Back in the late ‘80s I studied for my teacher’s qualification at
In the top floor flat was Neil, doing a doctorate in Forensic Archaeology. Essentially, this meant his flat was full of bones from medieval graveyards, which he would measure to the micrometre.
In the middle-floor flat was Aidan, a fashion-design student at the local polytechnic who I got on with great.
I shared a flat with Piers, 20 years older than me, a recently divorced liberal hippy who was totally devastated at losing unlimited access to his young children.
Aidan and I would occasionally go out together to gay clubs – and the only time I have been “queer-bashed” was on exiting a club with him.
But Neil took the biscuit!
If he didn’t score at the nightclub, or if he felt like sex on a quiet weekday night, off he would go to the public toilets on the corner of Victoria Park, a primitive, dirty, Edwardian-constructed public utility.
Before I continue with this story I should explain a bit about “cottaging”. Until 1967 male homosexuality was illegal un the
So let’s get the point of this story …
My step-nephew is marvellous. In his late twenties now, he is totally eccentric and highly intelligent! He is gay but long-past youthful cottaging episodes. And, even though I am not a person to laugh out loud when I find myself amused, he has just made me guffaw and guffaw and guffaw …
Lucky not to get carted off to the police and get served an ASBO!
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