Category: Gay Bars

Pooing on a Paddle

I received a delightfully distracting ‘how’s things?’ email from Jacqueline, an old comrade of wry wit and razor sharp intellect. She is a wonderfully undemanding friend who I may only see once a year. When we meet, we simply carry on where we left off, mixing lascivious gossip with incisive social and political comment (or so we think). She and her partner Angus have been sorely laid low of late with a nasty case of gastroenteritis. Naturally, Angus’ suffering is the greatest since he is a boy. Girls have a higher pain threshold apparently. It’s something to do with childbirth. If the Vicar of Christ knew from first-hand experience just how painful it was to have babies, I’m sure he would command priests to hand out condoms during communion; he could solve the African AIDS crisis and endemic Third World over-population with a single wave of his Holiness’ crook.

I know a little of food poisoning myself. Many, many years ago when I had cheek bones you could slice cheese with, I met a randy Yank in the Brief Encounter Bar in St Martin’s Lane (now long gone, but in times long past the place to briefly encounter). In the taxi back to his gaff, the Yank got a tad peckish so we stopped off for a takeaway kebab on the Caledonian Road. I took one small bite to be sociable. He wolfed the rest. The next day I ended up in The London Hospital with projectile vomit. The rapid diet had its attractions but pooing on a paddle for Environment Health was a distressing experience. I never saw the Yank again. I think he died.

Jacqueline has taken up patch working and quilting as a hobby. She’s clearly keeping a weather eye on the future: the imminent implosion of the public sector may well necessitate a dramatic career change.

Cappuccinos and Rent Boys

IzmirOur hotel is equidistant between the city centre proper and a trendy, Sohoesque district called Alsancak. No one would describe Izmir as beautiful. Much of it was burned to the ground in 1922 during the Greco-Turkish War, and the city was unsympathically rebuilt with block upon block of mediocre concrete box architecture that surely wouldn’t withstand even the slightest tremor. However, the place does have a certain appeal and Alsancak, in particular, has a real buzz, all trendy shops and pavement cafés.
We decided on a trip to the Roman agora, the largest market place ever excavated from the period. We strolled through the modern pazar and delighted in confounding the catcalling hawkers by responding in German, French, Spanish, and a little Turkish, anything but English. We found the agora remains on the wrong side of the tracks and gazed through the railings. Having been spoilt by the glory of Ephesus, I’m afraid an enormous hole on the ground with a few old stones randomly scattered about looking like London after the Blitz really didn’t impress. We didn’t bother going in.

Alsancak is where the few gay bars are to be found. We had done our internet research and went in pursuit of the twilight world of Turkish deviants. It was hopeless. We found only one dismal little bar down some dark alley. It was a tawdry, dirty dive, virtually empty and pounded by deafening techno. The drinks were absurdly expensive and even the ‘free’ bar snacks came at a price with a specially prepared bill. The bar staff were so bored they poured alcohol on the bar and set it alight for a laugh. Taking a leak was a surreal experience as the entrance to the toilet was guarded by a head-scarfed granny in pantaloons demanding a lira to spend a penny. The few punters were rough rent boys in cheap shell suits looking for punters of their own. As they began to circle us like a pack of hyenas, we knew it was time to leave. We sprinted to the entrance fully expecting it to be locked. Thankfully, it wasn’t. That was Izmir.

Cleanse, Tone and Clench

London life friend Ian emailed me to remind me of the good old days when we were both free and easy. Well, I was free he was very easy.  In days long past Ian was my regular dance partner as we filled our boots across half of Europe, and the main butt of my low wit. Socially polished, popular, sharp and loyal, his is the rare gift of insight into the human condition and I wonder what he would make of the overwintering exiles. In his email he recalled his envy at my popularity with the punters. My memories of our many trips around the dance floor are entirely different. His card was always fuller than mine as he had perfected his cleanse, tone and clench routine for the boys. Sadly, he mostly attracted those with less than a rudimentary command of English; the Third World was Ian’s specialist subject. Still, come the last waltz, I usually managed to secure a booking with some desperado who attracted me with the familiar you’ll do look in his eyes.