Wordless Wednesday – No words, just pictures. Allow your photo(s) to tell the story.
Olympics Games – London 2012 – Closing Ceremony
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Wordless Wednesday – No words, just pictures. Allow your photo(s) to tell the story.
London 2012 opening ceremony
Not sure what Wordless Wednesday is or how to participate? Click here for full details.
Are you participating in Wordless Wednesday? Although I am not hosting this challenge, you can leave a link or pingback to your post in the comments section to help promote it to other bloggers.
To help those with eyesight-impaired vision, please remember to complete a description of your photo in the ‘alt-text’ and description boxes of the picture in the WordPress media library. For more details, check my post, Adding Images Or Photos To Your Blog Posts? 4 Essential Things To Do.’
If you want to know more about the photo featured on this post, ask me in the comments section.
That was the first question I was asked at my first-ever interview for a full-time job.
“And what about girlfriends? How many do you have?”
That second question was just as easy to answer as the first. Yes, I had lots of girlfriends, but probably not in the way my future handsome boss was asking.
But worse was to come.
True stories about life as a gay man.
Two weeks later, I started my job as an office junior and settled in quickly, but I had to hide the fact that I was gay.
I did everything I could to stay in the closet. I had to make sure nobody suspected. I even made jokes about rugby balls being bent to the office manager, a strange-looking man who was years ahead of being one of the professors from Harry Potter. I felt ashamed of myself, but it was something I thought I had to do to protect who I was.
But, worse still, I made these jokes in front of a colleague who everyone in the office (apart from me at the time) suspected was gay. Nobody wanted to mention the elephant in the room.
At first, I didn’t realise Paul was gay even though he spoke about Kenny a lot. One day, he took a telephone call from Kenny; the secretary opposite looked at me and made a limp wrist impression while pointing her eyes towards Paul. I was made to feel very uncomfortable.
But it wasn’t until I witnessed the first injuries Kenny inflicted on him that I knew for certain that Paul was gay. I’d overheard other telephone calls from Kenny that sometimes seemed affectionate and other times abusive and threatening. But I continued to believe they were simply housemates. However, as the injuries mounted, I had my suspicions.
Although Paul would come into work with injuries such as a black eye, nobody asked any questions. However, the staff would give each other strange looks. I was desperate to ask Paul (or anyone else) about his injuries and violent boyfriend, but a strange atmosphere in the office whenever Paul came in injured kept my mouth firmly shut. It was as if the whole office were ashamed to talk about it. Nobody cared about him.
I’d witnessed men being violent towards their wives and girlfriends before, but never seen a man being the victim of domestic violence by another man. This and my work colleagues being ashamed to talk about Paul’s life outside of the office made me sad.
But, shortly after, when I overheard my handsome boss on a telephone call saying that he was sacking Paul, not because of all the off-putting injuries he couldn’t allow clients to see but because Paul was a homosexual (but said in a degrading way), I knew my whole life could be blown apart if anyone suspected I was gay. After all, not even my family knew.
The following day, Paul failed to turn up for work, and my boss informed us that he’d sacked Paul for breaking company policy.
‘Policy? What policy?’ I wanted to ask. Was nobody else going to ask? Nobody did, and it had me wondering if one of the company policies was that no employee could be gay.
Gone were the chances of speaking to somebody else about the terrible life I thought I led by believing that I would always be lonely and never have anybody to talk to about who I really was. But my life was nowhere near as terrible as Paul’s.
A week later, I handed my notice in.
September 1986
My fourth full-time job was my second venture in retail, but it differed from the first. Instead of working in a small shop with only four other staff (including me), I worked in a large department store, one of London’s biggest.
On my first day, I immediately felt at home. Even the three straight guys I was working with in the typewriter department welcomed me with open arms when I announced my name, followed by telling them that I was gay.
“Oh, we already know that,” they announced, “and it doesn’t matter to us. Why should it? You’re amongst friends here.”
I felt like I’d left prison and was free again.
But I felt even more welcomed on my morning break that first day. Sitting down and pouring myself a cup of tea from a bright red plastic teapot, I felt like I was sitting on a throne as staff came over to introduce themselves.
From guys who I’d never have guessed were gay and who would have looked better working on a construction site to flamboyant guys who could have been the twin of Mr Humphreys from the TV comedy, ‘Are You Being Served?‘ all introduced themselves and cracked jokes about each other resulting in lots of laughter. They even put their arms around my shoulders, hugged me or shook my hand. What a welcome this was. Far different to previous jobs.
“You looked rather overwhelmed,” said Robert, who decided he was taking me under his wing. During that 30-minute break, I must have made over 20 new gay friends, more than I’d made in my entire life.
And on that first evening, after the store closed, I was whisked away to a gay bar, a stone’s throw from the store, where all who had introduced themselves to me that morning were enjoying drinks and having a great time.
For the next three years, I enjoyed every day of that job. Never once did I fear somebody finding out I was gay. I could be who I was. I made even more friends and had the time of my life. So why, then, did I feel the need for a change?
November 1989
Back to the world of office jobs, my next job meant more money and the vital fact that I no longer had to work every Saturday. That meant I could go nightclubbing on a Friday night and not worry about getting up for work the following morning.
But from the moment I sat at my desk that first morning, I was whizzed back to my first job in 1978.
For the next ten years, I once again found myself hiding the fact I was gay from all my work colleagues because none of them ever mentioned anything about gay life. But why should they? Although I was living in London, probably the safest place to live in the UK as a gay person, some of the staff seemed somewhat too conservative for me to declare I was gay. Some of them would have keeled over or had to go for a lie down in a quiet room for the afternoon if I’d told them. That’s how they seemed.
Even the primarily young women who worked at the front reception desk and switchboard, whom I’d grown very friendly with, believed I was a jilted bridegroom (I’d found out later), so I never mentioned any girlfriends to them.
It wasn’t until 2001, after winning an online competition and taking my work colleagues out for a lunchtime drink to celebrate, that one of my colleagues looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “Can I ask you a personal question?” She said this in front of the whole team, and I knew what was coming, yet I felt unprepared for it.
“Umm, yes.” I hesitated.
“Are you gay?”
The bar floor opened for a split second and swallowed me while I thought about how to respond.
I had visions of my first boss and that conversation I’d overheard him have in 1978. But this time, I was in London, not in the same place I was in 1978, where I believed nobody else was gay.
“Of course I am,” finally came my reply.
“I thought so. I told you all Hugh was gay,” she announced to the team. “You owe me £25, Adam.”
What shocked me more than the fact that Stacey had bet money on me being gay was how life carried on as if nothing had just happened after I’d answered her question. Even though I’d just come out to the whole department, they continued enjoying the drinks my prize money was buying. I wondered if I’d wasted the previous 11 years not coming out of the closet.
Six years later, all of my department wished me well as I left work the day before my partner and I had our civil partnership. They’d even held a ‘Hentag’ (stag and hen combined) party for me and sent me on my way with cards and gifts for my partner and me.
Notes from the author.
If you’ve heard the saying ‘sign of the times,’ this post covers three time periods in my working life where society’s views towards homosexuality were different. It also depended on where you lived and worked at the time. What happened to me in my first full-time job was unpleasant, yet I’ve since come to accept it as it was during that time.
Fast forward to 1986, and although times and society had changed, I had learned that you had to live and work in a particular place to feel safe as the person you were.
Although things should have been better in the job I started in 1989 and continued throughout the 1990s, I believe the scars of the late 1970s stayed with me during that time.
Today, I look back and have no problem about wanting to have protected myself from much of a society that saw being gay as a threat even though they laughed and enjoyed TV appearances of gay people such as John Inman, Larry Grayson and other gay actors and entertainers of their time.
Today, nobody should be afraid of telling their employer or work colleagues they are gay, yet in some areas, such as premiership football, gay people still feel it unsafe to come out of the closet.
One day, I hope that everybody will be welcomed as who they are and not what they are when they start a new job.
Next month: – Family. Coming out to my family was something I feared more than anything else. And while I had good reasons to be afraid, some surprises were in store for me.
‘I’ve grown wary of men over the last few weeks since that awful evening when Stephen told me he had got back with David. I still remember that smirk on David’s face as they held hands after announcing the news. It was that kind of smirk that I wanted to wipe off his face. How I resisted not punching him that evening, I’ve no idea.
True Stories about living as a gay man.
My love life continues to cause me problems today when I bumped into Stephen again, and he asked, ‘Would I see him again?’ after telling me he’d made a dreadful mistake returning to David.
To say I was somewhat taken aback is an understatement. I was gobsmacked and didn’t know what to say. Ultimately, I asked if I could have some time to think about it. He’s handsome, but the fact that he went back to his partner over me rings alarm bells.
But worse was to come when Bob walked into Bromptons* tonight. Butterflies immediately started fluttering around my stomach.
Bob was with the guy I’d been hearing about. I’d heard rumours weeks ago that he was seeing somebody but didn’t believe them. Now I know that all I wanted was ‘NOT’ to believe them.
I don’t know who he is, but he looked miserable with Bob like he didn’t want any attention from him or, for that matter, anybody else in the bar.
So, here I sit tonight writing this entry, knowing that Stephen and I both seem to be heading for unhappiness. Stephen, because I’d be a fool going back with him (wouldn’t I?), and me? Because Bob completely ignored me. It’s as if the relationship we once had never happened. I still do not know why he ended what we had.’
*Bromptons was a gay bar in Earl’s Court, London.
Notes from the author.
That was the last entry in my diary from 1989. It was as if my life ended that day. But, of course, it didn’t. I simply stopped keeping a diary after that day, but I don’t know why.
As a very close friend from the time of this final diary entry once said to me – ‘There is no such thing as an ending. It’s just the point where we leave the story.’
After reading this entry, I’m still determining who Stephen is. I can’t remember him, but he obviously made an impression on me in the late 1980s.
Nor can I remember who the guy was with Bob.
However, I still remember Bob, what he looked like, how he talked, how he smiled, what he did for a living, and the address he was living at the time. I still remember what he wore the last time I saw him, what happened on our first date, and the first time our eyes met.
People enter and leave our lives daily. Some travel with us for a long time, whereas others swiftly cross our paths, never to be seen again. Do those who stay around and engage with us and who impact our lives do so for a reason? Do they protect us, warn us, guide us? Or do they enter our lives to put a stop to something?
Even though some people take us on journies to Hell and back when they enter our lives, those journies are probably life lessons that we should never forget. Unfortunately, we do because we end up making the same mistakes.
Fast forward to today, reading the diary entry took me back to my days as a young gay man living and working in London. What scares me more than anything is that I referred to Stephen going back to his partner as ‘alarm bells.’ Whereas I didn’t seem to think that alarm bells accompaned me when I started dating somebody who was already attached. Now I wonder how many people who entered my life back then heard those alarm bells.
At the time, London seemed like the safest place to live in the UK for a gay man. I felt a protective wall built around it kept us all safe. It was like a big comfort blanket. That’s why, in 1986, I chose to go and live there. But it wasn’t always safe. Nor was it always comfortable and protective.
Next month: – Jobs. Some jobs were easy – you could be yourself. But other jobs came with a warning if you were different.
Have you ever had one of those life experiences that renders you utterly speechless? Read on and let me know if anything I’m about to tell you leaves you as astonished as it did when it happened to me.
Pride Month: First Date
Picture it – Earl’s Court, London, 1988, the height of the summer, and me working as a part-time barman in one of the coolest gay bars in the city.
In the bar, the biggest catch in town. And it seemed he had his eyes on me. He’d been showing some interest in me for weeks, or so I thought.
Sometimes, when I caught him looking at me, I’d blush so much that my face resembled a sun-dried tomato. At the same time, my heart would skip a few beats while the butterflies in my stomach felt like they were rioting.
Neville, my best friend, made a bet with me that if ‘catch’ (as we’d nicknamed him) asked me out on a date, he’d do all my washing for the rest of the year. How could I decline a bet like that?
At six-foot-tall, mid-thirties, with a stocky build, short dark hair, moustache, piercing brown eyes, and always wearing the tightest of Levi 501 jeans, it wasn’t my washing that needed a cold wash. It was me!
He was what I called a ‘man’s man’, and nobody would have ever guessed that he was gay had they seen him walking down the street or standing on the terraces at Stamford Bridge.
Nobody knew much about him. Not even his name.
He always stood on his own, and nobody ever approached him. He ordered one drink that lasted the whole evening and always left the bar on his own.
I didn’t want to make the first move. I hated rejection, but the prospect of having my washing done for the rest of the year was tempting.
The other barmen had noticed that ‘Catch’ was giving me a little too much attention. Make the first move, they told me, but I couldn’t.
Then, in the early hours of an unusually warm and humid Sunday morning, having just finished my shift, I left the bar and started to make the short trip home.
“Hi” came a deep voice from behind me. “I’ve been watching you for weeks and wondered if you fancied coming back to my place for a coffee?”
As I span around, the butterflies in my stomach rioted again as my eyes were met by ‘Catch’ smiling at me. For some reason, it took what seemed like ages for me to accept his invitation.
Jumping into a taxi with him, I felt as if I was floating on cloud nine. We sat silent like two lovebirds, just looking into each others eyes.
As soon we reached his apartment, I’d hardly given ‘Catch’ time to close the front door before grabbing him and forcing him to do some tongue dancing with me.
What happened after the tongue dancing didn’t seem to last long, but neither of us seemed to care very much. There was still time for rounds two, three and four.
I had the feeling that he was the one and that we’d be doing lots more of what had just happened, only at a much slower pace.
“Would you like a beer, Peachy?” were his first words to me since we got to his apartment. Peachy? Was he talking to me? Well, that’s another story, but the cold beers helped cool us down while we continued to look into each others eyes.
After rounds two and three, we were both exhausted, and he asked if I wanted to stay the rest of the night.
As much as I wanted to stay, I had to get home because I couldn’t wait to see Neville and tell him what had happened.
While quickly freshening myself up, ‘Catch’ made us some coffee.
Grabbing my clothes and walking to the kitchen (because I didn’t want to miss another second of being with him), I realised I still didn’t know ‘Catch’s’ real name. Should I ask, or should I wait until he asked me for mine? After all, he couldn’t know me as ‘Peachy’ when we went on our first proper date.
Having convinced myself that it wasn’t me doing the chasing in this relationship, I decided to wait until he introduced himself to me.
While the coffee went cold, our tongues had another long dance.
“Would you like to make this a regular thing?” ‘Catch’ asked me, as he came up for some air.
I had a fleeting vision of Neville doing my washing, so didn’t take long to respond.
“What? You bet!”
“Good, I was hoping you’d say that.”
After a little more tongue dancing, it was time for us to part and ‘Catch’ escorted me to the front door.
However, suddenly stoping, ‘Catch’ told me to wait, and off he wandered (while muttering something about having forgotten something). I watched as the man of my dreams disappeared back into the bedroom. Surly not round five, I thought.
With my heart playing the drums in my chest, I was positive I could feel those first dewdrops of love welling up inside of me. He was probably writing down his phone number for me.
Then it all started to go wrong. Very wrong!
I couldn’t take my eyes off ‘Catch’ as he walked towards me. “Here you go,” he said, thrusting a wad of ten-pound notes into my hand. “You forgot to ask for your fee. I’ve deducted a little for the beer and coffee you had.”
Shocked, my jaw hit the floor, and for the first time in my life, I was speechless; completely speechless! And, before you ask, no, not because he’d made a deduction for beer and coffee.
‘Catch’ had mistaken me for a rent-boy.
Still openmouthed and unable to speak, I walked out, turned around and, as ‘Catch’ closed the front door, heard him say he’d recommend me to anyone looking for the same kind of fun.
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“They all have moustaches, wear 501s and are called Clones.”
Those were my words to my best friend, Neville, upon my first visit to Earl’s Court, London, back in the mid-1980s.
I was like a kid in a sweet shop. Just about every man in the place had a moustache, and I was big into facial hair.
Gay life in London during the 1980s
Back then, there were five gay bars in Earl’s Court. It was the centre of the universe for any gay man visiting London.
It was easy to get to Earl’s Court, via public transport, and I always felt safe there. It was as if the district had a safety bubble around it.
No surprise then that I moved into a two-bedroom flat in Earl’s Court shortly after arriving to live in London in 1986.
The most famous gay bar in Earl’s Court was called ‘The Coleherne.’ These days, it’s a trendy restaurant come wine bar which I believe serves some smashing food.
The Coleherne – now known as The Pembroke
I spent lots of time in ‘The Coleherne.’ At the time, pubs had to close their doors between 3 and 5:30pm (2 and 7pm on a Sunday). ‘The Coleherne’ was always packed out during the final hour of drinking time.
It had a jukebox in the corner that played all the latest hits as well as many ‘Hi-NRG’ (Pronounced High Energy) tunes which was a new type of music adopted by many gay men.
Evelyn Thomas – Singing some Hi-NRG music
Neville was into the same types of men who drunk in “The Coleherne’ as me. So you’d often find us in there.
There was a strict rule about going into ‘The Coleherne.’ Those wearing leather, such as a bikers’ jacket, waistcoat, or chaps, had their own side-door entrance.
Everybody else had to use the other door on the main street. If you went through what Neville and I called ‘the leather door’ you’d end up on the leather side of the bar.
The leather guys would glare at you if your attire included no leather, and they would continue to glare at you until you made your way to the non-leather side of the bar.
Scary stuff for first-time visitors or anybody who entered the pub by mistake.
What made Neville and me laugh was that some of the leather guys often arrived carrying a motorcycle helmet under their arm. You may ask, ‘what’s so funny about that?’
Well, they’d place the motorcycle helmet on the top shelf above the bar, order their drink, and then stand around looking as butch as possible.
Then, at closing time, Neville and I would watch as they made their way to the bus-stop, with motorcycle helmets under their arms. For some, carrying a motorcycle helmet seemed to be the must-have, new fashion accessory when dressed in leather.
Although ‘The Coleherne’ was probably the most shabby of all the five gay bars in Earl’s Court, it was always busy.
Just down the road, at one end of the street, was ‘The Boltons.’ This was a strict ‘no-no’ bar for Neville and I because it was known for its rent boys.
At the other end of the street was ‘Bromptons’ bar. This was the place Neville and me nicknamed ‘Clone City’ because just about every man who entered had facial hair.
‘Bromptons’ opened at 10pm and closed at 2am. On a Sunday, it opened earlier but closed at midnight. It was a 30-second walk from where I lived, so it was very convenient.
Friendlier than ‘The Coleherne,’ for those who’d never visited before, ‘Bromptons’ had a small dance floor and a kiosk that sold all the latest Hi-NRG 12-inch vinyl singles.
In those days, gay men only purchased 12-inch vinyl singles, unlike most of the rest of the population that bought the 7-inch vinyl version.
A gay anthem from the 1980s
There was the odd splattering of leather amongst the crowd, but most were dressed in check shirts, 501 Jeans and Doc-Marten boots.
Just about everyone ordered and drunk bottles of lager, rather than pints. If you arrived early, you could compare your check shirts and see if any of them clashed severely with the chequered carpet and wallpaper of the bar.
Arriving early also meant free entry into the bar. After 11pm there was a small entry fee charged, so many would flock in at 22:55.
The Barmen at ‘Bromptons’ were often hand-picked by the owner. “Have good looking bar staff, and you’ll pack the place out every night,” he once told me. And he was right!
Gay London barman of the 1980s.
The place was a magnet for clones who seemed to need little sleep despite having full-time jobs, many of which required an early morning start.
The other two bars at the opposite end of Earl’s Court were located next door to each other.
One was a bar called ‘Harpoon Louis,’ which hosted cabaret most nights.
The likes of Lily Savage (aka Paul O’Grady) started out here, and it was always a great place to go for a laugh.
‘Cruising’, as Gay men called it (better known as looking for a partner for the night), did go on. In contrast, in the other bars, cruising was very serious, and you dare not laugh when trying to pick up your date for the night. In ‘Harpoon Louis,’ it didn’t seem to matter as much.
‘Copacabana’ was next door to Harpoon Louis and was the main gay nightclub of the area. It was convenient to fall into when coming out of ‘Harpoon Louis.’
‘Copacabana’ (also known as ‘Copa’s’) was the biggest of all the bars in Earl’s Court and had a large dance floor. It was the place to hear the latest Hi-NRG tunes, dance, drink and check out the men.
Some famous faces often frequented the place, but being ‘gay men,’ the clientele often dare not approach them.
During the 1980s, gay men adopted a ‘hanky’ code. You’d place a particular coloured handkerchief in either the left or right back pocket of your 501 jeans. This told other gay men what kind of sexual fun you were into.
Rather than the ‘hanky’ code, Neville and I adopted the ‘teddy bear’ code. This involved the placing of a small teddy bear in the back pocket. This told others if you enjoyed giving or receiving cuddles.
Today, Earl’s Court is no longer the centre of the universe for gay men. Its crown was lost to Soho and Vauxhall during the late 1990s, although the gay scene in London now seems to be more spread out.
Had we arrived for the first time today, Neville and I would not have liked Earls Court as much. However, it holds lots of happy memories not just for us, but for many from the LGBT crowd.
Sadly, Neville passed away in the mid-1990s. However, the fun and laughter we shared together during the days and nights of Earl’s Court in the 1980s can still be heard in its bars and streets.
This post was originally written and published as a guest post in April 2016 on TanGental. It has been updated for this version.
Click here to read another post from my Pride Month series which tells the story of a first date that went horribly wrong.
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