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.

Homo 101

Many of you reading this will not share my sexual proclivities, so I thought it might be fun to educate you all in some of the lingo attached to being gay. There's a lot of it (and some of it's a little abstract) so be prepared:

Bears - Bears are older guys with lots of body hair. Think Phil Mitchell but bigger and hairier, like this guy


Sexy right?! No, they don't really do it for me either. Bears have their own nights where they dance around topless. sweat profusely and trim each other's body hair with special pink scissors (not really).

Bear Cubs - Like bears, only younger.

Otters - No, these aren't guys that are into aquatic sex and gnawing on wood. They're halfway between a bear and a twink ("what's a twink" you say? Hold your horses, we'll get there). Celebrity otters escape me so here's a random one for you:


Twinks - Twinks are hairless, slim little boys basically. Often sporting tight T-shirts (or crop tops, and yes I've seen them) and floppy hair. Definitely not my type (smacks of paedophile's delight a tad for my liking):

So wrong. They look like five year olds.

Muscle Marys - I cannot tell a lie these are the ones that do it for me. Big, pumped up gym bunnies. It's obvious but hey, I'm a guy and we're obvious. Think about it. How many straight guys want a pneumatic Jordan look-a-like if they're honest. In some ways this is the ideal (according to men) female form. I'm just following the gay equivalent. Look at me making excuses. Muscle guys are hot, period! They usually hang out in intimidating packs in darkened clubs and the gym. I usually stand somewhere in the vicinity drooling and sweating like a rapist. Sexy:

And yes a lot of them have shrivelled genitals due to steroid abuse. I like to think of this as a positive thing though. I'm a virgin remember. Think about it...

Daddies - Older gay men (above 50 normally). Imagine your dad has just come out, bought himself a pair of stone washed denim jeans, a plaid shirt and you're there.

Normal gay men - The vast majority of gays. No excessive body hair or bulging muscles here. We're everywhere. You can tell us from a slight mince and maybe an excessive knowledge of Kylie (I'm stereotyping horribly but you get the picture)

There's a myriad of other expressions. Ones that refer to sexual preference for example. There are tops/active (guys that fuck), bottoms/passive (guys that get fucked), and versatile (clever guys that do everything, like Will Smith).

If I've piqued your interest have a look on urbandictionary.com for a million more definitions that will make you go cross eyed!

Yes rudeboy, I´m a battyman. And what?!

I’m writing this post on word, to be posted later on the blog, as we don’t have internet today. Our provider Jazztel (or spaztel as I prefer to call them), is having technical problems and we won’t get our connection back until sometime tomorrow. It’s odd, the internet has only been an integral part of my life for a few years really, but without it (even for one day), I feel like Superman without his powers. I’m going to have to go to the internet café downstairs (horror of all horrors) to post this. I’m also feeling very lethargic today as this diet I’m on has left me with absolutely zero energy. Hence I’m in a slightly (understatement) vitriolic mood and don’t really feel like writing about dating and love, as ain’t no love in my heart today. I’m taking a different tack with this post, and this is something I hope to continue. If this blog is going to have a decent life span then I think it’s important not just to document my search for bum fun and love, but also to make you all privy to some other musings about my life.

I come from a very diverse background. My maternal grandparents are from Austria and Jamaica, and my dad was from Bermuda. I’m proud of my entire heritage, but in particular I feel a real affinity with my Caribbean side. I love the food, the music, the history, everything. It’s a little unfortunate then that a large proportion of the Caribbean community (Jamaicans in particular) don’t return that love. Jamaica is one of the most homophobic countries in the world. It pervades every echelon of society from the street seller right up to the Prime Minister who was quoted as saying: “There is no room for homosexuals in Jamaican society”. Homophobia in Jamaica manifests itself (more often than not) in violent form, with gays and lesbians being hounded out of their homes, and in some cases beaten or even murdered.

Before I get into this I feel it necessary to say that in no way am I generalising here. I know there are plenty of West Indians who have absolutely no problem with gay people. I think it speaks volumes though that I can count my black friends on the fingers of one hand. 99% of my friends are white.

I live in Ladbroke Grove, one of the most racially diverse areas of London. It has a very large West Indian community, and unfortunately a large proportion of them aren’t backwards in coming forwards about their hatred of gay people. In an average week I would say that I’m verbally (and on rare occasions, physically) abused about four days out of seven. It’s horrible and I dread it happening. At the risk of sounding like Moses, these are my people and it frustrates me beyond words that so many of them are ignorant pigs. This is the area I grew up in. My family has lived there for decades. It’s a place I love with all my heart. How dare these fools say open their mouths to anyone? Their vitriol is especially harsh towards me, as I too am a black man and they seem to take my homosexuality as some kind of insult to the race. I often cross the road if I’m alone and I see a group of young black guys coming towards me, because more often than not I know they’re going to hurl some kind of abuse at me. In some ways I suppose I could be called slightly racist. It’s horrible having to admit that, but every time I try to have a little faith in my community and go about my business as normal, I have it thrown back in my face. I guess this is all coming to the surface now as I’ve spent two years living in Madrid where being gay is completely accepted by almost all sections of society. Gay men and women kiss openly on the streets here. You see gay couples walking hand in hand every day and nobody bats an eyelid (which is exactly how it should be). There’s no way I’d feel safe walking around my neighbourhood and displaying any sign of affection towards my boyfriend for fear of what might happen. As much as I’m looking forward to coming home next month, this Spanish tolerance is something I’m going to miss bitterly.

So where does this homophobia stem from. Well, in my opinion it’s a combination of things. The main problem is religion. A hangover from colonial times, Jamaica, the rest of the Caribbean (and indeed many African countries, where hatred of gays is a huge problem too) are still incredibly religious. And it’s not a nice Victoria sponge, harvest fair, more tea vicar kind of Christianity that is practiced there either. A lot of West Indians believe in a vengeful God. The bible is unquestioned, and as it clearly states in said book that being gay is a sin, there is no room for homosexuals in society. Another problem is the general machismo of Jamaican society. Men are expected to be men. Women are often seen as sex objects (just listen to a selection of dancehall tunes and you’ll understand) and any deviation from the norm, especially one as heinous as being attracted to the same sex, is met with violent contempt. This macho culture pervades the whole society and makes it nigh on impossible to effect any real change. I think the final reason in this charming trinity is the fact that Jamaica is a piss poor country. There are very few resources and children simply aren’t educated that it’s ok to be gay. Couple this with the host of external factors bearing down on them and you can begin to understand why kids there grow up to hate.

Obviously education is the key to changing people’s attitudes. However, I can’t envisage a time (and it really saddens me to say this) where we’ll destroy homophobia for the most part in West Indian society. The skewed values, backed up by massive cultural influences, seem so entrenched that I just can’t see a time where I could kiss my boyfriend in the centre of Kingston (or outside Ladbroke Grove tube station come to that) without raising a disapproving stare, let alone fists.

Remy Ma - Conceited (There's Something About Remy)

This is how I feel today ;-)

How very dare you!

O-M-G! So, I told you all about how I registered for the dating website plenty of fish the other day. Well, today I'd like to rename said site plenty of dross. After the trauma and tedium of setting up my profile the other day, I decided last night to cast my net and see what was on offer. Page one threw up nobody I was really interested in, neither did page two, nor page three, nor four. Are you seeing a pattern yet? Now, I am naturally picky about everything by nature, but I was really trying to keep an open mind here. I'd be willing to go on a date with someone if I could see they had a nice smile or nice eyes, just something to recommend them to me. You don't have to be David Gandy. I'm sorry, but the dried up pieces of twig exhibited on this website were enough to make me reach for the valium. It wasn't even a case of: "Well, you're no stud, but maybe your personality will shine through in your profile". Nothing! Let me give you an example.

I was messaged by a guy from Ipswich (ew!) last night who wanted to meet me. Now obviously I can't put his picture up on here, that would just be mean (and probably illegal). What I can do though is show you what he wrote:

hi my name is ***** im 22 from ipswich i love sining dancing hanging with mates love all sorts of music mainly lady gaga yes i know sad but she is a real artist sorry im one for listening to the lyrics n finding a meaning in the song, my pefect date would be to go see a film or go for a drink cuddle up on soffa once got home and just chated the night away is that chesses i dont know any way dont be afaird to msg me

p.s i dont ware make up all time only for photos lmao

Now I don't know if perhaps this guy is dyslexic or has some kind of learning difficulty. But if so, wouldn't you get a friend to help you write this so it didn't come across as such an illiterate mess?! I'm adamant about this one. There is no, I repeat no excuse for being an illiterate retard in the UK today. Everyone gets the opportunity to learn to read and write, and when I see the English language butchered like this I reach for the napalm. Call me a snob, a bitch, I don't care. There's no room for manoeuvre on this one (I'm an English teacher for fuck's sake). And this pattern of almost third world illiteracy was a theme through the whole website. Honestly my flatmate and I sat there for a good ten minutes trying to decipher the drivel he'd written. And don't get me started on the appearance. Let's just say the honey monster and Liza Tarbuck mated and had a make up wearing, pigeon haired child. Can you see it? Now multiply the horror of that image by around fifty and you're beginning to be on the right track. 

I know you don't ask, you don't get, but honestly, I feel violated by the fact that someone like this would even have the audacity to approach me. Yes, I'm being superficial blah blah blah but I'm sorry, you are not, I repeat not, intially attracted to someone's personality. There has to be that physical attraction to get your mojo fired up, and so far the people who've been interested in me have been offensive and unacceptable to say the least. Quite apart from anything else, none of these idiots live in London. What makes you think I'm going to make a love commute for anybody in the beginning, especially you? If you want me to make a love commute you need to be Henry Cavill (who will be mine one day) Oh Henry, I can't wait to see you in that tight Superman outfit next year (heart racing, trouser stirrings). Can we just take a minute to appreciate his beauty:

 



I can hear angels singing right now. Anyway, I digress. For him I'd crawl to the back end of beyond on my hands and knees, but not for some potential murderer with zero personality.

Come on guys, pull your fucking fingers out. It just seems to me as if ninety per cent of the guys on this site don't give a shit. They rolled out of their pit, threw on yesterday's pants, a manky t-shirt, flashed their (unbrushed) snaggletooth at the camera and hoped to attract a mate.You need to step your game up if you want to snag me boys. Lord I'm having a "Because I'm worth it!" moment. At this rate I'll be the forty year old virgin knocking on Steve Carell's door asking for royalties! I want to make sure you all understand something. I'm under no illusions of being Brad Pitt here, but I think I'm attractive and funny and I'm just looking for someone on the same level as me.

Time for hard facts. Out of a possible 170 guys who met my criteria of living in London and age range, I found four who I wanted to meet. Four out of 170! Disheartening is an understatement right?! I know now why people were rioting last week in the UK. They'd just registered with a dating website and seen what was out there.

One eye in the rear view mirror, foot on the accelerator

OK. So I've written five posts now. Hardly the Odyssey I know, but it seems a nice round number at which to refelect on what I've written so far. Earlier on I asked a group of friends (the gays) to give me their honest opinion on this blog. So far everyone has been nothing but complimentary, which is really lovely, and obviously good for my ego. However, I want to make sure that what I write here is as good as it can be, and that it appeals to as many people as possible. Thus, I'll always welcome criticism as much as praise.

One of my closest friends was slightly shocked by how honest I'm being, while others feel what I've written so far hasn't been candid/honest enough. Hmm, what to do? Personally I feel as if I'm not out to shock people with this. I kind of think that the most shocking aspect of this blog was right there in the first sentence I wrote anyway; the fact that I'm still a virgin at 30. I'm sure that once I get into the dating scene back in London I'll have tons of salacious, lurid content to shock you with. But for now I think, like my love life, it'll have to stay pretty pedestrian.

Now, on the honesty front, perhaps I have held back a little bit. Obviously, for the moment at least, the vast majority of people who read this will be friends of mine and people that I have to see on a regular basis. I think somewhere in my head the candour gauge may have been set at a little under full steam ahead. I'm writng a blog about being sexless at 30 for god's sake, but so far I haven't really expressed how that makes me feel. So here goes:





This is how I feel on a daily basis. I may be a virgin, but I'm a normal, red blooded male. I have the same urges, desires and erection rates as everybody else. Not to be able to act on these (or at least to feel unable to) fucking sucks for want of a more eloquent way of putting it. Please understand I'm not on some crusade to promote abstinence before marriage, nor am I judging those people that open their legs or arse cheeks as often as Tower Bridge. Given the choice (and a kick ass time machine) I would travel back and make myself have done it years ago like everybody else. I don't think anybody realises how embarrassing it is to sit in a group of your peers talking about sex (especially with people you perhaps don't know so well) and feel like that prissy twat Pollyanna because you can't add anything to the conversation. Then there's the fear of being found out. I swear sometimes I feel like a Jew in Nazi Germany, hiding in broad daylight. I'm just missing some kind of scarlet letter (maybe a big pink V). Obviously my closest friends all know my dark secret (!), but new people don't and it's not exactly something you bring up over a muffin in Starbucks: "Hi I'm John, Ive never been fucked". I'm sure that the way I feel is all in my head and that nobody really gives a shit if I'm a virgin or not. The human psyche is a strange and powerful thing though, and once you get into a particular thought pattern it's bloody hard to break out of.

Some of you might be wondering what happened in my past to give me such a complex about sex. I really don't want this to get mawkish so I'll just lay out the facts. I came out, at home and at school, when I was 14. In 1994 things were a lot different for gays in the UK, let's just say that. I was bullied to within an inch of my life for three years and those scars have taken up to now for me to deal with. Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking for sympathy, there are tons of people who went through the same experience as me. I know I'm a pretty cool guy. I have an absolutely amazing family who mean everything to me and the best group of friends ever. I know I'm loved and lovable (just need my heart to catch up with my head). But when everybody was out getting drunk and molested by their peers on icy commons all over London, I was stuck at home alone basically. I guess I just never developed the confidence to talk to guys. Time moved on, I stood still, and here we are sixteen years later.

So, that's as honest as I can be. I could tell you about the fact that I wank like someone on death row or that I think about getting fucked (with fear and intrigue in equal measure) as often as I blink, but that would just be lewd. xx

Stressful intro to online dating

They don't make it bloody easy do they?! Trying to keep my newly discovered positive mental attitude aflame before it gets blown out by the cruel wind of the London dating scene, I have just signed up to a dating website called plenty of fish. It wasn't a good experience. First of all, it's so so difficult trying to write a description of yourself to try and attract a mate. Everything that comes out just seems like a ridiculous cliché. I'm left with a slight feeling of hopelessness to be honest. I'm sure what I wrote was perfectly fine, it's just I hate that feeling of having to sell myself as if I was at a job interview. It's bloody impersonal and I hate it. Boo! Here's what I wrote:


It sounds like the biggest cliché, but my friends would call me the life and soul of the party and I'd have to agree. I'm very sociable and I love being out and about and being in the company of other people. Loner is definitely not a word to describe myself. That's not to say I'm averse to quiet nights in because really I can be a complete homebody/couch potato when the mood takes me. One thing I am definitely not is sporty, so please no invitations to go hiking or for a bracing jog around the park because you'll be jogging alone.

At the moment I'm in between jobs. I've been living in Madrid for two years teaching English but have decided to move back to London to work towards taking my masters in conference interpreting. I speak five languages so it seems the logical thing to do. Plus I think it's a job where I'll be constantly challenged. Also, I'll get to wear a cool headset..

In terms of music, film etc I can't really list what I'm into as the internet would probably collapse from the weight of data I'd need to input to fit everything in. Suffice to say I have very broad tastes from classic jazz to Céline Dion and The Carpenters (yes you read right, no shame here). I do love films too, but I'm a real telly addict really. I need my daily fix of TV and my favourite shows or else.

It's so hard to give an accurate description of yourself in a little box on a screen I think. So impersonal. Basically I'm a happy, caring, funny guy who hasn't really had much luck when it comes to love. I'd really like to meet someone similar (or complete polar opposite, I'm an equal opportunities kind of guy). If this sounds up your street then get in touch!

What do you think? I just don't know. I feel like it's ok but I kind of want to change it. It's like flaming Sophie's Choice. I wasn't sure about the five languages thing either but fuck it, I'm clever, so shoot me! I decided not to mention the virgin issue just yet. I'm dreading having to discuss it at all with a prospective partner really. It's definitely something I want to do face to face though, not over a flickering computer screen. This is the first time I've done this where I'm taking it seriously and I feel like my life is hanging in the balance (a little dramatic perhaps).

So, profile done you then have to answer the most probing questionnaire ever devised. There were several awkward questions relating to dating history and how you behave when in a relationship. I didn't know what to put. There's no box for 30 year old virgin so I just had to improvise. Then I had drama trying to upload a photo. I couldn't put the ones I wanted up as they were too small apparently. So I've had to resort to trawling through my photo albums for more recent pictures in which I look like Shamu the killer whale (exaggeration, I'm still cute!).

About to put a carving knife to my wrist I finally managed to complete the damn thing. Hooray, I did it. Wrong! Now I have to trawl through a database the size of Russia looking for men who don't look like murderers or people out on day release. I've seen a few specimens who've caught my eye so we'll see. Honest opinion at this point though, I'm not sure about this internet dating malarkey. I'm intrigued and horrified in equal measure. Watch this space...

White vest man, hot cops, Dukan and super trannies

I love Madrid! Just got back from La Paloma. Basically this is a huge fiesta that take place in La Latina, an area aof the city with tons of bars and restaurants. It's like a big latino Notting Hill Carnival except this one goes all night. There's incredible South American street food, music coming from every bar and people are cutting up a rug left, right and centre (doesn't cutting up a rug explain what it's describing perfectly? Love that expression!).

"Such fun!" I hear you cry, and you're right it is bloody good fun. We went last year and drank and danced the night away. This year however, things are a little bit different (the difference being my ever expanding gut). Hence, I'm currently following the Dukan diet to try and shift some blubber in a rush before I have to expose myself for a week in Ibiza. This, tragically, means no alcohol for yours truly until next weekend. A great deal of wailing and gnashing of teeth ensued when I realised I wouldn't be able to lubricate myself in the usual manner. But you know what? I've had so much fun tonight I didn't miss the booze at all.

I may have had a mini (and I do mean miniscule, let's not get over excited) revelation dear reader. Normally in Madrid when you go out, you end up annihilated. Those of you who've been to the city will know that the nights here are loooong and filled with huge amounts of potent booze. My problem is that often, there comes a point in the night when I'm wasted, standing in the middle of a packed gay club and failing to pull yet again. Cue drunken waterworks. Many a time I've run weeping (such a drama queen) up Gran Via cursing life and anyone who gets in my way. The thing is, this didn't happen tonight. There was the usual slew of ridiculously hot, buff guys (namely white vest man, so hot I may cry myself to sleep tonight!). But this time, being sober I didn't have the usual fog and nonsense running around in my head. Don't get me wrong, there's no way I'll ever give up drinking, I'm way too much of a party boy. And I'm betting that as soon as I set foot again in the booze soaked UK my new resolve will evaporate quicker than you can say virgin. But I think there might actually be something to be said for drinking in moderation. Perhaps guys aren't really all that attracted to a gyrating (albeit with amazing rhythm), sweaty mess. Given time, a little bit of Dutch courage and several months (years) in the gym I might even pluck up the courage to talk to the likes of white vest man.

Oh, and in case you're wondering, the super tranny I'm referring to in the title of this post is just that. Walking home tonight with my friend Steph we saw a woman with the most incredible hips and arse. Only thing is, she used to have a penis! Madrid is filled with trannies, I love it! And hot cops? Well, I'll leave that to your imagination.

Isn't this great? I'm learning stuff about myself, you're all learning stuff about me. It's like f-ing Sesame Street!

Night peeps xx

Best laid plans

So, now you know a little more about me, maybe it's time I started formulating a plan to help me snag Prince Charming. "Just let it happen naturally" I hear you cry. Bollocks is my reply to that. I'm of the opinion that, like anything in life, you get out what you put in. You've got to be proactive if you want to be successful at whatever you're doing. It might sound incredibly unromantic to approach finding love in this way, but so far the path I've been following hasn't exactly born fruit has it? I think it's time I let my anal (!) nature hold sway and come up with a plan of action. Plus, I just like to make lists.

I suppose the obvious place to start is by joining a dating website. I did actually join one here in Spain, eDarling it's called. This initial flirtation with online dating lasted approximately three minutes though, as I was bombarded with a slew of Quasimodo lookalikes all wanting to 'make my acquaintance' shall I say. I wouldn't have minded so much except that they all must have been illiterate. I had clearly stated on my profile that I was looking for someone in Madrid and wasn't prepared to travel.However, I had strange, flabby, balding men from all over Spain clamouring to see me. Gross! This does beg the age old question is it true that only murderers, losers, perverts, facially and physically challenged (aka fat and ugly) people use online dating? At the moment all signs point to yes. I'm not going to be put off though. Positive mental attitude people!

Then there's the question of Gaydar. For those of you who don't know, this is basically a website where gay guys can find each other and have rumpus. I think I've answered my own question with this one. If I just wanted sex I could have been having illicit liaisons courtesy of this website for years. I'm not judging anyone who uses it though. I guess I'm just a bit of a romantic at heart. I'd like to be wined and dined  a bit before I give it up!

I also need to develop some kind of functioning gaydar and a sense of when guys are into me, as I seem to be the only homosexual on the planet who doesn't possess it. Case in point: I lived in Italy for a year when I was 23. There I met a really sweet, cute guy named Roberto. We'd hung out in a group a few times, he was really fun and I liked him a lot. Of course I was too terrified to ask him out so I just drooled quietly from afar. Anyway, one day he invited me over to his house for 'cake' (a euphemism for sex I later found out). Now, I had been living in Italy for a few months at this point gorging daily on cheese, ham, salami and cake, and my waistline was beginning to expand like a hot air balloon. Thus, when he asked me if I wanted to come round for cake my reply was an emphatic no! How was he ever going to fall in love with me if I looked like Barry White after a rough weekend?! I still maintain that if he'd just been more direct we might have had something. Don't get me wrong here guys, I'm not scared of sex. I just need someone to literally wave their penis in my face for me to realise they're interested. How was I supposed to know that 'cake' was possibly some weird Italian way of asking me if I wanted to make the beast with two backs?

There are tons of options open to me if I really want to put myself out there I guess: Blind dates, speed dating, set ups by friends, saunas (maybe not for me though), the list goes on. Reading this, every fibre in my body is screaming and trying to run for the door. I'm fighting my jaded, cynical nature at every step with this one. I am excited as well though. I kind of can't wait to get home so the hunt can begin! Stay tuned...

De Madrid al cielo

There's a Spanish saying "De Madrid al cielo", which means "From Madrid to heaven". Basically what this means is that Madrid is the closest place to paradise you'll find on Earth. Kind of like a "See Naples and die" thing. In many ways, whoever thought of this saying was on to something. Madrid really is a fantastic city. It has beautiful parks, great museums, fantastic nightlife and good weather. I can't be that enthusiastic about the gastronomical offerings unfortunately (there's only so much swine and cheese one can ingest before suicidal tendencies set in). But I digress. Madrid is great, and what's more it's great for gays. It's one of the most tolerant cities in the world for those who row in my boat, and so when I was casting around for the next place to stick a pin in the map it seemed the obvious choice.

Let's start at the very beginning (a very good place to start. Sorry, couldn't resist). I arrived in the Spanish capital with my best friend in October 2009. We'd come here (like almost every other Anglophone in the city it seems) to teach English. As soon as we got here we were thrown into the drunken, sweaty, dark Madrid gay scene. The usual frolics ensued. Loud, wasted, 5am singing under some poor hard working (ahem) Spaniard's window, drunken new best friends who you never see again, greasy kebabs, the lot. Only one problem, no man for John. Not even the faintest whiff of one. Ruh roh, here comes the neurosis! I had convinced myself that the reason I never pulled in London wasn't me, It was the hundreds of thousands of other gay men in London. They all had the problem, not little old moi. By moving away, I would conquer my sexless existence and a whole new world (and my legs) would open up to a host of delights of the flesh. Wrong! The closest I've come to intercourse during my time here has been toilet fellatio with a deaf guy. I didn't realise he was deaf until halfway through giving me a blow job the toilet door was nearly knocked down by drunk people with full bladders trying to get in. He carried on oblivious and I put two and two together. Needless to say after this I knew it wasn't going anywhere. Have you ever tried communicating with a deaf Spaniard who can't read lips? I don't know sign language (in English, let alone Spanish) either. I gave up all hope of being whisked off into the sunset when he had to instant message me his name while still in the pee soaked cubicle (classy).

Initially it was easy to blame my continued virginity on the language barrier (both signed and spoken) and a host of other lame excuses. My favourite is "Gay guys in Madrid aren't into black men". I have to say, unfortunately, there is some truth in this one. I think I'm an attractive guy, but on many occasions I've stood in a room full of gay men here, and I may as well have been wearing Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. I'm not saying that there aren't gay men of colour (all four of them) getting laid every night here, it's just I'm not one of them. Also, although Madrid is crawling with hot Spanish boys, they do all (at least the hot ones) tend to look like they came out of a chicken Mcnugget mould. The standard gay look here seems to be extremely high hair (to make up for the fact that everyone is a midget), either an extremely loose "gay" vest or an extremely tight polo shirt, and variations on a theme of muscularity. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for coiffed muscle Marys, it's just that after a while one realises that they (mostly) only go for other coiffed muscle Marys. What are us mere mortals supposed to do? Plus, it all starts to get a little like Lidl, very generic.

I'm not trying to throw myself a pity party here, trust me. I know that nine times out of ten the reason I go home alone all the time is myself. I was blessed with many talents, but flirting and recognising when someone is interested are sadly not in my portfolio. I'm just terrible when it comes to guys. The truth is most gay men in  a club/bar environment scare the hell out of me. My lack of amorous experience leads me to run a mile or freeze up completely whenever anyone shows the faintest bit of interest. And you can forget me approaching someone (are you mad?!). My natural flow dries up like an Ethiopian riverbed if I even countenance talking to a guy I fancy. It's a bit of a sad picture really isn't it?

Anyway, all that's going to change now, I just wanted to give you a bit of background info. Even with my lack of amor, I've still had an incredible two years here in Madrid. I've made several friends for life, consumed the equivalent weight in pork as Michelle McManus, taught some unwilling students English and been sucked off by a deaf guy in a club toilet. Not bad going really, all things considered!

The awful truth

My name is John Goode. I'm 30 years old. I'm gay, and I'm a virgin. There, I said it. For a while now I've wanted to write a blog but I could never figure out what the hell I would write about. Everything I considered just seemed so trite and had no real relevance for me. Essentially I think blogs are the most self indulgent things going anyway. Good ones are so few and far between. "Look at me, what I have to say is so important.". Is it really though? Most of the time if I ever read a blog I'm thinking about what I can eat next. Most people's lives and what they have to say just isn't that interesting I'm afraid. Who knows, maybe you're thinking the exact same thing now. Only time will tell...

Anyway, it's 3.20 am here in Madrid (where I've lived for the past two years), and I'm coming off the back of a conversation with a dear friend of mine. During our chat it became clear to me that what, if anything, I wanted to write about was my love life (or rather lack of it).

I'm moving back to London in a month and I want to document my attempts to find love in the city I love so much. After two years in Spain where the only action I've had has been a sweaty fumble with a deaf guy (more on that in later updates), I'm determined, on my return to London, to really put myself out there and try and meet Mr Right. That means internet dating, blind dates, meeting someone out and about, wherever love is I'm determined to find it! And you lovely (or hapless as the case may be) people are going to come along for the ride I hope!

So, I'm a virgin. It's not something I usually throw out there to people. Let's face it, nowadays it's kind of a Scarlet Letter thing if you haven't done it by the time your first pube pops up to say hi. But yes, for a myriad of reasons I have never had bum sex. Most people assume that all gay men walk around with permanent erections and use them at least fourteen times a day on some unsuspecting anus. At least that seems to me to be the image propagated by the media and indeed us benders ourselves. Don't get me wrong, I'm not some dewy eyed ingenue. I've had my fair share of fun behind the proverbial bike shed, it's just I've never been in a long term (or short term come to that) relationship. I'm aware that it's not the norm for anybody, gay or straight, to reach my age without one decent relationship experience, or indeed to give their flower (sorry, I just love that expression, so Hallmark) to anybody. Clearly I have issues. I'm not going to go into all the reasons behind these, I want this blog to be readable and entertaining, not like reading the Bible at primary school. Suffice to say I had a bit of a difficult time growing up gay and until now I've never been brave enough to deal with my many (yet still rather fabulous) neuroses.

It's strange, putting all this down is immediately cathartic. I think I might be onto something here. Anyway, now you all know the score (virgin, never been in a relationship, neurotic), I hope you'll all come along with me on my journey. Let the games commence...