Nine Lives Syndrome

Some lowlife shoved me to the ground and attempted to rob me.

Months later, I walked into a late-night bar, and there he was, the same guy, belting out excruciating karaoke.

I had met this shmuck one week earlier in another bar, but failed to recognise him on that occasion. Encountering him in a dimly lit venue, more akin to that shadowy street where the assault occurred, stirred my memory.

I spoke to a member of staff, “Excuse me, I’m not going to make a fuss, but there is a guy in here who tried to mug me a while back,” I explained. “Would you mind if I left my bag behind the bar… just in case he gets any ideas?”

They kindly took my possessions for safekeeping.

One week earlier… I was on a ‘hot lesbian date’.

A female friend and I had met for a post-Christmas catch-up at The Loft when a ruckus erupted. Some guy crashed in from the outdoor area in a fury, venting his rage on a pile of faux-Christmas gift decorations by the entrance. He had a right old tantrum, kicking and stomping on boxes, then stormed out, leaving staff and customers of this (usually relaxed) cocktail bar shaken and stirred.

Moments later, he burst back in to take out his ire on one more parcel, with a final petulant stamp, before ultimately departing.

My companion looked agog, “What was that all about?!!”

“Maybe he’s just realised that the giftboxes are empty,” I suggested, “and he really wanted an Xbox.”

This parcel smashing grinch wasn’t my wannabe mugger. I was to encounter him later that evening in a different pub.

It was The Fox where we were approached by some sad shambles of a man, who’d clearly had too much to drink on an empty head.

“Are you two together?” he asked, in a spray of spittle and foul breath.

“No,” I told him, “I’m gay and she’s lesbian.”

Once he realised that we weren’t going to buy him a drink (or his inebriated line in chat up), he staggered away, leaving a stench of pungent body odour and rotten teeth (Yes, he’s quite the catch).

It wasn’t long before this rank Romeo returned, with the same opening line.

“No,” I reiterated, “I’m a poof and she’s a dyke.”

Not to be deterred, the rover returned and asked again.

“I’m a shirt-lifter and she’s a rug-muncher!”

I didn’t realise, on that evening, that this was the scum who’d attacked me.

One week later… in a venue filled with dry ice and spinning spotlights, the penny finally dropped.

With my bag safely stowed behind the bar, I confidently strowed toward my assailant.

“You’ve been in the wars,” I said, commenting on his blackeye and scuffed face.

“Aye,” he acknowledged, then hit me with his standard mantra, “Would you buy me a drink?”

I took a moment to pointedly savour my own beer… then delighted in telling him, “No.”

He clearly had no recollection of ever having met me before… in any circumstances… and certainly didn’t recall grappling me into a bush.

“I was out with a friend, last week,” I reminded him. “We should send her a photo.”

It’s not many a mugger who poses for a selfie

I immediately sent my newly acquired ‘mugshot’ to select friends and family.

Worried responses began to appear in my notifications:

‘Are you fuckin insane?!”

‘Get out of there now!’

‘You are playing with fire, dear.’

‘Be careful.’

And… ‘Please don’t take him home.’

One friend and her parents were considering calling UK cops… from Canada.

I assured all concerned that I was in no danger (and certainly had no intention of picking him up), with the bravado of a man who believes himself to possess nine lives of a cat…. and the luck of the devil.

Muggins was too drunk and too stooooopid to be a threat to anyone.

Several people I know were surprised I didn’t call the police, but what would have been the point? It was all water under the bridge (where he presumably lives). He’s just a sad case, who doesn’t need me adding to his woes. I am sure he is more than capable of doing that for himself.

This tale can stand as retribution. A public shaming. The equivalent of being paraded down Hurst Street whilst pelted with rotten veg and used condoms.

In retrospect, I should have bought him that drink he so desperately wanted, then took a detour to the toilets… and pissed in it.

Revenge is a drink best served… lukewarm.

Oh well, there’s always next time. I am sure our paths will cross again, as he does seem to keep popping up… like an unflushed turd.

Eye Candy

I was sat outside a Hurst Street gay bar, squinting in the glaring sun, and reflecting on my trying day.

A friend wandered over and casually inquired how I was.

“I’ve had a stroke,” I told him, bluntly.

I had noticed a milky blind spot in my right eye.

Online GP recommended attending the eye clinic at Birmingham City Hospital immediately.

The staff were initially dismissive, “Why haven’t you gone to an optician?”

“I was told to come here by my local surgery.”

“They would do,” the woman huffed.

I persisted, “When I close my left eye, half of your face becomes a swirling blur, like Tommy Lee Jones in Batman. Also, as you are wearing a light-coloured top against a cream wall, your shoulder had vanished!”

“Oh, I see,” she said, a twinge of concern knitting her brow. “That’s not normal.”

The next six hours were spent attending consultations and tests.

There were three consultation rooms in use. Every so often, Doctors would pop out and call a name. I soon clocked the attractive occupant of the farthest office.

I hoped fate would secure him as my consultant.

When the eye clinic eye candy did indeed call my name… I practically vaulted over rows of seats and ran to his room.

Dr. Hottie diligently performed various examinations.

For one delightful period, he placed his handsome face directly in front of mine, staring into my eyes and instructed me to look in a sequence of directions, “Look up… Now, look at the upper right corner… Look right…”, until I had completed an eye-boggling clockwise rotation.

At one point, he gently placed several fingers of one hand upon my face and temple.

I wondered, Is he attempting to perform the Vulcan mind meld?

I doubt he’d need touch telepathy to read my thoughts… and if he could read them, he was in for a shock!

When my examination came to an end, I was packed off to an adjacent room.

“Your blood pressure is quite high,” the nurse informed me.

“I’m not surprised,” I gushed, “have you seen that hot Doctor?!”

Next up, were blood tests.

“You have a very good blood flow,” I was bizarrely complimented.

“Thank you. That should come in handy should I ever contemplate suicide.”

I was finally returned to Doctor Dishy.

It turned out that my visual impairment was the result of a burst blood vessel in the back of my eye, technically a stroke. I was told not to let that concern me though as, apart from the blurred vision, I was in otherwise good health.

“You are looking through a small cloud of blood. It should improve in time, but never completely clear. ”

Their primary concern was the cause of the rupture.

“There is one thing that may have caused it,” I confessed, “I do blow my nose with such ferocity that it makes small children scream.” The Doctor laughed. “No, I’m serious, I work in schools… and children really do scream.”

“Well, it is not unprecedented for someone to burst blood vessels from sneezing,” the Doc said, “so I suppose blowing your nose is not impossible. I won’t ask you to demonstrate.”

“I’ve got a video,” I proudly declared, reaching into my pocket for my phone.

I proceeded to show him footage, worthy of You’ve Been Framed, of me trumpeting my nose, with my dog enthusiastically howling along in unison.

“Yep,” the Doctor conceded, “that could do it.”

“I’ve always joked that I’m going to have a stroke while blowing my nose,” I told him. “It’s actually happened!”

After a day at the hospital, I deserved a night on the scene… stroke or no stroke!

Walking across town, on a dazzling summers day… with dilated pupils, proved a challenge. I took my life in my hands every time I crossed a road, but eventually found myself in the comforting bosom of Hurst Street.

When I first arrived, I was briefly engaged in a discussion at the bar about the sexual prowess of the ‘daddy’ generation.

“When I hit my forties, I assumed it was all over,” I commented. “I thought I’d never have sex again, but the opposite was true. It was like flies on shit! I supposed, by middle-age, you know what you are doing… and you’re damn good it!”

A cocky young barman interjected, “I already know what I’m doing.”

“Prove it,” I challenged him.

The cutiepie flashed me a flirtatious side-eye, then snapped his attention back to the pint he was pulling.

Later that night, I found myself at Boltz.

My friend Haz and I stood in a corner, as there were no tables free.

As we chatted, the two occupants of the table closest to us got up and headed out the door. They left half full drinks, so we assumed they had popped out for a cigarette.

I filled Haz in on the day’s events at the hospital and ultimate diagnosis, “I’m hoping my diluted eyes will give me a superhuman advantage in the darkroom.”

“My eyesight is appalling,” Haz told me.

“Do you think those two guys are coming back? I pondered, indicting the abandoned drinks on the table.

“Yes,” he said, nodding toward the entrance, “here they come.”

“Your eyesight is bad, Mr Magoo,” I gawped. “Two Chinese guys walk out… then a black bloke and a Latino come in and you think they are the same people.”

Later that evening, the front door buzzed and that cutiepie barman from earlier strolled in.

Our eyes met. It was time to get my blood pressure up again… Another stroke was a strong possibility.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell

We can all be too honest after a couple of pints.

I don’t actively seek out people to shower with blunt barbs, but if asked a direct question, I tend to say whatever is in my head… with no filter.

I was accosted in the pub toilets by a unique character, who proudly boasts the vast amount he has spent on achieving his desired look.

“Can I ask you something?”

My heart sank.

He continued, “You are never interested in hooking up with me, why?”

“Oh… erm… you’re just not quite my type,” I offered diplomatically.

“In what way?” he persisted. He wasn’t letting this go.

“I’m not attracted to… errrrm… fake enhancements.”

I hoped that would end the exchange, but no.

“Oooooh, I’m all about the fake,” he gusssshhhhed. “What things about me do you think are enhanced?”

The question was asked… the floodgates opened.

“Well… your dyed hair, draw on eyebrows, those contact lenses, eye make-up, layers of foundation, fillers, Botox, nips, tucks, tweaks… and that dental work.”

His Turkey Teeth smile faltered, and Angry Bird brows knitted…, “This is my natural hair colour.”

It was… once, I thought.

Thankfully, factory settings rebooted, that monolithic smile returned, those exaggerated eyelashes fluttered, and he thanked me for my honesty.

I skulked out, feeling like a heel for offering such a frank take on fake…, but he did ask.

Back at the bar, I told a mate about the encounter.

“He asked me the exact same thing a few weeks ago,” my friend responded. “I told him it was because he had so much slap on, he looked like a clown.”

I’m honest, but that was brutal.

I do have a near phobic aversion to cosmetics.

I can’t grasp the concept that if the mug in the mirror is looking old or tired, you paint a new one over top of it.

I’ve been known to move seats on public transport if an overly made-up face is in my line of sight. It makes me a bit queasy.

It all stems from being dragged into the ground floor make-up department of Beatties, Sutton Coldfield branch, as a child. It was filled with these roving matrons, all searching for their next victim to spray with some sickly-sweet scent or smear with a tester of gloop. I loathed those painted gorgons: their hair teased into a solid barnet; faces masked with heavy foundation; eyes and cheeks spread with coloured oils and creams; varnished talons reaching out and touching; all cloaked in a pungent mist of perfume. These leering harridans, with their crimson smiles, like the Joker of the pack, were the stuff of nightmares. To this day, I hold my breath when passing The Body Shop, as the smell takes me right back to those department halls of horror.

I think they turned me gay.

Then… there was the obnoxiously pissed birthday ‘girl’ outside Missing.

She plonked herself next to me, uninvited, and slurred, “Do I looook fffffif-ty?”

“I can’t tell with that hat pulled down over your face.”

She snatched the floppy fringed bonnet off her head, to reveal a taut face, pinched nose, mascara clogged eyelashes and a bright gash of lipstick, putting me in mind of Debbie Harry on a bad night.

I maintained a poker face… and stifled a scream.

“I don’t know what age you are with all that work you’ve had done.”

She offered a bitter smile, with as much conviction as her streeeeetched face and pumped lips would allow… and moved away.

I bumped into one old boy, I’ve seen on the scene for several years, sporting a jarring new look. He had dyed his (normally white) beard jet black and was wearing a matching shoulder-length wig, with the fringe hitched too high, revealing much of his bald pate.

“Hello there, it’s me,” he introduced himself, as though I wouldn’t recognise him. “What you think?”

“Erm… lovely,” I offered, at a loss as how to respond, then tactlessly added, “you look like a Klingon.”

Why I deemed this an appropriate response, I have no idea. I just panicked. Thankfully, he didn’t get the reference and nodded happily at my ‘compliment’.

I wished him a hearty “Quopla” (‘Good luck/Success/Kill someone for me’ in Klingon) and left.

So, if you are ever in the market for home truths, I’m your man.

I apologise in advance.

Going My Way?

The cute cabbie was Uber-curious about my night out on Birmingham’s gay scene.

I told him about a couple of bars I had frequented, then got the devil in me and added, “but I spent most of the night in Boltz.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a club where anything goes,” I explained.

His ears pricked up, “What sort of things?”

I shared a few choice details… and could feel the sexual tension radiating from him.

“Rather than me telling you about it, pull over somewhere quiet,” I suggested, “and I’ll show you.”

Living the Pornhub fantasy.

That experience took me back to the nineties when it was standard practice to pull the taxi driver for a free ride home, but I have only truly hitchhiked three times in my life… Once by accident.

First was in the Cameron Highlands of Malaysia.

I was travelling with three women. We had been exploring this picturesque tea producing region, where we had: wandered through a wonderland maze of bushes; been invited into a monastery for an audience with an apocalyptically pessimistic Buddhist monk; and stumbled upon an incongruous English village, complete with quaint cottages, charming pub, and a red telephone box.

Exhausted by late afternoon, we flagged down a passing truck for a ride back to where we were staying. The truck was filled with sheep. There was only space for two in the cabin while two of us would have to travel with the livestock.

Ollie and Rosie bolted for the driver’s cabin.

Tara and I resigned ourselves to traveling in steerage.

The only way get in the back was to climb up and over the high pen. We had barely started to clamber up wooden slats when the driver took off! We had expected to be riding on the inside with the flock, not clinging to the outside and screaming… with laughter.

We careered down the twisting highland roads in hysterics.

My next hitchhiking experience was a very different affair.

The journey started conventionally enough on a coach to Delhi.

I was gloating about having secured three seats between two of us, on India’s usually overwhelmed transport system, when a huge woman hauled her bulk onto the coach. She lumbered down the aisle, in the direction of the only available seat.

I just sat there, awaiting the inevitable, and whimpered, “Oh sweet Jesus!”

The remainder of my journey was spent pressed against the window, like a stuffed Garfield.

The coach trip was cut short when the engine spluttered to a stall, leaving us stranded on the dusty roadside.

I stuck my thumb into the oncoming traffic and almost immediately a car pulled over, but not any old banger… this was a grand chauffeur driven number.

Amazed at our luck, my travelling companion and I climbed into the plush airconditioned interior and completed our journey in style… in the company of a wealthy Indian businessman, who coincidently turned out to be a fellow alumnus of my old university.

My final hitchhike experience was a complete accident. Travelling around Thailand with Julie, a friend from home, and we were staying in Kanchanaburi to visit the bridge on the River Kwai (featuring in the 1957 film starring Alec Guiness).

The local transport consisted of functional canvas covered jeeps (of the style the cast M*A*S*H were frequently seen leaping in and out). We spotted one parked up and climbed in. The driver asked our destination and headed off. The only other passenger was a young lad of about ten years old. Surprised he was travelling alone, I enquired about his parents. He indicated the driver was his father. The penny dropped… This wasn’t public transport. We had blundered onto a private vehicle and asked to be taken to the local tourist attraction. The driver had generously decided to go with it and take its there. Xxx

My own misadventures in hitchhiking are trumped by a friend’s experience in New Zealand… where she was picked up by a funeral hearse.

No room in the front, her only option was to slide in alongside the coffin and lie there, facing out through the glass, trying desperately to block out the macabre presence of her stiff fellow passenger.

The undertaker dropped her on the outskirts of town, as it would have been bad form to arrive at their final destination with a living, breathing passenger in back alongside the client.

Back on the evening of my Pornhub taxi ride from the gay village…

After our lude interlude, I was dropped off at home. Despite providing my services, I was still charged full price for the trip. The day of earning a free ride is a thing of the past… Uber charge automatically.

As I stepped from the car, the driver begged, “Please, don’t tell my cousins about this.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Why would I…. and how would I know who they are?”

“They live next door to you.”

Taxi!!!

Dorothy Towers – A Community in the Sky

“I’ve been to see that documentary about Dorothy Towers,” I told the flamboyant young barman.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Fairy Towers.”

A blank look.

“Gay Towers?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“The two tower blocks that stand over the gay village, Clydesdale and Cleveland.”

Still nothing.

“Surely, you’ve heard of them? They are just over there,” I said, pointing through the wall in their approximate direction. “Half your customers live in them!”

“Ah… You forget I’m not from Birmingham.”

“But you’ve been part of this scene for ages. You’ve seriously never heard the towers called any of those names before?”

He shook his head.

I was amazed.

Those twin 31 storey sentinels have a cherished notoriety at the heart (and in the hearts) of Birmingham’s LGBTQ community.

I first heard of artist Sean Burns’ film project when residents of Dorothy Towers, past and present, were invited to attend a coffee morning at The Loft to share their experiences.

Attendees gathered in the garden, where we enjoyed coffee, pastries and Prosecco, while Sean laid out the aims of the documentary. He then invited everyone to introduce themselves and share when they lived in the towers.

“I’m here under false pretences,” I confessed when my turn came, “as I’ve never actually lived in Dorothy Towers, although I have visited on occasion,” I added with a cheeky smirk. I went on to explain about writing a blog, telling the tales of our second city’s gay community, so thought we shared common themes. “Does this mean I have to give back the pastry?” I asked, glancing at the half-eaten morsel in my hand.

Turns out I didn’t… and even got offered a second glass of bubbly.

Having missed the original premiere, I was determined to catch the film when it screened at the Electric Cinema.

The piece opened with dizzying footage of strip lighting and coloured panels, filmed from a vehicle passing through Queensway Tunnel, then moved to moody shots of urban concrete, all overdubbed with commentary about the towers.

Some of the film’s content reminded me of an exhibition I saw years ago, showing original concept art and architects models created to sell their vision of a new, post-war, Birmingham. Here was a city rising from rubble, a bold modern metropolis of straight lines and sweeping curves, leaving behind Victorian squalor and the grim grime of industrial revolution. The aim was a clean, sleek, city of the future: a population sheltered from the elements by underground underpasses; automobiles cruising spaghetti highways; utilitarian public building for all.

Footage of the tower’s shiny bevelled lift doors (Designed to be resistant to graffiti) rattling open particularly resonated. Those elevators encapsulate my abiding impression of the towers. They seem unfit for purpose: They don’t glide and soar, but clatter and creak up the building, filling the occupant with dread that their final destination would never be the promised heights, but rather a twisted heap in the basement.

When I shared this opinion with a longstanding resident, he nodded agreement, but informed me, having recently viewed numerous internet videos about lift design and their multiple safety features (His evenings must fly by!), that an elevator carriage is the most secure place to be in most disaster movie scenarios, “Unless there is someone in there with you wielding a machete,” he added with a grimace.

He went on to tell me how he’d once had an unexpected encounter with a figure ascending the tower. He was stood in a state of undress in the privacy of his kitchen, waiting for the morning kettle to boil, and giving himself an intimate scratch through his baggy boxers, when a face slowly emerged from below the windowsill of his 30^th storey flat (or “near penthouse apartment” as he is fond of describing it). I wonder what other sights confronted that cleaner on his rise up the tower’s exterior?

What really came across in the documentary was the affection in which the residents of those twin blocks regard their towering home. The 488 flats of those imposing edifices have securely sheltered LGBTQ+ people for over half a century, often when occupant’s own families and communities would not. A place of refuge… Housing the unwanted… Creating a home.

Dorothy Towers could be one of the few developments that achieved the lofty ambitions of those 1960s town planners… and created a true community in the sky.

Leaving the residents coffee morning at The Loft, resisting the temptation of one more pastry, I automatically checked my phone, to find several messages on Grindr, inviting me for an afternoon hook-up.

YOU ARE CLOSE BY, I messaged back, WHERE DO YOU LIVE?

… Any Guesses?

Putting the Fun in Funeral

My mother died two months after cancer diagnosis.

My father passed away many years earlier.

This makes my sister and I orphans.

It’s a hard knock life.

My partner and I had to visit town to pick up funeral essentials, such as new white shirts, smart belts and a black tie, to replace the one that mysteriously vanished. It is presumably languishing in some spot for safe keeping until being rediscovered someday.

After shopping, we retired to the gay village.

I bumped into a friend at the bar.

Knowing about my mother’s diagnosis, he asked after her health.

“She’s not good.” Immediately realising how inadequate that was in the circumstances, added, “Well, when I say, ‘not good’… I mean dead.”

The poor guy just gawped.

“Sorry, I’m not used to answering that question just yet. I need to work on my response.”

Outside the pub, an obnoxious drunk stumbled to a seat a few tables from us and began yelling racist abuse at passing residents of Chinatown. I’ve got too much of my mother’s feist to allow this to go unchallenged and told him exactly where he could stick his comments.

My partner muttered something to me.

“I’ve been told to go easy on you,” I sighed, “as you clearly have dementia.”

“I don’t have dementia,” he grumbled back.

“In that case, what’s your excuse for been such a FUCKING CUNT?!”

“I’m… I’m… sorry I offended you,” he spluttered.

“You didn’t offend me,” I told him, “you offended the people passing. You pissed me off!”

I reached for my bag, and we made to leave.

“You don’t have to go,” the old bastard relented. “I’ve stopped. I’m sorry… I’m sorry.”

“We were heading off to get lunch anyway,” I informed him as we walked away. Then I turned back to deliver a parting shot, “We are going for a Chinese!”

Sadly, I know my late mother would have shared the racist opinions of that git outside the pub… but never expressed them in such fruity terms.

She wasn’t an easy woman to like, bristling with prejudice and pretention.

I particularly resented the time she made a point of phoning during Birmingham Pride to express her disgust at the gay festivities in the city, after seeing coverage on local news, curtly telling me, “I hope you haven’t been dancing through the streets.”

I put her right about the political implications of Pride and the positive impact it has on LGBTQ+ rights, Birmingham’s economy and wider society.

Her response was a feeble, “Oh… well… I didn’t know.”

She should have known. I’d explained enough times.

But this was mum… full of piss n vinegar.

I didn’t always approve of my mother in life, but certainly admired the way she faced death. She was strong and pragmatic, having no intention of enduring chemotherapy at her advanced age. All she asked was for the pain to be managed and not to go into palliative care. She wanted to die in the home environment.

She got her wishes.

Watching someone’s health deteriorate naturally makes a person reflect on their own mortality and the passing of others.

When my mother’s sister was in the final stages of cancer, whilst I was still a teenager, I remember mum begging the hospice staff if there was anything more they could do to relieve her suffering.

Their reply has always stayed with me.

In a country that does not officially condone euthanasia, mum was discreetly informed, “Nobody ever dies of cancer. We couldn’t allow that to happen, it would be too cruel. She will die from a morphine overdose… when the time is right.”

The ultimate kindness.

My father passed away nearly two decades ago.

We had said final goodbyes that evening and I returned home, only to receive a call later from my sister to say he had passed.

I promptly returned to my parent’s home, to find my mother at the bedside, clasping his ashen hand.

“Would you like to hold it,” she offered.

“Not really,” I replied bluntly, thinking, I didn’t sit around holding his hand when he was alive, I’m not starting now.

“It’s still warm,” mum assured.

“You’re not making it more appealing,” I responded, “it’s not a bath.”

I did spend some private time with the body… but we kept our hands to ourselves.

On the day of Mum’s funeral, the cortege consisted of hearse and two cars for family. My sister and her husband travelled in the first funeral car, with an uncle and cousin, while my partner and I rode in the fun car, with adult nieces and nephew.

My eldest niece’s husband travelled behind with their young baby.

Arriving at the crematorium, we greeted gathered mourners with awkward smiles and nods.

My niece’s husband came strolling up the path toward us.

Behind me, I heard her gasp, “No, he hasn’t…”

Their eyes met and a look of panic came over the husband’s face. He turned and dashed back to the car… where he had left their infant.

Laughter rippled through the congregated as they watched the scene unfold.

“This is divorceable,” she muttered.

The undertaker approached and explained that there was a coffin trolley or we could carry it on our shoulders, but warned, “It is harder than it looks.”

We unanimously agreed the trolley would be fine.

“Besides, he’s shorter than the rest of us,” I said, indicating my squat uncle, “she’d be lopsided.”

We rolled the coffin into the memorial hall.

To be continued…

On The Beat

I met Jamie for a long overdue catch-up in Chinatown.

We had a few beers at The Sly Old Fox then food in a little hole-in-the-wall eatery, which specialised in Hong Kong Style cuisine.

After our meal, we headed down Hurst Street for a couple more drinks on the scene.

As we walked and talked, I noticed three police officers patrolling the gaybourhood further down the street.

I was chatting on about a Chinese restaurant my partner and I had recently been to, “We’d always wanted to try one of these hot pot places, but only ended up at the Happy Lamb because the first two restaurants we went to were full.”

I explained how a cauldron of broth simmered at the centre of the table in which the ingredients cooked. We ordered a platter of vegetables, those long thin Asian mushrooms and slithers of lamb (which didn’t look particularly happy in the circumstances).

The police had paused briefly to talk to security outside Missing then continued on their beat, strolling vaguely in our direction.

“The broth was soooo good, that we ate bowl after bowl,” I continued. “In fact, the owner had to dash over and switch off our burner because the pot was boiling dry. He told us had never seen anyone eat all the soup before! We told him it was our first time, and we didn’t know we weren’t meant to.”

The police were now directly ahead of us on the pavement, so Jamie and I veered aside so they could pass.

“We scoffed the lot,” I said, concluding my account of hot pot gluttony, adding a series of loud snorts and greedy pig grunts for emphasis.

All three officers snapped their heads in my direction with looks of distain.

I winced.

I’d made a right pig’s ear of that.

The police continued on their way.

Jamie gawped at me in horror, “Why did you do that?”

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” I explained. “It was just bad timing.”

“Your timing could not have been worse!!!”

I turned to follow the departing patrol, “I’m going to go after them and explain.”

“What are you going to say?”

“That those pig noises weren’t about them.”

“That’s not going to make it any better!”

“Well… maybe… I could say…”

“Nothing you say could make that better,” he shut me down.

The police are constantly subjected to that type of juvenile abuse whilst on duty, but I doubt they expected it from a couple of middle-aged gents in slacks and tragically similar plaid shirts.

There was a period when I was on the receiving end of anti-police sentiment from local lads in my neighbourhood. They mistook me for plainclothes police, because of my half German Shepherd.

The gang would mutter comments as I walked by and sneer a sarcastic, “Alright officer?”

A genuine policewoman approached me in a nearby park, to pet my non-police dog, so I took the opportunity to explain how I had been unintentionally impersonating a police officer.

“I have never bothered to correct them,” I explained.

She scoffed at the idea of anyone mistaking my sappy mutt for a professional canine.

“It’s not such a bad thing to keep up the pretence, though,” she suggested, “as they are unlikely to mug you.”

I’d had a previous encounter with police in that same park… while carrying a kitchen table.

I had found a bargain priced pine table in junk shop on Stafford Road, but it had to be taken away immediately, as they couldn’t store it, so with bloody-minded determination, I shifted my backpack around to my chest and hoisted the table onto my back. Two legs rested on my shoulders, which I gripped, while the length of the table hung down my body, the lower portion resting uncomfortably on my calves.

I shuffled off down the busy thoroughfare, determined to lug my prize singlehandedly the mile and half home, resolutely ignoring odd looks I received from drivers and pedestrians. Let them look, I thought, smugly. They are just jealous of my bargain table.

Several hundred yards into my trek, the constant tap…tap…tapping of the table edge on my legs was already starting to form welts.

I took a shortcut through the park, where I attracted the attention of two bobbies on the beat. One of the officers pointed me out to his colleague and they abruptly turned to head in my direction.

I attempted to quicken my pace, but the table edge resting on my legs restricted my steps to the gait of a tottering geisha.

I shuffled in the direction of the gate… but was swiftly intercepted.

“Afternoon, Sir,” One constable greeted me.

“Erm… Hello,” I replied, thinking, Surely, they can’t think I’ve burgled someone’s home and stolen their kitchen table?

“Are you aware that you look like a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle?”

They had changed route and crossed half a park just to tell me that!

No offer of help… Just sarcasm. They continued on their way with amused smirks on their faces… as I went ‘Wee, wee, wee, all the way home’.

Please, Don’t Let Me Trip

I didn’t exactly explode onto Birmingham’s gay scene in glorious rainbow technicolour, more creep apprehensively down a flight of steep stairs… and straight into an awkwardly familiar face!

In my late teens, Friday nights were spent alternating between several pubs on the social triangle of Aston University. I’d been drinking on campus for months prior to turning the legal age, but being student pubs, used to a clientele of fresh-faced undergrads, our spotty faces barely stood out. Doormen would turn a blind eye if you could rattle off your fake date of birth with enough conviction.

On one evening out, I couldn’t shake thoughts of another bar in town, the idea of which ignited my teenage hormones like a drop of blood screaming to a hunting shark. I decisively downed the dregs of my cordial-coloured Snakebite & Black, turned to my best-mate and announced, “I’m going to The Jester.”

The Jester was a basement gay bar, lurking beneath Scala Building, a shabby curve of concrete and glass on Holloway Circus. This typical 1960’s development, of the style old-school Birmingham is notorious, had seen better days, even back in the 80s.

I paced outside for an age, trying to muster the courage to go inside, but somebody would walk by or a bus would circle the roundabout and I would lose my nerve. Finally, the coast was clear and I dashed to the door. The unremarkable entrance took me to a tight flight of stairs leading down into… well, I had no idea.

My heart pounded with a giddy mix of fear and excitement as I descended the steep stairs. All I could think was, Please, don’t let me trip.

I gripped the handrail with white-knuckled intensity, while trying to convey casual nonchalance. I managed to get to the bottom of the stairs upright and with the maximum dignity a gawky teen could carry off.

Guys turned to check out the new chicken in town.

I crossed to the elliptical central bar and ordered a beer.

Waiting for the barman to return with my drink, I dared a quick glance around, taking in the small dance floor, the neon lighting and, to my delight, a glitterball. They actually had a glitterball! My only previous knowledge of a gay bar came solely from The Blue Oyster in the movie Police Academy, which had a glitterball that the Leather Queens danced romantically beneath. I was now convinced every gay venue in the world had one.

I clocked one cute guy around the curve of the bar to my left.

He looks very handsome, I thought, around my age, chiselled jawline, slicked back black hair. Oh, hang on… It’s a lesbian.

My drink arrived. I let out a sigh of relief. I had made it inside, down the stairs and got a drink, all without incident. The night was mine!

A hand fell upon my shoulder.

“How are you, young man?”

I turned to find the benignly smiling face… of my form teacher.

Sat at a bar with my teacher wasn’t exactly how I’d expected my first night on the scene to turn out… but I could not have wanted for a better introduction.

It was a relief to finally have another gay man to confide in, even better that it was a familiar and trusted figure. Here was an opportunity to talk to someone with experience of a world I was taking my first steps into.

Although being caught in a gay bar by Sir had been a shock, I had not been surprised that he frequented such establishments. Rumours about him had circulated school for years. The shaved head, handlebar moustache, penchant for a leather jacket and the general Village People vibe had also been a bit of a giveaway. He wouldn’t have looked out of place swaying beneath that glitterball at The Blue Oyster.

As the evening progressed, Sir suggested we move on to The Nightingale, the city’s only night club in the 1980s. He was a member and offered to sign me in as his guest.

At this point in the club’s history The Gale, as it is affectionally known, was situated near the stage door of the Birmingham Hippodrome, at the end of a short alley. You had to ring the bell, wait until a face appeared behind a sliding slot, then confirm you knew what type of bar it was before being admitted.

Once inside, there was a cloakroom and small bar dominated by a gaudy fountain. Beyond was the main disco. On the far side of the dancefloor was a dimly lit area, partitioned off from prying eyes. I remember being baffled as to why anyone would want to disappear into a dark subdivision of a busy nightclub. How naive! So much to learn… and so much fun learning.

At the end of the night, Sir drove me home, dropping off a few streets away, so as not to arouse suspicions of sleepless parents, inevitably awaiting their teenage son’s late-night return.

I am eternally grateful to my then form teacher for looking after me on my first night out on Birmingham’s gay scene.

I have told this tale many times over the years, inevitably greeted by cynical eyebrows and the implication he was on the make… but no, he was the perfect gentleman… and continues to be to this day.

To Sir, With Love. X

5318008

A Scotsman, an Australian and three Englishmen walk into a bar…

The Loft, bringing New York vibe to Birmingham’s gay village, was the perfect place to spend the early evening and eat. We plonked ourselves down in a booth, ordered drinks then turned our attention to food. We were in a particularly buoyant mood, fuelled by a few beers and the fact we haven’t met up in over two years of Covid restrictions.

Throw a pair of massive knockers into the mix then shits n giggles were on the menu.

A waitress arrived. Leaning over with notebook poised, her singlet provided little support for a, quite frankly, spectacular bosom, which practically cascaded onto the table.

As a group of five ridiculous gay guys, we had no idea where to look… but certainly not at the cavernous cleavage and NOT at each other, otherwise we would explode into foolish laughter. Eyes fixed resolutely on menus, we tried valiantly to order food, trying not to embarrass the lass or ourselves… but tension was palpable.

The Scot ordered pizza; the Aussie wanted chicken schnitzel, as did his partner (resulting in the inevitable ‘couple’s dilemma’ of “but we can’t both order the same thing”, until realising they could). My turn came, but I couldn’t quite compose myself enough to order the only titbit on the menu that took my fancy, so deferred to the next guy.

All other orders taken, I could put it off no longer, took a deep breath and, with trembling timbre, whimpered at our buxom belle, “I’d Iike the hot roast baps, please.”

All about me, eyes brimmed with moist mirth, sphinters clenched and jaws clamped tighter than a dog on a bone, as everyone desperately tried to hold it together.

I daren’t order extra jugs of beer!

Matters weren’t help by the waitress struggling to recap our order, “So… That’s one margherita pizza, two chicken schnit… shnick… shit… shit… shitzels… shitnels… shitfests… a burger with extra fries and the baps.”

Job done, she departed, only to return a short while later.

“I’m sorry,” she declared, thumping those massive mammaries onto the table once more, “but I’ve got no baps.”

It was GAME OVER!

I sat there, threw my head back, and hooted with laughter.

I tried unsuccessfully to hide behind the friend to my left, burying my face in his ample shoulder, finally peeking out to sob, “I’ll just have a buuuuurger!”

I don’t think she knew what had titillated me so much, but clearly thought me an absolute boob and wasn’t amused.

It was Star Trek’s Marina Sirtis all over again.

I used to attend those big cult film and TV events at the NEC (National Exhibition Centre) where well-known stars sit signing autographs shoulder to shoulder with has-beens and never-weres.

Once unexpectedly starstruck, I gasped aloud when confronted with Margot Kidder (Lois Lane from the Christopher Reeve Superman movies) sat signing autographs. She paused mid-signature to bestow me a smile that said, ‘I get it… I’m an icon’.

Not long after her death, I was sat with a co-star of hers (I am not name dropping… coz I’m not going to mention their name). They told me about a late-night session in a hotel bar during filming. Margot had gone up to her room earlier, but a porter came over to say, “Ms Kidder has called down and requires assistance.”

Apparently, she had put her meal into the microwave in her room but could not get it out again.

My acquaintance arrived at Margot’s room to find her lying on the floor, desperately stabbing at the keypad.

“The microwave won’t open,” she wailed.

“Margot darling,” said her co-star, “that’s the safe!”

On another occasion, I arrived early at the convention centre and spotted Marina Sirtis (Deanna Troi from Star Trek: The Next Generation) setting out her stall.

I respectfully stood back as she leaned over the table, laying out her wares.

I was taken aback by the amount of cleavage on display. I just couldn’t look away… I was drawn in… like the USS Enterprise plunging into a spatial anomaly. The final frontier… Where this man has never gone before.

Finally emerging from my mesmerised state, I glanced up… to find Ms Sirtis meeting my gaze with an indigent glower.

I so wanted to explain that I was gay and if she didn’t want people stargazing then don’t dangle ‘em over a trestle-table at the NEC, but instead balked… and walked away.

Beam me up, Scotty.

That’s enough of Carry On Hurst Street meets Benny Hill for now.

If still perplexed by the title of this blog… try typing those digits into a calculator and turning the screen upside down.

What can I say? I was a teen of the 80s.

Finding the Gems

You can find heart-warming stories in the most unexpected of places.

With over thirty years of misadventures on the Birmingham gay scene, socialising and cruising bars, pubs, clubs, saunas and secluded midnight nooks, I have tales to tell of the places, predicaments and people I have been in… but most importantly the humour and humanity I have encountered… on the gayside of the UK’s much maligned second city.

Shining a light on the scene unseen.

I was in a private members men-only club situated at the shadowy end of Lower Essex Street, which confidently describes itself as ‘The Midland’s horniest club’. While anything and everything can and does go on in this salacious bar, it was a particularly quiet mid-week. Only a modest early evening crowd had come in for a post-work drink and the chance of a hook-up.

I was occupying myself by casually exchanging taps and pleasantries with local guys on… well I’ll say a ‘popular gay dating app’… but I mean Grindr, when a friendly ‘Hello’ popped up in my messages from someone 10 meters way.

I looked up to see a petite, South Asian lad beaming a wide grin at me from the other side of the central bar that dominated the core of the club. The lad turned his doe eyes bashfully to the floor. I waited the few self-conscious moments that it required for him to gather the confidence to look back up, returned his smile, picked up my pint and walked over.

We introduced ourselves. His name was Nishant and it turned out that he was from a small town outside of Calcutta and in the UK on a three-year student visa.

Soon any hint of shyness had disappeared, and this guy showed that he loved to talk, chatting enthusiastically about his studies, future ambitions and friends, both in Birmingham and back home in India. One subject rapidly tumbling into the next in an engaging monologue, all delivered in his lyrical Indian accent. Most endearing, was the head wiggle, often referred to as the ‘Indian Nod’, that punctuated Nishant’s soliloquy, adding emphasis to key moments and marking changes of emotion, pace and tone, like a human metronome.

Sadly, his narrative took a downturn when he started to talk about a secret affair that he had been involved in with a man in his hometown. Things had turned sour after they had split and the bitter ex-lover had maliciously outed Nishant to his community, bringing shame and resulting in a temporary breakdown in his relationship with his parents. Feeling he had no choice, but to get away, his studies in Birmingham not only presented new opportunities, but also respite from the scandal.

When it came time to leave for the UK, Nishant’s mother and father refused to accompany him to the airport or even say goodbye.

He had one older brother with whom he was understandably nervous of broaching the subject of his sexuality for fear of further rejection.

When he finally mustered the courage to talk to the brother, he asked, “Are you also ashamed of me?”

The brother replied, “I am neither ashamed nor surprised… and have been deleting your browser history since you were twelve years old.” He had discovered his sibling’s taste in internet porn sites years before and had been keeping the secret safe ever since.

“I think I love your brother,” I gushed, once the story was over… and I could finally get a word in edgewise, “but hang on… TWELVE?!! Dirty boy!!!”

“What can I say,” Nishant replied, with broad grin and that characteristic wiggle of the head, “I was an early developer.”

Even in a bar notorious for anonymous cruising, casual bunk-ups and no-strings-attached fun, if you take a moment to look beyond the window dressing of slings and bars, rubber and leather you will find something else.

Within the shadows… you can find gems in the darkroom.