The 40 in 40 Days Project.
12. The Empty Floor (1987)

I made my debut as a club DJ in December 1986, with a Thursday night venture named “Goodbye Cool World”. I basically got the gig by lying about my previous experience – in reality, all I’d done were two stints helping out Dymbel at a miner’s strike benefit and a medical students’ disco. I also had no decks at home. So this was something of a quantum leap, shall we say. Fortunately, mixing skills weren’t as important in 1986 as they are today, so I was able to bluff my way through the night reasonably successfully.

There were two other factors working in my favour that night. Firstly, it was the Thursday before Christmas, when the whole world wants to go out dancing. Secondly, all my friends – and their friends – rallied round to show support. The result: a busy dancefloor and an up-for-it atmosphere. Not a bad debut, all told. I was particularly pleased with the reaction to some of the less commercial, more underground tunes: the early Chicago house music (already big in Nottingham, thanks to Graeme Park’s sets at The Garage), the Washington D.C. go-go music, the hip-hop, the vintage funk.

It is amazing how quickly hubris can set in. For the second “Goodbye Cool World”, I decided to push the “upfront” music a whole lot further. I took a trip down to London and came back with an armful of the hippest, most cutting edge import 12-inchers I could find. I even got my hands on Mr. Fingers “Can You Feel It / Washing Machine” on the original Trax label, now acknowledged as a classic, but then almost completely unknown. I planned the night’s entire playlist in advance, starting with hip-hop and gradually increasing the beats per minute over three hours, ending up with the high octane “jack tracks”. Very occasionally, I would be slipping in the odd chart hit, just as a sop to the masses. I wrote the entire playlist down for reference, stacked the records in the order they would be played, and didn’t bother packing any spares either.

Are you shuddering yet?

There is a world of difference between the Thursday before Christmas and an ordinary Thursday in the middle of January. Especially when only half a dozen of your mates show up. The rest of the club – which was no more than a quarter full – consisted of people who were mainly there to carry on drinking after the pubs shut. However, I was still blind to all of that. Locked in my own little upfront world in the DJ booth, I stuck rigidly to my playlist. Obscure hip hop track followed obscure hip hop track. Hey, what did it matter that no-one was dancing yet? There were higher ideals to follow – I was (oh God!) educating them.

Less than a full hour into my set, the club owner burst into the DJ booth, a stricken look on his face. This was not a man who shared my ideals. This was not a man who even knew the first thing about music. “Play some disco music!” he commanded. “You’ve had nobody dancing – do something about it!”

Disco music? In 1987, nobody said “disco music” any more. This threw me. I quickly took off the hip-hop and slapped on George Michael and Aretha Franklin’s “I Knew You Were Waiting For Me”. Immediately, the floor filled. Was that relief I saw on their faces? I followed with The Gap Band’s “Big Fun” – and just as quickly, the floor cleared again.

The club’s regular DJ poked his head through the door. Would it be all right if he took over in a few minutes? Only, could I be sure not to play “I Love My Radio” by Taffy just yet – he wanted to save it up. TAFFY? Did he really think I would stoop to playing TAFFY?

I had maybe ten minutes left to save face. With no back-up tunes, I started frantically flicking through the club’s own supply of singles. Jermaine Stewart’s “We Don’t Have To Take Our Clothes Off”, maybe? No, I couldn’t prostitute myself like that. I just couldn’t. I stuck on Raze “Jack The Groove” instead. About four people danced – all of them friends of mine, who were now loyally rallying round.

The DJ came back in again. Er, could he take over, like, now? I gathered my record boxes together and slunk out of the DJ booth in shame, feeling utterly gutted and humiliated. My friends said all the right things – it’s a shit club anyway, your music was far better, don’t give up, you’ll get the right crowd another time. But I was inconsolable.

This, dear reader, is an object lesson in what not to do if you’re starting out as a DJ. I had broken two cardinal rules. I had made no attempt to connect with my audience, and I hadn’t allowed for any flexibility with the music. On a quiet Thursday night in January, in a ropey disco, with none of my target audience present, it was a good time to learn this lesson.

Four months later, I got my chance to shine. The DJ-ing years were about to begin in earnest.

The 40 in 40 Days Project.
11. The Lifestyle Switch (2000)

So, in the Summer of 2000, we suddenly find ourselves looking for a weekend cottage in Derbyshire. This would have been unimaginable six months earlier (for financial reasons: we have just been blessed with unexpected good fortune) and unthinkable six months earlier than that (for lifestyle reasons: who’d want to spend their weekends away from all the excitement of the city?)

We are being very picky with estate agents’ details – very picky indeed. Eventually, we settle on two properties to visit. Coincidentally, they are both in the same village, just the other side of Ashbourne, and just inside the Peak District national park. We arrange to see both on the same evening.

The first cottage is absolutely delightful. It is everything we were looking for. The vibe is just right. We cannot believe our luck – the first place we see, and it’s perfect. We make suitably enthusiastic noises to the owners, and depart, buzzing with excitement. However, as we have arranged to see the other property in the village, we think it only fair to keep our appointment.

The second cottage is, unbelievably, even more perfect than the first. It is an amazing, magical place, with an immediate and irresistible emotional pull to it. In particular, it has a huge kitchen which, once you enter it, you never want to leave again. We leave for Nottingham with our heads buzzing, in a state of stunned incredulity.

The second cottage it is, then. One more visit, an offer, some wrangling over the price, and that’s that. The current occupants won’t be ready to move out until around the beginning of November – we’re happy to wait.

Meanwhile, I have been looking forward to Trade’s 10th anniversary party in London, which I have been planning to attend for months. My Trade days are basically behind me now – the last time I was there, in February 2000, the night had turned sour and I had realised I’d reached the end of the road with the club. Nevertheless, the 10th birthday party is an event that I just can’t miss. I have been visiting Trade since late 1994, and it has been an important part of my life for most of that time. I just want to pay homage to all the amazing, wild times I’ve had down there.

The completion date is set for the first Friday in November. Well, guess what? Trade’s 10th is scheduled for the very same weekend! The symbolism of this is not lost on me.

And so it comes to pass that on the Friday, we spend our first night in our new cottage, which feels like home from the very first minute we walk through the door. The next evening, I take the train down to London, and check into a hotel within walking distance of the club. Around 7.00 the next morning, I get up, put my clubbing gear on, have a cup of tea, check out, stroll down the road, and wander into Turnmills. At the bottom of the stairs, I open the door and enter the mayhem. All the old faces, all the old tunes, all the old atmosphere. I have the most fantastic time, knowing full well that I will never be returning there again, and feeling completely OK about it.

I’m explaining all this to someone I’ve never met before, slap bang in the middle of the main dancefloor. He smiles, nods, and gives me the word I was looking for. Closure.

Another chapter begins.

The 40 In 40 Days Project.
10. The Heterosexual Phase (1974)

It has often been suggested that some boys in the early stages of adolescence go through a “phase” of being attracted to members of the same sex. This may or may not be a valid proposition, but I do know that for me, the same thing happened in reverse. Yes - for about a year or so, around the age of 12, I went through a phase of fancying girls.

There were three main objects of my affection:

Firstly, the headmaster’s daughter (preferably in her squash kit, as I recall) – a reserved, slightly distant, slightly aloof figure.

Secondly, one of my sister’s classmates: the beautiful Melanie, with her long straight black hair, dark eyes, and an air of elusive mystery. She made it quite clear that she had no interest in me, and I would spend long periods of time pining over her – and rather enjoying the unrequited sense of melancholy this provided.

Thirdly, Paula Wilcox, in her role as Chrissy in the ITV sitcom “Man About The House”. A character who was resolutely impossible to seduce, no matter how hard Richard O’Sullivan’s character tried each week.

Can you see the key element which links these three together? Of course you can: unattainability. For if any girl at the time had actually shown an interest in me, I would have probably expired with embarrassment. Unattainability meant there was no threat – nothing I needed to follow through. Safety.

There was just the one snog though. The only time I have ever snogged a girl, in fact. In truth, it barely even counted. She informed me beforehand that this was just to be a rehearsal session, to prepare herself for the boy up the road who she really fancied. I was the guinea pig, in other words. Strange that afterwards I never snogged a girl again.

The girl in question went on to have a successful career as a comedy actress, in both television and film. She is particularly well known for her supporting role in a long running and very popular sitcom – ironically enough, given my early crush on Paula Wilcox. I have picked up the rather irritating habit of saying to K, whenever I see her on screen, “Ooh look, there’s The Only Girl I Ever Snogged!”

And then I went away to an all-male boarding school. The heterosexual phase came to an abrupt end. Funny, that.

I don't quite know what you're all going to make of "40 Days #9 - The Rent Boy". It was particularly difficult to write, and I have mixed emotions about it. However, I think it's a story worth telling. It's also a story which K and I have told many times over the years, to a range of reactions. Comments would be appreciated on this one, please...

There's a fantastic selection of bootleg MP3s to be found at this site. The bad news: they're only at a sampling rate of 64. The good news: they download quick.

I particularly recommend "Introspection" by Osymyso, which is an absolutely INCREDIBLE seven minute mix of - literally! - dozens of classic singles from the last few decades. There are frequently three tunes running together. It is quite dazzlingly clever stuff.

Link via New York London Paris Munich.

The 40 In 40 Days Project.
9. The Rent Boy (1988)

K had been down to London for a couple of nights, staying as usual with his old friend Nick I, in his smart shared flat in Maida Vale. This time round, there was a new flatmate to meet. His name was D. He was young, bright, fair, full of life, with an open smile and a ready, quick wit. And also a wicked, rebellious, slightly dangerous, devil-may-care streak. K was beguiled, charmed, intrigued. At the end of his stay, K issued an open invitation to D: any time you’re in Nottingham, give us a call.

Fast forward a few weeks. It’s Monday morning. We’re getting ready for work. The phone rings – K picks up. It’s D on the line.

“Hi K – I’m in Nottingham. Thought I’d come and see you.”

“Sure, that would be great. Where are you staying?”

“I’m not staying anywhere yet. I’ve just driven up. I’m at a phone box on Derby Road. Can I come round now?”

“But D – you don’t drive.”

“I know, I know – look, I’ll explain everything when I get to yours. Could you give me directions?”

A few minutes later, D turns up on our doorstep. He is dressed to go out for the night, and is drenched in sweat. There’s quite a nice looking car parked outside. He doesn’t have any luggage.

K makes him a cup of tea and he starts to explain. Last night, he was at Benjys club in the East End. A couple of guys picked him up and he went back to their place. They were both members of an up and coming boy band (who later went on to have a few hits, as it happens). In the middle of the night, D woke up. He looked around. He felt cheap – disgusted with himself – disgusted with his wasteful, excessive lifestyle. He had to get out – now. He had to make a clean break.

So, he quietly got out of bed, picked up a set of car keys from the bedside table, crept out of the flat, got into the car, and drove it up the M1 to Nottingham. Pissed. Having had two driving lessons in his entire life.

And now, here he is. He is desperate. He cannot go back to his old life. In fact, he should be at work right now, but he doesn’t care. He has come to Nottingham to start a new life, away from all the shit. Can we put him up for a few days while he gets himself sorted out? He’s going to start looking for a job immediately, then he can get himself a flat. We’re his only hope – his last hope. Can we help, please?

He’ll need to borrow a bit of cash for a couple of days – oh, and some clothes, if that’s OK – he’s only got what he’s standing up in. We already know he comes from a very wealthy family, so we can’t see any problems with this. In fact, we’re delighted to be of assistance. K goes off to make up the spare room. He also gets D to park the car a few streets away, unlocked, with the keys inside – then to ring the police, telling them where the car can be found. We don’t condone his actions, but we understand.

D is so relieved that we understand – most people would have condemned him outright by now. His whole recent history has been one of constant condemnation, in fact.

Why is that, you might ask? Well, there’s something else we already know about D. Just over a year ago, D was front page news. K has seen the clippings, in fact. His claim to fame? Well – he was the former rent boy whose scandalous allegations in a Sunday tabloid ended the political career of a Conservative MP.

These allegations were mostly to do with spanking, I seemed to recall. Now, this wasn’t the way D had expected the story to go: he had wanted to expose the MP’s connections with the far right, feeling that on these grounds alone, he wasn’t fit to hold office. But, well, he’d been naïve. The story that was printed centred exclusively on the sexual stuff. Tabloids, eh? In fact, you could say that D was as much a victim as the MP (though he did pocket 20 grand for telling the story – but then, he does come from a wealthy family, so that was neither here nor there, and certainly wasn’t his motivation – oh no).

So how wonderful it was that – unlike all those nasty, judgemental, knee-jerk reactionaries – we alone had taken the trouble to truly understand him. He could trust us. We alone could help him.

We were rather pleased with ourselves, and our exemplary non-judgemental liberalism. Plus, D could charm the hind legs off a donkey – and boy, were we charmed. He could light up a room just by entering it. He could have us roaring with laughter, as he presented the various tragedies of his life – the prostitution, the drug addiction, the suicide attempts – as black comedy. He told us about the autobiography he was planning to write: working title, “God I’m Coming”. The sexual addiction and the death wish, encapsulated in three words – brilliant. We laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

True to his word, D started ringing round, and fixing himself up with interviews for temporary work – mainly hotels and catering. We were impressed. On the Wednesday night, we went out for a drink, to show D the local gay scene. At closing time, D cajoled K into taking him to L’Amour, our one ropey, tatty club (I went home instead). After one drink there, K wanted to leave – D most certainly did not. Well, he had the spare keys – best let him get on with it.

Thursday breakfast – still no sign of D. Well, jolly good – he must have met someone for the night. Hey, he needed cheering up anyway. We went to work and thought no more of it. On his way to work, K noticed that the stolen car had finally been removed. Great!

That afternoon, K took a call from a rather embarrassed doctor at the hospital where he was working, with the same surname as his own.

“Sorry to bother you – but I’ve got Arnold police on the line. They’ve got a friend of yours in custody, and they’d like a word.”

That evening, once he’d been released from the cells, D told us the whole story. He’d met a couple of people at L’Amour. They weren’t sure what to do after the club. D was pissed (poor lamb, he just couldn’t break these patterns of self-destructive behaviour, could he?). D had a brainwave. He had a car – why didn’t they all go for a drive?

He took them back to the stolen car – door unlocked, keys still inside of course. The three of them got in, and off they sped into the night.

Somewhere on the outskirts of town, D’s beginner’s luck finally deserted him. He crashed the car into a brick wall. It was a write-off. They were all unharmed. His companions jumped out and fled into the night. D was left stumbling around the streets in the dark, completely lost.

A car pulled up. A window was wound down. “Where are you going at this time of night?” asked the driver. Mmm, not bad looking. Maybe D’s luck was in after all. He leant over and started to flirt.

Unfortunately, the driver was a plain clothes police officer, who quickly pieced the whole story together. Let’s see now: driving without a license, driving without insurance, driving without due care and attention, taking a vehicle without consent. Miraculously, there was no breathalyser test.

At the police station, D was asked whether he had a solicitor. “Yes,” he replied, grandly. “Sir David Napley.” Pause. “I don’t know why you’re all laughing – he’s awfully good, you know.”

On leaving the cells, D sweeps past the reception desk: “Marvellous party darlings – but next time, change your outside caterers.”

Or at least, so he tells us. And, roaring with laughter, we gladly believe him. Even now, after all that passed between us, I think what he told us was, give or take the odd embellishment, basically true. D wasn’t much given to downright lies. No – nothing so crass. He had other, more subtle weapons at his disposal.

A date is set for D’s trial, in about six weeks’ time. One of his bail conditions is that he stays at our address for the duration.

Time passes. D is attending the occasional interview, and taking the occasional job. He never seems to stay at a job for more than two or three days, though. Most of the time, he sits around at home while we’re out at work. He’s having to borrow a bit more money off us, as well. He’s over £100 in debt to K. Still, no matter, his mother will pay up soon, no doubt. He’s still wearing our “second division” clothes – we went through the wardrobe and allocated him a pile. Only the other day, he did come downstairs wearing my best trousers. I had a little word with him about that. He went a little cold on me. All of a sudden, the warm glow of his personality turned distinctly icy. I felt the chill. There was something menacing about it – some snide sounding comments were made, but nothing you could actually put your finger on.

D is living life at full throttle – long sessions in the pub, late nights, general mayhem. K is starting to do the same. He’s in the middle of writing up his doctorate, but he’s holding down a full time medical research job as well. He’s finding working life immensely stressful, and the reckless boozing feels like a safety valve for him. Only I’m not so sure. Not only is this is all beginning to alienate me, but I don’t feel it’s in K’s best interests either.

I try and voice my concerns, but it doesn’t come out very well. K is beginning to see me as a nag – a prissy, controlling prude who can’t let go and have fun. Part of his problem, not part of his solution. K and D are spending more time together, and the rift is growing between myself and D. What’s more, it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that D is creating, manipulating and exploiting the whole situation, with brilliant subtlety.

Divide and rule, you see. Basic survival.

Things deteriorate. K and I are getting increasingly short tempered with each other. A couple of our friends have joined K’s and D’s drinking gang, and their behaviour towards me is also getting chilly. Some of our other friends, appalled that we still have D under our roof, are having nothing to do with us. There is a memorable party where D more or less clears every room he walks into.

As the date of the trial approaches, D is spending more and more time away from the house. He has made a couple of other, newer friends, each of whom will go into tight huddles with him, throwing us suspicious looks. The sort of looks that say: I am the only person who really, truly understands poor, tragic, vulnerable D. Off my patch.

Paranoia, uncertainty, tension, suspicion, enmity all rule the roost. K and I are at a low ebb. We’re not communicating properly at all. There is a lost “binge” weekend. It’s a catalyst, bringing us both to our senses. We take the following Monday afternoon off work, and talk, and hug, and apologise, and begin to repair the damage done.

D is becoming more of a background figure now. Just before the trial, he absconds during the night, leaving a brief note of apology on the dining table, and emptying all the cash from our pockets. He is found by the police lying unconscious in a municipal park on the East coast, with an empty bottle of spirits by his side. He returns to his mother’s house in London. To cheer him up, she buys him a small painting for his room. It’s a Mark Chagall.

On the rescheduled trial date, D comes back to Nottingham. K attends the hearing; I stay away. Some of his other, newer Nottingham friends show up, glaring at each other outside the courtroom with that same suspicious, protective look. Meanwhile, D is in his best suit, smoking a crafty spliff in the corridor.

D’s family may not have hired Sir David Napley, but they’ve still hired a bloody good lawyer. A deeply contrite D looks like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He gets a fine and a suspended sentence, and returns to London. There’s one brief return visit to Nottingham, where he tries (and fails) to convince K that he’s a reformed character. After that, we never see him again. There’s a thank you letter – addressed to K only. He never repays the money he has borrowed and stolen.

The last we ever hear of him, he is reportedly seeing a well known gay pop singer. A few years later, Stephen Fry publishes his first novel, “The Liar”. There are some extraordinary biographical parallels between its central character and D’s own life (expelled from boarding school for similar reasons, turning to prostitution, various odd details). I wonder – I just wonder…

Some momentary excitement this afternoon in the form of a phone call from K. His admin assistant, Sue, is on the shortlist to be a contestant on Friday afternoon’s recording of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?, and she wants me to be one of her phone-a-friends. I get quite enthused about this. K and I will actually be in London for the day, looking at art (the Art 2002 fair in Islington, and the Nina Murdoch exhibition at The Blue Gallery), but I could always do it via his mobile.

However, there is only a 10% chance that Sue will be picked as a contestant. In order to qualify, all 100 contestants on the shortlist have to answer the same question. The 10 contestants with the nearest answer are selected.

The question Sue had to answer – on the phone, with no chance to do any research – was “How many top 10 singles has Shakin’ Stevens had?” I don’t know the answer myself, but I’d guess around nine.

So what answer did Sue give?

Seventy-five.

Something tells me my services will not be required.

Today's "40 Days" entry is a biggie, and it needs time. So it probably won't be here till late this evening. It will still be here by midnight though - rules is rules!

Chapters is a collaborative storytelling project on the web. To quote the site creator:

Each chapter is written by a different author, each in turn taking from the segments that have been written before, taking the story wherever their whim leads it, and then depositing it in the lap of the next scheduled author.

There are three concurrent stories on the site, and at the time of writing, each story has reached as far as Chapter 2.

Go here to read more about the site, or here to start reading the stories.

Link via Meg at not.so.soft, who is one of the contributors.

10 crap things which I like.

1. Julie Burchill
Refreshingly honest and bullshit-free, for a newpaper columnist at any rate. Entertaining when she's wrong (often), bang on the money when she's right (often enough).

2. Ian Van Dahl
Uplifting. Puts a smile on my face. Makes me "throw shapes" round the bedroom while getting ready for work.

3. Big Macs
A primal, animal-like sense of satisfaction. Consistent.

4. Eurovision
I like the music. In a non-ironic way. Has a strangely anachronistic sincerity to it.

5. Ewoks
Cute and cuddly. Aah!

6. Patterned socks from Next
Who wants boring black? A little flash of colour at the ankle is a groovy thing.

7. Pop Idol
Genuine talent struggles to overcome the odds in a harsh, vicious world.

8. Sara Cox
I have this belief that she really is like her radio persona, all the time. Cheers me up when I'm at my grumpiest.

9. Hamlets
As an ex-smoker, they are my methadone.

10. Going WOO! when the beat kicks back in
Adds to the excitement of the music, and creates an emormous sense of well-being. For me, if for no-one else around me.

Over on Scalloblog, a hilarious - and rather explicit - account of his recent visit to a rubber fetish club. There's something of an "innocent abroad" quality to it, which only adds to its appeal.

On the amazing I Love Music message board, a discussion thread has started on my erstwhile musical hero, Kevin Ayers. Which prompted me to make a debut contribution.

Some explanatory notes on the virtual tour below (see Monday January 14):

I wanted a pictorial representation of my home, but I didn't want to spend ages carefully preparing shots. After all, this is the age of the instantaneous, where even going back and revising previous weblog postings is seen as a bit, well, quaint. So, I devised the following methodology.

On returning home from the office, I turned on every (working) light in the house. I did no preparatory tidying up (well, maybe just a little bit here and there). I grabbed the digicam, and starting from the porch, walked right through the house, continually snapping. I left the display screen switched off, and didn't use the viewfinder - instead, I held the camera roughly at eye level, a few inches in front of me, and snapped randomly. The entire walk took about 5 minutes.

I downloaded all the images - 152 in all - and resized them all at 100 pixels high. No cropping. No deletion of "failed" shots - I kept every one, except shots 150 and 151. I then arranged them into a solid block: 1 to 5 on the first row, 6 to 10 on the second row, and so on up to 150. For the "highlights" on this page, I used 1, 11, 21, 31 on the first row, 41, 51, 61 and 71 on the second row, and so on up to 150.

I am extremely pleased with the results. They are an honest portrayal of the Nottingham house, and I think the overall aesthetic effect works really well. It was a complete experiment, but it worked. This weekend, I'll be doing something similar with the cottage.

Once again, the virtual tour is here.

Google image search is a source of endless fascination to me. No matter what word you search on, Google will valiantly try and find images to match it. But of course, Google isn't clever enough to examine the content of those images, to see whether they bear any true relation to the search term. As a result, the images returned can often have a wonderfully surreal, random quality.

Sometimes, the results will make me chuckle. For a while, if you needed to know what a homosexual looked like, Google would give you a picture of Michael Portillo. At the time of writing, it will still give you this picture of Jimmy Carter. Does Google know something we don't?



Other times, the results are impressively accurate. An image search on "troubled diva" will currently give you these images of poor Whitney and poor Mariah:



The clusters of images you see below are Google's attempts to illustrate the following groups:

1. The seven deadly sins: Pride, Envy, Anger, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, Lust.




Sloth was predictable, I guess. Lust is a bit "out there". Maybe that's a server's idea of a lust object.

2. The seven dwarves: Happy, Sneezy, Sleepy, Grumpy, Bashful, Dopey, Doc.




Here, I think Google has excelled itself.

3. The seven days of the week, from Monday to Sunday.




This is more surreal. Monday comes up as a commuter trudging to work - fair enough. Whereas on Tuesdays we "throw shapes", Wednesdays we make ourselves look beautiful, Thursdays we climb statues. What a carefee existence Google depicts for us here. Is this a Utopian vision of the leisured society of the future, as liberated by technology? Things get a little twee on Friday and Saturday. Sunday is spent in bed, naturally. Is that after shagging like bunny rabbits on Saturday night?

4. The seven members of S Club 7.




For this, I entered both first and last names into Google. Don't ask me what the names were - even with my enormous capacity for pop trivia, that's something I've never felt the need to commit to memory. I do remember that Hannah was difficult though: in a rare show of accuracy, all the images returned by Google actually were of Hannah. Except one, which said "Bugsy Malone" instead. Go figure.

You think I'm weird, don't you?

The 40 in 40 Days Project.
8. The First Gay Club (1982)

There’s nothing more boring than yet another “coming out” story, right? Except maybe the dreaded “my coming out diary” section of gay homepages. You know the sort of thing - where every detail of the writer’s “fabulous” new lifestyle is breathlessly detailed:

Friday: Minnelli’s bar again, with Bruce, Ricky, Camp Mark, Butch Mark and Miss Glitzy (she’s a scream!!!) First chance to wear my fab new sleeveless top. Everyone said how fab it looked. If Mario the cute new barman (swoon!) is reading this, mine’s a double Absolut and Red Bull on the rocks, sweedie!!!

N.B. For a hysterically funny, horribly accurate parody of this sort of thing, go here.

So don’t worry, we’re not going there. Well OK, maybe just a quick visit then. Just long enough for me to take you down to Whispers Club in Nottingham, the first gay venue I ever visited.

Some background. For the past year, I’d steadily been coming out to close friends at university. This invariably involved a tense, hushed one-to-one confessional session, usually late at night. The conversation always ended with the same earnest request: “You won’t tell anyone, will you?” It was important that I knew exactly who knew, you see. I even used to keep a list: a crumpled piece of file paper, grandly headed “Those Who Know”.

My Great Plan, if you could call it that, was that one of these friends might just know somebody, who might just know somebody else, who might just be gay. Then some sort of introduction could be arranged (discreetly of course), and then we’d fall in love (obviously), and then that would be that. That way, there would be no need to go to one of those scary gay places full of scary, proper, gay people. Ugh, dear me, no. Anything but that. You see, I was attracted to men, but I wasn’t like all those gay people, thank you very much. Absolutely not. Of course, I’d never actually been to a gay venue and I’d never met a gay person, but then I didn’t need to. I knew just what they’d be like. Sleazy. Freaky. Weird. Ridiculous. Obsessed with sex. Dangerous, even.

As Great Plans go, there were clearly some massive flaws in this one. The biggest one being that I was still single and still not meeting anybody. My friend Tim therefore decided that I needed to visit a gay club. I resisted – he persisted. We would go to a film on Friday night (alibi, you see – no awkward questions asked), then we would go to Whispers (he’d bravely been doing some reading up on my behalf).

We turn down a deserted side street, well away from the usual city centre pubs (thank God). We find a locked door, with a little spyhole, and ring a bell. A friendly looking man in a frilly shirt and velvet dickie bow answers the door. Is this Whispers, please? Yes, it is. In we go.

Another man is sitting at a cash desk. Could we sign the vistor’s book, please? Yes, of course. Oh God, they want my name and address. We sign, pay and go through the door into the main bar. Just as we’re going through the door, we hear the two men commenting on us. Just one word, and an assenting grunt.

“Straights.”

The room is a symphony in red flock and crushed velour. Even in 1982, it looks dated. There aren’t many in. Oh God, these people are all gay. We go up to the bar to get a drink. There is some queeny banter going on around us. Someone is trying to mount one of the bar stools. “Ooh, I’m having to strain me muscles.” “Nothing new there, dear.” Oh God, so they really are all camp then. I knew it! I knew it! What am I doing here?

There are a few men sitting at tables on their own, nursing drinks, staring into the middle distance. Away from the bar, almost no-one is talking. They all look so lonely, so miserable. Oh God, so being gay really is lonely and miserable then. I knew it! I knew it! What am I doing here?

We go downstairs into the disco area. They are playing chart pop: ABC, Human League, Imagination. There aren’t many in. We sit and watch. I feel numb with the surrealism of it all. OK, let me look round. Is there anyone here I could fall in love with? No, nobody. They’re all ugly. Freaky. Weird. Faintly ridiculous. Probably obsessed with sex (though I’m not so sure about that now – it does all seem quite tame). Tim and I manage a quick dance, another drink. Tim says he thinks it’s all quite sweet – look at those two jiving with each other. And I suppose it is quite sweet, but what good is this place to me? I’ll never come here again. I’ll never go to a gay venue again. What now?

What we didn’t realise at the time (and not for months afterwards) was that Nottingham had a second, newer, larger gay club – La Chic Part Two – which had only just opened. It was one of the biggest gay clubs in the country, and an immediate, enormous success. Everyone who was anyone was going there, and no-one, but no-one darling, was still bothering with shabby old Whispers.

Another six months of self-pitying celibacy followed. Then, everything changed.

In the interests of originality, I've re-worked the "other blogs" sidebar.
We are fam-i-lee! I've got all my bloggers with me!

Take a virtual tour of my bijou residence. Here's a sample:

The 40 Days Project comes with its own emotional cycle. Mornings, I stress up about the next entry. Afternoons (usually) I write them. Evenings, I bask in the warm glow of achievement.

Yesterday's entry (The Queeny Put-Down) was so draining to write that afterwards, K suggested a short walk round the village in order to clear my head. We ended up leaving the village entirely and trying a new, hopefully circular, route through the open countryside. It was tipping down with rain, the light was fading fast, the mist was rising, and we weren't exactly sure where we were. The walk ended up taking well over an hour to complete, and it was dark by the time we got back to the cottage, drenched, exhilarated, utterly happy. Warmth, dryness, clean clothes, tea, fruit cake and our respective Harry Potter books. Just how Sunday evenings should be.

Mine, as you now know, was "Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep" by Middle Of The Road. What was your first single? An acknowledged classic? An embarrassing piece of throwaway fluff? Leave a comment and tell me.

The 40 in 40 Days Project.
7. The First Hissy Fit (1964)

I only have my parents’ word on this, but it has the ring of truth about it.

My sister has just been born. Aged two, I am already a precocious child, with a fondness for the poetry of A.A. Milne. My favourite of his poems goes like this:Clearly enchanted by my early love of poetry, my parents decide it would be a lovely idea to christen my sister Mary Jane. Understandably, this is not a name of which she is particularly fond, shall we say. OK – she hates it. It is shortened it to Mary as soon as she is old enough to have her opinions taken seriously.

She returns from the hospital. A great fuss is being made over her. Friends and relations are pouring round to ooh and aah. I am used to being the centre of attention round these parts, and I do not like it. I do not like it one little bit. Something has to be done.

So I decide to chuck myself down the stairs. That will get their attention back. Now, they’ll all come crowding round me again! Me, I tell you! MEEE!

This is my first recorded instance of drama queen tendencies. But not the last. Oh no.

The 40 in 40 Days Project.
6. The Queeny Put-Down (1999)

1999 was unquestionably the annus horribilis of my adult life.

In the Spring, my stepmother Sally died suddenly and unexpectedly, bringing the toll of deaths in the family to seven in less than seven years, and necessitating the sale of the house I had grown up in. For some reason, there seemed to be a particular finality attached to this latest bereavement. It somehow brought all the previous losses back into focus, and the cumulative effect hit me hard.

The week after her funeral, I started a new job. I had been with Nottinghamshire County Council for over twelve years, and had inevitably become institutionalised within its gently decaying structures. I was not emotionally ready for the cultural jolt of joining the private sector and having to prove myself in a new environment. Furthermore, the job I had been offered bore scant resemblance to the job I ended up doing. I had been hired on the strength of technical skills which, on the first day, I discovered were no longer required. Instead, I found myself struggling with antiquated, cumbersome technology, in a senior technical role but with none of the requisite background knowledge. My confidence was low, my spirit was weak and my attitude was all wrong. There were times in those first few months where I would find myself suddenly leaving my desk, shutting myself in the toilets, staring at the wall and trying to calm myself down, desperately trying not to let the cracks become visible.

Meanwhile, K was having immense difficulties in his own work. He had started his own small company in 1996, and was now embroiled in a complex situation over funding. What should have been a simple operation was dragging out over many months, and the outcome was critical to the future of the company. At work, he presented a calm, capable, professional exterior. At home, the stresses were becoming ever more visible. Neither of us had the resources to support each other. The atmosphere could be tense.

Paranoia began to set in. With family ties historically weak, I had always placed a high value on friendships, and set great store by the strength of our social circle. Where were these so-called friends when we needed them? Couldn’t they see what was going on? Were they in fact only there for the good times, quick to abandon us during the bad? In truth, we were the ones who were cutting ourselves off. We were also too good at maintaining the usual façade of cheerful bonhomie, on the occasions where we did see them. No-one could have guessed.

On top of all this, I was in the throes of a classic, text book perfect, mid-life crisis. I had been papering over the cracks with fevered hedonism for too long now, and the hedonism had started to acquire a desperate edge. I couldn’t fool myself for much longer. I felt utterly lost.

Little were we to know that 2000 was to be our annus mirabilis. The funding got sorted, and K sold the company for a substantial amount, allowing us to buy a weekend cottage in rural Derbyshire. Priorities started shifting radically. Our respective values, needs and interests re-converged, joyfully. I started enjoying the new job. OK, the work itself was still shit, but the people I worked with were just great, bringing qualities out in me which had lain dormant for too long.

But none of this is really what I wanted to tell you about at all. I wanted to tell you about the queeny put-down.

One night at the very end of 1999, I was queuing to get into NG1, when I heard a gobby young queen behind me.

“I don’t know what you’re fookin doing, queuing to get in here. You’re far too fookin old for this place!”

I turned to face him, an amused eyebrow arched. His friends looked aghast and tried to defend me.

“Shurrup, yer great twat! He’s looking really good…for his age.”

Six months earlier, this could have destroyed me. Now, I just laughed and laughed.

I've expanded and slightly restructured the "40 Days: The First Single" posting below.

Oh, and while I'm here - Rosie Ribbons - STRIKE ONE!