I have always found most gay men love to hear about other peoples sex lifes. I am no exception. I love salacious gossip and penile details. Shallow but true. However when its your own sexual encounters that become the talk of the town its often disturbing and humiliating. Especially if the font of knowledge comes from a close friend who has ignored his promise of secrecy to you and told everyone and his dog your personal misdemeanours !
I have recently been on a rather disastrous sexual "run". There is no fool like an old fool and i have graduated from the university of complete and utter idiots of late. Every decision i have made has been disastrous and sadly ridiculous and rather than continue having to listen to the sly jabs of my "friends" and the open hilarity of my aquaintances i thought i may aswell give the whole town a good laugh, so here you go.
My first mistake was deciding on a trip to Chariots on my day off. You really wouldnt recognise me without my makeup and wardrobe , other than my tattoo , so perhaps if your a sauna goer we may "know" each other better than you think ! I really dont know why i bothered on this day however. I looked a mess after 4 nights working and partying and didnt even feel particularly sexual. Maybe it was boredom or the need to escape totally from "Dusty O" and everything about that creation and return to being David Hodge that pushed me on but to get to the jist of the story  i ended up in a cabin with a man who i didnt fancy at all , and whose only interest seemed to be to have another mans penis in his bottom. Lazy and slightly desperate. I wanted to get out to be honest but manners overcame me and i obliged him. BIG mistake ! What kind of dirty sod goes to a sauna to get done up the wrong un without a douche or at least a wash ? What happened was one of the most disgusting things that has ever happened to me. I wont bore you with too much detail but imagine a volcano erupting on your penis but it not being larva ! Utterly vile. I have a body response to such occurances. Its called vomitting. Which is what i did. This of course added to the smell of the occassion but not to my dignity. I ran for the hills or more precisely the showers and am never going back to that place again. I can laugh now but at the time i was in shock !
My next faux pas was with a rather cute but obviously innapropriate 21 year old on Pride night. I had been up since 7 and had had 3 hours sleep the night before so after a very long day i was pretty much emotionally and physically battered. I was a sitting duck for a kid with a point to make. I am not a sexual predator. The opposite infact. So when a cute twink snogs the face off you and begs you to take them home you would usually jump at the chance. However for me its not that simple. What you see is NOT what you get. Its a carefully crafted illusion. Reality is somehwat less interesting or attractive.My alarm bells should have rang but they didnt. So when half way through the act i was told "i really want to get to know you, lets leave all this" i became rather upset and felt extremely rejected. Luckily my house guests arrived home at that moment and i had the guts to sling the kid out and tell him where he could take his offer of "friendship". NOT good for ones self esteem however and a situation i would never ususally put myself in. Lesson leearned Dusty O !
Lastly there was the incident with the cab driver. This was definately a drink related type of a thang and one i only have a patchy recollection of. After a long photo session and an even longer , very drink infused, evening at Trannyshack i stumbled into a mini cab to get home. The driver was, to be honest, hideous. Greasy and extremely unattractive and probably originating in a country you cant pronounce the name of. He told me several times what a "pretty lady" i was on the drive home. Yeah right ! After 25 gin/dubonnets though i tend to believe things like that. When we got to my place i duly paid the extortionate £20 he demanded and got out of the car. The ever so helpfull driver then carried my record box down to the basement of my flat and invited himself in ! I did know i didnt like him but was on my own and didnt know how to get him out. It was quite frightening. He the proceeded to strip completely naked and stand in the middle of my living room  telling ME i was "very lucky" !
Pride and sense kicked in here and i managed to get myself together enough to tell him to leave instantly as my boyfriend (imagined) was asleep in the other room and would not be at all happy. The grumbling driver dressed and departed leaving me as a souvenir a pair of white y fronts with 2 dots , one brown and one green !
So , there you have it. 3 ridiculous incidents in 3 weeks . NOT good really. My friends have dined out on those storys. Half of London seems to know them already so now the other half can have a laugh. On me folks ! I have however , taken a good long look at myself as a result of them and will not make those particular mistakes again. Like i said before , there is no fool like an old fool !

Goodbye to my England, So long my old friend
Your days are numbered, being brought to an end
To be Scottish, Irish or Welsh that's fine
But don't say you're English, that's way out of line.
A
The French and the Germans may call themselves such
So may Norwegians, the Swedes and the Dutch
You can say you are Russian or maybe a Dane
But don't say you're English ever again.

At Broadcasting House the word is taboo
In Brussels it's scrapped, in Parliament too
Even schools are affected, staff do as they're told
They must not teach children about England of old.

Writers like Shakespeare, Milton and Shaw
The pupils don't learn about them anymore
How about Agincourt, Hastings, Arnhem or Mons ?
When England lost hosts of her very brave sons.

We are not Europeans, how can we be?
Europe is miles away over the sea
We're the English from England, let's all be proud
Stand up and be counted - Shout it out loud !

Let's tell our Government and Brussels too
We're proud of our heritage and the Red, White and Blue
Fly the flag of Saint George or the Union Jack
Let the world know - WE WANT OUR ENGLAND BACK !

"I forget how mant bad dates i have had over the years. My boredom threshold is fairly low so even if the fella looks like Brad Pitt , if he cant hold a decent conversation he tends to get eliminated from my long term husband plans. Since the advent of the internet people seem to have lost the ability to actually TALK face to face. Saying that i strongly believe that on a date there are certains topics best left unsaid, or at least kept to a minimum in conversation.Here is my top ten of things NOT to talk about on that all important first date !
1)Dont talk about yourself all night ! If your the type of person who finds themself totally fascinating and who starts every conversation with a drawn out synopsis of every move you have made for the last year the here is a tip; try and get the rest of us involved in things pretty damn quick or we are liable to tune in and clock off and move along the sidewalk. A first date conversation is supposed to go; Anecdote about you , then my turn to give you my own , then an anecdote about him (usually an ex) , then we come up with a general conclusion that will unite our anecdotes and bonds us together. Its as simple as that. Its not ALL ABOUT YOU !
2)Dont talk about your job too much. A life is not defined by what we do for a career. I know lots of very boring , highly paid people in management jobs who are loathesome and boring and many till girls who are vivacious and fabulous. If your forced to do something for 36 hours a week the chances are you will find it more interesting than your date. The ins and outs of who does what in the local egg factory is just not very interesting to anyone other than the people who work there ! Listen and learn.
3)NEVER talk about the weather. It is your duty to get up and leave if they do. Other topics of complete exclusion are a)Your mother b)Emmerdale c)The "old days" when things were better. If they do dare to speak about these just tell em to sling their fucking handbags before its too late.
4)Do NOT talk about your pets. Most people will be unable to appreciate what you see in your mangy mutt or smelly old pussy. To most "Fifi" or "Fido" are just glorified hampsters and they will fail to appreciate their inner beauty. Unless you have managed to teach them something fabulous like being able to mix a decent cocktail or pop to the shops for 20 Marlbrough menthols they are best left unspoken about.
5)Do NOT talk about astrology. This will imply you believe that crap. If they insist on banging on about star signs try telling them your a sign your not and see if they turn round and tell you your more like your real sign. They wont. Astrology is the reserved of the scared or stupid who are trying to impose reason and order to a world they are frightened of and have no control within.
6)NEVER talk about your dreams. I have never met one person in my whole life who is remotely interested in hearing about the dreams of another person. They just PRETEND to be so they can then bore you to sleep with their own tales of teeth falling out or heads dropping off. Talking about your dreams is even worse than talking about yourself too much. At least when your talking about yourself and what you have done you were actually there doing it !
7)Don't talk about your favourite things too much. Just because you like a book or a film does not mean everyone else is honour bound to think the same. There nothing worse than someone trying to convince you to like something just because they do. People like things if they fit in with their own peculiar quirks and peculiarities. NOT just because you like them.
8)Do NOT ask them a question just so you can answer it yourself. This is very annoying.For egample "What do you think about the 80's/90's?" . When people ask this they are usually itching to start telling you long drawn out tales from their mad , bad and dangerous youth. NOT sexy.
9)Do NOT tell too many silly jokes. Please dont be 'that" person , common to every social gathering, who dominates everyones space and time by recounting every lame witticism or "French and Saunders" punchline they have ever heard. Forced laughter is embarrassing. It also emphasises wrinkles. If we want a variety show we can watch one on UK GOLD thanks ever so.
10)NEVER speak about SPORT. Those Queens who are fond of sport are guilty of over egaggerating their numbers. The fact is that there are just not that many sporty gayers. Not REAL ones any way. Most fags could not give a turd about soccer or rugby , besides copping an eyefull of the players beefy legs and packages. However if you do HAVE to bore us with this kind of talk, please do not use the "we" word. As in "we" won three-nil , or "we" are through to the finals. The truth is that no matter how much you want to associate yourself with that heroic victory or manly draw...."WE" know it had sod all to do with you !

I have always hated New Years Eve. For some weird reason it has always been a night where everything goes wrong for me. For the last 20 odd years i have always been booked to dj at one club or other. I cant remember having a free New Years Eve where i have been able to just relax and enjoy it myself. I have always been part of a club team whose job it has been to entertain and give everyone else a good time. That in itself is rewarding and often hilarious at times but it has also caused me to weep with angst at others.
My most "famous" NYE disaster happened in Italy about 10 years ago. I had been booked to play a NYE White Party in Naples. This was something that my agent had forgotten to mention to me however so when i turned up with a Scarlet and black Vivienne Westwood suit i was not best pleased when i saw the flyer advertising the event , i was also not best pleased to see myself as being billed "London DROG star Musty O" ! ,not a great start . This was 3 hours before i needed to start getting ready. My boyfriend of the time was Italian and he had come with me for the gig. He didnt seem to think there would be a problem for me to get something white from one of the many great designer shops in town. How wrong he was ! Naples is fairly conservative and most of the shop keepers were slightly fazed at our requests to try on gowns and corsets. One even refused to let me try anything on. My gay nerves were already rattling. I finally managed to cobble something half decent together but was not at ase with how i looked. I spend hours on my "look" and i was stressed at having to wear this opaque monstrosity.It had also cost half of my fee for the gig so i was wondering why i had bothered coming in the first place. When we finally made it back to the hotel we realised that the promoters had obviously decided to cut costs and put us up in what i can only describe as a hovel in a back street. The sheets were grubby, the room dark with no mirror and my patience was shortening. My boyfriend managed to get hold of a mirror and i did what i could to my face in the subterranean light. I certainly didnt look my best. At ten oclock the promoter came to pick us up for dinner. Which is usually at a nice resteraunt. Not this time ! I was taken back to his family home where half of Naples had come to have a gander at the freak show. Small children were running everywhere , pulling at me and i was served a huge plate of pasta and clams. I hate clams but did my British best an stuffed as much of it in as poss. BIG MISTAKE. The promoter then proceeded to put a video on. I was expecting a family thing , maybe a film. Nope. It was a video he had made of his dog in a dog fight ! I couldnt believe what i was seeing and got up and left the room. I then proceeded to have a minor nervous breakdown and tell him he was every kind of Italian c*** under the sun. I demanded to go straight to the club which he reluctantly allowed me to do. My boyfriend didnt tell me till afterwards but he had started to threaten me and say he would pull the show and "beat the faggot" for disrespecting him and his bloody dog fighting video. The gig itself wasnt too horrendous. Well not if you discount the deranged transexual club host who "rapped" very badly over half of my set or the 3 bongo drummers drowning out any self respecting beats i was trying to make, or the fact that there was no monitor speaker in the dj box, or that most of the hetty punters were almost shagging infront of me, or that gradually i was starting to feel very , very sick. 15 minutes before the end of my set i couldnt hold it in any more and projectile vomiited half a pound of semi digested clams onto the floor. You got it. I had food poisoning. My boyfriend got me back to the hotel but i just kept on chucking up all night. The next morning feeling like death we went to get the plane only to find there had been a strike by airport staff and all flights had been cancelled for 12 hours. So there i sat , for 12 hours , throwing up every 20 minutes , feeling like death , with a bag of nasty white tat at my feet , traumatised at having been shown a dog having its face ripped off and no better off financially than had i stayed at home. Great !
Finally we got home. This is where the piece de la resistance was delivered by my boyfriend ! Kick a girl when she's down and all that. I was told i had behaved appalingly and had insulted his nation. That i was spoilt and over opinionated and that he never wanted to see me again in his life. Happy New Year Dusty O !
I can laugh at it all now but at the time it was pretty heinous. Usually something bad happens to me on NYE. Last year for instance i had to walk from Kings X to Heaven as my taxi didnt show. You try getting one at 11.30 at night. So i did what i always do. I got on with it and walked. In 5 inch heels carrying a rather heavy record case in a wig, full drag and a hat on the busiest night of the year. Not really a good way to herald in the New Year.
This year i am not taking any chances. I am getting ready at Revue Bar where TRANNYSHACK is having a big bash and i am getting there in the afternoon. I have a driver pre booked to take me home and i dont have to dj. Just host. I am in my own club for a change and surrounded by my best girly-boy friends. No hubby to reap disaster and i set the dress code ! Its gonna be a fab night and hopefully just for once i can have a drama free NYE !
Happy New Queer folks.

Every now and then in life we meet someone very special who leaves us with memorys and shared experiences we will treasure for ever. These people are few and far between.
I first met David Orr when he came into London Lighthouse an HIV and AIDS center i was working at in the early 90's. He wanted to know more about the center as he lived round the corner. He was a tall , gorgeous looking and vital young man with a Manchester accent , twinkly blue eyes and a dry sense of humour. We hit it off immediately. David confided in me that he had recently been diagnosed as having H.I.V and wanted to know all about the support and help offered at Lighthouse should he need it. At this time he certainly didnt as he was strapping and everyone who met him fell for his charm and good looks. He began popping into Lighthouse regularly for a cuppa and a chat and we became firm friends. At Lighthouse we were not really meant to socialize and get too personal with service users as it compromised our professional ability to work with people. I couldnt help it with David though and soon we were spending more and more time together. Going clubbing and shopping and generally hanging out. David then got a job at Lighthouse on the till in the cafe and he became for a while a fixture of the place. Always chatty , often quite bitchy and selfless and kind to a fault. Everyone loved David.
Our friendship deepened and we went on holiday several times and would spend more and more time with each other. David encouraged me in my club work and would surprise me with lovely presents now and again. On one of my birthdays he bought me a beautifull gold Vivienne Westwood suit. I still have it. I remember the look on his face when he saw how shocked and ecstatic i was when i opened it. He was so generous and kind. At the time i was living with a hellish French woman who i hated and David knew how unhappy it was making me. He offered me a place to live in a huge flat he had in Tulse Hill. I jumped at the chance and moved in for a while before finding my own place elsewhere. David moved from that flat and got a beautifull basement apartment in a cobbled street in Kings Cross and when a year later i found myself homeless again he asked if i wanted the spare room. I jumped at the chance and from that day until his death several years later we shared a home.
Gradually Davids health started to decline. In those days there were no combination therapys and treatments for AIDS related illnesses were basic. David told me his HIV status had changed to that of an AIDS one while we were on holiday in Spain. It was a big shock but with the help of his closest friends and loved ones we all decided we would battle it and do what we could. He didnt want to die and we certainly didnt want him to either.
He was one of the first people in the country to try combination therapys but they seemed to make him more ill than before. He started to contract all sorts of illnesses and several times needed long stays in hospital and on the Residential Unit of Lighthouse. He lost weight and we nearly lost him several times. He would rally and we would all breathe a sigh of relief for a few months only for him to have to fight another and more vicious battle with something else shortly after. Gradually his body couldnt fight things any more and he was admitted to hospital and told there was nothing anyone could do for him other than make him comfortable. Not once did i see him loose his composure. He took it on the nose like the brave and courageous man he was. The next few weeks were a nightmare. He went blind and his liver and kidneys gave up on him. He couldnt digest food and gradually became so thin he had to sleep on a special warm air matress. He was on morphine and would drift in and out of conciousness. David died early one Saturday morning. He had prepared for his funeral and knew what he wanted.
His body was cremated in a recycled cardboard coffin that we had all written messages of love on at his memorial service. Boy George who was a mutual friend of ours sang his beautifull ballad "Ill Adore" at the funeral. There is a wonderfull line in it that sums up David "Laughing, screaming , tumbling Queen,Like the most amazing light show youve ever seen". We all wrote him a message on a cardboard tag and let it free with a balloon in the garden. He was free from pain now and could move on. He left behind a legacy of friendship i for one will never forget. I still live in the flat we shared as friends and can still feel him here. When i put the key in the lock after a night out working in one of Londons disco's i can still hear him saying "you home tranny ? how was it ?". I am honoured and gratefull to have had a friend like David. I will never forget him and always love him.

Some experiences stay with you for your whole life and help mould your personality. For me ,one of the most rewarding and emotional parts of my working life was the 4 years i spent working as a center support worker at The London Lighthouse , a center for people living with Aids and HIV.
Lighthouse offered a wide range of services such as residential care on their beautifull upstairs unit where service users could come for care and nursing support after being in hospital or to end their days in a loving and caring place getting the best nursing care on offer.Also councelling and day care, legal help, alternative therapys and child care. It was (and is) a unique and wonderfull place. Every member of staff was dedicated to doing what they could for the people who used the services.
I worked there in the early 90's when there was no combination therapys and many , many gay men were die'ing from illnesses we now have treatments for. When one of our service users passed away we would light a candle on the reception desk and write their name on a little card so that people they may have known would be made aware of their death and as an act of remembrance. Some days there were way too many candles burning. Thats how it was in those days.
Part of my job was to organise tea partys 3 times a week at the center for people who were isolated or didnt have many friends to get some company and support. It attracted all sorts of people and was often good fun. Anyone could come and have a cuppa and a chat. For me it was the perfect job as i have always been so sociable and if during the course of a chat we could point someone in the right direction for some support or help then it was a job well done.
We would often see very ill people.Men who were literally walking skeletons. At first i found it distressing and many a time would have to go into our "quiet room" to compose myself and get a grip on my emotions. I quickly learned that such self indulgence on my part didnt actually help anyone and thats what i was being paid to do so got on with it.
You might think it would have been a depressing and miserable place. On the contrary. It was full of life,hope and fun.There was lots and lots of laughter and love. It seemed to bring out the best in people. It helped inumerable people to get on with living their life and not focus on their death. To concentrate on the positive things and move forward. We would organise lots of social and group activaties to help bring people together as mutual support is often the best tonic you can have. Better than a whole bunch of pills at times.
It was policy never to ask anyone their health status as it was and is a very private matter. Many of the staff were living with the virus and understood exactly the worrys and pressures the service users were going through. If staff members got ill and needed time off they recieved it. The internal support was amazing. When a very good friend of mine died i was absolutely heartbroken but was given as much time off as i needed to sort myself out and get back on the rails again. I cant imagine that happening in many places these days !
The Equal Opportunitys policy at Lighthouse was very forward thinking. No one batted an eyelid or questioned anyone else's appearance. If it didnt stop you doing your job then no one made an issue of it. At one point i had a green crop and the Director of the place commented on how "vibrant" the colour was and how "cheery it was to see such nice hair on reception". It just was not an issue. Which is how it should be. I was good at my job. The fact i had green hair had nothing to do with anything or anyone. Lighthouse embraced diversity.
Princess Diana was a frequent and much loved visitor. One morning i was on reception when the gate buzzer went for our carpark. I pressed the open button and in she drove, alone, on one of her visits to the Residential Unit. She parked by accident in a disabled bay. When she came into the building i had to ask her to move her car as we had disabled people coming in who would need the space. I was shitting myself but it had to be done. She was grace itself and moved it immediately with masses of apolagys. Another time she came in very early to see someone who was particularly ill. There was nothing much to do at that time of day so i had been reading that weeks BOYZ (this is gods honest truth!) which at the time used to have a page 3 nudey picture. She came to reception to tell me she was here to see this person and i put the magazine down on the desk with the naked picture full on show,without realising. She spotted it immediately and started to giggle. She picked it up and had a look and said "interesting reading young man". I wanted the floor to swallow me up. I was mortified but she didnt care a fig and off she went upstairs giggling away. I am sure anywhere else i would have been fired. Not at Lighthouse.
I left about 15 years ago to persue a full time career in nightlife and since then the services have changed alot.Lighthouse is now run by the Terence Higgins Trust and has scaled down its operations but its still there doing a great job.Long may it continue.

Twice a year something odd happens to many of Londons "fashionista's". They get a glazed and slightly desperate look in their eyes and they start randomly harassing the London fashion house's press departments for tickets to shows and invites to party's.
Yes , its Fashion week again. I adore clothes personally. All types aswell. As long as their is some "art" in their creation and "styling" in their ensemble that is.
I am not a huge fan of Fashion week however. To be more precise i am not a huge fan of many of the people who take part in it , not the main players like the actual designers and buyers and cutters etc. The ones that work my gay nerves are the pushy press men or standing room only-air kissing- secretarys and pen pushers who seem to get admittance at the expense of the more creative and worthy types who are left pushing and shoving outside insisting that so and so did actually put them on "the list".
London fashion week has never really matched our Parisienne and Milaneese neighbours. Our own doyenne and my personal heroine, Dame Vivienne Westwood, didnt even bother showing here for a zillion years. This year she is back showing off her more "office" like Red label range.Its the highlight of a pretty dull week really , saving a few exceptions such as House of Holland and one or two others.There are some really exciting designers showing in London like Christopher Kane, but of course now everyone knows his name and hes been around a few seasons they assume hes 'set' and dosnt need any more help/promotion. Hes the best thing London has IMO, him and Roksanda Ilincic who I think is FAB. Most of the rest is babba/overhyped. WESTWOOD seems to be going through a bit of a come back of late. It seemed i was one of the few throughout the late 90's who stood by our national treasure and continued to buy her clothes. Every disco dancing chicken seems to be flashing an e.bay rip off her trademark "Orb and Satellite" these days. Clubbers have adopted Dame Viv as their paragon without really looking too deeply at her background or ethos. Fashion is fickle.
The lady who makes my hats , the enigmatically named PRUDENCE , who also works for WESTWOOD and DIOR informed me that she had to literally beg for tickets to shows where her own products are on the catwalk this year. Yet z list "celebs" and Big Brother rejects are usually seated pride of place on the front row. Its often the case. Shock/attention/wow factor over people who actually input and create. Of course the labels need coverage but one questions the logic behind it at times.
The after show "party" circuit is even more hilarious. St Martins must close down during Fashion Week as you can guarantee half the college has wangled tickets by hook or by crook to be seen and network these events. Its almost depressing to see how much air kissing and small talk goes on. Usually its a bit of a competition as to how many shows they have attended or who they spoke to at which one. Name dropping is de rigeur of course. Usually the name dropped have little idea of who their new "best friend" actually is and many a disspointed face has resulted at not being recognised or acknowledged by Murry at Westwood or Philip at Concrete etc etc, at the next party they have attended and where the "name dropped" have been greeted with OTT familiarity.Networking is a nasty buisness but someone has to do it.
My own personal favourite networker is a young (ish) man who is now the editor of one of the top fashion mens magazines. I first met him years ago on a shoot i did for a gay rag,where he styled me in basque and pantys....eeek !!! He was a St Martins student and hard up for cash.I needed a cleaner and he would come and sort my messy flat out for me for a fiver an hour. He was undeniably talented but even then knew how to work a room for contacts and once he had found someone who was usefull to him they were going NOWHERE. After one 2 minute meeting they became "new best friends" and never escaped the loop.I was eventually dropped for more aspiring and less demanding playmates. I have watched his career closely sinse and take pleasure in telling anyone i can that this person used to wash my smalls and clean my tiles ! Evil me ? Never !
I make it a point of principle these days to NEVER dj at after show events either. Usually the press/pr people in charge of these shenanigans try to tempt you to do it for nothing with the promise of a new outfit and guestlist for your friends.One wonders if they would like to do press and pr for a similar arrangement ? I have been stung too often to take much notice of either of these "temptations". Money talks for me. A few years ago i was told to go into a certain boutique to pick out an outfit out for an after show party i had been talked into working at. The collection was all winter white (cream to you and me) and the press man thought the dj's should follow suit. I dutifully and a bit reluctantly found an acceptable little number and took it to the counter where the press man was hovering expecting it to be clocked out for me etc. I was mortified when the pissy Queen whisked it out of my mits and told me (infront of several other people) that that creation was too fragile and too expensive "for you". I was then handed an oversize, grubby, cream, clown suit pre selected for me. I declined and wore RED TARTAN on the night as an act of protest and my way of saying FUCK YOU. sadly the fashion industry abounds with people like this.
Nowadays i try to ignore fashion week as much as possible. Clothes interest me. NOT fashion or trends or the people who are involved in the machinery of the industry. There job is to create fabulousness and hype. Some of us are just BORN with it however. Have a fun fshion week sweetie darling !

It might surprise certain people to know that when i first moved to London i worked as a support worker for people with learning difficulties for 2 and a half years. It was before i started working full time in nightclubs.
I got the job after my best friend Mark started doing the job and told me about how easy it was and how much better the money was than working in a shop. I had been working for Zandra Rhodes in her Grafton St shop and had hated it. Her clientele was basically rich and rude Arab ladys and pushy American millionares wives. Not really very inspirational for a boy who thought his creativity was going to change the world. Not.
So i applied and got a job with a charity called The Blue River Project in Bermondsey. They managed 10 houses, each with 3 people living in them who had recently come out of long term mental institutions and were readjusting to living in the community. They all had learning difficulties and many had physical problems aswell. At the time i knew NOTHING about this kind of work. I had only ever run a disco and worked in a clothes shop. I was actually frightened of the residents when i was first introduced to them. They just looked like dribbling , gurning maniacs and i was convinced they would eat me alive.
I was very wrong. Gradually as i settled in with them , and they with me i got to realise they were all as individual as you or i and that fate and circumstance had made them the way they were.
In the house i worked there were 3 middle aged men. I was allocated a man called David to support as his "keyworker". David had a tragic and sad story. Of course i knew nothing about it at first and thought he was some kind of monster. He would repeat certain phrases over and over again. He had no teeth so he looked quite strange and had sticky up , fluffy grey hair. He also paced up and down constantly and asked for tea all the time. Initially i was mortified that i had to spend time with someone like that but eventually grew to absolutely adore him.
David had a file. It was his history and as he had no relatives was his only link with his own past. the hospital had sent it with him when he came to live back in the community.
It broke my heart when i read it.
He had been born with learning problems to parents in their 50's. They had loved him and kept him at home with them inspite of the trend to just lock away "retards" that prevailed in the 40's when he was born. They taught him to write small words and to love music by Elvis and Perry Como. He stayed with them and was very much loved. In his file there was a picture of his mom hugging him when he was a teenager. You could tell she loved the pants off of him.He went on holidays and day trips and all those years later still talked about "going down Southend with mam". he also talked about music alot asking continually if i liked Elvis.
Both his parents died when he was in his 20's and he was taken to Grove Park hospital where he stayed for 30 years ! He had gone from a loving home with his family to a ward of bored and ill people all with learning problems and other conditions. It must have been a nightmare for him. the file didnt say anything about what he had done in there for all that time. No interests. No holidays. No friends. He was just a statistic. Other than a few faded pictures that had been sealed of his life with his family there was nothing.They hadnt even given HIM his own pictures. He hadnt seen them for all that time. I showed him them and he just sat looking very quietly which was odd as he usually never stopped speaking. We went out and got frames and put them by his bed. It was one of the first things i did in the job.
I satrted to understand that the reason he kept going on about Elvis and Southend all the time was because they were his memorys. He had had everything taken away in that hospital so he would talk about things so they couldnt be removed.Also the reason he was obsessed with tea was because when your sitting on a ward for 30 years the only thing you have to look forward to is the tea lady coming round 3 times a day.
I gradually got to know him and started to really like him as a person. I stopped being scared of his odd appearance and funny mannerisms and actually enjoyed being with him so much. He had a wicked sense of humour when you got to know him. Really childish like mine and also quite rude. There was a woman working in the house called Therese who was very PC. Continually talked about clients needs etc but didnt actually do that much to make their home a happy place to live. Full of wind she was. I couldnt stand her. I once asked David if he liked her. He looked at me and started giggling like a kid. I asked him why and he said "she's got nice tits". I laughed so much as he had never said anything like that to me. The thing was though, because i had laughed he kept saying it all the time. To anyone. "Therese has nice tits". Of course he said it to her and she was horrified but because she was so PC she just said "thats very innapropriate David". I thought it was highly appropriate. It was his house and if a man cant comment on a pair of nice tits in his own home where can he ? LOL. That was all she had anyway. Face like a robbers dog !
It was all so new to me. I had come from clubs and fashion and hedonism to the real world where people had awfull problems and had suffered . It was very good for me long term.
David had not been on holiday since he was a teenager so i decided to take him on one. We managed to get funding and myself and another worker took him to Gran Canaria ! It was really good fun. He LOVED it. We took him paddling and to see the birds at Palmitas Park. He was quite old so liked to go to bed at 8 at night so i had every other evening to myself. I went and got laid in all the gay bars in the Jumbo Center. I loved it as i was also being paid to be there ! It was as though he was at last having a life again.
I then decided he needed an image brush up. He had no teeth and no false ones either. It said in his file that he had had 2 pairs while in hospital but had lost them and obviously they couldnt be arsed to get him any more. I could. I took him to the dentist and he didnt like it. He kicked me on the way home and said so aswell. He was tiny and frail and it didnt hurt. I just laughed as usually he sucked up to the workers as when he was in hospital it didnt "pay" to be unkind to the nurses. Not when they control your life. Now was different and i was glad he knew me well enough to be real. When his teeth arrived they were huge and he looked like a horse in them. Really awfull. They had cost alot of money though and i wanted him to look a bit more normal so people would not stare at him so much when he was out. He knew people were looking at him and some people laughed which must have hurt his feelings. The teeth were a no go however and when i went in to work the next day i asked him where they were and he laughed and told me he had "flushed em down the bog". I couldnt help but laugh. I just said that they were his teeth and he could do what he wanted with them. Which was true. I did manage to get him into nicer clothes though. Why do people dress people with learning difficulties like kids ? He was 55 and all his t shirts had cartoons on them ? I binned the lot and went with him to get some nice shirts and smart trousers. He really liked them and kept looking at himself in the mirror. I started calling him Mr Sexy and he loved it. We were a very odd pair. I was a camp puff with dreadlocks and make up and he was a little old man with no teeth and learning difficulties. Most odd.
I worked with david for 2 and a half years. I developed a real bond with him and i am pretty sure he liked me too. He called me "Fluff" for some reason and would bug the other staff about when "Fluff" was coming in to take him out. He loved getting out and about and i took him all over the place. He had been stuck in that hospital for 30 years so i made it my mission to take him on 1 day trip a week. Plus it got me out aswell and i got paid for going. We went to zoo's , country houses , theme parks , walks , train trips....you name it he went. He loved eating out too so twice a week we went to the local cafe for our tea which he loved. I also started taking him to a music class and he really got into that. He liked to play the drums. It was an awfull noise but he seemed to get something from it.
Eventually i needed to move on with my life. I had applied and got a job at an HIV center in West London. It changed my life. I will do a blog about it soon. However it meant i had to leave David. I kept in touch though and would go and see him every couple of weeks or his new key-worker would bring him for lunch with me at my new job. He was ok. A few years ago David moved into his own little flat. With full support of course. he is still around. Very old and very frail but at least he has had a life for the last few years.
He taught me alot. Not to be scared of funny looking people for one.
Bless him.

Today is my last day and last gig in Spain, where i have been working and resting for the last week. Its been BOILING hot here. Yesterday it was 37 degrees inland and 34 on the coast. I was so stupid and decided to reduce the factor rating on my sun screen to attempt at getting a BIT of colour as i am as pale as the day i arrived. Inspite of sitting in the shade i am still beetroot red today with 2 big sunglasses shaped, white patches round my eyes. MOST UNBECOMING ! LOL.

The gig last week went very well. Infact i am meeting the guy who brought me over at 1 today for a buisness lunch with my agent with the possibility of doing a regular slot here. I would love that as the hotel and facilaties (all gratis thankyou very glad mrs !) were rather nice and the 5 days rest in between gigs has been fantastic. I have rediscovered "mornings" as i have not touched alcohol and have been hitting the sack at midnight instead of my usual 4 or 5 oclock. Its only been a week and i can totally feel myself slipping into the Spanish way of life which always happens to me when i am here. It seems so much more civilised than London. Its also great to wander the streets with little or no fear of rampant gangs of Chavs with Pit Bulls waiting to slice you up.

 Last night Spain beat Germany and the locals hit the streets for fireworks and high spirits. Can you imagine if it had been the UK ? It would have been an excuse to ghet even more bladdered and even more violent and cause even more damage. I dunno whats happened to our country ? That makes me sound like a grumpy granny which i most certainly am not but fear stalks our streets now. Especially if your a bit vulnerable and not like "them".

Vileness is an international phenomenum though. Well in one form or another. It always makes me chuckle to see that wherever one may be in the world there is always a foul, camp, fat ,old queen dressed in clothes she should have abandoned 20 years ago with badly dye..d hair. There have been several on the beach this week. Waddling around in trunks that were far too small, flapping their hands around in dramatic stances and catwalking the beach like Agnes Dehyn.

They also often seem to have strong northern accents and be called names like "Gladys" by their friends who sit attentatively feeding the old galz ego..s by giggling at  self indulgent anecdotes about her "trade" or vitriolic comments about other people who more often than not kick her into touch in both the looks and personality departments ! Please god shoot me if i ever turn into a Gladys.

Then there are the younger versions of her. The "Brittneys" i call them. Hair straightened to within an inch of its life. Shaved where it counts and sporting that " i have a bit of dog shit under my nose" look that makes them seem to view the world with more disdain and superiority than their teenage years allow. When on holiday theysually wear white muslin and Dand G flip flops with the biggest sunglasses available to mankind. An ethnic necklace and wristband usually completes the ensemble. Yuk.Its a universal uniform aswell. 2 particulaly obnoxious Dutch versions of his type sat next to us on the beach (or should i call it bitch?) yesterday. They tottered down with their 2 jugs of cheap Sangria acting like Posh Spice on a runway in ethnic sarongs and matching i-pods giving out shade andattitude to their "fans" (in their minds) on the beach. Then proceeded to sit and rip to shred anyone who didnt fit into their own personalised idea of the body beautifull and who should or should not be allowed to enjoy the sun and sea. Its amusing for me as its often this type who flash me the killer "dont even think about looking at me" glares when i am dressed down and wearing no make up that more often than not lick my arse when i am working and out and about in full regalia. Sad bitches.

My friends and i made the fatal mistake of eating in a gay owned and run resteraunt aswell this week. What a strange experience that was. When we enquired about a table, having not booked we were greeted by "Gladys" doing her day job ! Old Glad wasnt sure she could fit us in , she was booked up till next year duckie , not sure if she could fit us in , we were there so early (9 oclock)...blah blah blah.....all this and not one other person in the place ! Anyway when Gladys finally allowed us to sit down in her ghastly camp bistro we had a chance to take in the decor. This consisted mainly of blown up pictures of Marilyn Monroe printed onto cheap canvas.. and mounted atop the whitewashed woodchip. I have to say the food was good but Gladys continual butting into our conversations and comments about passers by left me rather annoyed. We ordered "Tarte Catalan" to which "Gladys" who was taking the orders squealed with delight at her chance to scream "2 tarts at table 3". She must have been waiting for the opportunity all night. The poor waitress was reffered to continually as "Lesbian" all night and whenever a female customer who "Gladys" knew came into the place she was greeted with "Oh hello Titty" ! However this paled into insignificance when a real life Midget came in with a group of friends and "Gladys" boomed at her "I suppose you want the childrens meal dont you dear?" and then added "you get a free toy with it hon, a Barbie with the big tits or a Ken with the massive cock". How hilarious. NOT. We ate, we paid and we left.

"Gladys" and "Brittney" aside i have had a charming week with lots of sun and nice food. I have slept like a hibernating bear and feel absolutely top billing. I cant wait to come home and undo all of it by a night at trannyshack on Wed ! LOL. As the Queen said "What a life one lives !".

xxxx