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 ;-)