Gay's the Word

following so soon after my enlistment, was encouraging. It was, of course, merely a small incident.
My time in Portsmouth was of short duration. We have now reached October 1941. Above is a photograph of a whole heap of us. I am seated in the front row next to the instructor- you can’t miss me, I’m the precocious one with a gold version of the telegraphist badge on my sleeve! I wonder how many of my colleagues survived the war and are still around?
In March 1942 I travelled by train to Sunderland where to join a newly launched vessel, or ship, which carried the name of HMS Rother. She was a tarted up version, perhaps slightly larger, of the well known corvette and referred to as a ‘frigate’. All frigates were named after British rivers.
She, again, ships are referred to as ‘she’ though God knows why. Anyhow, She was even smaller than the Cross Channel ferries, and bloody sight more uncomfortable, particularly in rough seas. I guess I would have been one of the youngest crew members. Everyone on board was of course male. The female sea- faring sailors, the Wrens, arrived many years later.
I was by this time a qualified telegraphist - no big deal - and joined the rest of the ship’s communications team. Knowledge of my typing and shorthand skills caused me also to be assigned to the Captain as his ‘private secretary’!
If my time in Collingwood was a passage to sexual freedom, then my current situation was to be full of promise!
There was no such thing as a separate office for the ‘secretary’. The Captain’s cabin, - bunk and all –
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became the ship’s office. An ideal location for extracurricular activities if events so demanded! At this distance I can mention that that because a reality. The Captain or Commander, we will call him Richard, for that was his first name, was the only one on board with private quarters. My secretarial skills were limited but good enough for processing his correspondence etc.
It followed that I would be a regular visitor to his cabin, I felt inclined to use the word ‘boudoir’ for there is no doubt that he hoped it would also serve as a setting for much more. I guess that he was in his mid thirties, a bit taller than me and well built, at least the bits which I allowed myself to become familiar with!
His idea of a ‘secretary’ was not far removed from that which you read about in saucy novels. He was unusually friendly and it soon became obvious that he had a penchant for youngsters like me, particularly the co-operative ones. He now had a wide circle to choose from. His wandering hands gave a clear message! In spite of this, he never managed to disrobe this particular member of the ship’s company, though God knows he tried often enough! A young friend and colleague, about my age, employed as a Signalman, once had to deliver a signal to the Captain late at night. From the bunk came furtive hands, the Captain’s, trying to get my friend into the ‘royal suite’!
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My friend, the Signalman, could hardly complain for the Captain was, after all, the boss! There were hoots of laughter as he recounted this attack on his innocence. For him, maybe, it was a dramatic event. I had already been through that scenario many times before but had found it quite exciting and ‘normal’ if you like, though normality to me had to suit my own definition, one which accepted my libido’s demands.
As I mentioned, a frigate is a small vessel certainly small for the compliment of men she carried. Once enlisted, the Royal Navy issued everyone with a hammock which one carried around as part of one’s baggage. The hammock was nothing more than a sheet of canvas, which enclosed bedding. When not in use it was roped up and resembled the shape of the body it supported. Like hammocks the world over, it requires to be tethered to hooks, or whatever, by ropes at either end. When occupied, and as the ships pitches and turns, it offers a degree of stability.
With so little space available, hammocks were hoisted very close together. Intercommunication - now there’s a proposition - between occupants of adjoining hammocks, left little or nothing, no, no, everything, to be desired. I don’t want to imply a sexual maze but it did encourage activity not far removed!
At sea for weeks on end; rushing to one’s ‘station’ during emergencies; the fear of U-boats, or alien aircraft, who were forever trying to shorten our existence – we offered a similar doom laden response – what a bloody mad world it was and yet we maintained a degree of equilibrium. Food, appalling, to be avoided at
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all costs. Then, to cap it all, cramped living quarters. To offset this, some diversions were essential and one in particular comes immediately to mind. Yes, you guessed right. The diversion was sex. It flourished in no small measure. I doubt if the Admiralty were in the least bit concerned! For me, the Skipper had led the way, and who was I, a young lad with little knowledge and seeking experience; Alright, alright, that’s pushing credibility to the limit, I know. Such hypocrisy I hear you cry, but one has to obey authority! Of course all of this needed little encouragement to prosper, for the environment was right and the opportunities were there. I doubt if there were any disingenuous eyes watching the goings on!
It seemed to me that isolation in the mid Atlantic, or similar points on the compass, often creates attitudes of “any old port in a storm” to quote, not from the Bard or other poets, but from randy ship mates. Youth was at a premium, well, it certainly seemed so, though that is probably stretching the truth!
There was a guy on board, an engineer, considerably older than I, and very appropriately entitled, ‘Randy’. His real name is unimportant. He certainly lived-up to his nick-name. His overtures, what a funny word, had a distinct purpose. On many occasions, he contrived to place his hammock next to mine. His hands knew no bounds in that they were forever wandering with one object in mind. I did not escape his interest and on many occasions became his prime target. For Randy, it was always ‘work in process’, or so it seemed; a very ambitious gentleman. All so purposeful, even to the likes of ‘innocent’ me, to
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experience the uninvited searching digits – I’m referring to his fingers for goodness sake – hovering in directions considered sacrosanct – who is going to buy that one! I did not, however, present him with good fortune, for I had not yet aspired or ascended to such sublime and dizzy heights!
Yet another sought my ‘favours’, well, I admit to meeting him at least half way in this strange hidden world. Anyway, this other ‘suitor’, called Robson, Robby for short, was slightly older. One might consider him sophisticated, at least I did. Apparently, he’d been expelled from some private college. He had ‘offended’ his ‘seniors’ for what they called, ‘misdemeanours of an unseemly nature’. Sounds absolutely wonderful - how on earth can mutual sex be so deplored? Well, I suppose the witnessing voyeurs had to show disapproval for appearances sake. We laughed together, for we were committed to embarking on a bonanza of such misdemeanours. Robbie had been unlucky, poor chap, which given the reputation of public schools, is surprising. Incidentally, it is common knowledge that many private schools or colleges have reputations as homes or breeding grounds for such depravity, ‘dens of iniquity’ some call it! – I like that sobriquet.
Robbie and I became great friends or at least closely associated. It goes without saying that we enjoyed close sexual clinches. More advanced? Well his ambitions were certainly greater than mine as was his experience. I guess mine lagged a bit, but I needed little encouragement for ‘summit’ climbing! Very brash you might say. No, accruing knowledge! He introduced me to his family. His father owned a flour-milling business.
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I have a permanent reminder of dear Robbie for he photographed me together with another ship-mate aboard the Rother - see photo below.
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Looking back, I now believe that his interest in me indicated more than just friendship. Love, that indefinable element came into play. I now regret that I could not reciprocate in quite the same way. Only good memories remain, however. We kept in touch for many years. He was a great friend.
On board they had tidy little names for certain relationships. One in particular comes to mind.
An older ‘tar’ ‘sponsors’ a much younger sailor. The youth is referred to as being the other’s ‘winger’. Must sound like some unholy and bizarre arrangement to those who stand on the side. Well, it’s war-time, remember, and moral values have to change! Adverse criticisms at this moment in history? Forget it. Live and let live seemed the motto.
When at sea for weeks on end, in a hostile environment, discrete sex liaisons were not uncommon. Well, for many, such tensions need ‘resolution’ and what better way! What an excuse I hear you say. Well, I know, but what other option do you suggest? I am not alone in this thinking; in fact I stand alongside many of the same view. Relief, by whatever form, might be described as an obligation for the ‘good of the community’! No, I am not trying to turn this into a pornographic essay whatever you may believe. Wartime gives little space for self imposed modesty. Death may be around the corner, so, whilst alive, take the opportunity of sampling that ‘forbidden fruit’ so many go on about. I would like to be remembered as a prime scrumper!
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I was on the Rother for about a year, a year of great change and, for me, enlightenment. I enjoyed the comradeship and equally; my role as the Captain’s ‘secretary’. It was a wonderful and remarkable introduction to a new life. Discipline was but a minor issue, at least it was for me. And the sexual ‘liberation’, well, who could ask for more!
My next ‘berth’, as they call it, was with the newly created Combined Operations. In effect this was the integration of the different Services of the Allied forces. The uniform style changed to a khaki style blouse and matching trousers as per the army.
This next treat – for I was enjoying myself – gave me a singular job, one where I was the sole telegraphist on a flat bottomed barge - defined a Landing Craft Flack (LCF8 was my entitled craft). You see the same sort of vessel plying the canals of Britain. It had a small Royal Naval crew manning it. It carried a great many anti- aircraft guns, and there were around fifty Royal Marines to man them! I ask you, fifty, young, beautiful, fit – the mind boggles! The memory plays tricks, I know, just a bit of romancing. Some might say manna from heaven! Well, sadly ‘manna’ never came my way. Then I probably never recognised the signs, or if I did, my shyness overshadowed them!
Being overtly gay has its benefits, so I’m told. I guess that I was overtly shy for rarely did I identify or meet other gay men. Where were they all? Probably like me, ‘hiding in the closet’. The truth is, I had pre- conceived ideas of what I wanted in a relationship. Sadly, it was to evade me for very many years. Do not
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imagine for a moment that in between I was some sort of devoted virgin. Far from it.
Persistent desires, an un-assuaged sexual appetite, all crying out for promiscuity. But such was not my ‘scene’ or maybe good fortune! I carried no identifiable gay traits. A disadvantage? Maybe. The gay patois was a foreign language to me. I have never quite got used to it. Many thought me ‘staid’, well, beneath the surface I was the very opposite.
Going back. The barge, with its potential and possibilities, did me no sexual favours. Following the invasion of Sicily then Italy I finally left her in Naples. There, I was shuffled or billeted on a crappy, dilapidated and previously disused pier sticking out from Naples shore. The nearby Naval radio station became my next post, where Louis Mountbatten – for some, the homosexuals’ icon, - was a visitor. The only other event which comes to mind is the occasion I accompanied a friend (straight) to a Naples’ brothel. I watched and waited as naked breasts etc., appeared at different intervals at many doorways. So terribly depressing. A male brothel – ah! if only!
My next move was to Messina in Sicily. The officer running the outfit, rather haphazardly I have to admit yet to everyone’s advantage, was the film actor, Peter Bull. He spread risqué tales of his experiences in Hollywood. I never met him socially but his homosexuality was no secret. I saw him in the film ‘The African Queen’. He could have carried a similar title!
I must admit that I found greater prospects in Messina. First of all there was a very very gay or extravert matelot (sailor), who quite openly and
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blatantly, offered fellatio (blow jobs) to friends or just anybody – all for free! Others said he always advertised his talents in a practical way! I admit to availing myself of his services, once! A promising start to my tenure in Sicily! The fallatio’ist, if that is the term, found many willing ‘customers’, after all blow jobs don’t come easily! He welcomed others to ‘tango’, all in the name of ‘free love’. Somehow, I missed most of the ‘activity’.
An unexpected event did occur, however, when a young local teacher and linguist, offered, for a small fee, to teach me Italian. I remember him well. He was my height, dark hair, and, well, yes, good looking. I volunteered, in good faith as they say, and quite innocently - I know, ‘tis hard to believe - to be one of his pupils. I swear that I gave him no encouragement for what subsequently happened but neither did I offer any objections!
Extracurricular, I believe is the term, for this guy had other ideas on his mind and before you could say ‘kiss my .....’, the front panel of his pants opened wide and his hand held a very erect ‘member’, a circumcised one, and regrettably it wasn’t mine! A true Sicilian patriot, complete with baton, climbing to an ‘operatic peak’ with a purpose of reaching a climax! Needless to say, my Italian friend did not coerce me into varying the original purpose of his visit, and his ‘tuition’ took on a universal physical purpose which pleased us both, enormously. The sequel, simple, mutual satisfaction. His lingo lessons were forever postponed, hence I never did learn to speak in his native tongue for our tongues ventured elsewhere.
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Up until now my life had provided experiences I still treasure, and hopefully always will.
Thus ends the beginning of my first erotic rambling or rumblings.
A New Adventure. The return to my village was an anti-climax after several years in the Services and I realised that I could not remain at home in this sleepy village for very long. Within the confines of a small community, a village where so called ‘respectability’ was unlikely to allow room for the gay ethic, there was but one option and that meant moving on. More importantly, of course, I had to plan for some sort of a future.
The past was past but I had already decided to make it more than just a memory for it had been guiding me along for so many years. I relied on that instinctive pointer, crazy idea, but influences were at work and directing me along. Nonsense, I hear you say, ‘it’s just common sense. You’re right, of course!
I dabbled with ideas and had interviews. First, the diplomatic wireless service. I botched that interview because of my rather out spoken ‘left wing’ comments. It was rewarding just to see the look of disbelief on the face of the interviewer! Had he known that I was gay perhaps he would have been more understanding – well, maybe not! I then decided to go back to school and study for the Marine Radiotelegraphy Certificate. I went to a college in Holloway, a dismal experience. Luckily, I was able to stay with Noel, a college friend. Noel, In spite of my ‘disguised’ overtures, was obviously much
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too heterosexual. A great guy, nevertheless. Noel’s parents showered me with so much kindness. They were wonderful. Noel’s father had worked for the Home Office at one time and remembered the Government’s appeasement policy towards Nazi Germany and the fateful telegram sent to Czechoslovakia’s leader advising acceptance of Hitler’s territorial demands! A shabby business which, despite Chamberlain’s efforts, did not prevent WW2.
Whilst staying with Noel his sister Mary began to seek my ‘company’ which I did not encourage and made clear, with remarkable tact! I mean, a dedicated gay like me, never! It was remarkable that she ended up marrying a guy who was also queer. A miserable and misguided Catholic. Their marriage was short lived, hardly surprising. Non-consummation, a designed religious excuse but the true cause. As a catholic she sought permission to divorce the silly bugger. The Church, that dreadful bunch of holy hypocrites, refused. Thankfully, on the advice of others, including me, she ignored these canonised ‘ponces’, sought legal divorce and, thankfully, married a non religious partner. They actually loved one another, and, as the saying goes, ‘lived happily ever after’.
Noel had a brother, named Bernard. Decidedly homosexual. An extrovert and outrageous flirt. By trade a dancer and currently working as part of a troupe in a Paris night club. He was attractive and had a great many admirers and ‘sponsors’, mostly men! Sadly, as Bernard got older his sponsors lost interest and disappeared. Sadly, Bernard sought alcohol as a comforter.
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I remained with the Halls for about five months, the duration of the Radio course.
Once qualified, a Radio Officer no less, I joined the Merchant Navy. Circumstances were now vastly different. The uniform was very chic, least mum and dad thought so. I travelled down to Southampton to join that old ‘queen of the Atlantic’, RMS Aquitania. Yes, I hear you, and you can quit the quip!
I spent a year on her, plying continuously the Southampton to Halifax Nova Scotia route. We carried mostly immigrants intent on seeking the ‘new world’. Canada was a great choice, but across the border, hells
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bells. Never! Aquitania provided many ‘opportunities’, that’s if you were on that ‘normality’ plain. There were a few gay workers on board, mostly stewards who doubled as cabin attendants. I was attracted to mine, a charming guy and very ‘talented’, thankfully! Sadly, the old lady, as the Aquitania was termed, had, by December 1949, reached the end of her working life and was now destined for the scrap yard.
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LOU. ABOARD RMS AQUITANIA
I next opted for dirty old oil tanker vessels. We travelled to many ports around the world. On one, the SS Dolabella, I ‘fell in love’ with the Second Mate, darling Willy. Married. Fortunately the lady remained at home.
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My interest in him was obvious. We wrestled, we swam together in our canvas makeshift pool, and generally fooled around. My tactility must have been overpowering. I suffered painful erections because of him. Well, ‘twas worth it! It is unfortunate that he never completely reciprocated, though on one occasion he did sport a ‘boner’, but I too timid to use the moment. There, missed again! See Me and Willie below
I did manage a flurry with my Chinese cabin boy. He had a gay reputation and spread his services far and wide. He was, in fact, a ‘tart. I know, the pot calling the kettle black!
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I have shortened the tale of the long period spent at sea because there is so little of great interest to relate. After four years I quit the Merchant Navy for good.
Ever After or Gay’s the Word. Ever after begins in May 1954 when I joined an American conglomerate, Standard Telephone & Cables.. Once again, I lodged with Noel’s wonderful family in Finchley. His brother Bernard, of Paris renown, was visiting the family. Bernard was still attractive and from conversation – I may have also previously dwelt on the subject - in great demand by his male patrons in Paris. As he grew older he would become a dejected and rejected human, eventually dying from the effects of alcoholism. A sad and wasted life.
For me, life was scheduled to enter a new and wonderful phase.
It was a Sunday and I was working in Noel’s front garden. By sheer co-incidence, the twin of our next door neighbour called to visit his brother. They were near identical – but only in looks! Bill, was his name. When he saw me he immediately began chatting, chatting me up I believe is the term, as if we were old acquaintances. I was soon to be enlightened as to the difference between the brothers. Bill was older than me, and certainly bolder than his brother. He at once made his interest in me obvious. He undoubtedly identified our mutual interests! I felt that at last I had ‘arrived’, arrived at the end of a long and desperate journey. I was being introduced into to the ‘milieu’ I secretly craved. That I reciprocated with undue haste must sound reprehensible. But through him I hoped to meet someone who carried
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the same passionate dream. Bill, dear ol’ soul, now with the queer angelic ones, was so kind and understanding. I just wish that I could have responded to his ‘romantic’ overtures, but sadly it was not to be. Nevertheless, we remained the best of friends for the rest of his life. I met many of his friends, all with the same urges, but mostly of his age. I remember an occasion when he took me to a gay venue in Chelsea. Undoubtedly enlightening, but incredibly boring. Young and older men circling around each other like ruddy peacocks on heat! Sorry if I appear disingenuous for it was in fact ‘educational’.
The event of a lifetime happened towards the end of December 1956. We called on his friend Leslie who lived in the neighbourhood. It was late evening and Leslie’s two guests, sisters, were just leaving the house. They had been celebrating Leslie’s birthday. This meeting was to be the catalyst for all that I sought.
Leslie was of my age. Very tall, slim, and, oh, how do you describe someone who immediately attracts you. Of course it included the physical, for sex was never far down the line! ‘Such thoughts so early, disgusting’ I hear you cry. Thankfully, not so for me! On leaving, we agreed to meet again on the following day.
Leslie was in training at Barnet Hospital. His aim was to qualify as a State Registered Nurse. His mother at that time owned and ran a Nursing Home in Finchley, so he had an ulterior purpose. Leslie was a bright star. A linguist – he spoke French fluently. He owned and played the piano; a pianist par excellent. In the kitchen he proved a great chef. In fact he was talented in so many ways. By comparison I had little to
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offer. Luckily, the progress of love does not require qualifications.
On the way home the previous night I had reflected on our meeting and experienced sensations which pointed to a sort of affinity or strong affection for a man I had know but a few hours. Rather like a dream coming true. Maybe my romancing soul was ever charged to think this way, but I swear that these thoughts were not immature posturing. They had triggered my heart into overdrive. (any sarcastic comments you have at this stage please make them ‘postscriptial’)
The following morning I woke early with thoughts of Leslie still ringing in my head. Ever impetuous, or impatient, I decided to meet him when he came off duty. As snow had fallen heavily during the night, travelling by car was not the best idea. Nevertheless I was committed, totally, this overpowering love had left no other option – at least that is how I felt - and so I drove to the hospital gates, which pointed the way to my future happiness.
Our relationship developed rapidly from then on, and we remained together as lovers and partners for the next fifty odd years, until my darling Leslie died. It is horrible to lose someone so close to the heart. I have often wondered whether I always gave my best towards Leslie. The trouble is that he was near perfection and loved me so much. I loved him of course, but my feelings were not as intense as his, though now I begin to appreciate him more and more. My logic tells me not to think unearthly thoughts, but hell, I shall follow him soon no doubt and if I could believe in a God, would, of
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all the people in cuckoo land, pray that I be united with him forever. The photos below were taken ca.1994.
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In between, or at different intervals, one recalls skirmishes, sexual ones. Somewhat rare in my case. Believe it or not, but I resisted temptation. Well, if truth be told, it rarely came my way. Doubting ‘Thomas’s’ the lot of you!
When returning home from a holiday in Germany - Leslie who had gone on the day before - I stopped off briefly in Paris. My flight home was not scheduled until the evening. With time to spare I decided to take the long trek up the famous Champs Elysees. I had never ever encouraged what is oft described as ‘passing trade’. Sounds like a commercial. Leslie and I had few secrets and he neither approved nor disapproved of what I recounted to him later – I think he actually laughed.
I had stopped for coffee at one of the kerb-side café’s after which I walked casually towards the Arc de Triomphe. There were crowds of other visitors milling around. I had originally intended walking on to the Bois de Boulogne, but my attention was suddenly diverted towards a pair of eyes staring at me with obvious gay intent. Mine were similarly disposed to encourage this ‘entente cordiale’. Hence I ended up in a French apartment just off the famous promenade, sans trousers! This French guy had versatility as a partner, and he was to impart some of it to me. I don’t know what happened to the Gomorrah bit, but its partner taught me more than I had previously experienced. Deep throat now relegated to second place.
Another event, a temporary and disruptive one, occurred when a friend of a friend appeared on our doorstep one day. This strange visitor was much younger and although gay, had little experience – or so he
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claimed. Against my better judgement – who’s fooling who – we became slightly involved. More despicable behaviour, God, Leslie, bless him, was a bloody martyr to tolerate me.
Having discussed my two infidelities I hasten to redeem my reputation. From the moment that Leslie and I met it was an enduring love match, one which, through no fault of its own, followed the old adage, ‘’til death do us part.’ I like to compare a successful partnership with an oscillating curve on a graph where ours peaked most of the time.
At work one encountered homophobes; there are always unenlightened nitwits around. They were best avoided. At that time there was a ‘vendetta’ or ‘purge’, against certain groups, Communists, left-wing politicos, homosexuals, et al. Occupying certain positions at work could, if one’s ‘deviation’ became apparent, encourage rough treatment, such as instant dismissal. So much for democracy! Living in a gay relationship presented no significant problems. Friends, both gay and straight and our respective parents, treated our ‘partnership’ as they would any other.
Mum and dad lived in a large detached bungalow in the village of Lyminge which is but a short distance from Canterbury, Dover and Folkestone. I remember the first time Leslie met them. It was mid-winter and my parent’s large lounge had a roaring fire glowing fiercely which encouraged us to relax. Dad welcomed Leslie in a touching show of considerable friendliness. This augured well. I was indeed surprised yet delighted. I have no doubt that he figured out our relationship. My dear naïve mum imagined us as just friends and saw nothing
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odd in it. Later in the evening, to our hidden amusement, she casually remarked, “I’ve ‘made up’ the double bed in the top room for you.” There were other unoccupied bedrooms. Surprised, oh yes, but secretly delighted. I saw dad look over and smile. I could guess what his thoughts might have been!
This is not really all there is to relate, but I must pause at this point to let the dust on my brain settle.
I’ve recovered, my brain has vacated the pause mode. This essay began as a frolic into events of the past with a definite lack of taste and discretion, but then of course, that might be said to personify me! Yet, overall, I am convinced that my life has had its fair share of happiness and excitement. There is an expression which goes something like, ‘What you put into the pottage will determine its richness’. I made that up.
Well, anyway, it sums up life. I often wonder how many ponder on their past and future in this crazy old world of ours. How many of us carry humanitarian streaks which they are justifiably proud of? Self praise of course is no recommendation for that often suggests frailty of the mind – ask a politician! Where the hell do all these thoughts and words come from. Seriously, I promise I’ve not elected to choose the senility channel or the route to ‘righteousness’! Now, where the hell were we?
I’ve looked back on events and the people who have appeared on my canvas and surprisingly I’m not too disappointed. This started as a ‘gay’ romp but I got waylaid by other thoughts constantly imposing.
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I was recently reading some of the correspondence between Shaw and the actress, Mrs. Campbell. Bernard had a great life and it showed in his writings. If promiscuity is also a measure of ‘tartiness’, a missile often aimed at homosexuals, then the same epithet undoubtedly attaches to the Mrs. Campbell’s of this world and their partners. Promiscuity was not a new invention and certainly described the goings on all over the planet, and especially during the Edwardian days.
Queen Victoria mourned the loss of cock once Albert died though she did enlist the help of sturdy-legs Mr. Brown to fill the gap! There must have been a time when sex was not a secret agenda, to be ignored or hidden. In the days of old Pompeii for instance, when brothels abounded, at least for the rich, sex was part of one’s daily diet – at least for most. If you are in Italy, pay a visit to this old ruined city and you can see in the ancient brothels, pastel etching of sexual acrobats decorating the walls and ceilings. I remember one old brothel in particular where pornography was described vividly on the ceiling. This was in order that recumbent clients, especially the aged, could view this titillating tableau whilst their lady companion attended to the more serious stuff way below!
As one grows older the sex hormones are supposed to diminish or disappear altogether. Well, that is bosh.
A thought occurs to whether the behaviour of promiscuous partners of affairs or marriages, gay or straight, ever indulge in criticising others who may at one time or other been in the same ‘predicament’! As we know, selected memories of past events can be
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troublesome and ‘puritans’ purposely ignore them in order to avoid guilty conscious’s. The coined phrase, ‘a standing prick has no conscious’ carries a measure of truth I am sure. False thoughts or false utterances of condemnation on the sexual activities of others is often a measure of the originator’s impotency, missed opportunities or just bad luck! Hypocrites all!
I have often wondered how the celebrate priests and nuns manage to restrain their urges, Well the simple answer is that many don’t, I’m referring basically to the male virtuosos’. Unfamiliar with the feminine gender I leave comment on the habit-covered variety to my counterpart, the lesbian!
Going back a few years when Roy, a gay friend of Leslie and me, was at school, a catholic one, he became ‘attached’- how’s that for evasion - to a bishop no less. In the words of ‘Pope’ Spickett, the bishop and Roy had ‘sexual intercourse’ (a delightful phrase) on suitable occasions. Priestly interludes, anal pursuits as Roy described them, were better than class work! In later years the same priest continued his visits to Roy who was now living in Barnet. His ‘bishop-prick’ - try the Karma Sutra for possible job description - frequently left gifts of appreciation. On one occasion an ‘altar cloth’! As I remarked to Roy at the time it no doubt came with the Lords blessing!
Another friend of Roy’s from the same school, experienced the same benevolence. This friend, now living in London, received his Reverence for special ‘communion’ from time to time. From choice, though, he would prefer to choose a sexual partner from shadowy
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venues in town. Sadly, the idea of an affair or partnership was, to him, unappealing.
Whilst on this ‘religious bender’ there was another friend who lived near us in Harrow. His lover was also a priest, a versatile Catholic one, so he said, who visited him regularly. His gift to my friend was a concert piano! A great offering. Very ‘grande’ indeed. Forgotten his name now, except that he was a mixed up kid and eventually converted to the Jewish faith, even down to the circumcision! Sounded terribly painful, especially for an adult. Even though an atheist, I agreed to attend his Bar Mitzvah – a sort of inaugural ritual. What us humans do for kicks! He eventually moved his gay persona to Amsterdam, the gay Mecca, where to give his bent traits a regular airing!
There is another dear friend of ours, named Roger, who at one time was employed by Leslie in his hairdressing business. He had an older brother named Brian, equally attractive, who we had known for several years. Brian had been scheduled to work or manage a business owned by Leslie. Sadly fate got in the way. Brian rode a motorcycle and that weekend collided head- on with a bus. He was killed instantly! A sad and sickening time for all who knew him. Roy, see above, claimed a short ‘liaison’ with Brian but we put it down to wishful thinking!
Sometime after Brian’s death we met his younger brother Roger. He was by now an apprentice hairdresser and eventually chose to work and manage one of Leslie’s shops. At that time we never gave thought to either of the brothers being gay. Some are obsessed with attaching that ‘epithet’ to all and sundry but not us! To us, Roger
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was a young, naive and innocent lad. In retrospect the naivety was obviously ours!
ROGER IN HIS YOUTH
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Roger surprised us one day by announcing that he was leaving, taking a ‘sabbatical’, travelling the world with his young friends. They modified a second- hand van to provide accommodation and transport.
I remember Roger’s visit, though more particularly after he had returned. Tales of their travelling exploits; the disappearance in Thailand, or somewhere in the far east, of one of his group. The girls they had met. Later on, Roger mentioned an encounter with a gay Argentinean medical guy, a doctor no less! The brevity of his descriptions gave evidence of another reason for his visit. It came out somewhat blurtingly, like,
“I’m like, well, you......you both.” We were momentarily perplexed but the penny soon dropped.
‘Queer dear’, that’s what he was trying to say but not as blunt as that. (Those are my words not Roger’s). We had certainly not expected to hear this ‘confession’, but our reaction was what you might expect, words of encouragement. Evidently Roger knew or surmised our relationship. This was a defining moment for Roger as well as creating greater intimacy between us, spiritually not physically, for goodness sake. It must be said that Roger showed great enthusiasm for his changed circumstance, disgustingly so! For heaven’s sake, I put that bit in for fun! Hopefully Roger will not recount all that happened during his earlier moments of gay passion! It would make a good story!
Now fifty years on, Roger and I can look back and laughingly reminisce, laughing at the introduction to each other’s, well, sexual prowess or ‘peculiarity will do.
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He remains one of my dearest friends. In retrospect, Roger was, no, still is, gorgeously outrageous!
It is impossible to close the book for it has no covers and is a thousand leagues long, but I am entitled by the laws of anno Domini to place it on hold for a nap!
I must mention a neighbour, Les. who at one time lived next door. He had two young children. I have vivid memories of him, very vivid! He would have been about thirty years old. Divorced. Medium height, well built and very attractive. We eventually got talking over the garden fence as one does, being a good neighbour! Yes, yes, it’s called a whores dilemma.
He liked his ‘dram’ in the evenings after his kids had gone to bed. Scotch was also my favourite tipple so I occasionally joined him. We would play a card game called Cribbage. One day. chatting idly, he purposely veered onto the subject of ‘queer relationships’ as he called them. I laughed, and so did he. But I had nothing to do with what happened next, at least not in the beginning. It was he who made the first move. I was embarrassed. Hard to believe? When he persisted I, well, what would you have done? I needed little encouragement. Enough to say that on that occasion one of us ended up as if in prayer - and you can jolly well work it out for yourselves. For a so-called normal individual he was very versatile, and once mentioned an alternative use for a banana. Well. well, some waters run deep as they say.
I know, these things happen only in fiction, but if I could have filmed it all, the pornographic film industry would have made stars of us all. Surprise and
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pleasure ruled the day, or rather night! They were a great family who eventually moved to Cornwall where his parents resided. Les would occasionally come to Harrow where his ex wife still lived, but she did not feature anymore. I became the visited and my trips to his hotel livened his stay no end.
I am beginning to worry for my reputation, a rampant sexual vampire has more in common, I hear you say. In reality, such spreading of wings was in fact minimal. My dear readers, it was all over a period of ninety five years, well part of it!
This is supposed to be a short essay, not a squalid autobiography
I am sad to be getting older for it limits ones activities but not ones horizon. I lived and was in love with my darling Leslie for fifty years, until his demise. Now I am blessed with another wonderful companion, Hakim, twelve years so far. I know that this is a jovial sort of journal with my questionable exploits bared for all to see, but as I have said, the time scale is considerable, and the two relationships reflect the good fortune that has come my way. I count my blessings from time to time.
A small break, lunch calls.
It is amazing what comes creeping into the swamp of one’s mind when one relaxes and has time to contemplate the past. It just proves that the human brain is a wonderful organ for it absorbs and retains so much of our historic past. I am forever learning new things and with a landscape such as the internet there can never be a dull moment.
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I come now to talk about a rather special friend by the name of Laurie Yearley. For once there is no sexual connection.
Our friendship goes back many years. At the time I was engaged in leading a group of people within a firm known as Standard Telephones and Cables, concerned with contractual issues between the Company and Governments. The firm, incidentally, designed and produced highly sophisticated electronic products for airfields and aircraft. It all began when Laurie joined the firm.
He worked with our frivolous group for many years, in fact until the firm eventually closed down and ceased trading.
Around this time I ‘encountered’ a young man who, shall we suggest, sought my favours. I’ve heard that expression or read it somewhere. If I considered myself experienced and sophisticated, then he left me in third grade. Believe it or not but I met Robert, that’s his name, in the Gods at the Albert Hall during a Prom concert. His interest in music was extensive but ‘organ recitals’ were of greater interest and we both enjoyed the interlude! He was a charming person, so there!
Laurie - yes, yes, I’m back on even keel - married a girl named Ben, it was one of those highly successful and loving relationships. They produced a daughter, Kirsty, and then a son who they named Paul. Both are ‘chips of the old block’ in that they have caring, and warm dispositions. Great kids! Then came calamity.
Laurie suddenly developed that dreaded, virtually incurable disease, cancer. It was to remain with him for the rest of his life. We kept in contact the whole time
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and occasionally exchanged visits. His friendship was very important to me. Towards the latter part of his life, he wrote a short autobiography entitled ‘From Gemini To Cancer – My Journey Through Life’.
Now flattery isn’t to be sneezed at, and I like to bathe in it sometimes, and dear Laurie was so generous of spirit and in words. To ‘enhance’ my ego even further - big headed I hear you shouting - I quote excerpts from his autobiography for it includes a Chapter headed, The Spickett Years. I have truncated it severely for in the original it is many yards long! What an epitaph! Thank you Laurie, my dear, wherever you may be.
The Spickett Years.
‘When I was 15, in the summer of 1964, I had the opportunity to get a summer vacation job at my local company, Standard Telephones and Cables. There was a family connation. My Nan had worked there as had my Granddad and my mum was still working there
I applied for some office work and was sent to the Radio Division to work in the Government Contracts department. The company employed some 8,000 people on a site which was over a square mile in size.
I started my job in July 1964, just after I returned from my Boys’ Brigade trip to Austria. I reported to the Personnel department on my first day and was taken to meet my boss. I think the selection process was purely random but it led me to meeting a
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man who was to be the biggest single influence in my working life. His name was Lou Spickett
Lou was the manager of the Contracts department and soon had me doing lots of basic office duties.
Towards the end of my vacation stint, Lou asked me if I would be interested in working for him full time. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do for a living so I said yes, thinking this would give me more time to think about what I really wanted to do.
By this time I felt I had really settled in and everyone in the department was very friendly. Also working for Lou at the time were Jane Capelli, Stan Old, John Loe and many others. This group of people became like a second family to me. Jane fancied Lou but failed to understand he didn’t fall into the conformist stereotype of the time and wasn’t attracted to women at all. Given that Lou had been living with a lovely man called Leslie for around 10 years that should have given Jane some sort of clue but she seemed oblivious to this.
Jane’s husband, had been a brilliant engineer and had recently died. Lou, who was very concerned, adopted a very tolerant and sympathetic attitude towards Jane.
Lou was well known for his political leanings, being somewhere to the left of Lenin and I remember one of the other members of staff calling him “Red Spickett”. I was someone brought up in a strong Union household, I was also a staunch Socialist so Lou and I would have deep discussions on the burning issues of the day . Given I was only 16 at the time, I think Lou
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was surprised how interested I was in politics and we still have long conversations about the subject today even though we are both quite disillusioned with the Labour Party.
As Lou’s responsibilities grew so did the size of his department. One of the many things I learned from Lou was that there are many different ways to manage people. I think we were also slightly proprietorial with Lou, using the childish analogy of ‘he was our boss, first’.
Lou was, and still is, an incredible man. He had a knack of picking the right thing to say at the right time. He was always very encouraging but you knew where the boundaries were.
I certainly never worked for anyone as professional or caring as Lou. I learnt a great deal from him and when I went on to manage people later in my career, I would always think back to how Lou would have handled things when I had situations to deal with. He has also been on the end of the phone for nearly 50 years now, to offer me advice when I’ve needed it or just to have a chat about the state of the nation.
Everyone should go through life knowing a Lou Spickett and I consider myself to be one of the very lucky ones as I know the original.
Laurie Yearly
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That was praise indeed. They were really wonderful years. Living in a joyous marriage and working with such remarkable people, had all the elements of making life worthwhile.
Re-reading my scribbles I begin to wonder at its whole-hearted frankness; no hidden thoughts, reporting events accurately, becoming sensitive of the truth. No- one can accuse me of day-dreaming for all was and is, so real. In the upper echelons of life’s barometer one should be able to discard cant or force pretences because no one is listening anymore, well, maybe I’m a trifle premature.
A pause. What comes next from that divine apparatus, the memory?
Of course I write most of the time about the people I have encountered over the years, people one has ‘intercourse’ with – not necessarily sexual, silly! People sometimes form the kernel of life’s variations. Kernel? Of pivotal importance, then. None of those I meet are known for their fame, unless you count, of one or two, whose exploits of sexual endeavour make good theatre!
Apart from certain of the media, the popular rags in particular, one rarely came across extreme homophobia. Pre 1939, the subject was rarely aired except perhaps in secret and exclusive clubs in major cities such as London, Manchester, etc. In hidden away villages such as Lyminge where we lived, unfamiliarity with highfalutin gay terms did not in any way prevent sex joists between us boys. We practiced caution, unwittingly, but otherwise it was just a question of enjoying ourselves, or to use the vernacular, ‘getting one’s rocks off’!
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Now we come to Bill, the second Bill. He was married to Jean and they had a daughter. There is so much that I could write about him, but a few sentences will have to do. First and foremost, I must record that he was a true and trusted friend to both Leslie and me. We met for the first time when he visited our antique shop in Harpenden.
Bill’s earlier life had been rough and tough. He was an orphan and until he reached 18 years or there about, he was confined to some God awful orphanage. His description of life in the Home, was one both demeaning and brutal - sounded like some horror movie - whose very existence should have been denounced and its owners and operators deposited into those mythological flames of hell! Bill finally left this pyretic environment and began a more peaceful existence.
Bill was a dear and because of our friendship visited us regularly. After one such visit, Leslie remarked that the shoes he was wearing were designed for women. I honestly hadn’t noticed and dismissed any implied suggestions. There was the ‘famous’ day when the three of us were alone that Bill, bless him, declared himself a transvestite! I was more surprised than my dear Leslie. Bill’s faith in our trust was amazing. He would don his female attire when the family was not around. He talked to us about it but we were never to witness his transformations.
Bill had another friend, similarly inclined, and together they would visit questionable venues not excluding public watering holes!
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Bill was also a dental technician. At one time I got involved in helping him with business problems. But in truth, our friendship was what really mattered.
We were pretty convinced that Bill was gay and knew that he frequently sought male partners for sex. We talked freely and frequently about our ‘marriage’. His wife Jean was also privy to Bill’s off beat behaviour. She also treasured out friendship and we often went on holiday together. We greatly missed Bill. He died when he was merely fifty, a terrible loss.
So, there you have our friend Bill, long mourned.
I have returned, ‘tis the next day, and I’m refreshed and ready for the off.
I now bring to the fore my dear friends, Louis and Kevin, who have been together for many years. Currently they live in Gibraltar where Louis was born. I see them when visiting the UK. When my dear Leslie was ill and nearing the end of his life, Louis and Kevin visited him regularly. They were extremely supportive. I dare not trespass on that dreadful patch of misery and sorrow for too long, it is so utterly depressing. I am, however, eternally grateful to them both.
Louis carries socialistic principles, rather like his namesake, ME. Louis was one of the early members of an organisation called The Terrence Higgins Trust (THT). The ‘rag and bag’ mob of the media initially called AIDS a ‘Gay’ disease. They changed their condemnatory tone only when Princess Diana was photographed hugging one of THT’s patients. AIDS was soon recognised as a worldwide problem. I quote from the Trust’s internet blurb.
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Established in 1982, Terrence Higgins Trust – THT - was the first charity in the UK to be set up in response to HIV and AIDS[5 It was initially named Terry Higgins Trust,[6] after Terry Higgins, who died aged 37 on 4 July 1982 at St Thomas' Hospital, London. He was among the first people in the UK known to have died from the AIDS virus, which was only identified the previous year. Terry's close friends Martyn Butler, Tony Calvert and Terry's partner Rupert Whitaker along with other friends started the Trust to raise funds for research as a way of preventing suffering due to AIDS. Shortly, with the generation of a groundswell of support for the organisation at a meeting at Red Lion Square, Tony Whitehead and others joined the group and formally founded the organisation and saw it through registration as a charity to provide direct services to those affected by HIV. The trust was named after Terry to personalise and humanise the issue of AIDS. It was formalised in August 1983 when it adopted a constitution and opened a bank account, and the name of the trust was changed (Terrence rather than Terry) to sound more formal. It incorporated as a limited company in November 1983 and gained charitable status in January 1984.
As I mentioned, Louis was a supporter from the very beginning. Because of our friendship, I joined the Trust soon after. All was voluntary and of course unpaid. Tony Whitehead was one of the founder members, a great guy. One of the extrovert hangers-on who came later and began working as an office boy, was uninterested in the plight of others, I would describe him
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as a ‘merde’ of the highest order. He and I crossed swords many times. I do not hesitate in describing him as a cringing creep who somehow got himself knighted! When I think of all the voluntary workers who went out into the real world, I ask, where is the justice, how can injustice like that occur? Well, a change I suppose from the grace and favour rascals who are gazetted annually.
Louis’s group were known as ‘Buddies’ and their sole task was to visit HIV patients, many Gay, to provide support in their homes and when they died, as sadly many did, to co-operate with known relatives, if existing, for their burials. At first, many hospitals, undertakers, and other services, were reluctant to handle infected bodies. Monstrous behaviour. It was early days and knowledge was slow in surfacing. French scientists were the first to isolate and identified this fateful virus.
I was also a volunteer, employed as a telephone Councillor. We offered help and information on AIDS and its subsidiary infections. No big deal! Louis, however, gave most of his free time to the THT. He is one of its unsung heroes!
All along I have been collecting names. names of some of the worthwhile people I have been fortunate to meet and befriend. This bring me to Peter from Epsom.
Peter and I met whilst volunteering for telephone duty at the THT. Occasionally we were on duty at the same time. He also witnessed the dramatic incidents involving those afflicted with the HIV virus.. In those
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early days there was, sadly, no known cure and the hope was that palliative treatment would sustain patients until a cure became available. Peter and I have remained friends ever since and we meet up once in a while. I believe that Peter has experienced medical problems of his own, but he is a hardy soul and always cheerful.
Many years ago, 1992 according to the Keynsham Evening Post, my favoured nephew, Dudley, a great humanitarian and friend of the gay community, decided on a walking holiday in the Himalayas. It was to be a disastrous choice. His Pakistan flight A300 crashed into mountains near Kathmandu airport. Everyone was killed. Dudley’s mother (my sister Eve) and his girlfriend, Sian, were, as you can imagine, devastated, as was I. I was left with the task of sorting out the formalities including obtaining probate for Dudley’s estate, and the macabre task of arranging burial of what claimed to be his remains. A gruesome business. The point of remembering all of this is that I was recommended to contact Mark, a solicitor from Bristol (Dudley’s home town) by my friend, Edward who lived in the nearby town of Keynsham. Hence I came to know and befriend Mark and his partner, Roland. We visit them rarely, but keep in touch. Mark is an extremely kind and compassionate person and I greatly treasure his friendship. Another for the shield of honour! Bear with me, it’s gets better.
There is room for another gay hero, one remembered by many as an active supporter and protector of Gay Rights. I had the great pleasure of
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meeting this amazing woman, Sharley McClean, when we were both working for the Terrence Higgins Trust. She was and will always be remembered as a pioneer in the fight for Gay freedom. She suffered terribly as did her family when living in Germany. I reproduce an article by Arwyn Carmody which gives a fair measure of the pain and suffering experienced by Sharley during that horrendous period.
Sharley is in the front, far right Remember with Pride
A 72 year old Jewish lesbian, Sharley McClean, who came to Britain as a refugee from Nazi Germany in 1939 led the OutRage Queer Remembrance Day Commemoration at the Cenotaph.
McClean laid a triangle wreath of pink carnations in memory of the lesbian and gay military personnel and civilians who died fighting Nazism and in honour of the thousand of homosexuals who were
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rounded up by the Nazis and exterminated in the death camps during World War Two.
The ceremony also remembered the gay survivors of the camps, most of whom were denied compensation for their suffering by the post-war German Government on the grounds that homosexuals were common criminals, and sexual perverts.
While the work of SS guards in the concentration camps is counted towards their pension entitlement by the German Government, the years spent in the camps by survivor gay prisoners is subtracted from their pensions No Nazi doctors were prosecuted at the Nuremberg Trials (or since) for the medical experiments they conducted on gay concentration camp inmates These experiments included castration and forced hormonal implants,
McClean’s father, a socialist, was beaten to death by guards in Sachsenhausen. McClean’s uncle was forced to wear a pink triangle to denote that he was a homosexual and he was incarcerated in the concentration camp where he died. Her Jewish mother perished in the camps too.
“The fact that half a million gays and bisexuals served in the military from 1939-45 is never officially acknowledged. The current ban (Ed. Note – ban now rescinded if such existed) on homosexual in the armed forces makes a mockery of their service and sacrifice. Most of the homosexual servicemen and women who
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died fighting Fascism have no families to remember them, but we remember then with pride.” Said Marina Cronin from OutRage! Arwyn Carmody
I could go on and on writing about my gay friends but before reaching the end, I would first mention Don, an elderly gay friend of Leslie’s. He was an artist, painting mostly in watercolour. He sought perpetual youth and wore a terrible black wig to prove it. He once ventured into that gay ‘trolling’ area on Hampstead Heath having heard of the promiscuous nature of some of its visitors, needless to say mostly male! It was his bad luck to be discovered by ‘patrolling’ policemen. When discovering his age, 80 plus, for his wig provided no disguise, particularly when it become lop sided, revealing a fringe of grey, they considered the situation hilarious and laughingly sent him on his way. I still have a couple of his paintings. His stories of gay liaisons during the last great war (WW2) whilst serving in the army, merely confirm my own belief that, restrictions notwithstanding, ‘mis-conduct’ will always prevail. The old adage of ‘a standing – you know how it goes - having no conscience’ becomes again the motto of the ambitious, which, with a little persuasion, I might admit to being a qualified member. Undoubtedly many of my friends have beaten me to this apex of frenzy!
Of the future, at my age, I foresee very little, but wouldn’t it be wonderful if gay life after death could result in a permanent er.....er.... erection.... no, no, sorry, I meant resurrection!
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So, anything more must keep for another day! And so to bed.
Today I move around with some difficulty and I admit to visiting my doctor more frequently. If ever there was a vocationalist, Dr. Lloyd – my allocated GP - must be top of the pile. An anecdote springs to mind concerning him. Some forty or so years ago, visiting his surgery for the first time, I noticed a poster on the wall outlining the facts about AID’S. It also mentioned The London Lighthouse which opened in 1986, the first hospice for AID’S patients. I believe Princess Diana was a patron. Another doctor in the practice, obviously homophobic, ‘condemned’ Dr. Lloyd for this informative gem. Thankfully that unsympathetic quack retired shortly afterwards. Dr. Lloyd is a great doctor and humanitarian.
Information on the historic London Lighthouse is given below:-
The London Lighthouse was a centre and hospice for people with HIV and AIDS, in Lancaster Road, Ladbroke Grove, in the Royal Borough of Kensington and Chelsea. It opened in 1986, offering "an innovative model of residential and day care for men, women and children living with HIV and AIDS and provided a refuge and respite to people marginalised and abandoned because of their diagnosis.
With the growth of effective HIV treatment in the 1990s, the need for residential care became much less,
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and by 2015 it was decided that the building was no longer required. It was sold off, and the site is now the Museum. The memorial garden, where the ashes of many people who died at the Lighthouse were scattered, has been preserved.
‘Twas a sad ending for so many undeserved souls, call it fate, I just wish that this bad luck had landed where it really belonged. Hitler and his mob come immediately to mind. His demise is not mourned nor should those Thatcherite vagabonds, past and present escape similar condemnation. A magic wand – it works in the Cinderella epic – and I’ll transform them all in garbs from Hell.
You haven’t heard the last from me, but this tablet of nonsense has run its course. The computer on which I write this is totally bewildering, I claim to understand very little about this wonderful device, but as a glorified typewriter it will do.
I have high lighted my Uncle Alfred for he gave me so much information on the Spickett’s in those early years. He suffered great indignities in his youth for it was rumoured that he was ‘born, the wrong side of the blanket’. Whoever coined that phrase was the bastard!
My thanks to Robbie of Blissetts for his help. So, for the present, farewell!
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GAY’S THE WORD GAY’S THE WORD
GAY’S THE WORD
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Louis Spickett
Louis Spickett is a product of the mid-nineteen twenties who was, as a young child, witness to the vararies of that era and the subsequent one which terminated (1939) in chaos and a war in which he participated. This book or memorandum is a reflection of his various encounters with other gay people and, by and large, beautiful people who have contributed something for which to be remembered.
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GAY’S THE WORD L.R SPICKETT GAY’S THE WORD L.R SPICKETT