very pretty, sociable, Bohemian, elegant island, with the added benefit - no longer as all-consuming as it once was - of a great, if somewhat neutered, clubbing scene, all with the caveat that it is very expensive indeed. But this trip for me was, if highly enjoyable at times, a very strange quantity. I'd got so used to the luxury of travelling alone, with its freedom to be absolute master of how one spends one's time, that it was very difficult to adjust to having to fit in with others; even more so to find myself part of a group many times larger than I had ever envisaged. It's no-one's fault but my own, but lessons were learned, most importantly: next time you book a week of summer sun, make sure you know who, exactly, you're going with...

Right, that now brings us slightly more up to date but I'm still three countries behind, so I'd better get on with telling you about my next and perhaps most exciting destination to date: Mexico.

Bellissimo Bellagio

2008-11-05T22:27:00.003Z

If this post seems a little disjointed in places, maybe a little breathless, please accept my apologies in advance. The thing is, even a good two months after I left Bellagio, and despite having been to some pretty amazing places since (I'm writing this, in fact, on the return flight from Bermuda, about which more to come), just thinking about my time there has got me nearly as giddy with excitement as I was when I was there. What started as a casual suggestion by Matty, aka My Eldest, that while in Italy I try to fit in a visit to Sarah, his old school friend and my erstwhile drinking buddy and now a successful bar-owner and restaurateur - "You can't go to Italy and not see Lake Homo, Mother!" - turned into an unexpected joy, and saw me fall completely in love with the place. I'll try to keep things eloquent, but if I use the words 'gorgeous', 'super', 'fabulous' and 'amazing' even more than usual, please indulge me this once. I'm also really struggling to just think how to distil into words the wonderful experience I had; how to do justice not just to the place but to the people, the sights, the good times. I think what I'll do is try to cover some of the broad themes of what I want you to know about my time in Bellagio, a tiny jewel of a town on the shores of Lake Como in the very north of Italy, and then fill in some of the detail later or as I go along.

Let me begin by telling you about how beautiful Bellagio is...no actually, let me begin by telling you how beautiful getting to Bellagio is. Once out of the grey suburbs of Milan, the view from the train is of countryside, then soon after of the Alps, and then within only about half an hour, of beautiful Lake Como itself, its lush wooded banks and calm water framed by the mountains beyond. The closer view of this which greets you on arrival at Varenna-Essino, the nearest station to Bellagio, is breath-taking (I let out an involuntary 'Oh my God' as I stepped onto the platform) and even the station itself is attractive, set on a hill above the town amid neatly planted flowerbeds. From there it's only a short, downhill stroll to the lakeside ferry terminal; the journey to Bellagio takes just fifteen minutes, all of them pure joy as you admire the candy-coloured villas which punctuate the lush greenery. Finally, as you dock at the little jetty right on the front street of the town, you're greeted by the sight of a neat row of chi-chi boutiques, pretty cafes and elegant hotels, all with more than a hint of a slightly older, much more refined world, cocooned from the dirt, violence and vulgarity of modern life.

Bellagio is essentially made up of little more than two main streets – the one on the lakefront, the other a few dozen metres up and away on a slight gradient – linked to each by a half dozen or so narrow salite, flights of gently graduated cobbled steps. The front street widens out at one end into a town square of sorts, off of which runs a road to the Lido; the upper street has a church at either end and leads to a small park. Both streets and most of the salite are peppered with shops, both practical and decorative, and places to eat and drink from little gelaterias to gourmet restaurants, and that's about it. No cinema, no supermarket, and certainly no fucking Starbucks. It's simply gorgeous.

Also absolutely gorgeous, and a major contributing factor to my having such a great time, was the Hotel Bellagio where I stayed. Recommended and booked by My Eldest (the booking part during a hilariously camp three-way phone conversation between Matty, Mario at the hotel and myself, conducted for my part from outside La Rinascenta in Milan during a ten-minute time out from the spritz bitches), the Hotel Bellagio far exceeded my expectations given the price and was a truly delightful bolthole for my two nights. Having heaved my suitcase up the 28 steps of salita Grandi to the reception (I couldn't grumble, as in fairness I had been forewarned of the climb), I was checked in and escorted to my fourth floor room. To save the €30/night difference in price I'd opted for a 'side lake view' rather than 'lake view' room, so I was thoroughly chuffed when the first thing I noticed on entering the room was the amazing view. On a top-floor corner of the building, from one side - through the fabulous, electric windows - the view was of the town and its terracotta rooftops, and from the other, with the remote control shutters raised, I could see a very substantial way out across Lake Como even if, admittedly, it was side on. No matter, it was a spectacular vista, jaw-droppingly beautiful, and perfectly set off by the cool, neutral decor of the room from whence I stood gawping.

The gawping didn't last long, however, as Sarah was enjoying a rare day off and had requested the pleasure of my company for afternoon drinks (it was way too early for aperitivi but she'd wangled some anyway), conveniently choosing Bar Rossi at the foot of my salita. "I'm not sure I'll recognise her," I'd told Matty, having not seen her for a few years; "Don't worry, Mother," he'd reassured me, "for one thing she hasn't changed a bit, and for another, if you just look for the girl effing and blinding loudly in English you'll find her." How right he was, for there at a pavement table, cursing away in finest Anglo-Saxon, was a completely unchanged Sarah, sipping cocktails in the glorious sunshine with a couple of friends...I needed no persuasion whatsoever to join this happy group; a Campari and Soda was ordered and the fun began.

Sarah's friends – who for the record, I now firmly count as being also mine – were Siobhan and Grant, a British couple who over the course of many years holidaying in Bellagio had become good friends with Sarah and her Italian boyfriend, Aurelio (who joined us after a couple of hours, by which stage we were all approaching two-thirds cut). You'll all have met friends-of-friends with whom you instantly just get along, and this was certainly the case with Siobhan and Grant. I've rarely met a couple so simultaneously chilled-out and warm-hearted – within fifteen minutes of my sitting down they'd invited me to join them for dinner that evening – and the four of us got to talking about any and everything from the best of Bellagio, to engagement rings, to Take That, to handbags...the usual sort of stuff, made all the more congenial by the beautiful weather (my arrival coincided with one of the hottest and sunniest days of August) and an uninterrupted flow of cocktails and nibbles. Siobhan and Grant excused themselves after a while to return to their flat to rest before dinner; Sarah and I should have done likewise but instead pushed on through until it was time to go for dinner (and in fact a little after it was time to go for dinner) and wove our way tipsily straight to La Punta, a gorgeous lakeside eatery boasting sweeping views across Lake Como. Dinner was a highly congenial affair, our party made up to seven by Siobhan and Grant's lovely, funny daughter, her best friend who was lucky enough to be holidaying with them, and Aurelio, a surprise addition given that he had been due to work that night. The food was heavenly (my main course of a delicious veal chop in sage butter was made possible only by Grant generously sacrificing his after I – trying to show off my Italian – ordered fish by mistake!) and was washed down by bottle after bottle of superb wines including a Greco di Torro and a Brunello. Afterwards we staggered, somehow, back into the town, and drank cocktails into the wee small hours first al fresco at Bar Florence on the lakefront and then, after they'd chucked us out, at Sarah's own gorgeous bar, Aperitivo et Al. I completely ignored my own long-standing 'note to self' that I am not the same after three Martinis, and had four, all delicious, before excusing myself while I could still stand and see and making my way over the cobbles to the hotel and bed.

Next morning, I woke feeling far better than I deserved to given the previous night's excesses and after breakfast at the Bellagio (meagre pickings, but made thoroughly enjoyable by the lovely views towards the lake from the breakfast terrace) I headed out to explore the town. This took all of, oh, about eight minutes, but I did bump into a very hungover Sarah and made arrangements to drop by her bar for a drink later. I killed a couple of hours most enjoyably watching Sex and The City re-runs on the flatscreen in my hotel room, made all the more special by the gorgeous aroma of wood smoke wafting up from the forno a legna of the pizzeria several floors below being heated up for that evening. I made my way to Aperitivo et Al, where Sarah's staff made me very welcome, and decided to stop for lunch; my salad of rocket, parmesan and tomato was a perfect, fresh sharp foil to the hearty rusticity of my pizzochero, a fat, flat buckwheat pasta served with grana di Pardano (a hard cheese not unlike pecorino) and cabbage. Sarah warned me that this might cause 'rumbling' later, My Eldest having managed to set off a gas alarm in a rented apartment the last time he partook of this particular dish of roughage! On this basis I decided it might be wise to stay outdoors, so I took a long stroll along the front, past the town square and down to the Lido where I sat happily finishing Jessica Mitford's first volume of memoirs until it was time for aperitivi. For these I returned first to Bar Rossi (where, recognised from the day before, I was greeted like an old friend) and then moved along to Bar Florence, idling away the time writing postcards and speaking at length on the phone to Alyn who I wished intensely had been there to share the beauty of the day with me.

Dinner time was approaching and so I headed back to Sarah's bar; she was intending to join me for dinner at Aurelio's restaurant, custom at the bar permitting. For a Tuesday night it was unexpectedly busy, and thus so was Sarah, but I happily settled down at a corner table with a whopping glass of Muller di Alto Adige to wait optimistically for a lull. I love people watching anyway, but it was truly fascinating, and rewarding, to see Sarah in situ; charming her customers in several languages, not least her impressively fluent Italian, talking knowledgably about the many wines on offer (also all on sale to take away at bargain prices, if ever you're passing, plug plug) and managing the team and kitchen to ensure that everyone was kept happy. I certainly was. Fortunately, within a couple of hours the pace slackened and Sarah was able to get away; we didn't have far to go, as Aurelio's Trattoria San Giacomo is directly opposite the bar, and the patron had reserved us a much-in-demand pavement table. The setting could hardly be more gorgeous; right at the top of the salita, overlooked by the tall houses of the upper street, the Trattoria is a tiny, bustling place with about a dozen tables inside and half as many again on the terrace, all of which people happily wait their turn for either in Sarah's bar or seated on the top-most steps of the salita on brightly-coloured cushions taken from a huge wicker basket outside the restaurant. As for the food...oh, the food! I mean, I've had some pretty spectacular meals in my time, but this was truly something else. My starter of fusilli with speck and saffron was a rich, buttery, savoury bowlful of bliss, golden yellow from the strands of the rare precious spice stirred through it; our shared main course of tagliata di manzo – beef sirloin – was a melt-in-the-mouth mountain of gently seared rare beef served simply on a pile of rocket under which was a mouth-watering heap of steamed, buttered vegetables; and pudding, Marguerita's Chocolate Cake, made to Aurelio's mama Marguerita's top secret flourless recipe, was the kind of ambrosial pud that were I to ever find myself on Death Row – God forbid – I would order by the kilo for my last meal on this earth. Add to this a bottle of very good Italian red wine, the attentive service of Aurelio and his team, and the warm feeling that one gets from being the owner's very welcome guest, and it all made for one of the most enjoyable, delicious and memorable meals I've ever had – seriously. And I should also mention that during the course of all this, Grant dropped by to invite me for a farewell coffee at Rossi next morning: I had truly joined 'the Bellagio set'. After a nightcap across the road, I went to bed feeling I couldn't have been happier had George Clooney dropped by from his villa across the lake and tucked me in himself.

Waking the next morning I couldn't help but feel intensely sad that I was leaving that day, such was the extent to which I had fallen for Bellagio. But, there was no time for moping, as I had my coffee date to look forward to. I scoffed some breakfast (pocketing a couple of bananas for the train back to Milan later) and checked out of the hotel, taking myself and my suitcase down to Bar Rossi where Grant, Siobhan and after a little while, Sarah, all gathered to say arrivederci. Stories were shared, photos taken, and contact details exchanged, all with a pledge that our first time together in Bellagio wouldn't be our last. I boarded the boat to Varenna feeling really happy and loved, albeit sad to be leaving – for now. Finding the ticket office at the station closed for lunch, I made my way (as instructed by the notice on the locked door) to the Bar Albergo Beretta at the foot of the hill, where as well as buying my return ticket to Milan I enjoyed a slice of excellent pizza and a couple of ice-cold beers for all of about €9. When word got out among the staff – including a very-hot-indeed barman – that there was an inglese on the premises, it seemed that everyone came out to my table to chat, practise their English, ask me what I thought of their town and country and generally make me feel more welcome than I ever have in restaurants charging a ton a head. It was just so typical of my whole Bellagio experience and completely took the sting out of my departure.

My Italian adventures were drawing to a close but, as I mentioned to you before, my experience of Milan second time around made up for the disappointment of the first. Arriving at about 4pm and having checked in once again to the Hotel Ariston, it having served me so well before, I headed out to the shops and this time, joy of joys, they were actually open! First stop was Armani Manzoni, where in addition to admiring the beautifully conceived layout and displays I invested in some gorgeous evening trousers; I stopped for aperitivi al fresco at the Armani Caffe, which while looking a little tired and unloved compared to the rest of the building serves a mean Martini. From there it was on to Moschino, where to my own astonishment I was able to hold a conversation entirely in Italian regarding a cape from the A/W 08-09 collection which Andrew is lusting after and buy a t-shirt for Alyn, including requesting a style and size! I then moved on to the Dolce & Gabbana men's store, a surprisingly austere but nonetheless very beautiful warren of marble-floored, mirror-walled rooms over four floors housing their complete collection and a surfeit of chisel-jawed staff with nothing much to do (I also checked out the Martini Bar but finding it practically empty, didn't stop for long.) I filled a very exciting couple of hours checking out all these temples to high fashion that I'd been denied the pleasure of exploring just a few days before, and it was every bit as good as I'd hoped it would be. While London may boast some of the finest shopping in the world, even the designer flagships of Bond, Sloane and Mount Streets have nothing on the sheer glamour of the Quadrilatero d'Oro. Finally,on the way back to the hotel, I stopped by the beautiful Pasticerria Fratelli Freni and picked up a half-dozen marzipan fruits, from the finest and most, well, fruit-like selection I've ever seen, for my soon-to-be brother-in-law who loves the things. Hungry from all the retail excitement, I dined at Pizzeria Naturale, an organic, bio-dynamic pizzeria on Corso Genova, where despite suffering from the combined heat of a wood-fired oven and no air-con, I thoroughly enjoyed my pizza Valdostana and half-bottle of Corvo di Sicilia. I left the next morning, walking the short distance from the Ariston to the station to catch the express train to Malpensa and feeling much more sympathetic towards Milan than after my initial bum-note visit.

During the journey home – again taking in a couple of hours in heavenly Zurich Airport – I reflected with immense fondness on my fortnight in Italy, but most particularly on my time in bellissimo Bellagio. Since getting back, Siobhan has been in touch to say that there's a possibility they'll be fitting in a little visit next April; if anywhere will give you odds, you can bet your bottom euro I'll be there too.

Taking It Milan-easy

2008-10-24T12:57:00.007Z

I hadn’t originally planned on visiting Milan next; I’d intended for it to be my last stop as my flight home was booked from there. I’d had an idea to move on to Venice after Florence, but when further research (which somehow I fitted in between all my Forster reading and art ogling) failed to find my two key travel requisites of 1) sensibly priced travel at sensible times and 2) a good central hotel, at least for the first night, I decided to save Venice for another time and look at other options. Before I’d left London, My Eldest had made the tantalising suggestion that while I was in Italy I fit in a visit to Bellagio, on the shores of Lake Como, to see his good friend and my sometime drinking pal Sarah – and a quick look at train timetables showed that Bellagio could be reached with ease and in hardly any time from Milan. Figuring that a weekend in Italy’s – some would argue the world’s – fashion capital would be rather more exciting than a weekend in a sleepy lakeside village, I decided to stop for a couple of nights in Milan en route to the Lakes; within a few clicks my hotel was booked and train times confirmed, and I was on my way.

Although marred as far as Bologna by two noisy brats belonging to parents who seemingly couldn’t have cared less about my discomfort, the train journey provided some beautiful views, firstly of Tuscan countryside, then the hills of Emilia-Romana and on into the clear green plains of Lombardy. Approaching Milan though, things aren’t so pretty, as scenery gives way to the grey urban sprawl that one would expect from what is, first and foremost, an industrial city. I hadn’t expected much of Milan architecturally anyway; no-one I’ve spoken to who’s been has been able to muster much enthusiasm for its aesthetics, instead extolling the virtues of the city’s two main attractions (certainly to me) of its world-beating shopping opportunities and vibrant social scene. So that was all I was expecting to do: shop and socialise.

Things started well when, having reached the Hotel Ariston by a combination of the Metro (as grimy as Rome's, but fast and cheap) and tram (fabulously rickety and retro) I found that it lived up to its hotels.co.uk description of being bright, central and modern. My single room was small but very comfortable, and being high up on the sixth floor had what I guess a creative travel agent would sell as 'Duomo glimpses'; I could just see the uppermost spires of Milan's wedding cake of a cathedral. I made that my first port of call; although I'd taken the tram from Duomo station to the hotel to save lugging my suitcase, it was only a very easy walk from the hotel so I wandered up via Torino and across the piazza to see inside. It wasn't amazing, to be frank; while from the outside the Duomo is pretty spectacular, its immense peaked roof a mass of over 100 spires and many hundreds of statues all topped with a golden Madonna (of the blessed Virgin variety, not Ciccone, though that would be fun...), inside it's rather gloomy, austere and repetitive although it does boast some impressive, monumental stained glass windows and the jewel-laden crypt (and corpse) of the 16th century zealot San Carlo Borromeo.

I moved on to my kind of place of worship, the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. Adjacent to the Duomo and accessed by a soaring, ornate archway, the Galleria comprises a vast cross-shaped arcade rising up four storeys to a beautiful domed glass ceiling. While certainly classy, it's an odd hotch-potch of shops; of the four prime corner spots at the centre where the two promenades meet, one each is occupied by Prada - the original 1913 store, no less - and Louis Vuitton, while the others are a McDonald's and a Mercedes-Benz store. Elsewhere there's a Gucci store which boasts the world's first Gucci Caffé, a Tod's, and various high-end outfitters, but there's also a dozen or so very run-of-the-mill book stores, CD shops and mobile phone retailers which detract from the Galleria's cachet. Largely however, what shops there were was academic, because with very few exceptions (Prada among them, joy of joys) everything in the Galleria was closed for a holiday. Slightly perturbed but still determined, I set off for the famed Quadrilatero d'Oro or 'Golden Square', the rectangular block of streets delineating one of the world's most exclusive shopping areas where the scores of designer flagships offer up goodies unavailable anywhere else in the world.

First was via Manzoni, home to the Armani megastore; occupying an entire block and housing not only every one of his lines from Emporio Armani down but also the Armani Caffé, florists, bookstore and chocolatier, as well as Armani/Nobu and a nightclub, Privé, with Armani Hotel coming soon: Closed. Then the length of via Montenapoleone, home to the likes of Ferragamo, Etro, several more Prada boutiques, a massive Gucci...closed. Left down via San'Andrea, for Ferre, Trussardi, Moschino, Chanel...Closed (and in the case of one of the only two shops, along with Prada, that I'd really wanted to see, the bonkers upside-down, Alice In Wonderland palazzo of Viktor & Rolf, closed down!) I'm guessing that by this point you can probably guess what I found on via della Spiga, destination address for the Dolce & Gabbana world flagship? Yes, all chiuso, to use an Italian word I learned the hard way. Surely there were other things to see and do, I hear you cry? Well frankly, not really; turning up in Milan on the weekend of Ferragosto (August Bank Holiday, if you like) is the fashion-lover's equivalent of seeing Pompeii on the only day it's up to its ass in molten lava. Window shopping is all well and good as a time-killer, but when you're in Milan with time on your hands and a platinum card burning a hole in your pocket only to find all the shops shut, well it's like that moment in every Indiana Jones movie where he gets his hands on the priceless treasure only for it to explode/melt/crumble to dust.

Gutted, but wanting to get something out of Milan, I ambled back to the hotel to consult my trusty guide books as to what else might be worth seeing, and was pleased to find that there were few points of interest nearby. The church of San Sebastiano on via Torino provided an enjoyable few minutes admiring its barrel shaped interior, and I was intrigued by the black-and-white columned confines of the piazza dei Mercanti, the mercantile hub of medieval Milan where trade has been carried out for over seven centuries (except, one assumes, during bloody Ferragosto...) By now it was time for some food, and just the right time of day to try out Milan's famous aperitivi culture. As with cañas in Madrid, so too do Milanese bars give away some tucker with early-evening drinks, but on a rather grander scale, and just across the corner from my hotel I chanced on Pan e Vino which offered a choice of drink (I plumped for a nice large glass of Gavi di Gavi) and all-you-can-eat from a heaving buffet of mostly meats and salads with some bruschetta, pasta and fresh fruit for good measure, for just €8. Now it's a well known fact that 'all you can eat' are my four favourite words in the English language, so you'll see that suddenly Milan was seeming a lot more attractive. Several platefuls, enjoyed at a terrace table, later, I waddled back to the hotel for an early night, pledging to sample the nightlife the following night.

Day 2 in Milan started well with a superb brekker in the hotel; although only the usual self-service continental type affair of cold meats, cheeses, pastries, fruit etc, pretty much everything on offer was organic and of very high quality, including some delicious jams and breads and, oh heaven, Twining's English Breakfast in the tea caddy. Fortified, I set out to explore some of Milan’s notable, non-retail based sights and in the course of a few hours walking took in a great deal. I began at the church of San Ambroglio (Ambrose), where the mummified remains of Milan’s patron saint are on display, along with two faithful crusaders, in an eerie, subterranean spot-lit glass sarcophagus. Together with some other interesting statues and chapels and a peaceful, high arcaded cloister, it made for a worthwhile visit. From there I went on to the church of Santa Maria della Grazie, home to Michelangelo’s Last Supper, but not having thought to make the absolutely essential advance booking to see the same (as far as supper bookings go you've got more chance of getting a Saturday table at The Fat Duck) I had to content myself with a nose round the nave.

Fancying some greenery, I skirted the Parco Sempione, which perfectly fits the part of ‘blissful oasis in the heart of the throbbing metropolis’, on the way taking in the landmark Torre Branca (I’ll take Wallpaper*’s word for it that the views from the top are great, my head for heights not being one of my stronger characteristics) and the looming medieval fortress of Castel Sforzesco. From here I strolled along via Dante – comparable to Oxford Street with its big mid-market stores, almost all closed, of course – coming out pretty much back where I’d started on piazza del Duomo. Here I was at least partially able to satisfy my urge to shop, as I found that La Rinascenta, whose ubiquitous paper carrier bags had caused me to write it off as being some sort of naff high street chain, was in fact a very swish department store, and my enjoyment of roaming the aisles of designer delights was dimmed only slightly by the unwelcome attentions in the fragrance hall of easily the most aggressive phalanx of spritz bitches that it’s ever been my misfortune to encounter. Running the gauntlet has nothing on D&G Light Blue vs. Dior Homme Higher Sport in this gaff, I’m telling you.

Dodging over-keen, over-tanned scent salespeople is hungry work, so having been impressed with my first visit, I took myself off back to Pan e Vino for the aperitivi buffet (the selection on which, pleasingly, was different from but just as generous as the night before) and having filled my boots decided to check out the night-time scene in the Ticinese district just a few blocks south of the hotel. It’s a funky, trendy, slightly edgy area, very much like London’s Hoxditch and indeed Chueca in Madrid but without either’s abundant gay scene (the two gay bars on my map in the area being, yup, chiuso). There were a whole list of places I’d wanted to check out, bars both gay and straight (the Dolce & Gabbana Martini Bar being right at the top of the list) and clubs likewise (Armani Privé, as well as some of the grittier gay clubs) but a little online researching found that – AGAIN! – they were all either shut or, in the case of the gay clubs that were open, required the purchase of something called an Arci-Gay Card, a kind of all-in-one membership card that allows the bars to circumvent licensing and gender equality laws to be open all hours and strictly men only. A good idea if you want to be able to cruise for sex pissed at 3AM without any risk of your sister walking in on you, but bad for the international gay jet-setter only in town for 48 hours. Grr.

Oh look, I’m going to stop boring you now with all these dull descriptions of places I didn’t go; if you’d wanted to know what the outsides of places in Milan looked like you’d be on Google Earth, not reading this guff. I had a much more successful time in Milan, which I’ll tell all about in due course, on the way back from Bellagio – and Bellagio is an altogether much more exciting story.

Gay Ol' Nights in Florence

2008-10-21T20:23:00.013Z

I was bursting with excitement as I sank into my vast leather armchair of a seat on the 12.50 Eurostar (no relation) to Firenze Santa Maria Novella. On my first (and to date, only) visit to Florence, with the family in 2007, I'd seen pretty much all of the city's star sights thanks to my sister's expert organisation and so on this visit I was looking forward seeing 'the rest', and to being at liberty to do so at my own pace and not, as had been the case last time, with mum in tow (love her as I deeply do, seeing Florence in intense June heat with a short-legged 70-year-old is not necessarily an experience I would recommend). Coffee in hand, I got stuck into A Room With A View, the first half of which is set in Florence, and in just an hour and three quarters and seven chapters, I arrived.

I took a cab from the station and a few minutes later was dropped outside the Pension Orchidea, a Rough Guide recommendation I'd booked before leaving Rome. I couldn't have wished for more Forster-esque location: the Orchidea occupies the first floor of a twelfth century palazzo in a cobbled street just behind the Duomo, Florence's immense, breath-taking, technicolor cathedral. The rooms are basic but perfectly fine for a short stay, and the Italian-American owners have done wonders at making the place homely - when I found that there was English Breakfast tea included in the selection of help-yourself-anytime drinks in the lounge area, I practically wept with joy. Best of all though was the location, right in the centre of the city within easy walking distance of just about everywhere, and so I set out on foot for my first destination.

Now, while Florence's top three attractions are undoubtedly the Duomo, the Uffizi gallery and Michelangelo's David, for a fashion and footwear junkie such as I the fourth has to be the Salvatore Ferragamo Shoe Museum. I'd not been able to persuade the family to go last year - funnily enough, they were more interested in seeing Botticelli's Birth of Venus than Eva Peron's slingbacks, the Philistines - so on this visit it was right at the top of my itinerary. Tucked away in the basement of the Ferragamo flagship store and company headquarters on the heavenly shopping stretch that is via Tornabuoni, the museum (€5 admission and worth every cent) is a compact but fascinating collection of sketches, photographs, lasts and of course shoes, spanning the eighty-odd years history of this (sadly deceased) shoemaker to the stars. Here the hand-whittled lasts of the shoes of Hepburns Audrey and Katherine; there original artwork from Ferragamo's iconic Art Deco-style ad campaigns; here photos of Sal himself ministering to the tootsies of Marlene Dietrich; there, Judy Garland's very own, sky-high rainbow wedges in a glass case. After about an hour of pure camp cobblers, I sashayed out onto the street and into the boutique thinking I might invest in a slice of Ferragamo glamour all of my own, but compared with Marilyn Monroe's original red rhinestone-encrusted stilettos, the conservative if beautifully crafted men's collection could only be an anti-climax.

Taking a left onto Lungarno Corsini (factoid: the embankment streets are all called Lungarno something-or-other from lung'arno, literally 'Along the Arno', the river which bisects the city), I strolled down to the Ponte Vecchio, the only one of Florence's bridges to survive the Nazis' bombings when they retreated from the city in 1944. It's a remarkable structure, with its higgledy-piggledy piles of shops and alleyways, famed now for its myriad jewellery shops all seemingly peddling the same eye-wateringly sparkly and buttock-clenchingly expensive gew-gaws which everyone comes to gawp at but never, it seems, to buy. I did, with a long-term view to perhaps popping the question to a certain young man, actually pop in to look at a very nice platinum and diamond ring, but when told that it was a replica of the rings designed by Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston for their ultimately doomed marriage my interest quickly waned. From there I ambled back to the hotel via the Piazza della Signoria, half-ignoring the statuary for which it's best known to instead make a bee-line for the plaque marking the spot of the Bonfire of the Vanities, so brilliantly and evocatively described in Sarah Dunant's novel The Birth of Venus which I'd recommend to anyone who's been to, or might like to visit, Florence.

After a couple of quiet hours spent reading my Forster and enjoying some Japanese nibbles and beers from the Asian grocers I'd been delighted to chance upon on via S.Egidio, I headed out for some supper at Trattoria da Benvenuto (it translates, sweetly, to something like 'The Welcome Inn') where I enjoyed juicy marinated sardines followed by roast rabbit and veggies, washed down with the house red which, at €2 for 250ml, was a bargain in a city where it's perfectly possible to eat extremely well, and likewise reasonably cheaply, but very rarely the twain in one place. (A footnote here about restaurants; I had hoped to re-visit the wonderful Coquinarius on via dell'Oche where as a family we'd enjoyed a couple of superb meals last year (their pappardelle with rabbit ragu is worth a visit in its own right), but alas like so many small businesses it was closed for most of August and scheduled to re-open, frustratingly, two days after I was due to leave!) Replete, I thought I'd check out the scene, but a quick flit to three of the bars on the list found them all pretty much empty (in one I was in fact the only punter, even at 11.30) so I called it a night, moseyed back to the Orchidea and snuggled under the covers with Edward Morgan.

Next morning I was up early and, wanting to live out Chapter 2 of A Room With A View, 'In Santa Croce with no Baedeker', headed to the church of Sta. Croce where Miss Honeychurch has her memorable encounter with the Emersons. Whilst externally the church is almost as elaborately beautiful as the Duomo, Forster's description of the interior - "But how like a barn!" - proved highly accurate, the high beamed ceiling and sparse decoration indeed resembling a farm building, but I was nonetheless quietly wowed by Michelangelo's tomb and the Giotto frescoes so highly praised by Forster's Mr Eager and berated by old Mr Emerson. I moved on to the Bargello museum, home (ostensibly) to much of Italy's finest sculpture as well as collections of bronzes, pottery and miniatures but usually overlooked by most visitors in favour of the city's other show-stoppers. While there are some beautiful works in the collection - I especially liked Giambologna's statues, and particularly his Ocean - a couple of things niggled. Firstly, the published entry fee, like at the Colosseum in Rome and as would prove to be the case elsewhere in Florence and beyond, was bumped up a few euros by a non-discretionary extra charge for a 'special exhibition', which in this case proved to be some bronzes and statues which whilst admittedly impressive, were almost entirely taken from the museum's permanent collection. Secondly, one of the museum's main draws, Donatello's androgynous bronze David, was being restored and consequently face-down in a special frame in the room it usually occupies, and while I know conservation is part and parcel of a museum's role, there are plenty of places in Florence where I could see a gorgeous young man's firm behind without it costing me €7. Finally, the Bargello's famous Michelangelo room, which on paper has one of the most comprehensive collections of his work throughout his life, was remarkable on my visit less for what it contained than for what it didn't; many plinths were empty due to the works being either on loan, under restoration or indeed in the 'special exhibition' across the hall. Had any of this been pre-advised at the entrance I might have though twice about visiting, but on balance it was a worthwhile experience and one I'd recommend.

Continuing the Forster trail, I took a stroll through town to Lungarno della Grazie where, at number 2, Forster located the Pension Bertolini and, within, the room with (or more specifically, without) a view of the book's title. While these days the building is a smart private hotel rather than the simple pension run by a Cockney where Forster himself stayed with his mother, it was still great fun to see the building and idly speculate, looking up, as to which of the windows looking out onto the Arno and beyond might, had fiction been truth, have belonged to the room occupied by Lucy and Miss Bartlett. After lunch at a large, noisy but reasonably priced brasserie, I crossed the river to the district known as Oltr'arno - what we might call in English 'T'other side of the Arno' - to visit Florence's second biggest gallery after the Uffizi, the Palazzo Pitti. This was a revelation. Every single ornate, gilded room in this spectacularly well-preserved palace yielded something noteworthy, from masterpiece after masterpiece by Titian, Rubens and Raphael to sculptures by Canova, and from the sumptuous draped and flocked interiors of the royal apartments to the odd, and oddly fascinating sight of Napoleon's bathtub. While the Gallery of Modern Art, housed somewhat incongruously in the same building, contained very little of interest, the main floors more than made up for this and I was so fascinated that I was more than happy to kill time, waiting for the spectacular lightning storm which had blown up outside to subside, by going round the entire collection twice.

That night, after having given into temptation and just this once foregone fine Italian cuisine for a McDonald's (which I at least ordered in Italian, if that counts) I decided to give the scene another try - it was Friday, after all - and was greatly pleased to find that Thursday night's near-total desertion had been an exception and that Florence's gay community was alive, well and drinking. Starting off with a couple of beers at the trendy, friendly café-bar Piccolo (busier outside in the smoking area than the smoke-free inside: welcome to Italy!) I moved onto the creatively-monikered Y.A.G. Bar which was pleasingly packed and noisy, with a big video screen showing mostly British and American pop acts allowing me to have the unbridled joy of throwing shapes to Girls Aloud and Whitney Houston while the Florentines watched aghast. Unable to find putatively the scene's most popular club, Tabasco, the tiny street given as its address not appearing on any of the maps in my possession, I rounded off the night with a quick visit to the dark 'n' dirrrty Crisco, a men-only joint very typical of the late night gay scene on the Continent complete with 'Ring Bell For Entry' sign, a peephole for the doorman to size you up through, a nose-bleed techno soundtrack and very, very old, grainy porn (had there been sound I would have expected 1920's clipped vowels and the odd "What-ho Albert! Steady on as you penetrate old chap!") showing on a big screen. There, I was befriended by a group of Italian lads who taught me some choice Italian phrases in return for my help with English profanities, but I turned down the invitation from one of them to put words into action and instead heeded Miss Bartlett's advice to Lucy on their last night in Florence, to "Go to bed at once dear. You need all the rest you can get."

In the morning I left for Milan.

Rome, where you want to...

2008-09-17T23:25:00.010Z

First things first: thank you all for your immense patience in awaiting this very long overdue update on my various travels, trials and tribulations over the last month or so. Without further ado, here goes; as there's a lot to get through I've broken it down into bite-size, city-by-city chunks so that you can savour a morsel in your tea-break, come back for another nibble at lunch, and savour the left-overs of an evening...or just skip straight to whichever bit you think will be most (or at all) interesting, or simply will feature you! To get things started: Rome.

Rome

The first leg of my Italy trip started fabulously with perhaps my most hassle-free flight ever. For the first time, I flew from London City Airport having scored a bargain fair with Swiss via Zurich, and believe me it is a joy. Half an hour from home by DLR, London City is what, I can only imagine, it must be like flying from a private airfield; no queues at check-in or security and a spotless, quiet and really rather luxurious lounge from which every gate is just a couple of minutes stroll. It was also my first flight with Swiss, and both the chocolates and the Teutonic stewards were delicious. I killed the couple of hours transfer time at Zurich airport browsing the swanky boutiques on its mini-Bond Street shopping stretch and enjoying a beer and a baguette (which I impressed myself by managing to order in German, a language I hitherto hadn't known I spoke) in one of the stylish bars, before boarding my onward flight and arriving at Rome Fiumicino just an hour or so later. Next it was all aboard the 'Leonardo Express' for the €11, forty minute train ride to Termini station, and before you could say 'Benvenuto a Roma' I was checking into the Hotel Massimo d'Azeglio on via Cavour, right next to the station.

Having settled into my very comfortable and pleasingly large room, I headed out into the Rome night to see if the hotel was as central as it appeared to be from the map. It certainly was; a five minute stroll down via Cavour and a side-street brought me to the spectacular-by-night sight of the Colosseum and its neighbour, the charming Arch of Constantine. The area was alive with people, tourists staring up at the centuries old structure open-mouthed, lovers canoodling on the grassy hillocks nearby, photographers snapping the spotlit ancient monument in its hulking nocturnal glory and plenty of police keeping it all safe and salubrious. I was suitably awed as I walked around the perimeter, taking in the vastness of the near-2000-years-old edifice and enjoyed a camp moment remembering Audrey Hepburn whizzing round the same path on the back of a Vespa in Roman Holiday.

First site seen, it was time for a sight of the scene and so I flip-flopped off to Coming Out, a large and busy cafe/bar on the nearby via San Giovanni in Laterano. A few doors away I found the delicious (in every sense) Ice Cream Bears, a gelateria owned and run by, you guessed it, a couple of hulking bears whose creamy goodness attracts a cuddly, hairy clientele. Although the only two de facto gay venues on the street, the bars in between cater to the overspill and on a balmy evening like this the crowd, mostly a diverse selection of boys but with a fair few girls, pours out onto the street and drinks and gossips the night away in the shadow of the Colosseum - a quite remarkable experience. I finished off the night - wanting to get some beauty sleep ready for sightseeing on the morrow - with a flying visit to Hangar, an altogether darker and heavier three-room affair on via in Selci just a couple of minutes from the hotel. there's much to recommend Hangar, not least a rather horny (in both looks and mind) clientele, but the clincher for me was the novel payment system - on the way in you're given a card on which the bar staff write down what you've had, and you pay on the way out. This was the bar's last night of business before closing for the summer break so I was glad to have had the experience while I could!

The next day, after a good night's sleep and a very good breakfast, I embarked on a day's sightseeing that would ultimately nearly kill me with its length and breadth. Against all warnings not to try to do too much of Rome in one day - it wasn't built in one, after all - I started early, and finished late, taking in many of the most famous sites and wearing out a pair of flip-flops in the space of a few hours. I began with a walk across town, heading for the Pantheon and on the way taking in a couple of fountains, the Tritone by Bernini and the iconic Trevi (which I completely chanced upon, surprised as many must be by its odd location at the back of an otherwise unremarkable civic building at the junction of three minor shopping streets!) Before seeing the Pantheon's spectacular if utterly bonkers and strangely proportioned interior, I enjoyed an eye-opening caffe machiato at La Casa del Caffe Tazza d'Oro - it translates, deservedly, as 'The Golden Cup'. Next I moved on to the Vittorio Emanuele Monument, also known (variously) as The Altar Of The Nation and the Vittoriano. This vast white marble bulk, topped with mighty equestrian statues (most notably of the King after whom it is named and putatively exists to honour) is - how can I put this?- not exactly universally popular, but it has its attractions. One, a free exhibition on the history of the Italian army, rather thin on the period 1939-45 but otherwise interesting and staffed by real Italian soldiers. Two, it's a pleasingly cool escape from the Roman heat and offers a comfortable way to reach the top of the neighbouring Capitoline Hill . And three, atop it all there's a pretty reasonably priced canteen serving delicious salads and juices (my caprese was heavenly) and from which the panoramic views of Rome are picture perfect.

Refreshed, I moved on to the Capitoline, arriving in the piazza Campidoglio. I skipped the museums around the perimeter in favour of taking in the buildings' exteriors and descending the cordonata, the gently sloping ramp designed by Michelangelo and flanked at the entrance to the piazza by his statues of Castor and Pollux (and being nudes, one can see their Pollux very clearly...) From here I went on to the Colosseum, still as magnificent by day as by night but once inside I wondered whether the 45 minutes I'd spend queuing was worth the fairly limited extent of what's inside, and from there - where, to be honest, I should have called it a day - I pushed on to the Palatine and the impressive ruins of palaces of Caesars past, and the Forum (I'd like to report that a funny thing happened on the way, but alas not). The latter was, despite my increasingly severe, self-inflicted Ancient Rome Fatigue Syndrome, simply magnificent, still - despite the ravages of the centuries - sufficiently complete as to give one a real sense of what life day-to-day, with its triumphal arches, temples, mausolea and senate chambers, could have been like.

By this stage exhausted, I limped back to the hotel and after a very pleasant siesta, set out again on foot for the Spanish Steps, which I approached from their top end and descended (picturing myself as Jude Law, or perhaps Gwyneth Paltrow, in The Talented Mr Ripley), weaving my way through the youthful, noisy crowds to the designer label heaven of via Condotti then up via del Corso to the piazza del Popolo which I found, in its dullness, rather disappointing. I doubled back down via del Corso to a quiet piazza where the restaurant, deli and bar Gusto appears to be taking over every available space and so they should in my view, given how delicious were the gourmet aperitivi served with my Campari and soda - my 'Italy drink'. Fairly full, and wholly knackered, I opted for a simple supper, an excellent pizza Diavola and very boozy Tiramisu at an anonymous restaurant near the hotel...and so to bed.

Worn out by that day's excesses, the next morning I slept in and then after a leisurely late breakfast set off by Metro ('grimy', I jotted in my notebook) for the Vatican. The piazza at St Peter's, so famous from years of televised appearances, was immensely impressive, beautiful for its symmetry and scale (even though the fountains were, sadly, inactive) but I have to say that I found the basilica itself, and the vast, labyrinthine Vatican Museums, to be bordering on the obscene. I am not irreligious, but I really do fail to see how when there is so much suffering and poverty in the world, so much preventable sickness and death, and much of it in nominally Catholic third world countries, that it can be right for so much wealth to be hoarded by a church. I left as quickly as one can when there are near on twelve miles of corridors all of it strictly one way, and returned for a quiet afternoon of reading and blogging (NB: Italy has an anti-terrorism legislation, strictly enforced as I found, that requires anyone wishing to use internet or cheap telephones in internet cafes to produce photo ID, a passport or driving license. Odd!) I went down to the hotel bar for 'Happy Hour' - i.e., more Campari & soda with more free nibbles, then headed across the road to the tenth-floor roof terrace of a sister hotel to watch the sun set over the city.

The rest of the evening was nothing if not flattering. Firstly over an excellent dinner of saltimbocca a la Romana, washed down with a very nice Verdicchio, I was approached at my pavement table by a not-at-all unattractive man who after very little initial preamble invited me home with him for sex - I declined, having not even tasted my veal yet and really rather wanting to. Then, having moved on (unaccompanied!) to Coming Out, I struggled to avoid the predatory gaze and subsequent advances, entirely unwelcome but wholly understandable, of a travelling Belgian. Nice to know I've still got it in me, so to speak.

Booked on a train to Florence the following afternoon, I nonetheless wanted to get some value of the morning if I could, so I strolled a few minutes from the hotel past the pretty fountains of the piazza della Republica to two noteworthy churches; one, Santa Maria della Vittoria, which houses Bernini's famous sculpture of Saint Theresa in Ecstasy (in, not on, please note, but from her face it's hard to tell) and the modest but beautiful basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli which fronts the remains of the Diocletian baths or terme from which Termini station gets its name - not, as I and no doubt you would have thought, from its being the end of the line. Churched out, I had just enough time to pop to the international bookshop for a copy of A Room With A View - my 'guide book' and source reading for Florence, my next destination. I was able to board the train feeling that I had really seen Rome, not just the main sites but some less obvious ones too, had savoured its food and wine, and experienced life as it's lived by day and night. Exhausting it may have been, but new relationships always are, and I think this was just the start of what will be a life-long love affair with Rome.

Next instalment coming, ASAP!

Queens of the Valencia Scene

2008-08-13T18:30:00.011Z

OK this has, I'll grant you, been a long time coming, but I've at last found time to sit down and write up the last leg of my Spanish adventure. Ironically I'm doing so as the first leg of the Italian tour comes to a close - tomorrow I leave Rome for Florence - but the sooner I'm up to date the better so here goes.

I left Palma late on Friday evening, a little emotional but nonetheless excited about my next destination and all the more so for knowing that I'd be met there by Dougie who is at pilot school in the city for the next couple of months. Things didn't start well; I had a run-in with a vile German at the airport which left me ridiculously upset (I had the temerity to walk faster than him in the line to security and upon realising that his aggressive Teutonic expletives were falling on uncomprehending ears, he barked at me in English, "We are not here for fun!" "Fuck you matey, I am here precisely for fun," thought I, but kept schtum lest it turn into a new European conflict...) but all was soon forgotten when hardly as soon as we'd taken off we were landing again.

I called Doug as soon as I was off the plane and arranged to meet him at my hotel, the Melia Plaza, in an hour; I'd barely had time to dump my suitcase and utter a 'wow' at the vastness and loveliness of my room when there was a knock on the door and Señor Colman arrived. All residual sadness over thoughts of Fritz and anger over the German at the airport disappeared at seeing my long-lost dear friend, and we raided the mini-bar and caught up over beers while enjoying my spectacular view of the Plaza del Ayuntamiento below.

Despite having been in Valencia for two weeks already, Dougie had not yet made any forays onto the scene and so, like two naughty girls who've just been released from the convent, we headed out into the balmy night. All that we knew - from my trusty guidebook - was that the scene centred around calle Quart, and a moment of sheer hilarity ensued when we stopped at reception to ask where we might find said calle: the receptionist being busy, we asked a little bespectacled security guard, whose descent into uncontrollable giggles and knowing winks outed him as being on our autobus.

Delighted to find that it was just minutes from the hotel (how I have such luck with these things I don't know - the same's happened in Rome but that's not for here!) we clip-clopped along à la Carrie and Samantha and after a couple of fruitless sashays up, down and around Quart we landed upon a packed and stylish café bar called Trapezzio where we downed drinks and eyed up boys until it abruptly closed around 1.30AM. Pleading first-night-in-town ignorance to one of the barmen as to where to go next proved beneficial: a flyer boy was summoned with a wave and thrust free passes to Deseo 54, the hottest night in town, into our greedy little hands.

A short taxi ride later we found ourselves at Rojo Vivo, the club where Deseo takes place, and a few generous-ish tips early on ensured that as the club rapidly filled up to shoulder-to-shoulder capacity, we alone never had to wait for a drink at the bar. Not being chemically enhanced as the vast majority of punters (mixed, but more gay by a long way, and generally beautiful) seemed to be, it was nothing short of miraculous that we managed to last until...oh I guess about 6.00AM when we finally admitted that we'd had basta and taxied it back to the Plaza.

Next morning - alive but for the grace of the gay gods - we strolled through Valencia's beautiful sunlit streets to the Plaza Santa Catalina, home to Valencia's hulking and not-really-very-pretty cathedral. We sat down to an al fresco tapas brunch at La Sardineria, a very gay-friendly place specialising in (no prizes for guessing, folks) sardines but also offering a wide range of tapas classics both fishy and otherwise, and chewed the (metaphorical) fat while enjoying the array of delights the cute Latino waiter brought out, among them huevos revueltos con jamon - that's yer actual scrambled eggs and ham, don't you know - and patatas bravas. Suitably nourished to brave the challenge, we paid €4 to climb the cathedral's impressive octagonal bell tower, El Miguelete, and - arriving at the top somehow not dead from exhaustion and altitude sickness - we were both impressed at the sweeping panoramic views over the very handsome city way below us (our smiles in the photo here may be because of this, or may perhaps have just been down to our relief at having made it to the top without falling to our deaths from the winding, vertiginous, rail-less stairs up!)

After a detour via the architecturally impressive, canary yellow wedding cake that is the Estacion del Norte to buy my ticket to Barcelona the next day, and having taken in the spectacular, Roman amphitheatre-style bulk of the bull ring, we were ready for more sustenance and headed for Bar Pilar on calle del Moro Zeit, reputed to be Valencia's best tapas bar and famous for its clochinas or baby mussels. The reputation is well-deserved; our clochinas disappeared in a matter of seconds, the calamari was, we agreed, the best we've ever had, and even a plate of whole baby squid in garlic, the result of a clumsy linguistic cock-up on my part and served when we were already pretty full, were delicious.

While Dougie went home for a little siesta (these midgets do tire easily...) I headed to IVAM, Valencia's contemporary art gallery, and although the building is a peaceful, calming temple of minimalism, the art within - echoes here of my MACBA experience in Barcelona - was disappointing, the work of one featured artist (Vicente Colon) consisting entirely of black scribbles. Three rooms of it. Undefeated, I took a long route back to the hotel taking in the outskirts of the city and a visit to the gorgeous shop of Paquita Ors on calle de la Paz. Doña Paquita Ors, a qualified pharmacist and expert in all things dermatalogical, is Spain's answer to Estee Lauder. Her appearance is utterly bonkers - do please have a look at her picture on the website - but she is absolutely revered by the cognoscenti who make up her clientele, and her two delightful assistants took great pleasure in helping me choose a cologne which (if you can catch me for a sniff you'll agree) has all the makings of a new signature scent.

With Doug reappearing, rested and refreshed, it was time for dinner and earlier in the day we'd booked a table at Basilico, owned by friends of a friend of Dougie's, on calle Cadiz in the soon-to-be-supercool neighbourhood of Rustafa. This turned out to be undoubtedly one of the highlights of my whole trip to date for many reasons. Firstly, we were greeted like old friends by Arif, the chef, and his partner (in life and business) Alex, and an extra pavement table set up for us. Arif is a suave, worldly hunk of a man, not unlike George Michael in his sexy days before he turned to dope and went to seed, and Alex is six foot two of Gallic gorgeousness, charm and sang froid. The menu was intriguing, not the Italian one might expect given the restaurant's name but in fact a combination (please - we'll have no 'fusion' on this blog thank you very much) of Mediterranean and Asiatic influences accompanied by a short, interesting wine list.

For starters, Doug went for the seasonal salad with goat's cheese crostini and red onion jam, while I opted for steamed dim sum (which were yum yum); for our mains, I took Alex's recommendation of the teriyaki salmon, marinated for hours until rich with flavour then poached to just done-ness, served on dressed egg noodles, while Doug went for red curry prawn noodles which he ooh-ed and aah-ed over with all the enthusiasm he normally reserves for Argentine barmen. We washed it all down with a bottle of crisp, chilled Rueda, a Chablis-ish Spanish white, all the while being fussed over like VIPs (which of course honey, we are) by Alex and chatted to as often as kitchen lulls would allow by Arif. Portions were so generous that dessert was out of the question, but we did manage (between us, not each) some chilled vodka, super-duper espresso, a Martini and a mojito (the cocktails on the house, bless you Arif and Alex!) all of which took us and the Basilico boys well past closing time. If ever you go to Valencia - and I do recommend that you do - go to Basilico; I really loved it and everything about it.

Full not just of food but of energy too (probably down to the espresso!) Dougie and I again hit the scene, this time with Arif in tow; much to our delight, he had decided a few hours out would let off some steam after an exhausting night in the kitchen, so the three of us hopped in a cab up to Quart and hit Venial, a sprawling club and bar where it seemed at least half the folks from Deseo the night before had rocked up to get down (and perhaps get off) to the commercial dance soundtrack. For a breather (and to see if we could marry Dougie off to a sexy Spaniard) we popped round the corner to the dark, cruisy and fabulously named Nunca Digo No - 'I Never Say No'! - where Arif, so my new best friend, and I, married men both, propped up the bar while Doug went off to explore some of the 'darker' reaches of the venue. His exploring didn't last long; the lights went up not long after our arrival (it was only 3AM, after all) so we tottered back to Venial where we watched the stage show (men and a lady come on in sportsgear - men and a lady dance in sportsgear - men and a lady remain in sportsgear...thrilling stuff!) and giggled and drank for a while longer before we decided to call it a night and head for our beds.

By Sunday, Dougie was quite the broken flower so I was left to my own devices and filled my last few hours very pleasurably. I began by taking the bus across town to the Ciutat de les Artes y Ciencias, the spectacular complex of futuristic white buildings all but one designed by Santiago Calatrava to house the city's performing arts and science spaces. As I walked around taking in the exteriors of the rib-cage like Umbracle, the perforated drum of the Science Museum and the spaceman's helmet housing the concert hall, I sipped on a chilled horchata, every Valencian's favourite summer drink made of tiger nuts and tasting not unlike delicately salty soya milk. Returning to town for lunch, I pigged out, at Sagardi, on gourmet pintxos, a sort of tapas-for-one to which you help yourself from the bar and pay - by an honesty system - when the cocktail sticks each is pierced with are counted up at the end. My time slowly running out, I was simply delighted beyond words that with just enough time left to enjoy it without rushing I chanced upon a vast Tintin exhibition at the Centre for Contemporary Culture, my absolute love of the boy detective meaning that I wrapped up my visit on a massive high.

I left Valencia with a smile on my face and some memories to treasure; I was delighted to have a chance to share them with Matthew and Xavi, the lovely friend who had invited me to dinner at his flat in Barcelona when I first arrived and who insisted I join him again on my return. My last few days in Barcelona were less packed but just as much fun as the first few; I enjoyed the Fundación Joan Miró more than any gallery I've been to this trip, and I rounded it all off with a mega-crawl of the scene on my penultimate night, revisiting some old favourites (including Dietrich, where a shine was taken to me by the Dutch squash team, still in town after that week's Gay Games!) and discovering new ones, notably Museo which was chic but unpretentious. I left Barcelona - and, for now, Spain - full of emotions, full of new experiences and lessons learned, all of which I'll sum up in a post of their own. For now it's on with the travels; hasta luego Spain, and ciao Italia!

A Pilgrimage to Palma

2008-07-25T21:00:00.004Z

A few months ago during mum's house move, I came across a large packet of air mail letters, mostly typed, sent over a period of about four years from my grandmother, in Cala Mayor, Mallorca, to my parents, her son and daughter-in-law. All but a very few of them typed, and all on featherweight air mail paper, the letters painted a vivid picture of a life lived joyfully, animatedly, frugally at times but always well, and brought back many memories, fallen into abeyance in the 20-odd years since her death, of a woman who I remember as being beautiful, loving, forthright, awkward at times but more often than not very sympathetic and who above all else loved her two sons and their four children intensely.

Christened Helena, her letters were always signed 'Fritz', the nickname by which all the family knew her, coined (by herself, if I recall) on account of her having a strong Eastern European accent - she was Czechoslovakian by birth - which most people mistook for being German. In Spain, she came to be known as Elena, or more specifically, Señora Elena, and it was from Elena Wright that she would meticulously mark the back of each envelope as having been sent. She also naturally put the address of her apartment, and so when I initially decided that my first trip would be to Spain, I considered including a visit to Mallorca, and to 279 Avenida Joan Miró, in my itinerary. A little online research found that there were quick and convenient flights from Granada to Palma and then on from Palma to Valencia, which although expensive were sufficiently affordable to make the decision final. I booked a cheap hotel which looked, from the website, to be near the apartment (or rather, near where the apartment was - it could easily have been redeveloped since the 1980s) and packed a couple of my favourite letters, ones which gave the most detail about Fritz's day-to-day routine, the things she liked to do, eat or see and with whom, so that once there I would be able better to visualize what her life on Mallorca might have been like.

I arrived early afternoon, after a short and punctual flight from Granada, and my first observation was how huge the airport was for a relatively small island. I quickly realised that of course it would be this big, and busy; even in 1980, Fritz wrote of the island's dependence on tourism and how a bad season for tourist income could affect prices for residents in the shops as businesses sought to recoup their losses, and this vital visitor income has obviously been nurtured in the intervening decades. She wrote too, in a letter from 1982, of how the flight options to and from the island were improving; sadly it was only in the very last couple of years of her life that a new charter airline commenced flights from Palma to Bournemouth which would have vastly eased her journey to our house in a remote village in Dorset. As it was, she would fly from Palma to Gatwick, and make her way from there, her suitcase crammed with cigarettes for my dad (always the wrong brand, always!), cuttings from her beloved spider plants to give to all and sundry, and gifts for my sister - who carries her name - and me. Today she could fly, or at least connect with flights, to pretty much anwhere in the world from Palma de Mallorca, with every budget and charter airline under the sun.

Finding a total dearth of public transport information at the airport, I got into a cab (perhaps recklessly given that I had no idea how far Cala Mayor was from the airport and what the fare therefore might be!) and about twenty minutes later pulled up at the hotel. It was quite old and a little unloved, but I noted that it did at least have a pool, and air-conditioning, and best of all was very close to 279 Avenida Joan Miró. After a quick shower, I headed out to see if Edificio Delfin, as the block was called, was still there; as I walked along the winding road, past the royal family's summer palace, Marivent (her proximity to which I'm surprised Fritz never mentioned in her letters), a luxury hotel, a few private houses and a parade of shops, I was disproportionately nervous, not sure what I would find, or how I would feel. I needn't have worried: Edificio Delfin at 279 Avenida Joan Miró, Cala Mayor, is still very much there, and I felt elated.

I started off by taking a walk round the outside to take a look at the building. The paint's a bit flaky in places, and it's certainly not the most modern block on this particular strip, but it's neat and tidy and fabulously located, just up a path to the beautiful beach of Cala Mayor. Fritz was for two years the president of the residents' committee for Delfin, and I liked to think that the building's current good condition might still in some small part be due to her diligence and vigour in the role. At the foot of the building there's a parade of shops and cafés and, catering to the tastes of Brits abroad, a kebab shop (just up the road there's an Irish pub too). Fritz's apartment was on the 6th floor, and counting up from street level that would have been the top floor. No wonder then that she was able to indulge, as she wrote to my mum in one letter, in what she called 'free sunbathing', safe from neighbours' prying eyes. (Both Fritz and her late husband were keen naturists and she never lost her enthusiasm for it).

I identified the back door to the building which Fritz wrote of as being her shortcut to the beach; to avoid the tourist rush she would swim first thing in the morning, "Just sling over my bathrobe and grab a towel and grab the lift to the 2nd piso [floor] and out of the back entrance de Delfin and [in] 2 minutes run into the water. Then, I swim like a mad satellite or pescado [fish] and back again to my pad..." I would dearly have liked to go inside the building, just to see what it was like - maybe 'grab the lift' from the 6th floor to the 2nd - but alas repeated attempts to get hold of the portero came to nothing so I had to content myself with the exterior. Wanting to live a little of Fritz's life - and hell, wanting some respite from the heat - I went back to the hotel, grabbed my swimmers and returned to the beach, where for the next hour or so I too swam 'like a mad satellite' and reflected on what bliss it must have been to be able to do so every day. I had dinner at the nearest 'proper' restaurant to the flat and on enquiring found that it had been in business for over thirty years, so may well have been frequented by Fritz when she wasn't dining at friends or hosting a dinner herself as was very often the case.

The next day, after watching Hugo Chavez's one hour late arrival in a motorcade at Marivent from my balcony, I did as Fritz used to and hopped on the bus into Palma, the island's capital. While Cala Mayor was as well served by small shops and the like then as it is now, for serious shopping, window or otherwise, Palma's where it's at. On the way we passed the cinema at Terreno where Fritz used to go with her 80-something friend Nessie: "Only 10 mins on the bus and it [shows] English films as well as foreign, sometimes quite good. Sometimes!" This wasn't one of those times, the only English-language offering being Kung Fu Panda, but I was nonetheless pleased to see where Fritz used occasionally to enjoy going of an evening. I found Palma to be an absolutely beautiful city, rich in architecture, blessed with wide, shady streets and full of all sorts of interesting shops large and small, cafés, galleries, restaurants and bars. The port area is très chic; Palma actually feels unspoilt by tourism, rather it thrives on it and values its visitors.

That afternoon, I enacted the most enjoyable part of my 'pilgrimage' - lunch. Above everything else, be it her socialising, her spider plants or the business and scandals of the Delfin Residents' Committee, Fritz loved to write about food, and her love-hate relationship with it. She was - not unlike a certain grandson of hers, you might say! - on the one hand obsessed with her weight, watching every pound, but on the other hand singularly unable to resist the many foodie delights that Mallorca had to offer. In almost every letter she makes reference to a lunch she's given, or a dinner she's been invited to; the best hosts (or worst offenders, depending on how Fritz saw it at the time), were Hubert and Jacques, her gay neighbours. Always referred as The Gays - capital T, capital G - Fritz adored them with a liberalism very rare for a woman of her background and generation and indeed, for the time. The Gays were Dutch and spent half of each year in the Netherlands and half in Mallorca, and would always return bearing edible gifts and especially the smoked mackerel Fritz loved. The particular meal I chose to recreate, however, was one that she described in a letter as being typical of any encounter with 'the natives': "A chunk of Mallorceen [sic] bread with half a kilometre of sobrasada, and ensaimada full of nata (cream)." I had no idea what sobrasada or ensaimada were but soon found out; the former is a spicy sausage/paté hybrid rather like squishy chorizo, and the latter a very light pastry resembling a cross between a Danish and a choux bun dusted with icing sugar. I found a café which had both on the menu and for full authenticity ensured that their sandwiches were made with Mallorcan bread, a very light, very crusty slim baguette. As I ate my delicious meal, I wrote postcards to the family, reviving if only as a one-off the tradition of an 'H Wright' writing from Mallorca.

With just a couple of hours remaining before my flight to Valencia, I returned to Cala Mayor for a last stroll around Fritz's streets and a final look at Edificio Delfin. I tried the porter's bell a couple more times to see if I could get inside but it was obviously not meant to be; instead I ordered a beer at the bar across the road and watched the world go by like Señora Elena used to do. This little corner of an island that she loved, indeed from what I saw, the whole island, is thriving and vibrant and I can see why she would have been so happy here. Exiled from her country of birth, Fritz settled as a refugee in England, met, fell in love with and married my grandfather, had two sons - one my daddy - and had a few years of happiness before being prematurely widowed, after which she sought, and found, some comfort in sunnier climes. Halfway between my hotel and Fritz's flat, there was an old people's home, or Casa de la Tercera Edad. I couldn't stop myself from wondering whether, had cancer not taken her life in only her late sixties, Fritz might today be one of the elderly ladies sitting on the terrace in the shade, having tea brought to her by white-uniformed nurses. Then I got to thinking whether, if she had lived, she would ever have been able to recover from her adored eldest son's own terrible, premature death which came only a decade after hers.

And then I snapped out of it and realised that this is the danger of revisiting the past; we start to wish that it was the present. I'm so pleased and proud that I made the trip I did, and I will always cherish Fritz's beautiful, funny, eloquent and at times salacious letters. But wondering what might have been...that way only sadness lies. The past is history; the present, well that's for living, and my present is taking me to my next stop - Valencia!

I've Andalusian Enough

2008-07-23T12:00:00.007Z

I'm tiled. Not just a little bit tiled, but really, really tiled out. I couldn't be any more tiled. And no, sharp-eyed readers, that's not a repeated typo; I'm referring to the fact that after a week in Andalusia I have seen more mosaics, Moorish azulejo tiling and marble floors than anyone needs to see in a lifetime.

To put this into a historical context: Andalusia, Spain's Southern-most region (and fuck me its hottest region too, but more of that in a while) was over a period of roughly seven centuries, from the 8th to the 15th AD, fought over in the most brutal fashion possible by Moors (Muslims) and Catholics and conquered, reconquered and then conquered again by each religion until the Catholics finally triumphed, for good, in 1492. As a result, the architecture of the region is an at times fascinating mish-mash of styles, not just typical of the two cultures' constant efforts to assert their supremacy through building, but also of the various centuries they span. Add to this already heady mix the architectural legacy of the significant Jewish communities which existed in the region until their expulsion by the Catholic conquerors at the end of the 15th Century, and you have quite a melting pot of styles. But, there's so much of it, with seemingly every city, town and village boasting its own 'spectacular' site, that one can have too much of a good thing - as I found.

Things started well, in Cordoba, just an hour and forty minutes from Madrid on the high-speed AVE train (a great way to travel, fast, spacious, spotless and punctual - Virgin Trains, look and learn...). Although initially shocked at the scorching 43º heat on the afternoon I arrived, I wanted to make the most of my time so after a siesta and a cool shower in my lovely room at the Tryp Gallos Hotel, I slathered myself in factor 40 and headed out into the old town. One of Cordoba's must see sights (according to my 'Top 25 Sights in Andalusia' book) is the Juderia or old Jewish quarter, and this attractive jumble of winding, cobbled streets lined with whitewashed houses is certainly very pretty and, because of the shade afforded by the narrowness of the roads, comparatively cool. There's much adornment with azulejo (blue-enamelled) tiling, and the old synagogue is one of very few still existing in this region and thus a poignant sight (and site). There isn't however a very great deal to do in Juderia once one's seen it, and so I moved on to Cordoba's real crowd-pleaser and UNESCO World Heritage Site, the Mezquita.

This was one of the most spectacular things I've ever seen. There can be no starker example of the religious conflict I referred to than this: the Mezquita is, essentially, an enormous, elaborate cathedral built bang slap in the middle of an enormous, elaborate mosque, as if somehow the cathedral fell out of the sky. The sheer scale of both structures, which come together, incongruously, to form one, takes your breath away (and indeed triggers expletives - at various points I muttered a 'Fuck me!' with sheer astonishment only to remember that I was in a house of God/Allah and really ought not to swear). There's also the visual splendour of it; the ceiling of the mosque section is supported by well over a thousand pillars which in turn support red and white striped arches (Wally would have a field day hiding here) and then the cathedral ceiling soars up into the sky like a rocket launch pad amidst it all. Finally - and of course - there's tiling, of incredibly intricacy, in the mirhab, marking the direction of Mecca, adorning the walls, ceilings and floors; it's spectacular craftsmanship and it saddened me that the Catholics had to go and build the treasury, holding their undeniably impressive stash of cathedral gold and processional gew-gaws, right next to it.

After lunch I went out to explore the newer part of Cordoba, to the north of the city, but found nothing to excite apart from the occasional pretty church, square or civic building. I did however discover something very important for anyone travelling in Spain in the heat: El Corte Ingles, the department store chain (Spain's Debenhams) has the best air conditioning of anywhere at the entrance to their stores, so if you're about to drop from heat or just need to cool off, head for there and pretend to be browsing. This took me up to dinner time and, wanting to put Cordoba's reputation for fine tapas to the test with minimal walking, headed back to the restaurant-lined streets of Juderia. There, in a very attractive taberna, and for only €15, I enjoyed a fantastic six-course menú de tapas which among other treats included salmorejo, an Andalucian speciality consisting of a sort of thick, creamy gazpacho topped with crispy bacon bits and diced onion, and fritos de la huerta, Spanish tempura, gorgeous, salty little strips of battered peppers and onions that frankly, I could live on if it wouldn't make me fat(ter).

The next day I got up early-ish and headed for Cordoba's other big tourist draw, the Alcazar (no, not they of Crying At The Discotheque fame, it's a place). This former palace and prison has a history both illustrious and dubious: while on the one hand it can claim to be the palace from where the discovery of America was planned, it was also the seat of the Spanish Inquisition (which nobody expected). Although largely empty, there are some impressive tapestries and original furnishings to be seen, in addition to which there are - you guessed it - mosaics aplenty both inside, in Roman form, and outside, in the beautiful gardens where azulejo abounds. Fancying a spot of lunch before my late-afternoon train to Seville, I picked a little restaurant with an interesting and reasonable lunch menu and ordered consommé to start and callos con chorizo y patatas to follow. I wasn't exactly sure what callos was, but I like chorizo and potatoes so figured I'd like callos too, but this was to be my first culinary bum note of the trip. For while many of you may feel that I talk a lot of tripe, until my main course arrived I'd never eaten tripe, which is what callos turned out to be. Still, I soldiered on - I was ravenous - and it wasn't actively unpleasant; slithery, chewy, rather like the fat on pork belly but tasting of not very much at all. A lesson learned and one word of Spanish I'll never forget!

My stomach full - albeit of, er, stomach - I boarded the train to Seville and forty five minutes later disembarked in Andalucia's capital city where it was a positively wintery 38º. I hopped in a cab to the hotel, the Tryp Macarena, and was delighted to pull up a few minutes later at a beautiful, palatial building in the Moorish mudejar style where I was very warmly welcomed by a receptionist who complemented me on my Spanish! Whether he'd taken a shine to me or whether it was simple good luck I don't know, but my bargain room, booked online, turned out to be vast, practically a suite, with a separate lounge area, marble bathroom and - best of the best - a balcony overlooking the old city walls and the minor basilica across the road. I could cheerfully have holed up there for the next two days but that not being the point of travelling, headed out on foot to the Barrio Santa Cruz, about twenty minutes along narrow cobbled streets with a huge church seemingly at the end of every one. The Barrio is, like the Juderia, Seville's old Jewish quarter and while certainly very attractive to look at I didn't find it to be especially different to the Juderia. Still, it was a 'must see' ticked off the list and after a couple of beers I headed happily back to the hotel to consider what to do for the evening.

This question resolved itself when I popped out of the hotel for a stroll and to phone mum. Remember that minor basilica I mentioned? Well, it's designated a basilica because it houses a particularly magnificent and ostensibly mystical image of the Virgin (Our Lady of The Macarena since you're wondering, and no, I didn't ask if she knows all the dance moves) which, on certain Sundays in the year, the devoted like to parade through the streets of Seville, dressed in all their finery, carrying processional staffs and crosses, wafting incense and cheering, all accompanied by a brass band. One of those Sundays, you've guessed it, happened to be this one, and so I crossed over the road and joined the crowds to watch the parade - and the band of the 2nd Seville Sea Cadets, *sigh* - go by. This was enormous fun, as well as quite moving, and best of all the next evening when it was on the TV news I saw that I'd been caught on camera!

Monday morning I headed to Seville Cathedral, considered one of the most impressive in the world and its third largest after St Peter's in Rome and St Paul's in London (the Londoner in me loved discovering this fact). It really is magnificent, housing some 40-odd chapels of varying degrees of opulence, an unfeasibly intricate and immense gilded high altar, the tomb - putatively, there's much debate about this - of Columbus, and the Giralda or bell tower, accessed by 34 ramps and a final flight of stairs which in spite of my fear of heights I pushed myself to climb. I'm glad I did, not just for the sense of achievement but for the spectacular aerial views of the city it afforded; Seville is just as beautiful from above as from below. From there I walked on to the Plaza de España, an immense crescent-shaped pavilion and piazza built for the less-than-successful Ibero-American Fair in 1929. It's extremely beautiful on the whole (LOTS of tiling, natch) but it's sad that parts of it have been allowed to fall into disrepair while others, now used as local government offices, are maintained. Feeling the heat - 41º, I believe - I walked back only so far, taking in a couple more monuments including the bull ring, then took the blissfully air-conditioned bus back to the hotel along the riverside, taking in the views of the vast park and landmark buildings erected for the World Exhibition (EXPO) which Seville proudly hosted in 1992.

I went on to have a fantastic evening. I started off with a couple of glasses of chilled fino and some delicious tapas in a fairly swankified bar opposite the hotel, where I got into a fascinating conversation with the barman about the correct temperature for serving sherry at. I read my (Spanish) newspaper, let the muzak wash over me, heard the church bells ringing, with the sun still shining all the while, and really did feel at that moment that everything was right with the world. Then, as night fell, I ventured back to the Barrio Santa Cruz and discovered to my delight that what by day I'd felt had little to distinguish it from the Juderia was by night a buzzing, vibrant, exciting place to be, where young Sevillians ram every tapas bar, spilling out onto the terraces and eating, drinking and chatting into the wee small hours. I found a terrace table at what looked like a fairly hip joint, ordered a beer and some tapas and sat back and drank in the atmosphere; it really was a moment. I rounded off the night with a visit to Isbillyya, a water-front gay bar and club which although relatively quiet when I arrived at around 1AM was packed and banging by 2. The out-and-out highlight of my night was the drag flamenco show; Andalucia is known as the birthplace of flamenco, and I'd seen some out and about, but this was truly different, being both technically accomplished (I'd say) and hilariously camp at the same time. I also met a very friendly - and non-predatory - local with whom I was able to have a good old chat and clear up a few words and phrases I'd been struggling with (callos not among them!)

Next morning, with a train booked for later that afternoon, I visited the Reales Alcazares (Royal Alcazar - this one, unlike Cordoba's, earns the title Real by virtue of its still being the residence of the King and Queen of Spain when in Seville) and while it's certainly very impressive, it was filled with yet more bloody tiling, predominantly mudejar, yet more arches and yet more tapestries. Despite feeling a complete Philistine I just couldn't muster much enthusiasm for it, but I did love the extensive and very pretty gardens which to be honest I felt were the real attraction here. Fruit was out on some of the trees and, unable to resist the temptation to set up the line that's coming, I got my gums round the King of Spain's plums. That, frankly, was worth the €8 entry fee alone.

OK you've been very patient to read this far so I'll try to be brief about my next stop, Granada. In fact that won't prove too difficult, because I've very little to say about the place, or at least very little that's positive. I didn't like the hotel much - it was badly in need of modernisation - and the sights just didn't win me over. The Albaicin, the old Moorish part of the city made up of labyrinthine streets lined with shisha bars, craft shops and cafés, seemed to me to resemble nothing more than a giant Camden; my inner snob came roaring out and I all but fled what felt to me like a horribly smug atmosphere of crusty/hippiness that in 2008 seems retrograde and incongruous. The Alhambra (and dear God am I going to get shot down for this but here goes) didn't impress me much either; despite being Spain's most visited monument by quite some way, this gigantic hilltop complex of palaces, fortresses and gardens is arduous to trek round, poorly signed (for €13 entry fee they could at least provide a free map, but no such luck) and compared to, say, the Mezquita, not as deeply rich in history as it thinks it is. Back in the city I did very much enjoy visiting the Capilla Real, the stunning final resting place of Ferdinand and Isabel, Spain's most famous rulers in history and conquerors of Andalucia, but other than that and coupled with a horribly touristy feel to the whole city, the best thing frankly was getting on the plane out.

The plane which will take me to Mallorca, the Balearic island where my paternal grandmother lived out the last few years of her life and in whose footsteps I am hoping to tread.

Caña Feel It?

2008-07-19T19:40:00.009Z

In a moment you'll get the title of this post and having seen what I did there, should find yourselves helpless with laughter, or at least chuckling merrily. But until we reach that point, let me tell you about Madrid.

My three days in Spain's capital can be pretty much summed up in three words: art, walking and booze. Anyone who knows me even semi well will immediately see that these are three very good things, and will surmise that I had a good time. And you would surmise right, because after a few hours of post-Barcelona blues, I did indeed have a very splendid time and have a new found love for Madrid that I didn't get from my last (and until now, first) visit some years ago. Let's start with the art: Madrid is justly famous for having, in close proximity to one another, three of Europe's and indeed the world's finest art galleries - the Prado, the Centro Reina Sofia and the Thyssen-Bornemisza. Having visited the Prado in the past, but not the others, I made the Thyssen-Bornemisza (named after the absurdly wealthy Baron and Baroness whose private art collection this still, technically, is) my first port of call after checking into my brilliantly located if slightly shabby hotel. It's an interesting collection, and a beautiful space, but it lacks any real wow factor; there are lots of pieces by acknowledged masters, but no masterpieces, if you catch my drift. Far more interesting, and impressive, was the Reina Sofia which I visited on Thursday, which concentrating as it does on European 20th century art, was bursting at the grouting with Dalí, Miró (please just say if that little thingy over the vowels is starting to irritate you) and Picasso, including Pablo's monochrome masterpiece, Guernica, which occupies its own vast room with an accompanying contextual exhibition to bring home the horror of the massacre it portrays.

My favourite art moment however was at neither of the above, but at the Caixa Forum, which I just chanced upon while walking back up Paseo del Prado. It's a striking building, clad in oxidised metal lattice (designed I found out by Herzog de Meuron, they of Tate Modern fame) and housing the art collection of, and temporary exhibitions funded by, la Caixa, one of Spain's big banks. Unusually for an art space in Madrid, it's also free, so in I went and was delighted to find that a whole floor had been dedicated to an exhibition of the work of Alfons Mucha, a brilliant Czech graphic artist to whom PV had introduced me (well to his work anyway, not to the artist who is a) long dead and b) not a personal chum of PV's, as far as I'm aware). Another floor was given over to an exhibition about the life and work of Charlie Chaplin, which I must say is not a subject I thought I'd ever find engrossing but certainly did. Topped off with lunch in the restaurant on the top floor (gazpacho*, chicken schnitzel, truffle tart and a glass of vino for €12 gets my vote any day) during which I was heavily eyed up by a rather handsome bear who was lunching with his parents (yes, Mummy Bear and Daddy Bear - whether or not they were eating porridge I couldn't see) and it was quite a fabulous couple of hours.

*Keen-eyed readers will have noticed that I'm eating a lot of gazpacho. Please be assured that it's not because it's the only thing I can understand on the menu, it's because firstly I love gazpacho and love seeing - or rather, tasting - what each particular restaurant's take on it is, and secondly, it's ridiculously good for you and tomotaoes help to protect your skin from sun damage which as you will all know, I need!

I mentioned walking, and yes, there was a lot of that. Madrid divides up into eight districts, each with its own very particular mood and style, and I managed to walk the length and breadth of six of them and at least pass through the other two. I only used the Metro maybe two or three times, and one of those was to get to the hotel from the airport! Of the eight my particular favourites were Chueca, which although known as Madrid's gay village is also home to some of its coolest bars and one which I have fallen in love with for life: the splendidly named Bar Cock on Calle de la Reina, and Malasaña, the gritty, arty maze of streets north of the arse end of Gran Via, where spit-and-sawdust cervecerias rub shoulders with trendier shops and grungy speak-easys.

The absolute highlight of the stay - and we're getting to the punchline now, folks - was my discovery of the caña tradition. Basically, from about 8pm onwards, if you go to any bar or cafe and order a caña you will receive not only a glass of draught beer (anything from a small wine glass size to a full half pint) and tapas of some sort. There's absolutely no telling just from looking what sort of deal you're going to get; some places offer no more than a bit of bread and salami, while others offer dishes piled high with patatas bravas, chorizo or tuna salad. The one certainty however is that the most you're likely to pay for this privilege is €2, but most often no more than about €1.20-€1.50. Working your way from bar to bar having maybe one or two cañas in each is a very economical way to a) eat yourself silly and b) get slightly pissed, all for very little money indeed.

All in all, I really fell for Madrid and its non-stop, high speed, 24 hour way of life. There really is something very invigorating at being in the thick of it and I'm already excited at the thought of going back. Next stop: Cordoba, where my Andalucia leg of the trip begins!

Besos from Barcelona

2008-07-16T11:41:00.005Z

Talk about time flying; here we are a week since my last post and already it's time to move on to the next destination, in this case Madrid on the 12.30 flight. Which given the proximity of Matthew's flat to the station just about gives me time to quickly fill you in on what I've spent the first week of my travels doing. Firstly though, as it's cropped up in passing, I should mention how very lucky I've been accommodation wise. Matthew really lucked out with this, his latest Barcelona pad (and there have been a few!) - large, bright, modern-ish and thankfully cool, and in an amazing central location in the very trendy district of El Raval. The brilliant location means I've been able to walk everywhere so it's been good for my health too!

Walking has in itself been probably my principle pastime while here. BCN is a very walkable city - you could if so inclined get from its southernmost point on the Barceloneta to its northern reaches of Gracia in twenty minutes and a straight line, and being largely on a grid system even Americans can find their way around with relative ease. The only part of the city which doesn't follow any discernible logic in terms of planning is the ancient Barri Gotíc or Gothic Quarter, and it's such a beautiful jumble of streets, squares and churches that getting lost there is actually part of the fun, and exactly what I quite deliberately did on (hang on...checking notebook...) Friday of last week. Friday was a day for contrasts; after the very old of the Barri Gotíc it was in with the new at the ultra-modern, uber-minimalist new Museum of Contemporary Art (MACBA) which can best be summed up from my jotted notes which run, in their entirety, to: "Amazing building - crap art."

The weekend saw Matthew and I up sticks and head down the coast to good old Sitges, and boy has it changed, even in the year since I was there last. Sitges was always bordering on the tacky - the easy comparison being that Sitges was to Barcelona what Brighton is to London, i.e. somewhere city dwellers bugger off to for the weekend - but this time around I found little to love. Maybe it was just that we arrived on a Saturday, but the place was absolutely rammed with tourists, and not just fabulous gay tourists but families, hundreds of them, clogging every street with their double prams and triple chins. One of the things I've always loved about Sitges is that it felt so unremittingly gay, with gay people in gay bars drinking gay drinks, and really didn't get that feel this time around. I don't think I'm alone in feeling this either, judging by the scowls on almost every face among the rows of guys sitting facing off across the main drag outside Parrots Bar and Parrots Cafe; or maybe they were just all German (yes folks, good old fashioned xenophobia is alive and well and living on thirtysomethingandfabulous).

(It wasn't just the boys in the café who were scowling: there was a moment on Sunday morning when I feared for my life despite being within the supposedly safe confines of the very-nice-I-must-say Parrots Hotel where we were staying. Matthew and I went down around 11.00 for breakfast and began to help ourselves from the buffet. I needed tea, as I always do of a morning, and found that the hot water dispensing function of the coffee machine worked very slowly and needed repeated pressings of the dispense button to produce enough for even a single cuppa. Turning away from the machine to go and enjoy my brekker, I saw that a queue of caffeine-starved queens had built up behind me while I'd been leisurely filling my cup and each and every one of them was giving me death stares. In fact I swear one of them was readying to stab me in the eye with a fork. The moral of the story and Lesson Learned #1: Never Come Between A Queen And His Morning Coffee.)

But it was far from a gloomy time, despite Saturday's torrential downpour and spectacular lightning storm; we spent a good amount of Sunday on one of the non-commercial stretches of beach, away from the incessant hawkers of drinks/massages/sunglasses that offer no protection at all, and in the evening, Matthew having had to return to Barcelona ready for work on Monday, I was left to my own devices. I wanted to go somewhere I hadn't tried before for dinner, and then on for drinks somewhere I wouldn't look out of place (or like I was cruising for nookie) on my own, so I asked the receptionist at the hotel for his recommendations. Both were excellent: I had a delicious al fresco dinner of gazpacho, carpaccio and foie gras at El Xalet, sitting by an outdoor swimming pool at a candlelit table, and then moved on to El Piano (yes everywhere has an 'El' in Sitges, it seems) where I chanced upon PV's good friends The Michaels and ceased to be alone. We joined forces for a bar crawl around town and I headed to bed around 3am (at a guess) having had a thoroughly enjoyable night.

Hauling my rather hungover frame back to Barcelona early Monday afternoon, I spent the rest of the day convalescing and reading The Mitfords (which is getting a post of its own, it was so good) leaving the flat only to help Matthew lug home the shopping for the dinner he'd offered to make. Resolving to make better use of Tuesday, I went for another epic walk, this time up, down and all around the swankiest shopping streets of Passeig de Gracia and Avenida Diagonal, chancing along the way upon the Palau Robert, a beautiful town house with a quiet, shaded garden which was a very welcome haven from the heat and bustle. For lunch, I took myself off to Flash Flash, a deservedly famous and trendy tortilleria where the suprisingly formal (but not at all snooty) service made me feel very special even though I was only having a snack and a glass of vino. That evening - my last - Matthew and I ate at home again, before heading out for a night-cap at Carpe Diem, his 'local faggy bar' to use his words, where we sipped on voddie and nibbled the barman's nuts while watching Spain's equivalent of X-Factor on the big screen.

And so to bed, and thence full circle to this morning, which sees me leave Barcelona - reluctantly I must admit given the lovely time I've had - for the high octane capital city Madrid. More of this, if you've not died of boredom yet, from there!

Club Class, and classless clubbing.

2008-07-10T15:07:00.005Z

Well, a big hola to you all from Barcelona on my first afternoon in this lovely city. I'm taking it easy today after a late night (is there any other sort in Spain, I hear you cry...) which saw Matthew and me up to our hips in foam, throwing shapes to Kylie at a fiesta de espuma in one of the clubs (I couldn't tell you which one they're all so similar; it's ten years since I first visited Barcelona and the scene is still practically unchanged!) Classy it was not; the one pair of jeans I packed is ruined, and much of my skin is dyed indigo blue, but it was a hoot and a half and a great way to start my visit.

The absolute highlight so far though was my trip out: I could get very, very used to flying Club class. The dedicated check-in desks; the roomy, peaceful lounge with booze on tap and freebies galore; boarding and disembarking the plane first; real glass to drink champers from (which was topped up throughout the flight by the lovely gay trolley dolly who also slipped me two miniature bottles of Pommery to take with me!); proper food, extra legroom...definitely worth every extra penny, but if I'm going to stick to anything like my budget for this travelling lark I'm going to have to be very strict about going economy with Club as an occasional treat.

Tonight we're going for dinner at a friend of Matthew's, so I'll get to put faces to the names of the various chums and chumesses he's spoken of over the years he's been here. He doesn't seem very happy at the moment but I think that's homesickness more than anything; hopefully I can put a smile back on his face or at least have fun trying! I'm already missing Alyn like mad; I've been in a sort of denial over the last few weeks about how much I would miss seeing him and now that I'm facing the prospect of not having him next to me for a few weeks it's making me feel a bit sick. Time to give him a call, in fact, so hasta luego and more of this nonsense soon!

We're in the Cinnamon-ey

2008-06-21T21:54:00.006Z

After a couple of months of anxiety, and an especially tense last few days to the process, the sale of the house finally completed and my bank account - overdrawn, often hideously, for pretty much the whole of the last decade - went very substantially into credit. This happy event marked the conquest of the final obstacle to beginning 'Phase 2' of my life - doing away with all debt and with it the necessity to work, at least for a while - and to celebrate I invited Andrew (the architect, with myself, of Phase 2) to dinner at any restaurant of his choosing. Having heard good things about it in the Westminster corridors of power through which he daily struts, Andrew plumped for haute-Indian The Cinnamon Club, in the old Westminster Library on Great Smith Street.

Wishing to start the evening with a little celebratory bubbly, we headed first to Zander near St James's Park. Propped up on two bar-stools like a pair of post-work Manhattan chicks, we sipped our way through a bottle of Prosecco while nibbling on lotus roots and dissecting the SATC movie which we'd both seen that week (broadly speaking we both loved it, bar one or two minor quibbles and one major one - mine - namely that I don't think she should ultimately have done you-know-what with you-know-who.) Whether it was our stunning good looks, our irresistible charm or just great customer service I don't know, but we were also showered with freebies by the ruggedly-handsome Dutch barman: two further glasses of pink Prosecco (try it - it's delicious) along with a generous serving of chilled strawberries. The high spirits were heightened further when I gave Andrew the gift I'd for so long wanted to give him but until today had been unable to afford; the gorgeous silver leather Patrick Cox shoes which he had fallen in love with the minute they stepped onto the catwalk months before.

Refreshed, we made our way through the still sunny streets to the restaurant, and were impressed from the off as we were ushered into one of the most beautiful dining rooms either of us had seen in London. The library's wood panelling and high-rise shelving has been largely preserved, and a mezzanine overlooks the main room and its enclosed, private dining offshoots. Even at just after 7.30 the restaurant was very nearly full and within a short time every table was occupied (one close to ours by a gaggle of screeching Americans, sadly) and the atmosphere buzzing. Whilst perusing the menu we enjoyed a cocktail from the cleverly put-together list; the cocktails, somewhat like the food, are familiar European favourites given an Indian twist and my Spice Martini, with its hint of cardamom, was fantastic.

Food was difficult to choose given that everything sounded absolutely mouth-watering. Despite being relatively compact - nine starters, eleven mains and a couple of specials and tasting plates - the menu covers all bases in that it offers meat, poultry, fish and vegetarian choices all of which tempted us enormously. (NB: for those unable to decide, or feeling particularly adventurous, or both, there's an eight-course tasting menu.) On top of this, you're also able to choose from a small selection of 'showcase' dishes from another high-flying restaurant, in this case superstar chef Eric Chavot's two Michelin-starred The Capital. I loved this idea, one I'd never come across before, and so I opted for Chavot's crab risotto with truffle cappuccino to start while Andrew went for seared scallops with stir fried mushrooms and coconut and mussel broth. Both were superb, proof of the extremely high quality of the seafood used in each dish being in the eating. My risotto was perhaps a little heavy on cheese, but the pan fried king prawns it came topped with more than compensated for this.

Staying with a seafood theme for his main, Andrew chose grilled wild African prawn with tomato lemon sauce and coconut rice, while I went onto dry land and (blocking out all memories of Bambi) went for roasted saddle of Oisin deer with pickling spices. Both were gold-star, merit badge, top of the class standard; Andrew's 'prawn' turned out in fact to be three huge prawns each the size of a small lobster and gorgeously smoky from the tandoor, while my deer, cooked perfectly pink, tasted deliciously spice-hot and tart. Confident that desserts would be as good, we both ordered the coconut plate and loved the 'three ways'-style treat with which we were subsequently served; a scoop of creamy coconut ice-cream, a miniature brule and a warm, fried donut-y beignet. And it wasn't only the food that delighted us; service from the moment we sat down, throughout every course, and as we left was a joy; warm, courteous and very respectful, but without a trace of the stuffiness one might expect from a restaurant known by some at lunchtime as 'The Commons' Canteen'.

The bill...well yes of course at the end of all this, what with cocktails, three courses, moderate wine (honest!), coffee and service, was none too pretty, but the night had always been planned as a special celebratory treat and it fitted that purpose exactly. Eating at The Cinnamon Club will never be a cheap night out anyway, with starters ranging from £7.50 to £15 and mains going as high as £32, but if it's bargain Baltis you're after then there are tens of thousands of local Indian restaurants who will very happily oblige. If, like we did on the other hand, you want a very special meal and to experience something new culinarily, then the Club should certainly feature highly on your list.

We finished off what had been a thoroughly enjoyable and divinely decadent evening with a couple of cocktails looking out over the Thames at Skylon; amazingly (considering my love of the new) I had never visited until now but will surely be back very soon for another of their terrifically mixed vodka Martinis...!

Saturday S.L.U.T.S.

2008-06-12T09:06:00.003Z

Part of staying fabulous is staying fit (or at least, reasonably so) but I've never been able to enjoy sport - always being the last-picked fatty in P.E. has scarred me for life - and I'm utterly turned off by the whole gay gym cult and the vast majority of its practitioners. So it was with unusually little resistance that I let Margo and Patsy talk me into joining the South London Urban Training Squad, aka S.L.U.T.S.!

Meeting (usually) on Saturday mornings, S.L.U.T.S. is a loosely-knit collective of thirtysomething gay guys who want to work out and get fit while having a hoot-and-a-half in a totally attitude free environment. Spring Gardens - to much of gay London a place to chill out, cruise or indeed collapse after a night of clubbing - provides a wonderfully versatile location for the group to meet, offering not just plenty of open, green space but also a basketball court where each session begins with about twenty minutes of either basketball, netball or footie, or a combination of the three for those of us who never could tell the difference. Then follows a fairly intensive forty minutes or so of circuit training (who'd have thought that two minutes of star jumps could bring a grown man - OK, me - to the brink of tears?) before we warm down with ten to fifteen minutes of stretches. This Sunday just gone, the stretches were led by an extremely expert Jerry, who showed us that he has obviously paid attention at every keep-fit class he's ever joined, even if he's never gone back...

S.L.U.T.S. is a great idea, and absolutely perfect for anyone who, like me, wants to get some exercise but is turned off by the twattery and attitude of most gyms or the competitiveness of some groups. At the moment membership extends to only a handful of us (although Patsy did attempt a recruitment drive at the Vauxhall Street Fair the other week...) but the aim is to grow S.L.U.T.S. into a collective large enough to sustain occasional absences of its members - three of us are away this coming Saturday which has put paid to that meeting - and to rotate the duties of organising it all which currently lie with Patsy and Margo. That said, Margo appears in his element channeling his inner school-mistress and never appears happier than when chastising the 'lower VI' for misbehaviour or handing out ten second penalties for stopping during the circuits!

Usually S.L.U.T.S. meets at 10.00 on Saturday mornings by the basketball court in Spring Gardens, weather permitting, and afterwards adjourns to the nearest greasy spoon to undo at least some of the morning's good work. If you like the sound of that, do please get in touch. There are no joining criteria whatsoever - we'll even accept straight members! - just as long as you leave your attitude in your kit bag and promise to get into the spirit of it. Whether you end up behaving like a lower-case slut with anyone you may meet there is entirely up to you!

A Close-knit Family

2008-05-30T17:23:00.001Z

Easily my joint most exciting invitation of the week was to Thursday night's launch party for Sibling, my very dear friend Sid's new and uber-luxe knitwear label. A joint business venture with his partner Joe and friend Coz, Sibling finally sees Sid designing a collection in his own right after many (extremely successful) years designing knitwear for such fashion big-hitters as Bella Freud, Lanvin, Alexander McQueen and Giles. The trio really are the ultimate dream team: Sid's technical wizardry when it comes to knitwear innovation is the stuff of fashion legend; Joe (Bates), ex of Dave & Joe and now a lecturer in fashion design is a creative force to be reckoned with; and Coz (Cozette McCreery) is one of the best PRs and best connected people in the industry, as well as an idol to a generation of clubkids as one of the team behind BoomBox.

The venue was Cordy House, an event space on Curtain Road, so given the Hoxditch location I erred on the sartorial side of caution and decked myself out in a variation on the usual fash-bash uniform: rolled up indigo jeans, paint splat Converse and my black Jens Laugesen t-shirt. I accessorised with a bit of sparkle (my diamante cuff) and a yellow belt and topped the whole look off with the gorgeous black cashmere and fox scarf which Sid - the angel - made me years ago as a gift to cheer me up when I was going through a bad patch. (NB: that's a true friend!)

Arriving not too long after the 7.00 start time (I'd got side-tracked by a slightly surreal cider tasting involving a Jill Tyrell lookalike - don't ask), it was encouraging to see that there was already quite a crowd gathered. When fashion people, whose relationship with punctuality is as notoriously ambivalent as it is with food, are on time for something, you know that you've hit on something big. I did a fair bit of mingling throughout the evening and was encouraged to find that many of the crowd were press, buyers, bloggers (!) etc who can hopefully provide the oxygen of publicity that a fledgling label needs. There were also a few old faces who I was over the moon to see, not least the designers and all-round lovely chaps Tristan Webber and Markus Lupfer (who I still have a huge crush on, even after seven or eight years of acquaintance) and Guy, a long-time friend of Sid's (and I like to think, mine) who has modelled for the collection.

The collection, of course, is what the evening was all about, and boy is menswear about to get a kick up the arse (which, according to the press release, is Sibling's avowed intent). The complete collection was on display, partly modelled by Sid, Coz and Joe and partly in a video installation which can be seen on the website, and it's incredible. Sibling has taken knit- and men's-wear staples and reworked them in luxury fabrics embellished with the most intricately artisanal beading and embroidery. So, a classic Breton sweater (also available as a vest and cardigan) has its navy and cream stripes laid out in tiny mother of pearl panels. A perfectly tailored grey prep school blazer is tipped in fluoro orange and carries Sibling's own house crest. The carousel pony adorning the full front of a heavy-gauge sweater has a mane of real horse hair; and my absolute favourites, the dove grey cashmere 'Ratus Ratus' sloppy joe of which the entire shoulders and breast plate are covered with crawling pink rats, and the twin-sets with leopard spots in a variety of candy colours, all formed of bugle beads.

The inspiration, craftsmanship and sheer extravagance of Sibling's first collection is quite genuinely unlike anything I have ever seen in menswear. Sid, Coz and Joe have not just created something beautiful, but also something truly unique, and I find that enormously exciting considering the general stagnation of men's fashion over the last few years. Of course, given the immense complexity of the vast majority of pieces, I can only imagine that prices are going to be absolutely eye-watering, but these are real investment pieces which I can easily envisage cropping up in the permanent collection of the V & A in years to come. The beauty of any Sibling knit is that it will never just be part of an outfit, it will be the outfit, the entire focal point not just of your look but of any room you may happen to enter wearing it.

Sibling is certainly not for the faint hearted - it takes a lot of chutzpah to carry off a ski sweater adorned with a skull and crossbones pattern in neon mink - but for those who love making a statement with their clothing and want to support some all too rare creative artistry, this is a label to be reckoned with. I for one already love it like, well, a sibling, and I think we'll make for a very happy family together.

Liza, with a 'gee!'

2008-05-27T21:48:00.002Z

Sometimes an invitation comes along that's so fantastic, you wonder what saintly good deeds you could have possibly done in a past life to have accrued so much positive karma. I seem to get a lot of these and so I'm beginning to wonder if, in my last incarnation, I may in fact have been Gandhi. The surest evidence of this came this Monday, when Alyn and I were the highly delighted recipients of two free tickets - best seats too, don't ya know - to see Liza Minelli, in concert, at the London Coliseum.

My expectations were, I have to confess, pretty low; not for want of loving Liza, for love her I do, but because based on recent form I just didn't think she'd be up to much. The last time I'd seen her perform was on a chat show, where she had sung - or rather, half-sung, half-spoken - while seated; a far cry from her high-kicking, high-notes Sally Bowles heyday. Throw in the hip surgery, yo-yo dieting and all too well-publicised messy, acrimonious divorce, and it doesn't bode well. Boy was I surprised then, when out on stage walked a very svelte, very steady Ms Minelli, who proceeded to wow us for the next ninety minutes with full-on, all out razzle dazzle that would put a woman half her age to shame.

Boldly eschewing much of her back catalogue, in the first half Liza - in astoundingly good voice - belted out a variety of punchy Broadway numbers, Kander and Ebb staples and smoky torch songs, mostly from atop a high bar stool placed centre-stage. Alyn was thrilled that she included his personal favourite, Maybe This Time from Cabaret, and I was ecstatic (as indeed was the entire audience) when she wrapped up Act One with the film's title number. Liza sang the line 'Well that's what comes from too much pills and liquor' with a knowing smile and roll of the eyes which suggested that she was rightly proud of having overcome her own very public battles with drugs and booze. Good on ya girl.

If Act One was fairly static and sedate, it was only because Liza was saving her energies for Act Two - an homage to the '50s stage shows of her godmother, Kay Thompson, and her backing singers The Williams Brothers (Andy and his three siblings). This was a real treat; while many of the numbers were unfamiliar, it was pure entertainment seeing Liza and the boys singing, dancing and hand-clapping like their lives depended on it. The energy was sky-high and by the time Liza wrapped up the proceedings with an all-out belting of New York, New York, the capacity crowd, we two included, had been whipped up into a Minelli-loving frenzy which could only be expressed through a five minute standing ovation and a good half dozen curtain calls.

The songs aside, there was so much else to love about this show. The outfits for a start were pure showbiz royalty glam; think sequins, bugle beads, one shoulder smocks, headbands and heels. The final, red ensemble included ruby slippers that were surely conceived as a nod to the most famous of 'Momma's' roles, emphasising Liza's status as the ultimate friend of Dorothy's. Which leads to another, delicious aspect of the evening: the endless, shameless name-dropping that only someone of Liza's stellar celebrity and lineage could get away with. As well as a few (and in fairness, judicious) references to 'Momma', we were also regaled with tales of 'my godmother, Kay Thompson', 'my godson, Ira Gershwin', 'my friend Stephen Sondheim', 'my dears John Kander and Fred Ebb' and even - when asserting New York, New York as being her signature song - to 'my Uncle Frank [Sinatra]'. Invariably these names cropped up in one of a succession of high camp anecdotes from Liza's five decade career. My absolute favourite came early on when Liza told us about the time she volunteered to stand in for the actress playing Roxie Hart in the original Broadway production of Chicago when the latter was invalided out after swallowing...a feather. Alyn and I agreed that this was quite possibly the gayest thing we'd ever heard, and laughed ourselves hoarse.

It wasn't all brilliant however; a lot of the banter between songs seemed clunky and unspontaneous (although there wasn't, as far as I could see, an autocue, as used by Ms Barbra Streisand...!) and the interminable introductions to and thanking of her various band members, crew and co-performers added about ten minutes to the show when we would much rather have had a couple of extra numbers instead. Also, it was somewhat disappointing that there was absolutely no merchandise to be had, not even programmes; while on the one hand it was refreshing to not be assaulted with over-priced tat for a change, on the other it would have been nice to be able to take away a rather more durable reminder of this momentous evening than just one's ticket stub. Finally, if perhaps uncharitably, I do think that for a top whack of £95 (notwithstanding that we didn't pay a cent for our tickets!) Liza could perhaps have stretched out the evening rather longer - even with a decent interval, we were still out on the pavement of St Martin's Lane well before 10pm. But these are all minor quibbles; this was a truly unforgettable evening and an emotional one too, as we witnessed what can only be described as a triumphant return to form for this most revered of gay icons.

And speaking of gay icons, my evening with Liza almost completes my 'royal flush': I've now seen live in concert Madonna, Barbra, Kylie, Shirley and Liza. Just Celine to go now and I'll have seen them all!

Margo, Jerry, Madge & A Magical...Marriage?

2007-10-09T08:23:00.000Z

In a full and varied life it has been my pleasure to attend some pretty spectacular parties. Boy George’s ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream/Summer Solstice’ themed birthday in 1995; I went as Titania Fairy Queen and danced with the kaftan-clad birthday boy. The 1997 opening of the Calvin Klein Collection boutique in Paris where the man himself took quite a shine to me and sent me home with free, autographed smalls. The backstage bash at a Finsbury Park music festival in ’99 where a kids TV presenter and I made creative use of the luxury portaloos (and I earned my second Blue Peter badge). The night at Dirty Dishes where the mirrorball came down (for which I may have been partially responsible…) The soap awards after-party where I challenged Lionel Blair to a dance-off - and won. And yes, my very own ‘Studio 54 Meets Disco Bloodbath’ Hallowe’en 2006 extravaganza where TWBD transformed my bachelor pad into a blood red Eighties New York discotheque and Patrick Batemans and Morticia Addamses thronged the Clapham Road. None of these however come close to matching the sheer style, glamour, excitement, emotion and beauty of one of the happiest days of my life – Margo and Jerry’s wedding.

Even writing those words has brought a lump to my throat as I think back to the day just three weeks ago. Let’s get one thing out of the way before I begin the recollections though. Although the invitations said ‘Civil Partnership’, I and most of the other guests quickly came to refer to the occasion as the ‘wedding’ and I’m sticking with that. While one or two people I’ve spoken to baulk at calling a gay union (any gay union that is, not just Margo and Jerry’s) a ‘wedding’, for my money a ‘wedding’ as opposed to a ‘marriage’ is the whole shebang of ceremony, reception, evening do, speeches, confetti, drunk uncles, tearful aunties and fat bridesmaids getting fingered behind the marquee. Admittedly M & J’s wedding was far too classy to have the last of these (there was no marquee for a start) but a wedding it most certainly was and anyone who wants to say otherwise frankly wouldn’t have been invited. To my mind the terms ‘marriage’ or ‘civil partnership’ (or indeed, ‘civil marriage’) apply only to the mechanism via which the relationship becomes official in law; everything else is semantics.

So, down off my soapbox and on to the big day. Actually let’s start a few nights before when we - the grooms, the overseas visitors (Brick, Adam and Matty aka The Americans and Claire Mac, The Sicilian Widow), OLoC and myself – kicked off the festivities at where else but VauxhallVille. There we found the gang were in celebratory mood too, it being their first birthday. They’d gone for a Wild West theme, always one of my favourite dress-up choices, and entertainment was provided by the sublime Tina C who dedicated many a song to the happy couple. Timberlina, who I’m still just a little bit stalker-ish about, made sure our party was the centre of attention and although I think we may have pissed off the gorgeous Nathaniel De Ville by storming the stage for his line dancing finale it was the perfect way to start off the wedding weekend. Margo – under the influence of three bottles of Cava not to mention the caipirinhas we’d necked at Anne Frank’s House before leaving – fell on top of Sam the Wedding Planner, nearly knocking her out and resulting in not only a golf ball-sized lump on his left temple but also a black bruise to the tongue which he was lucky not to bite clean through. Which would certainly have made saying his vows somewhat tricky…

After a Friday spent recovering, Saturday saw me running a few errands for the boys and making the finishing touches to my outfit, before joining M & J, the Hollogays, The Americans, The Sicilian Widow and a huge contingent of their recently-arrived families for a long, boozy dinner at the local Italian. What was beautiful about that part of the celebrations was the realisation that this wasn’t just a wedding of two people who love each other deeply, but of their loved ones too; their friends and families, siblings and ex-lovers, colleagues, employers, employees, all brought together by the common bond of their love for one, the other or both of this gorgeous couple.

Sunday morning dawned and with it, The Big Day. The ceremony was due to start at 3.00 so I could afford a lie in even though – having been given the honour of being Master of Ceremonies – I had to be at the Prince of Wales Theatre, their chosen venue, at 2.00. I was up in good time but on looking in the mirror saw that a few late nights (and long days) had taken their toll on my usually flawless complexion and I looked pasty, puffy and – aaargh! – spotty. So, I put out a Facialist 911 call and within half an hour had a fully-trained expert on my doorstep armed with the finest products and strict orders to make me a supermodel. The results were nothing short of miraculous and I was dressed, groomed and out the door within the hour and got me to the ‘church’ just about on time.

What followed was nothing short of dreamlike.

After a walk through of the venue and timings with Sam the Wedding Planner (who’d made a good recovery from Thursday night’s near-fatal Margo-tumbling accident) the ushers (among them, The Agony Uncles) and I took our places to receive the guests as they arrived, and what a glamorous bunch they were. The hats, gowns, suits, corsages, fascinators, cravats, ties, jewellery and general sparkle with which everyone had adorned themselves made for a picture–perfect colourful congregation, led by an immaculately attired groom and groom; Margo in a beautiful checked two-piece, Jerry in a more sober, sharply tailored navy number. Their make-up artiste had worked miracles on Margo’s golf ball, rendering it all but invisible, and the swelling to his tongue had subsided enough for him to get his ‘I will’ out when the moment came.

That moment was at the near-climax of a truly beautiful ceremony which combined the very considered – thoughtful, literary readings expressing what love means to them – and the high camp – a choral rendition of a classically re-arranged ‘Crazy For You’ in honour of the boys’ own goddess, Mrs Ritchie. Taking place on the stage of the theatre, decorated with nothing more elaborate than huge hyacinths in monolithic glass vases, the ceremony was touching, honest, sincere and devotional. Only two things distracted from the emotion of it all. One was the registrar’s inability to pronounce the word ‘ask’, instead saying ‘arks’, bringing to mind Catherine Tate’s ‘Am I bovvered?’ schoolgirl Lauren. The other was, well, you’ve probably guessed – me, sobbing uncontrollably having been completely overwhelmed with emotion before I’d even arrived. I’d managed to hold it together long enough to announce the guests as they’d arrived and usher them into the auditorium but then totally lost it as the vows were read.

Still, I was able to get something of a grip and moved on to the champagne reception in the theatre’s main room, a fabulous art deco space overlooking Leicester Square, complete with sweeping staircase designed – and of course used – for grand entrances. Glenda and ActiveWill, the buffest boys anyone knows, had been talked into taking the role of Champagne Charlies and had spent many extra hours in the gym and many fewer hours eating to ensure that they were at the peak of their musculature for the occasion. Stripped to the waist of their skin-tight white jeans and sprinkled in gold body glitter, the boys toured the room filling guests’ flutes from Methuselahs of Perrier-Jouet and Laurent-Perrier, ensuring that by the time the cake – a glorious, just-shy-of-over-the-top pink iced confection – was ready to be cut, the majority of those in attendance were half cut themselves.

After a few group photos it was time for food, and a delicious, Cornucopian fork buffet had been set up in an adjoining, equally splendid room. Rosé – the boys’ favourite wine – flowed freely, rather too freely in my case considering my duties were not yet over, guests mingled, conversation flourished and love was all around.

Moving downstairs to a function room, transformed for the evening by who else but TWBD into a fantasy disco, the evening part of the bash got into full swing and more guests poured in. The drinks went down, the volume up, and revellers of every age, size and persuasion took to the dancefloor to throw their best shapes to the DJ’s sounds. The floor was cleared for the grooms to have their first dance, to the wonderfully personal choice of ‘Nothing Fails’ (more Madonna) and choreographed to a sufficient extent to impress without a trace of showing off (though God knows if you can’t show off at your own wedding, when can you?) Entertainment was provided by scene legend Dave Lynn, who had most people in stitches with the notable (and vocal) exception of a rather intoxicated distant relative of Jerry’s who was swiftly evicted by his mother.

Finally came the speeches and although five may sound excessive it was anything but, as each of the two best men, Margo’s brother and father and the boys themselves delivered very different but equally moving orations which between them managed to thank, involve, welcome and embrace everyone in the room, and beyond that those who weren’t there: the ‘absent friends’. Touchingly, the boys handed out gifts – beautiful, thoughtful, individually chosen gifts – to those of us who had had duties; I will cherish mine, a paperweight bearing the words ‘A Crown Of Life’ always. And as far as the formalities went, that was pretty much that and it was time to party.

By about 11 o’clock, I had been on the go for nine hours or so and been drinking for much of that. Coupled with my greatly heightened emotional state – partly due to the occasion and my love for Margo who I love like the brother I never had, and partly due to self-pity for my own recent break up from a relationship I’d invested so much hope in – and having rather upset Jerry with an ill-placed ‘joke’ that strayed the wrong side of politically incorrect, I realised that I was in no fit state to stay a second longer and left without saying goodbyes. I think if I had attempted to I would only have started crying again and no-one wanted to see that, frankly. I disappeared into the night and thankfully made it safely home; I woke the next morning still holding my button-hole where I’d gone to sleep clutching it like a precious keepsake (which it is).

I really couldn’t pick a favourite moment of the day. It was so perfect, so personal, so inclusive, so stylish, so sincere, so real, so fantastical, so fucking special from even before the start until well after the finish, that to try to pick one moment would be folly. I’ll remember it for many years to come, how much fun it was, how honoured I was to have been involved, and how when I saw two such devoted and loving people, who I love so very much, commit themselves to each other for life I actually thought my heart would burst out of my chest. So here’s to you Margo and Jerry. You pulled it off – the best party of my life. Thank you for giving me the honour of being your MC and sorry if I let you down by being a drunk. Thank you for the lovely gift which as I type I can see out of the corner of my eye in the spot where I now keep it, proudly on display. But thank you most of all being there for each other and for making the promises you did in front of us all on that wonderful day. I’ll never forget it.

A Play, A Perjuror, Performance Art & A Party

2007-05-08T21:38:00.000Z

Blogging, by its very nature, is a highly self-indulgent pastime. While some bloggers have achieved a sufficient level of interest in their musings to make a living out of it (Perez Hilton, take a bow) I can claim no more noble motivation than that I love writing and enjoy the catharsis of getting my often disjointed thoughts on this that and the other into some sort of order. Writing is my therapy (always has been – at university I wrote a column for the college paper; before that, I’d dabble in poetry which whilst uniformly flowery and pretentious, at least served to soothe an often addled and over-active mind) and so the act is its own reward. That said, it’s always gratifying if and when someone else finds some pleasure in what one has written, so I’m naturally pleased that my last couple of posts have sparked a fair bit of interest from my small-but-loyal readership.

The piece about honesty seemed to strike a chord with many people and it was interesting to see its central theme borne out in a couple of recent events. The first was a trip to the wonderful Oval House Theatre – my local hub of gay culture – to see a brilliant new play, ‘Twisted’. Loosely based on the events leading up to the death, in mysterious circumstances, of Stuart Lubbock in Michael Barrymore’s swimming pool, the play followed the unfolding events of a weekend of drug-fuelled debauchery in the Manchester home of a dysfunctional gay couple whose house guests, both invited and uninvited, number a sexually voracious but, for the ‘sake of his career’ closeted, famous actor friend; a hard-as-nails, naturally straight-acting but defiantly out scally, and his sister’s boyfriend and, it transpires, own sometime bed partner, whose confused sexuality may be due to denial, ignorance or immaturity, we cannot be sure. In addition to their varying degrees of comfortableness in their sexuality, a further layer of complexity is added by the inter-relationships that develop between them and the extent to which dishonesty about their true feelings for each other – both positive and negative – affects their ability to interact functionally. The overarching lesson to be drawn from the play’s eventual tragic and all too sadly avoidable outcome is that a great deal of pain can be caused by our concealment of truths we are too scared to reveal.

Exactly that lesson was shown to be worth learning by the likewise all too sadly avoidable fall from grace of Lord Browne, nicknamed ‘The Sun King’ and toppled from his throne as chairman of BP for having lied to a court of law about the circumstances in which he met his ex-lover. This latter, by all accounts a spiteful and vindictive little bitch who, the relationship having ended and with it the high life, went running to the tabloids, happened to be a man. What was interesting was that none of the reporting of his sudden resignation that I saw seemed to attach any significance to this fact. The media also avoided finding any titillation in the allegation of which the mendacious denial caused Lord Browne to have to resign, namely that the men had met via a gay escort website. No, the only indiscretion for which Lord Browne ultimately had to fall on his sword was that he told in court a bare-faced lie in order to conceal a truth that he chose to dislike, and he got caught out.

I have nothing but contempt for the nasty, vengeful little trollop who repays four years of apparently unrestrained generosity by running to the Mail on Sunday. It follows that I abhor that publication and all who run it for being so archaically prurient and debased as to fund said treacherous bastard’s story-telling. I’ve wondered whether the story would have piqued their interest quite so much if the lover had been a woman and the escort agency had been a ‘straight’ one, and arrived at the conclusion that it probably wouldn’t have, so there’s some extra dislike and residual anger at this latent but nonetheless nasty homophobia. But why, why WHY did a man of Lord Browne’s immense power, wealth and influence think he would get away with lying in court? And what could he have been so afraid of that he felt the need to conceal it? His mother, an Auschwitz survivor to whom he was said to be devoted, is dead and therefore beyond embarrassment. Professionally, one can’t really get much higher than chairman of a multi-billion pound global corporation and a salary in excess of £3 million. And among his peers, after 41 years with the company and ten years at BP’s helm I imagine Browne must know at least as much if not more dirt on others as to be able to silence any board room sniggering. A couple of years ago, when the Mark Oaten/Simon Hughes revelations overshadowed the Lib Dem leadership contest, I wrote (for the currently moth-balled but hopefully soon-to-re-launch Coo-ee that, “these scandals have nothing to do with homophobia; they are the fruit only of foolishness and disingenuousness in men we expected to be a great deal wiser.” It really is sad to see that the same holds true this time around.

The other piece that chimed with readers was the most recent in which I reminisced about clubbing days gone by and my new ‘home’ on the scene, Vauxhallville. Some agreed wholeheartedly that London was long overdue somewhere genuinely new, while others felt that my report of the scene’s death was, perhaps, premature. Either way, it certainly seemed to generate some interest in giving the night a try and so it was that about eight of us headed on down a couple of weeks back for Madonna night. I went as H&M Madonna, faithfully recreating a look from one of the posters for that collection in trenchcoat, sunglasses, heels and uncannily realistic Madonna wig. ActiveWill dressed in top-to-toe denim and spiral curls to be Ray of Light Madonna; but it was Margo who carried off the prize for best outfit with his take on Malawi Madonna, in a vest top, sarong and Panama hat, all accessorised with his pièce de resistance – baby David Banda, or at least a doll thereof, bought for the occasion from East Street Market. The entertainment and activities that night were as eclectic as ever and had us all hooting with laughter. Le Gateau Chocolat, an enormous black opera singer, performed Frozen, backed by two dancing cats; Scales of The Unexpected, a barber shop choir, treated us to their Madonna Medley; Bearlesque (it does exactly what it says on the tin) vogued for all they were worth (clothes were removed; I swooned – they’re a seriously hot bunch of boys) and the hosts, Nathaniel De Ville and Timberlina (upon whom I have the most ridiculous crush) invited one and all to be part of their DIY Sex book. Margo and I went head-to-head in the quiz and as with the costume competition he pipped me at the post in that too, but deservedly so given his lifelong devotion to Her Madgesty.

The week before that had been Moulin Rouge – I went for a loose interpretation of the theme and dressed all in rouge, right down to socks and smalls – which involved the Bearlesque boys doing the can-can, Nathaniel’s revival of the tableau vivant (Manet’s Dejeuner sur l’herbe starring the gorgeous Fred Bear) and the hands-free cocktail shaking skills of Ophelia Bitz. This Thursday just gone was the May Fayre, and although I rolled up rather late and alone (confident that I would cease to be alone the second I walked through the door, a confidence that was duly repaid many times over) I was still in time to catch the home-made placard-waving May Day march round the block, a one-off short set from the unbelievably talented performance artist Taylor Mac, and most fun of all, the dance around the May Pole. That I ended up snogging someone totally random who I didn’t fancy one bit, while dressed as a deconstructed May Pole, only added to the inherent entertainment value of another wonderful, original, enriching evening.

Yet, there’s one exclusive, invitation-only ‘club’ in Vauxhall that tops even Vauxhallville for sheer fun and glamour, and that’s my home sweet home. This Sunday just gone I celebrated one year in my much-loved bachelor pad with a (for me) fairly low-key cocktail soiree to which I’d invited thirty or so of my favourite people, of whom twenty or so turned up. Of the six or seven hours it went on for, the last couple – including a fairly brief visit to the Brewers – are less a blur than completely obscured, but from the substantial chunks I do remember I’d be very hard pushed to choose a single favourite moment. I loved that Dolly had joined me early to help perfect the night’s signature cocktail, the Peach Cobbler; I delighted to see Glenda and Princess Timmy, newly enfianced, arrive hand-in-hand bearing Malibu and pineapple; I was thrilled when ActiveWill arrived bringing not just a new friend but also a lovely bottle of bubbly, and doubly thrilled when The South African arrived with the same (well, the bubbly at least.) I was delighted that The Second Favourite Lesbian and her Lady Love made it along, especially as until that point the gathering had been all male (not that I mind that per se but one does like to embrace diversity); I loved that my Gay Neighbours dropped by from across the garden square (I couldn’t help feeling that that had something of an Alan Hollinghurst novel about it) and oh, God, I loved that every single glass, cup and vessel got used and re-used and yet the bar never ran dry, the music never stopped and not a cross word passed anyone’s lips. I even loved waking on Monday morning (not alone, but discretion prevents me from naming him) not knowing what kind of carnage might greet me upon entering the living area from the bedroom (as it happens hardly any, bar a few crumbs and my party shirt, buttonless having been physically ripped from me in the throes of passion.)

Thirty, Single and Fabulous might sound like a terribly self-aggrandising title for a blog, but reading back on what I’ve written here I think it's a fairly accurate definition of the life I'm lucky enough to be living right now. I lead, as far as I can, an honest life, awkward as that may sometimes be. I’ve found a truly wonderful night out that really lifts me up and have like-minded friends old and new to share it with. I have a safe and secure home in an area I love, to the extent that I would want to celebrate a year of living there; and when I choose to do just that, I get to share that celebration with the most amazing, eclectic, vibrant group of people you could hope to bring together. I don’t take any of it for granted; God knows I’ve seen enough change in my relatively short life already to know that nothing lasts forever and that people and things we assume will be with us all our natural lives can leave you in the blink of an eye. In just a few weeks I’ll cease to be thirty (though I’ll have nine years yet of being ‘thirtysomething’!) and although I’m happy to stay single for now, increasingly I’m coming round to the idea that one day I may want to settle down again. But for now, while things are as they are, that ‘fabulous’ stands and I defy anyone to convince me otherwise.

Vauxhall the fuss?

2007-04-19T14:57:00.000Z

Lately I’ve been far, far away; not geographically, but to somewhere that’s been compared to another country – the past. My absence from you these past few weeks has been due in no small part to an extended trip down memory lane…so do indulge me as I share my holiday memories with you.

It all began with a hugely positive experience – my discovery, thanks to Margo, of Vauxhallville, quite the most amazing thing to happen to the gay scene for years. Vauxhallville almost defies description, not being easily pigeon-holed (and nor would it want to be) but one could loosely describe it as a weekly extravaganza of film, music, cabaret, dance, arts, craft, drag, fancy-dress, competitions and performance, with scope for dinner, drinking and dancing the night away. From the moment I entered that first night I was hooked. There was a tangible though indescribable excitement hanging in the air that intoxicated and excited me; the feeling that yes, at last, here was somewhere totally new and fresh on the scene (no, not ‘on’ the scene - in addition to it) where I felt at home in a way I hadn’t since…well, since Dirty Dishes circa 2000.

I got to discussing this idea of one’s having a ‘home’ on the scene with Margo and Jerry over Sunday lunch (Jerry’s killer chilli-tuna salad washed down with rosé) and it quickly transpired that both Margo and I – two men to whom the term ‘shrinking violet’ could never be applied – had felt for a long time now that the scene, such as it is, held no appeal for us. Gone were the days when every weekend was a blur of danceanddrinkanddrugsanddicksanddowners and Margo wondered aloud if, given that the opportunity for such weekends still more than existed, and in fact was far from confined to weekends, we were missing out on something by not indulging. No, I answered; we don’t club like we used to because the clubs aren’t like they used to be. Sure there are a million and one nights to choose from under myriad names alluding to their promised extremeness (Later/Beyond/Gravity...) each offering something more than the others (Better lasers! Bigger sound! Hotter go-gos (though why one would want to see Belinda Carlisle sweating is beyond me)! Open later/earlier/forever!) But therein lies the total non-appeal; the scene, bar a few once-edgy-now-mainstream nights like Popstarz and Nag Nag Nag, has become totally homogenised, with one spread of saucer-eyed muscle-boys under a mirrorball in Boyz being totally indistinguishable from the next, and the next and the next…

Our – OK, my – clubbing hey-day was from about 2001-2004, beginning with my move to the then-nascent gay Mecca of Vauxhall and ending fairly abruptly when I met The (then narcotic-unfriendly) Ex. Back then, the idea of an after-hours club under a railway line was totally new; I remember still the excitement I felt being handed, as I left DTPM, a flier for something called ‘Orange’ at ‘The Viaduct, South Lambeth Road’. We piled into a taxi, headed home (conveniently just off said South Lambeth Road) for more vodka and a line or two, then made our way to what we had established was the rebranded Dungeon Club to see what this Orange thing was all about. What we found was an arch, just the one, its walls - bare but for a few cheaply-made UV banners – dripping with condensation, a few green lasers cutting through dry ice and pounding hard-house from a not-bad sound system. This was being danced, swayed, raved and monged to by a totally mashed-up crowd of pretty gay boys, grotty stray boys, black girls, crack girls, she-males and don’t knows, fuelled by God-knows-what cocktail of pills, powders and liquor, all of it being indiscriminately poured, popped and snorted along the length of a bar staffed by a couple of boys who appeared to be the most out of it of us all.

Of course, we fucking loved it.

Nothing else quite came close to replicating the excitement of those early-days-of-Orange until Action came along in the early noughties. Here was a club – no, a super-club – with sound, visuals, publicity, venue and most importantly, crowd unlike anything we’d ever experienced, here or abroad (I make the distinction as even Home in Sydney failed to come close) and for the few short years that it thrived it was to us the ne plus ultra of Saturday night excess. Being held only fortnightly, you'd start looking forward to the next event pretty much the second you embarked on the walk of shame home. But, imitation being the sincerest form of flattery, Action was bound to beget others and as we all now know, the result was that within a few short years every last damn railway arch in SW8 had been taken over, gutted, made over and relit to become an only-extremely-subtle variation on a no-longer novel theme. Over Good Friday brunch Glenda quipped that a so-minded entrepreneur could simply ‘knock Vauxhall through’ into one sprawling, laser-lit, muscled behemoth of a club and be done with it; we laughed but inwardly I think all wondered if just such an all-conquering act could be all that far off.

Nostalgia for a smaller scene, with less choice and whole fortnights between parties might seem absurd; minimalism may work for interiors but surely when it comes to nightlife, more is more, right? Not for me. I miss those heady days and the almost unbearable anticipation. I miss the thrill of being handed a flyer for somewhere ‘new’ that really was new, in concept as much as in name. I miss those 3AM taxi rides from EC1 to SW8 and the walk of shame home; hell I even miss the dripping walls of The Viaduct. But we grow, and we learn, and we take those precious memories and put them in a box until, as happened to me as I walked into Vauxhallville, something triggers in us the same rush, the same excitement, the same sense of being there as something so new and fabulous and you emerges blinking into the sunlight and seizes the Zeitgeist by the throat.

I’d like to say that these fond reminiscences are all that’s been exercising my thoughts of late, but on the contrary; as far as the trip down memory lane goes we’re not even at the corner by the lamp-post yet. But, much as I wouldn’t show you all my holiday snaps at once lest you get bored, I’ll save some of the story for another time. For now, I’m off home – it’s Vauxhallville tonight, and I’m planning on making a whole load of memories for the future.

Honestly!

2007-03-21T12:05:00.000Z

A couple of Saturdays back, I had the rare pleasure of having Little Agony Uncle all to myself for a whole afternoon. LAU had scored a pair of free tickets for ‘La Dolce Vita’, an exhibition devoted to all things Italian at Kensington Olympia, and correctly thought that I would be interested in joining him for a couple of hours of free wine and hot boys in SW5. After a few laps of the hall in hunt of Pinot and penis, all we’d come across were a few perma-tanned gentlemen-of-a-certain-age flogging Tuscan villas and hordes of bridge-and-tunnellers queuing – queuing! – for the thimble-sized free samples of gut-rot Chianti, a depth to which even I was not prepared to sink. So, with the great honesty that true friendship enables, I told LAU that I’d had basta of this and we buggered off to The Coleherne to put the world to rights over a few lagers and chuckle about ‘La Dodgy Vita’ as we soon re-christened it.

The conversation took in many themes but the one that really got my cogs whirring was that old problem page staple of coming out to one’s parents. Over their years in the job, both Big and Little Agony Uncles have advised dozens, perhaps even hundreds of gay, bi and uncertain boys on this particular and, to my mind, by far scariest aspect of the coming out process. Go into any gay bar, club or gym, anywhere in London – hell, anywhere in the UK – and I will guarantee that there is at least one person in there whose coming out to mom and or pop was facilitated either directly or indirectly by the culture of possibility inspired by these two caring and wise men. But here’s a thing – neither one of them is actually out to their respective extant parent, nor in one case to his siblings.

Both has his reasons - broadly, religion and old age – for believing that the degree of distress an admission to being gay would cause the parent is disproportionate to that which the concealment causes him personally, and therefore keeps schtum. Day-in, day-out this causes few problems; the parents live miles away, both Agony Uncles are young enough to not yet attract speculation as to why they’ve not ‘met the right girl yet’, and familial visits are arranged sufficiently in advance for them to have plenty of time to make up the spare bedroom into a passable facsimile of one’s wholly-discrete-from-the-other’s sleeping quarters and hide all the toys. But what worries me, and I admit it’s a rather macabre worry but it really does exercise me, is what would happen if God forbid one of them died? What then? It was bad enough that each had to go through the loss and interment of a parent in recent memory without the other by their side, but what, I asked LAU, would one do if he had to bury the other all the time pretending to be just his housemate, his friend?

I don’t seek for a second to advise them – physician, heal thyself as Luke would put it – but I did share the view that in my experience there is far more to be gained from the telling of an inconvenient truth than from concealing it, be that through honest silence or actual deception. It certainly got me to thinking whether, in fact, ‘honesty is the best policy’.

That maxim has existed in one form or another for over two millennia and is found, with little if anything lost in translation, in most world languages. There are hundreds of other time-worn quotes, proverbs and anecdotes about honesty (indeed, the moral education of every American schoolchild is founded on the example of George Washington’s inability to lie) of which my personal favourite has always been Mark Twain’s assertion that, “If you tell the truth, you will never have to remember anything.” It’s a rather beautiful point if you think about it: when we lie, or otherwise conceal the truth, we create an alternative reality which becomes someone else’s truth. They will then share that with others, to each of whom we may have told the truth, part of the truth, or an untruth, or from whom we may have concealed the truth completely by our silence. This then creates stress and confusion for us as we struggle over time to recall who knows what about what and which version of events, all of which will sooner or later come back to bite us, as Twain may also have put it, on the ass. Tell the truth on the other hand, however unpalatable it may be, and you can carry on with life not having to remember a darn thing because everyone knows what’s what and once it’s out there it can’t hurt you.

I base this view on recent experience, some of my own, some of others. I’ve certainly benefited enormously these last few months from being honest with myself. First of course, there was the drinking. Admitting to myself that there could be a problem led to a major overhaul of behaviour that was damaging me physically and emotionally. I’ve still not got it licked; Saturday just gone saw me slip back into very bad old habits at a birthday party and I awoke Sunday morning on the hosts’ sofa not recalling any invitation to stay. [I should mention that my behaviour at said party was no worse than many others; Glenda called me on Sunday morning to ask if I had any idea how he’d got home, and Princess Timmy threw up in a carrier bag.] I am, now, reflecting on how I feel about that lapse and whether I should act on it, all the way being honest with myself; that’s a big change from just a few months ago when I’d have been laughing it off on the outside while ripping myself to shreds on the inside, and I’m thankful for that.

The other truth I’m thankful for having told myself of late has been my finally – finally, after years of denial – facing up to the dreadful mess I was in financially and doing something about it. Years of living, wilfully, beyond my means and a reckless belief that there would always be a Peter to rob in order to pay the many and various Pauls, led me to the edge of a frankly terrifying abyss that someone of my age and earning the kind of salary I do should never have to stare into. In the same way as I faced up to my drinking being out of control, I faced up to the need to marry what’s going out rather more closely with what comes in. Now, thanks to some hard-nosed negotiation, learning to say, ‘No, I can’t afford it’ – to myself as much as to others, and crucially, the support of friends generally and one friend in particular, in just a couple more months I’ll have the kind of disposable income that I would always have done had it not all been owed to the banks. I can’t begin to describe how much less anxious, depressed and out of control I feel having dealt with the truth of my monetary quagmire than I did all the while I was living the lie.

Others are feeling the benefits of tacking unpalatable realities too. Since my last post, the two boys who were settling have, quite sensibly, parted, having realised that they were not being true to themselves and that it would come to naught. Without a trace of animosity or recrimination each has reverted comfortably to the role of friend and to see them together is to see two chaps each blessed with the priceless gift of a true and life-long friend in place of a transitory and expedient partner for partnership’s sake. Another couple also went their separate ways, through rather less mutual a decision process but for the similar reason that, for one partner at least, the truth of the matter was that it just wasn’t what he wanted or what was right for him, and to have hidden that truth only to spare the other’s feelings would with time have only hurt them both.

Without exception everyone involved in these events has found that the consequences of their honesty have been far less severe than they feared. I think sometimes, to paraphrase Jack Nicholson in that electric scene in A Few Good Men, we hide the truth from others because we say they can’t handle it, while all the time the reality is that it’s we that can’t, through fear, or insecurity, or lack of support. After speaking with LAU that afternoon I cast my mind back to the months before I came out to my mother; the angst I went through, the fear I experienced, the best- and worst-case scenarios I played over and over in my head before finally, one evening, knocking back a bottle of Beaujolais and coming out with it, only for the news to be greeted with an “Oh!” and an offer to open another bottle. Sure, that wasn’t the end of it; mum struggled to accept that my homosexuality – which she never sought to criticise or deny – was simply a state of being without any scientific, sociological or philosophical explanation, and over the course of the next couple of weeks she came up with all manner of crackpot theories which I diffused as gently and patiently as I could. The one thing that helped us both through the process of coming to terms with my coming out was, you’ve guessed it, honesty, talking openly about our feelings and fears and taking the consequences of doing so.

I’m conscious that this is starting to sound very holier-than-thou and that I may be coming across as an evangelical know-it-all who holds himself out to be a paragon of virtue. Far from it. I may have faced up to a few harsh truths of late but I’m still not as honest as I’d like to be. I hide things from people. I make things up. I sometimes pretend to like people I don’t, and to not like people as much as I do (usually to conceal that I fancy the pants off them.) I’m not immune to telling a little white lie if it will help me get what I want, or a great big stinking black one if it’s something I really want. But I do think, pretty much, I’ve stopped the worst dishonesty of all and that of course is being dishonest with myself. I know and like who I am and that makes me happier than I think I have ever been.

And that’s the truth.

Belated Blogging, Boyfriends & Butterflies

2007-03-07T14:40:00.000Z

OK, OK, first things first, an apology – it’s almost a month since I last posted and it must look as if I’ve got bored of blogging and disappeared into the sunset. One group of readers – they call themselves ‘The Gays’, which hardly narrows it down – has at semi-regular intervals been prompting me to put fingers to keys and share some more of my exploits, and I assure you – and them – that I’ve been meaning to, really I have, I’ve just not got round to it. Or rather, I’ve just not had the urge to do it, until now. The thing is – as you may have noticed – I don’t just write about all the fabulous things that happen in my life the moment that they happen; not to brag but I get up to so damn much that to have the time to write about all the wonderful parties, shows, meals, dates and journeys that I am blessed enough to enjoy from day-to-day I’d need to give up the day job which, I’m afraid, is what pays for it all. This as I’m sure you’ll appreciate would be rather self-defeating. Saying that, for every fabulous moment, there is an equal and opposite mundane one – thirty, single and fabulous I may be but I still have to clean the oven from time-to-time – which does not make for interesting reading. So it is that I go through my really quite wonderful life having experience after experience, reflecting on and processing it all, until along comes an event, or person, or moment, or thought, that I actually think others (including, bless ‘em, The Gays) would care to hear about, or that I really want to share, and then a post emerges.

This time around, the thing that’s been on my mind is relationships. Don’t worry, I’m not about to surrender my singledom, although things are going rather nicely with the gorgeous guy I met when I went to help Andrea Bianco choose new specs a few weeks back and have had a couple of dates with since, so watch this space. Rather, I’ve been giving a lot of thought to relationships in general and a couple in particular, and gotten to wondering just what all the fuss is about.

I had a conversation a couple of days ago with one of my very dearest friends in which he broke the news to me that he and a mutual friend of ours had got together as a couple. This kind of event is usually greeted with much whooping and cheering and downing of cocktails, but this time the news was delivered without so much as a smile and if anything more than a trace of a frown. You see, these two had not got together out of sheer love for each other (although there is certainly reciprocal, if imbalanced, affection) or even as the result of a mutual attraction that had deepened over time. Rather, they had decided to give being boyfriends a whirl for the sake of not being alone any more, to soothe the ache of their mutual loneliness and because they had grown to believe, after years of waiting and hoping for ‘The One’ to come along, that ‘The One’, like Godot, was never going to show. Now I could perhaps understand it if these guys were in their sixties, or fifties, even in their late forties although God knows I have friends in all of these age brackets who live as full if not fuller a life than ever they did in their teens. But these guys are my age, or at least in the same tick box as I on a survey form. And the survey question has to be, “Since when did our thirties become the cut-off point for finding lasting love?”

I must admit that when I was younger – I should say ‘even younger’ of course – I craved a lasting relationship. For the first few years after coming out I was very promiscuous, and not just closeted-country-boy-moves-to-the-big-city-and-hits-the-scene-with-a-vengeance promiscuous, but rampantly, insatiably, by-the-time-I-was-twenty-I’d-lost-count promiscuous. But underlying it all was not so much a voracious appetite for sex (though that played a part) but the perhaps misguided and certainly naïve hope that if I slept with enough frogs I would be sure to find my prince. I thought I’d found him a couple of times too; I was absolutely besotted with my first ever boyfriend – are not we all? – and with the benefit of hindsight and a little psychotherapy I can see now that the man who I thought was and would ever be my one true love was in fact a substitute for the father I had lost just a few weeks before our meeting. Then of course came the two big relationships, with The Ex and The Other Ex (God these pseudonyms are imaginative, aren’t they?) both of whom I loved – and still do love, each in their way – and both of whom I thought, in the early stages of our relationships at least, might be ‘The One’, until it transpired otherwise.

(I’m going to go off on something of a tangent here but mentioning my father triggers memories of his and my mother’s relationship. Meeting at the ages of 31 and 34 respectively, and both having had several prior partners, it was, as mum tells it, love at first sight; they were married within the year, Big Sis followed almost nine months to the day later, I came along three years after that, and they enjoyed twenty-odd almost uniformly joyful years of marriage until death quite literally they did part. Just food for thought.)

Since becoming single last time – well over a year ago now – I have embraced bachelorhood and all the benefits it has brought. This is not triumphalism nor is it in any way meant to denigrate the several good and happy years I had with The Ex, but is a simple statement of fact. Certainly since my own break-up I will admit to having been, if not instrumental, then at least facilitative in a few others, through on the one hand my championing of being on one’s own, and on the other, through my firm and unwavering belief that it is better to have no relationship at all than to be stuck in one that is less than perfect. I am lucky enough to be able to say that I have not one but many boyfriends, and indeed girlfriends, in the shape of my many and wonderful friends, from whom collectively I receive easily as much and probably more love than I ever got from one man alone. That’s not to say that I wouldn’t one day like to meet Mr Right and be so swept off my feet that the ‘Single’ in Thirty, Single and Fabulous becomes obsolete; but would I ever crave companionship so much that I would let convenience outstrip desire? Could I give up the search for Mr Right and settle for Mr Right Now?

To be honest it’s impossible to say and indeed it would be reckless to do so with any degree of certainty. I mean, if in a few decades time you and I are still here and this is ‘Seventy, Single and Fabulous’ then yeah, ask me again if I want a relationship and the answer will still come back ‘No’. But what if it’s ‘Seventy, Single and So Bitter About It That I Might As Well Be Dead’? Will I be so sure then that those two boys who got together through one’s loneliness and dwindling self-esteem and the other’s besottedness and dogged persistence were really doing anything all that unreasonable? I wish I could lay claim to having come up with what I still believe to be the perfect assessment of why people enter or don’t enter into relationships, but Carrie Bradshaw gets the credit for this: ‘Some people are settling down; some people are settling, and some people refuse to settle for anything less than butterflies.’ Those two boys may be settling, and that may make me profoundly sad, but thinking about it, only they know what’s best for them and if settling is what’s best for them right now – and if given a few months, that moves on to settling down - then all to the good.

Me, here and now, I’m sticking to butterfly hunting.

GOVERNMENT WARNING: THIRTY, SINGLE & FABULOUS CAN SERIOUSLY EMBARRASS YOU AT WORK

2007-02-09T10:46:00.000Z

As regular readers (all five of you) will know, I had a rather humiliating work-related experience late last year. This week, it was someone else’s turn to blush puce, but yet again yours truly was to blame.

Barely fifteen minutes after yesterday’s post went online, I picked up a voicemail from the young man mentioned in the second paragraph asking that I call him as a matter of some urgency. Now naturally I was delighted that he should have made contact, and doubly so that he should want me to do so straight away – he’s keen! thought I. Then alarm bells rang. In his message he had quoted verbatim my description of him…but I hadn’t told him about the blog’s existence, so how on Earth had he come to read it? I immediately returned his call and listened in horror as he explained that in their PR office they have some sort of tracker, sweeping cyberspace 24/7 for any reference to [insert name of designer here!] which had landed upon thirtysingleandfabulous and my albeit flattering reference to the young man in question. This in turn had been read by his boss (not the boss, the famous one, although that would surely have added comedy value) who had in turn alerted him to his new-found online notoriety.

Profuse apologies offered and accepted, and having established that whilst painfully embarrassed, the beautiful boy had suffered no lasting professional harm, we parted as friends and I hope to see him in the not-too-distant future, platonically or otherwise. Afterwards though I got to thinking – selfishly I admit – how bloody exciting I found the idea that just by including a couple of words in the body of a post I could expand my reach to such glamorous new pastures! Call me naïve (hell, I’ve been called everything else) but I had no idea that such technology existed; whilst I know dear readers that you may marvel slack-jawed at the aesthetic beauty and literary superiority of the present blog, my technological know-how is right down there with my understanding of vehicle maintenance and female genitalia in the paucity stakes. All the pretty dots and shapes and colours and photos you see here require no more than a little cutting, pasting, dragging and dropping; one final click-to-publish and my work is done and ready for my literally ones of readers to enjoy. So you can imagine how surprised I was to learn that in addition to its regular readership, thirtysingleandfabulous could also be being viewed by businesses the world over, ever-alert to the possibility that they might be getting a mention in amongst all the tosh about drinking, eating and shagging.

So Dior Homme, Dolce & Gabbana, Prada, Chanel! Mont Blanc, Smythson, Mulberry, Alexander McQueen! Come one, come all, and join in the fun; just don’t let your staff sleep with me, or there could be some sniggering at the water cooler to deal with…

Thirty ONE, Single and Fabulous...?

2007-02-08T16:01:00.001Z

There are some invitations which only death or alien abduction should prevent one from accepting; a Buckingham Palace garden party; front row at Chanel couture; dinner at Le Pont de la Tour with Best Straight Lady Friend. The last of these having metaphorically dropped on my virtual mat this week, and being neither dead (although not yet fully over the laryngitis) or away being anally probed by E.T. somewhere, I joyfully accepted. Whilst the biggest draw of course was the prospect of a few hours in BSLF’s always sparkling company, I also wanted to see for myself whether – having never been much of a fan of Conran restaurants – Le Pont de la Tour lived up to its reputation as being the jewel in the crown of Sir Terence’s gastro-empire. So it was that on Tuesday evening, wrapped-up and medicated, I trotted off to Butler’s Wharf and settled down to the important business of catching up and chowing down.

[This would not to be the first time I had chowed down on a Conran offering this week, as on Sunday, lured to The Brewers by ActiveWill and knowing I had Monday off to recover, I took home a 25 year old, 6’4”, skinny and extremely pretty employee of Sir Terence’s son Jasper and enjoyed a full ‘three courses plus coffee’. Numbers were exchanged, so watch this space.]

First impressions were good; we were taking advantage of a very attractive toptable offer of three courses and a glass of fizz for £30, and as we sat down this latter component appeared swiftly enough for us to enjoy it as we perused the menu. Despite Le Pont’s cuisine being ostensibly modern French, there was a strong Central European edge to the dishes on offer and three very appealing choices for each course. Holding no truck with the burgeoning anti-foie gras movement I opted for it in both my starter and main – the former a foie gras terrine with spiced chutney (I declined the brioche, being off the carbs), the latter roast duck breast with sour cherries and red cabbage served with a slice of the ambrosial organ as a finishing touch. BSLF, allowing herself an evening off from calorie counting (the results to date are impressive) opted for cream of cauliflower soup followed by guinea fowl served with stuffed cabbage and truffled potatoes.

Although the conversation flowed as easily as it always does, and I could report to you at length on recent developments in both my and BSLF’s lives, the most entertaining element of our evening was the human theatre going on around us. The mittel-Europe flavour of the menu was replicated in the staff, which whilst as a general rule aesthetically most pleasing, had a somewhat shaky grasp on the English language. One member however was clearly as French as French can be, namely the over-bearing sommelier who was snooty to the point of caricature. Used no doubt to intimidating the oenologically-unaware Eurotrash or pandering to the expense account suits who appeared to make up the bulk of the clientele, he seemed much taken aback when BSLF and I had the temerity to order, if you please, two glasses of the very same wine we had just been enjoying in the bar before we sat down, thanks very much, and no you may not suggest this or that more expensive alternative.

The table next to us had us transfixed, as a young-ish and clearly moneyed Lebanese-looking guy wined and dined a leggy, honey-blond Slavik girl wearing a permanent look of surprise. If this wasn’t their first date it was certainly early in their relationship (business or personal we couldn’t quite tell…) and the guy ordered expansively and expensively as his companion sat demurely making (surprised) eyes at him across the table. That the tower of fruits de mer which arrived on their table was so tall as to render eye-contact impossible had to be a bad omen, and sure enough BSLF had to kick me under the table to stop me from crying with laughter as a huge dressed crab plunged from atop the platter into the girl’s lap.

Undoubtedly the funniest moment of the evening however came with our desserts, both of us having ordered the (huge, it transpired) crème brulee. Le Pont de la Tour is famed for its spectacular views of, well duh, le pont de la tour, and in the hope of our being allocated a window table, BSLF had fibbed at the time of booking that it was my birthday. Shown to a by all accounts perfectly nice table at the side of the room, we assumed that the ruse had fallen on deaf ears; this was proved not to be the case when our waitress duly served me with my pud, complete with candle, on a plate beautifully iced in melted chocolate with ‘Happy Birthday’, and proceeded to enlist the help of passing colleagues to sing Happy Birthday to fraudulent old me whilst BSLF chuckled into her Chardonnay. Although nearly the end of the meal in any case, I felt so guilty accepting the congratulations that came from neighbouring tables (and the flattery of the big spender who told me that I could pass for 25!) that I hastened our departure to the bar for digestifs.

Over cocktails BSLF and I reflected, in true bar room style, on how fortunate we both are in the great scheme of things. Both young, successful, reasonably solvent and generally emotionally stable, our dinners give us a chance to step out of the daily whirl of work and play and devote time to helping each other stay that way. It’s something I’d like to be able to do with more of my friends, more of the time. Hell, if they all offer to treat me to slap up ‘birthday’ dinners at Le Pont, I even just might do that.

Enjoy The Silence

2007-02-02T17:37:00.000Z

I’ve lost many things in my time; my mother in a supermarket aged 3; my cherry (to both a boy and a lady); part of my septum; watches, wallets and so many mobile phones in one year that the last time I called to report it the lady at T-Mobile gasped, “Och, not again?” Every loss has pissed me off to a greater or lesser degree but this week I’ve lost something which has upset me so much I just want to scream. Except that I can’t scream because the precious thing I’ve lost this time is my voice. I’m not just a little bit hoarse either – a trip to the doctor’s first thing Wednesday morning, having woken up mute and in excruciating pain, saw me diagnosed with viral laryngitis.

Now, the irony of my having been struck dumb, when normally nothing and no-one can shut me up, has been lost on exactly nobody. While I know any ribbing is good natured, I know too that even my nearest and dearest are probably having a little chuckle that this most talkative and ebullient of men should - for once! – be rendered speechless. I have to rest my voice as much as possible for a week and then, fingers crossed, I should be back to my usual gobby self; for now I can at least talk to you, so let me fill you in on what’s been going on these last couple of weeks.

The most exciting thing I guess is that the silver lining to the cloud of having this bloody virus is the enforced cessation of smoking. I’d be lying if I claimed to have previously given giving up any more than the most tentative of passing thoughts, despite of course being fully aware of everything a pack a day was doing to my body. Unlike the drinking, which was having very tangible – and public – ill-effects, and my promiscuity, which I briefly hated but learned to accept as part of my make-up, smoking was the one vice I never really wanted to give up. It might sound crazy but because the damage smoking does is internal and unpredictable (sure you can get cancer, but you might not, whereas if you drink you will get pissed!) I’d carried on for 15 years with reckless abandon, stopping only twice – once for 48 hours pre- and post-surgery, and then for one stretch of about four weeks when The Ex and I decided to quit together but were lured back on to the weed by his mother, of all people. This time though it’s different as I finally have the impetus and incentive anyone needs to quit. The equation’s a simple one – quit and get voice back, keep smoking and enjoy chronic laryngitis for life. Talk about a no-brainer. Like the drinking, I know kicking the smokes is going to be a challenge so watch this space for progress reports.

Prior to falling ill I’d had a pretty fantastic run of engagements all of which served to show me how blessed I am when it comes to friendships. Thursday I went for drinks and dinner with The Ex and over pizza and Pinot we shared stories of exploits and sexploits that even a couple of months ago we probably wouldn’t have felt able to discuss. There’s certainly been a turning point in our relationship recently and I feel we’ve gone now from being Exes Who Stayed Friends to being, well, friends. The next evening I had a pure Sex and The City moment as Glenda, OLoC, ActiveWill and I descended on Suzie Wong, Soho’s latest swanky eaterie for cocktails and ‘Oriental tapas’. The place is gloriously fitted out in lacquer, paper screens and all manner of Chinoiserie, and staffed by an almost comedic cast of lady-like boys and, well, lady-boys. The food was fantastic, service was friendly if a little slapdash, the cocktails were strong and spirits were sky-high; if only someone had filmed it we could have sold it as a pilot to HBO.

From there OLoC and I travelled on to Brixton for PWdeK and the Duchess of Derbyshire’s joint birthday do at The Manse. I always love these occasions as the whole extended gang comes out to play, and this was no exception with The Other Ex, Best Straight Lady Friend and Big Rob among the revellers I’d not seen for a while. This was a permission-to-drink night so I got stuck into the vodka but managed to hold back from getting absolutely plastered. I may as well have not bothered though, for as the evening wore on, so the party favours came out, and two consonants and a vowel later I was staggering saucer-eyed for the nightbus, fascinated by the lights and the texture of the pavement (which I became better acquainted with at one point and have a cracking bruise on my left hand to show for it.)

Saturday morning came and in spite of the previous night’s excesses I woke up feeling moderately human (still a little wired if truth be told) and awaited the arrival of The South African who was accompanying me to lunch at my Second Favourite Lesbian’s pad up the road. The Saffa, while only my second favourite South African (Charlize Theron tops the chart), is rapidly qualifying as a New Best Friend what with his immense charm, gossipiness and bitchy-as-mine sense of humour. Being drop-dead gorgeous also helps – I do like my friends to be easy on the eye as well you know. He and 2FL, as well as Mrs 2FL and their other gorgeous gay guest, hit it off a treat and as the wine went down and the volume went up it became quickly apparent that we were in for a long afternoon. Sure enough with dessert digested we adjourned to the de facto gay boozer round the corner where, joined by The Saffa’s delightful Straight Lady Friend, we spent an enjoyable if fairly profane few hours until first The Lesbians and then I admitted defeat and headed home to collapse. The Brewers had been mooted but my stamina isn’t what it used to be and when I woke from my ‘disco nap’ at nearly midnight I realised that my Saturday was over.

On Sunday I enjoyed a new and thoroughly enriching experience – the inaugural Hollogays Learning Day. Adapting an idea given to me by the ever-creative Andrea Bianco, the boys and I had agreed a few weeks ago to assemble for lunch at Glenda’s on this day and each present to the others on a topic, in this case, oceans. ActiveWill kicked off with a very slick and well-researched PowerPoint presentation – as perhaps we should have expected from a man with as specialised a geology masters as he – on the Southern Ocean, complete with illustrations and fascinating facts (we were all agog at the giant kelp!) I followed with my bit on the Pacific; being by far the biggest ocean there’s so much to say about it that I chose to focus on its extremes – the widest this, the deepest that etcetera (I could have been talking about ActiveWill, come to think of it…) and we could all now tell you to the metre the depth of the Mariana Trench. Up next was OLoC who delivered a fantastic freestyle micro-lecture on the Arctic Ocean, about which he’d clearly developed such enthusiasm that it came across in his facial expressions and gestures as he regaled us with the movement of its currents. Glenda took the Indian Ocean from an interesting angle, glossing over the statistics to instead speak extensively and passionately about the socio-politics of the area. Did you know how scandalously Britain had treated the people of Diego Garcia? No neither did I until Sunday but believe me if you did, you’d be angry.

Finally it was Margo’s turn to teach us about the Atlantic and I guess we should have known that he’d do something a little bit off-the-wall. Just how off-the-wall took us all by surprise, despite having known him many years – because for the next half an hour we engaged in an experiential drama workshop, learning about Margo’s ocean through, variously, meditation, improvisation, group machine work, mime and performance. It was bonkers, but amazing, and if we laughed it was only through nervousness at exposing ourselves to each other in a totally new way. We all agreed that the day had been a roaring success and have already set the date and topic for the next Learning Day when I will be hosting the boys, plus Jerry, for The Six Wives of Henry VIII. We rounded off the day with a visit to the Kazbar where, joined by Jerry and his gorgeous mother, and bumping by chance into The Ex along with his New Man, Legally Binding and Mini-Lee, we toasted a thoroughly enjoyable and highly educational new experience.

This week was going to be a veritable social whirlwind, with dates in the diary to see Andrea Bianco for coffee and catch up and dinners with The Other Ex and BSLF, but these have of course had to be cancelled due to my tragic loss. Which takes us rather neatly back to the beginning and my state of silence; as I type this I am sitting, in monastic seclusion, at home where I fully expect to spend the next few days sipping hot drinks, gorging on comfort food (my stop smoking counsellor helpfully warned me that ‘You will put on weight’, at which I softly wept) and watching hour-after-hour of Golden Girls reruns. Which actually sounds rather good fun, so enjoy the silence y’all because that’s what I’m planning on doing!

Drinking, dating and defaults

2007-01-15T16:33:00.000Z

A couple of posts ago, I promised that I would provide you, dear fans of TS&F, with an update on how the drinking was going. Out with a delightfully broad cross-section of the Gang yesterday afternoon, one of them (Little Agony Uncle since you’re asking) enquired as to why that update had not appeared, and I answered that as yet I didn’t feel that I’d quite worked out what my feelings were. I should have expected nothing less from an experienced agony uncle but was nonetheless still stunned by the simple brilliance of his advice: “Tell it to the blog.” So, here goes…

Since I took the big decision to try quitting for a while, and, following the success of that experiment, the arguably bigger decision to then try drinking again, I have certainly regained - or possibly, just gained – a sense of control about my drinking that was missing. It feels wonderful to be able to say that because, well aware as I was of the physical damage I was doing myself, and the wastefulness of spending entire weekends sleeping off the effects of one night’s drinking, it was the lack of control that had really scared me and finally prompted me to find the stop button. I still don’t feel that I’ve quite got the degree of control that I would like to have however, and as result my relationship with alcohol is still at best ambivalent.

It’s really hard to define what it is that I’m unsure about, but as I’m ‘telling it to the blog’ I’ll let you be the judge of whether what I’m saying makes sense. Since stopping, albeit for just a few weeks, there’s been a paradigm shift in my default drinking mode from drinking almost every day to drinking hardly any days, and from drinking more and faster than pretty much anyone to drinking no more and often much less than everyone. I’ve had a couple or three hangovers but nothing on the scale of ‘the old days’ and I’m satisfied that these have not been because of particularly excessive drinking – my biggest bender having been New Year’s Eve and even that was nothing compared to, say, my Bloodbath party - but because my body’s tolerance of and ability to process alcohol has retuned itself from that of a heavy drinker to that of a moderate one. Most satisfyingly, there have been no blackouts, no memory loss, no stripping naked and leaping into hot tubs (other than stone-cold sober in Chariots but that’s not for here), no turning up at afternoon parties already hammered and terrorising the children…you get the picture.

Yesterday I spent a pretty-much-perfect few hours with the boys in Le Shaz Bar and had just one shandy; last week at dinner with Big Sis I had one beer; on neither occasion did I want any more. So, complete abstinence I can do, and ‘just the one’, I can do; the grey area comes when I allow myself – and it really does feel like allowing myself – to drink, those nights (or days) when I consciously decide that drinking is on the agenda. Friday night and Saturday just gone were both such times, the former Glenda’s birthday drinks, the latter an enjoyable but ultimately unsuccessful date with the sexy Saffa from just after Christmas. On both occasions I followed the ‘old’ (and for most, ‘normal’) pattern of one drink after another and both times reached a point where I didn’t want to have any more; I’d chosen to press the ‘stop’ button.

The difficulty is that to be able to push the button, I have to be able to reach it, and it’s never in the bar or club or party that I’m at. If I stay, I’ll stay drinking – it’s as simple as that. I don’t think this is the ‘alcohol allergy’ that Bubble described; I can and do stop at or very near to the moment of my choosing; I just can’t quite get my head around doing that in whatever my present surroundings might be. Instead I have to do a Cinderella-like flit home, to the security – and sobriety – of home; to the sofa, a cup of tea, some chocolate…sources of comfort other than the bottle. Socially it can make things awkward. On the date, for example, about four hours and five or so pints in, I tried to engineer our going back to mine. Of course that was in part with the ulterior motive of getting a bit closer to the gorgeous hunk o’ spunk (that sadly was not on his agenda, unbelievable as that may be) but primarily because I knew that if we stayed out I would end up plastered and I just didn’t want to be. I guess through giving it so much thought – any thought even – I’ve created for myself a new guilt about drinking whereby anything more than ‘just the one’ triggers a thought process that can become quite self-accusatory.

All this leaves me not quite knowing what to do. I could quit drinking altogether, as not doing something is the only sure-fire way to not feel guilty about doing it, but for a reason I can’t yet grasp I don’t ‘want’ to be teetotal. I enjoy good wines, good whisky, a cocktail, a glass of champagne, and I don’t want to give those up. What I need to get to grips with is how to drink socially, if such a thing even exists. Maybe I’m sweating it all a bit too much; maybe I should just go a bit easier on myself and not beat myself up if I get a bit pissed at the weekend – everyone does, right? Or maybe a bit of self-tough-loving is the key to getting this drinking thing licked. For now, I’m happy, things are good, the future’s bright and I must say, that Agony Uncle gives damn good advice because ‘telling it to the blog’ - and may I thank you for indulging me - has made things a whole lot clearer than they were just 24 hours ago!

Amy, mea culpa

2007-01-08T13:44:00.000Z

Although it may seem hypocritical given my first ever post, I couldn't help but feel very sad when I read the report about Amy Winehouse's shambolic performance (or more precisely, lack thereof) at G-A-Y on Saturday night. She was clearly off her face on the Friday Night Project the night before, and I doubt she'd even sobered up from that bout of drinking before embarking on the one that saw her so publicly shamed in front of two thousand baying gays. Queuing for Ghetto on Saturday we saw the steps to the stage door at G-A-Y being sluiced down with soapy water and joked that Amy had probably thrown up on the way in; if only we'd known the half of it...

When I wrote that first post, I really was amused - yes, amused is the right word - at how she'd behaved on Char's Show. Thinking it was a one-off, I found it hilarious that anyone could be so downright irresponsible as to get twatted before filming a TV appearance (albeit not a 'live' one as claimed.) I sent my account of that night's events to Holy Moly and it made the headline story, and wasn't I pleased with myself about that? But that of course was before I faced up to my own problems with drink and now, far from finding Amy's crazy-bitch antics entertaining, I find them saddening.

I can't help but wonder what the fuck the people around her are doing. Sure, Amy's problems are hers alone and the only person who can tell Amy that she has a problem is Amy. A friend with a drink problem, or any kind of addiction, is like the apocryphal elephant in the room; everyone will gladly talk around it but only the very brave will talk about it. But besides her friends, surely Amy's record company, manager, agent, stylist, hairdresser (yes I'm sure she has one, despite appearances), driver and so on who should be asking themselves what the hell they're doing to earn their money if they let Amy go on stage like that. It must have been obvious that she wasn't fit to perform on Charlotte Church, Buzzcocks, Friday Night Project and now G-A-Y and that if she did she would humiliate herself, and yet no-one has seemingly had the guts or, more to the point, the simple human kindness to say, 'No, sorry love. You can't go on tonight. We'll tell 'em you've got flu,' before giving her the mother of all bollockings in the hope that she will admit to herself, as only she can, that something must be done. If they think that by letting her go on stage pissed out of her beehive-topped head every night, she'll sooner or later learn her lesson, then they are being at best naive and at worst downright cruel. More likely is that the more bad press she gets for turning up smashed, the more disillusioned and paranoid Amy will become, fuelling more drinking in search of the - to her - blissful abandonment that liquor in sufficient quantities brings.

I titled that first post 'Amy needs rehab.' I'm not sure it's rehab that Amy needs now, but she sure needs something. Maybe someone really close to be brave enough to tell her she has a problem. Maybe to have that one flash of clarity where one realises for oneself that something is wrong. Maybe she just needs someone to hold her and love her and tell her that everything's going to be alright. Whatever it is Amy Winehouse needs, I hope she gets it before it's too late. From me, she gets an apology for not knowing then what I know now - that there's nothing funny about being a drunk.

Thirty, single, fabulous...and f**king busy!

2007-01-05T15:31:00.000Z

Yes! It’s me, I’m back! Did you miss me? Good, because I’ve missed you like crazy – it’s true!

The lack of recent entries here on thirtysingleandfabulous is due quite simply to my having been so darned busy. Two nights after the Molton Brown experience I went to the closing night of Bent at the Trafalgar Studios which was as brilliant as it was harrowing, and left us – me, Glenda, Our Lady of Chappelle and Margo and Jerry – rather lost for words, unable to quite express how grateful we newly were for the sexual freedoms we take for granted. The following weekend, at my first gay wedding, I was again reminded of just how bloody fortunate we are. Despite the anodyne surroundings of Brixton Register Office, the unintentional hilarity of the piped music (‘I’m Not In Love’ and ‘Love on The Rocks’, for Christ’s sake!) and the language barrier – one groom was French, the other Brazilian, neither could quite pronounce ‘civil partnership’ – it was beautiful and very moving to witness such a tangible manifestation of gay equality. OK, I’m off the soapbox now; what else have I been up to?

The week before Christmas was a hoot. It started with a moment I’d awaited for the preceding 13 weeks – the crowning of America’s Next Top Model (Danielle in case you missed it; yes I was surprised too but thank GOD it wasn’t Jade) Then on the Wednesday – my last day at work, hurrah! - I spent a typically hilarious evening of cocktails, dinner and dancing with Miss Adelaide and Andrea Bianco (who was half-celebrating, half-commiserating having walked out of his new job of just three weeks, his boss having turned out to be the living incarnation of Miranda Priestley) Having completed my Christmas shopping in one meticulously planned commando raid on W1 on Thursday morning, the evening was spent enjoying drinks, canapés and champagne (vintage, and a gold medal winner at the Decanter awards, Glenda authoritatively informed the hosts upon presenting it) chez Margo and Jerry. Their house is fast becoming quite the most stylish place to see and be seen in the gay village, thanks to the flair with which they entertain, and this particular evening was no exception.

The following evening Mother arrived, ready for the trip up to Big Sister’s on the Saturday, and I was delighted that she was in sufficiently good health (physical and mental) to come with me to Dolly’s Christmas drinks soiree. Chaperoned by TWBD, I took Mother on what would be her first ever trip to Brixton and despite remaining fairly firmly glued to Dolly’s sofa she was nonetheless on great form, managing to polish off three bottles of Sol, a gin and tonic and about a pint of bubbly without any visible signs of drunkenness (like Mother, like son…!) Once I had taken her back to mine and ensured she was medicated, tucked up and sound asleep, I rejoined Dolly and the rest of the partygoers - including in addition to the Hollogays, Hollywood Rob and Princess Timmy – at Barcode VauHo for more bevies and boogying. Wishing to keep up the alliteration I finished off the evening by popping next door for a bit of bum-fun, and what a lovely way to round off the evening that turned out to be

The Saturday saw us depart for Norfolk and Christmas at Big Sister’s, which in a festive nut selection nutshell can be summarised as five days of pure joy; great company, great food (and mountains of it), fabulous presents (I nearly died of shock when Mother gave me two extremely tasteful and perfectly fitting items of clothing!) and a totally chilled atmosphere with not a single raised voice all the time we were there.

Arriving back on the Wednesday and with Mother safely despatched on her homeward journey, I arranged to hit the town with OLoC, Glenda’s planned drinks party having sadly had to be cancelled due to its host having flu. Much as I had had a gorgeous time with the family, as had OLoC with his, I needed to reacquaint myself with civilisation and as we were both in the mood for a warm welcome, cold drinks and hot boys, we headed for Le Bar de Kaz. There we met up with The Canadian who, through the sniffling brought on by his ‘white Christmas’, informed me that he has decided to settle down with one – just one! – of his current beaux. For you dear reader this means fewer tales of The Canadian and his pan-continental sexploits; for me it simply means that our catch-ups will be rather less difficult to follow.

Tipsy (yes, tipsy! You heard right!) and randy we moved on to Los Dos Brewos, and both OLoC and I were successful in finding company for the night – his a very cute scally type who took him back to (where else?) Peckham; mine a rather gorgeous and (thank you baby Jesus) sillily well-endowed South African lad who kept me busy until well into the next afternoon – they don’t call it a ‘job’ for nothing… (On that topic, I’d welcome readers’ suggestions as to new ways to reply to the compliment ‘You give great head’. Currently I either just say ‘Thanks’ or more often ‘Yes, I do,’ but I’d like a wittier riposte. Answers on a saucy postcard please.)

On New Year’s Eve Eve it was back to the Kaz to meet The Ex and a few of his crew (to one of whom, it later transpired, he is newly-enfianced) for Saturday beers, thence to the fully-recovered Glenda’s for copious amounts of fizz and gossip into the night.

My New Year’s Eve party was fabulously fun and unexpectedly well-attended. I’d expected just a handful but was delighted to welcome OLoC, Dolly, Glenda, Princess Timmy and cute ickle friend thereof, KLo and Mr Media (a gay man trapped in a woman’s body going out with a gay man trapped in a straight man’s body, and boy do the gays love ‘em both), The Ex and The Ex’s New Man (who for the record seems very nice), Smurphy, Judders and Dr Az. All came bearing liquor (and quality liquor at that – my friends have class), and I laid on some nibbles, played some cool tunes through the slinky iPod speakers Santa brought me, conversation flowed, merriment was made and 2007 was seen in in an atmosphere of love and laughter that bodes well for the year ahead.

Waking on 01/01/07 with only my second hangover in eight weeks (the first having been the morning after the South African…well I hadn’t had a chance to sleep off the drink!) I gladly accepted an invitation from The Ex to go round to his for the SW19 premier of Sarah Jane Adventures, the teatime Doctor Who spin off ostensibly for kids but which seems much more aimed at the The Gays than at The Brats. (There was some sort of plot involving an aggressively marketed fizzy drink whose shady but superficially altruistic manufacturer seemed set on world domination, which whilst serving as a clever critique of the current state of global capitalism was far less of a draw for me than the fact it had that Harley off Footballer’s Wives in it looking hot.) Smurphy and Judders - both as drunk as it is physiologically possible to be without the liver imploding – having left, I found myself in the very Noughties but less-uncomfortable-than-it-could-have-been position of chilling in front of the TV with The Ex and his new man in what used to be my front room. After a while (and eager to be on the sofa in time for The Vicar of Dibley) I headed home, washed up the glassware and threw out the debris from NYE, and settled down with a curry to see Dawn French tie the knot with him off Robin Hood. I cried, natch.

All of which brings us pretty much bang up to the minute, other than to update you all on how the drinking’s going…but that I think deserves a post of it’s own so watch, as ever, this space.

Creamy Faces, Hand Jobs & A Taste of Ginger

2006-12-08T15:21:00.001Z

Along with the usual run-of-the-mill stuff - raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, that sort of shit - grooming products, wealthy men and free stuff are right up there on my list of favourite things. So, imagine my delight when I was invited by The Canadian to join him last night at a ‘men-only’ evening at Molton Brown in Chelsea. Spending a couple of hours ostensibly perusing the latest gunk pour homme from the gay Boots, with a glass of Asti and a mince pie, in the elevated environs of SW3, had ‘cruising potential’ written all over it, and given that the last time I popped into a Molton Brown I took home a lot more than Vitamin Lip Saver, I rather fancied my chances.

We met up for coffee beforehand to catch up; despite it only being a week since we had last seen each other, The Canadian’s sex life is so dizzyingly active that I knew there would be tales to tell, and sure enough an hour and a half went by before he’d finished bringing me up to speed. It’s hardly surprising that he gets so much action. TC is an implausibly chiselled, tanned, toned, doe-eyed, deep-voiced hunk of gorgeousness blessed not only with Abercrombie-model good looks but also a razor-sharp mind and deeply kind heart. Since coming out in his twenties, TC had been the poster boy for serial monogamy; his first relationship lasted four years, the next eight, the one after that a ‘mere’ nine months, with nary a pause for breath in between. Finding himself single after the last relationship – an intense, emotional-rollercoaster of a half-year with a fiercely intelligent and terribly pretty Turkish student – abruptly ended, TC has since given himself over to the pleasures of clubbing, networking and online-dating, all of which has resulted in his having a seemingly inexhaustible line of suitors beating down his door.

Satisfied that I had been fully apprised of all current inamorati – one American, one German, one Mexican, one Brazilian, one British, a veritable United Nations of anal – off we trotted to the King’s Road for what I hoped would be an evening of, to steal from the play, Shopping and Fucking. Sadly the latter was not to be, for imagine our surprise and disappointment that we were the only people there! Maybe it was the tornado hitting north London (good aim, God), perhaps the miserable drizzle, or just that Chelsea queers are far too well off to want a free facial, whatever the cause we were all alone with just five shop-girls and a roomful of products for company.

And OH how much fun that turned out to be! Complimentary drinks and nibbles; a full facial with amino eye treatment; a hand and arm massage (I was *amazed* at the difference); laughs with the ladies all of whom fell completely under our spell; and to top it all off a goodie bag packed to the rope handles with handy size oddments, including enough of my favourite shower gel to see me through Christmas, a bar of Green & Blacks Ginger (everyone should have a taste of ginger once in a while as I like to tell the boys) and – bizarrely – a golf ball, which made us both feel terribly rugged and macho. Inasmuch as one can be ‘terribly rugged and macho’ mincing arm-in-arm down the King’s Road swinging a Molton Brown bag and pointing at boys screaming ‘Oooh he’s GAWGEOUS!’

Next week TC is taking me to my first gay wedding which should provide fertile ground for getting some rectal pleasure; if it doesn’t I might as well hang up my lube pump and admit defeat. Watch this space!

Annual Report 2006

2006-12-08T10:55:00.000Z

Wednesday marked the one year anniversary of my becoming single (thirty followed later, and I’ve always been fabulous) and I invariably got to reflecting on those twelve months of bachelorhood and what being single, after so long of being otherwise, had meant to me. It wasn’t a melancholy kind of reflection – I know now as I did then, with absolute certainty, that the divorce was the right thing – but nor was I celebrating my ‘freedom’ or anything tacky like that; I simply gave myself time and space to take stock and produce a mental ‘annual report’ on my year of singledom, and realised contentedly that it’s been a pretty fun year.

For the first few months after D-I-V-O-R-C-E Day, I might as well have checked into a monastery. I had no sexual urges whatsoever (astonishing considering I’d had them pretty much non-stop for the preceding 29-and-a-half years), I felt unsociable and, ironically given my problems with the demon drink in recent months, I was very wary of drinking lest I slip into the same spiral of self-neglect and self-harm as I had after Divorce #1. Christmas and New Year came and went in a blur, and as 2006 began I settled into a blissful domesticity of sorts, sharing Big Sister’s flat while half-heartedly looking for one of my own. Most evenings not spent with her or one or more of The Inner Circle would be spent in front of the TV with a sofa supper and a bottle of red (or two), which whilst being healing for the heart and soul was hardly conducive to finding cock and bum fun. I contented myself with the odd visit to The American, to whom my newly-single status was the green light he’d been waiting for, his own marital status being for his conscience not mine.

Round about Easter time, Spring having sprung and my libido reborn with it, I got back into the saddle in spectacular style with a threesome that lasted thirty-six hours (including rest-breaks for cigarettes and ice-packs) which was fitting as that had been how I’d got over the last big break up; there must be something about being the guest star that appeals to my raging ego. Then a drunken trip to Pleasuredrome (my pores were looking like they needed a cleansing and I couldn’t afford a facial) led to my meeting a big burly Scotsman who in a moment of madness I exchanged numbers with; while that led to a very pleasurable few days of exchanging frankly filthy video messages, we never made it as far as actually meeting up so he got deleted and purged (though I confess I kept the messages.)

Then followed (in no particular order because to be honest loves I don’t remember) Daniel The Actor, who was absolutely beautiful but with whom I didn’t swap numbers, a fact I kicked myself over for days afterwards; Essex Boy, the very epitome of ‘straight-acting’ with whom I had a very successful date one, a disappointing date two and hence no date three; Mr Fashion, an astonishingly handsome (in fact pretty much Aryan) magazine editor who was great on paper (and between the sheets) but I think in reality I’d have felt in competition with; The Kid From Molton Brown, a 21-year old chunky monkey who I flirted with outrageously over the Warming Eucalyptus Bath & Shower Therapy and thus ended up bedding, certainly the best free gift with purchase I’ve ever had; The Brazilian Munchkin, who picked me up in the street walking home from The Hoist and dropped me home the next morning still in full leather regalia; The Deranged Irishman – about whom the less said the better; The Midget Spanish Hairdresser; and the one with the most longevity, Asda Boy, the closeted son of Sarf London, Irish Catholic gangster parents, youngest of six (one of whom had died of alcoholism) and with a scar on his back from a stab wound, who still makes an appearance from time to time and is very much my protégé.

Then along came Kit.

Until I met Kit I was, inwardly and I think visibly, happily single. But within just a few days of meeting him, a time during which we were all but inseparable, I let down my defences for the first time since the split and, while I wouldn’t say I was planning the wedding, I certainly allowed myself to open up to the possibility that it could turn into something more. When that didn’t happen – Kit suddenly and still, to my mind, inexplicably, got cold feet – I was amazed at how disappointed I felt, the disappointment being totally disproportionate to the length of time we’d known each other. I guess, as the song goes, a taste of honey’s worse than none at all.

BUT – I’m always one to bounce back, and after a couple of months of licking my Kit-inflicted wounds that’s what I have done. One year on and I’m happily thirty, happily single and, happily, fabulous. I’m looking good, feeling great, The Ex is high up on the ‘best friends’ list, the drinking’s under control and frankly, this boy is back in business.

Gentlemen and ladies this is my annual report and I commend it to the house!

Testing My Sobriety

2006-11-29T14:51:00.001Z

After three full weeks of not drinking – not one single drop, sip or taste – I gave myself permission last weekend to start again, with a view to putting to the test whether, having proved to my satisfaction that I could go totally without, I could drink and keep it under control. During the week I’d had a long and enlightening conversation with Bubble, my Stateside friend who is in AA and has been sober now for 13 months. He – like all of the Inner Circle – has been incredibly supportive of my efforts and gave me some surprising but common sense advice: that the only way to be sure if I had a problem was not to abstain, but to drink.

The rationale behind this is that alcoholism, like all addictions, comes in many guises. Some people are alcohol-dependent; that is, they physically cannot get through a day, an hour or a minute without being drunk. For others, the drinking is the symptom, not the problem; they drink to mask or anaesthetise immediate or deeply-rooted emotional or psychological pain, so while they may not drink all the time, when they do, they do it to excess. Others still – and this is the category Bubble falls into – are alcohol-allergic; one drink, just one, triggers a reaction in the brain which removes the ability to stop, leading them to drink to oblivion for no other reason than that they cannot do otherwise.

Of these three types of alcoholism – and the list is by no means exhaustive – I felt by day 21 that I’d successfully discounted the first (cravings, whilst they occurred, were very few and far between and swiftly passed with a bit of self-coaching and a family-size mint Aero.) I took, several times, a good hard impassive look at my life to see if the second applied and decided that it did not; for all that I have, and have had, trouble in my life, I genuinely could not equate my drinking with being symptomatic of it. That left the third option, the alcohol allergy, and there was only one way to put that to the test. So it was that on Saturday last I tentatively took my first drink in three weeks.

The results were far from dramatic. It didn’t go ‘straight to my head’ as I’d thought it might, nor did it make me feel at all ill, as I’d feared it might. I felt neither relief nor pleasure; my overwhelming feeling was, if anything, of confusion. Confusion, because after so long abstaining, I’d unconsciously come to dissociate drinking alcohol from being a part of my routine, and so almost like a computer detecting rogue software, my brain struggled to comprehend what exactly a glass of wine was doing in my hands. I finished the glass very slowly, and shortly after went on to a 40th birthday party and from there, on to that classy Sarf London venue Los Dos Brewos, and not a drop further passed my lips. Experiment or no experiment, I just didn’t want to drink! Sure I was getting bored senseless of juice, Red Bull and water, but I wasn’t even tempted to vary it with something hard. (Although I was certainly gagging for something ‘hard’ but failed to find it – two weeks into not drinking, I mentioned to Glenda that on a stone-cold sober visit to Barcode, I’d been amazed at how few guys I’d found attractive without my trusty beer goggles of old. He chuckled and replied with his typical brevity and perceptiveness, “Sobriety is a harsh judge,” and how bloody right he was!)

Thinking it over the next day, I cautiously allowed myself to take the previous night’s abstinence as a good sign. But then I got to wondering, maybe I didn’t want more of the wine because it just wasn’t very nice wine? What would happen if I were to crack open a really good bottle; would I finish the lot? I needed to test this theory so later, invited to Margo and Jerry’s for lunch along with The Agony Uncles and Our Lady of Chappelle, I took with me a corker of a Cab Sauv and when the beef was served let Margo pour me a small glass. I sipped as I ate – interspersing each delicious mouthful with one of Pellegrino – and found that the one glass lasted me through the meal and indeed dessert. Cometh the cheese board, cometh the port, and I partook of a thimbleful; again, I savoured it, enjoyed it, finished it – but felt no urge at all to refill it. I still felt somehow guilty that after three weeks (sounds like nothing, doesn’t it?) I was ‘back on the bottle’ again, but I reassured myself that it was for research purposes and felt a lot better for that.

So where am I with it now? Well, I think it’s too early to say that I’ve got it fully under control. Sure, I managed to stop at one glass of wine; but I have yet to try that test on one beer, one cocktail or – my real Nemesis – one vodka. And try it I will; I need to know that I can control my drinking, as opposed to my non-drinking, for myself, and if I can’t, I need to think again about what I’m going to do about it.

So far, so damn good – I feel great, everyone says I look great, for the best part of a month I’ve not done or said a single thing I’m ashamed of, and as a very pleasant side-effect my money’s going a hell of a lot further. The support I’ve had from the Inner Circle has been, if not surprising, amazing and affirming. From regular words of encouragement and expressions of their pride, to the more subtle gestures such as inviting me for ‘a juice’ after work, the gang have accepted and respected my need to not drink and made sticking to it so much easier. Drinking responsibly though is, I think, likely to be a greater challenge yet than not drinking has been. Watch, as ever, this space!

Answer me this...?

2006-11-16T11:05:00.000Z

I knew I’d need something to replace the booze and sure enough I have a new addiction – Yahoo Answers. I signed up a week ago and have already answered nine questions, ranging from one word (‘Campanology’ since you’re asking) to several paragraphs, and have now twice had my answer chosen as the best answer by the asker! The idea’s quite simple; you go on the site, look for open questions - or you can pick a category to browse – and if you know, or even think you know, the answer, you type it in and get points in return. If you want to ask a question, you pay with points to do so and just sit back and wait for the answers to start rolling in. The idea is that the bank of resolved questions will build up into a kind of searchable online oracle (or Orac for the Blakes 7 fans amongst you) covering everything from bell-ringing to bell-ends.

Some of the more straightforward questions I’ve answered so far include, ‘What are gay saunas all about?’ (God knows I should know enough about that particular topic) and ‘Where can I buy mens Prada shoes in a size 12?’ (ditto: I have five pairs) One of the more esoteric was, ‘I’ve been seeing a psychic and she told me my mate Scott’s gay. Should I tell him?’ (I said, in so many words, mind your own business; that got me best answer!) There’s a certain pleasure in sharing ones knowledge with complete strangers, as well as an arrogant satisfaction in thinking that you have the answer to someone’s dilemma, be that about shagging or shoes. I’m trying to limit myself to ten minutes or so a day, but as your points start accruing it gets like Nectar – you’ll never actually use the points, the fun is watching them build up. The more points you earn, the higher your level – I’m still a level 1 but believe you me I’m aiming for the top – and as you move up the levels you can rate other people’s answers, post comments…all too much fun for words.

It’s silly, it’s time consuming, but boy do I love it, and it’s a hell of a lot better seeking life’s answers online than at the bottom of a bottle of vodka!

I'm drying out

2006-11-13T16:17:00.000Z

At midnight on Saturday, standing (or rather, bobbing along to the music) in Barcode Vauxhall, I looked at the can of Red Bull in my hand and secretly toasted what for me was a major personal success. No, I hadn’t pulled the cute lad in the polo shirt (though heaven knows I’d have liked to) nor had I been snapped for the fashion pages of the gay press (though God knows I deserved to – I was looking fabulous). No, this success was altogether more meaningful than that – at midnight Saturday became Sunday and that meant I had gone a whole seven days without alcohol.

A week ago Sunday I woke up, for about the fifth consecutive Sunday, feeling as if I had gone ten rounds in a boxing ring, against a particularly vicious opponent. Pounding head? Check. Nausea? Check. Cold sweat, shakes, mouth as dry as a nomad’s flip-flop? Check, check and check. Worst of all, I realised to my horror that my liver was throbbing. Not figuratively, but actually, throbbing. Attaining some sort of consciousness, I began to scan my memory banks for details of the previous night, and almost instantly wished I hadn’t, for far from having blanks in my memory, I remembered far too well just how drunk I had been the night, and indeed day, before and just how terribly I had behaved. Why this particular occasion should have been the watershed I don’t know, but I realised there and then that something had to give.

For a couple of hours I sat (or rather, slumped) on the sofa, asking myself if I had a drink problem, and eventually the answer came back ‘Yes’. I went so far as to look in the Yellow Pages for my nearest Alcoholics Anonymous group; I wasn’t labelling myself an alcoholic but felt so unsure right then that I figured going along to a meeting might help me find clarity. After some more soul searching I decided that, no, AA was a step too far; I didn’t want to make more of this than I needed to. I resolved instead that I was going to try an experiment – to stop drinking, for a week, to see if I could do it. On the basis of my success or otherwise, I would then decide what action to take from there.

You know of course that I succeeded – and I even succeeded to keep off the bottle for another day, to make a proper week, having decided that Sunday last couldn’t really count as a) I’d been drinking into the wee small hours so had technically had alcohol on that day and b) it doesn’t really count as abstaining when the only reason for doing so is because you can’t keep anything down, liquor or otherwise. So now that I’ve done it, what’s the verdict? Do I still have a problem? The honest answer remains ‘Yes’. I base this on just how much of a challenge it was to not have a single drink – or even sip – of booze. Sunday was fine – as I’ve said, I felt so ill I couldn’t have even contemplated boozing. Monday - usually a booze free day anyway – was fine, and Tuesday likewise, having dinner round at Big Sister’s where booze is usually available but never pressed upon one.

Wednesday however was when the demons descended. By about 2 o’clock in the afternoon, I’d started to fancy a drink – red wine to be precise. In the same way as I can tell when I’m craving a cigarette, I could tell that I was craving a drink. I was thinking about how it would smell and taste; how it would make me feel. The warm glow, the slight squiffiness…I could already feel it. Like a Tom & Jerry cartoon I had good and evil over respective shoulders, the one telling me that I’d gone three days so one drink wouldn’t hurt, the other saying no, you said a week and a week it shall be. The wrestling went on well into the evening but I made it through the evening without buckling. Thursday saw me giving a talk in Cambridge (no memory stick disasters this time, thank God) and although afterwards I was tempted to reward myself with a quarter bottle of Rioja for a job well done, I was able to resist and rewarded my self with a nice cup of tea and a family size mint Aero when I got home.

Friday was always going to be tricky – a long-standing invitation to dinner where I knew wine, and good wine at that, would flow freely. I had two choices; go, try to tough it out and not beat myself up too badly if I failed, or cancel so as not to put temptation in my path. The latter striking me as being terrifically self-indulgent, and knowing how much my hosts were looking forward to my company, I went for the former, but warned them in advance that I was off the sauce and would be grateful if they were to not even try to tempt me otherwise. It was certainly a test of will-power (something I have never had in spades) especially when the other invitee arrived bringing with him a very good Sirah which I could smell and even, vicariously, taste as it was poured. It would have been so easy to give in; I knew for a fact that my hosts, and certainly the other guest who I’d only just met, would certainly think no evil of me if I were to throw up my arms and say, ‘Oh sod it, I’ll have a glass with you.’ But I didn’t, I saw it through, and I travelled home feeling the most amazing sense of achievement.

Saturday came and, knowing this was Day 7, I was resolute in my determination to make it through the day dry. Even a bigger than expected attendance at mine for X-Factor, where I watched soberly but jealously as the boys got steadily drunker and drunker, didn’t break my resolve (although I nearly took a sip of vodka and tonic when I mistook it for my glass of water but smelled it in time before it hit my lips!) And after that, off we went to BCV, the boys all promising to not let me go to the bar lest I get tempted, and to not pressure me into staying should the temptation to drink get too strong and I want to leave. Which brings us full circle back to where I started – midnight, and the completion of my first 100% dry week since as long as I can remember.

Where I go from here, I don’t know. Week 1 felt so good that I’m going to try for week 2. I won’t be joining AA, or seeing my GP, or checking into rehab just yet. I’m going to take it one week, one day, one drink at a time, not forever, but until I can be sure that I’ve got it under control.

Watch, as ever, this space!

Attack of the seven-foot phallus

2006-11-02T14:11:00.002Z

I have had many embarrassing experiences in my life. Being shouted at by Mrs Bradley in front of the whole class to stop running down the school corridor, aged 5. Not realising I had tissue paper stuck to my face whilst attempting to cruise Ian Roberts in a Sydney cocktail bar. Having my mobile go off - 'The Dying Swan' - in a memorial service. But none of these could have prepared me for what happened on Tuesday.

I had been asked to stand in for the Chief Executive at a high-profile national conference, giving a speech to about 150 leaders-of-tomorrow, and went along suited, booted and nose hairs trimmed ready to knock ‘em dead. All had been prepared for me, the organisers said; my biography distributed, the microphones sound-checked, and my PowerPoint presentation loaded onto a laptop. I was impressed – in fact a little awe-struck – by the scale of the hall I was to speak in, the grandeur of the lectern, and the cinema-sized projection screen aforementioned presentation was to be shown on. It was a damn professional set-up, but like every good speaker, I thought I’d just do a quick check before starting, and was glad I did; they’d loaded the wrong presentation!

"No need to panic," said I – "I’ve got it on my memory stick," and pulled it from my bag and handed it over. The organiser plugged it into the laptop, clicked on it from the menu, and up on the laptop screen in front of her eyes came the contents of my memory stick. Not just the PowerPoint presentations, oh no – the photographic contents as well. The shot of my erect cock; the shot of my erect cock held up for comparison next to a beer can (500ml since you’re asking) ; the full frontals – one nude, one in football kit; a veritable pornucopia of images that I had, I confess, forgotten were even on there.

But it gets worse. Remember the enormous screen I mentioned? The one facing a hall slowly filling with delegates? The one the laptop screen is projected on to? Oh yes. The projector was on, and there, in seven-foot glory, was each and every image. I leapt for the ‘Escape’ button quicker than a Heather Mills leaps for a headline and as God is my judge I cleared that screen before too many people can have seen it…but some did, some must have…and I stood there and delivered that presentation – from memory - like a true Chief Executive-in-waiting knowing that somewhere in that darkened hall, there were delegates who a few minutes before had seen a hell of a lot more of me than just the upper part of my Richard James-clad torso that rose above the lectern.

I finished - in forty-five minutes flat - and after an impressive round of applause and questions from the floor (none of them “So, how many inches is that monster?”) I fled from that room and like Lot leaving Sodom didn’t once look back.

Two days later, and the Chief Executive hasn’t called to extend her thanks yet. I am deeply, deeply concerned…

Hippies, F*** Buddies and Footballers' Wives

2006-10-25T13:50:00.000Z

Last night was one of those joyous occasions, my monthly-ish diner a deux with Best Straight Lady Friend. Over the last couple of years BSLF and I have noshed at a panoply of London's swankiest venues, and last night was no exception as we revisited one of our past faves, No. 5 Cavendish Square Normally the restaurant in this members club-cum-hotel-cum-nightclub would be way out of our league price-wise (starters average out at about £12, mains at £25) but given that these prices clearly put off any sort of mid-week customer volume, they lure in the hoi polloi with a £20-for-three-courses menu du jour which suited us just fine. Better still, I'd accrued enough toptable points through my prodigious eating out that I was able to cash them in for my share of the food - no such thing as a free meal my big gay ginger arse.

Kicking off with a couple of cocktails in the bar (a Bramble for me, a Flirtini aptly enough for BSLF) we kicked back and caught up on the mundanities of work so as to be able to devote our over-dinner conversation to the salacious details of our sex lives and recent dates. Cocktails duly necked and each having brought the other up to date on our respective successes at work (thrusting young executives both are we, it seems) we sashayed through to the restaurant only to find ourselves the only diners there. All to the good though in our book; neither of us is averse to a private dining room especially when it's as opulent as this one with all its claret damask, oil paintings and gilt-work, lovingly preserved from the building's days as the Spanish Embassy. Solitude also meant that we could speak freely and at volume about the men in our lives and just what we've been getting up to with them.

Fortifying ourselves with some of the delicious bread and fresh salsa (nice touch) I launched into a moan about the Kit situation, namely that despite our speaking on the phone pretty much daily about anything and everything, I had only seen him once since he unilaterally called a halt to our dating and was beginning to get the distinct impression that he was avoiding me. He says that he’s coming to my party on Saturday but I have a sneaky feeling he will - yet again - blow me out. BSLF – looking stunning, for the record, in a very flattering black roll neck and kinky boots - cheered me up no end by launching into her own tale of dating woe: her less-than-successful second date with a Tree Hugger. She explained that, at a recent after-party (in fact for The Other Ex’s birthday party, of which BSLF’s memory is about as patchy as mine) she had got chatting to a bit of a dude - she did tell me his name but it eludes me; let’s call him The Hippy - who impressed her with his planet-saving credentials. He was recently returned from a life-changing walk across the Kalahari (or somesuch madcap venture) and was now living on a budget of a tenner a day. They’d swapped numbers (his rejection of capitalism clearly not extending to the telephone) and arranged to go to the cinema. That date had gone promisingly, and BSLF took it as a good sign that he liked her enough to accept a lift home from her, given that his principles normally required him to boycott gas-guzzling motors (although BSLF’s nippy turquoise Celica could hardly be said to ‘guzzle’.)

(Speaking of guzzling, by this stage of the conversation we had received and shovelled down our starters, a superb black tagliatelle with prawns for me and a goodly plate of Parma ham and figs for her. We had also ceased to be alone, having been joined a few tables away by a glamour couple comprising a suave and clearly loaded footballer or maybe football exec and his perma-tanned size zero moll; we continued the conversation unabated but a few decibels quieter.)

Date two however had been less of a success. It started well; The Hippy offered to come round to hers and cook dinner, and duly arrived (on a yak, presumably) and proceeded to make what BSLF described as an ‘amazingly good’ Bolognese with chopped steak. Sadly it would transpire that that would the only serving of prime meat she would be getting that night. Several bottles of wine and a spliff ‘or two’ later, things turned amorous and all looked good until The Hippy announced that he wanted to be dominated. Resisting the urge to suggest he try North Korea, BSLF – partial to a bit of subjugation herself but on the receiving end – gamely tried to play the dominatrix role but the heady combination of good food, booze and gear (and no doubt patchouli) took over and The Hippy just didn't have it in him; consequently, BSLF didn’t get 'it' in her. There may or may not be a date three…

Airing our respective disappointments led us neatly on to bemoaning our mutual lack of a good, dependable, no-strings, on-call Fuck Buddy. BSLF had no idea that I had been reacquainted with The American just a couple of weeks before our fleeting encounter at The Wolseley so I tantalised her with every salacious detail of our last dirty adulterous romp, whilst also reflecting that whilst I may be on call for him, his availability to me depends wholly on when The American’s Husband is out of the country. There’d also been The VWE Waiter, but he ruined our buddy arrangement by introducing - eek! – feelings into the equation. BSLF reciprocated by expounding on how much she regretted having ever let go of Big Black Frank, who had filled many a crack in the bedroom when a Rabbit just wasn’t enough to get her off.

(Speaking of filling, somewhere around this point we hoovered up our mains, stuffed chicken breast for her, red mullet, mussels and cavolo nero for me, lubed with a bottle of Chablis, all very good apart from the cavolo which had the texture and taste of balsa wood. The Footballers' Wife seemed to keep looking over (hard as is to discern facial movement with that much Botox) so we resolved sotto voce to rectify our lack of a decent FB just as soon as we could; watch, yet again, this space.)

The world put squarely to rights, we sweetened our bitter tongues with a cracking - literally and figuratively - berry mille feuille and a bit of small talk about status handbags (we both want) and wealthy lovers (we both so want) before settling the very reasonable bill (they’d forgotten to include the cocktails, or possibly comped them as thanks from the barman for having ogled BSLF's 34F’s for a full quarter hour) and swishing down the marble staircase and out into Cavendish Square. After a couple of hours with Best Straight Lady Friend, as it always does I felt like all was right with the world and do you know what? I think for the time being it genuinely is.

The grand-a-head lunch

2006-10-19T16:07:00.000Z

In yesterday’s Metro, their food critic Marina O’Loughlin (who I just *heart*) wrote about her underwhelming experience of dinner at Restaurant Gordon Ramsay which came in at a prolapse-inducing £460 for two. Well Marina I can top that – because yesterday I experienced the £1000-a-head lunch.

The restaurant was located in leafy Bloomsbury, which whilst pretty and historic is a million miles in terms of prestige from Royal Hospital Road. It had not a single Michelin star, or even AA rosette, to its name. It doesn’t feature in any guidebooks (well, maybe a couple of the dodgier ones) and it will certainly not be racking up any ‘World’s Best Restaurant’ awards any time soon or rather ever. To top it all off, it was self-service.

So what did my companion and I feast on for a grand apiece? Beluga caviar, foie gras, Bresse chicken, white truffles? Did we quaff Petrus and Yquem? Er, no. For starters we had a cold collation of Scotch egg, egg mayonnaise, curried potato salad, cous cous terrine and mixed leaves. For our main course we had beef casserole and coq au vin with roast potatoes, carrots and broccoli. I did manage to shovel down four desserts – tiramisu, chocolate cake, fruit salad and profiteroles, all slathered in thick double cream - but given that this blow out was all washed down with water, and tap water at that, how on earth could a lunch so lowly come in at £2000 for two?

Well, the restaurant in question was in the Holiday Inn, where the company I work for had booked a suite of rooms, IT services and catering for an event that day – including lunch for four – but had had to cancel at short notice, incurring a 100% cancellation fee of, you’ve guessed it, a cool two grand. Of course we protested at this, but the Holiday Inn people were not to be moved although they did – I’m sure they thought helpfully – inform us that if we liked we could still have our lunch ‘as chef will have bought the food now’. Woo hoo! So cometh the hour, cometh the man and at 12.30 yesterday I took my best-buddy-at-work Annie down the road to the Holiday Inn and we sat down for our thousand pounds per person lunch. I can’t say it was the best meal of my life although it was far from awful; I can’t say it was the most memorable, because I’d forgotten it all by dinner – which amazingly I still ate despite the four puds. But it was, without a shadow of a doubt, and quite possibly forever more will be, the most expensive I have consumed, and will hold a special place in my heart for knowing that.

Marina, don’t feel ripped off by Gordon’s lacklustre menu prestige; compared to my £2K effort you got an absolute bargain!

The Wonderful Wolseley

2006-10-16T12:44:00.000Z

To The Wolseley on Saturday for lunch with Big Rob, my belated birthday treat to him (and myself to be honest.) We started off with a couple of beverages in Rupert Street, as one does, then strolled in the sunshine along Piccadilly to our destination. Was caught slightly unawares by the sight of The American having drinks in the bar but played it cool and gave him a nonchalant wave as we swept past the reception and into the magnificent main room.

I’d wanted to visit The Wolseley for ages having only ever heard good things – a rarity for London restaurants but perhaps unsurprising for the lovechild of Corbin and King, the genius restaurateurs who owned The Ivy back in the days when it was super-cool. The room – a former car showroom – is absolutely stunning, an extravagant but somehow tasteful riot of gilding, chandeliers, lacquer and crystal designed as an homage to the grand cafes of 19th-centrury middle-Europe. There’s undoubtedly a hierarchy to the seating arrangements, with the best tables corralled within a central square, around the outer perimeter of which are the less desirable tables, superior only to the few crammed into a decidedly lonely mezzanine. No prizes for guessing that we were sat at one of the best tables in the house, as too it transpired was The American and the boyfriend he has so meticulously kept me a secret from the for the last year or so.

We kicked off with a cocktail, Mojito for Rob and a vodka Martini for me (natch), both of which were beautifully mixed and kicked like mules. A nice touch was that my Martini was served in a small elegant glass of the type seen in Golden-Age-Of-Hollywood movies; I came across all Lauren Bacall and felt transported back to a more glamorous age. Not that glamour was in any way lacking; the mostly-male staff looked to have been hand-picked for their movie star good looks! The menu, like the décor, stays faithful to the grand café tradition, offering a wide but unintimidating choice of brunch dishes, plats du jour (braised lamb shank on our visit) and fish and seafood to suit any taste and any time of day.

Rob went for foie gras terrine followed by bratwurst; I plumped for the comfort of two of my all-time favourite dishes and started with potted shrimps then followed with steak tartare. The food was very good – which might sound rather anodyne but is meant as praise indeed. What The Wolseley does so brilliantly is to offer familiar food, cooked (or in the case of my steak tartare, not cooked) to perfection, served to a high standard by fit boys (and some pretty girls) in spectacular surroundings. What’s not to love? Prices are on the steep side but not eye-wateringly so; our two courses, plus cocktails, plus water, a lovely 2004 Petit Chablis, coffee, cover charge and service came to just shy of £120 which for the flawlessness of the whole experience just about qualifies as reasonable.

We stumbled out a little tipsy, very well-fed and feeling thoroughly Lucky Bitches a good couple of hours after we arrived, both in agreement that The Wolseley could well become our new favourite place. Off we staggered back to Rupert Street where continuing the day’s decadent theme we ordered up a bottle of Veuve and proceeded to get absolutely smashed; Rob’s boyfriend Rich came to join us only to find me barely coherent and barely upright, a state in which I remained for the rest of the evening, somehow managing to survive a few hours at The Other Ex’s birthday party – of which my memories, unsurprisingly, are somewhat hazy.

On the Sabbath – I rested.

Miss Adelaide's Trauma

2006-10-13T15:12:00.000Z

Miss Adelaide is not easily shocked, but I received this missive from him shortly after lunch suggesting that the gay goings on in the steam room at Holmes Place had reached depths even he could not condone:

"Afternoon darlings,

Went t'gym at lunchtime. Only just over my post work out hypoglycaemic slump. But my six quid take out from Starbucks has finally kicked in and I've a news flash....

I walked in on some *using fingers to create inverted commas, Marjorie Dawes-style* "Ffffat Love" going on in the steam room. The dirty baaaast*ds... I thought for a minute I'd walked into Chariots on an XXL inspired bear night.. Never seen anything like it in all me life. It was blatant!
My swim was a disaster by the way. Poxy goggles kept filling with water and falling off. Meaning I'd straddle the lane constantly, boot some woman in the fanny and surface with a face full of snot at the end of every length. I ended up throwing them across the poolside in a temper much to the lifeguard, Fernando's (or whatever's ) amusement.

It'snoteasyissit."

I *heart* Miss Adelaide. Can you see why?

Every Cloud...

2006-10-13T14:43:00.000Z

Having been let down for a third time by Kit, I accepted an invitation (or rather, engineered an invitation) to join The Ex and our mutual chum Legally Binding in The Yard. Not my favourite watering hole it's true but needs must and besides, I was a) pissed off enough to not care where we went and b) already a bottle of Merlot down. Imagine my delight upon arriving to find that The Ex and LB were in the company of a frankly stupidly pretty - but far from prettily stupid young chap called Michael, to whom I took an instant and, apparently, reciprocated, shine.

Readers, I sparkled, I shone, I entertained (and of course, I drank) and before too long aforementioned pretty young thing and I were getting as touch feely as it's decent to do on a Thursday in W1. Things started to go downhill however when LB - struggling under the combined onslaught of a recently broken heart, a current affair with an attached man who shows no signs of leaving his man for LB, and having drunk his own body weight in vodka tonics - left, leaving The Ex alone in the company of A Tongue Sandwich Waiting To Happen. Which, as ineluctably as Victoria Beckham regurgitating her dinner, it did; suddenly, spontaneously and...sadly right in front of my visibly pained ex.

Embarrassed by my insensitivity, I suggested to Michael that now might be an opportune moment to go for a nightcap elsewhere (I say nightcap, I meant snog and a grope clearly) and took the young man off, leaving The Ex with some of his old chums who'd fortuitously arrived just as M and I were getting jiggy. Sweetly, he was cycling home (though the state he was in I was concerned tonight's meeting might be the first and last) so I walked him to Cambridge Circus where his bike was and proceeded to snog, stroke and grope the little stunner for, ooh, about ten minutes, to the cheering - I think it was cheering - of passing cabbies and tourists. When it came to getting on his bike he pointed out that he was being hampered by a not-unimpressive stiffy which was reaching down the leg of his jeans; I took this as an invitation to have a good squeeze, which I duly did, before giving him my number 'so that he could call to let me know he'd got home safely'. Yeah right. See what I did there?

Will this show run and run, like Spamalot outside of which we were making out? Well no to be honest; gorgeous as he is (and boy can the kid kiss) he is but 24 and is, he says, 'smitten' with his boyfriend. I on the other hand am thirty, single and fabulous - how can you compete with that? Readers, watch this space...

Amy Needs Rehab...

2006-10-13T13:39:00.000Z

Went to see the recording of The Charlotte Church Show last night ('Live from Cardiff' my big gay ginger arse) and Char's musical guest was one Miss Amy Winehouse. All Amy had to do was sit on the sofa between Keith Allen and Rhod Gilbert (no me neither) and read a couple of the pitifully unfunny 'What we learned this week' bits, then disappear to the green room for a couple hours until the grand finale - a duet with La Church of 'Beat It'. Whine-house - already only semi-coherent during the sofa bit - clearly used those couple of hours to partake liberally of the 'fruit and flowers' in her dressing room, because when finally the moment came for CC to announce 'the fabulous Amy Winehouse', aforementioned horse-faced narcotic-Dustbuster walked very, very slowly to the front of the stage, lifted the mic to her contorted mouth to sing and...couldn't form words. She slurred her way through the first take, which Our Lady of Church - taking pity on Amy as one might on a dying animal - cut short.

A couple of minutes later, take two was barely as successful, although Winehouse did at least manage to make Elephant Man-like noises at vaguely the right points in the song - because each time it was her turn to 'sing', Churchy prodded her in the back. No, seriously. Sweetly, at the end of take 2, when Crackhouse was facing away from the camera, Char took the initiative to gently turn her around - a service required on take 3 as well.

By the end of the third take it was clear to all present that there was no way it was going to get any better. If someone at Channel 4 is actually able to edit those three attempts into something even vaguely less car crash than George Best on Wogan, they deserve every award going. My gut feeling is that, barring a re-shoot today (if Char's willing to ever be in the same room as Wino again) we won't actually be seeing our Amy come Friday night (live from Cardiff remember) at all. It was pure, unadulterated, being-there-at-the-dying-moment-of-a-career, genius. To finally summarise just how bad she was in a nutshell: she couldn't even form the words 'Beat It', instead slurring something that sounded a lot like'Beer' at roughly the right moment.

And her with a new single out called 'Rehab'...oh theirony!