Round peg in a square hole

It's been a while. Blah, blah, blah. It's winter. I'm black. I've been hibernating. Sue me.

I haven't been completely inactive over the past few months though. I've been trying out the vast array of social networking sites out there. And there really are a vast array: Grindr, Manhunt, Gaydar, Fit Lads to name just a few. Do you spot the trend in all these titles? Sex. Sex, sex, sex. At the risk of sounding like Mary Whitehouse, when did we all become so obsessed with making the beast with two backs?

I don't know about you, but generally when I meet someone for the first time, whether in cyber space or the real world, I like to ask questions about that person's interests or a bit about their background. Not their cock size and if they're into fisting. I understand that in some ways the internet is about anonymity and granting people a freedom they wouldn't perhaps have in everyday life, but whatever happened to a bit of oral (minds out of the gutter, I mean conversational) foreplay?

If I'm sounding as if I belong in a Jane Austen novel I don't care. I suppose I am a bit of a romantic at heart. And I'm not talking about unrealistic Hollywood romance either, I'm under no pretensions about that believe me. I just think it might be nice sometimes to have the date before the sex, and not the other way round as seems to be the case so often in gay world. I'm not trying to have a go at my fellow queers here either. Gay men have fought long and hard to have the same rights as everyone else, and if meeting someone penis first is your bag; go for it. I'm just thinking out loud and trying to figure out where I fit in in this big rainbow coloured world of ours. I can't be the only one who feels like this. Surely not?

Perhaps I do belong in a different time. I can quite see myself scrubbing my front step, rollers in hair talking with Reeny from next door about 'er at number 57 and the baby she's 'ad with 'im who works down't docks. Sorry, tangent. Ignore me. Seriously though, I do feel out of place a lot of the time among my own people.

Since starting to write this blog I've had a lot of comments, mostly positive, from friends and strangers alike. Now, not to be dismissive to my loyal following of breeder readers (I like that), but I guess I'm slightly more interested in what the gays think about my musings. And, unfortunately, I have to say I'm not always pleased with the results. Case in point: I was at a party a few weeks ago and someone approached me:

Gay: "Hi, I'm X"

Moi: "Hello I'm John. Nice to meet you."

Gay: "Oh you're John. You write the blog right?"

Moi: "Yes, that's right"

I could feel the big, pink, neon, virginal arsehole above my head flashing on and off. You might think I'm being paranoid here, but I promise you had you been there you would understand totally. He might as well have said: "Oh, you're John, the 31 year old virgin right?".

The fact of the matter is that a lot of gay men, and indeed the entire gay scene is completely sex oriented and that's just the way it is. So it follows that these internet sites are just going to be a (penis) extension of real life. Men love to fuck, to put it bluntly. Obviously my Mr right isn't waiting for me inside a 1x1 centimetre touch sensitive square on my iPhone. He's waiting for me on Portobello Road with a cup of coffee to spill on me, invite me back to his to get cleaned up, and then fall madly in love with me. Oh no wait, that's bullshit.

I won't lose faith though. I know there are other guys out there who feel like me, I just need to find them. To end on a cheeky Kenneth Williams / Carry On note, I just need to find the hole I fit into. Oo er missus!

It's (actually not) grim up north

I've got a confession to make; I'm a massive post code snob. Within London if I see an SE or an NE prefix at the end of an address my heart starts to beat faster, I get sweaty palms and I hold my wallet close. You can imagine then the horror that seeing such postcodes as LS, L, and even (shock horror) M used to strike into my heart. Like most Londoners I have long laboured under the misconception that the world ends at the M25. Being born and brought up in the capital city does (I'm slightly ashamed to say) inculcate a certain sense of "number one, so why try harder". London has a vice like grip on almost every creative and political sphere in the country it seems. Why would we want to take the time to go and visit our coal covered, slightly primitive cousins in the north?

But hold on people, It's not 1982 anymore. We're not at war with Argentina, and a plummy woman with helmet hair and a penchant for stealing milk from school kids no longer governs our fair isle. Times have well and truly changed, and where once the views held by Londoners of 'oop north' may, sadly, have found some basis in truth, happily that's no longer the case. The north is alive and kicking.

With the exception of Manchester, which is just an out and out toilet staffed by some of the most revolting toilet attendants I've ever had the misfortune to take an e-coli laden towel from (I know, I went to uni there), northern cities have been given a massive facelift and are sticking two fingers up at their grand old southern cousin. The arts are flourishing, new, sexy restaurants are opening left, right and centre, and the nightlife is going off.

I've just got back from a visit to Sheffield and I had so much fun I can't tell you. Everybody in London is so busy and self important that come the weekend, half the time, people are so busy bitching and whinging about their week that they drag that shitty attitude out with them on a Saturday night. Not so in the north. Yes, everybody's probably had a crappy week up there too, but come Saturday night problems are forgotten and everybody is out to do one thing and one thing only; enjoy themselves. I used to sneer at the attitude of going all out on a Saturday night, but now I ask myself who's having more fun? Us down here in London trying oh so hard to be cool and look down our noses at everyone else, or our friends in the north who just go out and have a good time? Yes, you see a lot of special sights in northern city centres of a weekend (Liverpool and Leeds in particular provide endless banter with an army of backcombed, orange, blond things skipping about), but you also see a hell of a lot of hot people who put a lot of time and effort into getting ready before they went out. This is something the identikit army of Ben Sherman shirt, jeans, trainer combo London guys could learn from.

I'm going to really start making the effort to get out and see more of the UK. I'm not just talking about cities too. This country has some of the most beautiful countryside anywhere (a jaunt in the peak district last weekend helped open my eyes to this). For a very long time I've been guilty of looking outside the UK (to the sun) when I want a break. But no longer! I've decided 2012 is going to be my year for UK exploration. There are so many beautiful places outside this heaving metropolis to see and enjoy. I'm digging out my Hunters and my Barbour jacket as we speak. I intend to take full advantage of our country from now on, and have many more attitude-less nights out in the fair north. Come on people, get up the M1. You might just like it...

Change gon' come. But where?

Buongiorno a tutti!

It's been a while since my last post. Bet you all thought I'd given up didn't you? Well you'd be wrong there people. I'm still very much alive and kicking. It's just been a bit of a weird time.

I've been back from Madrid just over a month now. And I knew it would probably take me a bit of time to find my way back into the upright swing of things here after having lived a horizontal Spanish lifestyle for two years. "Give yourself a bit of time to readjust" I told myself. However, after five weeks back in the big smoke I still feel strangely disconnected.

I've just come back from a week visiting dear friends in Sheffield and on the train ride home yesterday I sat deep in thought about why I feel the way I do right now. Cue eureka moment. I just don't want to be in London anymore. I know in previous posts I've extolled the virtues of my great city, and all of this is still very much true. It's just I don't think it's true for me anymore.

I must have changed a lot more than I'd realised in the last two years, but I feel as if London hasn't. Or maybe I haven't changed at all and London has. Or maybe I have just realised things about myself I already knew all along. I don't know. I just know that I don't really fit here anymore. The things I loved, and in some ways respected, about London in the past (its non-stop pace, unapologetic materialism, work always comes first mentality) now completely turn me off. Even the dating world here is grossing me out somewhat.

In my last post I introduced you all to the wonderful world of Grindr. Now, all last week I was cruising around on it in Sheffield and the difference in attitude of the guys up there was such an eye opener. Most of the profiles I read in London are so exacting you'd need an MA just to initiate a conversation, whereas the ones in Sheffield were just so much more relaxed and human. I know it might be a bit silly to judge a city on a dumb gay iPhone app, but it's just an example of that London mentality which now is beginning to seem so alien to me. There doesn't seem to be any time for living in London. I've been back for five weeks and in that time have only managed to see some of my closest friends once or not at all. You need a PA and a Gordon Gekko style filofax just to hang out with the people you love here! I'll always have a special place in my heart for my hometown, and I'm so so proud I was born and brought up here. I've just fallen out of love with the place.

So, I know I don't want to be here anymore. Where am I going to go then, I ask myself. I'm still on track to take my masters in Geneva next year, but after that I'm a little lost. I'm done with the UK, but Spain (and a lot of Europe) is too one dimensional It's scary but also exciting not knowing exactly where the future is going to take you. I'm looking on my new found geographical clear mindedness in a positive light. The world is my oyster!

On the love front things are still pretty quiet, but stay tuned. There's speed dating and gay bashment nights in the offing. Fertile feeding ground for these fingers of fire (I meant in the typing sense and nothing else you filthy beggars!)

The white isle, Madrid farewells, and new beginnings

Hello all! Bet you thought I'd fallen off the edge of the planet. Well in a manner of speaking I did. I've been in Ibiza which, for those of you who've been, will know means a long (both mental and physical) recovery time. I arrived back in Madrid last Friday and since then have been so occupied with moving out of my flat, goodbye parties and generally being very very busy and important, that this is the first opportunity I'm getting to update my blog.

So, Ibiza. It's just the best place ever in my opinion. In summer there's nowhere else I'd rather be. It has everything you could ever want from a holiday: Incredible beaches, fantastic restaurants, stunning scenery, beautiful people (if you nuke San Antonio) and the best clubs in the world. Also (and I don't want to sound too much like an aging hippy with matted dreadlocks and an Auschwitz looking dog) there really is something magical about the place. You can't put your finger on it, but there's just a certain feeling that pervades the whole island. Time is of no consequence in Ibiza. From the moment the airplane doors open and you feel that warm rush of air on your face, you know you're in for the time of your life. Of course it helps if you're staying in a palatial villa and have friends who can get you VIP access to all the best nights on the island. But don't get it twisted. I've paid my Ibiza dues over the years. I've stayed in several sweaty cupboards in San Antonio and queued up with the rest of the plebs to pay my 60 euros entrance fee to the clubs. It doesn't matter. At the end of my time there I'm always trying to change my flight and begging for more!

I don't want to bore you with too many details of the trip. You would end up wanting to castrate me as I can assure you it was the best holiday ever. Suffice to say I went with the perfect group of people, we had a villa to die for, danced until our feet bled, laughed until we pissed ourselves, had musical orgasms at incredible clubs around the island, educated ourselves on several questionable sexual practices (space docking anyone?), discovered our hatred for rowdy Italians on speed, expanded our vocabularies (gunts, don't ask!), almost had a fist fight with an offensive pot bellied, ginger Dutch midget, lounged in the sun, ate some delicious food, invented a new game to amuse ourselves for hours in nightclubs, sexually abused an innocent granite column, the list goes on and on. Did I mention we laughed a lot?!

And on the men front? Well, I can tell you that I'm still as pure as the driven snow. It's not for lack of beautiful boys though. There are guys in Ibiza who make you want to sit down and cry they're so beautiful. I just find that when I'm a gurning, sweaty mess with a shirt so drenched it looks like I was tossed in the sea fully clothed (no exaggeration, it's not pretty) it's generally not the best time to approach the bronzed adonis standing in the corner. Let's get it straight here. I went to Ibiza for a "fat rave" and to hang with my friends. If anybody acceptable had shown any interest I would have tried to reciprocate through my alcohol (ahem) induced haze, but no such gentleman was forthcoming. I did fall in love several times though. Man in Run DMC vest at DC10, we will meet again!

As I write, I'm currently homeless. My flatmate and I moved out of our place yesterday and I'm staying with a friend until I come home for good on Saturday. This is definitely a very bittersweet period for me. I'm really happy to be coming home to start a new chapter in both my love and work lives. But I'm so sad to be leaving Madrid and the amazing friends I've made here. Friends who threw me the loveliest going away party last Saturday, friends who I've shared so much with over the last two years, and friends who I hope will be a part of my life until they finally put me in the ground.

As I look towards London again I ask myself what's in store over the coming months? Well, I'm looking forward to being at home again, finding a new job, studying to get on to my masters course next year, seeing where this writing thing takes me, and of course finding myself a lovely guy to share everything with. Normally at this time of year I'm bemoaning the end of summer and cursing the inexorable approach of the cold and neverending dark days of winter. This year though I feel different, more positive. Maybe it's because I'm listening to Beyoncé wailing in my ears at full volume or because the sun is still shining in Madrid. I don't know, I just feel really good about what's to come...

Carnival!

I won't be at carnival this year, I'm going to Ibiza instead (huge whoop of joy, but sad music playing simultaneously). I feel almost like a traitor. Notting Hill Carnival has been a huge part of my life ever since I can remember. As a young kid I used to take part in the parade with my school. Over the years I have embodied many fabuolus things using only a leotard, some sticky back plastic, and a lot of faith. One year I was a guava (don't ask), another a Greek god complete with lyre, the whole experience of it was completely amazing. Everybody is watching you dance and you feel so important. People are giving you food and if you get tired you can just sit up on the float and watch everybody dancing (hopefully) in the sun. The atmosphere is indescribable. Over those two days in August every year, there's no place on earth better to be than the streets of Notting Hill. The smell of a hundred different cusines hangs in the air and you're pulled left and right by the different music coming from the sound systems, the floats, and people that have just stuck their speakers out of the window and are having a party.

I know carnival has had a bad reputation in the past for violence. Often, when I tell people that don't know the truth about it there's a sharp intake of breath, their sphincter tightens and it's a case of: "Isn't it a bit dangerous?". After I've restrained myself from jumping over the table and gouging their suburban eyes out for being so damn ignorant about the best party in the world, I calmly explain that yes, there is always going to be that element of scum who just want to cause trouble. If however, you go with somebody (namely me) who knows where to go and where not to go, the result is always the best day of your life!

Carnival brings everybody together. For two days there are basically no rules, anything goes. People who probably don't so much as tap their little toe all year long are up and dancing in the streets fuelled by sexy jerk chicken and, ten too many potent rum punches. People come from all over the world to join in. Hell, even the police get in on the action. I love that ubiquitous yearly carnival news report, where some poor bobby gets harangued into trying to wind his waist by a scantily clad girl or, even better, a big West Indian mama! In the times in which we live, where we're all so disconnected and closed off from each other in so many ways, I can think of no better way of bringing the humanity back to our streets than getting off your tits, dancing with strangers all day long, and then doing it again the next day. Fuck it, it's carnival!

Pearls of wisdom

I was struck by a thought on Saturday night: Why don't more single straight guys hang out with gays? I know on the face of it, there may not be a hell of a lot of common ground between us benders and our breeding cousins. They like football, we like footballers; they like models, we like the models' hair. You get the picture. If they stood back and analysed the situation though, they'd realise that spending time with the gays is the best way of snaring girls. I feel a bit like a terrible pimp and a traitor at the same time here, like I shouldn't be revealing these secrets and I'm letting down my sisters and...well, my sisters. Look at the facts though. I would estimate that ninety per cent of my friends are female, and although most of them are now in the process of being married off, think of all the gay boys who have hot (and not so hot, but beggars can't be choosers) single girlfriends. Girls are at ease around gay men, we just go together well, like lemon and lime or Jewish mothers and guilt. And it goes without saying that when people are at ease they are easier to approach and perhaps even more receptive to amorous advances. A girl in a gay club isn't expecting to be picked up, so if you swoop in with a nice shirt, a smile, and a good dose of banter, you may find your prospective lady friend more open to your advances than if you're treading on her shoes and spilling beer on her down the local Wetherspoons.

Of course I'm not suggesting that hordes of breeders descend on Old Compton Street every night, heaven forbid. This is just an observation I've made. I'm sure if I could get my hands on some figures, my theory would be borne out. Single straight men that hang out with gays get more sex, I'm convinced of it!

Maybe it's because I'm a Londoner

I've lived in Madrid for two years now, and what an amazing two years they've been! When it comes to lifestlye the Spanish really have it down pat. The ethos here is very much work to live and not the other way round. In my (lazy arse) opinion this is the only way to go about life. Living here I've really come to appreciate the simple pleasures in life; Sitting outside on a terrace having a coffee with friends, chilling in the park, even just going for a stroll. You can do all these things here as the city isn't constantly under a grey blanket of fog and gloom. The weather is, in my humble opinion, London's cracked, bleeding, and badly in need of Dr Scholl Achilles heel.

Having said all that, I'm itching to get home. There's just something about London that is absloute magic. Sure it has its faults in abundance. It's prohibitively expensive, unmanageably huge, the weather is shit, public transport is a joke, and it can be incredibly negative and stifling at times. But on a sunny day walking down Portobello Road I wouldn't be anywhere else in the world.

London is in my veins, my soul and my heart. I've been lucky enough to live in several places all over the world. Every one of them has charms to recommend them in abundance, but I always find myself being drawn back to London. I sometimes think it's just because it's my home, but then I meet someone from another country. When they hear I come from London nine times out of ten their response is "I love London". People are drawn there. There really is something special about our great city. The presence of history around every corner juxtaposed with glaring modernity, the racial diversity, the incredible variety of food, the nightlife, the street fashion, the culture, London has it all in spades. I'm so so proud and glad I got to grow up there. London gives you a certain way of looking at the world. Nothing shocks a Londoner. When you've been harangued by the friendly neighbourhood crackhead for fifty pence, or seen someone puking out their own dentures on the street most other things sail straight over your head. I believe you can tell (for the most part) when someone has grown up in London. There's a swagger and a certain attitude they have that just stands out. It's that dry, cheeky chappy glint in the eye that sets us apart. If you're lucky enough to get a black cab with a good cabbie you'll know what I mean.

I love all the stupid idiosyncrasies of Londoners. From our fiercely territorial nature to the way everybody stands on the left on escalators in the tube. Not a day goes past at home where I don't have a little chuckle to myself.

I'm also incredibly glad that, as a gay man, London is where I grew up. Yes in terms of tolerance we still have a way to go, but for the most part we're there. The gay scene in London is second to none. I love going out on the scene in Madrid, but it's all the same. Banging house, or chart music, pumped up guys (I definitely don't mind that though) in tight T-shirts, and the same old faces and places week in and week out. In London there's all of that of course, but there's a whole world of other things to explore too, both on the scene and not.

We Londoners love to complain about our city. along with talking about the weather it seems sometimes to be our main pastime. I want to issue a challenge though for those of you that live in London. When you next have some free time, and if the day is nice, go down to Waterloo Bridge and watch the sunset. I guarantee you'll fall in love with your city all over again.